Chapter 0: Beginning Of A Story.
The sound of fists hitting pads echoed like punctuation marks in a sentence no one else could read.
I was the only one here who wore a school uniform.
Everyone else-five boys and five girls-wore tracksuits and tired eyes. Hair dyed wild-blonde, silver, purple, whatever matched their attitude that day. People would call them trash. I just called them late bloomers.
"Oi, Tara-sensei," said a lanky guy with a scar under his eye. "You sure I'm doin' this right? Feels like I'm just windmillin' my arms."
"That's 'cause you are windmillin' your arms, Daiki," I said, walking behind him and repositioning his stance. "You're not fightin' a storm, you're becomin' one."
The others laughed. Even the girls-one with leopard-print nails and bubblegum hair-snorted like she hadn't laughed all week.
I stepped back, arms crossed. The light above me flickered. Always does.
"Alright, story time," I said, and just like that, they quieted.
"Once upon a time, two boys sat in the same room, same air, same broken glass in their eyes. One, Kei, watched people like they were puzzles he could solve. The other, Sato, watched people like they were insects he could squash. Both of 'em got called monsters. Both of 'em were. But here's the twist-"
I paced the ring, slow like I was circling prey.
"Kei could fake a smile so good, he made interviewers cry with his dreams. Sato? He didn't even try. Just stared until they looked away."
"You sayin' they were messed up?" asked one of the gyaru, puffing on invisible gum.
"No. I'm sayin' they were functional." I let the word hang.
"Both had symptoms of ASPD-antisocial personality disorder. No emotional response. Calculative. Some say cruel. But cruelty's just a word for something we don't wanna understand."
"Sounds like us," someone muttered.
"No," I corrected, "you got the one thing they didn't. You're still here. You're still trying."
I walked to the mirror. Looked at myself. The only black-haired one in the room.
"And don't bother dyein' your hair back when instructors show up. You think they care?" I turned to them. "Block your name if you're scared. But if your score's high, they'll forget the color of your roots. Hell, they'll forget your face. People worship results, not appearances."
Another punch landed on the pad. Harder this time. I nodded.
"You teachin' us to fight or philosophize?" someone grinned.
"Both. Knowin' why you punch is more important than how."
Then, I walked up to the girl who'd stayed quiet the whole time. Silver lashes, chipped nail polish, bruised knuckles.
"You wanna know why you freeze up when a guy rushes you?" I asked gently. "Cause your mind's still tryna protect the version of you that never learned how to hit back."
She didn't answer. Didn't have to.
I turned and faced all of them.
"You don't have to be saints. You don't have to smile.
Just don't waste your shot. Get into a good uni. Game the system. Lie if you need to. You don't owe honesty to a rigged game."
Sweat dripped down my temple, but I didn't wipe it.
They call me Tara-sensei.
But in truth, I'm just rearranging pieces on the board. Teaching knights to move like queens. Pawns who know how to reach the end and stop pretending they were ever powerless.
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"With that being said, I gotta say-it's a real pain. You know what I mean."
The scent of freshly ground beans mixed with sugar-glazed sweetness drifted in the air, warm and coaxing, like a trap disguised as a hug.
"President, what about that budget?"
"Ayato." I didn't look at him. My fingers traced the rim of the porcelain cup. "I think I've said this before. It'll be exactly what that guy said."
"...I don't understand."
"I'll talk to you later." I leaned into the phone again, my voice flattening. "Keep me updated."
The call clicked off like the sound of glass cracking.
"So, Ayato," I turned finally, catching his lazy grin. "I was talking about the principal."
"Got it," he said, lips curled into that same cheeky smirk he always wore around me. Like a cat trying to look cute after knocking a vase over.
A story starts with a protagonist. But a good story... it breaks him open, picks apart the lies he built, and then rewrites him with his own blood.
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Roward Academy shines from the outside. Ivory columns, polished tiles, uniforms stitched with gold thread. From inside, it feels more like an auction house dressed up as a school.
The badge on my coat reads Student Council President. It's just a title. One of many. Influence is best hidden in plain sight, under labels that people think they understand.
When the bell rings, others go home. I put on the black apron of Okushaki Café, still warm from someone else's shift. The place is dim but neat-every cup turned just so, every receipt folded like a small white truth. No one here questions why a teenager takes on a job meant for someone twice his age. No one asks why the register always balances down to the last yen.
They say I'm "mature" or "relatable." But they don't see the way I avoid mirrors. Or how I switch the café's playlist when no one's looking-soft jazz only. Classical makes me feel watched.
Dinner? I make it myself. Not out of pride. Because no one else will. The fridge is half-stocked, always. Three eggs, two apples, and a row of sauces that haven't moved in months.
When I walk home, it's always late. The wind peels posters off street poles like dead skin. Even the traffic seems to avoid the route I take. The streetlamp outside the complex flickers twice before I reach the gate. Always twice.
Inside the apartment, the air is still. Not silent-still. Like it's holding its breath.
I slip off my shoes and catch sight of the letter on the dining table.
A familiar loop of handwriting. One addressed simply with a scrawled "To our Akeshi."
'Parents'-that's what I call them. But only in the way an actor refers to a role he played years ago. It's not warmth, or love. It's a label I preserve because erasing it would draw attention.
I don't open the letter.
Instead, I walk past it. Past the cracked photo frame. Past the key I never use. Into my room, where shadows are folded like worn clothes.
I reach into my bag.
And pause.
Beneath the textbooks and café apron, there's a small black notebook-its cover blank, its pages not.
Plans don't need to be loud.
They just need to be in motion.