Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

‘It’s the beginning of a brand new year Horikita has 'rebranded' herself over the holidays to others she seems slightly happier she’s also made become friendly with a lot of people she'd even managed to get kushida and Sakayanagi to like her her and Sakayanagi group where suspiciously close I’ll have to find out what that was about somehow actually the entire thing is weird Horikita is so nice these days her and Hirata had become best friends for whatever reason she's even changed the way she dresses and styles her hair’

"Babe!" Kei tugged on ayanokojis sleeve to get his attention "can you hurry up I wanna get good seats and we can't if we're late "
"Let's sit apart from each other " ayanokoji's said 'I wish there was a better way to learn about love Keis clingy'
"Why?!" Kei pouted looking up at him
"I want to focus on class and I can't do that with you next to me"
Kei seemed to deflate slightly, but the pout remained. "Fine," she muttered, though it was clear she wasn’t entirely pleased with the arrangement. Still, she wasn’t one to make a scene. "But don’t expect me to be happy about it," she added, sticking out her tongue in playful defiance.
"Think of it as a compliment kei" Ayanokoji told Kei narrowed her eyes at him, still not fully satisfied, but something about his words made her stop and reconsider.
"A compliment? How does sitting apart from you count as a compliment?" she asked, voice tinged with both curiosity and mild frustration.
"It means that I love you too much" Ayanokoji said 'I wouldn't be able to focus with you next to me, and I want to be able to get into a good career when we graduate so we can live comfortably " all lies that flowed from his mouth smoothly.

Kei crossed her arms, a thoughtful expression replacing her previous frustration.
“I guess that makes sense…” she murmured, although the doubt didn’t quite vanish. “But if you really love me, then... why can’t we sit together? You can still focus even if I’m beside you.”
"Think about it this way' he moved some hair from her face "if I become rich you can do and have whatever you want and to get rich I need good grades”
"I suppose..." She trailed off, her arms uncrossing as she looked at him, her expression softening slightly. "I guess I can understand that. But… I still don’t like it."Ayanokoji simply nodded, his gaze cool and unreadable.
"I know," he said. "But I’m doing this for both of us.”

Ayanokoji went taking the seat he'd been in the previous year his movements where practiced be put his books and stationary in the drawer and hung up his bag Outside Horikita spoke to Ryuen and Sakayanagi alarm bells went of in his head Ryuen despised Sakayanagi so what had Horikita done to make them tolerate each other the smile on her face made him uneasy as she hugged the pair before coming into the classroom she took a seat next to Ayanokoji as she'd done the previous year though she did stop to speak with a few girls first Ayanokoji looked over at her "your not going to sit with your new friends?" Horikita glanced at him, her expression momentarily shifting. The smile on her face faltered for just an instant, but it was gone before Ayanokoji could fully interpret it.
“I’m just… making sure I’m in a good position,” she said, her voice calm, but her words felt like they were carefully chosen. “I’ll interact with them when I need to. But for now, I prefer this seat.”

‘Is this a power move? Or is she trying to keep me close for another reason?’Ayanokoji leaned back in his chair slightly, keeping his expression neutral. “If you say so,” he replied, allowing his words to settle like a subtle challenge, though he didn’t expect her to acknowledge it. Why are you jealous?” Horikita teased glancing over at him

“No not at all” Ayanokoji shook his head “I like your new look though “ “thank you” Horikita gave him a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes it was unsettling and convincing enough that the average person would believe it but he wasn’t the average person.

'Ayanokoji can you come to my dorm at the end of the day?' Horikira asked "I'm with Kariuzawa" Ayanokoji spoke apparently he was supposed to be loyal and what not kei is insanely possessive "she might not like that "
"We're friends are we not" Horikita said "since before you started dating her, besides I'm not trying to fuck you there's something I need to discuss with you”
“Why not just talk now?” Ayanokoji asked, his tone level, though a part of him already knew the answer.
“It’s about something that requires a bit more… privacy," she said, her gaze briefly flickering away. "We can’t afford to discuss it here. It's important.” “I see,” he said after a moment, his voice calm, measured. “I’ll consider it.” Horikita nodded, her eyes briefly scanning the classroom before she leaned back in her chair, her posture relaxed. "That's all I ask," she said, a slight glint of determination still in her eyes. "I know you're not one for making promises, but you’ll come, right?"

Ayanokoji leaned back slightly, his gaze focused on her. There was no immediate sign of resistance. Horikita was right in assuming that he wasn’t one to make promises easily, but he was also someone who understood the value of information and the power of leverage. Whatever Horikita wanted to discuss, it was likely something that he could use to his advantage. "Fine," he said, with a slight inclination of his head. "I’ll come by your dorm at the end of the day."

"Why were you talking to suzzune?" Kariuzawa asked looking at him with a frown 'They're on a first name basis?' He paused before responding "she told me about something private "

“You’re telling me, she told you something private?” Kei repeated slowly, as if testing the sound of the words. “You didn’t mention this before.” There was a slight edge in her voice now, the unspoken question hanging in the air: Why didn’t he tell her?

Ayanokoji kept his expression neutral, his gaze steady. “She asked for my help,” he explained, his tone smooth and calculated. He could feel the shift in the air, Kei’s possessiveness pressing against him like an invisible force. “It was something that couldn’t be discussed in public.”

Kei didn’t respond immediately, but the look in her eyes told him she wasn’t entirely convinced. “She’s been acting a little too friendly with you lately, hasn’t she?” she said, her voice low, laced with a hint of frustration. "I don’t like it."
Ayanokoji took a moment to consider his response, weighing his options carefully. Kei’s jealousy was no secret, and while he was well accustomed to her emotions, he knew how delicate the balance was. Too much suspicion could cause her to lash out, and the last thing he wanted was to push her further.

“Kei, she’s just asking for help,” he said, keeping his voice soft and reassuring. “You know how I am—there’s no reason for you to worry.” He leaned slightly toward her, meeting her gaze directly. “You’re the one I’m with, not her.”
The reassurance didn’t seem to completely satisfy her, though. Kei’s frown remained, and she seemed deep in thought for a moment. Then, in a quieter, more contemplative tone, she asked, “You really don’t like her, do you?”
It was a loaded question, and Ayanokoji could sense the significance behind it. He could feel the weight of her doubt pressing against him, but he kept his face calm, unwavering.

“I have no reason to like or dislike her,” he replied, choosing his words carefully. "She’s just someone I happen to know, and she’s asking for my help with something personal. That’s all.”
Kei studied him for a moment longer, her gaze softening just a little as she let out a small sigh. “I don’t like it. I don’t like how close she’s getting to you. It makes me feel... uncomfortable,” she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper.
“Promise me,” she said softly, her voice barely audible, “No more talking to her unless it’s important.”
“You know I can’t promise that” Ayanokoji said
“Why not!” Karuizawa crossed her arms clearly upset
"Horikitas the first friend I made when I got here" ayanokoji spoke calmly "she's your friend as well if she wanted to make a move on me it wouldve been before we got together "

Kei’s eyes softened slightly at Ayanokoji’s words, her arms uncrossing just a little as she processed his logic. Her gaze flickered down momentarily before lifting back to meet his. She didn’t respond immediately, but her expression seemed less guarded now, as if she was weighing the situation more carefully.
“I know Horikita’s important to you,” Kei said slowly, her voice more vulnerable than usual. “And I don’t want to get in the way of your friendships. I guess I just... don’t trust her, especially after everything that’s happened. It’s hard to believe she’s not after something more.”

Ayanokoji could feel the uncertainty in her words, the undercurrent of doubt that lingered despite his reassurances. Kei wasn’t the type to openly express insecurity, but moments like these showed just how deeply she cared—and how tightly she held onto what she had.
He leaned in slightly, his tone soft but direct. “Kei, I’ve always been honest with you. If Horikita had any intentions beyond friendship, I would have recognized it long ago. You know how I am. I don’t let things slip past me. And if anything, I’m only interested in you.”

Her gaze locked onto his, searching for any sign of deception, but there was nothing there—just the calm certainty of his words.
Kei sighed, her shoulders relaxing as she gave a small nod. “I know... I trust you. It’s just hard sometimes.” She paused for a moment, her fingers tapping lightly against his arm, almost like she was thinking aloud. “I guess, deep down, I’m just worried that if you spend too much time with her, things might change. I don’t want to lose you, Ayanokoji. I really don’t.”

Ayanokoji took a deep breath, letting the tension settle before responding. “You won’t lose me. I’m here. And if anything changes, you’ll be the first to know. I promise.” He let that promise linger in the air between them, an unspoken bond that was as much about trust as it was about mutual understanding.
Kei gave a small, almost shy smile at his reassurance, though it was still clear that the lingering insecurity wasn’t fully gone. “Okay… I guess I just needed to hear you say it,” she muttered, more to herself than to him. Her usual playful energy started to return, but there was a vulnerability in her expression that hadn’t been there before. “I’m still not thrilled about you talking to Horikita, but... I’ll try to trust you on this one.

Ayanokoji glanced over at Horikita she was writing notes quietly now that he thought about it she was somewhat attractive he’d never really paid much attention to girls but Horikita was different he didn’t really understand it but she made him feel…warm his lawyer region feel strange and tingly ‘oh shit’ it only took a second for him to realise ‘now's not the time for me to feel like this what the hell is going on’
At the end of the day karuizawa tugged on ayanokoji's arm "koji are you coming?" She smiled "I wanna do something special for you!" 'Do all girls want sex as much as kei?' Ayanokoji looked down at her "I'm sorry but it'll have to wait"

Kei’s eyes widened slightly at Ayanokoji's sudden response, and she tilted her head, clearly thrown off by his choice of words. "What do you mean, ‘it’ll have to wait’?" she asked, her smile faltering for a moment. A small hint of confusion and disappointment crept into her expression as she processed his answer.
Ayanokoji, sensing the shift in her mood, quickly adjusted his tone, trying to smooth things over. "I meant it in a broader sense," he clarified, his voice calm but firm. "There’s something I need to take care of. It’s not that I don’t want to spend time with you, it’s just... this can’t wait." He felt a small pang of guilt for the abruptness of his response, but he knew he had to keep his boundaries clear, especially with Kei’s possessiveness starting to become a more prominent issue.
Kei looked up at him, her initial disappointment melting into something more understanding, though still tinged with a hint of concern. "Oh... I see." She didn’t seem entirely convinced, but she wasn’t pushing him further. Instead, she let out a soft sigh. "Well, if it's really important... then I guess I can wait."
There was a pause, and then her smile returned, though it seemed to carry a little more uncertainty. "But remember," she added, her voice soft and teasing, "when you do have time for me, I’m going to make sure it’s special for both of us."
Ayanokoji could feel the weight of her unspoken promise, but he didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he just nodded, trying to keep his focus on the conversation at hand. "I’ll make it up to you soon, I promise," he said,

Kei’s eyes flickered for a moment, her gaze softening, but there was still a guardedness in them, something Ayanokoji couldn’t entirely read. "Okay, Koji," she said quietly, before giving him a quick peck on the cheek. "I’ll see you later."
As Kei walked off in the direction of the dorms, Ayanokoji stood there for a moment, reflecting on the dynamic between them. He was aware of how much her expectations had shifted since their relationship began. There were times when it felt like she demanded more of him than he was willing to give, but in moments like these, he understood that he had to play the long game, ensuring she didn’t feel entirely neglected while still keeping his own boundaries intact.

As Kei disappeared from view, Ayanokoji turned his thoughts back to Horikita. Her earlier request for him to come to her dorm still weighed heavily on his mind. He needed to figure out what she wanted, especially since it seemed to involve something that was important enough for her to seek his help.
But for now, he decided to focus on the immediate task at hand. His promises to Kei needed to be honored, but there were other obligations calling his attention. He would find a way to balance it all, as always. And somehow, despite the complicated web of relationships around him, he couldn’t help but wonder what Horikita had in mind, especially given how things between them had changed over the course of the year.

When Horikita opened the door she gave him a smile "I made cookies come in come in" it was clear it was all a facade to him and Horikita knew that she also knew that Ayanokoji was choosing to go along with it

"They're not poisoned or anything promise I'm trying to perfect the recipe for Manabu and Tachibara I hear he asked her out recently " she closed the door behind him offering him a cookie

"No thank you " Ayanokoji told "what did you need to talk to me about "

“How so your not even gonna react to the news” Horikita raised an eye brow

“I’ve suspected they like each other for a long time now” Ayanokoji shrugged “it was going to happen”

Horikita nodded “thats true everyone could tell except them,m its actua-”

“Horikita why am I here?” Ayanokoji said

The facade immediately dropped her smile was gone and her expression now resembled his "I learned from you this past year I've learned from everyone. I know things about you things you don't want getting out. Sit lets talk”

Ayanokoji’s expression remained impassive, though his mind immediately shifted into high alert. He’d anticipated some form of manipulation, but not like this. He set the cookie down on the plate and met her gaze, his eyes narrowing slightly. He didn’t want to give her the satisfaction of reacting too strongly, but the situation had just taken a more serious turn.

“Is that so?” he said, his voice cool, giving nothing away.

“It is” Horikita smiled at him and placed a file onto the table on "open it“

Ayanokoji's eyes flickered down to the file Horikita had placed on the table in front of him. He hadn’t flinched, his expression unreadable as always. The name ‘Kiyokata Ayanokoji’ was boldly printed on the front, and something about it gave him pause. There were few people who knew about his full name, let alone his true background. He'd done well to keep it hidden from those around him, even from Horikita, who had always been observant but never pried too deeply into his past. He slowly reached out and picked up the file, his fingers brushing the edges of the manila folder.

Without a word, he opened it, scanning the contents inside. His mind quickly processed the information, reading through the papers at a pace that would have seemed unnerving to anyone else. Inside, the file contained a collection of documents: official-looking records, a few photographs, and various notations. There was something about the details—his real name, connections to his father, and things from his childhood—that made his blood run cold. It was too much information, too much that shouldn’t have gotten out. The carefully constructed walls he’d built around his identity now seemed to crumble as he scanned through them.

"How did you get this?" Ayanokoji finally asked, his voice flat, betraying none of the alarm he felt deep down. He hadn’t expected Horikita to dig this deep. She had always been intelligent, but this was something else. If she had these documents, it meant she had connections—people who could reach places he thought were untouchable. "

You aren't the only person I've learned from " Horikita responded "I have digital evidence too photos videos voice recording even you admitting that you fabricated your score for the entrance exam” Ayanokoji’s grip on the file tightened, but his face remained unchanged, betraying none of the shock or fear that he felt in that moment. This was a calculated move by Horikita, one that made it clear she had been methodically preparing for this conversation. It wasn't just about his past anymore; it was about power, control, and leverage. He had underestimated how far Horikita was willing to go in order to challenge him.

He leaned back slightly, his eyes still locked on the file in front of him. His mind raced, analyzing the situation. Digital evidence, photos, recordings... this was more than just a threat. This was her way of telling him that she had control over his darkest secrets.

“Is this your way of trying to intimidate me?” Ayanokoji’s voice was steady, his tone betraying none of the tension he felt. He placed the file back on the table, his eyes meeting hers with an unreadable expression. Horikita stood tall, a faint smirk playing at the corner of her lips.

“I’m not trying to intimidate you, Ayanokoji. I’m just making sure you understand the stakes. You’ve always been the one pulling the strings, but now I have a few of my own to pull. I’m not the same Horikita you used to know.” Horikita pulled out another file "if you don't comply I'll release this to the public",

it was a statement more than that actually so much more than that he couldn't even describe it, it framed him to be worse than he even imagined She reached out and tapped the file lightly, as if emphasizing the weight of the information she had on him. “This is leverage. And I plan to use it. Not to hurt you—at least, not yet—but to get what I want.”

"And how do you plan to spread this?" Ayanokoji asked Horikita smiled she knew he would say that

" I'm sure you've heard about that new gossip page. Word on the street, the person who runs it is unknown but I'll let you in on a little secret" she leaned in whispering in his ear "I'm behind it all"
"I learned that tactic from what kushida tried to do in middle school" Horikita smiled "but I'm smarter than her she was convinced no one was ever going to find out about it, she was sloppy she only posted about her class mates but You’ll find that we're different "

“‘We?” He asked expecting her to explain

“Irrelevant” Horikita told “I’m proposing a…partnership of sorts”
“No” he said simply

"you could get expelled and that wouldn't bode well for your little slut Karuizawa, I know for a fact you don't love her but I also know your using her to learn about love one of many emotions that was cut out of you, feel free to stop me if I'm wrong. Your father wants you back in the white room he can't pull you out though no you enrolled yourself but in the off chance you left the school for whatever reason you'd be forced back there so you have no choice but to do whatever it takes to stay here " Horikita looked up at him "but I'm also going to offer you incentive, you want to learn how to feel emotions"

Ayanokoji stood there, staring at Horikita as the weight of her words settled in. The room was thick with tension, and her cold gaze didn’t waver, like she was daring him to try to refute anything she’d said. But he wasn’t the type to show any real fear, not even now, as she laid everything bare, including her knowledge about him and his carefully constructed life.

She was right about one thing: He had used Karuizawa to understand emotions, love especially, but she had no idea of the extent. The entire concept of human connection had been an enigma to him, something he had to dissect like a puzzle. Karuizawa, while important to him in her own way, was part of that exploration, part of a need to understand something so foreign to him. But he didn’t need Horikita throwing it in his face like a weapon.

"I don’t make deals based on threats," Ayanokoji replied coolly, meeting her gaze without flinching. "And as for your... incentive—I'll pass."

Horikita’s expression tightened, but she remained composed, her lips pressing into a thin, calculating line. It was clear she had anticipated this response but wasn’t ready to back down just yet. She stepped closer, her voice dropping even lower, as if she was sharing some private, dangerous secret.

"You're not in a position to refuse, Ayanokoji," she said, her words sharp as knives. "I’m offering you a chance to get something you want—something you’ve been searching for. If you want to learn how to feel emotions, you need someone to teach you. And who better than me? I’ve watched you, I know how your mind works. You’re so detached that you miss the simple things, like affection, trust, and even guilt. It’s all a game to you... but emotions aren’t just games. They’re real."

She paused, watching for his reaction, seeing if he’d finally break his calm exterior.
"I can teach you," she continued, her voice softening just slightly, though still carrying a sharp edge. "All you have to do is accept my offer. You want to understand love? I can show you how to feel it, not just observe it from afar."

Ayanokoji felt the anger rising within him, a quiet storm. To hear her twist the truth like this, to imply that he didn’t understand anything about love... it was insulting, and unfortunately it was true. But he also understood the power of manipulation. She was good at it. Too good. But he knew how to play the game too.

"I’m not your pawn, Horikita," he said finally, his voice steady, unwavering. "You’re trying to manipulate me, and I won’t play along just because you think you have leverage over me. You’re mistaken if you believe you can control me that easily. You’re not the only one who understands how this system works."

For a moment, there was silence between them. Ayanokoji’s words hung in the air, heavy with defiance. Horikita seemed to consider him, her expression unreadable.
"I’m not asking for control, Ayanokoji," she said quietly, her tone shifting from confrontational to almost... conciliatory. "I’m offering you something that could change everything. It’s up to you whether you accept it or not. But don’t think for a second that you have no choices left. This school, your future—it’s all connected. If you want to stay in the game, you’ll need allies. I’m offering myself as one."

Ayanokoji stared at her, his mind whirring. Horikita was playing a dangerous game, but she had underestimated him. He wasn’t afraid of the consequences she threatened. He was, however, intrigued by the challenge she represented.
"You don’t understand me at all," he said, his voice quiet but filled with warning. "I don’t need allies to survive, Horikita. I never have."

He turned to leave, knowing he had said enough for now. She could try to manipulate him, but she would never have the control she thought she did. And as for the idea of learning emotions from her? That wasn’t something he could take lightly.

"ayanokoji" Horikitas voice was commanding he couldn't ignore her

"are you gonna threaten me again?" Ayanokoji asked

"no" Horikita stepped forward "I'm making a proposal"

Ayanokoji's eyes sharpened, his posture remaining relaxed despite the tension in the room. He studied Horikita carefully, noting the shift in her demeanor. The cold, calculating edge to her presence was still there, but now there was something more—something that felt like a challenge rather than just a threat.

"A proposal?" he repeated, his voice devoid of any emotion, masking the slight curiosity that lingered in his mind. "Go on."

Horikita's gaze was steady, unwavering as she stepped closer, her presence almost suffocating in its intensity. The room seemed to close in around them as she began to speak, her tone purposeful and deliberate.

"I know you're not someone who acts on emotion, Ayanokoji. I understand that much about you. You hide behind your logic, your manipulation, your ability to stay in control." She paused for a moment, ensuring her words landed with weight. "But I've learned something over the past year, something I think you haven't fully realized about yourself."

Ayanokoji didn't respond, but he knew exactly what she was implying. She was playing the same game, the one where she tried to unravel him piece by piece. But what was her angle now? What was the proposal that had replaced the usual threats and manipulations?

"You're always watching, always calculating," Horikita continued, her voice steady but with an underlying intensity. "But what if you stopped hiding behind that? What if you allowed someone—someone like me—to show you something more than just manipulation or control? To show you what it means to have a real partnership?"
She took another step closer, narrowing the gap between them. "A partnership where we can both get what we want. Where we can use our strengths, our intelligence, and our influence to shape the world around us. Not as separate entities, but as equals."

Ayanokoji’s gaze never wavered, but his mind was already working at full speed. She was offering him something, but he wasn’t certain if it was a trap or an opportunity. He had seen people try to manipulate him in every possible way, but this felt different. Horikita wasn’t merely trying to control him—she was offering him a genuine alliance, a collaboration.

"Why should I trust you?" Ayanokoji asked, his voice cutting through the silence. "What makes you think you're not just another player in the game, trying to use me for your own ends?"

Horikita’s lips curled into a small, knowing smile. "Because I understand you, Ayanokoji. I know what you're truly after. You don’t want control or power for its own sake. You want something more. You want to understand people—feel what they feel. And that's something I can help you with. I can teach you the things you can't learn on your own. And in return, you'll help me in ways that will ensure both of our futures are secured."

The air between them was thick with tension, but Horikita wasn’t backing down. She knew the power of her words, the subtle manipulation of her offer. She had laid it all on the table, but it was up to Ayanokoji to decide whether he would take the bait.

Ayanokoji took a moment, his mind weighing her words carefully. This was no longer about power or control; this was a test of trust, a test of where his loyalties really lay. For the first time in a long while, he felt the pull of something different—a partnership that wasn’t built on manipulation, but on mutual benefit. But there was still the lingering question: was it truly worth the risk?

His gaze finally met hers, cold and calculated, yet there was a hint of something more. Something like curiosity. "What’s in it for you?" he asked, his voice quiet, but sharp as ever. "Why would you help me understand something as... human as emotions?"

Horikita's smile softened, just slightly, before she answered, her voice carrying the same weight it had earlier. "Because, Ayanokoji, I’m not just interested in winning the game. I’m interested in playing it differently. With you."

"why are you doing all this?" Ayanokoji asked curiously

"practice of course" Horikita shrugged nonchalantly Ayanokoji’s eyes narrowed slightly, studying Horikita with a calculating gaze.

"Practice?" He repeated the word, as if tasting it, weighing the implications of her answer. "Practice for what?"

she tilted her head to the side "the real world darling,someone needs to control it " Ayanokoji's gaze sharpened, his expression unreadable as he processed her words.
"The real world?" He repeated, his tone cool but laden with curiosity. "And you think that 'someone' should be you?"

Horikita met his gaze without flinching, the confidence in her posture unwavering. She was playing her cards, but Ayanokoji knew better than to take things at face value. He could see the glimmer of ambition in her eyes, the subtle calculation behind her words. But what did she really mean? Was this some twisted form of personal growth, or was she simply trying to create an illusion of control where none existed?

"us" she corrected

“I like the way you think” Ayanokoji responded

“I like the way I think too!” Horikita smiled this one was real her eyes shone it made his chest feel tight and suddenly it was really hot why hasn’t he felt this way before and what did it mean?

Ayanokoji raised an eyebrow, intrigued despite himself. The correction wasn’t what he had expected. "Us?" he repeated, his voice even and detached, as if testing her resolve. "And you think we could both control the real world?"

Horikita didn’t flinch, her eyes unwavering as she took another step closer. "Not control, Ayanokoji," she said, her tone now more deliberate. "Guide it. Shape it. Influence the course of events to suit our needs, using the skills we’ve honed. The world isn't a place where just anyone can succeed. It's a battlefield, and the ones who rise to the top are the ones who know how to play it better than anyone else."

Ayanokoji’s gaze never left her face as she spoke, studying her every move, every change in her expression. He had always found Horikita's determination both fascinating and, at times, dangerous. Her ambition wasn’t something he could simply dismiss; it was as sharp and precise as his own. But there was still something about her that he didn’t fully understand. Was this truly about power? Or was it something more complex, a deeper need to prove herself, not just to others, but to herself?

"So this is about more than just school, then?" he asked, his voice laced with a quiet understanding. "This isn’t about just winning a game or getting into the right position. You want something... larger. Something outside the walls of this institution."

Horikita nodded slightly, her lips curling into a small but confident smile. "Exactly. School is just the beginning. It's a microcosm of the real world. The power dynamics, the manipulation, the alliances—it's all practice for what comes next. Once we leave here, the stakes are higher. The players are more dangerous. But that's when our skills will truly matter."

Ayanokoji could see it now—the layers of complexity behind her words, the ambition that had pushed her to this point. She wasn’t just thinking of the present or the immediate future. She was thinking long-term, beyond what most people would even consider. And, in a way, he respected that. He knew that to truly succeed in the world, it wasn’t enough to be a passive player; you had to be the one pulling the strings, shaping the narrative to fit your own vision.
But still, there was something that didn’t sit right with him. He wasn’t sure what it was yet, but he would have to be cautious. Horikita wasn’t just offering a partnership; she was offering a shared vision, one that could either be a powerful tool or a dangerous trap. And he wasn’t the type to blindly follow anyone, no matter how capable they were.

"So, what is it you’re asking for?" he said, breaking the silence. "You want me to join you in your... guidance of the world? To help you create this... vision?
"
Horikita’s smile widened, the faintest hint of satisfaction in her eyes. "Not just join me, Ayanokoji," she corrected once again. "I’m offering you a place by my side. As an equal. The world is full of people who will try to control us, who will try to pull us in different directions. But together, we can control our own fate. We can carve out our own path. No one else will have the power to define us."
Ayanokoji studied her for a moment longer, his mind racing as he processed the depth of her words. She wasn’t asking for something simple. She wasn’t just looking for a temporary alliance or a partnership based on convenience. She was speaking of something far more ambitious, far more dangerous—an alliance that could shift the balance of power in ways he hadn’t considered. And while it intrigued him, he also knew the risks.

"So, what do you expect from me in return?" he asked, his voice steady, his eyes still locked on hers.

Horikita took a breath, the confidence in her posture unwavering. "I expect your loyalty. Not just in name, but in action. We both know that in order to win, we have to trust each other. There’s no room for doubt, no room for hesitation. If we’re going to shape the world, we need to be in sync, completely aligned."
Ayanokoji nodded slowly, his expression unreadable. Loyalty. Trust. Two words that carried weight in this world. But they also had the potential to be twisted into something more dangerous, more controlling. He had seen it before—alliances formed on the promise of trust, only for one side to use the other as a stepping stone.

"I’m not a fool, Horikita," he said quietly. "I know what loyalty means. And I know what it can cost." His gaze softened just slightly, a hint of something resembling understanding in his eyes. "But perhaps... there’s something worth considering here. Maybe you're right. Maybe we can shape the world. Together."
Horikita’s smile widened, the victory in her eyes clear. But even as she felt the surge of triumph, she knew better than to think she had fully won him over. This was only the beginning. And Ayanokoji? He was already thinking several steps ahead.

Chapter Text

Ayanokoji looked at the screen of his phone, his brow furrowing slightly as he scanned the messages from Karuizawa. There was a certain urgency in her words, a mixture of frustration and impatience that only seemed to increase with every text. He hadn’t expected her to be this persistent, but then again, it was typical of her, and he had put his phone on silent so perhaps this was partially his fault.

"Where are you?!" "You promised we'd do something tonight. It's been an hour!" "Did I do something wrong?"

His eyes lingered on the last message. He could sense the underlying anxiety in her words, the fear that he might have lost interest. It was a pattern he’d come to recognize—her tendency to become clingy when she felt neglected. A part of him didn’t mind the attention, but it was exhausting to deal with her constant need for validation, especially when his mind was preoccupied with much larger things.
"Why are girlfriends so exhausting?" he muttered under his breath, as he swiped through the messages.

He knew he couldn’t leave her hanging for much longer. If he did, it would just cause more problems, and Karuizawa's emotional outbursts were never easy to handle. It wasn’t that he didn’t care—it was just that his priorities were always divided. There were moments when he needed to focus on his own ambitions, and then there was the issue of Horikita’s plans, which were growing ever more complex and consuming. And now, Karuizawa... She was a variable he didn’t quite know how to manage.

With a sigh, he typed a quick reply, keeping it brief to avoid dragging the conversation on longer than necessary.

"I’m on my way. Relax."

He sent the message, but immediately regretted not being more empathetic in his response. It wasn’t that he wanted to hurt her feelings—it was just that, with everything going on, he didn’t have the energy to deal with her emotions at that moment. He put the phone back in his pocket, knowing that a confrontation would come soon enough.

As he made his way toward their meeting spot, he couldn’t help but feel a sense of guilt creeping in. Was he being too cold? He’d been emotionally distant for so long, and Karuizawa had been a constant, if not a bit too intense, presence in his life. It was as though he had grown accustomed to keeping people at arm’s length, but with her, there was always this pull, an expectation of closeness he wasn’t sure he could fulfill.

Maybe this time... he thought to himself, I’ll try harder.
But then again, the chaos that was Horikita’s plans loomed over him like a shadow, reminding him that there were far more pressing matters to deal with. He couldn't afford to be distracted for long.

When he arrived at his girlfriends dorm he knocked on the door, without waiting for an answer he pushed the door open “you wanted to see me?”

Karuizawa was sitting on the edge of her bed when Ayanokoji entered, her gaze immediately lifting to meet his. Her expression was a mix of frustration and relief, the kind of look that came from being left in uncertainty for too long. She had been pacing, occasionally glancing at her phone, and the moment she saw him walk in, the tension in her shoulders visibly eased, though her lips still carried a slight pout.

"You finally showed up," she said, her voice a bit more pointed than usual. "Where have you been? I've been trying to reach you for the past hour!"

Ayanokoji stood in the doorway, his eyes scanning the room briefly before locking on her. He didn’t answer right away, his expression as unreadable as ever.

Karuizawa, on the other hand, seemed to be waiting for an explanation, her arms crossed over her chest in a defensive manner.

"I was busy," he finally replied, stepping into the room and closing the door behind him. His tone was neutral, as always, but there was an underlying edge to it, one that seemed to suggest he wasn’t in the mood to deal with unnecessary questions.

Karuizawa sighed, clearly not satisfied with the vague answer. She walked over to her desk, leaning against it, her posture tense. "Look, I get that you're busy with... whatever you're doing, but I don’t like being kept waiting. You could’ve at least let me know where you were. I was worried."

Ayanokoji watched her for a moment, taking in her frustration, though he remained distant. "I didn't think it was necessary. You’re fine," he said, almost too calmly, though a part of him could tell that wasn’t the answer she was hoping for.

Her eyes narrowed, her lips curving into a small frown. "Is this how it’s going to be now? You just... disappear without a word, and I’m supposed to just deal with it?"
For a moment, Ayanokoji felt the weight of her words, though he didn’t show it. His gaze softened, just slightly. "I’m here now," he said, almost as if offering a quiet resolution, though it was unclear if he even fully understood the depth of her frustration.

Karuizawa stood still for a beat, staring at him before shaking her head with a sigh. "You never make it easy, do you?" she muttered, the tension in her shoulders still evident. "You know, sometimes I wish you’d just be... more present."
Ayanokoji, sensing the shift in her mood, took a step closer, his face still unreadable. "You know I’m not good at that," he replied quietly, his voice softer now. "But I’ll try."

Her eyes softened, though she was still holding onto some of the frustration. "I don’t need you to be perfect, Kiyotaka. I just... I just want to know I matter."

The words hung in the air, and Ayanokoji felt a small flicker of something—something he couldn’t quite define, but it was there. The moment felt heavier than he expected, yet he couldn’t bring himself to offer the reassurance she seemed to crave.

He paused for a second, considering his next words. "You do matter," he finally said, his voice still calm, but there was a subtle weight to it that seemed to signal sincerity, even if it was still shrouded in his usual cool detachment.

Karuizawa’s expression softened, though she still seemed to be processing his words. She walked over to him, standing just a few inches away, her gaze never leaving his. "You know," she said softly, "I don’t get you sometimes. But I still... I still want to be with you."

Ayanokoji’s gaze didn’t falter, but in the back of his mind, the ever-present undertone of Horikita’s plan echoed, a reminder of everything else he was balancing. Still, as he looked at Karuizawa, he realized she was an anchor in this chaos—whether he liked it or not.

"Stay for tonight," she added, almost as if reading his thoughts. "Let’s forget about everything else for a while."

Ayanokoji hesitated for a brief moment, but in the end, he nodded. "Alright," he said, the weight of his other obligations temporarily set aside. He paused for a second thinking of another way to appease her momentarily “Do you wanna have sex?”

Karuizawa’s frustration was palpable, and it was clear that her patience had worn thin. She exhaled sharply, her face a mix of irritation and resignation. "You don't have to be so blunt about it," she muttered, crossing her arms.

The way Ayanokoji phrased things, as if it were just another task on a checklist, only seemed to add to the distance between them.

Ayanokoji tilted his head slightly, still unmoved by her reaction. It was almost as if he didn’t fully comprehend how his straightforwardness might come across as cold or disjointed from the emotional weight of the situation. He had always viewed relationships from a tactical standpoint, as mere dynamics to be navigated, but her reaction was a reminder that this wasn’t just some strategic move for her—it was personal

"Do you want to have sex or not Karuizawa " Ayanokoji said stepping forward and holding her waist

Karuizawa looked away blushing "yes" 'God shes so easy to distract'

"Perfect" Ayanokoji leaned down kissing her, he picked her up not breaking the kiss Karuizawa wrapped her arms around his waist.

Chapter Text

Ayanokoji’s phone buzzed, and he glanced at the message from Horikita. "Meet me. I have your first assignment," it read. He felt a familiar sense of calm wash over him. This was how things worked now. He was no longer just a passive observer in Horikita’s game—he was a player, though in a role that still felt strangely detached.

He quickly typed a response, acknowledging her request, and then made his way to her room. The last few days had been filled with strange tension, and the path she was leading him down was one he had no choice but to follow. Yet, even in the midst of all her schemes, he couldn’t help but feel a quiet sense of admiration for the way she operated.

Horikita was ambitious, calculating, and ruthless—qualities that reminded him of himself, though he was never so overt about his goals.

Arriving at her door, he knocked lightly before entering. Horikita was seated at her desk, her expression as composed as ever, but there was something more intense in the air tonight. The same sharp confidence that always defined her presence seemed to be radiating even more now.

"You wanted to see me?" Ayanokoji asked, his tone neutral, yet alert.

Horikita looked up at him, her lips curling into a slight smile. "Yes, Ayanokoji. It's time for you to start proving your worth." She gestured for him to take a seat across from her, and without hesitation, he did.

Her eyes narrowed slightly as she placed a folder on the table between them. "This is your first task. It's simple,Now im sure your already aware that each class has a leader of sorts, Class A has Sakayagi, Class C- rather class D has Ryuen though he has recently been dethroned but om working on that right now, and our class has Hirata-”

“Are you aiming to take over?” Ayanokoji asked interrupting her

Horikita rolled he eyes “first of all don't ever interrupt me again and second no, we like Hirata-”

“We?”

