Chapter 45: The Smiling Accused
The hallway was no longer just buzzing with whispers—it was alive with them, pulsing like electricity across the air. Students had poured out from nearby classrooms and clubrooms, drawn by the chaotic tension unraveling in front of the library doors. Phones hovered midair, recording, capturing, speculating.
"Did she really do something?"
"I saw the lipstick myself. On his neck."
"Wasn't she that quiet one? Kinda elegant? No way, right?"
"But he ran like he saw a ghost. You don't fake that."
The tide of voices ebbed and flowed, rising with each new arrival. Rumor didn't need proof—just fuel. And right now, there was plenty of it.
At the center, Hana Nakamura stood still. Her gaze remained fixed on the students, calm and steady amidst the whirlwind. Beside her, the female teacher clutched the shaken student protectively, casting glares over her shoulder like daggers.
Then the school's intercom crackled to life. The voice that followed was sharp, stern, and unmistakably irritated.
"Ms. Nakamura, report to the principal's office immediately. I repeat—Ms. Nakamura, report to your classroom. There is a matter that requires your immediate attention."
The hallway went quieter for a beat.
The female teacher snapped her head up, lips curling. "Perfect timing," she muttered, venom threaded through every syllable. "Let's go. We'll explain everything to the principal together."
She turned to the student, helping him stand as if he were a wounded animal. The boy leaned on her, his eyes flicking briefly toward the watching crowd—nervous, but satisfied.
Hana moved to assist, reaching out to gently support him, but the teacher whipped around.
"Don't touch him!" she barked.
A fresh wave of gasps followed her outburst.
Hana lowered her hand with no change in expression. She simply folded it behind her back and nodded. "Of course."
Together, they began walking through the corridor—the teacher in front, the student leaning into her side, and Hana a few paces behind. The sea of students parted slowly, murmuring all the while. Every step felt heavier. Every whisper sharpened.
"I can't believe she's not even denying it."
"Do you think they'll fire her today?"
"I mean... what kind of teacher even does that?"
In the back of the crowd, Naoya watched with wide eyes. Shun and Haruki flanked him, mirroring the same uneasy disbelief. What was supposed to be a prank turned social execution now felt like something entirely different.
"She's walking like she doesn't care," Haruki muttered.
Naoya scowled. "She's faking it. Nobody's that calm."
"You sure?" Shun said slowly. "She just smiled at you, man."
Naoya froze. "What?"
"Dude. Just now. She looked right at us and—swear to god—she smiled. Then winked."
Naoya's head whipped back toward Hana.
She was glancing over her shoulder as if inspecting the crowd—until her eyes landed on them. Her expression didn't change, but the edge of her lip curled into a smirk.
Then came the wink.
Naoya recoiled. "She's crazy. She's actually lost it."
Shun rubbed his arm. "Or she knows something we don't."
"No," Naoya growled. "She's bluffing. That's it. Bluffing."
But for the first time since the setup began, doubt started to crawl in around the edges of their plan. It hadn't been fear in Hana's eyes. It hadn't even been surprise.
It was strategy.
And the screen doesn't cut to black this time.
It stays with Hana as she walks, every step deliberate, every whisper adding kindling to a fire she's already seen coming.
Because in the world between life and death, justice takes its time.
And this time, it's personal.
—
They arrived at the classroom moments later. The hallway behind them was still thick with murmurs as students followed, their curiosity sharpening by the second.
Inside, the principal stood near the board, arms crossed and expression unreadable.
The female teacher guided the boy inside, her grip never loosening. Hana stepped in behind them, silent, poised. The principal's eyes flicked between the three.
"What's this about, Principal?" the female teacher asked, voice laced with accusation.
The principal ignored the question momentarily and turned to Hana. "Ms. Nakamura, where does Naoya Tanigawa sit?"
Hana didn't speak at first. Then, with a graceful tilt of her head, she raised one hand and gestured to the third desk by the window. Naoya froze in his seat.
The principal approached the desk. "Naoya. Stand up."
Naoya hesitated, but the weight of the moment forced him to his feet. All eyes turned to him.
The principal opened the boy's backpack slowly, pulling out a crumpled pack of cigarettes. Then a thin, glossy magazine slid into view—its suggestive cover sparking a wave of hushed exclamations.
Gasps erupted around the room.
"Is that... what I think it is?"
"Oh my god..."
Students leaned forward, eyes wide, mouths agape. Even the female teacher blinked in stunned confusion. Then she gasped and stepped toward the principal, her voice shrill.
"Oh my god!" she nearly shouted, smacking Naoya lightly on the shoulder with her clipboard. ""What is this doing in your bag, Naoya?! How could something like this end up here?!""
Naoya jolted in shock, eyes darting from the principal to the teacher, then to his friends. Shun and Haruki both looked stunned, their expressions freezing in disbelief.
The female teacher turned quickly to the student she had led into the room—the boy with the lipstick mark—and crouched slightly beside him. "Tell the principal what you told me earlier. Go on."
The boy blinked, clearly rattled, then mumbled, "I... I was in the library. I bumped into Ms. Nakamura by accident and... I asked her what lipstick color she was wearing because I wanted to get the same one for my mom... Then I saw something on my shirt—a bug or something—and I screamed. That's all."
There was a beat of silence. Then the female teacher blinked, flustered. ""Oh... I thought something serious had happened..." she muttered, clearly embarrassed. Her voice, which had carried so much force earlier, now felt deflated—like a balloon let go mid-flight. She fidgeted with her sleeve and avoided Hana's eyes, retreating into herself as the weight of the false accusation settled in."
She turned to Hana, her tone shifting awkwardly, her posture deflating like air rushing from a balloon. "Ms. Nakamura... I'm—I'm so sorry. I misunderstood," she stammered.
Hana tilted her head slightly, and for a brief second, her lips parted into a calm smile—not one of forgiveness, but of knowing. Her eyes sparkled with restrained amusement, like someone watching a badly performed magic trick unravel on stage.
The principal, still holding the magazine and cigarette pack, cleared his throat with weight. "Ms. Nakamura," he said, addressing her formally, "thank you."
He turned then to Naoya, whose color had visibly drained. "Naoya Tanigawa, you'll come with me to my office. Now."
Naoya didn't move.
Hana's smile didn't fade.
The whispers swept like a wave through the room. Every head had turned. Eyes widened. Phones lowered. No one looked at Hana anymore—they looked at Naoya.
He slowly stood, the sound of his chair scraping against the tile like a scream. He looked toward Shun and Haruki for support, but they only stared back—equally stunned.
For the first time, Naoya wasn't in control.
And Hana? She simply stepped to the side, allowing the path to the door to open.
She didn't say another word.
She didn't need to.
And now, every whisper carried his name.
—
By the time the final bell rang, the sky outside had turned a hazy orange. The school day had ended, but the tension clung to the walls like smoke. In one of the quieter corners of campus, tucked behind the gym storage shed, Naoya, Shun, and Haruki huddled together.
Naoya's blazer was off, sleeves rolled up as he paced aggressively, his hands running through his hair. Shun leaned against the wall, arms folded, chewing at the inside of his cheek. Haruki sat on an old crate, hood over his head, watching with a frown.
"I don't get it," Naoya muttered, voice hoarse with frustration. "I don't get how it flipped on me. We planned every detail. Every step."
"She should've been the one dragged out," Shun grunted. "Not you."
Naoya turned sharply. "Exactly! We had the perfect setup. The kiss mark. The photos. That damn bug excuse? Who the hell believes that?!"
Haruki finally spoke. "Everyone, apparently."
Naoya whipped around to him. "Oh, thanks. That helps."
Haruki shrugged. "I'm just saying... it was like she knew. Like she was five steps ahead."
Shun pushed off the wall. "Dude, I swear she was smiling. Like she was enjoying the whole thing."
Naoya clenched his fists. "And that wink? She winked at me before they even found the stuff in my bag. Like she already knew what was coming."
They all fell silent.
"It's like she... set us up," Haruki said slowly. "But how?"
No one answered.
Naoya slammed his fist into the wall. "I'm not letting this slide. I don't care who she thinks she is. No one embarrasses me like that and walks away."
The wind stirred, kicking dust into the air. From a classroom window above, a faint silhouette moved behind the glass—watching.
And the night wasn't done with them yet.
—
SEVERAL HOURS BEFORE
Earlier that day, during lunch break, while the chaos was still in the making and the prank freshly planted, two quiet figures moved through the school with precision.
Damian and Kenzo, dressed in janitor uniforms that gave them full access and zero suspicion, pushed a squeaky cleaning cart down the hallway toward Miho's classroom.
Inside, Naoya and Haruki had just placed the cigarettes and the magazine into Miho's backpack, sharing a quick smirk before slipping out of the classroom with forced nonchalance.
Damian emerged seconds later from around the corner. "They're out."
"I see it," Kenzo murmured, adjusting his fake maintenance badge. His eyes glinted behind his glasses as he scanned the hallway. "Ten-second window. Go."
Damian gave a low whistle as he entered the classroom with his mop bucket, humming off-key as if bored. He moved straight to Miho's desk, opened the backpack with surgeon-like care, and pulled out the contraband.
"Got it," he said, handing the goods off to Kenzo who had followed behind and was already at Naoya's desk.
Kenzo's fingers worked with the practiced ease of someone who had done this before, sliding the magazine and cigarette pack neatly into a side compartment of Naoya's bag.
"Done," Kenzo whispered.
Damian smirked. "Kids these days. So predictable."
Kenzo's expression was unreadable. "And still so unaware."
They left as quickly as they had arrived—cart squeaking, brooms in hand, looking like two bored workers finishing a routine sweep. Not a single student noticed.
By the time the bell rang and the confrontation began, their work was already complete.
—
Audrey had been watching more than just the switch.
While still disguised as a student, blending into the noise of the common area near the back courtyard, she noticed Naoya and Haruki pulling a younger boy aside.
They spoke in low voices—but their body language, their tone, and the boy's anxious expression told Audrey enough.