“What did I say about interrupting”

“Right apologies”

“Don't do it again, anyway Hirata will remain the leader for our class he’s actually on our side though I don't think he’s aware that he's on our side” Horikita continued “Class B is lacking of a leader though I’ve recently chosen the perfect candidate”

“Am I allowed to speak now?” Ayanokoji asked

“Yes. the person i’ve chosen is Honami Ichinose” Horikita asked “now i need you to get close to her, closer than I can get”

“How do you expect me to do that?” Ayanokoji asked
Horikita just shrugged “I don't know date her”

“You expect me to just dump Karuizawa just like that?” Ayanokoji asked though he really couldn't care less

“No i still need her just have an affair like a normal person” Horikita begun riffling through the drawers

Ayanokoji peaked over seeing it was practically bursting filled with files.
"simple she said" ayanonokoji mumbled

"what was that" Horikita asked

"nothing" ayanokoji told quickly

horikita looked up from the drawer frowning at him "ayanokoji...are you afraid of me or something?"

"I wouldn't say afraid but i've never met anyone like me until now" Ayanokoji asked "I'm not sure how to feel about it" he took a second before adding "thats a compliment"

"Thank you" Horikita said hesitantly

ayanokoji opened his mouth to say something else but she held her hand up to silence him, for some odd reason he felt the urge to keep the conversation going but for now he'd let it go

“here you’ll find everything you need to know in there theres also a usb drive” Horikita told handing him a file, it was titled ‘Hanami Ichinose’ and it looked pretty much identical to the one she had for him

“Do you have one of these for everyone you know?” Ayanokoji asked

“Of course I do what do you take me for?” Horikita responded

“I’m not sure but this is very thorough” Ayanokoji told flipping through the pages and photos “maybe i shouldn't’ve have gotten involved is it to late to back out?”

“I know everything about you down to how much you weighed at birth” Horikita responded

“You know what this all sounds absolutely amazing and very well thought out” Ayanokoji nodded “and this research is second to none i love what your doing here”

“Okay no need to over do it” Horikita smiled at him the gesture made his heart flutter

‘Why the hell does she keep making me feel like this’ Ayanokoji swallowed looking away from her “I’ll get going then see you in class later, but before i go do any more of your plans involve me sleeping with people?”

Horikita paused “possibly sakura she’s been getting less compliant lately since your offering I’ll make a new plan, it’d be great to be able to manipulate her from different angles”

“That was supposed to be a joke”

“Was it?” Horikita asked “i really didn't see it you didn't laugh or anything “

“Haha” Ayanokoji let out some forced laughter

“Don't ever do that again” Horikita grimaced “its unnatural “

“Right then” he turned walking away though horikitas eyes lingered on him for a few seconds to long before she returned focus to the task at hand

Chapter Text

Ayanokoji had already been awake, his morning routine as methodical as ever. The knock on his door caught him slightly off guard—Horikita hadn’t come by for a while, and it wasn’t typical for her to make such personal gestures. He glanced at the clock before rising, already knowing what to expect from her. His expression remained neutral as he opened the door, only to be greeted by the sight of her standing there with a bright, almost too-welcoming smile and a container in her hands.

“I made these for you,” Horikita said, her tone chipper, though there was an almost palpable edge to it. “I don’t know your favorite flavor, so I made Karuizawa’s instead. I figured she’d probably be the one eating them.” Her smile stretched wider, clearly intended to provoke a reaction.

Ayanokoji took in the scene without so much as blinking. His eyes flicked to the container, then back up to her, trying to read between the lines of her seemingly innocent offer. He didn't take the muffins immediately. Instead, he stood there, his gaze unwavering, as though waiting for her to reveal her true intentions.

"Why bring me muffins, Horikita?" he asked, his voice calm, betraying none of the curiosity that flickered in his mind. "What’s the catch?"

Horikita’s smile didn’t falter, but there was a shift in her expression—an acknowledgment that he hadn’t taken the bait the way she expected. She tilted her head slightly, playing with the edge of the container. "No catch, Ayanokoji. Just wanted to be… friendly. You’ve been distant lately, so I thought I’d try to bridge the gap."

Her words were carefully chosen, each one meant to dig deeper into his psyche. Horikita had always been perceptive, but now, she was being more deliberate than usual. She knew that Ayanokoji never responded well to acts of kindness unless there was an ulterior motive—or at least, unless he felt there was one.

She pushed the container toward him a little more, her gaze holding his steady. "You don’t have to take them if you don’t want to. But I thought maybe you'd like to try something a little different. You’re always so composed, so controlled… But it’s okay to let your guard down, sometimes."

Her words were tinged with a subtle challenge. She wanted to test his reaction, see if he would crack under the pressure of her manipulation.

Ayanokoji, for his part, remained unfazed. He could see through her intentions clearly, and he knew that her actions, however friendly they seemed, were rooted in something deeper. But Horikita didn’t understand one thing: he had already seen through the game she was playing. She wasn’t just trying to break him down—she was trying to make him question himself, to create doubt in his carefully constructed world.

He took a step forward and took the container from her, his eyes never leaving hers. "Thank you," he said simply, his voice as unreadable as ever. "But don’t mistake this for a sign of weakness, Horikita. I’m not the one who needs to let my guard down."

Her smile wavered for just a moment, but only for an instant. She knew the game wasn’t over yet. In fact, it had only just begun. Horikita had never expected Ayanokoji to surrender so easily. She’d only hoped to see the tiniest crack in his stoic demeanor. She wanted to know how far she could push him—and how far he was willing to let her.

“Of course,” she said smoothly, her tone returning to its usual coolness. “But it’s worth trying, don’t you think?”

With that, she turned to leave, but not before her gaze lingered on him one last time. She had planted the seed of doubt. Now it was up to him to decide whether to let it grow.

As the door closed behind her, Ayanokoji looked down at the container in his hands. He didn’t need to eat the muffins to know what Horikita was truly after. This wasn’t about food; it was about control. And he knew exactly how to play the game.

As the days passed, Ayanokoji found himself slipping into a familiar, somewhat detached routine. The awkward tension that lingered between him and Horikita began to fade into the background, yet he couldn’t shake the feeling that something was quietly shifting beneath the surface. She had made her move, and now, it seemed, she was content to watch him. But Ayanokoji was never one to let things be as they appeared on the surface. The fact that Horikita had grown closer to Hirata was both puzzling and strategic. It was a careful maneuver, one that hinted at her growing influence over her classmates. It was something to keep an eye on, but nothing that would sway him too much—at least, not yet.

On the other hand, Kei... Kei’s possessiveness had become more apparent lately. She would often cling to him, looking for reassurance, for something he wasn't sure she truly understood herself. Her jealousy, her attempts to control him, had only grown stronger as time passed. But despite her obvious desire for him, Ayanokoji found the whole situation increasingly tiresome. His mind wandered during their extra-curricular activities—disconnected, as it always was when it came to such things. To him, it wasn’t about the physical act. It never was. Sex bored him, like most things that lacked true intellectual stimulation or emotional connection.

In those moments of distance, as Kei’s warmth pressed against him or her hands tangled in his hair, Ayanokoji’s mind would retreat to other thoughts. He thought about Horikita—about what she was really after. What did she want? Was it just power? Control? Or was she, perhaps, trying to learn something deeper about him? The idea of Horikita attempting to understand him, to break through his carefully constructed walls, was something that both intrigued and unsettled him.

But still, there was that gnawing feeling that something was missing. The distractions were growing tiresome. He needed something more. Something that could keep his mind from wandering. It was during these moments of physical boredom that he often found himself reflecting on the bigger picture—his mission, his own personal goals, and how Horikita might play into them.

As Kei's body rested against his, Ayanokoji’s gaze shifted to the ceiling, his fingers absentmindedly brushing through her hair. The satisfaction that others seemed to find in physical connection was lost on him. He couldn’t bring himself to feel the rush of excitement, nor the release that others craved. He needed something deeper, something that would challenge his mind in ways that sex simply never could.

He let out a slow breath, his mind still wrapped around his thoughts, as Kei shifted beside him, oblivious to the fact that he wasn’t truly present.
"I love you kiyokata" Karuizawa smiled at him "Hmm?"

He looked at her briefly "I love you too” there was no warmth in his voice but Karuizawa didn't bat an eye given his usual personality

Kei smiled as she nestled closer to him, clearly satisfied with his response, despite the lack of warmth in his voice. It was typical of Ayanokoji—always distant, always guarded. Yet, it seemed as though she had accepted him for what he was. She knew he wasn’t someone who would express his feelings the way others might, but to her, his words, however flat, still held meaning.

"I know," she said softly, her hand tracing absent-minded circles on his chest. "I can tell, you know. Even when you don't say it in the way other people do."

Ayanokoji didn’t respond immediately. His gaze remained on the ceiling, his mind once again drifting away from the present. He knew Kei wanted more from him—emotion, affection, things that were foreign to him. But in her presence, he found a strange, quiet solace. It wasn’t love, not in the way she seemed to think of it, but it was something.
Still, Ayanokoji’s thoughts wandered back to Horikita. Her persistent, calculating nature intrigued him, but it also unsettled him. She was a puzzle he hadn’t solved yet. He didn’t care about her manipulations or games—what worried him more was what she might be planning next. He had to stay two steps ahead, especially since she seemed to be growing more comfortable with her newfound power.

But for now, with Kei wrapped around him, Ayanokoji chose to let the moment pass, even if his mind was elsewhere. It was easier that way—detached, indifferent. He had perfected it over the years. And maybe, just maybe, it was enough for Kei, even if it wasn’t for him.

"I should go soon," Ayanokoji muttered, his voice a bit colder now, as he shifted slightly. "I need to take care of something."

Kei’s grip tightened slightly around him, but she didn’t protest. She simply nodded, her head resting against his chest. "Alright... but come back soon. We still need to celebrate."
He didn’t respond. Instead, he slipped away from her embrace, his mind already shifting back to the task at hand. As he stood up and started to gather his things, he could feel Kei’s eyes on him, but he didn’t meet her gaze. There was nothing more to say. Nothing more to feel.

With one last glance at her, Ayanokoji left the room, the weight of his own emotions—or rather, his lack of them—hanging heavily in the air.

"So what did Horikita talk to you about?' Karuizawa asked looking up at him again

"It's not my place to tell" Ayanokoji told "goodbye Karuizawa "

Kei’s expression softened for a moment, but she didn’t press the issue. She knew Ayanokoji well enough by now to understand when he was closing himself off, even if it frustrated her.

“You’re still avoiding it, huh?” she said, her tone slightly playful but with a hint of disappointment. “Alright, I won’t push. But you know, you can always talk to me if you need to, right?”

Ayanokoji didn’t respond right away, his eyes flicking briefly to her before he turned to leave. “Goodbye, Karuizawa,” he repeated, his voice detached, his face unreadable as always.

Kei watched him go, her hand unconsciously resting on the bed beside her. She had hoped for more. For him to open up, to let her in even just a little more. But that was never how it worked with Ayanokoji. He remained a mystery, locked behind layers of walls he had built long before she ever knew him.
As the door closed behind him, she sighed, leaning back against the bed, her gaze drifting to the ceiling. She loved him in her own way, but love alone wasn’t enough to crack through the ice surrounding his heart.

Chapter Text

Ayanokoji started navigating the school grounds, scanning the familiar faces until he spotted Ichinose Honami in the courtyard, surrounded by a group of her classmates. Her bright smile and warm presence made her an approachable figure, one that most students naturally gravitated towards.

Ayanokoji observed her for a moment, assessing how best to initiate contact without drawing suspicion. Once there was an opening, he approached her with his usual calm demeanor.

"Ichinose," he called out, catching her attention. "Do you have a moment to talk?"

Ichinose turned towards him, her expression lighting up with curiosity. "Ayanokoji-kun! Sure, what's up?" she replied, her tone friendly as always.

He gave a small nod, his face unreadable. "It’s about something important. Can we talk somewhere private?"

"Yeah sure is something wrong?" Ichinose asked worriedly

Ayanokoji shook his head slightly, offering a reassuring, albeit faint, smile. "Nothing's wrong, but it’s something that requires a bit of privacy. I’d rather not discuss it here."
Ichinose’s concern didn’t fade entirely, but she nodded, trusting his judgment. "Alright, let’s head over to one of the quieter study rooms." She gestured for him to follow her, leading the way toward a more secluded part of the school.

As they walked, Ichinose glanced at him, her curiosity clearly piqued. "You’re usually so reserved, Ayanokoji-kun. It’s rare for you to approach someone like this. Is it about Class B?"

Ayanokoji kept his gaze forward, his tone measured. "In a way, yes. But it's more personal than that."

Ichinose’s brow furrowed slightly, but she didn’t press further, waiting until they were behind closed doors to continue the conversation. Once inside the study room, she turned to face him, her expression open and attentive. "Alright, we’re alone now. What’s on your mind?"

Ayanokoji’s eyes momentarily flickered, calculating the best approach. Ichinose was undoubtedly kind and genuine, a stark contrast to the usual types of people he interacted with. There was an innocence to her that made this manipulation feel like a more delicate matter. He would have to approach this carefully if he was going to follow through with Horikita’s plan without risking too much.

He leaned against the desk, his posture relaxed but intentional, allowing a slight, almost imperceptible smile to play on his lips. "Ichinose, I’ve been thinking a lot about how to achieve my goals at this school. You’ve always been a strong leader for Class B, but you seem different from the rest of them. More... approachable." He let his gaze linger on her for just a moment, enough to give her the impression of sincerity but without crossing the line into overly personal territory.

Ichinose seemed to soften, her guard lowering a bit. "I’m just doing what I can for my class," she replied, her voice gentle but still carrying a sense of responsibility. "But... if you need anything, Ayanokoji-kun, you know I’m here to help."

Ayanokoji could see the opening. He took a slow step toward her, maintaining eye contact as he did. "You’re always so kind to others," he said, his voice smooth. "Sometimes I wonder if anyone really takes the time to be kind to you."

Ichinose blinked, caught off guard by the statement. She shifted slightly, her expression faltering just enough to show vulnerability. "I... I’m used to it. I don’t mind helping others. It’s just what I do."

Ayanokoji could sense her hesitation. He was getting closer to the reaction he wanted. "It’s admirable," he said softly, stepping a little closer. "But even the kindest people need someone who’s willing to care for them in return."

Ichinose’s eyes flickered with uncertainty, and Ayanokoji used this moment to subtly close the distance between them. "I can be that person, if you’d let me," he added, his voice low and steady, carrying a hint of something deeper that implied more than just a casual conversation.

The tension in the air was palpable, and for a moment, Ichinose seemed torn. She opened her mouth as if to say something, but the words faltered on her lips.
Ichinose froze for a brief moment as Ayanokoji leaned down, the warmth of his lips on her forehead sending a shock through her system. Her heart skipped, and her mind raced to process what had just happened. It was unexpected, but there was something in the way he held himself—so calm, so sure of everything—that made it hard to pull away.
She stared up at him, confusion written across her face. "Ayanokoji-kun..." she started, her voice wavering slightly, but before she could finish, Ayanokoji's gaze softened, his expression still unreadable but carrying an undertone of something more personal.

"You’ve done so much for others, Ichinose," he murmured, his voice just above a whisper, "but it’s okay to let someone else care for you too. You don’t have to carry the weight alone."

Ichinose’s breath hitched, her heart pounding a little faster. The words were simple, yet they resonated deeply with her. She had always been the one to support everyone, but here was someone telling her, for the first time, that it was okay to lean on others. She felt a small flicker of warmth, despite the uncertainty that lingered in her mind.
Ayanokoji didn’t break eye contact. He stepped back just a fraction, allowing her space, but the intimacy of the moment still hung between them like an invisible thread, pulling her in.

Ichinose finally managed a soft smile, though there was still an air of hesitation around her. "I... I don’t know what to say."
Ayanokoji gave a slight shrug, his calm demeanor returning. "No need to say anything," he replied. "I just want you to know that you’re not alone. If you need someone to talk to, or... anything else, I’m here."

His words were gentle, but there was an undeniable sharpness to them. It was clear he was positioning himself as someone she could rely on, even if he wasn’t being overt about it. It was a careful dance, one that kept her intrigued but also uncertain.

Ichinose blinked a few times, still processing the sudden shift in their dynamic. She opened her mouth as if to say something, but the words didn’t come out right away. She couldn’t quite place the feelings swirling within her—was it just the kindness he was offering, or was there something more behind his actions?

"Thank you, Ayanokoji-kun," she said finally, her voice barely above a whisper, but there was a hint of something deeper there, a softening that hadn't been present before.
Ayanokoji simply nodded, the faintest of smiles playing at the corners of his lips. He knew this was just the beginning. The next steps would be more complicated, but for now, he had planted the seed.

“You’re quite attractive you know” Ayanokouji told

Ichinose blinked, her cheeks flushing slightly at Ayanokoji's unexpected compliment. She had always known she was somewhat attractive, but hearing it from him, of all people, felt different. It wasn't just a passing remark—it was deliberate, measured, and it made her heart skip a beat.

"Th-thank you, Ayanokoji-kun," she stammered, her usual confidence faltering for a brief moment. She wasn’t used to receiving compliments from someone who rarely showed much emotion or expression. There was a weight to his words that she wasn’t used to.

Ayanokoji, sensing her surprise, didn’t immediately backtrack. Instead, his gaze softened just a little, his expression still unreadable but somehow more direct. "It's not just about looks," he continued, his voice low, almost casual. "You carry yourself in a way that makes you stand out. It’s rare."

Ichinose swallowed, feeling a mix of uncertainty and curiosity rise within her. She couldn’t quite tell if he was being genuine or just trying to manipulate her. Ayanokoji was always so difficult to read, and yet, something about this moment felt... different.

"Are you always this blunt?" she asked, her voice tinged with amusement, though the flush on her face hadn’t quite disappeared.

Ayanokoji smirked slightly, his usual coolness returning. "I don’t see the point in beating around the bush." His tone was still matter-of-fact, but there was a hint of something else, something more personal, beneath the surface.

Ichinose tilted her head slightly, her eyes searching his face for any clue about his true intentions. "Well, I appreciate the honesty," she said softly, her voice quieter now. "But, just so you know, I'm not someone who gets swayed by flattery easily."

Ayanokoji took a step back, his hands in his pockets, his gaze never leaving hers. "I know," he said, his tone flat. "But it doesn’t hurt to try."

For a moment, the air between them was thick with tension, and Ichinose couldn't help but wonder just what Ayanokoji's real intentions were. Was this all part of some plan? Or was there something more genuine hidden underneath his calculated demeanor?

Her thoughts were interrupted when Ayanokoji spoke again, breaking the silence with a sudden shift in topic.

"I didn’t come here just to flatter you, though," he said, his voice more serious now. "I have something to ask you."

Ichinose blinked, her curiosity piqued. "What is it?"

Ayanokoji's expression remained unreadable, but his words were direct. "I need you to trust me. You’re in a position of power, but there are things happening that you might not see. I want to help you navigate them, but you have to be willing to accept my assistance."

Ichinose hesitated. There was something in his voice, something that hinted at the depth of the situation, but she wasn’t sure if she was ready to fully trust him just yet. She had learned to rely on herself for so long, but something about Ayanokoji's words made her wonder if she was missing something important.

"I’m not sure if I can just... trust you like that," she admitted, her voice tinged with caution.

Ayanokoji simply nodded. "I understand. But when the time comes, you’ll see that I’m someone you can rely on."

Ichinose’s thoughts raced. There was a part of her that was drawn to him, not just because of his words, but because of the confidence he exuded. But there was also a part of her that was wary, afraid of getting caught up in something she couldn’t control.

"Let’s see if you’re right," she said finally, her voice steady. "But I’ll be watching you, Ayanokoji-kun."

Ayanokoji’s smirk returned, his expression once again unreadable. "That’s all I ask."

And with that, the conversation shifted. They both knew that whatever happened next, this moment would mark the beginning of something more complicated.
Ichinose pulled him down for another kiss, her grip on his shirt tightening as if trying to anchor herself in the moment. Ayanokoji, ever composed, allowed her to take the lead, his mind already analyzing her actions.

Predictable as always, he thought. The momentary spark of passion wasn’t unexpected. Ichinose was driven by emotion, by her need to feel connected, and right now, she was seeking something more—a confirmation, perhaps, that this was real.

The kiss deepened, more urgent than the first. Ichinose pressed closer, her hands sliding up to his shoulders, as if trying to draw out more of him, more emotion, more of the connection she believed she was forging. Yet, for Ayanokoji, it was all part of the plan. He responded in kind, but his mind remained detached, observing every detail.
He could feel the slight tremor in her hands, the hesitation mixed with desire. Ichinose was opening herself up, letting down her guard, exactly as he had anticipated. This wasn’t about mutual attraction or romance—it was about control, about securing her trust and placing himself in a position to manipulate her as Horikita had instructed.

As the kiss finally broke, Ichinose pulled back slightly, her breathing uneven, her eyes searching his for some kind of unspoken truth. "I don’t know what’s happening between us," she admitted softly, "but I feel like there’s something... more."

Ayanokoji tilted his head, his expression remaining unreadable. "Sometimes, things don’t need to be defined," he said calmly. "Sometimes, it’s enough to just feel."
Ichinose looked down, biting her lip, clearly wrestling with her thoughts. For her, this wasn’t just about a fleeting moment—it was something she was beginning to believe in, something she wanted to hold onto.

Ayanokoji watched her, knowing exactly what she was thinking. She was falling into his carefully laid trap, one step at a time. And while part of him acknowledged the moral ambiguity of his actions, he reminded himself that this was necessary. It was a means to an end, and nothing more.

As Ichinose leaned her head against his chest, seeking comfort, Ayanokoji placed a gentle hand on her back, holding her close. Outwardly, it was a tender moment, one that would appear genuine to anyone watching. But inside, his mind was already calculating the next move.

Step one, complete.

Ichinose took a small step back, her cheeks flushed and her expression conflicted. "We shouldn’t do this... not while you’re dating Karuizawa," she said, her voice trembling slightly with hesitation and guilt.

Ayanokoji observed her carefully, noting the internal struggle reflected in her eyes. Despite her emotional response, he knew this was a pivotal moment—one where he could either push her further into his grasp or risk losing her trust.

"You’re right," he said softly, his tone measured and calm. "I won’t deny that. But... things with Karuizawa aren’t as simple as they seem." He let the words hang, allowing the ambiguity to do its work, planting seeds of doubt and curiosity in her mind.

Ichinose looked up at him, searching for clarity. "What do you mean? If things aren’t simple, why are you still with her?"

Ayanokoji sighed, as if burdened by a weight he couldn't fully explain. "It’s complicated. There are reasons—personal reasons—that make it hard to just walk away. But that doesn’t mean what I feel right now isn’t real."

Her eyes softened, though the uncertainty remained. "I don’t want to be the reason for any more complications in your life," she said, her voice filled with genuine concern. "I don’t want to hurt Karuizawa... or myself."

Ayanokoji reached out, gently placing a hand on her shoulder. "I understand," he said, his voice low and reassuring. "I don’t want to hurt anyone either. But sometimes, the heart doesn’t always follow the rules we set for it."

Ichinose hesitated, clearly torn between her feelings and her sense of morality. "I need time to think," she finally said, stepping back further, creating more distance between them. "I don’t know if I can do this, Ayanokoji."

He nodded, respecting her decision. "Take all the time you need. I don’t want you to do anything you’re not comfortable with."
With a small, conflicted smile, Ichinose turned and walked away, leaving Ayanokoji standing alone. As she disappeared down the hallway, he allowed himself a moment to reflect.

The seed has been planted, he thought. Now, it’s just a matter of time.

Chapter Text

Ayanokoji walked slowly towards Karuizawa’s dorm room, his steps measured and deliberate. He wasn’t particularly looking forward to the conversation, but he knew he had agreed to it. Addressing their relationship felt more like an obligation than a genuine desire on his part, but it was necessary to maintain appearances.

As he approached her door, he took a deep breath, preparing himself for whatever emotional turmoil might await. He knew Karuizawa could be intense when it came to matters of their relationship, and this discussion would likely be no different.

He knocked softly, waiting for her to answer. The silence stretched for a moment before the door opened, revealing Karuizawa. Her expression was a mixture of frustration and vulnerability, clearly upset but trying to keep it together.

"We need to talk," she said, stepping aside to let him in.

Ayanokoji stepped inside, his eyes meeting Karuizawa’s. She looked both anxious and determined, clearly bracing herself for the conversation ahead. He remained silent, waiting for her to speak, knowing she needed to get whatever was on her mind off her chest.

Karuizawa closed the door behind him, her fingers fidgeting slightly as she gathered her thoughts. "Ayanokoji," she began, her voice steady despite the emotion simmering beneath the surface. "I need to know...what are we doing? This relationship feels one-sided sometimes. Like I’m the only one putting in the effort."

Ayanokoji listened, his face impassive as always. He could sense the frustration in her voice, the vulnerability she rarely showed. "You’ve been distant," she continued. "You disappear without a word, and when you’re here, it feels like you’re not really present. Why did you even ask me out if this is how it’s going to be?"

Her eyes searched his face for any sign of emotion, some indication that he cared about her or their relationship. But as usual, Ayanokoji’s expression gave nothing away.

"Because I love you" Ayanokoji spoke 'why are you so fucking useless' "I'm sure you're aware but I don't express much emotion "

Karuizawa stared at him, her expression a mix of disbelief and frustration. "You *like* me?" she repeated, her voice tinged with scepticism. "You have a funny way of showing it, Ayanokoji. Liking someone usually involves...I don’t know, actually caring about their feelings, spending time with them, maybe even enjoying their company."

'I don't enjoy your company at all' he thought Ayanokoji nodded slightly, acknowledging her point. "I understand that I don’t express emotions the way most people do," he said calmly. "It’s not easy for me to navigate relationships or show affection in the typical way. But that doesn’t mean I don’t care about you."

Karuizawa crossed her arms, clearly not entirely convinced. "If you care, then show it. I don’t need grand gestures or constant attention, but I need to feel like I’m not just some pawn in whatever game you’re playing. I need to know that you actually want to be with me."

'Constant attention is exactly what you want you're way to clingy to deny it' Ayanokoji thought to himself

Ayanokoji maintained his neutral expression, though internally he analyzed her words carefully. He understood her frustration and the need for reassurance, even if he found the emotional complexities tiresome. "I understand what you're saying," he replied, his voice measured. "And I’ll make an effort to show you that I care, in a way that makes sense to both of us."

Karuizawa’s eyes softened slightly, though her guard remained up. "I hope you mean that," she said quietly. "Because I don’t want to feel like I’m in this alone."

Ayanokoji stepped closer, placing a hand gently on her shoulder. "You’re not alone," he assured her. "We’re in this together, and I’ll do what I can to make that clear."

Though his words were carefully chosen, Karuizawa could sense a hint of sincerity in them. She nodded, her tension easing slightly. "Okay," she murmured. "But don’t just say it—prove it."

Ayanokoji gave a small nod, knowing this was just the beginning of navigating their complicated relationship. "I will," he promised, even as he silently pondered how to balance his emotional detachment with the demands of their relationship.

Ayanokoji leaned down pressing his lips to hers gently,

Karuizawa tensed at first, surprised by the sudden kiss, but soon she melted into it, her emotions in conflict. As the kiss deepened, she couldn't help but feel both frustration and longing. She had asked for attention, for something real, but here she was, once again caught in the whirlwind of Ayanokoji’s calculated movements. Despite everything, there was still a part of her that craved the connection, even if it came wrapped in manipulation.

Ayanokoji pulled back slightly, his lips barely brushing hers. His internal thoughts, as always, remained guarded, but he couldn’t help but wonder at how quickly he had managed to gain control over her emotions once again. "You're too easy to distract," he thought, though he kept that to himself, not wanting to break the fragile moment that had formed between them.

Karuizawa looked up at him, her chest rising and falling with each breath, still trying to piece together what had just happened. "You..." she started, her voice barely above a whisper. "You don’t get it, do you?" There was hurt in her eyes, but also a hint of something more—something deeper that she couldn't quite explain. She pulled back slightly, her gaze searching his face for something more than just calculated indifference.

"Get what?" Ayanokoji asked, his voice cold but curious, as if he was waiting for her to explain what she needed. He already knew, on some level, but wasn’t ready to show her that he understood.

"That I’m not like you," Karuizawa said, her voice growing more determined. "I need something real. Not just... this." She motioned vaguely between them, her frustration evident.

Ayanokoji didn’t respond immediately, his mind working through her words. "If it’s something real you want," he began slowly, "then perhaps you’ll have to understand that this—" he gestured to the space between them "—is real, too. But only in its own way." His tone was detached, but there was a flicker of something in his eyes that hinted he was trying to comprehend her need for more.

Karuizawa stared at him, frustration welling up again, but she could tell he wasn’t fully grasping what she meant. She shook her head. "You don’t understand," she muttered under her breath. "You never do."

"I'm trying " Ayanokoji rolled his eyes "I'll take you out on a date tonight?"

"Really?!" Karuizawa perked up "You never take me out"

"I am now" he responded "We can get dinner wherever you like"

"thank you!" Karuizawa practically threw herself into his arms "You're the best Ayanokoji! I love you" she smiled up at him

Ayanokouji hugged back "You're welcome," he told

Karuizawa didn't even think about the fact that he didn't say it back they'd been dating for a long while and he'd never even hinted at saying 'I love you' and whenever she said it he always said thank you, that he knew or in this case and many other just ignored it.

"come here!" Kariuzawa pulled him towards the bed completely forgetting that she was supposed to be mad at him.

Chapter Text

The sound of a violin echoed faintly through the cold hallways of the Horikita household. It was precise. Calculated. Devoid of soul.

Seven-year-old Suzune Horikita sat with a straight back, fingers trembling ever so slightly over the strings. Her instructor stood beside her with a stern expression, nodding only when the piece ended.

“You missed the feeling in the third stanza. Redo it.”

Suzune didn’t argue. She didn’t sigh or complain. She simply nodded, reset her posture, and began again.

From the doorframe, her older brother Manabu Horikita, barely twelve, watched with arms crossed. Even at that young age, he had already begun to bear the weight of being the heir to the family’s expectations. He had already begun to outshine others with frightening ease.

And Suzune? She wasn’t shining. She was straining.

That night, over a dinner cloaked in silence, their father placed a report card down at the table. It was Suzune’s.

“All A’s,” he noted without emotion. “Except for mathematics. An A-minus.”

Suzune's hand tightened around her fork. She didn’t look up.

“Unacceptable,” her father continued. “Your brother never once scored below an A in anything. You will redo your study schedule.”

Still, she said nothing. The air was heavy with unspoken judgments, thick with impossible expectations. Manabu didn’t speak either. But his eyes lingered on her, conflicted. He was used to being the standard. He didn’t ask to be—but he didn’t reject it, either.

Later that night, Suzune sat at her desk, a stack of textbooks beside her, tears welling in her eyes—but not falling. Crying would be weakness. Crying was giving up.

The snow fell gently outside the tall windows of the Horikita estate, muffling the world in white silence. Suzune sat cross-legged on the tatami floor of the training room, her small hands clenched tightly in her lap as her brother’s voice echoed sternly in her ears.

"Again."

Manabu Horikita stood with his arms folded, his expression neutral but the slight furrow of his brows revealing quiet disappointment. Seven-year-old Suzune stood up quickly, biting her lower lip to stop it from trembling. She’d been trying to perfect the kata he had shown her for the past two hours. Her arms were sore. Her legs shook. But her brother hadn’t acknowledged a single attempt as “correct.”

“I—I’ll get it right this time,” she muttered, more to herself than to him.

“I hope so,” he replied flatly, turning away to stare out the window. “If you want to be someone worth respect in this family, then you can’t afford to be ordinary.”

The words stung, not because they were unfamiliar, but because they were exactly what she’d heard from their father just the night before. Dinner had been quiet until her report card came up. Straight As, but apparently, they were not enough.

“Manabu is already leading his class,” her father had said without even looking at her. “What have you done that’s exceptional, Suzune?”

She hadn’t responded. There was no answer that would satisfy him.

Back in the training room, Suzune moved into the first stance of the kata. Her motions were rigid, sharp, focused. She moved like a machine—mechanical, precise. But her heart wasn’t in it anymore. It hadn’t been for a while.

As she stumbled at the last turn, her brother let out a long sigh. That sigh did more damage than any rebuke. It said everything she feared—that she was a failure. That she was a burden. That she was not enough.

The sharp clack of wooden sandals on polished floors echoed as Manabu stepped forward, his shadow falling over his younger sister.

“You're not focused,” he said, voice cold and precise. “You think half-effort and trembling limbs will earn you recognition in this house?”

Suzune's eyes welled up, but she blinked rapidly, forcing the tears away. She wouldn’t cry. Not in front of him. Not again.

“I’m trying—”

“That’s not good enough,” he cut in, his tone final. “You always say that. But effort without results is meaningless.”

Her shoulders flinched. She wasn’t sure which part hurt more: the words themselves or the way he said them—dispassionate, like he was reading from a script written by their father.

He sighed again, this time louder, as if releasing the last bit of patience he had. “Father and Mother are expecting you in the sitting room. Don’t make them wait.”
She froze. That room meant judgment. Performance. Their quiet disappointment in full force, delivered behind tight smiles and sharper words. It was never loud. Just cold. Inescapable. Like a blizzard you were expected to smile through.

“But—” she tried, her voice cracking.

He turned away, already done with her. “Straighten your posture before you go. At least try not to embarrass yourself.”

Her hands clenched at her sides. The ache in her limbs had gone numb by now, replaced with a heaviness in her chest. She bowed slightly—not out of respect, but because it was expected. Then she left the training room without another word, footsteps light and rehearsed.

The walk to the sitting room felt longer than it ever had. The hallway was lined with family portraits, all painted with quiet elegance and tension. In every one, her brother stood tall, confident. And her? Always slightly to the side, always watching, always trying to catch up.

When she reached the room, the doors were already open. Her father sat behind a lacquered table, sipping tea. Her mother was reading, pretending to be disinterested. But they were both waiting.

“Suzune,” her father said, not looking up. “Explain your poor performance today.”
She stood perfectly still.

“I... didn’t meet Manabu’s expectations,” she answered quietly.

A pause.

“And what do you plan to do about it?”

“Improve.”

He hummed, unconvinced. “We’ll see.”

Her mother finally looked up. “Children like you don’t get second chances in life. Either you rise above, or you're left behind. Understand?”

Suzune nodded.

“Speak.”

“Yes, Mother. I understand.”

And that was it. No praise, no warmth. Just another judgment, another expectation added to the weight she was already carrying.

Later that night, she sat at her small desk in her room, practicing math problems long after she was supposed to be asleep. Her fingers trembled, not from fatigue, but from the unspoken desperation to be seen. To matter.

And somewhere, just down the hall, her brother stood behind his closed door, listening.

But he never came.

Suzune was eleven now. A little taller, her hair neater, her voice quieter—but still a child. Despite the cold strictness of the Horikita household, her room was modestly decorated: a few books neatly arranged on the shelf, a desk always cleared after use, and one small indulgence—a television tucked into the corner, rarely touched.
Tonight was different.

She sat cross-legged on her floor in her pale blue pajamas, a warm blanket over her shoulders and the TV glowing faintly in the dim room. A lighthearted cartoon was playing—ridiculous and silly, with characters slipping on banana peels and speaking in overly dramatic voices. She giggled, genuinely, for the first time in weeks.

The room, usually filled with pressure and silence, finally felt like hers.

That’s when it happened.

The door opened—slammed, really—and her father’s voice sliced through the fragile moment like a blade.

“Suzune.”

She jumped, the blanket falling from her shoulders as the laughter died in her throat. The cartoon characters still danced on the screen, but she no longer heard them. The chill that came with her father’s presence replaced any comfort the room had offered.

He stood at the threshold, holding a manila folder—her report card.
His eyes narrowed. “Explain this.”

She blinked, heart already racing. “My… report card?”

“You think this is acceptable?” he barked, shaking the folder once before tossing it onto her desk. “All A’s. Not a single A+. Do you understand how this reflects on me? On this family?”

“I—I thought I did well—”

“Well?” His voice rose. “Do you think well is what this household strives for? ‘Well’ is what average people settle for. Is that what you are now, Suzune? Average?”

Her hands curled into fists against her knees. “No, Father. I’m not average.”

“Then act like it. You’re wasting time with this nonsense.” He gestured sharply at the TV, his mouth curling with disgust. “Cartoons? Laughing at idiotic things when you should be pushing yourself to improve?”

“It was just for a few minutes—”

“There are no ‘few minutes’ in this house. Every second is an investment in your future. If you treat your time like a joke, you’ll be a joke.”

His words echoed in the quiet that followed. Suzune didn’t speak. She didn’t cry. She only stared blankly at the floor.

Her father gave one last glance at the screen, where the characters were still smiling and shouting in bright colors.

He picked up the remote, clicked the power button, and tossed it onto her bed.
“Go revise your work. Start with mathematics. Aim for perfection, not sufficiency.”
And then he was gone, the door closing with that same finality she’d grown to dread.

Suzune sat in the dark, her reflection barely visible on the black TV screen.

A few seconds passed before she stood, walked over to the desk, and opened the math workbook. Her pencil moved mechanically, her face impassive. The laughter from earlier? Gone. Buried. Silenced by the voice she couldn’t ignore.

She hadn’t even noticed when it started — the game, the calculations, the gradual rewiring of her mind. It wasn’t something she decided to do one day. It happened slowly, organically, the way survival instincts do when someone is forced into a corner too many times.

One moment, she was a girl desperately trying to meet expectations.
The next, she was a strategist, watching everyone like puzzle pieces in a game no one else realized they were playing.

People weren’t people anymore. They were variables. Obstacles. Tools.
She became quiet, calculating. Someone once called her cold, and it stuck. Others called her intense, and she let them. None of them knew what it cost to be perfect. What it took to stay perfect.

They didn’t see the hours she spent in silence, studying not textbooks, but people. The way a certain classmate’s voice wavered when asked to speak aloud. How another always tried to impress teachers by volunteering even when she didn’t know the answers. Suzune kept notes on all of it — mental files for later.
Her classmates thought she was standoffish.

What they didn’t realize was that she had learned how to play a role. How to offer just enough kindness to earn trust, just enough humility to encourage competition, just enough distance to remain untouchable.

It wasn’t about making friends. It was about positioning.

At cram school, the sweet girl with the perfect handwriting had been her first real test. She hadn’t intended to manipulate her. But when she realized the girl was a threat — someone consistently ahead — Suzune adapted. She mirrored interest, complimented her pens, asked for help she didn’t need. The girl welcomed her instantly, not seeing the performance beneath the surface.

They studied together. Laughed together. The girl called her a friend.
But Suzune was always calculating. Watching.

She noticed how the girl would slack once she felt secure. How she repeated the same study patterns. How she missed subtleties on tests. And when the time came, Suzune surpassed her. Quietly. Cleanly. Without fanfare.

The girl never even knew she'd lost.

Then came the boy.

Kind. Helpful. Easy to miss in a crowd.

He didn’t have many friends, but he had a good heart — always offering to carry bags, organize papers, volunteer for tasks no one wanted. He lacked the spine to say no, and Suzune saw that immediately. She gave him what he craved: approval. She didn’t need to lie, just… offer enough sincerity to make him feel seen.

A few words of praise. A soft “Thank you, I couldn’t have done it without you.”
He would’ve moved mountains.

And she let him believe it mattered. Let him believe they were close.
But when junior high ended, so did their usefulness. She left them both behind — the girl with the notes, the boy with the kind eyes. Neither heard from her again.
They had served their purpose.

The first year at the Advanced Nurturing High School was all about staying in the shadows. Suzune had learned that lesson early—no one could notice her yet, not until she’d scoped out the terrain. The new environment was full of new challenges, and she needed to see who played what role. Who was weak, who was strong, and who could be manipulated without their knowledge.

She spent that year observing—watching her classmates, learning their movements and their flaws. She stayed quiet, a model student, never drawing attention, except when it was necessary. She was always the perfect balance between aloof and approachable, the ideal peer. Every word and every smile was deliberate.
But then, as the year ended, Suzune knew it was time to shift gears. She began making small adjustments—changing her demeanor just enough for others to see something new. “Suzune Horikita, the social one.” She became friendly, approachable, normal.

She was good at it. So good, in fact, that no one questioned her. No one saw it for what it was: a carefully calculated performance.

And then there was Ayanokoji Kiyotaka.

From the moment she’d noticed him, Suzune had recognized something unsettlingly familiar about him. The calm. The distance. He had no apparent emotions—at least, not the kinds of emotions anyone could read. He was like a mirror, reflecting whatever others projected onto him, never revealing himself.

She couldn’t deny it. He was… cute, in a way. A reserved kind of cute. He was different from the others—less obvious, more calculating, and strangely difficult to figure out. But she couldn’t let that distract her. She couldn’t afford to let anything stand in the way of her plan.

She realized quickly that Ayanokoji wasn’t like her in the same way her classmates were. He didn’t need to manipulate with grand gestures, nor did he need to project strength. He was subtle. He didn’t rush, didn’t push—he simply waited for the right moment to act, and that made him unpredictable. Dangerous.

But that didn’t stop Suzune from deciding that he would be useful. No one at the school was untouchable, especially not him. She’d been studying his behaviors, the little ticks in his actions, his words. She could see the cracks, the small signs that hinted he was more than just the blank canvas he appeared to be.
And she’d figured it out.

Ayanokoji was playing his own game, one where emotions didn’t matter. One where people were simply pieces to be moved around the board, each one as disposable as the last.

But Suzune wasn’t foolish enough to think he’d let anyone manipulate him. She needed to be cleverer than that. Chess, not checkers.
She smiled inwardly. She would play him—but she’d do it on her terms.
She had a plan. Ayanokoji would be her pawn, whether he knew it or not.

Chapter Text

Ayanokoji walked through the hallways, his mind at odds with the strange sensation in his stomach. It was something he couldn’t quite place—a discomfort that wasn’t physical, but something deeper, tied to the thoughts of Horikita. He had been trying to ignore it, trying to tell himself it was just another anomaly in his complicated interactions with the people around him. But the more he thought about it, the harder it became to dismiss.

When he glanced at his reflection in a window, the brief flicker of a smile on his face caught his attention. It was subtle, but it was there. The expression faded as soon as he noticed, and he quickly adjusted his features to match his usual neutral, detached expression. This wasn’t like him. He wasn’t supposed to feel things like this—not about Horikita, not about anyone.

But every time they interacted, every time their paths crossed, something stirred within him. It wasn’t something he had experienced with anyone else. With Karuizawa, Sakura, or Ichinose, the emotions had been easy to manage, clear-cut even, part of the transactional nature of their relationships. But with Horikita? She was different. The way she looked at him, the way she spoke to him—it was different from the rest.

As he reached the designated meeting spot, he saw her waiting, standing there as composed as ever, but there was something about her demeanor that made his stomach flutter again. He couldn’t let it show. He couldn’t let her—let himself—think too much about it.

“You’re here,” Horikita said as she noticed him approach, her tone calm but her gaze lingering on him just a moment longer than usual. “I didn’t expect you to reply so quickly.”

“I had nothing else to do,” Ayanokoji replied, his voice as indifferent as ever. He couldn’t let her see how this was affecting him.

Horikita didn’t press further, though there was something in her expression—a quiet curiosity that seemed to simmer under the surface.

As they started talking, Ayanokoji couldn’t help but wonder what was really happening between them. And whether it was something he should be paying attention to—or something he should keep ignoring.

"I've been focusing on two aspects of my plan to take over", Horokita spoke "Right now, I need your help to make Nagumo step down "

Ayanokoji’s gaze remained fixed on Horikita as she spoke, his expression as neutral as always. She had asked for his insight, and despite the growing tension he felt in the air, he couldn’t help but appreciate the directness in her request. She was sharp, and it was clear that she wasn’t content with passive actions anymore—she was ready to take action.

"Nagumo?" Ayanokoji repeated, his voice calculating, though there was a slight pause as he processed the implications. "You want him to step down as student president?"

Horikita’s eyes locked onto his, unwavering. "Yes. He’s a major obstacle in my plan. His position, his influence—it’s holding me back. But he’s powerful and manipulative. I need a way to weaken his grip, to expose any cracks in his leadership."

Ayanokoji remained silent for a moment, mulling over the situation. Nagumo wasn’t an easy target. His political tactics, his control over others, and his overwhelming confidence made him a formidable opponent. If Horikita was serious about taking him down, she needed more than just a well-laid plan; she needed the right leverage, the right timing, and perhaps most importantly, the right support.

"You’re trying to force him into a position where he has no choice but to step down, but you’ll need more than just strategy," Ayanokoji said slowly. "Nagumo isn’t one to back down unless he’s backed into a corner. And to make him step down, you need to give him a reason that doesn’t leave him with any room to retaliate."

Horikita nodded slightly, already thinking ahead. "I know. That’s why I need your help. You have experience with manipulating people and creating situations where they lose control. I’ll need that expertise."

Ayanokoji's mind clicked into place. He had experience with these kinds of scenarios—shifting power dynamics, creating vulnerabilities, exploiting weaknesses. But there was something more to this request. Horikita wasn’t just asking for help because it was practical. She was asking because she was starting to trust him in ways that went beyond the calculated maneuvering they’d always engaged in.

"I’ll need more specifics," Ayanokoji finally said, his tone sharp, his mind already calculating how to move forward. "What weaknesses does Nagumo have? Where are the cracks in his leadership?"

Horikita didn’t hesitate. "He’s too arrogant. He believes that no one can touch him. And his loyalty to his inner circle makes him vulnerable. I can exploit that. But I’ll need you to help me set up the right situation for it."

Ayanokoji’s gaze softened just slightly, and for a split second, he almost allowed himself to consider the deeper motivations behind Horikita’s plan. She wasn’t just after power; she was after control—and perhaps, just maybe, she was asking for more from him than she’d ever admit.

"Alright," Ayanokoji said, his voice steady and unwavering as always. "We’ll need to move carefully. I’ll help you create the leverage you need. But understand this: if we do this, there’s no turning back. We’ll be making an enemy of Nagumo, and the fallout will be significant."

Horikita met his gaze, her eyes steady and resolute. "I’m prepared for that. I need to take control. This is the only way."

Ayanokoji nodded, a slight hint of something—perhaps admiration, perhaps curiosity—flashing in his eyes. "Then we’ll begin."

For the first time, Horikita allowed herself a brief, almost imperceptible smile. A small acknowledgment of their partnership, a partnership that had begun to feel like something more than just a strategic alliance. Something she didn’t quite understand yet but was willing to pursue, no matter where it might lead.

"I have an in on the student council ", Horikita said "Tachibana, she worked as my brother's assistant in the student council during half of their first year, then as the vice president. She has feelings for him right now, and I think he does too- my brothe,r not Nagumo. nagumos been trying to get her off the student council but her role is to important for him to get rid of her and without any real reason for the school to remove her so dhe has to stop down but she's not going to, which works great for us she's loyal to my brother and her feelings can also be used in out favour she wants to show him that she can be a good...something I don't really know ?"

“You plan to use her feelings for Manabe to manipulate her?" Ayanokoji asked, his voice calm, though there was a faint curiosity in his tone. He knew that emotions could be a powerful tool in his plans, but it always required a delicate hand to maneuver without losing control.

Horikita nodded, her expression thoughtful. "Exactly. Tachibana’s loyalty to my brother is solid, and her feelings for him are something Nagumo has overlooked. If we use that, we can create a divide—Nagumo loses a key ally, and my brother gains someone who could potentially sway things in his favor."

Ayanokoji raised an eyebrow, considering the nuances of the plan. "If Tachibana has feelings for your brother, then it’s not a simple matter of manipulation. She’s invested in him, and if you play on those emotions too harshly, she could end up retaliating instead of helping."

Horikita’s lips thinned into a sharp line. "I know. But Tachibana is too dedicated to her position to step down willingly, and Nagumo knows that. We don't even have to manipulate her; my brother knows about my plans, and he's been assisting me from the outside world, and she’d be willing to do anything to help him. I do hope they end up together. They care about each other very much; I have to tell manabe how she is every week when I call him.”

Ayanokoji listened carefully, taking in the details of Horikita's plan as she laid them out. His expression remained neutral, but his mind was already working through the potential scenarios and risks involved. Horikita’s insight into her brother's influence was useful, and it seemed like they had a solid foundation for manipulating Tachibana's position. The emotional angle, though, was always tricky, and Ayanokoji didn’t miss the slight hint of personal involvement in Horikita’s words when she mentioned Tachibana and her brother.

“So, your brother is already helping from the outside,” Ayanokoji repeated thoughtfully. “And Tachibana is loyal to him, to the point where she would act on her feelings to help him. But you’re also right that this isn’t just a simple manipulation. We’ll have to walk a fine line to avoid pushing her into a corner.”

Horikita’s gaze narrowed slightly as she considered his words. "Exactly. We need to use her loyalty, but we also need to make her feel like she's choosing this herself. If she feels cornered, she might resist or cause more problems than we can handle."

Ayanokoji nodded slowly, calculating the risks. "Tachibana’s feelings for your brother are an advantage but also a liability. If we force her hand, it could backfire. We’ll need to create a situation where she feels like she’s making a decision that aligns with her own interests while also ensuring that she sees your brother as her ally in the process."

Horikita’s brow furrowed slightly. "And that’s where you come in. You’ve done this kind of manipulation before, right? You know how to work with someone’s emotions without making them feel like they’ve been played. I’ll need your help in crafting the situation where Tachibana will feel compelled to side with us."

Ayanokoji regarded her with a calm, unreadable expression. "I can help. But remember, emotions are fragile. We can guide her, but if we push too hard, we risk losing control."

Horikita let out a quiet sigh, then nodded. "I understand. This is the part of the plan I’m least certain about, but we need to take advantage of the situation. Nagumo won’t give up without a fight, and the sooner we can weaken his influence, the sooner my I can take a stronger position."

Ayanokoji’s thoughts lingered on her words. There was something almost personal in Horikita's tone when she spoke about her brother. It wasn’t just about gaining control anymore—it felt like there was a deeper motivation at play. Despite his ability to read people, Ayanokoji didn’t fully understand Horikita’s attachment to this particular plan, but he could see her determination.

“Let’s focus on creating the right environment for Tachibana,” he said, steering the conversation back to the task at hand. “We need to find a way to make her feel like aligning with us is her best option. We can’t force it—she’ll need to come to that conclusion herself.”

Horikita’s eyes sharpened with a renewed focus. "I trust you can handle that. But make sure that when the time comes, Tachibana believes she’s in control of her decision. We don’t want her to feel manipulated."

Ayanokoji gave a slight nod. "Understood. We’ll move carefully, and I’ll set things up in a way that doesn’t feel forced."

As the conversation drew to a close, Ayanokoji couldn’t help but wonder about the layers of complexity that were starting to form between him and Horikita. Her goals were clear—ambitious, strategic—but there was something else there. Something deeper that she wasn’t willing to acknowledge yet. And though Ayanokoji wasn’t one to become personally involved, he couldn’t shake the feeling that their alliance, this partnership, was evolving into something more intricate than just a matter of strategy.

For now, though, they had a task ahead of them: to weaken Nagumo’s grip on the student council by using Tachibana’s loyalty to Horikita’s brother, all while carefully managing the emotions of those involved. And despite the personal undercurrents, Ayanokoji’s mind remained focused on the endgame. It was what he did best.

Horikita glanced down at her buzzing phone and saw Manabu’s name flash across the screen. Without hesitation, she answered.

"How’s Tachibana?" Manabu asked immediately, skipping any sort of greeting.

Horikita sighed and smirked, resting her elbow on the desk. “Hello to you too,” she said dryly. “I’m doing great. Thanks so much for asking. How about you?”

There was a brief pause on the line before Manabu replied, his tone laced with irritation. “Suzune…”

“Yeah, yeah,” she said, brushing him off. “Your girlfriend’s fine. Nagumo hasn’t made a move on her—if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“She’s not my girlfriend,” Manabu stated flatly.

Horikita raised an eyebrow. “That’s your takeaway?”

Nearby, Ayanokoji listened silently, his gaze flicking toward Horikita. He could feel a small, unexpected warmth in his chest. Their dynamic was... intriguing. The way they clashed and yet effortlessly bounced off one another—it was almost like watching a perfectly choreographed dance of conflicting personalities.

Horikita's conversation with her brother, Manabu, continued, the banter between them revealing a rare glimpse of her more relaxed side. Ayanokoji, standing nearby, observed quietly, noting the ease with which they communicated. There was a natural rhythm to their interaction, a balance of respect, teasing, and understanding that hinted at a deep bond.

"Alright, fine," Horikita sighed. "If you're so concerned about Tachibana, why don't you tell her how you feel?"

Manabu’s response was immediate, though still calm. "This isn't about feelings, Suzune. It’s about ensuring Nagumo doesn’t gain any more ground."

"Uh-huh," Horikita replied, unimpressed. "You keep telling yourself that. But if you don't make a move soon, someone else might."

There was a brief silence on the other end of the line before Manabu spoke again, his tone softer. "She’s important, but the timing isn’t right. I need to focus on the work."

Horikita shook her head slightly, a small smile playing on her lips. "You’re always so focused on work. Just don’t let that stop you from living your life."

Ayanokoji couldn't help but notice the subtle shift in Horikita’s demeanor. This wasn’t the composed, strategic Horikita he usually saw; this was someone who cared deeply about her brother's happiness, even if she wouldn’t openly admit it.

"I’ll take your advice under consideration," Manabu said, his tone hinting at a rare moment of gratitude. "And thank you, Suzune, for keeping an eye on things."

"Of course," she replied, her voice softening. "Take care, Manabu."

As the call ended, Horikita set her phone down with a thoughtful expression.Ayanokoji observed her in silence for a moment, his expression unreadable, before finally breaking the quiet. “You care about him a lot, don’t you?”

Horikita turned her head slightly, just enough to meet his gaze. Her eyes, which had momentarily softened, quickly regained their familiar guarded edge. “He’s my brother,” she said, her tone clipped, as if that alone should be sufficient explanation. “Of course I care.”

Ayanokoji gave a slight nod, but didn’t look away. His gaze held steady, quietly analytical, as if he were piecing together a puzzle. “You’re not the same around him,” he said calmly. “When you speak to him, you let your guard down. You seem… more open.”

She frowned, her eyes narrowing slightly as if the observation irritated her. For a few seconds, she didn’t reply, as though weighing how much of herself she was willing to reveal. Eventually, she spoke, her voice laced with a mixture of resentment and reluctance. “I’m not more open. I have no reason to be. He’s never earned that. If anything, I have every reason not to trust him. He’s been complicit my whole life.”

Ayanokoji raised an eyebrow, his curiosity piqued. He didn’t press, not aggressively, but his question was gentle, inquisitive. “Complicit in what?”

Horikita hesitated, her eyes drifting away from his as if looking into a distant past. A flicker of something unreadable passed across her face—pain, maybe, or regret. For a moment, she seemed lost in her thoughts, flashes of old memories surfacing behind her calm exterior. When she finally spoke, her voice was quieter and tinged with something unspoken
.
“...Nothing,” she murmured, brushing the question aside, but the weight in her tone made it clear that whatever that nothing was, it ran deep.

For a moment, the room was filled with a comfortable silence. Ayanokoji realized that, despite their calculated alliance, moments like these were becoming more frequent. And as much as he tried to keep his emotions in check, he couldn’t deny the growing connection between them.

Horikita broke the silence, her tone shifting back to its usual business-like demeanor. "We have a lot to prepare for. Let’s focus on the plan."

Ayanokoji nodded, his mind refocusing on the task at hand. But even as they returned to their strategic discussions, the memory of her softer side lingered, leaving him with a strange, unfamiliar warmth.

"Oh I need you to start acting a little more distant from Karuizawa", Horokita added "Make her think you're cheating on her or something, but also start giving her gifts"

“I am cheating on her", Ayanokoji said, as if it answered her request

"I know", Horikita smiled "Use that ”

Ayanokoji gave Horikita a brief, emotionless glance, processing her instructions. He wasn’t particularly fazed by the request—after all, manipulating those around him was something he had mastered. However, the idea of playing with Karuizawa’s emotions like this did stir something in him, though he quickly dismissed it as just another part of the plan.

“Understood,” he said flatly, his voice void of any hesitation. “I’ll begin acting more distant. The gifts will follow, as you instructed.”

Horikita looked pleased with his compliance, her smile sharp and calculating. “Good. The more she feels unsettled, the better. If she believes you’re pulling away but then shower her with attention and gifts, it will keep her in a state of confusion. She’ll feel the need to prove herself and will become more dependent on you.”

Ayanokoji’s eyes narrowed slightly. “And if she starts to resist?”

“Let her,” Horikita replied smoothly. “The more she resists, the more she’ll reveal about her attachment to you. It’ll work in our favor.”

The conversation was clinical, almost too much so, but that was how Ayanokoji liked it. He had no illusions about what he was doing—this was all part of a carefully crafted plan to further their own ambitions. Yet, a faint feeling he couldn’t place tugged at him. The idea of using Karuizawa in this way felt… different. But he quickly pushed the thought away. This was simply a means to an end. Nothing more.

“Anything else?” Ayanokoji asked, his tone as flat as ever.

Horikita paused, considering for a moment before shaking her head. “No. That will be all for now. Keep me updated on your progress.”

Ayanokoji nodded, standing up to leave. As he turned to walk away, he couldn’t help but think about Karuizawa. The more he got to know her, the more complex she seemed, and it wasn’t just her relationship with him that had become complicated—it was his growing awareness of her feelings and the unintended emotions that began to stir in him. But he quickly discarded those thoughts, focusing back on the task at hand. After all, there was no room for distractions when they were this close to their goal.

"Don’t get too attached," he muttered to himself, his voice barely audible, as if reassuring himself.

"What's the end goal for this?' Ayanokoji asked

"She's gonna dump you after she finds out you're cheating on her with one of the girls in our year. I'm still not sure who for any ideas.' Horikira asked "It can't be anyone who's too close to her that causes problems, and I need Sakura right now, by the way I will. tell you the end goal just after we figure that out"

"One of those girls that's trying to sleep with Ryuen. I'm not sure if they have names," Ayanokoji said

"Me neither, they’re souly focused on him, but that's perfect You start sleeping with one of them I donr care who karuizawa finds out then dumps you and while she's still vulnerable you beg for her back and apologise and what not like an idiot she'll come running into your arms " horikita said

"You want me to break up with her only to date her again?"

"Precisely "

"Why"

"All in due time"

Ayanokoji considered Horikita’s words carefully, his gaze steady as ever. The plan was intricate, with layers of manipulation and psychological manipulation woven together to achieve a single goal. Yet, there was something about the idea of cycling Karuizawa through these emotional manipulations that felt... off. But he dismissed it quickly, knowing that Horikita had a purpose for everything she orchestrated. She always had a reason, no matter how convoluted it seemed.

“Alright,” he said flatly, his expression neutral. “I’ll make it happen. But you still haven’t answered my question. What’s the end goal of all this?”

Horikita’s gaze met his, her smile as calculated as ever, though there was a flicker of something more complex in her eyes. “You’ll find out once we have everything in place. Trust me. You’ll see the bigger picture when the time is right.”

Ayanokoji’s brow furrowed slightly as he processed the lack of a concrete answer. He didn’t like uncertainty. He preferred clear goals and defined targets. Yet, he knew Horikita well enough by now to understand that she always had a reason, even if it was buried deep under layers of strategy and manipulation.

He exhaled quietly, suppressing the unease that threatened to creep in. “Understood. I’ll follow through.”

Horikita nodded, her expression softening just a fraction. “Good. I’ll handle the rest of the details. You just focus on getting Karuizawa to believe this... act. Once she dumps you, everything will fall into place.”

As the conversation wrapped up, Ayanokoji found himself standing on the precipice of a plan that felt both too familiar and strangely complicated. He was used to working in the shadows, manipulating others for his own purposes. But this was different. He wasn’t just playing his usual games. He was dealing with someone who had become unpredictable to him—Karuizawa. And for some reason, the thought of her being manipulated and hurt like this unsettled him more than he cared to admit.

But he couldn’t afford to let those feelings interfere. There was a larger game at play. A bigger picture that Horikita had yet to reveal. And he was committed to seeing it through, no matter what.

With a final, emotionless nod, he turned and walked away, the weight of the plan resting heavily on his mind. He felt a sense of pride at Horikita's skill and planning. Lately, Horikita was starting to make him feel things. Meanwhile, Sakura and Karuizawa were a chore; he just went to his room to lay down

Ayanokoji closed the door behind him with a soft click, the weight of the conversation still pressing at the edges of his thoughts. The room was quiet, still, but his mind was anything but. He sat on the edge of his bed, elbows resting on his knees, staring at the floor with a distant, analytical gaze. It was in these moments of solitude that his thoughts were at their most dangerous—cold, precise, and brutally honest.

Horikita’s plan was ambitious. Deceive Karuizawa into thinking he was drifting, destabilize her emotionally with calculated distance and then overload her with attention just as she began to detach. Break her trust by orchestrating a fake affair with one of the nameless girls orbiting Ryuuen, then reel her back in at her most vulnerable with apologies and false sincerity. It was a classic case of psychological whiplash—destabilize, then offer security. Manipulation at its most intimate level.

The worst part was how flawlessly it would work.

And yet, despite his ability to rationalize the entire operation, to see its steps laid out like pieces on a chessboard, something about it still clawed at the edges of his mind. Not because it was wrong—morality had never been his compass—but because it involved emotions he had deliberately kept at arm’s length. Emotions he had once deemed irrelevant. Useless.

But now? Things were… shifting.

Horikita… she was changing.

She was still cold, logical, calculating—but lately, something in her gaze lingered longer than necessary. Something in the way she smiled after a successful manipulation. Something in the way she had started leaning more on him—not just for strategies, but in quiet moments, too. He noticed it. He felt it.

Strangely, he didn’t hate it.

She was becoming more dangerous by the day—not just as a tactician but as someone who could make him feel.

And that was the most unsettling realization of all.

Ayanokoji leaned back on his bed, folding his arms behind his head as he stared at the ceiling. He replayed their entire conversation again. Horikita’s voice was smooth and firm. Her confidence. Her lack of hesitation. It was clinical, yes, but also… admirable. There was a pride in her growing ability to pull the strings, to manipulate with the same precision he once believed only he could. She was becoming more like him. And somehow, that fact didn’t make him feel alone. It made him feel seen.

He exhaled through his nose. This wasn’t what he had planned. Not for Karuizawa. Not for Horikita. Not for himself.

But plans rarely ever went perfectly, did they?

“Don’t get too attached,” he had told himself earlier.

He closed his eyes now, repeating those words once more in his head—but this time, with far less conviction.

Because if he was being honest with himself—and only in this private moment did he allow that—he already was

Not to the girl he was supposed to use.
But maybe, just maybe…
To the one standing beside him, leading the charge.

The line between ally and something more was beginning to blur.

And he wasn’t sure if he wanted to stop it.

That night, for the first time in what felt like years—perhaps ever—Ayanokoji dreamt. Not the vague, meaningless flashes of memory his mind sometimes conjured during sleep. No, these were clear, vivid… emotional. He woke remembering every detail, and that alone unsettled him.

The first dream had been dangerous.

Horikita had been on top of him, her expression unreadable yet burning with something raw. Her clothes were barely there—her hair messy, her cheeks flushed, her breath hot against his skin. The moonlight spilled through the open window, casting silver over the curve of her back, the shimmer of sweat along her collarbone. She moved with purpose, her lips parting to let out breathy, quiet sounds that hit something deep inside him. Every touch, every look—it all felt intoxicatingly real, like some primal part of him had taken over. He wasn’t cold or detached. He was present. Lost in the heat and intensity of her. And the way she looked at him—possessed him—was unlike anything he had ever seen in the waking world.

And just as quickly as the first dream began, it ended. The sensation of her touch, her weight, her breath—all vanished as the second dream took hold.

This one… was quieter. And somehow even more dangerous.

He and Horikita were in a small, cozy home nestled on a quiet hill. The kind of place people talked about when they dreamed of peace. The place had soft, warm light, shelves filled with books, a garden outside the window. And there was music—soft, slow, nostalgic. He didn’t recognize the tune, but it made him feel calm in a way he’d never known. Horikita was different here too—relaxed, radiant, barefoot, and smiling like she had no weight on her shoulders.

She pulled him close, her hands resting gently on his chest. They swayed together in the living room, dancing like no one else existed in the world. She kissed him once, then again, and again, each kiss light and lingering. It wasn’t passionate or desperate—it was affectionate, tender. The kind of love people fought wars for. And she whispered his name in between kisses, not with command or critique, but with familiarity and softness. Like he belonged. Like they belonged.

It was a kind of intimacy he didn’t understand—had never truly desired—and yet, in that dream, it felt right. It felt inevitable. It felt like something he had once believed he could never have, and now… he wasn’t so sure.

When Ayanokoji finally opened his eyes, the ceiling of his room felt cold. Empty. His body was tense, and his heart beat faster than usual. The images of Horikita—both the unrestrained passion and the gentle domesticity—refused to leave his mind. He rubbed his temples, frustrated, confused.

This wasn’t supposed to happen.

He wasn’t supposed to feel this.

Horikita was a means to an end. A partner in strategy. A tool, a mind like his own. Not someone he was supposed to crave. Not someone he was supposed to imagine in his arms, in his bed, in a house built for two.

And yet… here he was.

Still lying there, staring at the ceiling, wondering if that second dream had scared him more than the first. Because lust, he could dismiss. Control. Compartmentalize.

But love?

That was something he wasn’t trained to deal with.

And it was the first time he realized that maybe—just maybe—Horikita was no longer just a piece on the board.

She was the game.

Chapter Text

Ayanokoji's phone buzzed on the nightstand, the soft vibration loud against the quiet stillness of his room. He turned his head slowly, as if still caught between waking and sleep, the residue of his dreams clinging to him like a second skin. He blinked at the screen.

Karuizawa Kei: “Wanna get breakfast with me this morning? Just us. I found a cute little place I think you’d like :)”

He stared at the message for a long time, expression unreadable. It was simple. Harmless, on the surface. The kind of text any girlfriend might send. And yet… it felt heavy.

He sat up, running a hand through his hair as the morning sun began to creep through the blinds. His mind was fogged, not from lack of sleep, but from too much feeling. Too much imagery still haunting him—Horikita’s flushed face in the moonlight… her soft kiss in the glow of the kitchen light… the way she said his name like it belonged to her.

He picked up the phone and stared at the screen again.

Part of him—the colder part, the part Horikita would approve of—knew the right move. Say yes. Play along. Keep her invested. Keep her unaware.

But then the dream came back to him in full. Not the one where Horikita kissed him like he was the only man alive. The other one. The domestic one. The one where everything was quiet. Peaceful. Honest.

He exhaled slowly.

Then he typed back:

Ayanokoji Kiyokata: Sure. What time?

He hit send.

Because of course he did.

Because even now, even after all the conflict, he knew how to follow the plan
.
But as he got dressed, pulled on his uniform, and combed his fingers through his hair, a part of him couldn’t stop wondering what it would be like to wake up to Horikita in that quiet little house on the hill.

And worse—a part of him wanted it.

And that part was growing.

As soon as Ayanokoji stepped into view outside the café, Karuizawa spotted him. Her entire face lit up with that vibrant, sunny expression she always wore around him—a look that made her seem light, carefree, almost painfully sincere. Without a second’s hesitation, she rushed toward him with surprising energy and flung herself into his arms.

“Koji! I missed you so much!” she exclaimed, her voice muffled slightly as her face pressed against his chest.

For a second, he didn’t move. His body remained rigid, unresponsive, as if his instincts were still calibrating for a situation like this. Her warmth, her scent, the way she wrapped herself around him—it should’ve been easy to embrace her, to play the part. He’d done it before, more than once. But this morning, something was off. He was off.

Eventually, he brought his arms up and gently returned the hug, loosely. Just enough to satisfy what she needed. Just enough to keep the illusion going.

“I saw you yesterday,” he said, his tone even and dry. He didn’t mean it as a jab—it was just his way of grounding himself. But he could feel the way she pouted against him.

“Yeah, but it feels like forever!” she said, pulling back just slightly to look up at him, her hands still clutching the sides of his uniform jacket. “You’ve been kind of… distant lately. I know you’re not the clingy type, but I was starting to think you were mad at me or something.”

Ayanokoji looked down at her, taking in the soft vulnerability behind her words, it was intriguing.

He tilted his head slightly. “I’ve just had a lot on my mind,” he replied coolly. “It’s not about you.”

It wasn’t a lie. But it wasn’t the truth, either.

She stared at him for a moment, clearly trying to read him in her own way, then smiled again, brushing his arm with her fingertips.

“Well, whatever it is, I’m just happy you’re here now.” She tugged him forward, her fingers laced through his. “Come on! The café has those sweet egg sandwiches you like. And I got us the best table—it’s near the window, you can see the garden!”

He let her lead the way, her words filling the air like windchimes—light, breezy, full of optimism. And yet, every step felt like walking into a trap of his own design. The closer he got to that table, the more suffocating the plan became. he didnt want to be doing this with her he wanted to be doing this with Horikita for some reason he wanted to be eating at cute cafes with her, no no he shoved those thoughts deep deep inside the dream was bad enough but he couldnt be thinking like that he could only focus on karuizawa and the plan

The café was charming—clean white walls, pale wood floors, soft music drifting through the speakers, and a subtle floral scent that lingered near the windowsill planters. It was the kind of place Karuizawa adored, full of curated beauty and moments crafted for memories. The sort of atmosphere that invited photos, laughter, and sweet nothings whispered between couples.

She guided him to the table like she was leading a prince through a dream she’d spent years building. Every step, every glance she threw back at him, was loaded with something tender and eager—hopeful. Desperate, maybe, in a quiet sort of way. Desperate for his presence. Desperate to hold on.

And Ayanokoji, ever the actor, took his seat and played his part.

The egg sandwich arrived quickly. It was good—perfectly soft bread, just the right sweetness in the egg. He remembered liking it the first time Karuizawa brought him here. Back then, it had been easier. Back then, he’d still been able to keep his mind empty and his heart closed.

But now…

Now the chair across from him looked wrong. The girl smiling at him, chattering about the way the ivy grew along the garden wall, wasn't the one he wanted to be here with.

He wanted sharp words and cutting glances. He wanted the subtle way Horikita bit her lip when she was thinking, or the almost imperceptible blush that crossed her face when she realized she’d said something too earnest. He wanted the challenge of her—the weight of her, not the featherlight adoration Karuizawa was giving him.

No. He gripped the edge of the table and drew a breath through his nose.

Those dreams meant nothing. They were figments—id-driven hallucinations formed in the dark. They didn’t matter. Not in the real world. Not when everything was still so delicately poised.

He couldn’t afford to feel anything for Horikita. Not when he was still tangled in Karuizawa’s expectations. Not when he was using her as a pawn, however gently. Not when the game demanded total control.

And yet… as Karuizawa reached across the table to touch his hand, her eyes filled with affection and hope, he couldn’t help but feel like he was betraying something.

Not Karuizawa. Himself.

Because maybe—just maybe—that quiet house on the hill had felt real. Too real. And maybe some part of him, for the first time in a long while, wanted something real.

Even if it was with the last person he’d ever expected.

He squeezed her hand lightly. She beamed. He smiled back.

And he shoved the ache back down where it belonged.

For now.

“I love you”, Ayanokouji said. Maybe he was overcompensating, maybe he didn’t know how his feelings worked; they were all new after all and he liked it better when he didnt know how to feel.

The words hung there for a moment—too heavy, too sudden, too wrong—but Karuizawa didn’t seem to notice the tension in the way he said it, or maybe she simply didn’t want to. Her eyes shimmered, bright and full of everything she’d ever hoped to hear from him. She practically bounced in her seat as she reached for his hand again, squeezing it tighter this time like it was something precious.