"You want us to help your sister get that scholarship, right?" Naoya said, his voice dipped in faux friendliness.
The boy—barely a first-year—nodded hesitantly.
"Then do your part," Haruki added. "It's simple. Just say Nakamura-sensei cornered you. Say she touched your neck."
The boy's face paled. "W-what? But that's not true..."
Naoya's voice dropped to a growl. "Who said anything about truth? You just say you saw her wearing lipstick. That you asked about it. That you got scared when she got too close. We'll handle the rest."
"Make sure your collar's wrinkled. Look nervous. Look like a victim. And don't forget the lipstick smear on your neck," Haruki added coldly. "We've got that covered."
The boy shook slightly. "I... I don't know..."
Naoya leaned in, eyes sharp and voice like ice. "If you mess this up, your sister's name gets wiped from that recommendation list. You understand?"
The boy swallowed hard.
"Yes..."
From behind a row of vending machines, Audrey's fingers clenched. Her gaze narrowed.
She saw through every word. Every lie. Every threat.
And she didn't blink.
—
This moment happened just after the principal had summoned Ms. Nakamura to return to her classroom. As the teacher escorted the boy—still shaken—from the library and down the corridor toward the class for the confrontation, Audrey made her move.
She slipped into the hallway, still in disguise, and approached the boy quickly but gently. "Hey," she whispered, catching him just before they reached the staircase.
The teacher was slightly ahead, distracted with adjusting her papers.
The boy turned, startled.
"I know," Audrey said softly. "I know Naoya threatened you. I saw everything. You don't have to keep lying."
The boy's eyes went wide. He glanced toward the teacher's back, then back to Audrey.
"I—He said my sister—"
"I know," Audrey cut in, but her voice was calm, steady. "But what he's doing is worse. And your sister wouldn't want you to lie for something like this. She'd want you to do the right thing."
His lip trembled.
"I promise," Audrey added, her tone filled with certainty, "your sister will be okay. We've already made sure of it. But you have to tell the truth when the teacher asks. That's all"
The boy looked down at his shoes. He nodded slowly.
"Okay..."
Audrey placed a light hand on his shoulder. "You're brave. You did the hard part already. Now just finish it."
She stepped back just as the teacher turned around, completely unaware.
And the boy kept walking—but now, with a new expression.
Less fear.
More resolve.
And that, dear reader, is how the main character tricked the bullies.
Back at the safehouse later that evening, the team had gathered around a low table stacked with sushi takeout containers, the tension of the day finally replaced with laughter and satisfaction.
"I swear," Damian said, mouth half full of salmon nigiri, "these kids are so stupid, it's almost unfair."
Audrey raised an eyebrow as she gently placed her chopsticks down. "Almost."
"Did you see Shun's face when the principal pulled the magazine out?" Kenzo chimed in, deadpan as ever. "He looked like someone told him PE got extended to four hours."
Hana, reclined in her chair with a cold tea can in hand, smirked. "Naoya practically folded. I thought he'd scream injustice and throw a chair."
"Still might," Damian added with a grin. "Tomorrow's a new day."
Audrey chuckled softly. "Let's just hope he learned something from this."
"Unlikely," Kenzo replied. "But we did. Their patterns. Their tells. Their limits."
Damian threw a piece of tamago into his mouth. "Well, I learned that janitor coveralls are not breathable. Next time, I'm demanding tactical gear."
Laughter erupted around the table. Hana rolled her eyes. "You just want an excuse to look cool."
"I don't need an excuse," Damian said, flipping a piece of pickled ginger into his mouth dramatically. "I'm already cool."
Just as the laughter faded, Audrey glanced toward the quiet monitor showing a live feed of Miho's apartment. He was sitting at his desk, a single dim lamp casting a warm glow as he wrote in his notebook, alone.
She tilted her head thoughtfully. "Let's bring dinner to Miho."
"Huh?" Damian blinked.
"He's probably feeling all kinds of things right now," Audrey said, standing up. "Let's cheer him up. I don't want him thinking he's alone again."
Hana stretched. "I second that. I've got extra gyoza."
Damian stood with a grin. "Then it's settled. Operation Comfort Sushi is a go."
A short while later, Miho jumped slightly at the sound of a knock. He hesitated before opening the door—and found Audrey, Hana, Damian, and Kenzo standing there, arms full of takeout bags and bento boxes.
"You didn't think we'd let you eat instant noodles tonight, did you?" Audrey said gently.
Miho blinked, stunned. "Y-you guys..."
"Move over," Damian said, already slipping past with a stack of boxes. "We brought enough food to feed an army."
Kenzo placed a dessert box on the table. "And we're the army."
Miho stood still for a beat, then smiled. The soft, relieved kind. The kind that said he hadn't realized how much he needed this.
They ate together on the floor, laughter filling the corners of the small apartment. Miho didn't speak much, but he didn't need to. He was seen. He was safe.
And for the first time in a long time, Miho wasn't alone.
The night ended not with grand speeches or strategy—but with warmth, shared food, and the quiet power of chosen family.
And in that comfort, their mission found meaning.