“I thought you’d never say it back!” she said again, giggling, cheeks flushed with excitement. “You always looked so calm, like… like none of this really mattered to you, even when we were holding hands or kissing. But now—now it feels real.”

Ayanokoji held her gaze, forcing a small smile to his lips, but the pit in his stomach churned.

He hadn’t planned to say that. He shouldn’t have said that.

It was a reflex. A way to patch the cracks that had begun to show. Karuizawa’s earlier comment—“You’ve been distant lately”—had landed harder than it should have. And now, instead of softening the impact, he’d slammed his foot on the gas, trying to steer the car straight through a wall.

And the worst part was that her happiness hurt.

Not because she didn’t deserve it. She did. In her own way, Karuizawa had become something solid and dependable—someone who wanted him, who looked at him like he was something more than a tool. But that was just it. He wasn’t sure if he could ever be more than that.

Not for her.

Not when someone else’s name was clawing at the back of his mind, someone whose presence was less comforting and more chaotic, less adoring and more grounding. Horikita was like a mirror—one that didn’t flatter him, one that forced him to face parts of himself he didn’t understand. Someone who didn’t just want a version of him she’d built up in her head. She challenged him. Matched him.

And now he had Karuizawa smiling at him like she’d won the lottery, like she’d finally found her fairy tale ending.

“I’m glad I said it,” he murmured, the lie tasting bitter in his throat. “You deserve to hear it.”

Her eyes softened even more at that, and she tilted her head with a dreamy expression, clearly taking it as a confirmation of everything she’d hoped he felt.

But deep inside, Ayanokoji could feel something fraying. The further he pushed this lie, the harder it was going to be to walk away from it. The more real it looked to her, the more fake it felt to him.

And all he could think about was how Horikita might’ve reacted if she had heard those words.

She probably would’ve narrowed her eyes and demanded to know if he actually meant it. She wouldn’t have accepted them at face value. She would’ve questioned him, peeled back the layers until there was nothing left to hide behind.

And maybe that was what he needed.

But instead, here he was—smiling at a girl who adored him and saying the words that should’ve meant everything.

He wondered if Horikita had any idea how tangled up inside she’d left him.

And worse, if she ever would.

She leaned across the table and kissed him, sweet and brief and full of hope. And still, all he could think about was Horikita.

Would her kiss feel like that? Would she even kiss him first, or would it be one of those moments where she hesitated until he leaned in? What would it taste like ? like the perfume she wore that felt intoxicatingly sweet like the coffee she was always sipping or the donuts she liked to eat for breakfast Ayanokoji's chest tightened.

He was unravelling.

And he didn’t know how to stop.

Her lips were soft. Familiar. The kind of kiss that should’ve anchored him in the moment. Karuizawa pulled away with a small, breathless laugh, her fingers still tracing idle circles on his palm. Her eyes were filled with hope, full of dreams she thought they were building together. And Ayanokoji… he tried to respond. He tried to feel it. Tried to hold on to her warmth like it was enough.

But it wasn’t.

Because even as her affection lingered on his skin, his mind had already drifted elsewhere. Back to dark hair and sharp eyes. To a girl who would never throw herself at him with abandon. She guarded herself like a fortress and only lowered her defences when she thought no one was watching.

Horikita.

Would her kiss be slower? More deliberate? Would she fight it at first, resist the closeness, before finally giving in and meeting him halfway? He could almost picture it—her breath catching just slightly, her lips hovering near his like a dare, her gaze searching his for confirmation before the space between them vanished.

And the taste—he thought about that far too much. Would it taste like the subtle floral perfume she wore, the one that clung to her without effort? Or like the bitter-smooth aftertaste of her coffee, always black, always strong? Maybe it’d be faintly sweet, like the powdered sugar from the doughnuts she sometimes brought to study sessions and pretended weren’t hers. A mix of contradictions. Just like her.

The idea alone made something flutter and twist painfully inside him.

Ayanokoji’s hand trembled ever so slightly beneath the table, Karuizawa’s touch now barely noticeable against the storm in his chest. He hated this. Hated how easily he could lie to others, how cleanly he kept the act going. But now, for the first time, he was the one being dragged by emotions he hadn’t planned for. He was the one losing control.

He never should’ve let himself dream.

And yet… he had.

Now, everything was slipping.

He stared down at their intertwined hands, Karuizawa’s thumb brushing gently over his skin like a promise she thought he meant to keep.

“I’m really happy right now,” she said quietly, her voice full of trust. “Aren’t you?”

He hesitated.

The weight of the answer clawed at his throat.

He could lie. He always could. It would be easy. Say “yes.” Say it like he meant it.

But the truth was too loud, too undeniable.

He wasn’t happy.

He was haunted.

Haunted by moonlight on bare skin and soft gasps in the dark. Haunted by quiet smiles and the sound of Horikita’s voice when she let her guard down. Haunted by something real he didn’t even realize he was craving until it showed up in his dreams and refused to leave him alone.

And now, here he was, sitting across from a girl who loved him while his heart betrayed him—beat by beat—for someone who didn’t even know what she meant to him.

He didn’t answer Karuizawa.

He couldn’t.

Because whatever words came next would only dig the hole deeper.

“Koji?” Karuizawa tilted her head to the side slightly

"Of course im happy" ayanokouji told kissing her cheek "we should get to class"

Karuizawa smiled brightly at his words, seemingly satisfied with the kiss and the reassurance he gave her. "You're right," she chirped, her eyes sparkling as she grabbed her bag, ready to move on. "We don't want to be late!"

Ayanokoji watched her, his own smile almost imperceptible as he stood up and followed her out of the café. The weight in his chest was still there, but now it was buried deeper, out of sight, like a ticking clock he couldn't silence. Karuizawa's joy was infectious, and part of him wanted to believe he could feel the same. He wanted to believe that, somehow, everything would fall into place—that this would be enough, that he could let go of the confusion swirling inside him and just… be.

But the moment they stepped outside, the sunlight hitting them both in the early morning hours, Ayanokoji’s thoughts wandered back to Horikita. He didn’t even realize he was doing it anymore—didn’t even realize how often his mind sought her out, like a compass that kept pointing him toward her, no matter how much he tried to look away.

The world around him felt off balance, like he was walking in someone else’s shoes, carrying a weight that wasn’t his to bear.

Karuizawa glanced up at him, her expression soft and full of warmth, but it was like Ayanokoji was looking right through her. He didn't mean to. He didn’t want to hurt her, but it felt inevitable, like the consequences of his choices were already in motion, regardless of his will.

"You sure you're okay?" she asked, her voice tinged with concern, and Ayanokoji snapped back to the present, his gaze briefly meeting hers.

"Yeah," he replied, pushing the unease aside with practised ease. "Just thinking about class. We should get going."

Karuizawa didn’t seem to notice the distance in his tone. She just smiled, squeezing his hand tighter as they walked toward their building. He let her, allowing the mask to remain intact as the world continued to turn around them, oblivious to the quiet unraveling happening inside him.

He didn’t know how long he could keep this up.

But for now, he walked with her, a faint smile on his lips, while inside, he couldn’t help but wonder if he would ever feel truly whole again. Or if, from now on, he’d always be chasing a feeling that didn’t belong to him.

Throughout the day, Ayanokoji kept his distance from Karuizawa. He maintained the perfect facade—cold, distant, the way Horikita had instructed him to behave. His mind, however, couldn’t escape the feeling that everything had shifted in a way he wasn’t entirely prepared for.

In class, he sat next to Horikita as usual, though the space between them felt like an insurmountable chasm, a divide he had created on purpose but still found hard to ignore. She, ever composed, didn’t seem to notice anything different, her focus entirely on the lesson, her eyes sharp and alert. Yet, he could sense a slight change in her—the subtle way she observed him, as if waiting for him to slip, to make a mistake.

During lunch, he slipped away from the usual group and found himself sitting across from Horikita, her gaze cool as ever but carrying an air of expectation.

“You’re keeping your distance,” she observed without looking up, her voice steady but carrying a hint of curiosity. “Is everything going according to plan?”

Ayanokoji glanced over at her, his expression unreadable. “Of course,” he replied, his voice quiet. “She hasn’t questioned anything yet.”

Horikita gave a small nod, acknowledging his report without much emotion. “Good. Keep it that way.”

Ayanokoji didn’t respond, his attention shifting momentarily as he watched Karuizawa laughing with her friends at a nearby table. Her eyes occasionally drifted in his direction, but he quickly looked away before she could catch him looking. His heart squeezed briefly at the sight of her—so carefree, so unaware of the emotional manipulation that was already in motion.

But then his gaze flickered to Horikita, and that same discomfort began to settle in the pit of his stomach. He didn’t know why he felt it, but something about the way she ordered him around, manipulating others like pawns in a game, was starting to feel too… cold. Too calculated. He had always done what she asked of him—followed her lead, trusted her plans—but now, it felt different.

Horikita seemed to sense the shift in him. Her gaze flickered up from her lunch, locking eyes with him for a brief moment. There was something unreadable in her expression, and it made Ayanokoji’s insides twist. Was she aware of his inner turmoil? Or was she simply too focused on the objective at hand?

“You’re distracted,” she said, her tone flat but observant.

Ayanokoji didn’t say anything at first. His mind was still on Karuizawa, still on the way he had been forced to pull away from her, the way it felt like he was losing himself in the process. But Horikita’s piercing stare pulled him back to reality.

“I’m fine,” he replied, almost instinctively. “Just thinking.”

Horikita didn’t press further, returning her attention to her meal, but Ayanokoji couldn’t help but feel the weight of the conversation hanging between them. The plan was progressing, yes. But at what cost? He couldn’t shake the nagging feeling that, somewhere along the way, something was slipping through his fingers. Something important. And it was terrifyingly unclear what that something was.

He continued to eat in silence, his thoughts swirling, feeling like an outsider in his own life.

"You liked the muffins I made you?" Horikita asked

"Karuizawa did", Ayanokouji responded

"That's good" Horikita nodded "I'll make some for you to actually eat this time"

Ayanokoji’s brow furrowed slightly at Horikita’s words. Her tone was calm, controlled, but there was something in the way she phrased it, something subtle yet deliberate. He couldn’t help but wonder if she was testing him, probing for some kind of reaction.

“Thank you,” he replied simply, his voice neutral. He didn’t want to read too much into it. After all, it was just a muffin—a small, seemingly insignificant gesture. Yet, he found himself overanalyzing it anyway, as if the smallest change in her behavior could reveal something deeper.

Horikita continued to eat, seemingly unfazed, but her eyes lingered on him for a moment longer than usual, studying his face as if weighing something carefully. Her expression remained unreadable, but Ayanokoji could feel the weight of her gaze, the sharpness of her focus.

"You don't have to," he added, almost without thinking, his tone a little colder than he intended. "It's not necessary."

Horikita’s lips curved ever so slightly, but there was no smile—just the faintest hint of a knowing look. “You’ve been distant lately,” she observed, as if it were the most casual thing in the world. “Are you starting to get tired of your role?”

Ayanokoji’s gaze flicked toward her, catching the faint challenge in her eyes. She wasn’t just talking about the muffins anymore. She was probing, subtly testing his commitment to the plan, to the path they were walking together.

"I'm not tired," he replied evenly, his voice steady. "I'm just... focused."

Horikita nodded slowly, taking another bite of her lunch. "Good," she said, her voice smooth and deliberate. "Keep that focus. We have a long way to go."

The conversation lapsed into silence after that, but the words lingered in Ayanokoji’s mind. Focus. That’s what he had to maintain. But even as he repeated the word in his head, something nagged at him, something he couldn’t quite place.

Karuizawa had been so warm, so full of life, so utterly unaware of the emotional game he was playing with her. But it was Horikita’s presence, her calculated words, that made him feel as though he was caught in a web, his every move watched and measured. The plan had become a cage, and it was tightening around him with every passing moment.

And the more he thought about it, the more his thoughts drifted back to that moment with Karuizawa—the way she had kissed him, her hopeful expression as she pulled away. The way it felt so real. So real that it made him question if he had any control over the situation anymore.

“Focus,” he muttered under his breath, more to himself than to anyone else. But it didn’t feel like enough. He wasn’t sure anymore if he was following the plan—or if the plan was slowly consuming him.

Ayanokoji paused for a moment as he looked at the phone screen, reading the message from Ichinose. Her words were light and filled with a casual sweetness that seemed to almost shimmer through the phone. "I miss you," she had written, followed by a simple request to meet up.

It was strange, in a way. Ichinose had always been the friendly, approachable type, someone who wore her emotions like an open book. Yet, her words now carried a weight that Ayanokoji wasn’t used to. She missed him. The phrase lingered in his mind, drawing his thoughts away from the task at hand—the carefully crafted dance between him and Karuizawa, and the growing tension with Horikita.

He set the book down on his desk, his fingers brushing over the edges of the pages, as his mind wandered. He hadn’t expected Ichinose to reach out like this. Their interactions had always been simple, almost superficial—polite exchanges here and there, with none of the depth that other relationships seemed to have. But there had been moments, small moments, where he’d seen something more in her eyes. A warmth, a connection, though fleeting.

And now, here she was—asking to meet.

Ayanokoji wasn’t one to ignore people, especially those who were important to the delicate balance he was keeping between all of them. He had played his part well, maintaining his emotional distance from everyone, but it wasn’t as though he couldn’t meet Ichinose. She wasn’t like Karuizawa or Horikita. There wasn’t the same level of complexity with her, or at least, that’s what he tried to tell himself.

Still, something in his chest tugged at the thought of seeing her. It wasn’t a sensation he could easily identify—maybe it was curiosity, or maybe it was the simple fact that someone was reaching out to him in a way that felt almost... personal. But as he thought about it, he couldn’t deny the odd sense of longing that accompanied it.

He sighed, glancing at his phone again, his fingers hovering over the screen as he considered his response.

After a brief moment of hesitation, he typed a simple reply.

“Sure. When and where?”

He hit send before he could second-guess himself.

The seconds that passed felt longer than they should have, but soon, her reply came.

“I was thinking the park. Around 7?”

Ayanokoji didn’t need to think about it for long. It was a neutral spot, one that wouldn’t risk too much attention, but also a place where they could talk in relative privacy.

“Sounds fine. See you then.”

He set his phone down again, his mind racing through the implications. Ichinose wasn’t someone he could easily read, even after all this time. Her openness was both refreshing and disorienting. She had a way of drawing people in, and yet Ayanokoji always felt like an observer, rather than a participant.

But tonight would be different. Tonight, he would have to engage.

And as he made his way to prepare for the meeting, he couldn’t help but wonder just how much longer he could keep his emotions in check. How long could he continue pretending that all of this—his relationships, his plans—were simply part of the game?

Because for the first time in a while, Ayanokoji felt a flicker of something more. Something real. And that scared him more than he was willing to admit.

Ayanokouji arrived at the park. Ichinose hugged him tightly "have you broken up with her yet?"

"no we've talked about this i cant" Ayanokouji responded he still wasn’t a hundred percent sure why Horikita wanted him to pursue this relationship but hed long since stoped asking questions

"Koji..." Ichinose trailed off looking up at him she was to in love with him to start questioning him, at least he hoped she was he couldn’t quite understand what was going through her head lately "I love you okay?"

"I love you more" Ayanokouji responded it was a practiced routine he went through with Karuizawa he went through it with Ichinose too

"Why can't you be with me?" she frowned

"Karuizawas in a delicate state, we’ve talked about this" Ayanokouji responded "but i love you okay?" he leaned down and kissed her

Ichinose melted into the kiss, her arms tightening around him like she was afraid he’d vanish the moment she let go. It was soft—affectionate, filled with the longing of someone who’d waited too long for something she couldn’t quite hold onto. When they pulled apart, her forehead rested against his chest, and for a while, neither of them said anything. The only sound was the gentle rustling of trees and the faint hum of crickets in the distance.

But Ayanokoji felt it—that sinking feeling again. That creeping sense that he was building something hollow, something destined to fall apart. Every word, every kiss, every promise he gave to her—it felt carefully constructed, a performance he no longer knew how to stop delivering. He had said "I love you" to Ichinose just as he had to Karuizawa earlier that day. The words came easily now. Too easily.

And yet…

It wasn’t Ichinose's voice that played in his head when the world quieted.
It wasn’t Karuizawa’s touch that lingered after they kissed.
It was Horikita.
Always Horikita.

Her quiet glances. The way she noticed things without saying them.
The way she offered herself to help, even if she'd never admit it out loud.
The way her eyes softened—just slightly—when she was worried about him.
The way she said she’d make muffins for him next time.

He clenched his jaw, fingers curling slightly around the fabric of Ichinose’s jacket as she held him. What was he doing? This wasn’t the plan. This wasn't supposed to be anything. And yet the weight of the lies—the roles he’d chosen to play—was growing heavier with every day that passed.

"I just… I wish you'd pick me," Ichinose whispered, barely audible.

Ayanokoji didn’t answer right away. Because the truth—the real truth—was complicated. Because he didn’t know if he could pick anyone right now. Because the one person he kept thinking about was the one person he wasn’t supposed to get close to. The one person who seemed to understand that closeness wasn’t something he gave freely.

But he couldn’t say that. Not to Ichinose.

So instead, he ran a hand through her hair and pressed another kiss to her temple. “Just give me time,” he murmured. “It’s all going to work out.”

She nodded against him, clutching his shirt, trusting him.

And all the while, Ayanokoji stared out at the empty park, his mind miles away—wondering if Horikita was still awake, if she was reading like she always did late at night, if she was thinking about him too.

He wasn’t supposed to care.
But he was starting to lose control.
And deep down, he feared the moment Horikita would finally realize how much space she took up in his mind.
Because once that happened… there would be no going back.

"I love you, Koji", Ichinose smiled up at him

"I have to go" Ayanokouji looked down at his phone; he'd gotten a message.

Ichinose’s smile faltered, just for a second. It was barely noticeable, like the flicker of a candle in the wind, but Ayanokoji caught it—of course he did. She tried to keep her expression steady, tried to mask the hurt that crept into her eyes, but even someone who didn’t observe people the way he did might’ve seen it. She knew. Or at least, she felt it—that shift, that quiet withdrawal he’d never been able to hide entirely.

“You just got here,” she said softly, trying not to sound disappointed.

“I know,” he replied, voice even. “But I have to go.”

He pulled away gently, and she let him. No tears, no begging. That wasn’t Ichinose’s way. But as he stepped back, he could feel the weight of her gaze clinging to him like a tether she didn’t want to cut. He didn't say anything more—just turned and walked away, his footsteps muffled by the path beneath him, the air suddenly feeling too cold, too thin.

When he reached the edge of the park, he finally looked down at his phone again.

Airi Sakura: “Can you come to my room? Please. I just… I need to talk.”

He stared at the message for a few seconds longer than necessary, wondering what it was about this time. Sakura never asked for much, and when she did, it was rarely without reason. She wasn’t like Karuizawa, who needed constant reassurance, or Ichinose, who wore her heart so openly. Sakura asked for nothing until it became too much to hold alone.

Still, as he walked toward the dorms, his thoughts were already drifting elsewhere.

Horikita.

He hadn’t even seen her after classes let out. She’d disappeared the moment the final bell rang, brushing past him with one of her usual clipped goodbyes. He told himself it didn’t matter. Told himself it had nothing to do with the strange pull he felt when he was near her—the calm and the tension, all tangled up in one sharp-eyed girl who made him think too much.

He shook the thought off and focused instead on the request at hand. Sakura’s message. Her room. Her problems.

By the time he reached her door, he had already switched masks. Calm. Collected. Attentive. The version of himself that people needed him to be.

He knocked once.

The door opened a few seconds later. Sakura stood there in her oversized sweater, eyes soft and uncertain. She didn’t say anything at first; she pulled him inside, kissing him "I need you"

"You always do" he held her waist, stepping inside and pushing her towards the bed

"I've never heard you complain," Sakura grumbled, kissing him again

"I won't," Ayanokouji responded

Ayanokoji crossed the threshold, his mind already calculating again—predicting what she might say, what she might want. But behind the mental arithmetic, behind the subtle readjustments of his persona, something stirred. A sense of exhaustion.

How many people did he have to pretend for?
How many lies until he forgot which version of himself was real?
And why, no matter who he was with, did it always come back to her?

Horikita.
Again.
Always.

Their movements blurred into something practiced—something familiar, almost automatic. Sakura’s hands gripped the back of his shirt, pulling him down into her, needing contact, needing something more than just his presence. Her kiss was urgent, laced with emotion she never quite voiced aloud. For her, every kiss, every touch, was an attempt to feel something solid in the quiet chaos of her world.

Ayanokoji didn’t resist. He never did. He moved with her, not out of desire, not even out of duty—just habit. His hands traced the curve of her waist like muscle memory. His body knew how to give her what she wanted, even if his heart remained untouched, buried beneath layers he didn’t dare unravel. He played the part. He always did.

But somewhere between her whispered name and the warmth of her breath against his skin, his mind drifted again—to her.

Horikita.

It didn’t matter how many girls kissed him, held him, or whispered that they loved him. It didn’t matter how sweetly Ichinose smiled, or how desperately Karuizawa clung to him, or how softly Sakura pulled him in. Every time, his thoughts betrayed him. Every time, his mind wandered to a different pair of eyes—sharp, steady, always watching. A voice that didn’t beg for him, didn’t cling,

Sakura’s movements were slow, needy, like she was trying to memorize every inch of him. Her breath came in soft gasps, and she pressed her forehead to his shoulder, murmuring his name in a way that might’ve broken someone else. But Ayanokoji barely blinked. His hands moved automatically, lips brushing her skin without thought, without meaning. It was all a script now. Familiar lines. Rehearsed roles.

Elsewhere, Ichinose smiled to herself as she walked back to her dorm, still holding onto the warmth of his words—I love you more. She repeated them silently, clinging to the idea like a lifeline. She didn’t question it. Didn’t want to. Because the truth might hurt more than the comfort of pretending.

Karuizawa sat cross-legged on her bed, phone in hand, scrolling through cute couple ideas she wanted to show Ayanokoji. She was humming a song, her heart full of hope and plans. She didn’t know. She couldn’t.

And Horikita… sat in silence.

The lights in her room were off, her books untouched on the desk. She was seated at her desk, staring blankly out the window, the faint city lights reflected in her eyes. She told herself she wasn’t thinking about him. Not like that. Ayanokoji was her partner, her pawn, her weapon when necessary. He was a sharp blade she wielded for the good of the class—cold, precise, effective. That’s all.

But still.

His eyes haunted her.

The way he watched her when he thought she wasn’t looking. The way he listened—not just with ears, but with his whole being. The quiet tension in him when he sat beside her. The restraint, the distance… the weight.

She closed her eyes and exhaled through her nose, willing the thoughts away.

No.

She couldn’t think like this. Couldn’t feel like this.

He was just a tool. Just a part of the plan.

And yet, her fingers unconsciously curled around the corner of the desk, nails digging into the wood, like she was holding on to something invisible. Or maybe… afraid of letting go.

She didn’t know. And she hated not knowing.

But somewhere, deep in her chest, something ached. Something unfamiliar. Something real.

That night, Ayanokoji’s body lay still, arms loosely draped around Sakura as she curled against him, her breath warm and rhythmic on his chest. She slept soundly, trusting, unaware. But his mind… his mind drifted far from the room, far from her touch, far from the scent of her hair or the softness of her skin.

He dreamed again.

It was Horikita.

Not the Horikita who wore sharp words and walls like armor. Not the one who challenged him at every turn or barked orders in the name of efficiency. This version of her—she was softer. Not weaker. Never that. But warmer. Open. Real in a way that both terrified and soothed something deep inside him.

They sat beneath a tall, sweeping willow tree, its branches swaying gently in a breeze that didn’t exist in the real world. Behind them, a quaint house stood proud on a low hill—modest, but theirs. Something built, not bought. Something earned.

A blanket was stretched out beneath them, dappled in sunlight filtered through the leaves. There was a picnic basket at her side, its contents spread out between them—sandwiches, fruit, pastries. A bottle of something fizzy that sparkled in the light. Horikita picked up a grape and pressed it gently to his lips, her eyes glinting with mischief and something more tender.

“You have to chew it,” she teased when he didn’t react fast enough, a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth.

He did. And it tasted like nothing he’d ever eaten before. Not because of the fruit, but because of her.

She leaned in, brushing her lips against his cheek, then his mouth, kissing him with the kind of calm certainty that suggested she did this all the time. As if this was routine. As if kissing him was just as natural as breathing, as smiling, as reaching for his hand when she laughed.

And she did laugh—light and melodic, her head tilted back, hair catching the light like spun obsidian.

“I’m happy,” she said, resting her head against his shoulder. “Aren’t you?”

He wanted to answer.

Wanted to say yes.

That he was happy. That this—this—was what he wanted. Not the lies, not the roles, not the manipulation and illusion. Just her. Just this peace.

But when he tried to speak, the words caught in his throat, trapped between the dream and the waking world.

A buzzing sound.

Reality creeping in.

His phone lit up on the nightstand, the soft vibration rattling against the wood. Sakura stirred in her sleep, shifting closer with a content sigh.

The dream began to fade.

But the feeling stayed.

The warmth of the willow’s shade. The taste of grapes on his tongue. The sound of Horikita’s laughter ringing in his ears.

And the ache in his chest—a silent, desperate longing he could no longer ignore.

Chapter Text

Sakura stared "Ayanokouji?" She smiled up at him, "You stayed, you didn’t have to, you know…seriously"

Ayanokouji blinked slowly, grounding himself in reality again. The shadows of the dream still clung to the corners of his mind, the taste of Horikita’s lips haunting him like a whisper. But when he looked down, it was Sakura lying against him—warm, gentle, open.

Her smile was soft, vulnerable in a way that made something in his chest twist uncomfortably.

“I know,” he said quietly, brushing a bit of hair from her face. “I didn’t mind staying.”

That much, at least, was true. Or close enough to true. He didn’t hate her presence—Sakura made things easy. She didn’t push, didn’t demand, didn’t play games. With her, he could be exactly what she needed him to be. She didn’t expect the real him… because not even he was sure who that was anymore.

Sakura traced a lazy line on his chest with her fingertip, her eyes dreamy with sleep and satisfaction. “You’re always so quiet after… Is it me? Or are you just thinking about a million things again?”

He hesitated. Not because he didn’t have a ready answer, but because the truth was a little too loud right now.

“I guess I’m just wired that way,” he murmured, deflecting as he always did.

She nodded, content with the answer, and nestled closer to him. “Well… I like having you here. Even if you’re quiet. It’s kind of like… I don’t know. Safe.”

That word struck something deep and unexpected. Safe. He didn’t think of himself as that, not really. A strategist, maybe. A manipulator, undoubtedly. A boy running calculations twenty-four-seven to stay three moves ahead. But safe? That wasn’t him. That was the mask.

He ran his hand along her back gently, almost automatically, his mind already pulling away from the present, drifting back to that dream again—Horikita’s breath against his cheek, her question hanging between them like a thread that hadn’t snapped yet.

“This is real, right?”

He could still feel it. The weight of her against him. Her fingers clenched in his shirt. The warmth. The meaning.

Sakura let out a small sigh, and he realized she had drifted off again, breathing steady and calm in his arms.

And once more, he was alone in his own head—sitting silently beside someone who believed they knew him, while every part of him yearned for someone else.

Someone who challenged him.

Someone who kissed like she was trying not to fall.

Someone he couldn’t stop dreaming about.

She kissed him again "I don't mind this, sleeping with you, no strings attached"

Ayanokouji kissed her back with the same careful precision he used for everything—enough to make it feel real, to keep the illusion intact, but no deeper than necessary. No more than she needed from him. No more than he could afford to give.

When Sakura pulled back and spoke, her words were soft, but not cold. Just a matter-of-fact.

“I think you’ve stayed too long now.”

It wasn’t cruel. It wasn’t even sad. It was just her way of maintaining the boundary they’d both silently agreed to—no strings, no expectations, no mess. Still, it made something inside him flicker.

He sat up slowly, the sheet sliding down his bare chest as he looked at her. She was already rolling over, half-covered in the pale morning light that slipped between the blinds, her eyes tired but not regretful. There was no resentment on her face. Just acceptance.

“Alright,” he said, standing, already reaching for his shirt. “I’ll see you around.”

Sakura didn’t answer immediately. She just lay there, her arm draped over her eyes, like she was shielding herself from more than just the sun.

Then, just before he reached the door, she said, “You dream loud, you know.”

He froze.

Sakura peeked out from beneath her arm, offering him a tiny smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “You said her name. Twice. Last night.”

That silence again—the kind that filled all the corners of the room and made everything feel heavier.

He could lie. He was good at it. He could brush it off, make a joke, redirect.

But instead, he just said, “I know.”

Sakura nodded like she’d already expected that. “It’s okay,” she said. “We both know what this is.”

It should’ve made things easier, Should’ve been a relief.

But as Ayanokouji stepped out into the hall, closing the door behind him, all he felt was the crushing weight of every choice piling on top of him—Ichinose’s smile, Karuizawa’s joy, Sakura’s honesty… and the way Horikita haunted his thoughts like a ghost that refused to leave.

No strings, he reminded himself.

But then why did it feel like he was tied in knots?

It was all becoming mechanical.

Ayanokouji moved through the motions like a perfectly programmed machine. Class. Smile at Karuizawa. Let her cling to him, speak in that bubbly tone she reserved only for him. Lunch with Ichinose under a tree somewhere quiet, where her smile was softer and her voice laced with more vulnerability. Evening visits to Sakura’s room—where words weren’t really necessary anymore, only touches, sighs, the occasional half-asleep confession whispered into skin. And in between it all, he kept up appearances. The perfect boyfriend. The perfect confidant. The perfect lover. It was seamless. Effortless. Exhausting.

And then there were the dreams.

They never stopped. Night after night, without fail, they returned like a reel stuck on repeat. They weren’t chaotic or thrilling—they were gentle. Warm. Terrifying in their tenderness. He and Horikita in that quiet little house on the hill. The same one, always. Sometimes they cooked together. Sometimes she scolded him for not cleaning properly and he teased her for being too neat. Other nights, she curled into his side with a book in her hands, pointing to lines she liked and quoting them under her breath as though he needed to hear them.

She kissed him constantly in those dreams. Light touches. Long, slow ones. Playful ones between chores. Kisses on the cheek. Kisses on the corner of his mouth. The kind of kisses that made his chest ache when he woke up.

There was music sometimes—old jazz or classical piano, something soft and unintrusive. She’d sway to it without thinking, barefoot, her hair slightly damp from the shower, and when he came up behind her to join, she wouldn’t resist. She’d lean into him naturally, tilting her face toward his without needing to ask.

The worst part wasn’t how good the dreams felt.

The worst part was how real they felt.

How, when he opened his eyes in the morning, the silence in his room felt wrong—too empty, too cold. As though something had been stolen from him in the night.

And still… he never told her.

Not a word to Horikita. He sat beside her in class like always, followed her orders without question, ate lunch with her when she allowed it, sometimes walked her back to the dorms when she permitted that small, quiet companionship. She was as sharp as ever, but sometimes he caught her glancing at him when she thought he wasn’t looking—like she wanted to say something and didn’t know how.

Maybe that made two of them.

Maybe the scariest part wasn’t the dreams or the lies or even the girls who thought they had him. Maybe it was that this domestic fantasy he kept replaying wasn’t a lie at all.

Maybe, deep down, it was the only part of his life that felt honest.

And he had no idea what to do with that truth.

He didn’t know when or how Karuizawa caught wind of the rumour or even who started the rumour (though he had his eyes on Horikita, she had wanted her to think he was cheating on her,) but when she did, she was catastrophic.

Ayanokouji stood there, unmoving as Karuizawa's accusations hit him like a barrage of sharp, biting arrows. Her voice cracked, and her tears flowed freely, the raw emotion in her outburst a stark contrast to the calm, controlled mask he wore. This was how it was supposed to happen. This was part of the plan. But he was finding he didnt like being on the receiving end of her emotions.

She was furious. Devastated.

“I thought you were different,” Karuizawa sobbed, her hands trembling as they clenched into fists. “I trusted you! I loved you, and this is how you repay me? By cheating on me with her?”

Ayanokouji didn’t answer right away. His mind was elsewhere—he couldn’t afford to let his emotions get tangled in this mess. He knew what Horikita wanted. He knew what had to happen next.

It wasn’t real, he reminded himself. None of this was real.

“I'm sorry,” he said, his voice flat, detached—just like it had been with every other person he’d manipulated, every other situation he’d carefully orchestrated. “I didn’t know what to do.”

Her face crumpled, as though she couldn’t comprehend the words he was saying, as though they didn’t make sense to her. “Are you serious?!”, her voice rising again, an edge of disbelief in her tone. “How could you say that? After everything we’ve been through? After everything you promised me?”

Ayanokouji stood still, his eyes cold as always, but underneath that ice, there was something sharp, something that hurt, that told him this was the price of the game he was playing.

“I made a mistake,” he said, his words slow, measured. “I’m sorry.”

Karuizawa’s sobs grew louder, more frantic, and she took a step forward, her hands pushing against his chest. “You lied to me,” she spat, her voice full of venom. “I knew it. I knew something was off, but I wanted to believe you. I wanted to trust you.”

Ayanokouji didn’t move. He didn’t flinch. This was the plan. This was always the plan.

“I’m sorry,” he said again, but the words felt empty. And deep down, in some corner of his mind, he wondered if he was apologizing to her—or to himself.

The scene in front of him was a blur of tears, hurt, and betrayal. But he knew the part he had to play. He had to be the one to pull away first, to break the illusion they had built.

He reached for her arm gently, his grip firm but not forceful. “I think it’s time you left,” he said, his voice cold, detached.

Karuizawa looked at him, eyes wide, as if she couldn’t understand what was happening. As if she were still clinging to the belief that there was something worth saving in their relationship. But it was too late for that now.

She jerked her arm away, stumbling back, tears still streaming down her face. “I hate you,” she whispered, her voice barely audible through her sobs. “I hate you!”

With those final words, she turned and fled, leaving him standing alone in the midst of the emotional wreckage.

And then, just like that, it was over.

He had done what Horikita had asked of him. The plan was moving forward.

But as he walked away, alone again, he couldn’t shake the nagging thought—was this really what he wanted?

Ayanokouji went up to Horikita's room "She broke up with me just like you said"

"Did she find out about Sakura or Ichinose?" she asked

"No, it was about the rumour you started", Ayanokouji said, "Everything went according to your plan"

Horikita’s expression remained unreadable as she stood by her desk, arms crossed and eyes cast slightly downward in thought. Her room was, as always, spotless—neat stacks of books, perfectly aligned pens, not a single detail out of place. Just like her plans. Just like this one.

“I see,” she murmured, glancing briefly at him, her voice steady. “Then we’re one step closer.”

Ayanokouji leaned against the wall, hands in his pockets, watching her. Her posture was tense, like she was trying to keep something tightly sealed inside—something human. “You’re not going to ask how she reacted?” he asked, his tone casual, but there was a subtle sharpness behind the words.

“I can guess,” Horikita replied coolly. “She was always more emotional than I anticipated. But she needed to break up with you publicly. If she hadn’t, no one would’ve believed the rumour once we leaked it. Her outburst gives the story credibility.”

"You're good at this" Ayanokouji said

"Thank you", Horikita nodded "Here", she grabbed a muffin from her desk, giving it to him ", for your troubles"

"A muffin for all the hard work I do?" Ayanokoji asked

"Eat the muffin, Kiyokata " Horikita gave him a stern look

"Yes, Ma'am ", Ayanokouji bit into the muffin. He wasn't sure if they were raisins, blueberries or chocolate chips, maybe even poison. She was turning out to be unpredictable these days. Thankfully, they were chocolate chips, either she'd noticed they were his favourite, or she just liked them

Horikita watched him as he took a bite, that ever-so-slight quirk in her brow betraying more interest than she probably meant to show. She turned away under the guise of adjusting the books on her shelf, but Ayanokouji had already caught the flicker in her gaze—the barely restrained satisfaction that bloomed just under her composed exterior. She had either guessed right or remembered. And for someone who claimed to not care about trivial things, that meant something.
He chewed slowly, standing there with the half-eaten muffin in hand, studying her the way he always did. Calculating. Observing. But this wasn’t like when he analyzed Ryuuen or Ichika or even Karuizawa. Horikita wasn’t a threat—she was the strategist. The architect of the chaos he waded through daily. But more than that, she was his partner. And lately, her role had started to look a little more personal than professional.

"You made these last night?" he asked, watching her back as she reorganized the same two books for the third time.

She nodded without turning around. “This morning, actually. While reviewing our class’s attendance reports.”

"Multitasking with baked goods. Impressive." There was amusement in his voice, just barely there, the way it always was when he was trying not to sound too attached.

Horikita turned to face him again, folding her arms. “You’ve been sleeping around too much,” she said bluntly. “It’s starting to make you sloppy.”

Ayanokouji tilted his head slightly. “You told me to sleep with them. Strategically.”

“I told you to pursue relationships, not become the school’s unofficial gigolo,” she said, exasperated. “You’ve done enough damage. The Karuizawa breakup will keep the focus on her for now.”
“I’m a gigolo now?” Ayanokouji asked “sorry unofficial gigolo”

Horikita looked up at him as if he’d offended her “can you not right now?”

A beat passed. Ayanokouji took another bite of the muffin, slower this time. The chocolate chips were melting now, leaving a rich sweetness on his tongue that felt too warm in contrast to the rest of the conversation.

"You're not going to ask if I enjoyed it?" he asked, with a smirk that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “The process. The manipulation. The relationships.”

She looked at him evenly. “No,” she said. “Because I already know you didn’t care.”

That silenced him more than he expected.

He swallowed, both the muffin and the emotion trying to crawl up his throat. “So, what now?”

Horikita turned to her whiteboard, where notes and schedules formed a spiderweb of upcoming tests, student council meetings, and Class A movements. “Now? You’re going to lay low. Spend time in our circle only. You’ll sit next to me, study with me, eat lunch with me, until your image stabilizes again.”

Ayanokouji stared at her, something tightening in his chest again. Not the way it did when Karuizawa screamed or when Ichinose cried. This was different. Like he was starting to see the shape of something he couldn’t define. A future he didn’t quite believe in. A feeling he wasn’t ready to name.

“I’ll bring tea next time,” he said, finishing the muffin.

She looked at him like she wasn’t expecting that, and then—barely—she smiled.

“I’ll bring the muffins,” she said softly. “Don’t be late,”

"Are you going to enlighten me on the rest of your plan?" Ayanokouji asked, reaching for another muffin from the plate she’d left near the edge of her desk. “Or do I have the pleasure of staying in the dark?”

Horikita didn’t respond right away. Instead, she moved to sit on the edge of her bed with a quiet, deliberate grace, like every step was calculated. “I’m going to tell you more now,” she finally said, her tone calm but edged with that signature sharpness that had become her trademark. “Take the plate, Kiyotaka.”

He picked it up, cradling it with a faint smirk like it was a reward instead of a bribe, and sat on her desk chair sideways, one arm slung across the back. “Muffin diplomacy,” he murmured.

“We’ve already established that you’re going to get back together with Karuizawa,” Horikita continued, folding one leg over the other as she settled in, posture rigid even in relaxation. “That part is essential—to make her vulnerable again, to put her in a place where she believes things are improving. That... everything’s going to be okay.l”

“Cruel,” Ayanokouji remarked dryly, though he made no move to object. He took another bite, talking around it. “But effective.”

Horikita nodded, eyes narrowed. “Her and Kushida are two of the most socially influential students in our class. If I want control, real control—not just through academic superiority—I need to displace both of them.”

Ayanokouji tilted his head, watching her with a flicker of genuine interest now. “So, what’s the plan? You going to dethrone them socially and politically?”

“Exactly,” Horikita said, her voice cold and certain. “Kushida will be expelled. That part’s already in motion, though I’ll need your help when we get closer to the finish line.”

“And Karuizawa?” he asked, voice lower now. “What’s your endgame with her?”

Horikita hesitated—not out of guilt, but calculation. Then, in a tone more casual than the words deserved, she replied, “I’m going to make her… a few sandwiches short of a picnic, if you know what I mean.”

Ayanokouji stopped chewing, staring at her. “You want to make her insane?” he asked, not shocked, just... intrigued. “That’s a little far, even for you.”

“It’s not insanity in the medical sense,” she clarified, although the glint in her eye suggested she wasn’t entirely concerned with the nuance. “But emotionally? She’ll be unstable. Unreliable. People will start seeing her as a liability instead of a leader.”

“And how do we get her there?” he asked, popping the rest of the muffin into his mouth and brushing a crumb from his lip.

Horikita leaned forward slightly. “We use her hope against her. After you two get back together, you make her think you’ve changed. That everything that happened before—the cheating, the betrayal—was part of a mistake you regret. You’ll be doting. Caring. Reassuring. She’ll start believing you again. That she was the exception. That you love her.”

He gave her a long look. “You’re a cold piece of work, Horikita.”

“And you’re the one who can make it happen,” she shot back, her tone not unkind, but firm. “When she’s emotionally dependent again, when she’s convinced you’re serious... that’s when you end it. Brutally. No room for doubt. She needs to feel disposable. Like she never mattered.”

“And Ichinose and Sakura?” he asked, brushing off his pants like it would make the question cleaner.

Horikita’s eyes darkened with a new layer of calculation. “They’re part of the next phase. When you break up with Karuizawa, you’re going to do it in a very public way. Loud. Unforgiving. And right after that, you’ll simultaneously sever ties with both Ichinose and Sakura—both emotionally and reputationally.”

“That’ll be messy,” he commented. “A triple heartbreak scandal.”

“Not quite”, Horikita said, “no one will know about you and Ichinose, just that she was a mysterious boyfriend, and she’s devastated that he's broken up with her. Same with sakura, but she’ll be fine, she wasn't that attached to the relationship, and no one pays much attention to her.”

“You put a lot of planning into this” Ayanokouji said

For a second, something flickered in her eyes again—quick, almost invisible. But not to him. Never to him.

“I did,” she said simply. “Now shut up and eat your muffins.”

He did.

"Why Ichinose and Sakura, how does me breaking up with them have anything to do with your plan?" Ayanokouji asked “Is it the same reason you needed me to be with them?”

"Ichinose because she'll need a shoulder to cry on, which is how I'm going to gain control of class B, and Sakura because she doesn't need you anymore I'm letting her in", Horikita explained

Ayanokouji stared at her for a moment, the plate of muffins resting in his lap now forgotten. The last bite still lingered on his tongue, but it didn’t taste as sweet anymore. His eyes narrowed slightly, though not in disapproval—more like intrigue. A familiar calculation flickered behind his gaze.

“Letting her in?” he repeated slowly, like the words needed to be turned over in his mind a few times before they settled. “That’s a shift. You used to say Sakura was too timid. That she’d collapse under pressure.”

Horikita leaned back on her palms, legs crossed at the ankle as she watched him with something bordering on quiet intensity. Her expression didn’t falter. “She was. But people change. You gave her enough confidence to grow, and I’m going to give her a reason to stay strong. She needs purpose—structure. She’s loyal, she’s observant, and she’s no longer afraid. I can work with that.”

He exhaled a breath, soft and slow, glancing at the muffin in his hand like it might hold answers. “And Ichinose?”

Horikita’s eyes hardened just a bit. “Ichinose is... vulnerable. Not just emotionally, but politically. Her entire class is built around her optimism and charm. If I can break that foundation—if I become the person she leans on when everything else crumbles—Class B will follow her lead and fall in line behind me.”

“You’re planning to control two classes at once.”

"Four", Horikita corrected "I'm working on Ryuen in class C right now by getting Ryuen on my payroll"

"I don't think you have enough points to sustain that?" Ayanokouji asked

"I have my ways", Horikita told, shrugging as if it was the most natural thing

Ayanokouji raised an eyebrow, slowly setting the plate of muffins on the nightstand beside him. His posture straightened, the casual air about him sharpening slightly into something more focused, more dangerous. “Your ways,” he echoed thoughtfully. “That’s starting to sound more and more like me.”

Horikita gave the faintest smirk—barely there, but unmistakable. “I learn from the best,” she said, her voice even, unbothered. “But I adapted, surpassed.”

The room was quiet for a beat. Her words settled between them like dust in the afternoon light slipping in through the blinds. Ayanokouji studied her—the firm set of her jaw, the calculated steadiness of her gaze. This wasn’t the same girl he’d once written off as too rigid, too principled, too unwilling to play dirty. This was someone else now. Someone who’d stared into the chaos and decided to master it.

“You’re playing a long game,” he said, his voice low, almost impressed. “Taking out Kushida, gaining control of Karuizawa, folding Ichinose, absorbing Sakura, leveraging Ryuuen. And I’m guessing Class A is somewhere in this web, too?”

Horikita nodded. “Sakayanagi is watching us. Every move we make, every change in group dynamics—she logs it like it’s a chessboard. I need to give her a reason to miscalculate. The more attention she pays to you, the more blind she’ll be to me.”

“So I’m the decoy,” Ayanokouji said with a slight, dry chuckle. “The sacrificial queen to your rising rook.”

“You’re not a queen,” she said flatly. “You’re the chaos factor. The unpredictable piece that doesn’t belong on the board, but still decides the outcome.”

He tilted his head, that cryptic smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “So what happens when the chaos factor decides to rewrite the rules?”

Horikita’s eyes narrowed just slightly. “Then I adapt again.”

Ayanokouji leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, his voice softer now. “And if I decide I don’t want to work for you anymore?”

“We talked about this, Kiyokata. I know too muc,h and you don't like loose ends”, Horikita responded

“I still dont understand why you need me in the first place” Ayanokouji responded

Horikita didn’t respond right away. She stood, crossed the room, and pulled a file from her desk drawer. When she turned back to him, she held it out.

He took it slowly, flipping it open. Inside were profiles—Karuizawa, Ichinose, Sakura. Notes, schedules, psychological assessments, pressure points. And at the bottom, a new name. His.

“I’ve mapped every move,” she said. “Every reaction, every predicted path. But I can’t make this work without you. I know you’ll do what needs to be done—not because I asked, but because deep down, you know where this leads. You don’t want to play forever, Kiyotaka. You want to win.”

He looked up at her, his expression unreadable. “And when I win, what happens to you?”

Horikita’s gaze didn’t flinch. “Then we win together.”

For once, the weight behind those words didn’t feel like manipulation. It felt like something rarer. A kind of alliance that had been forged in quiet rooms and impossible decisions. Something deeper than trust. Maybe even more dangerous than ambition.

He looked back at the file, then closed it gently.

“I hope you’re right,” he murmured.

She met his gaze and, for just a second, that unreadable mask of hers cracked—just enough to show a glimpse of something like hope. Or maybe fear. Or both.

“I usually am,” she said.

And somehow, that was what worried him most.

Chapter Text

It was a strange thing to feel both admiration and unease at the same time. Ayanokoji leaned back in his seat in the classroom the next morning, the sunlight bleeding in from the windows, casting long shadows across the desks. But it was yesterday’s image that lingered in his mind—Horikita sitting beside Karuizawa, her fingers gently curling around her wrist, her voice low, steady, sympathetic. Not too warm. Not too cold. Just right.

The kind of performance that would’ve slipped past anyone else.

But not him.

He remembered when he first noticed the change—subtle, like the way a chess player switches strategies in the middle of a game without telling you. At first, he’d genuinely thought it was growth. That perhaps she’d taken something from their partnership, from watching him manipulate the board, and used it to soften her sharp edges. Maybe she'd decided that connections weren’t so pointless after all.

And then came the night she called him to her dorm. Her voice low and calm, as always, but her eyes carrying a weight that felt more like victory than vulnerability. The terms she laid out. The strings she pulled. The silence she leveraged. She hadn’t asked—she *demanded*. She knew what he’d done. Knew what leverage would work. And he—of all people—had no counter at the time.

That was the first moment he understood.

She wasn’t catching up to him.

She’d already surpassed him.

And now, watching her rebuild Karuizawa from the inside out, reclaim Class D’s emotional centre and wrap it neatly into her growing sphere of influence—it was almost poetic. She’d broken Karuizawa with the precision of a scalpel. Then, when the wound was raw, she stitched herself into the healing process, turning every ounce of Karuizawa’s pain into debt. Loyalty. Attachment.

And it was working.

Karuizawa smiled again today. A small, watery thing. She joked about ice cream with one of the girls. Leaned into Horikita during a laugh. A subtle shift—one that Ayanokoji wouldn’t have believed possible just a week ago. Horikita hadn’t taken Karuizawa’s place. She’d become the one person Karuizawa trusted most.

That was the most dangerous kind of manipulation: not the kind you recognised, but the kind you welcomed.

And Horikita? She wore it all with calm confidence. Like a monarch settling into her throne, watching the kingdom reshape itself around her presence. Even now, seated across the room, she met Ayanokoji’s eyes for the briefest second—and there it was again. That same look she’d given him the night she’d blackmailed him.

Check.

She was ahead of him now. Not because she was more intelligent. But because she was evolving. She’d taken everything he taught her, everything she’d learned from watching him work in silence, and used it to build something terrifyingly effective. Compassion that was strategic. Vulnerability that was rehearsed. Friendship that was laced with control.

He should’ve felt threatened.

But what surprised him most was that he didn’t.

Instead, there was a flicker of something else.

Pride.

And beneath that, something he couldn’t quite name yet—something that surfaced when he remembered that dream from last night again. The house on the hill. The cake. The teasing touch on his nose. The ring.

She always wore it in the dream. Always shining.

He blinked, turning away from the window. His reflection ghosted faintly in the glass—expression unreadable. For now, he’d watch. For now, he’d play the pawn she needed him to be.

But the game wasn’t over yet.

He stared down at the open notebook on his desk, but the words blurred. His pen hovered above the page, motionless. The classroom around him felt distant, muted like someone had pressed their hand over the world’s mouth. The buzz of conversation, the rustle of papers, the occasional scrape of a chair—they were all sounds happening somewhere far away.

His thoughts, though? They were loud. Chaotic. Disorganized.

Why her?

Why was it Horikita who haunted his dreams? Not just her face, not just her voice—her. The way she stood beside him with flour on her cheek. The way she touched his nose and laughed—really laughed, not the dry scoff she gave him in real life. The way that ring shimmered on her finger every single time, like it belonged there. Like he put it there.

He rubbed his hands together beneath the desk, trying to focus, trying to ground himself. But every time he blinked, he saw that house. That life. That impossible vision.

He was falling for her.

Not the slow realisation kind of falling—the kind where you trip and don’t even notice the descent. This was different. He was spiralling. Headfirst. No parachute. Every calculated defence he’d built around his emotions was unravelling, thread by thread.

And he didn’t know what to do.

He never knew what to do.

He was Ayanokoji Kiyotaka—raised in the White Room, trained to remain unaffected, untouchable. And yet here he was, heart fluttering over the idea of Horikita smiling at him in a kitchen they didn’t own, wearing a ring he never bought, teasing him like it was the most natural thing in the world.

He clenched his jaw, shutting the notebook.

Maybe it had started as respect—an acknowledgment of her growth, of how she’d used what he taught her and become something far more cunning, far more dangerous. But somewhere along the line, that respect had shifted. It had turned into curiosity. Into fascination. Into something... warmer.

Maybe it was the way she matched him. Not with brute intellect, but with patience. Precision. Grit. She wasn’t his equal in strategy—but she was something more frightening. She was willing to learn. To adapt. To push forward.

And she’d used him to do it.

Maybe he should’ve hated her for that.

But instead, it made him feel.

And that was the problem.

Because now he wasn’t sure if he wanted to beat her—or stand beside her.

He glanced up across the room. Horikita sat there, notebook in hand, brows knit in quiet concentration. She looked serious, thoughtful—like she always did—but there was something about her now. Something magnetic. Something that made him wonder if she felt even half of what he was going through.

She looked up, almost sensing his stare. Their eyes locked.

Neither of them smiled. Neither of them looked away.

And in that still moment—just a breath long—Ayanokoji realized he was in trouble.

Because for the first time, he wasn’t thinking in moves and outcomes.

He was just thinking of her.

Across the room, Horikita giggled.

It was soft—measured—but light enough to draw a few surprised glances. The kind of sound that didn’t belong to the Horikita most people thought they knew. And for a second, it worked. It disarmed the group around her. One of the girls leaned closer, emboldened by the rare show of warmth, clearly thinking they were making progress in cracking her stoic shell. Another said something in response, a joke maybe, something lighthearted—and Horikita gave a demure smile, tucking a strand of dark hair behind her ear with practiced grace.

She was performing. He knew she was performing.

But it didn’t stop the flutter in his chest.

Ayanokoji watched, unmoving, letting the moment stretch.

It shouldn’t have affected him—he’d seen through her before, seen the strings she pulled and the faces she wore like armor. He knew the real Horikita wasn’t the girl giggling at some shallow conversation. That laugh didn’t reach her eyes. That gesture—the soft tuck of hair, the slight tilt of her head—it was as choreographed as a politician’s speech. It was fake.

And yet.

It made his pulse skip. It made his mind quiet, if only for a second. It invited him to imagine what she might look like laughing like that for real. What it would mean to make her smile without a reason, without motive. What it would mean if she looked across the room and smiled like that at him.

His fingers curled into the fabric of his pants beneath the desk.

He was losing control of something he hadn’t even realized he cared about. That was the dangerous part. This wasn’t like his games with Ryuen, or his manipulations of Kushida, or even the careful leash he’d kept Karuizawa on. This was different. This wasn’t about leverage or tactics.

This was personal.

He hated that.

But he also couldn’t look away.

And when Horikita glanced across the room—whether by accident or design—and their eyes met again, he didn’t bother masking the way his gaze lingered. Not this time.

Horikita gave him a smile.

It was small. Barely a curve of her lips. But it was real enough to catch his attention, real enough to make something shift behind his eyes as their gazes held just a second too long before she turned away. She looked back at Karuizawa, her posture relaxed, her expression softening again into that carefully cultivated mask of concern.

But Karuizawa had seen it too.

She blinked, then narrowed her eyes slightly, lips parting just enough to let the question slip through. “What was that?” she asked, not accusingly, but with the kind of pointed curiosity that came from someone still healing and suddenly feeling like maybe she’d missed something.

“Why’d you smile at him?”

Horikita didn’t flinch. Didn’t pause. She didn’t even glance back at Ayanokoji. She simply tilted her head, gave a nonchalant shrug, and said, “He’s my friend.”

The lie rolled off her tongue so effortlessly it might as well have been the truth. It was cool, casual—measured with just enough emotional detachment to keep suspicion at bay, but not enough to seem cold. It was exactly the kind of answer someone like Karuizawa might expect from someone like Horikita: honest on the surface, dismissive underneath.

Karuizawa just nodded.

But it was slow, hesitant. Her eyes lingered too long on Horikita’s profile, like she was turning something over in her mind, quietly questioning the explanation she’d been given. And that was exactly what Horikita wanted.

Let the doubt linger. Let the seed be planted.

She didn’t need Karuizawa to believe the lie—she just needed her to not question it out loud. The doubt would grow on its own. In time, Karuizawa would start wondering if she ever really understood Horikita… if anyone did.

And from where Ayanokoji sat, watching from the quiet edges of the room, he saw the whole thing unfold. The smile. The lie. The subtle manipulation layered beneath it.

It should have annoyed him.

Instead, it made him fall even further.

Chapter Text

A few more days passed, each one slower than the last.

Ayanokoji kept his head down. Played the part. Went through the motions like he always did—attending classes, offering the occasional dry remark when prodded, drifting through the halls like a ghost no one really knew. But something had shifted in him, whether he liked it or not. The dreams hadn’t stopped. If anything, they’d grown more vivid, more detailed. Horikita’s laugh lingered a little longer in his memory. The ring on her finger glinted a little brighter. The house on the hill felt a little more like home.

He hated it.

Not the dreams, but the way they stuck to him, the way she stuck to him. Her presence didn’t just haunt his nights anymore—it bled into his days. Into the quiet glances exchanged across classrooms. Into the way she laughed at the right moments and smiled at the wrong ones. Into how he couldn’t stop noticing her even when he tried.

And then, just like clockwork, she texted him.

Horikita Suzune: Come to my room. 8:00. Don’t be late.

No pleasantries. No explanation. Just a command, as usual.

He stared at the message for a while, thumb hovering over the screen. A thousand things he wanted to say passed through his mind—half of them sarcastic, the other half questions he knew she’d never answer honestly.

He sighed.

Of course she wanted to meet again. She always did. Strategy, manipulation, power plays—Horikita’s room had become the new war room of Class D. Or maybe it always had been. And lately, it felt less like he was her partner and more like he was her tool, summoned at her convenience.

Still, he found himself standing in front of her door right on time. He wasn’t even surprised at himself anymore. Annoyed, maybe. Tired, definitely. But surprised? No. Horikita had a gravity to her. She pulled people in. Even him.

He knocked once, flat and emotionless. The door opened almost immediately, like she’d been waiting.

“You’re late,” she said automatically, even though the clock said 7:59.

“I’m not.” His voice was as even as ever, but there was a weariness underneath it that hadn’t been there before.

“Close enough.” She stepped aside and let him in, walking ahead of him like she owned the space—which, of course, she did.

He followed, resisting the urge to sigh again as the door clicked shut behind him. Same room. Same energy. Same girl with a plan in her eyes and secrets behind her words.

And he was tired of it.
Not of her. Just of the game they were playing.
Or maybe, just maybe…
Of pretending it wasn’t something more.

Ayanokoji stood in her dorm room, the usual quiet tension between them thicker than usual. Horikita’s words settled over him like a cold draft—precise, surgical, and utterly devoid of hesitation. She stood near her desk, arms crossed, her expression unreadable but sharp, like she was already playing out every outcome in her mind.

“You’re going to ask for her back tonight,” she spoke, like it was the most casual command in the world. “And bring flowers for her as well.”

Ayanokoji’s jaw tensed, his hands buried deep in his pockets. He didn’t react right away—not with words, anyway. Just silence. Silence and that same blank stare he always gave her when he was calculating whether to push back or simply play along.

Eventually, he asked, “How long do I have to stay with her?”

There was no emotion in his voice. No anger, no concern, not even curiosity. Just a clinical question, like asking how long he had to wear a cast before it could come off.

Horikita shrugged, but it was a calculated kind of indifference. “A few days. A week. Long enough to make her truly think you’re rebuilding your relationship.”

She turned to face him more directly now, voice calm but layered with ice. “The breakup has to be brutal. Not in a loud or messy way. Just… final. Quiet. Clean. You need to make her feel it. But frame it in a way that makes it seem like there’s no villain here. Like it’s just something that didn’t work out. A natural end.”

Ayanokoji didn’t respond immediately. His eyes flicked toward the wall, toward her neatly organized shelf, the textbook open on her desk, the slight shift of her foot as she leaned more weight onto one side. She didn’t flinch. She didn’t ask if he was okay with it. She knew he’d do it.

And he would.
Because she told him to.
Because she was always five steps ahead now.
Because somewhere along the line, he’d stopped pretending that this wasn’t more than a partnership.

“I’ll get the flowers,” he said finally, his voice low.

Horikita nodded once. That was all she needed.

But behind his blank expression, something was stirring. He didn’t know if it was guilt, or resentment, or that same ache he felt whenever she smiled at someone else like she meant it. Maybe it was all of it. Maybe it was love.

And he hated that too.

Because even now, doing her dirty work, even now—standing in the middle of a manipulation that might shatter Karuizawa completely—he still found himself watching the way Horikita’s eyes flickered with thought. Still found his chest tightening at her approval. Still found himself wondering if the dreams meant more than just an overworked subconscious.

Maybe he really was falling.

That night, Ayanokoji stood outside Karuizawa’s dorm, the flowers in his hand a stark contrast to the cold, calculating nature of his thoughts. He knocked firmly, his fingers tightening slightly around the bouquet. The weight of what he was about to do hung heavy on him, but it was necessary. It was part of the plan.

The door swung open, and Karuizawa stood before him, her eyes raw and red, her makeup smeared from hours of crying. The sight of her—vulnerable, shattered—was almost too much, yet he couldn’t afford to show weakness. He pushed it down, the cold, detached mask falling back into place.

"What’d you want?" Her voice was barely above a whisper, brittle, like she could barely hold herself together.

Ayanokoji’s eyes softened imperceptibly, though his tone remained steady, controlled. "I want to apologise," he said, his words carefully chosen. "I made a mistake. I love you. Please forgive me. I want you back."

The words were hollow, but they were what she needed to hear. He watched her closely, studying her reaction, calculating.

For a brief moment, Karuizawa didn’t respond. Then, in a burst of emotion, she suddenly threw herself into his arms. The force of it caused him to drop the flowers, the petals scattering on the floor between them. Her face buried into his chest, the sobs wracking her body. Her grip around him was tight, desperate—clingy in a way he hadn’t expected.

Ayanokoji froze for a moment, his arms awkwardly at his sides, unsure of what to do with the sudden display of emotion. Horikita had predicted this, but he hadn’t anticipated the physicality of it, the way she melted into him so completely, so urgently.

She was so clingy. His mind flashed back to the many times he had felt suffocated by her attention, by her neediness. He had forgotten how much he disliked it, how much it grated on him to be someone’s emotional crutch. He clenched his jaw, suppressing the wave of irritation that rose in his chest.

Still, he held her, only just. "It’s okay," he muttered, his voice flat, detached. "I’m here. We can work through this."

Karuizawa didn’t let go. She just clung to him tighter, her tears soaking into his shirt, and for a moment, Ayanokoji stood still, caught between the role he was playing and the reality of the situation.

"Koji, I... I love you so much," Karuizawa sniffled, her tear-streaked face looking up at him with wide, vulnerable eyes. "You really mean it?"

Ayanokoji met her gaze, his expression calm and unreadable. His heart didn't stir, not even a little, but the words came easily, as they always did. He could play this part without faltering.

"I do," he replied, his voice smooth, the lie flowing off his tongue with practiced ease. "I’m sorry for everything. I never meant to hurt you."

He could feel her grip on him tighten, like she was clinging to the last thread of hope she had. Her sobs were quieter now, though her face was still buried in his chest. In this moment, he was exactly what she needed him to be. But it didn’t change anything for him. It was all part of the plan, and he had long since grown numb to the emotional weight of the roles he played.

"I’ve been stupid," he added, his tone softer now, trying to sound convincing. "But I’ll make it right. I’ll prove it to you."

Karuizawa’s sobs subsided slightly, her breathing shaky as she clung to him even more desperately. She seemed to believe it, but Ayanokoji couldn’t bring himself to care. He wasn’t here for her heart, only for the next steps in the game they were all caught in.

And yet, as she held him, a small part of him couldn’t help but feel... empty. This wasn’t love, but it had always been a means to an end. And that was all that mattered.

“Do you wanna come inside” Karuizawa offered kissing him

Ayanokoji stepped inside, the weight of her body against his waist as she leaned up to kiss him. He allowed it to happen, his hands steady as they found their way to her waist, guiding her closer. Despite the familiarity of this situation—her wanting to close the distance between them physically—it was still all part of the act. A performance he was willing to put on, though it was far from something he actually wanted.

Karuizawa’s hands were already moving, pushing against his chest as she kissed him with a desperation he’d seen before, the neediness in her touch evident. He could feel her emotions running high, her thoughts consumed by the hope that he truly meant the words he’d said.

He could see the way she clung to him, desperate for reassurance that their relationship wasn’t just a product of manipulation. But the truth was, for Ayanokoji, everything was calculated. His emotions? Nonexistent when it came to her. He couldn’t bring himself to care about her as she cared about him.

He pulled back slightly, just enough to meet her eyes with a soft, reassuring smile that didn’t reach his own. “Let’s just relax for a moment,” he suggested, keeping his voice low and steady. The tone was soothing, but his mind was already a step ahead, focused on what would come next.

Karuizawa nodded, still clinging to him, as if this was her only moment of stability in the storm of her emotions. She was so lost in the belief that they could return to what they had, but Ayanokoji knew that he was already moving forward, one step at a time, in the direction Horikita had set for them.

He couldn’t afford to get caught up in this, no matter how tempting the situation might seem. This wasn’t about them. It never had been.

The lights in Karuizawa's room were dim, casting a faint glow across the furniture and softening the edges of the scene. The room was quiet save for her shaky breathing as she curled against him on the couch, her head resting lightly on his shoulder. Ayanokoji sat still, arms resting around her loosely, not quite possessive, not quite distant—just enough to play the part of a forgiving boyfriend trying to rebuild a fractured love.

But his thoughts were far away from here.

Even now, with her tucked so close, with her soft murmurs of apology and affection brushing against his skin, he was thinking about Horikita.

About her sharp eyes, the ones that always saw more than she said. About her calm, calculating voice that disguised concern beneath commands. About how she hadn't told him to avoid this part of the act—had she assumed he wouldn’t cross this line, or had she known he would and left him to navigate it on his own?

And if she had thought about it… did she care?

He stared ahead, eyes unfocused, listening to Karuizawa mumble something incoherent, her fingers playing absently with the edge of his sleeve. He could feel the warmth of her against his side, the weight of her trust settling like a chain around his chest. It wasn’t heavy because of love or guilt. It was heavy because he knew she would be crushed when this ended. And that was the whole point.

Because Horikita hadn’t just told him to end things. She wanted Karuizawa devastated.

“Break her,” she had said. “But do it so she never blames you.”

It wasn’t cruel, not by Horikita’s standards. It was tactical. Clinical. Strategic. The end result was what mattered—not the damage it caused getting there. And maybe that was the part Ayanokoji understood best. That was why they worked so well together. Why she had trusted him with this piece of the plan.

But as he sat there, Karuizawa’s arms wrapped tightly around him, his thoughts kept drifting back to that moment in Horikita’s room—when she had said all of this with such ease, as though it didn’t matter. And yet… hadn’t her eyes lingered on him just a second too long? Hadn’t her voice softened when she’d added, “Make it convincing”?

Maybe it was nothing. Maybe it was everything. And that bothered him more than anything else.

Karuizawa shifted, her hand coming up to touch his face gently. “I missed this,” she whispered, her eyes soft with longing. “You… us…”

He nodded slightly, feigning a small smile. “Yeah,” he murmured. “Me too.”

It was a lie. Every word was a lie. But she needed the lie, and he needed the outcome. And somewhere down the line, Horikita would call him again, maybe ask for another meeting, maybe offer another plan. And he’d follow. He always did.

Because no matter how many lies he told Karuizawa, no matter how many plans he executed with flawless indifference—there was only one person who truly occupied his mind.

And she wasn’t the girl curled up beside him.
She was the girl who gave the orders.
The girl who saw through him.
The girl who had never needed him to fake anything… because she’d never once believed his lies in the first place.
Because she didn’t need them.
And maybe that’s why, in the deepest corners of his twisted, tightly locked chest—his heart fluttered only for her.

Chapter Text

"Now, I've been waiting to tell you the next stage," Horikita said, her voice calm and measured, almost eerily so. She didn’t even glance at him as she spoke, her eyes fixed on the notebook in front of her. It was as if the words she was about to say were mere facts—steps in a sequence, part of the plan. Nothing more, nothing less.

"You're going to break up with Karuizawa tonight," she continued, her tone flat, unyielding. "Now, I'm sure you're aware it's generally considered bad form to date your best friend's ex. I'm also sure you've noticed that I've been getting closer to her. After you break up with her, we'll start dating."

Ayanokoji's heart stopped for a moment.

The words struck like a cold punch, leaving him momentarily speechless. He wasn’t sure if it was the suddenness of the situation or the realization that Horikita was so coldly, methodically laying out a plan that involved him and Karuizawa, but something in him recoiled.

But more than that... More than just the shock of the plan was the surge of something else—something dangerous. A yearning that had been festering beneath the surface, something he'd long suppressed. He’d been falling for Horikita, and now she was asking, no, telling him to fake a relationship with her.

He didn’t want to pretend. He didn’t want to be part of this game, to simply play the part of a "fake boyfriend" for the sake of some calculated move.

But his thoughts twisted. What if this could be real?

Ayanokoji blinked.

Once.

Twice.

His expression didn’t change—not on the surface. No twitch of the mouth. No lift of the brow. Just silence, perfectly still.

But inside?

The world tilted.

Horikita’s voice remained steady, detached as always, as if she were reading instructions from a manual rather than altering the trajectory of his internal universe. She still wasn’t looking at him, which made it easier and harder all at once. Easier because she couldn’t see the war happening in his eyes. Harder because he couldn’t read what she *really* meant.

“Wait,” he said finally, and even he noticed how uncharacteristically slow his voice came out, like he needed to drag the words out of himself. “You and I... we’re going to pretend to date?”

Horikita nodded without missing a beat. “It’ll devastate her. You’ll break up with her tonight, and I’ll be there when she runs off. She’ll come to me—she already has, emotionally—and when she does, I’ll be waiting. Comforting. And by morning, word will spread. That the girl who lost everything got stabbed in the back by the two people she trusted most.”

Still, she didn’t look at him.

She didn’t see the way his fingers curled into his palm. She didn’t notice the slight hitch in his breath, the kind no one else would catch. But she knew him—better than anyone else ever had—and some part of her must have felt the shift in the air.

“Horikita,” he said, more carefully this time, “are you sure about this?”

“Of course.” Her answer came too fast. Too final. “The emotional impact will drive her into a complete free fall. She’s been clinging to you. She’s been reaching for me. We pull both away at once. It’s the most efficient way to break her—cleanly, deeply. No physical force. Just emotional precision.”

There it was again. That clinical tone. That detachment he usually admired. But not now. Not this time.

Because this time, he was the one about to fracture under the weight of the plan.

He’d gone along with everything else. Manipulating Karuizawa. Lying. Pretending. Playing roles, projecting shadows of emotions he didn’t really feel. But now? Now he was being told to pretend to be with the only person who actually mattered to him?

He didn’t just want to act like her boyfriend.

He wanted to be her boyfriend. In all the real, quiet, painfully human ways he’d tried to suppress for months.

He’d fallen for her somewhere along the line—maybe in the middle of one of their midnight planning sessions, or during the moments when her mask slipped just enough for him to glimpse something raw beneath the surface. Maybe it was when she started trusting him. When she needed him. When she called him without explanation, and he came without question.

But she didn’t know.

Or worse—maybe she did and just didn’t care.

He could feel the storm building in his chest, but he forced it down. Composed himself. Sat back in his chair like nothing inside him had just shattered.

“Alright,” he said finally, his voice colder than it should’ve been. “I’ll do it. I’ll break up with her.”

Horikita finally looked up then. Her gaze met his, sharp and unreadable.

“For the plan,” she said quietly.

He nodded.

“For the plan.”

But all he could think about was how unfair it was—that the first time he truly wanted something, truly wanted someone, he had to pretend it wasn’t real.

And that the person he wanted most was the one asking him to fake it.

"Come sit" Horikita motioned towards the bed "We're gonna practice"

“What are we practising?” he asked, his voice low, guarded. His thoughts were clouded, but he couldn’t allow himself to get distracted. Not now. He had to follow through.

"being a couple" she told “I don’t want us looking awkward in public,” she continued, her voice smooth and utterly pragmatic.

Ayanokoji froze for a moment, his heart rate picking up slightly despite himself. He knew it was coming—the inevitable part where they would have to pretend to be something they weren't. Something he didn’t want to be with her. Yet here she was, calmly instructing him like it was a normal day, as though this wasn’t all some twisted, calculated game.

For a brief moment, he wondered if this was truly how she saw him—just a tool to get what she wanted. It didn’t help that the idea of acting like a couple with Horikita stirred something within him that made his stomach churn and his thoughts scatter. The proximity, the intimacy, the expectation... He couldn’t focus on the implications of it right now, though.

“I see,” he said, keeping his tone neutral, distant. But inside, he could feel his usual composure starting to fray.

Horikita patted the bed again, not meeting his eyes, her expression steady. There was no trace of hesitation in her—just a laser-like focus on the task at hand. She seemed so unbothered by the fact that they were about to do something so personal. Something he’d never imagined himself doing with her.

He stood up, his movements stiff, and walked slowly over to the bed. As he sat, he could feel the weight of her gaze on him, almost as if she were already sizing him up for some future performance.

“Alright,” she said, finally meeting his eyes, her expression cool. “First, we need to practice how we’ll stand together. A couple always stands close to each other, at least in public. No more distance between us. When we walk, we’ll be side by side.”

Ayanokoji’s mind was a thousand miles away, but he forced himself to focus. He nodded, a quick, curt movement. It wasn’t just about getting through the motions; it was about appearing convincing. He couldn’t let himself get lost in his thoughts, not with Horikita observing him so closely.

Horikita stood up, gesturing for him to stand as well. She stepped into his personal space with ease, as if it were nothing, and he instinctively took a half-step back—though he quickly reminded himself not to make it too obvious.

“Close the gap,” she instructed.

Ayanokoji felt a strange pressure build in his chest, but he did as told, taking a step forward to match her. His mind was a mess. He couldn’t shake the feeling of being too close to her, the way her presence seemed to fill up all the space between them.

Her gaze flicked over him with something like quiet satisfaction before she adjusted her posture, standing straighter as she continued. “If you were really in a relationship with someone, you’d also want to keep the right amount of eye contact. Not too much, not too little. Enough to show that you’re engaged, but not enough to make things uncomfortable.”

He nodded again, though his throat felt tight. They were rehearsing for a role neither of them wanted to play.

Then, Horikita’s voice softened. “Now, we practice the physical closeness. Casual touches. Like this.”

Without warning, she moved her hand to his arm, brushing it lightly, just enough to make him feel the warmth of her touch.

Ayanokoji’s entire body tensed, his heart accelerating before he could rein it in. It wasn’t the touch itself, but the fact that it was her. The way she was acting like this was normal, even though everything about it felt so wrong.

“Is this how you imagined it?” he found himself asking, his voice quieter than he meant. He hadn’t planned to speak, but the words escaped him before he could stop them. He didn't know why they slipped out, or why the moment suddenly felt so suffocating.

Horikita didn’t look surprised. She didn’t even seem to react beyond a small shrug, as if it was just another part of the plan. “I’m just following the guidelines. To make it convincing. We need to make them believe we’re actually a couple, after all.”

Her words were like an ice pick to the chest, and he felt his chest tighten further. Convincing. That was all this was. Just another move in the game.

“Right,” Ayanokoji said, forcing the words past his lips, trying to ignore the nagging sense of longing that twisted in his stomach. He didn’t want this. He didn’t want her like this. Not as a tool, not as a pawn in the game.

But it was the only way. He had to follow through.

Horikita seemed satisfied with his response, though it didn’t escape her attention that something had shifted in him. She let her hand fall away from his arm, but the space between them felt suddenly heavier. More charged. More real.

"Good," she said, voice steady again. "Now we practice how to make it seem like we're really dating when we speak in public. It’s all about tone, eye contact, and how we interact. You might be a master at reading people, Ayanokoji, but you’ll have to be able to do more than just that. You’ll need to make her believe in what you’re saying. You’ll need to make everyone believe in it."

He nodded, his mind still running through the motions of the plan. All he had to do was get through this. He had to. Because as much as the thought of faking a relationship with Horikita twisted something inside him, he knew it was the only way to get to the end. The goal, the mission, the outcome—it was all that mattered.

But somewhere deep down, he wondered just how long he could keep pretending this was all for the greater good, before it all consumed him.

“We also have to practice general affection” Horikita told as if it was the most normal thing

Ayanokoji stared at her, his expression unreadable as always—but for once, his mask felt like it was cracking at the seams. General affection. She said it so clinically, like she was talking about solving an equation, not asking him to simulate an entire emotional relationship—one he didn’t need to fake, because the feelings were already painfully, frustratingly real.

Horikita didn’t falter. She was seated now, one leg crossed over the other, hands folded in her lap, her voice steady as ever.

“I don’t want us to get caught off guard in front of others,” she continued, her tone devoid of any emotional undercurrent. “A touch on the shoulder. A smile. Sitting a little too close. A couple’s rhythm is built from habits. If we’re going to be convincing, we need to look comfortable with each other.”

She said it so smoothly it made him wonder if she was truly detached from all of this… or just pretending to be. A part of him wanted to ask—wanted to demand—if any of this meant something to her. But he already knew the answer. It was strategy. It was control.

It wasn’t real.

Ayanokoji’s voice was quiet when he finally responded, though a trace of bitterness crept through despite himself. “So… you want us to rehearse affection like it’s a routine.”

She glanced up at him, eyes narrowed slightly. “Is that going to be a problem?”

He didn’t answer right away. He didn’t trust his voice not to betray the storm churning inside him. After a beat, he simply moved closer, mirroring the indifference she seemed to demand. “Let’s just get it over with.”

Horikita blinked, then nodded once. “Good. Start by putting your arm around me.”

His heart stuttered.

She said it like it was nothing. Like she didn’t know what she was doing to him.

He hesitated only a moment before lifting his arm, resting it lightly across her shoulders. The feel of her beside him—solid, warm, real—sent a jolt through him he couldn’t show. He adjusted his posture, trying to appear casual, unaffected.

She didn’t look at him. Instead, she leaned ever so slightly into his side, just enough to mimic closeness. “See? Natural. No stiffness.”

“You’re the one who said we should practice,” he murmured, barely audible.

Horikita nodded again, her voice dipping into something just a little softer. “And we will. I want our body language to read like muscle memory. I don’t want people questioning us. Least of all Karuizawa.”

At that, something in his chest twisted sharply.

He still hadn’t broken up with Karuizawa. Not yet. He was supposed to do it tonight. And here he was, playing house with Horikita like the future was already decided.

His voice came out low, a little colder than he intended. “You’re really planning to go through with this?”

She finally turned to look at him then, and for a brief second—just a flicker—there was something unreadable in her eyes. Something that didn’t match the rest of her perfectly controlled exterior.

“I don’t start plans I don’t intend to finish,” she said evenly.

He stared at her, the weight of her words sinking in like lead. This wasn’t just a manipulation. This wasn’t just strategy.

This was personal.

Horikita turned back, adjusting her position slightly so their knees touched. The physical contact—so small, so subtle—burned.

“Next,” she said, as though she hadn’t just flipped his world upside down, “we’ll practice small touches. Hand on the knee. Holding hands. Brushing against each other when we walk. Those things make people believe more than words ever could.”

He didn’t respond this time. He just watched her as she extended her hand toward him, palm up.

A silent invitation.

He took it.

Her fingers were warm against his.

They held hands for the first time like it meant nothing.

But to him, it meant everything.

"Next, we can kiss" Horikita said simply.

Ayanokoji’s heart skipped a beat at her words. Kiss? The simple utterance of that word seemed to echo in his mind, drowning out everything else. He froze, every muscle tensing as his gaze locked onto hers. His mind was racing, thoughts colliding in a flurry of confusion, frustration, and—beneath it all—something he had been trying desperately to ignore.

This isn’t real, he reminded himself. It’s part of the plan. Just like everything else. Keep it together.

But even as he repeated that mantra in his mind, he couldn’t ignore the flicker of panic in his chest.

Horikita, on the other hand, remained calm, almost too calm. She was watching him intently, as if this were just another step in their rehearsals, another small obstacle to overcome in the game they were both playing. She was in control, as always.

“Don’t look so surprised,” she said, her voice a little sharper now, cutting through the tension that hung in the air. “We can’t be convincing unless we practice everything. It’s a natural progression, don’t you think?”

Ayanokoji opened his mouth to respond but found no words. He wasn’t sure what was more unnerving: the fact that Horikita was so matter-of-fact about it, or the way his pulse was thundering in his ears, betraying every shred of composure he had worked so hard to maintain.

She had said it like it was nothing. But to him, it felt like everything.

It was just a kiss, he told himself, but the weight of the situation loomed over him like a storm cloud. His entire being screamed to step back, to find an excuse, to avoid the kiss that would be so... real, even though it was all supposed to be fake.

He met her gaze, his expression still as unreadable as ever, but his hand, still holding hers, betrayed his hesitation. His mind raced through the possible consequences, all while his body screamed a different story. He wanted to feel nothing, to push through it with the same detachment he always had, but this time, it was harder. Much harder.

Horikita’s eyes flicked briefly to their intertwined hands before returning to his face, her expression still calm, almost expectant.

“Do you want me to start?” she asked, her voice low, the hint of something else in her tone—a challenge, maybe. Or just the calm certainty that whatever discomfort he might feel wouldn’t stop her from going through with it.

Ayanokoji’s mind snapped back to reality, and he gripped her hand a little tighter, forcing himself to look past the feelings of nervousness, past the strange pull he was feeling toward her. He was the one who had to lead this. He was the one who had to keep control.

“No,” he finally said, his voice steady despite the storm inside him. He slowly leaned in, his heart hammering in his chest. “I’ll do it.”

For a moment—just one brief, world-stopping moment—everything went silent. The tension, the plan, the cold strategy they’d been wrapped in for days—all of it vanished the second their lips met.

Horikita’s lips were softer than he imagined, warmer too, and they didn’t tremble with uncertainty or hesitation. Instead, she leaned into him, arms winding around his neck with deliberate slowness, pulling him closer with a kind of ease that didn’t feel practised. It didn’t feel fake.

Her touch wasn’t calculated. It was natural, fluid, as if this moment hadn’t been a rehearsed step in some grand performance, but something she wanted. Something they both did.

Ayanokoji's hand, firm against her waist, held her as though he was afraid she might vanish if he let go. He hadn’t meant to deepen the kiss, not really, but once it started—once the distance between them ceased to exist—there was no going back. His body moved before he could think, instinct overriding caution, emotion overruling logic.

This wasn’t supposed to happen like this.

And yet…

Horikita didn’t pull away.

She tilted her head slightly, adjusting to him, responding to the kiss with a quiet intensity that stunned him. Her fingers brushed through the hair at the base of his neck, and something about that touch—gentle, uncalculated—undid him entirely. It felt too real. Too raw.

He could’ve sworn her breath hitched. Just slightly. Just once. But it was enough.

And in that moment, Ayanokoji forgot the mission. Forgot Karuizawa. Forgot that this was a strategy meeting disguised as intimacy. The world narrowed down to the quiet hum of her against him, her taste lingering on his lips like something too sweet to ever be part of a plan.

When they finally parted, it wasn’t abrupt—it was slow, reluctant, as if neither of them truly wanted it to end. Their foreheads rested together for a second, his hand still gently cradling her jaw, hers still looped around his neck like she hadn’t realized the kiss was over.

Horikita’s eyes opened slowly, her expression unreadable—but not in the way she usually was. There was something behind her gaze now. Something questioning. Something vulnerable.

She blinked once, then quickly withdrew her hands, sitting straighter, fixing her posture as if reestablishing boundaries could erase what just happened.

“That was…” Her voice was quiet. Too quiet. She didn’t finish the sentence.

Ayanokoji didn’t move either. He studied her face, watched the way she looked away, biting the inside of her cheek. She was calculating again. Retreating behind the safety of logic and distance. But he had felt the way her fingers lingered. The way her body leaned into his. The way her lips pressed back.

This wasn’t a strategy. Not entirely.

But neither of them said it.

After a long silence, she reached for her notebook again with trembling fingers, flipping a page like she was trying to bury the moment beneath ink and paper.

“We’ll… we’ll need to practice again later,” she said, her tone carefully measured now.

He watched her in silence, then spoke quietly.

“Sure,” he said. “If that’s part of the plan.”
But in his mind, he was no longer thinking about the plan. Not anymore.

He was thinking about the way she kissed him back.

And wondering if she felt it too.

"Let’s practice other things," Horikita said finally, her voice softer now, her gaze shifting away from him and toward the wall—as though that simple motion might spare her the weight of what she was asking.

Ayanokoji tilted his head slightly, studying her in silence. Her words lingered in the air between them, pulling at something fragile and unspoken. He responded after a quiet beat, his voice steady but layered with something subtler now—curiosity, maybe. Or something far more personal.

“Sure,” he said, calmly. “What are we practicing?”

He didn’t push her, didn’t press for details. He knew better than that. With Horikita, everything was deliberate, controlled. If she was asking to practice something outside the rigid framework of strategy, it had to mean something—whether she realized it or not.

She shifted where she sat, her fingers tapping lightly against her notebook. She looked up at him for only a second before her eyes dropped again, as if eye contact was too much, too soon.

“Affection,” she said at last, the word tight in her throat. It came out like a confession—reluctant, careful, and unusually vulnerable. “If we’re going to convince anyone this relationship is real, we can’t rely on obvious things like hand-holding or kissing. That’s surface-level. It’s everything else that matters. Eye contact, proximity, tone. All the things people pick up on without realizing.”

Ayanokoji gave a slight nod, absorbing her words. It sounded clinical. Distant. As if she was trying to keep this grounded in logic—to keep it from becoming anything more than just a tool in their elaborate scheme.

And yet, he noticed the way she held herself—rigid, like someone bracing for something they didn’t quite know how to control.

“So,” he said gently, “how do we start?”

She drew in a breath, squared her shoulders, and looked at him again—this time with purpose. “Eye contact,” she said, more firmly now, as if grounding herself in structure helped keep the conversation from tipping too far into uncertain territory. “People in love look at each other differently. Not in quick glances, or like they’re performing. They really see each other. We need to be able to do that convincingly.”

Her eyes locked on his then—cool, unreadable, but steady. She wasn’t blinking. She wasn’t flinching. She was asking him to meet her intensity and hold it. Like it was just another drill. Another step.

So he did.

Ayanokoji held her gaze without wavering, schooling his features into neutrality. But internally, he wasn’t prepared for what that connection stirred in him. There was no strategy to fall back on, no plan to shield himself with. Her gaze was clear and unguarded, and he saw more than he was supposed to—something flickering behind her careful facade.

Then, she frowned faintly. “Don’t look at me like that,” she said quietly. “You have to mean it. Look at me like you’re in love with me.”

The words hit him like a punch to the chest.

If only she knew.

He didn’t speak. He didn’t move. He just allowed himself—for once—to feel. And when he looked at her again, really looked at her, the difference was immediate. His gaze softened, lost some of that calculated edge. His features relaxed, lips parted just slightly as if he wanted to say something but thought better of it.

Horikita’s breath caught for the briefest moment. Her posture straightened, her eyes searched his, and whatever she had been expecting from him—it hadn’t been that.

Her voice, when it came, was quieter now.

“Like that,” she murmured.

And for the first time that evening, she didn’t look away.

“What next?” Ayanokouji asked

“Suprise me” horikita shrugged

Ayanokoji’s brows furrowed ever so slightly at her response. “Surprise you?” he repeated, his voice low, as though the idea of surprising her was an odd concept altogether. He wasn’t used to the unpredictability that came with her challenges—Horikita was always the one in control, orchestrating each move with meticulous precision. But this? This felt like an entirely new layer to their strange dynamic.

Horikita’s lips quirked into a faint, almost imperceptible smirk. “Yes,” she said simply, her eyes still locked with his, as if daring him to prove himself capable of stepping outside the lines of the role she had carefully written for him.

Ayanokoji paused, his mind working, calculating. He wasn’t sure if she was testing him, or if it was something more personal. Either way, he knew he had to take the lead here. He couldn’t afford to falter. Not now.

He tilted his head, studying her with a mix of curiosity and restraint. “You’re certain about that?” he asked. There was something about the way she looked at him now—less like a strategist and more like someone searching for an answer that wasn’t as clear-cut as all her plans had been before.

Horikita didn’t answer immediately. Instead, she allowed the silence to stretch between them. It was a small but significant shift. Her gaze flickered away briefly, and then she nodded, almost imperceptibly. “I’m sure.”

Ayanokoji took a deep breath, his hand still resting at his side. His eyes never left hers, his every movement calculated, but his mind… his mind was elsewhere for a moment. He let his focus shift, let the usual cold detachment slip away, just for a fraction of a second.

Then, without warning, he moved closer, his presence suddenly all-encompassing. He reached out, brushing his fingers lightly against her cheek, and for a moment, just a heartbeat, their faces were inches apart. Her breath hitched, but she didn’t pull away.

It was a delicate, deliberate touch, nothing like what they had practised before. This wasn’t a scripted move. This was raw, unplanned.

“Is this surprising enough?” he asked, his voice quieter now, the usual calmness replaced by something… softer. The words themselves were casual, but the underlying question lingered in the air—What are you really looking for, Horikita?

For a long moment, there was nothing but the quiet hum of the room, the space between them charged with unspoken thoughts.

Horikita didn’t break the silence right away. Instead, she stared at him for a long time, her eyes unreadable. She didn’t pull back, nor did she seem to want to. In fact, if anything, she leaned into the touch just a little. And in that brief, fleeting moment, Ayanokoji could almost see it—a shift, a crack in her usual armour.

Finally, she spoke, her voice steady once again, though there was an almost imperceptible change in the way she said it.

“Maybe,” she said, her lips barely curving upward, “you’re more than just the perfect puppet after all.”

It wasn’t praise, exactly. But it was something else. Something that felt like progress.

"We should practice kisses more", Ayanokoji said

"Yeah, that's a good idea " Horikita nodded quickly, wrapping her arms around his neck and pulling him into a kiss.

Ayanokoji’s heart raced as the kiss deepened, his hands instinctively moving to Horikita's waist. She had initiated it, pulling him in with a quiet force that caught him off guard. But the moment their lips met, it was like everything else—the plans, the rules, the cold calculations—faded away. All that remained was the heat between them, the tension that had been building since the moment they started this charade.

Horikita, seemingly unaffected by the surge of emotions that always seemed to hit Ayanokoji whenever they got this close, pressed against him. Her hands tangled in his hair, urging him closer, as if to show him she was just as invested in this performance as he was. But there was something about the way she moved, the way she kissed him, that made Ayanokoji question whether this was still part of the act.

Every time he kissed her, it felt different. It wasn’t just a simple display of affection for the sake of their ruse. No, this felt like something more. Something real, though he couldn’t bring himself to admit it. He couldn’t afford to. Not now. Not ever.

Ayanokoji pulled her closer, his hands firmly resting on her waist as he deepened the kiss, his pulse thundering in his ears. He couldn’t help it. Every moment, every touch, only added to the confusion building inside him. This wasn’t how things were supposed to be. They were supposed to be playing a part, pretending, nothing more. But it felt too real. Too much like something he didn’t want to let go of.

Horikita’s breath quickened, and she gave a soft, almost imperceptible sigh as she broke away for a brief moment, her forehead resting against his. Her eyes were still closed, her breath steady but deeper than usual.

“Is this convincing enough?” she asked, her voice almost a whisper, as if testing him, teasing him with the same question she had asked before. But there was something different in her tone now, a hint of vulnerability she hadn’t shown before.

"I think we need more practice" Ayanokoji responded,

She thought for a moment before nodding, "you're probably right. We should practice more"

Ayanokoji didn’t wait this time. The moment the words left her lips, he leaned in, closing the space between them with quiet certainty. His kiss was softer than before—slower, more deliberate—not because he was unsure, but because something inside him had shifted. It wasn’t just about convincing anyone anymore. It wasn’t about fooling classmates, manipulating outcomes, or advancing some calculated plan.

This kiss was for him.

Horikita didn’t pull back. Instead, she welcomed it, her arms looping around his shoulders again, drawing him closer. There was no hesitation in the way she moved, no trace of the methodical girl who measured every step. Her breath caught slightly against his lips, betraying the careful calm she always clung to. This wasn’t just an act to her anymore either—he could feel it. In the way she tilted her head to meet him better, in the way her fingers brushed softly at the nape of his neck. She wasn’t analyzing the mechanics of affection. She was responding.

And maybe that scared him more than anything.

He pulled her closer, his hand gently finding the small of her back. She followed the motion instinctively, letting herself be drawn in. They had kissed before—practiced, tested, played the part. But this one felt different. This one had weight. It lingered longer. There was a hush to it, an unspoken acknowledgment that something had crossed a line neither of them had meant to step over.

When they finally parted, breathless and still impossibly close, Horikita didn’t speak. Her eyes searched his, not cold or distant, but uncertain in a way he’d never seen from her before. She was usually so confident, so sure. But now, she looked like she was waiting for him to say something—anything.

“I guess we’re getting better,” he murmured, his voice quiet, laced with something unspoken.

Horikita’s gaze dropped for a second, then returned to his. “Yeah,” she said, her voice softer than usual. “We are.”

Neither of them moved away. The silence between them was thick, no longer filled with pretence or strategy. Just feeling. Just questions neither of them had answers to.

And Ayanokoji, for once, didn’t want to dissect it. He just wanted to stay in it. With her.

“Practice makes perfect, right?” Horikita murmured, her words barely audible, her breath brushing against his lips.

And then she kissed him again.

This time, there was no lead-up. No pause. No calculation.

It was as if something in her had finally cracked—something long-held and restrained—and for once, she wasn’t thinking ahead to the next step in the plan, or whether their roles were being played correctly. She just leaned in and kissed him like it meant something. Like he meant something.

Ayanokoji felt it instantly—the shift, the difference. Her lips were firmer now, more certain. There was intention in the way she moved, a kind of silent urgency that betrayed everything she didn’t know how to say aloud. He responded in kind, his hand gliding up her back to cradle the base of her neck, anchoring her to him as he kissed her back just as deeply.

His heart was pounding so loudly in his chest he was sure she could hear it. He didn’t care. He was losing himself in her—her scent, her warmth, the feel of her fingers tightening slightly around his shoulders.

Every kiss before this had been part of the game. But this one? This one was something else entirely.

When they finally broke apart, neither of them moved. Her forehead rested against his, their breaths mingling in the silence. For once, neither of them had anything clever to say.

“I think we’re overachieving,” he said at last, his voice low, half-teasing, half-not.

Horikita gave a soft, almost breathless laugh. A real one.

“Then I guess we should keep going,” she said, barely above a whisper. “To make sure we’re convincing.”

But there was no strategy in her voice this time. No walls. Just her. Just him.

And for once, that was enough.

Ayanokoji's words hung in the air, but they felt almost insignificant against the growing intensity between them. "This is why you're in charge of me and not the other way around," he murmured, his voice a mixture of amusement and something deeper, something that he didn't often allow himself to express.

Horikita didn't respond verbally, but the way she pulled him closer, her hands tightening around him, was more than enough of an answer. She kissed him again, with a renewed sense of urgency, as if the words between them had unlocked something, something raw and unspoken.

Her lips were demanding now, and Ayanokoji, despite the quiet calm that usually surrounded him, found himself following her lead. His hands moved instinctively, one resting at her back, the other cupping her cheek as if he couldn't quite believe this was happening—believe that the line between what was real and what was a plan was starting to blur.

She was close now, too close. Every breath they shared felt like it was erasing the distance that had always existed between them. And for the first time, Ayanokoji didn’t want to create that distance.

"Horikita..." he breathed against her lips, his voice rougher than he intended.

"Mm-hmm?" she replied, her eyes closed, lips brushing against his as she responded, not bothering to break the rhythm of their kiss. She sounded too calm—too in control—but Ayanokoji could feel the subtle tremor in her hands, the way she held him just a little tighter.

He didn't have an answer for her. There was no need for one. All he knew was that in that moment, with her in his arms, with everything in the world momentarily paused around them, he didn't want to stop. He wasn’t sure if it was the plan anymore. He wasn’t sure if it even mattered.

What mattered was the kiss, the way it felt to be this close, the way they were finally facing something—together, yet apart—and Ayanokoji realized that he didn’t mind it one bit.

“You know,” Ayanokoji murmured against her lips, his voice barely above a whisper, “couples… do more than just kiss.”

Horikita didn’t flinch or pull away. Her eyes, half-lidded and unreadable, searched his. “We should practice that too,” she replied softly, her voice steady, but something flickered behind her calm expression—something unspoken, perhaps even uncertain.

She reached for him again, this time not pulling him closer out of obligation or strategy, but with quiet deliberation. Her hands found his shirt, her fingers curling lightly into the fabric as she tugged him gently forward, guiding him onto the bed beside her.

There was no rush, no clear line drawn between what was performance and what was real. The tension between them had always been a slow burn—controlled, measured, never allowed to tip too far into vulnerability. But now, that line blurred more with every breath.

Neither of them said another word.

They moved together in silence, the only sounds in the room the quiet rustling of fabric, the hitch of breath, the steady rhythm of a night that was no longer about practice, no longer about control or manipulation. Somewhere in the middle of those lingering touches and half-held gazes, something shifted.

It wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t polished.

But for two people who’d built walls taller than anyone else dared to climb, the closeness—raw and unrehearsed—was more intimate than either of them expected.

And as the night wore on, with no audience to convince and no plan to follow, they continued, wrapped in a quiet understanding neither dared to speak aloud.

Not yet.

Chapter Text

The next day unfolded like any other on the surface—sunlight streaming through the academy’s pristine windows, hallways filled with chatter, the occasional shuffle of feet as students drifted between classes. Yet, for Ayanokoji, nothing about it felt normal.

Horikita was laughing.

Actually laughing.

Not the dry, amused huff she reserved for when someone made an idiotic remark, or the subtle upward curve of her lips when something unexpectedly amused her—but real, open laughter, shared with a group of girls who leaned in closer, clearly basking in the rare warmth of her presence.

He watched from a distance, trying to focus on the conversation Karuizawa was attempting to engage him in. But her words—soft, fast, clinging—faded into the background.

Karuizawa clung to his arm tightly, her head nestled against his shoulder like it was where she belonged. To anyone watching, they probably looked inseparable. Her fingers occasionally toyed with the sleeve of his blazer, her voice laced with fondness, concern, and something more desperate underneath—as though she sensed something had shifted and didn’t know how to pull it back.

He didn’t return the gestures. Not fully. His body was there, and he nodded when appropriate,—but his eyes remained elsewhere.

On Horikita.

On the way, she tilted her head as she listened.

On the way, her eyes danced with something he wasn’t used to seeing—ease.

How could she act like last night hadn’t happened? How could she go back to being the composed, calculating Suzune Horikita as if she hadn’t kissed him like it meant something—like it wasn’t just a part of some convoluted plan?

Karuizawa giggled at something she said, her arm wrapping tighter around his. “You’re spacing out,” she said sweetly, pulling him a little closer. “Thinking about me?”

He forced a smile. “Yeah. Something like that.”

But his gaze shifted again. Horikita had looked his way. Just for a second. Just long enough to meet his eyes.

There was no smile. No flicker of recognition. No acknowledgment of the way her hands had curled into his shirt, or the way her breath had caught when he whispered her name against her lips.

She simply looked away.

And the day went on like that—perfectly normal to anyone else. Just another day at the Advanced Nurturing High School.

"We should talk," Ayanokoji said quietly, looking down at Karuizawa.

She blinked up at him, her smile faltering just a little. The hallway buzzed around them with voices and footsteps, but her focus narrowed in on him alone. She had been leaning against his side, laughing softly, speaking quickly about a classmate’s haircut or a rumor she’d overheard—anything to keep his attention, to feel like things were still the same.

But his voice had changed. There was something more grounded in it now. Something serious.

“…Talk?” she repeated, trying to keep the tone light, but the unease was already creeping into her features. “Right now?”

He shook his head. “After school. Somewhere private.”

There was a beat of silence. She searched his face, hoping for something—an indication of what this was about, a reassurance it wasn’t what she feared. But Ayanokoji’s expression was unreadable, as always. Neutral. Measured.

Except his eyes weren’t.

They held something different now. Not cold or cruel—just distant. Like his thoughts were already somewhere else. Like he’d already started letting go.

“…Okay,” she finally said, her voice just above a whisper. “Sure. After school.”

He gave her a small nod, then gently unhooked her arm from his. It was done so effortlessly, so naturally, that no one watching would think anything of it. But to her—it felt like the beginning of an ending.

And as he stepped away, Karuizawa stood frozen for a moment, her arms hugging herself now instead of him. She didn’t say a word. Didn’t chase after him.

Instead, she looked across the room. Followed his gaze without even meaning to.

It led to Horikita.

And for the first time, Karuizawa realized that maybe—just maybe—she’d already lost him.

Horikita smiled at Karuizawa, a subtle curve of her lips that didn’t quite reach her eyes—but it was practiced, polite, and warm enough to pass as genuine.

“Me and a few other girls are going to get ramen after class,” she said casually, adjusting her bag over her shoulder as the final bell rang in the background. “Do you want to come?”

Karuizawa looked up, startled by the offer. It wasn’t that Horikita had never spoken to her before—they had been getting along recently, even spending more time together in class and in the dorms—but this felt different. Almost… too normal. Too friendly.

Still, she gave a small smile, trying to match the tone. “Ramen? Yeah, that sounds nice.”

Horikita nodded as if it were settled, her posture easy, her expression unreadable beneath the faint flicker of something deeper. Karuizawa couldn’t quite place it—was it sympathy? Calculation? Guilt? She wasn’t sure, and that uncertainty made her stomach tighten.

As they walked side by side down the hallway, Karuizawa glanced at Ayanokoji in the distance. He stood with his back to them, speaking to someone else—calm as ever, aloof as always. But her eyes lingered on him a second too long, and when she turned back, she noticed that Horikita had seen it.

Horikita said nothing.

Instead, she lightly brushed her hair behind her ear and smiled again, this time with a bit more warmth. “We’ll meet by the front gate after class, okay?”

“Okay,” Karuizawa nodded, still unsure whether she felt comforted or cornered. She didn’t know why, but something about the invitation felt... strategic.

Horikita turned and walked ahead, her strides confident, her eyes already on the path forward.

And behind her, Karuizawa followed—unknowingly walking straight into a plan carefully designed to break her heart.

After school, as the orange glow of the setting sun bathed the campus in soft gold, Karuizawa made her way to the front gate. Her steps were hesitant at first, but steady. The hallway had been buzzing with the usual after-class chatter, but her mind was elsewhere—still lingering on the way Ayanokoji had looked at her earlier. Still unsettled by the weight of his words.

When she reached the gate, the group was already forming.

Horikita was standing slightly off to the side, calm and composed as always, her arms crossed loosely as she spoke with Ichinose, who offered a bright wave the moment she saw Karuizawa. Kushida stood nearby, a warm smile painted across her face, ever the welcoming presence—though Karuizawa had long learned not to take it at face value. Sakayanagi sat perched in her wheelchair, a knowing glint in her eyes, as if she were already aware of half the conversation that would unfold tonight.

A few other girls from their year were there too—some Karuizawa knew better than others—but all of them carried the casual ease of people who were used to navigating the delicate politics of high school social groups. If any of them thought it strange that Horikita had invited Karuizawa along, none of them showed it.

“There you are,” Ichinose greeted warmly, stepping forward. “Glad you could come!”

Karuizawa gave a small smile, trying not to feel out of place. “Yeah… thanks for inviting me.”

“We’re going to that place by the station,” Horikita said, turning slightly toward her. “I figured it would be a neutral enough spot.”

Neutral. The word stuck in Karuizawa’s head for a moment. There was something deliberate about the way Horikita said it—like she wasn’t just referring to location.

“Good choice,” Sakayanagi chimed in, her voice light, yet layered with implication. “It’s far enough from campus that people might not overhear things they shouldn’t.”

Kushida laughed softly, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “Not that we have anything to hide, right?”

Horikita didn’t respond to that. Instead, she began walking, the group following her lead.

As they made their way toward the station, Karuizawa fell in step beside Ichinose, who kept the conversation upbeat, talking about classes and student council matters. But Karuizawa kept glancing ahead—to Horikita, who walked with her usual calm detachment, and to Sakayanagi, who seemed to be watching everything with quiet amusement.

Something was happening here. Something more than a casual girls' outing.

And Karuizawa had a sinking feeling she was about to find out exactly what.

The walk was… strange, to say the least. Not in an uncomfortable or forced way, but in the way that made you feel like you'd missed a chapter somewhere along the line. The kind of strange that made you glance twice, not because something was wrong, but because everything felt just a little too perfect.

It was a mix of girls who, under normal circumstances, probably wouldn’t share more than a few polite words in passing. Students from different classes with different reputations and histories—Sakayanagi with her sharp tongue and sharper mind, Ichinose with her warm smile and endless optimism, Kushida with her carefully curated sweetness, and Horikita… Horikita, who had once kept everyone at arm’s length like her personal space was sacred ground.

And yet here they were. Talking. Laughing. Sharing stories like old friends on a casual afternoon outing.

Horikita had offered to push Sakayanagi’s wheelchair just a few steps outside the school gate, her voice light as she said, “It’s a long walk. I thought I’d give you a break.” Her smile was casual, almost teasing. It should’ve been enough to raise suspicion—especially with someone like Sakayanagi—but the girl in the chair didn’t bat an eyelash. She tilted her head slightly, amusement dancing in her expression.

“How considerate,” Sakayanagi had replied, a ghost of a smirk on her lips. “I suppose you’ve found your inner kindness, Horikita-san?”

Horikita just chuckled softly, like they were sharing an inside joke. As if they did this all the time.

The others didn’t question it either. Kushida linked arms with Ichinose, giggling about the latest classroom rumors and throwing in a few offhand remarks about the cute boys in their year. Horikita played along with ease, laughing where she should, throwing in her own thoughts, teasing Kushida back. The sharp edges she once wore like armor had softened, or maybe she’d just learned to hide them better.

But Karuizawa… she watched it all from the edges of the group, letting the others talk while she kept pace just behind them. She didn’t find it strange. Not really. Not anymore.

Because Horikita had made the transition look seamless.

Somewhere along the way, she had gone from the cold, distant girl with no interest in people, to the perfect friend. The girl who laughed like Kushida, got along with others like Ichinose, and—even more remarkably—managed to walk beside Sakayanagi without tension crackling in the air. It was a performance, maybe. Or maybe it was something else entirely.

If it was a mask, it was a convincing one. One even Karuizawa had to admit… was starting to feel real.

At the ramen shop, the warmth of the food didn’t quite match the warmth at the table—at least not for Karuizawa, not at first.

The shop was small, cozy, filled with the sounds of clinking bowls, chatter from other tables, and the occasional burst of laughter from behind the counter. Their group had managed to snag the largest booth near the window, cramming in elbows and shoulders with barely enough space between them. It should’ve felt intimate. Friendly. But for Karuizawa, it was something else entirely.

Even as they laughed and passed around condiments, she felt… adrift. Like she was watching a play from backstage, close enough to hear the lines but not quite part of the scene. Ichinose was laughing at something Kushida had said. Sakayanagi added a sly comment that made Kushida feign offense. The others joined in naturally, effortlessly.

Karuizawa sat quietly at the edge of it all, twirling her chopsticks between her fingers.

Then Horikita did something unexpected.

She reached across the table with her chopsticks, tapped Karuizawa’s bowl with the end of her own, and gave a small, knowing smile. “You haven’t said a word about your worst first date. That silence makes me suspicious.”

It was nothing—just a comment, a teasing nudge—but it cracked something open.

Karuizawa blinked, then scoffed. “Maybe I’ve just blocked out the trauma.”

The table chuckled. Someone made a dramatic gasp. And just like that, the barrier dissolved. Horikita had pulled her in—not with force, not even consciously perhaps, but with the kind of careful, quiet intent Karuizawa had come to expect from her. She didn’t just make room at the table. She made room in the moment.

The conversation shifted to stories of disastrous first dates, dumb boys, and laughable moments that felt both distant and immediate. Ichinose talked about a date who brought his mother. Kushida pretended to one-up everyone with a story that was suspiciously perfect. Even Sakayanagi offered her brand of mischief, telling a dry, biting tale about Masayoshi’s “pretend flirting,” complete with her usual graceful amusement.

And then Horikita—calm, collected Horikita—smirked and said, “Ayanokouji has no idea what he’s doing in a relationship. I sometimes wonder if he’s just winging it and hoping no one notices.”

The laughter came easy, surprised and delighted. But it was Karuizawa who laughed the loudest.

“Right? I had to tell him how to hold my hand without making it look like he was about to arrest me,” she added, grinning into her bowl. “Honestly, I was doing all the work.”

That got a full round of laughter, even from Sakayanagi, who gave a light clap of her hands in mock praise.

The conversation kept flowing, spinning outward like ripples in a pond, and Karuizawa found herself more at ease than she’d felt in a long time. She wasn’t just in the group now—she was part of it. It was strange how quickly it had changed, how effortlessly Horikita had brought her in from the sidelines.

She caught Horikita’s gaze for just a second across the table—no words, just a brief, quiet acknowledgment. And for the first time that day, Karuizawa felt something unexpected in her chest.

Belonging.

"You know," Horikita began, setting her chopsticks down with a grin tugging at her usually composed expression, "just last week Ayanokouji asked me if girls actually like flowers… or if that was just a myth."

There was a beat of silence—confused, curious—before the table erupted into laughter.

Karuizawa snorted into her soup. “He didn’t.”

“Oh, he did,” Horikita confirmed, her laughter bubbling up in a way few had ever heard from her before. It wasn’t a subtle chuckle—it was full, open, and real. “I laughed for so long I was gasping for air. I told him he sounded like he was asking if unicorns were real.”

Kushida leaned in, eyes wide with amusement. “Wait, wait—what was his face like when you said that?”

Horikita mimicked a blank stare and monotone voice. “He just blinked and went, ‘I’ll adjust accordingly.’ Like he was taking notes on how to interact with an alien species.”

Ichinose doubled over, covering her mouth with her sleeve as she laughed. “That’s so him. It’s like watching someone trying to human for the first time.”

Sakayanagi smiled faintly from her place in the booth, her gaze distant and entertained. “It’s a marvel he manages to function at all socially.”

“Seriously,” Karuizawa added, shaking her head. “He once asked me if hugging was context-dependent. Like—context-dependent? What am I, a spreadsheet?”

Horikita raised her hand for a dramatic high five, which Karuizawa gave without hesitation, both of them laughing now, not at Ayanokouji, but around him—as if he was this impossible puzzle only the two of them knew how to fit together.

And for a brief moment, Karuizawa felt lighter. Not just amused, not just included—but understood. She and Horikita, once rivals in the strangest of ways, were now bonded over shared chaos in the form of one unreadable boy.

The laughter continued, loud enough to draw glances from other tables, but none of them cared. The ramen bowls were half-finished, conversations overlapping, and the space between them no longer felt like a divide.

It felt like friendship.

Sakayanagi delicately dabbed the corners of her mouth with a napkin before setting it aside with the kind of practiced grace only she could pull off. Then, with a faint smirk that danced just behind her words, she added, “Masayoshi’s discovered pick-up lines now.”

Every girl at the table turned to her, expressions ranging from disbelief to anticipation.

“I get the most absurd calls at night,” she continued, her voice light with amusement. “Just today, he rang me at 4:30 in the morning—mind you, not an hour suited for romance—and said, ‘Did you break your legs when you fell from heaven, because you’re an angel.’” She let the line hang in the air like a bad punchline before laughing again. “The effort he puts into bothering me is honestly insane.”

Kushida nearly choked on her tea. “Four-thirty?! Is he insane?”

“I think he might be,” Ichinose laughed, covering her mouth with her hand. “That’s either love or a clinical case of not understanding time zones.”

“Masayoshi really said ‘sleep is optional if I can make her roll her eyes,’ huh?” Karuizawa grinned, shaking her head.

“He claims it’s research,” Sakayanagi said dryly. “Something about testing which lines have the highest success rate. I told him the only thing he’s succeeding in is waking me up right before I reach REM sleep.”

Horikita snorted into her drink and leaned forward with an amused tilt of her head. “And yet you still answer his calls?”

Sakayanagi gave a coy shrug. “Well. Some scientific experiments do require a consistent subject.”

They all broke into laughter again, the ramen long forgotten as stories flowed freely, the kind that only made sense in the strange, unpredictable world of Advanced Nurturing High. The line between friend and rival blurred in this little pocket of peace, where girls from every class laughed over awkward boys, late-night nonsense, and the absurdity of it all. For once, there were no strategies, no pretenses—just warmth. And ramen.

The conversation meandered easily, as it often did in groups like this—laughter bridging the gaps between topics, jokes building on jokes. At first, they talked about the latest episodes of dating shows—one particularly dramatic elimination had everyone groaning in disbelief—and then, without anyone intending to steer it there, the talk drifted toward upperclassmen drama. A few juicy stories of love triangles and messy breakups sparked more laughter, but inevitably, the conversation circled back to their own dating lives.

“I went on a date last week and he spent the entire time talking about how his ex ‘didn’t understand him,’” one girl groaned, dramatically slumping over the table.

“Oh my god,” Kushida giggled, “classic red flag behavior.”

“Some people really don’t know how to shut up,” Ichinose said with a teasing grin.

Most of the girls were single—by choice, they insisted, though the collective fatigue from bad dates and clueless boys was undeniable. A few admitted they were talking to someone, but it wasn’t serious. Just texting. Maybe a coffee or two.

Then, as eyes turned toward Horikita, someone asked casually, “What about you, Suzune?”

There was a slight pause, and for a moment, Karuizawa thought she saw Horikita hesitate. But it was only a flicker—barely long enough to notice—before she gave a small, practiced smile. Her tone was light, a hint of coyness in it that they never expected from her.

“There’s someone,” she said, letting the words hang in the air just long enough. “But he’s already taken, so… it doesn’t matter.”

The way she said it, so effortlessly casual, was clearly meant to end the line of questioning. And it worked. There was just enough intrigue, just enough “off-limits” allure, that no one pressed further. They all accepted it with nods, assuming whatever conclusion made sense to them. Horikita played it perfectly.

But then the attention shifted again, and this time, it landed on Sakayanagi.

“Arisu,” Ichinose said warmly, leaning in. “You’ve been quiet. What about you?”

If Horikita had mastered the art of deflection, Sakayanagi had not expected the spotlight at all. She stiffened for just a second, then tried to sink into her seat, lowering her head slightly as if it would make her invisible. It didn’t. The blush on her cheeks betrayed her immediately.

“Well…” she started, her voice lower, softer, almost uncertain. “There… may or may not be someone.”

Her cheeks flushed an even brighter shade of pink, and she refused to meet anyone’s eyes. That alone sent a wave of curious murmurs around the table.

“Ohhh? Sakayanagi Arisu blushing?” Kushida teased gently, leaning forward with wide eyes.

“Who is he?” Karuizawa grinned.

“No one you know,” Sakayanagi muttered quickly, almost too quickly. “It’s… not important.”

But her smile—small, private—lingered. And despite her best efforts to appear indifferent, her eyes shimmered with a kind of hope that none of them had ever seen in her before. The girls collectively gave her space, letting the moment hang there without further interrogation. In the world of ruthless strategy and carefully guarded secrets, this felt sacred.

No one asked more. Not tonight.

The table erupted in laughter at Sakayanagi’s sudden outburst—not mocking, but delighted. It was rare to see her flustered, even rarer to see her caught off-guard.

Horikita smirked knowingly, resting her cheek against her hand as she looked at Sakayanagi from across the table, one brow raised just slightly. “You’re really going to say that with that expression on your face?” she teased, her voice cool but laced with unmistakable amusement.

“I—” Sakayanagi opened her mouth, closed it, then glanced down at her bowl of ramen like it might offer her an escape route. “It’s not who you think.”

“Ah, so there is a ‘who,’” Ichinose chimed in, her eyes sparkling with curiosity as she leaned in closer. “Come on, you’ve got to give us something now.”

Kushida, ever the instigator when it came to this kind of gossip, clapped her hands together. “Oh, I love this energy. Is it someone from Class A? No—Class B?”

“None of your business!” Sakayanagi said again, half-defiant, but her voice cracked ever so slightly. She covered her cheeks with one hand as if that might hide how red she’d become. “Honestly, this is harassment.”

Horikita let out a short laugh, not unkind, and waved her off. “Fine, fine. I’ll drop it… for now.”

The tone at the table remained light, playful, yet Karuizawa noticed how quickly Sakayanagi tried to change the subject—diverting attention with a dry joke about how ramen broth was probably better for her blood pressure than this conversation. The girls went along with it, giggling and nodding as they eased back into easier topics.

But the secret had already left its mark—Sakayanagi had someone in mind, and while she might not say who, the sparkle in her eyes and the smile she couldn’t quite hide said enough.

And Horikita, though she didn’t press further, held that knowing look a moment longer—like she wasn’t quite done unraveling the mystery just yet.

The streets of the campus were quiet by the time the group had dispersed, the evening air cool and still. The laughter and chatter from the ramen shop lingered like an echo behind them, but now it was just Horikita and Sakayanagi, the latter slouched slightly in her wheelchair, the faint flush on her cheeks from warmth, laughter—or perhaps something more vulnerable.

Sakayanagi mumbled something incoherent about Masayoshi’s latest attempt at flirtation, giggling sleepily as if even her irritation with him had softened into fondness under the weight of the night. Horikita, unusually patient, just pushed her along the dimly lit path in silence, letting the stillness settle over them.

When they reached the courtyard leading to the Class A dorms, Horikita leaned down, her voice low and teasing in a way she reserved only for moments like this—rare, personal, and quietly revealing.

“The Class A boarding house is so much better than ours,” she murmured, her lips close enough to Sakayanagi’s ear that the white-haired girl instinctively tilted her head, listening despite the dreamy fog in her mind. “It’s so fancy.”

Sakayanagi giggled again, a soft, melodic sound that barely broke the quiet. “It is, isn’t it?” she mumbled, blinking slowly. “We even have those silly little gold-plated numbers on the doors. I told my father it was pretentious, but…” She paused, her lips curling slightly. “I like it.”

Horikita gave a small, amused hum of agreement, still pushing her gently toward the entrance. The dorm building rose above them, warm lights glowing in some of the windows. Despite its grandeur, there was something oddly cozy about the moment—the hush between them, the way Sakayanagi leaned back just slightly, trusting Horikita’s hands on the chair to guide her.

“You didn’t have to walk me all the way,” Sakayanagi murmured, though her tone lacked any real protest.

Horikita shrugged, then leaned down a little more so Sakayanagi could hear her clearly. “You didn’t protest.”

“I’m too tired,” Sakayanagi said, the words wrapped in a yawn she didn’t bother to hide. “And your voice is nice when you're not being cold.”

Horikita didn’t respond to that, but her hand lingered a little longer on the back of the wheelchair when they reached the entryway. For a second, she stood there, neither moving nor speaking. Sakayanagi glanced up, sensing the pause.

“Do you want to come in?” she asked softly, the question feeling heavier than it should have.

Horikita’s lips twitched, but she shook her head. “Not tonight. You need to sleep before you start quoting Masayoshi’s pickup lines in your dreams.”

Sakayanagi laughed—quiet, airy—and gave a small wave of dismissal. “Fine. But next time, you’re staying for tea.”

Horikita didn’t answer, but the way she turned on her heel, calm and confident, left no doubt that she might take her up on that. As the automatic doors slid shut behind her, Sakayanagi watched her silhouette disappear into the darkness, her fingers curled loosely in her lap, still tingling from the quiet intimacy of the walk.

Inside, the halls of Class A were just as pristine and elegant as always—but for once, Sakayanagi didn’t notice the decor. Her thoughts were elsewhere, and the slight smile playing on her lips remained long after she entered her room.

Masayoshi’s voice cut through the gentle quiet like a warm breeze, playful and unmistakably familiar. “Arisu,” he said with a grin that carried both mischief and something softer, “am I dreaming, or am I dead, cause I see two angels practically sparkling in the lights.” His tone was teasing, but there was an unmistakable warmth beneath the joke that made the words land differently than they might have otherwise.

Sakayanagi’s tired eyes flickered open slightly, her face lifting in a slow, sleepy smile as she looked up at Horikita. Her voice was soft and slurred with exhaustion, but it still held that teasing edge, the one that masked her true feelings under layers of charm and wit. “See what I’m talkin’ ’bout,” she murmured, the corners of her mouth twitching into a small grin. Her words floated gently between them, a quiet admission wrapped in humor and vulnerability.

Horikita glanced at Masayoshi, an eyebrow slightly raised but the faintest smile tugging at her lips. There was a moment—a pause in the night—where the three of them stood in that liminal space between exhaustion and contentment, the streetlamps casting soft halos around their figures. The world felt slow, deliberate, as if waiting for something unspoken to be said.

Masayoshi chuckled, stepping a little closer, the playful shine in his eyes softened by the sincere affection he carried for both girls. “Well, I mean, can you really blame me? You two make it hard not to believe in angels.” His voice lowered, just a shade, as if sharing a secret only they could hear. “And maybe… I’m lucky enough to see them in person.”

Sakayanagi let out a soft laugh, the kind that was a mixture of sleep and genuine amusement. “You’re ridiculous,” she said, though the warmth in her voice betrayed her fondness. She shifted slightly in her chair, turning her gaze back to Horikita as if to remind herself that the night, strange and beautiful, had brought them together in ways none of them could have planned.

"Love you too, sunshine" Masayoshi smiled down at sakayanagi tucking a piece of hair behind her ear "I'll take her to bed" he glanced back at horikita

Horikita blinked at the tenderness in Masayoshi’s tone—not the usual brash, over-the-top flirtation he was known for, but something quiet, sincere. She studied him carefully, her dark eyes narrowing just slightly, as if to assess the authenticity of the moment. And what she saw was something honest. Not an act. Not a line.

Her eyes softened, and she gave a small nod. “She’s tired,” Horikita said quietly, her voice laced with something almost protective. “Don’t let her trip trying to get into bed.”

Masayoshi grinned, his usual cocky charm flickering in again for just a moment. “I’ll be her crutch,” he said before crouching slightly to loop his arm gently under Sakayanagi’s knees, the other steady behind her back. “And I’m offended you think I’d let her fall. Who do you think I am?”

“Someone with terrible pick-up lines and a hero complex,” Horikita quipped dryly, but even as the words left her mouth, there was no bite to them—only a quiet acceptance, a small bond passed back and forth in that late-night hush.

Sakayanagi, half-asleep and giggling softly, curled into Masayoshi’s arms without resistance. “You’re both talking like I’m not awake,” she murmured against his shoulder, her words slurred with sleep, but laced with an unmistakable affection. “I’ll remember everything… and I’ll deny it all tomorrow.”

Masayoshi chuckled, holding her securely as he turned toward the Class A dorm entrance. “Noted, Arisu. Your secrets are safe with me.”

Horikita walked with them to the door, her pace slowing as they approached the entrance. Her eyes lingered on Sakayanagi, watching the way the white-haired girl looked utterly at peace in Masayoshi’s arms. It wasn’t something Horikita was used to seeing—comfort, vulnerability, trust—all laid out so plainly. For a second, it reminded her of her own night, not long ago, and the way she’d fallen asleep wrapped around someone she never expected to lean on.

The door buzzed open with a gentle hum, and Masayoshi turned back for a second, his voice hushed. “Thanks for walking her home.”

Horikita gave a small nod, tucking her hands into the pockets of her jacket. “Take care of her.”

He didn’t reply with words, just a small, genuine smile—one Horikita hadn’t seen on him before. Then he stepped through the doors, and they slid shut behind him with a whisper.

Masayoshi cradled Sakayanagi’s head with gentle care, his fingers brushing softly through her white hair as he carefully tucked her under the warm covers. She murmured sleepy nonsense, her voice thick with exhaustion but somehow sweet, like a private language meant just for him. He smiled softly, leaning closer and whispering, “Good night, princess. Try to dream of me, why don’t you? You’re already mine.”

A lazy grin tugged at Sakayanagi’s lips as she opened one eye just enough to shoot back, “You’re not as smooth as you think you are.”

Masayoshi chuckled, shaking his head with amused affection. “Eh, all practice for the real thing.”

“Wow,” she laughed quietly, her voice still drowsy but teasing. “So I’m just your practice dummy?”

“Why bother explaining when you already know exactly what’s going on?” he replied with a smirk, his eyes sparkling with playful confidence.

“Idiot,” Sakayanagi giggled, the word soft and fond as Masayoshi finally closed the door behind him, leaving her to drift off wrapped in warmth, both from the blankets and the lingering comfort of his presence.

Horikita walked steadily toward her dorm room, her voice calm but carrying a hint of something softer than usual as she called out to Ayanokoji over the phone. "So, I've been thinking... I did tell you I'd teach you emotions, and I haven't really done much for you yet."

There was a pause on the other end, then Ayanokoji’s voice came quietly, almost weighed down with a conflicted edge. "Can we talk about this later? I'm about to break up with Karuizawa."

Horikita raised an eyebrow, a trace of disbelief flickering through her tone. "You’re only just now doing that?"

"I’m trying to follow your advice," he replied evenly. "You said to make her feel like I was really trying to be better for her. So, I just listened while she talked about how great it is to be in a friend group like yours. Speaking of which... how did you manage to pull that off?"

Horikita’s lips curled into a faint, knowing smile. "Later. Break up with her first, then come to my dorm."

"Yes, ma’am," Ayanokoji responded with a hint of dry humor. Without another word, he ended the call.

Horikita paused for a moment, the weight of the situation settling between them despite the distance — and then she turned toward her dorm, already planning how to guide him through the emotional maze ahead.

Alone now in the quiet, Horikita stood outside for a while longer. The silence didn’t feel lonely—it felt earned. She glanced up at the stars, her breath fogging faintly in the chill night air. There was something about the way things were changing. Friendships forming in impossible places. Lines between classes blurring. Trust building in people she never thought she’d stand beside, let alone care for.

With a quiet sigh, she turned and made her way back toward her own dorm. Her mind wandered not to schoolwork or strategies, but to laughter over ramen, the press of a shoulder against her own, the lingering warmth of shared secrets in the dark.

And as she walked, her phone buzzed with a new message.
Ayanokouji:
Still practicing? Or did I lose my partner to the elite girls club?
Horikita smirked and typed back:
Horikita:
You’re lucky I haven’t dropped you for someone with better pickup lines.
The reply came faster than she expected.
Ayanokouji:
Harsh. I guess I’ll just have to remind you why I’m still in the running.
And somehow, even with the night chill on her skin and the long walk ahead, Horikita felt just a little bit warmer.

Horikita walked steadily toward her dorm room, her voice calm but carrying a hint of something softer than usual as she called out to Ayanokoji over the phone. "So, I've been thinking... I did tell you I'd teach you emotions, and I haven't really done much for you yet."

There was a pause on the other end, then Ayanokoji’s voice came quietly, almost weighed down with a conflicted edge. "Can we talk about this later? I'm about to break up with Karuizawa."

Horikita raised an eyebrow, a trace of disbelief flickering through her tone. "You’re only just now doing that?"

"I’m trying to follow your advice," he replied evenly. "You said to make her feel like I was really trying to be better for her. So, I just listened while she talked about how great it is to be in a friend group like yours. Speaking of which... how did you manage to pull that off?"

Horikita’s lips curled into a faint, knowing smile. "Later. Break up with her first, then come to my dorm."

"Yes, ma’am," Ayanokoji responded with a hint of dry humor. Without another word, he ended the call.

Horikita paused for a moment, the weight of the situation settling between them despite the distance — and then she turned toward her dorm, already planning how to guide him through the emotional maze ahead.

Ayanokoji’s breakup with Karuizawa played out almost exactly as he had foreseen, yet that didn’t dull the sharpness of the moment. Her emotions came crashing down like waves, unpredictable and relentless—more intense than the last time, as if the pain of losing him was becoming more unbearable with every attempt to hold on. She pleaded, cried, and questioned, but Ayanokoji remained a stoic island in the storm. His voice was steady, carefully measured to avoid giving false hope, but beneath that calm surface, an entire storm raged. The emotional weight of the scene did not affect him in the way it should have—because his heart was elsewhere, tethered to a different kind of hope.

What mattered most now was not the end of this relationship, but what lay beyond it. Horikita. She was the one who stirred something inside him that he could neither name nor fully grasp—a sensation far removed from the detached calculations and emotional armor he typically relied upon. With her, there was an unspoken promise of something deeper, more genuine. A kind of connection he had only ever dreamed of but never believed he could truly experience. The cold, clinical world he had lived in so long was suddenly warming, flickering with light and possibility.

As Karuizawa’s tears fell and her voice broke, Ayanokoji felt a strange dichotomy: the familiar numbness to the act of breaking up, but also a burgeoning urgency to reach Horikita. Every word spoken in that painful exchange felt like shedding an old skin, preparing him for what was next. When the finality came—the quiet, heavy silence after her last goodbye—it was like stepping off a precipice. He was no longer suspended in the in-between, but falling headlong into an unknown future.

The walk back to Horikita’s dorm was unlike any other. His footsteps echoed with determination, but his mind was a tangle of thoughts—her precise instructions about emotions, the way she had pulled him in close during their last meeting, the challenge in her eyes to truly mean what they practiced. He recalled how effortlessly she commanded the room among her peers, how she balanced strength with a surprising softness. She was a paradox, and he was drawn to every part of her.

Tonight was not just a meeting; it was a step into a world where he would learn not just how to fake feelings for appearances, but how to feel them—how to live them. Horikita wasn’t just teaching him about affection or connection; she was showing him the way to break down the walls he had built around himself. He didn’t know what the night held or where it might lead, but for the first time in a long time, he wanted to find out. He wanted to learn what it meant to be vulnerable, to be honest, to be seen—and maybe, just maybe, to be loved.

Ayanokoji leaned against the doorframe, a faint smirk playing on his lips as Horikita opened the door. “So,” he began, voice casual but edged with curiosity, “you said you were supposed to teach me feelings?”

Horikita met his gaze coolly, a hint of amusement flickering in her eyes. “I lied to you,” she said with a slight shrug, “just to get you to want to be here. It’s not in the contract you signed.”

Ayanokoji raised an eyebrow, folding his arms as he replied dryly, “You mean the one you made me stamp with my blood?”

“Bingo,” Horikita said with a sly grin, clearly enjoying the jab. “You should really read the fine print next time.”

Ayanokoji’s eyes narrowed, not out of anger, but calculation. “I don’t like that you’ve surpassed me,” he muttered, the words falling somewhere between admiration and resentment.

Horikita’s smirk widened, sharp and wicked. “Awww,” she cooed, mockingly sweet. “Would you like mommy to be nicer to you, Kiyotaka?” Her voice dripped sarcasm as she pushed off the door and gestured toward her bed. “Sit. We have work to do.”

He obeyed, wordlessly sinking down onto the mattress, the lamp casting a soft amber hue over his features.

“First order of business,” Horikita said, the playfulness draining from her tone as her mind clicked into its usual clinical sharpness. “Kushida. We need her expelled. The sooner the better.”

Her voice was low, cold, businesslike. She crossed the room with measured grace, pulling a folder from her desk drawer and handing it to him without hesitation.

“And Nagumo,” she continued. “If you remember correctly, we agreed he needs to step down. His influence is too large, and the instability he brings to the council will eventually be our undoing.”

Ayanokoji flipped open the folder, scanning the documents, his expression unchanged, though interest sparked behind his eyes. “You’ve come up with something.”

“A way to take out two threats with one strike,” she confirmed, her eyes gleaming with confidence. “Kushida’s weakness is her need for approval. Nagumo’s is his ego. I intend to weaponize both.”

She leaned in slightly, her arms crossed as she studied his face.

“This is the part where you tell me how brilliant I am,” she added dryly.

He looked up at her slowly, the corner of his mouth twitching just slightly. “If I do, you’ll get cocky.”

“I’m already cocky,” she replied. “But thank you for noticing.”

For a moment, there was quiet—tense, calculating silence, but not uncomfortable. They both knew what was coming. Plans would be set in motion. Games would be played. The stakes were higher now, the alliances more dangerous.

And yet… there was something in the air between them, something unsaid and electric, humming just beneath the surface.

But for now, there were enemies to eliminate. Emotions—real or not—could wait.

Ayanokoji leaned back slightly, the folder still resting in his hands but momentarily forgotten. His gaze remained locked on Horikita, analytical and unreadable, though there was a flicker of curiosity behind his otherwise composed exterior.

“Inform me on your plan,” he said quietly, tone as neutral as ever. “You’re involving Tachibana… and her feelings for your brother.”

Horikita didn’t respond right away. Instead, she allowed herself the rare pleasure of a smile—soft, but undeniably proud. “You remembered,” she said, a note of something warmer slipping into her voice. She turned toward her desk again, gathering a few more documents before continuing, her tone more serious now, thoughtful.

“Since Manabe was student council president before he graduated last year, his influence didn’t vanish when he left. People still respect his legacy—especially within the council. He ran it clean, no shady deals or backroom politics like Nagumo. And Tachibana, well… she was his right hand. She was there for everything. Even now, she’s one of the only members from his original cabinet who still holds any real position of power.”

Horikita paused, then turned back to Ayanokoji, her expression composed but firm. “Nagumo got rid of the rest as soon as he replaced Manabe. Wiped the slate clean. But Tachibana... he couldn’t get rid of her. She’s vice president. To remove her without cause would create suspicion—possibly even backlash from the administration. She knows this, of course. But she also knows she’s outnumbered now. Nagumo’s filled the rest of the council with his loyalists. If something came down to a vote, she could be outmaneuvered with ease.”

She sat beside him on the bed now, not too close, but with the calm presence of someone who had thought through every move.

“She’s stuck, politically speaking,” Horikita continued. “The only card she has left is her connection to my brother. She’s loyal to him, still respects him, and… well, feelings complicate everything. She’s never said it outright, but I’m not blind. She cared for him—still does.”

Ayanokoji nodded once, his expression unreadable but not disinterested. He was processing, mapping out the strategy forming between her words.

Horikita’s gaze sharpened. “And just to be clear—she’s on our side. She doesn’t know everything yet, but she suspects Nagumo is planning something larger. That’s why she’ll listen when the time comes. But we do not hurt her. My brother cares about her. That’s not up for debate.”

There was steel in her voice now, not just resolve but protection. A rare glimpse into her emotional loyalties—the same ones she often denied possessing.

“If you do hurt her,” she added, tone dropping like a blade, “you’ll be punished.”

There was a long silence after that. Ayanokoji tilted his head slightly, studying her. Most people would’ve found her threat amusing. He didn’t. Not because he feared it, but because he understood that she meant every word.

Horikita exhaled slowly and softened her tone. “Eventually, I plan to bring her into the circle. But not yet. Not until the timing’s right. For now, she’s our hidden card.”

Ayanokoji gave a small, thoughtful hum. “So we let Nagumo underestimate her.”

“Exactly,” Horikita said with a faint smile. “He sees her as a relic of a former era. But he’s not paying attention to the loyalty she still commands in quiet corners. With the right nudge, we can fracture his control from the inside.”

She leaned forward slightly, meeting his gaze with quiet certainty.

“This is the beginning. We take out Kushida with precision. Then we destabilize Nagumo’s hold. By the time he realizes he’s lost the game, the board will already be cleared.”

For the first time in a while, Ayanokoji offered a faint smirk. “Sounds like you’ve been studying.”

Horikita narrowed her eyes, but a hint of amusement danced behind them. “You told me to surpass you, remember?”

“I didn’t think you’d actually do it,” he muttered, but there was no venom in it—just something that almost resembled admiration.

The war was starting. The pieces were moving. And this time, Horikita wasn’t following Ayanokoji’s lead.

She was the one giving orders.

Ayanokoji paused, just for a breath, his head tilting slightly like he was listening to an echo that didn’t quite make sense. The silence that followed wasn’t born of confusion—but of reflection. He didn’t ask questions lightly, so when he spoke, it carried weight.

“…Elaborate.”

Horikita barely blinked. She’d been waiting for him to take the bait, to lean just a little closer to the plans she’d been spinning for weeks, maybe even longer. “Kushida wants to use Nagumo,” she said plainly, the disdain in her voice more apparent than she usually allowed. “She thinks that if she aligns herself with the next student council president, she’ll be untouchable. She wants to increase her social standing, to hold sway in every year group.”

Ayanokoji’s mouth curved into a cold smirk. “How greedy can she get? She’s already trying to be friends with every person at this school. Does she want them all to worship her, too?”

Horikita shot him a dry look. “Oh, so you’ve got jokes now?”

“This is your doing,” he replied smoothly, gesturing vaguely in her direction. “You wanted me to explore my emotions. Turns out, sarcasm is an easy one.”

Her expression flattened into that signature glare—the same one she gave him when he said something that crossed a line, either in reality or, strangely enough, in those dreams he never quite admitted having. But instead of chastising him, she moved forward with the plan.

“Continue,” Ayanokoji said, this time with more intent.

“Tachibana is good at convincing people of things,” Horikita began again, her voice quieter now, more calculating. “She’s not loud or flashy about it—Nagumo completely underestimates her because she doesn’t assert herself in meetings unless necessary. But she’s persuasive. In fact, she’s been winning debates since middle school. Always preferred logical arguments laced with subtle emotional appeals. She knows how to make people want to agree with her.”

“She’s good at debate, then,” Ayanokoji said, tone deceptively casual as he fit the piece into the broader puzzle.

“Since she started in middle school,” Horikita confirmed. “But it’s not just her skills—it’s when and how she uses them. If we manipulate the right situation, create the right pressure, Tachibana can turn the tide of opinion inside the council against Nagumo. All she needs is the opportunity. The catalyst.”

Ayanokoji watched her carefully. He wasn’t skeptical—just precise. He liked things that worked like machines. This plan was intricate, delicate. One misstep, and everything would collapse. But that was Horikita’s strength. Where he calculated from the shadows, she was beginning to master the art of open control.

“If we guide the narrative carefully,” she continued, “Nagumo will lose credibility. Not all at once—but enough to fracture his hold. And if we can get the council to vote on a leadership restructuring, that creates a domino effect. It destabilizes his faction. With him distracted—on the defensive—we can begin to move against Kushida.”

Ayanokoji didn’t interrupt. He knew she wasn’t finished.

“She’s tied to too many people,” Horikita said sharply. “Too many secrets. She’s been working angles across multiple year groups, and if we push from one side while pulling from another, we’ll corner her. She’ll either step down voluntarily—or we’ll make the school force her out. I’ll explain that phase once we’ve dealt with Nagumo.”

For a long beat, Ayanokoji said nothing. Then slowly, deliberately, he leaned back against her desk, arms crossed.

“You really did surpass me,” he murmured.

Horikita folded her arms too, mirroring his stance. “Darling, I thought we were already clear on that.”

Her voice was dripping with arrogance, not the type that was a weakness, the type that was justified. She wasn’t guessing anymore. She had vision. Purpose. And she had him, not as a shadow pulling strings behind her, but as her partner.

Maybe even her pawn.

Probably her pawn.
Definitely her pawn.
God. He was screwed.

So screwed.

Chapter Text

Week 1: Setting the Stage

Monday Morning — The Calm Before the Storm

The second-year classroom 2-C was humming with the usual chaotic energy of students shifting in their seats, voices blending into a low murmur punctuated by the scrape of chairs and rustle of notebooks. The bright fluorescent lights overhead cast a cold, clinical glow over the rows of desks. Amidst this noise and disorder stood Horikita Suzune — the eye in the storm.

To the untrained eye, she looked like just another second-year student, perhaps a little more composed and polite than the rest. Her face held the serene expression of someone who had mastered social grace — an inviting smile, soft eyes, gestures careful and measured. But behind that polished exterior was a mind as cold and sharp as winter steel.

She had spent the past few months carefully recalibrating her image. Gone was the brash, overtly cold girl from first year, replaced now by a seemingly warmer, more approachable Horikita — the “perfect friend,” the dependable classmate. It was all an act, crafted with precision to disarm suspicion and draw allies closer. A mask she wore with expertise, though every fiber beneath it remained steely and unyielding.

Her gaze flicked across the classroom and landed on Tachibana, who sat near the window with an almost imperceptible tremor in her fingers as she fidgeted nervously with the hem of her uniform sleeve. Tachibana was key — the vice president was a skilled orator, socially adept but weighed down by her complicated ties to Manabe, Horikita’s brother. Manabe’s lingering influence on Tachibana meant she was a wild card, but also an invaluable potential ally.

Horikita’s lips curved into the slightest hint of a smile as she rose from her seat and crossed the room with quiet steps.

“Tachibana,” she said softly, her voice carrying a calm authority. “Could we talk after class? There are things we need to discuss.”

Tachibana looked up, startled at first, then masking it with polite composure. “Of course, Horikita-san.”

This was the first official step in a careful dance that would unfold over the term — an invitation wrapped in subtle power.

Later That Day — The Private Meeting

After the final bell rang, Horikita and Tachibana met in the dimly lit hallway near the second floor stairwell, away from prying ears.

Horikita’s eyes were steady, unwavering as she spoke.

“I know what Manabe told me about you,” she began quietly. “That you feel torn between your loyalty to him and your own ambitions. But if you continue down this path, you’ll be trapped.”

Tachibana’s breath hitched almost imperceptibly, but her gaze held firm.

“Then what do you propose?”

Horikita’s voice dropped to a near whisper. “Join me. Together, we can build something stronger. Something that doesn’t depend on Kushida’s manipulations or Nagumo’s brute force.”

There was a pause, a charged moment where decisions hung in the balance.

Tachibana swallowed, finally nodding.

“Alright,” she said. “I’m willing to listen.”

Horikita allowed herself a satisfied smile — a dangerous alliance had been forged.

Wednesday — The First Strategic Incursion

The school cafeteria was a battlefield of social interaction, and Horikita and Ayanokouji played it like chess masters. Ayanokouji moved fluidly through groups, dropping carefully selected hints about Kushida’s duplicity and Nagumo’s unreliability. His tone was casual, as if sharing gossip, but every word was calculated to erode the foundation of their rivals’ power.

Meanwhile, Horikita engaged Kushida directly during a group project meeting, her questions subtle but incisive.

“So, Kushida-san, how do you balance your responsibilities to everyone? Do you ever worry that spreading yourself thin might affect your decisions?” Her voice was light, but the implication sharp.

Kushida’s usual bright smile flickered. “I always put others first.”

“Of course,” Horikita replied, voice tinged with a hint of disbelief. “But sometimes, putting others first means making tough choices — even if it means alienating some.”

A murmur rippled through the group as Kushida faltered, the first crack in her polished image.

Friday — Whisper Campaigns and Quiet Wins

By the end of the week, quiet conversations and social media posts had begun to spread subtle doubts about Kushida’s sincerity. Classmates who once admired her were now exchanging hushed reservations.

Tachibana, emboldened by Horikita’s backing, began asserting herself in class discussions and student council meetings, planting seeds of opposition.

In the quiet of the library after school, Horikita met with Ayanokouji. The dim light cast sharp shadows on their faces.

“Doubt is the seed that grows into rebellion,” Horikita said coldly. “If Kushida’s base wavers, her fall will be inevitable.”

Ayanokouji nodded. “We must keep the pressure steady — not too fast to alarm them, but enough to destabilize.”

Horikita’s eyes gleamed with ruthless determination.

“Exactly.”

Week 2: Expanding the Web

Monday — Tachibana’s Trial by Fire

Horikita had arranged for Tachibana to face off against one of Kushida’s loyalists in a classroom debate on a hot-button school issue — a challenge carefully engineered to test her influence.

The room buzzed with anticipation as Tachibana took the floor. Supported by covert coaching from Horikita and Ayanokouji, her arguments were precise and unwavering. She dissected her opponent’s points with cold clarity, exposing inconsistencies that left the audience swayed.

When she finished, murmurs of approval rippled across the classroom.

Horikita watched from her seat, her face unreadable but her mind racing with possibilities. This was the beginning of Tachibana’s rise — a key piece in the chessboard moving forward.

Wednesday — Isolating Nagumo

Meanwhile, Horikita and Ayanokouji targeted Nagumo’s network of supporters. Rumors were planted gently but strategically in conversations, whispers of Nagumo’s poor leadership and looming downfall.

Ayanokouji approached several students on the margins of Nagumo’s circle, offering veiled suggestions that aligning with Horikita’s faction would be more beneficial in the long run.

Horikita herself engaged some of Nagumo’s wavering supporters during club meetings, her tone friendly yet firm.

“Everyone wants to be on the winning side,” she said lightly. “It’s wise to consider where your loyalties truly lie.”

The message was clear without being overt.

Friday — Growing Influence

By week’s end, Horikita’s faction had grown noticeably. Allies from different classes began drifting toward her, sensing a change in power dynamics.

In the quiet of their late-night meeting, Horikita and Ayanokouji reviewed their progress.

“We have momentum,” Horikita said. “But Kushida and Nagumo won’t surrender easily.”

Ayanokouji’s voice was calm but firm.

“Let them try. We’re prepared.”

Week 3: The Net Tightens

Tuesday — Gathering Intelligence

Horikita called a secret meeting with her closest allies in a rarely used classroom. The air was tense, voices hushed.

“We don’t need to fight them head-on,” Horikita stated. “We outthink, outmaneuver, and outlast.”

The team was tasked with monitoring Kushida’s and Nagumo’s movements, gathering intel discreetly.

Horikita’s presence was commanding, her words sharp and direct, inspiring cautious confidence.

Thursday — Social Sabotage

Tachibana took to spreading rumors of Kushida’s disloyalty and insincerity in hushed tones during lunch and between classes.

Simultaneously, Horikita orchestrated a subtle smear campaign through social media, posting carefully worded comments and memes that painted Kushida as manipulative and unreliable.

These messages spread rapidly, amplified by sympathetic students hungry for change.

Friday — The Public Confrontation

Kushida confronted Tachibana in the hallway, anger barely concealed beneath a forced smile.

“Why are you turning against me?” Kushida demanded.

Tachibana’s reply was calm and cold.

“You’re blinded by ambition, Kushida-san. You can’t see what’s really happening.”

The confrontation was visible enough to spark rumors and speculation — another crack in Kushida’s façade.

Week 4: The Turning Point

Monday — Forced into the Spotlight

Horikita seized the moment to call for a school-wide debate on student council reforms, a stage set for Kushida and Nagumo to defend their positions under intense scrutiny.

Tachibana and Horikita’s allies prepared meticulously, rehearsing arguments that exposed Kushida’s flaws and Nagumo’s desperation.

Thursday — The Debate

The gymnasium was packed with students and faculty. The tension was palpable as Kushida took the stage first, her usual confident demeanour strained under pointed questions.

Tachibana’s turn was flawless — her arguments precise and incisive, revealing Kushida’s contradictions without direct attack.

Nagumo’s aggressive interruptions alienated many observers.

Horikita watched from the sidelines, expression unreadable but her mind sharp as a blade.

Her plan was unfolding perfectly.

Friday — Consolidation

In the quiet aftermath, Horikita gathered Tachibana and Ayanokouji in a secluded corner of the school library.

“We’ve dealt a heavy blow,” Horikita said. “Now we consolidate. Tachibana must be fully brought into our inner circle. We cannot allow any fractures.”

The three shared a brief glance — the cold determination binding them together.

Week 5: Escalation — The Pressure Builds

Monday Morning — A Tense Calm

Classroom 2-C’s atmosphere was noticeably heavier as the new week began. Whispers circled in hushed clusters, eyes darting between students with newfound suspicion. The social landscape had already shifted considerably, and Kushida’s confident smile no longer masked uncertainty.

Horikita sat at her desk, carefully observing each interaction around her. Her cold, analytical mind cataloged every gesture, every nuance — every sign of fear, loyalty, or doubt. She was no longer merely a participant; she was the unseen puppeteer guiding the strings.

As the teacher began the lesson, Horikita’s eyes locked briefly with Tachibana’s, who sat nearby, radiating a quiet yet hardened resolve.

Horikita’s Internal Dialogue

“Their unity is fracturing. The cracks widen under pressure, but they will resist — stubbornly. Our strategy must intensify, but with precision. Too much force and we risk exposing ourselves; too little and they will recover.”

She knew Kushida was desperate. She was scrambling to regain control, to project strength. Nagumo was growing erratic, his temper more volatile — a dangerous wild card Horikita intended to use.

Wednesday — Tactical Sabotage

Horikita and Ayanokouji convened in their usual corner of the library, their voices barely above whispers.

“We need to push Nagumo into mistakes,” Horikita said, her voice sharp. “His alliances are shaky; he’s vulnerable to provocation.”

Ayanokouji nodded, pulling out a small notebook filled with observations.

“I’ve been subtly encouraging his frustration — planting minor irritations, conflicts with other students. It’s only a matter of time before he lashes out.”

Horikita’s lips curved into a faint smile. “Good. And Kushida?”

“More difficult,” Ayanokouji replied. “She’s trying to rally support, but her facade is cracking.”

Friday Afternoon — The First Major Confrontation

The school’s courtyard was alive with gossip and anticipation as Nagumo approached Horikita directly, his expression a mixture of anger and desperation.

“You’re behind this, aren’t you?” he hissed, voice low but furious. “Trying to dismantle everything I’ve built.”

Horikita’s face remained calm, almost amused. “I’m simply... offering an alternative.”

Nagumo’s eyes flickered with frustration. “This isn’t over.”

As he stalked away, Horikita’s gaze followed with cold calculation.

Week 6: Manipulation and Misdirection

Tuesday — Tachibana’s Dilemma

Tachibana found herself increasingly caught between loyalty to her friends and the magnetic pull of Horikita’s vision. Horikita’s charisma was undeniable — a subtle force that both reassured and commanded.

During lunch, Tachibana sat alone, contemplating a message Horikita had sent: an invitation to a private meeting to discuss “the future of the class.”

Her phone buzzed again — a text from Kushida, desperate and pleading for support.

Torn, Tachibana weighed her options, feeling the increasing pressure of the role she had unwillingly accepted.

Thursday Afternoon — The Meeting

In a small, dimly lit classroom, Horikita and Tachibana met.

Horikita’s tone was firm but gentle, designed to comfort and coerce simultaneously.

“Tachibana, you’ve done well,” she said. “But the road ahead will be difficult. Loyalty must be rewarded, but also tested.”

Tachibana nodded slowly, understanding the implicit challenge.

“You are invaluable to this plan — but never forget, your position depends on your usefulness.”

Horikita’s eyes gleamed with icy certainty.

Friday Evening — Ayanokouji’s Quiet Strategy

Meanwhile, Ayanokouji worked behind the scenes, planting subtle rumors to isolate Kushida further. These were carefully crafted to appear as casual observations — whispered doubts about Kushida’s motives, her reliability, her sincerity.

He also reached out quietly to weaker members of Nagumo’s faction, offering them security and benefits in exchange for defection.

Week 7: Cracks in the Foundation

Monday Morning — Kushida’s Crumbling Support

The week began with Kushida isolated. The once-robust social network she commanded was unravelling.

Rumours swirled, friendships strained. Ayanokouji’s whispers took root, spreading like wildfire through the student body.

Kushida’s attempts to rally her supporters fell flat, her speeches increasingly desperate and transparent.

Horikita observed this unfolding spectacle with a detached coldness, masking her satisfaction beneath a veneer of professionalism.

Wednesday Afternoon — Nagumo’s Outburst

In an unguarded moment during class, Nagumo lost control.

After a minor disagreement with a fellow student who had been courting Horikita’s favor, he exploded in anger, shouting accusations and insults.

The classroom fell silent, shocked by the sudden eruption.

Horikita’s expression was unreadable when she heard about it, but inside, she registered a significant victory.

Friday — Tachibana’s Shift

Tachibana began to fully embrace her role as Horikita’s lieutenant. She led small groups in subtle social sabotage, using her skills in debate and influence to chip away further at Kushida’s credibility.

Their alliance, while still cautious and tentative, grew stronger.

Week 8: The Collapse and Consolidation

Monday Morning — The Final Debate

Horikita orchestrated a school-wide debate on student council leadership, a public stage that forced Kushida and Nagumo to defend their positions under intense scrutiny.

Tachibana led the opposition, her arguments sharp and unassailable.

The debate was a masterclass in psychological and rhetorical warfare.

Kushida faltered, her veneer cracked and broken.

Nagumo’s aggression alienated many observers.

Thursday Afternoon — Aftermath

In the wake of the debate, Kushida’s social standing was effectively destroyed. Her supporters abandoned her, whispering doubts and betraying her confidence.

Nagumo’s isolation deepened as his temper alienated even his closest allies.

Friday Evening — Horikita’s Quiet Victory

Horikita met with Ayanokouji and Tachibana in a secluded room, their expressions sober but triumphant.

“We’ve won,” Horikita said simply.

“But the war is far from over,” Ayanokouji added, a rare seriousness in his tone.

Horikita nodded. “Now we prepare for the next phase — consolidating power, securing loyalty, and ensuring no one can challenge us again.”

Week 9: The Final Test Begins

Monday Morning — Final Exams Announced

The school atmosphere shifted. There was a mix of anxiety and anticipation in the air as the announcement of final exams signaled the conclusion of the first term. Final rankings, class point totals, and promotion outcomes would soon be determined. Everything was coming to a head.

To most students, Horikita appeared calm and bright-eyed — the picture of a motivated class representative, eager to see her class rise. She cheerfully discussed study plans, encouraged group sessions, and even baked cookies for a shared study meet with the girls.

“Summer’s around the corner,” she said with a faint, practiced laugh to Ichika and Satou, “Let’s finish strong and then take a well-earned break. We can plan a beach day or something!”

They laughed and nodded, believing every word. To them, this was a warmer Horikita — a girl transformed by friendship.

To Ayanokouji, however, the reality was something much colder.

Private Meeting — Horikita and Ayanokouji

Later that evening, the two met alone in the shadows of the library.

“Summer break,” she said dryly, brushing a finger over the spine of a book. “They really believe I’m excited for a beach day.”

“You’ve gotten disturbingly good at pretending,” Ayanokouji replied.

“Pretending is an art. If I’m to lead this class to A, masks are necessary.”

He watched her carefully. “Even now?”

She didn’t answer directly. Instead, she said, “This is the final phase. All outcomes are locked into motion. Nothing can stop it now.”

There was a long silence.

“Do you feel anything?” he asked eventually.

She turned to him, something cold and unreadable in her gaze. “No.”

And for some reason, Ayanokouji believed her .

Wednesday — Academic Alliance Tactics

Horikita’s manipulation of the class was quiet and masterful. She had already divided the class into efficient study teams, each one deliberately arranged to strengthen the weaker students and improve the overall class average. Those with higher scores were given subtle incentives — social prestige, future promises — for helping their weaker peers.

She had also arranged for Tachibana to coordinate a “friendly academic exchange” with other students in Class 2-D — not for the sake of bonding, but to quietly acquire insights into the test content structure.

Kushida, now fully isolated, attempted to participate, but was met with cold, passive exclusion. She knew she was no longer part of the system. No longer necessary. And Horikita never looked her way.

Week 10: The Final Exam

Monday through Thursday — Testing Period

The final exams were grueling — extensive, comprehensive, and designed to evaluate every facet of student learning. But 2-C was prepared.

The study strategies Horikita had implemented paid off. The class operated like a machine — everyone focused, no distractions, no wasted effort.

Ayanokouji, as usual, performed flawlessly — not with full marks, but enough to avoid suspicion while quietly boosting the team’s standing.

Horikita herself aced the tests publicly and obviously. No more hiding. She knew the power of image. Her leadership would be indisputable once results were posted.

Behind the scenes, she had already arranged a post-exam “team reflection” in the cafeteria, keeping morale high and tension low — further cementing her image as the reformed, socialized leader.

Friday — The Aftermath

The day after the exams concluded, the atmosphere in Class 2-C was celebratory. Students laughed and sighed with relief. Plans for summer break began circulating. A trip to the beach. Karaoke. A summer study camp — not real, of course — just another performative social exercise.

Horikita smiled through it all. She sat with Satou and Ichika, sipping tea, giggling at Satou’s imitation of one of the teachers.

But her eyes, sharp and calculating, scanned the room.

Every piece was where it needed to be. The class was seconds away from moving up the ladder. Every threat had been neutralized. Every ally was in position.

Week 11: End of Term – “The Mask and the Blade”

Monday Morning — Results Posted

When the results were announced, 2-C had risen to the top of their group, falling only a few points short of promotion to Class B. For a few students, it was a disappointment — but Horikita spun the narrative with grace.

The official term ranking came in:
Class 2-A: 821 points

Class 2-B: 789 points

Class 2-C: 764 points

Class 2-D: 695 points

“We were this close,” she said, voice full of calm optimism. “But that means next term, we’re starting already ahead. Let’s maintain this momentum.”

They clapped. They smiled. They believed her.

Ayanokouji stood at the edge of the room, watching.

Tuesday — Nagumo’s Collapse

News from the year above began circulating by midweek.

Nagumo, the once-proud tyrant of the Student Council, had stumbled badly. He’d been caught manipulating several student rankings using under-the-table arrangements with private groups outside the school — a desperate act meant to solidify his power.

Horikita had known about the coming collapse. Tachibana’s indirect information leaks — disguised as concerned observations — had been part of her design. And now, it was happening.

Nagumo was publicly reprimanded, and while not expelled, he was removed from his position of influence. He retreated, bitter and confused.

He never saw Horikita smile.

Wednesday — One Last Private Conversation

In the quiet of the roof garden, Ayanokouji stood beside Horikita, looking out over the campus.

“You predicted everything,” he said simply.

“Of course I did,” she replied. “But it’s not enough. B is a stepping stone. I won’t rest until we’re in A.”

“You don’t look happy.”

“Because this isn’t joy. It’s… confirmation. I’m not the same girl who admired my brother. I’ve passed him.”

“You say that,” he said, “but you still ask about him. Still make moves for his sake.”

Horikita didn’t deny it.

“I’ll always be my brother’s shadow,” she said softly. “But I’ll become the one he never dared to be.”

A pause.

“And you?” she asked, finally turning to him. “What are you in this game?”

Ayanokouji met her gaze. “I think I’m your reflection.”

That, at last, made her smile — not fake, not cold. Real. Just for a moment.

Then it vanished.

Friday — End of Term Gathering

The golden light of early summer filtered through the trees in the park as students gathered in sprawling clusters, laughter echoing between the rustling leaves. It was a rare moment of unity—a celebration of the end of the first term, a momentary pause in the relentless war of elevation and manipulation that defined the Advanced Nurturing High School. Blankets lay sprawled on the grass, boxes of pizza opened like treasure chests revealing their cheesy contents, bags of snacks and bottles of soft drinks shared among groups as the entire year mingled.

Well, almost the entire year. Class 2-A was notably absent, as expected. Their arrogance had separated them from events like these long ago.

But for Class 2-C—soon to be 2-B—the atmosphere was celebratory. The recent term had been the most successful yet, and much of that success traced back to Horikita Suzune. Not that anyone outside a select few knew the true depth of her planning. To the others, she was just a natural leader. Reliable. Thoughtful. Efficient.

And, at moments like this—warm.

Horikita stood at the center of it all, beside Hirata, laughing at some mundane story he was recounting from a group project, her face lit up with amusement. The laugh wasn’t her real one—it never would be—but it was so perfectly woven into the role she wore that even the most observant student would have trouble telling it wasn’t genuine. She listened attentively, commented in all the right places, gave compliments without seeming insincere, and blended with the students she once openly dismissed.

She was flawless.

From time to time, Horikita would glance over the crowd subtly, like a puppeteer checking her strings. She and Hirata drifted together between small groups—Ichika and her friends, Kushida's small circle, even a group of boys who usually kept to themselves. She congratulated students across the year on their efforts, praised the small victories of other classes, and showed just enough humility about her own class’s success that no one could accuse her of arrogance.

She was calm, collected—patient.

Every goal she had for the first term had been realised precisely as she'd predicted when she disclosed them to Ayanokouji. Their class had come inches from being promoted to Class B, only held back by the slimmest of margins. But that didn’t bother her. She wasn’t chasing a momentary title. She was playing the long game.

By the end of the second term, they would be Class B. And then, from there—she’d set her sights even higher.

Patience was a virtue, and Suzune Horikita was a master of it.

From afar, Ayanokouji observed her carefully maintained façade with mild amusement. He stood on the edge of a circle of conversation, half-listening as a few classmates chattered around him, his posture slightly too stiff, his responses a little too mechanical to be considered natural. Still, he tried. Maybe not for them, but for the optics. For her.

He saw what she was doing—how she moved like a perfect queen across the board, influencing without ever seeming to pull the strings. He had helped set the pieces in motion, ensured her foundations were unshakable. He didn’t need the spotlight, nor did he want it. This was her play, her performance. But he was always watching, always waiting, making sure no cracks appeared.

Across the park, Horikita caught his gaze just for a second. There was a flicker of understanding in her eyes—a wordless acknowledgment.

Everything is going according to plan.

The success of Class 2-C wasn’t just a testament to Horikita’s leadership, it was the culmination of a complex, multi-layered strategy—one Ayanokouji had helped solidify behind the scenes. The games, the tests, the traps—they’d all been danced around expertly. Even Nagumo, once untouchable, was starting to unravel. Whispers had begun to spread: dissatisfaction among the third years, power slipping from his grip as he chased one ambition too many. He was crumbling, and both Horikita and Ayanokouji knew it.

And tonight, with pizza in hand and students laughing under a golden sky, Horikita was untouchable.

She stood amidst it all, cloaked in camaraderie, the perfect friend, the reliable classmate, the smiling peer. Her mask was pristine, seamless. She could wear it forever if she had to.

And for as long as it was necessary—she would.

Chapter Text

The summer heat had arrived like a blanket, thick and unrelenting. With the conclusion of the first term, students scattered into various patterns of leisure—some returning home for the first time in months, others staying behind in the dorms for club activities or simply to enjoy the freedom of not being under academic pressure. The campus had become a quieter place, humming with a softer energy now that tests were over and the rush for class points had momentarily subsided.

But Kiyotaka Ayanokouji didn’t rest easily. Not anymore.

As others made plans for fireworks and beach outings, he climbed the familiar stairs of the girls’ dorm building, his mind already at work, cataloguing possible moves, threats, and shifts in the school’s social ecosystem. He’d watched Horikita for weeks now—watched her glide through their classmates like a perfectly sculpted socialite, admired even by the likes of Ichika and respected by previously dismissive upperclassmen. She had learned the art of appearances with frightening speed. She wore it like armor. But beneath it, he had seen something colder. Something sharper. Something truer.

He knocked once, briefly, before stepping in. She’d long stopped locking the door for him.

“What's my next assignment?” he asked without preamble, hands tucked in his pockets, posture casual but eyes keen.

Across the room, Horikita looked up from her book, a calm expression on her face as though he’d interrupted her afternoon tea and not a grand operation.

“Hmm?” she blinked slowly, head tilting slightly. “Holiday. Do whatever you want.”

Ayanokouji stared at her. The silence between them stretched out like a taut wire.

He could tell by the way her voice remained light, just a touch amused, that it was deliberate. She was playing coy—again. A trap? A test? Or perhaps just one of those rare moments where she revelled in the power she held. He'd seen her evolve from a girl desperate to escape her brother’s shadow into something altogether more terrifying: a strategist. A manipulator. A rival who now wielded social power with the same ease he used to reserve for himself.

And lately, she hadn’t needed his input quite so much.

He sat down opposite her without asking, as if to reclaim a space that was becoming increasingly less his.

“Don’t insult me,” he said flatly. “You’ve always had a plan. Even before the term ended, you were laying the groundwork. So what is it this time? Another trap for Kushida? Something else for Tachibana to stir up in the Third year? Or are you finally moving on, Nagumo, now that he's flailing?”

Horikita didn’t look up immediately. She turned the page in her book, slowly and methodically, letting the silence bite just long enough to make him wonder if she really wasn’t going to answer.

Then she closed it with a soft thump.

She looked at him—not with amusement now, but with something colder. Something calculating.

“I said do what you want,” she repeated, “because I’ve already moved the pieces I need to. There’s nothing left for you to do unless something unexpected happens.”

Ayanokouji blinked subtly. That wasn’t just dismissal. It was... reduction. He’d expected to feel outmaneuvered at some point—that was inevitable—but this... this felt different.

“Right,” he murmured, more to himself than to her. He leaned back slightly in the chair, resting one ankle over his knee. “So I’m a contingency now.”

“You’re a luxury,” she corrected, not unkindly. “When you’re involved, the plan goes from 90% to 100%. But if you’re not?” She offered a soft shrug. “I still win.”

He should have felt threatened. Maybe part of him did. But more than that, he felt something else—a hollow sort of curiosity. What was she playing for now? The promotion was coming, Class A was still intact but destabilising, and Nagumo’s fall was only a matter of time. Her true endgame had to be further out—something bigger, something she hadn’t told him yet.

Still, he smirked faintly, letting the expression tug at the corner of his lips.

“So I’m just here to play board games and make sure people don’t suspect anything?”

Horikita smiled back—cool, confident, and just ambiguous enough to avoid giving anything away.

“Unless you’d like to be useful. There’s a school trip coming up after break. Nagumo might make one final push before he’s forced to step down. I’m keeping an eye on it.”

There it was. Not an assignment—but a suggestion. A leash long enough to feel like freedom.

She stood up and walked toward the window, the sunlight catching the curve of her cheek and the glint of that ever-patient intellect in her eyes. Her hands folded behind her back as she stared out at the green summer fields below.

“Until then,” she added softly, “rest. You look tired.”

Ayanokouji stood, giving her one last glance before heading toward the door.

He wasn’t tired.

He was calculating.

But the unsettling part was this: Horikita was calculating, too—and for the first time, she might just be ahead.

Ayanokouji had turned toward the door, every step measured with the cool detachment he’d perfected since childhood. Calculating. Controlled. Untouchable. That was the idea, at least.

But then her voice cut through the quiet like a scalpel. Sharp, precise. Unemotional.

“Wait.”

He paused.

Her tone wasn’t soft. It wasn’t affectionate. It was simply authoritative, a command issued with the expectation of immediate compliance—like she were adjusting a chess piece rather than speaking to a person. She still didn’t look up from the window.

“Take Ichihose on a date,” she said calmly. “She still loves you, so you’ll be able to get her back.”

Ayanokouji blinked slowly, caught off guard. Not by the suggestion—no, he was used to her tactics now. It was the way she said it. Like it was obvious. Like it was logical. Like it didn’t matter to her.

And maybe it didn’t.

He studied her silhouette against the light. Her posture was relaxed. Her arms folded. No tension in her voice, no hint of jealousy or interest—just tactical suggestion. Like he was her soldier again, and Ichihose was just another battlefield.

“Aren’t we starting our pretend relationship?” he asked, eyes narrowing just slightly, trying to find the fault line. Trying to crack the veneer.

But she finally looked at him then.

Not with warmth. Not even with irritation.

Just that stare—measured, calculating, practised now with months of social mastery under her belt. The mask was flawless. Suzune Horikita had learned how to be liked, admired, even loved. And yet… she’d never looked more distant.

“Kiyotaka,” she said evenly, and there was something in the way she said his name—something that told him she wasn’t bluffing, wasn’t trying to spar or provoke. She genuinely believed he would follow orders. That he should. “We need Ichihose. If she feels like she’s won you back, she’ll start defending Class C in group discussions. She’ll bring in her own circle of influence. That could be dozens of points every month. A safer base of allies than Karuizawa ever offered.”

Ayanokouji didn’t reply. He didn’t have to. The quiet stretched.

Horikita didn’t blink.

So he gave the answer she expected. Not the truth. Just what she wanted to hear.

“I’ll do what I’m told.”

Horikita turned away again, as if satisfied. As if it hadn’t meant anything at all.

And Ayanokouji stood there, still, his hand resting on the doorknob, his throat tightening with something he couldn’t name. For a boy trained not to feel, he had grown far too comfortable with the unfamiliar weight of emotion.

He bit down on his tongue, hard. Literally. Enough to taste copper. Just to shut it up. Just to drown the part of him that wanted to say something else.

Because he hated this.

He hated being used.

But what he hated more—what made something in him twist, quiet and cold—was that he didn’t want Ichihose. Or Sakura. Or Karuizawa.

He wanted her.

Horikita.

The real Horikita—the one no one else saw anymore. The one behind the perfect smile and polished laughter. The one who had spent late nights poring over data, who drank her tea without sugar, who once sat on the floor beside him in silence just because neither of them could sleep. That girl. That strategist. That tyrant in training.

And she could never know.

She could never know because the moment she knew, he’d be weak. Vulnerable. Human.

And Suzune Horikita didn’t respect weakness.

So he walked out.

He didn’t slam the door.

He didn’t sigh.

Outside her door, Ayanokouji stood frozen.

He hadn’t even realised he’d made it that far. One moment he’d been standing in Horikita’s room, the command still echoing in his ears like a ripple through still water—and the next, he was staring blankly down the dormitory hallway, hands clenched at his sides like a soldier awaiting orders that never came.

The air outside her room was warm with the first signs of summer, tinged faintly with the scent of jasmine from the courtyard. A peaceful evening. One that didn’t match the way his chest felt—tight, clamped down like a fist had formed inside his ribs and refused to let go.

He took a breath.

It was supposed to be steady. He’d trained for that—trained for composure, for balance, for an unshakeable core. But the breath stuttered halfway through, catching at the edges of something he couldn’t suppress. Not anymore. It wasn’t physical pain. It wasn’t fear.

It was something worse.

His vision blurred.

He blinked, once—twice. The hallway sharpened, then shimmered again. And then he felt it.

Wet.

Ayanokouji raised his hand instinctively to his cheek, expecting… he didn’t know what. Maybe sweat. Maybe nothing. But what his fingers found was unmistakable: a tear.

No. Tears.

There were more than one. They ran in clean lines down his face, slow, almost hesitant, like his body didn’t quite know how to cry properly. Like it had forgotten how somewhere along the way. Like emotion was a foreign language he was only just beginning to understand.

He stood there, frozen, unmoving. Staring at his own hand like it had betrayed him.

This wasn’t like him.

He didn’t cry.

He wasn’t supposed to feel. That was the whole point of his upbringing—the entire reason he was created to begin with. The White Room had ensured that his emotions were buried so deep they could never surface. He was supposed to be beyond human limits. A machine. A shadow. A tool sharpened into something immaculate, something useful.

But now?

Now he was unravelling. Not in a dramatic way—not in the way normal people did. There were no sobs, no gasps, no trembling shoulders. Just that terrifying stillness—the quiet realisation that something inside him had shifted, and there was no turning back.

He tried to speak, just to prove he still had control over his own body.

Nothing came out.

Horikita’s words echoed again: “Take Ichihose on a date.” Like it was simple. Like it meant nothing.

And maybe to her, it did mean nothing.

But to him—

God, he wished it did.

He wished she didn’t mean anything. That her approval wasn’t something he still craved. That her presence didn’t root him to the earth like an anchor. That her praise didn’t make him feel seen in a way no one else ever had. That her command to give himself to another girl didn’t hurt.

But it did.

It did, and that was the most frightening part of all.

He swallowed, breath finally steadying, though it tasted bitter on his tongue. Slowly, methodically, he wiped the tears from his face. Not because they bothered him, but because he couldn’t afford to be seen like this. Not by the others. Not by Ichihose. And especially not by Horikita.

Not by her.

His phone buzzed in his pocket. A message.

Ichihose: "I'd love to see you! When are you free? 💖"

Ayanokouji stared at it for a long time. Then he typed out a simple response

Ayanokouji: "Tomorrow. 1 p.m. at the café near the southern gardens."

His hands didn’t shake.

They never did.

And then he walked away from Horikita’s door—away from the truth he couldn’t face, away from the part of him that had cracked open just enough to feel human.

But deep down, something had changed.

And once that door opened—it would never close again.

The café near the southern gardens was unusually quiet for a summer afternoon. The students who hadn’t already left for vacation were most likely relaxing in the dorms or by the pool, not thinking about complicated relationships or hidden agendas. But Ayanokouji Kiyotaka stood out against the serenity—out of place in his neatly pressed shirt, his back stiff with tension, and a modest bouquet of soft-colored summer flowers clutched loosely in his hand.

He sat alone at a small table by the window, eyes watching the walkway with a clinical calmness that didn’t match the storm beneath the surface. It was a strange sight for anyone who might have known him even a little: Ayanokouji, holding flowers, clearly waiting on someone.

The someone in question arrived precisely at one o’clock.

Ichinose Honami.

She didn’t smile. Her steps were slow, deliberate, and sharp with an edge he hadn’t seen before—not from her. No sunny expression. No bubbling warmth. She stopped just short of the table, arms crossed over her chest, not even acknowledging the bouquet. Her hair swayed lightly in the summer breeze, but her gaze was unmoved. Hardened.

"What do you want?" she said coldly. "I thought you were done with me."

It was the first time her voice had ever sounded like that to him. Not wounded, not hurt—just... tired.

Ayanokouji stood slowly. It wasn’t rehearsed. He hadn’t needed a script. Horikita had only told him what to do. She hadn’t told him how to survive it.

Still, he kept his voice steady. Not cold, not calculated—just a mirror of the emotion he should have been feeling, the kind of emotion Honami would expect to hear.

“I made a mistake. Breaking up with you because of Karuizawa—”

He stopped, because the lie was hard to say. Not for moral reasons. Not because he cared about the betrayal. But because for the first time in his life, saying it— lying about his feeling—felt wrong.

But he said it anyway.

“I was afraid,” he continued. “Of being the reason Karuizawa might hurt herself. And in trying to protect her… I hurt you. I love you so much, and I’m sorry. I want to be with you. Give me another chance.”

It tasted like metal.

No, worse than metal. It tasted like failure. Like self-betrayal.

He’d bitten his tongue—he could feel the sharp sting as blood pooled faintly beneath it, and the copper flooded his mouth, as if to remind him of what he’d just done. What he was doing.

He didn’t love Ichinose.

Not even close.

He loved Horikita. For reasons he didn’t understand. For reasons that terrified him. For the way she knew how to get under his skin without ever breaking character. For the way she could command him like a chess piece and make him feel like he wanted to be commanded.

Ichinose suddenly hugged him tightly

Ayanokouji didn’t hug her back at first.

He stood frozen, arms at his sides, bouquet still crushed slightly between them, the stems bending under the sudden weight of Ichinose’s embrace. Her voice was muffled in his chest as she pressed herself against him.

"I missed you—so much," she whispered again, this time a little quieter, a little more vulnerable.

He closed his eyes.

The summer breeze drifted past the café’s open-air terrace, the smell of roses and sun-warmed stone thick in the air. The laughter of other students rang faintly in the distance, but in this moment, Ayanokouji felt isolated, cut off from the world—as if the sounds were coming from another life entirely.

He forced himself to respond, gently wrapping his arms around her with the kind of practised ease that could almost pass for sincerity. Almost.

But the truth was a different beast.

He could still taste the metallic tang of blood on his tongue from biting it earlier, the sharp reminder that he had to make sacrifices. That emotion had no place in what came next. This was an assignment. A mission.

A piece on the board that Horikita wanted him to move.

I love you so much.
The lie echoed in his head with a kind of cold finality.

He had never said that to anyone before. Not Karuizawa. Not Sakura. Not even in a whisper, not even in passing. But he had said it today. To Ichinose. And it had worked.

He opened his eyes slowly and looked down at her.

Her expression was soft now, eyes glassy, nose red like she’d been trying not to cry since she saw him. Ichinose, the girl who wore her heart on her sleeve, who had always fought for what she believed was right, who tried to protect everyone—even people who hurt her.

He had hurt her.

And she had come running back the moment he asked.

There was something painful in that knowledge
.
“I missed you, too,” he said. Quietly. Convincingly.

She pulled back just enough to look at him, her hands still gripping his blazer. “Are you… really sure? This isn’t just because you’re lonely or because things didn’t work out with Karuizawa?”

Ayanokouji held her gaze. “No. It’s not about her. I should’ve never left you in the first place.”

And technically, that wasn’t a lie. It was a misdirection—a skill he’d refined to an art.

Ichinose smiled through her tears and took the bouquet from his hand. “Then let’s make this a real date,” she said. “Not one of those weird impromptu strategy meetings, not anything school-related. Just us.”

“Just us,” he echoed.

The words felt foreign.

As they walked inside the café, sitting across from one another like two people who actually had a future, Ayanokouji’s mind drifted—to Horikita.

She hadn’t said why Ichinose needed to be brought back into the fold. She hadn’t said what role the girl would play in the next arc of her grand strategy. But knowing Horikita… she already had every move planned. Ichinose was useful. Popular. Respected. Idealistic.

And now? She was back under their influence.

Another piece secured.

He listened as Ichinose ordered a fruity iced drink and began excitedly describing a recent book she’d read for leisure, something light and romantic. She was smiling again. The way she always had before things fell apart.

Ayanokouji nodded, interjected politely, even laughed once—just enough to make her think he was truly listening.

But deep down, all he could hear was the echo of Horikita’s voice from earlier that morning.

"Holiday. Do whatever you want."

Liar.

Horikita was always planning. Always manipulating. And yet, the worst part wasn’t how ruthless she had become.

It was how badly he wanted her to see him as more than a pawn.

He glanced down at his cup of tea. His reflection shimmered faintly in the surface—a composed face, calm and unreadable.

But behind his eyes, a storm brewed.

Not one of rage or despair. But longing.

Dangerous.

Human.

The hallway to Horikita's dorm was quiet again, but Ayanokouji’s thoughts were anything but.

He’d walked there without truly knowing why, just that he expected something. Not affection, not gratitude, not even praise—but something. A nod. A smirk. A simple “Good.” Anything that would suggest she'd noticed what he’d done. That she'd wanted it.

After all, he had taken Ichinose on the date.

He’d lied—beautifully. He’d pulled her back into Horikita’s orbit just as instructed. Everything had gone perfectly.

But when Horikita opened the door and he gave her the update, she didn’t even blink.

She was seated cross-legged on the couch, scrolling through a document on her tablet, eyes skimming rapidly over lines of text. There was a new sharpness to her—a glass of something cold resting untouched beside her. She looked up at him only when the silence stretched long enough to be annoying.

Then came her reply, calm, flat, and glacial

“Earlier today when I told you to start dating Ichinose again, you asked me, ‘Aren’t we starting our pretend relationship?’ The answer is yes.”

Ayanokouji blinked. His posture shifted just slightly, the smallest tell of confusion.

She continued, her tone sharper than before.

“I’m going to start forming a criminal underworld in this school. And to do that, I need partners—powerful ones. People who want favours, people who want secrets kept, and people who want leverage. And you, by pretending to date me, become one of my vulnerabilities. Something they’ll want to exploit.”

She said it so casually, so coldly, like it was the weather forecast.

Ayanokouji studied her carefully. “What happened to we?”

Horikita didn’t flinch. Didn’t even smirk.

She looked him dead in the eyes and said, smoothly:

“Darling, you and I both know there was never a we.”

It hit harder than it should have. And darling—the way she said it, deliberately cruel, almost mocking, like she was savouring the knife as she twisted it.

It wasn’t anger that crossed Ayanokouji’s face. It was something worse: the vacant, practised smile of a person so used to rejection that they’d started expecting it.

He had never wanted to be seen. But now that she did—now that she saw him entirely and still denied him—something inside him cracked again.

He took a step back. “So what now?” he asked, voice steady, almost too steady.

Horikita stood.

She stepped past him, picked up a slim black folder from the table, and tossed it onto the nearby chair.

“Our first meeting is in one hour,” she added casually. “With Ryuen.”

Ayanokouji raised an eyebrow. “Ryuen?”

“He’s agreed to be one of my lieutenants,” Horikita said as if discussing the weather. “He wants immunity. And protection. I want brute force and intimidation. It’s a fair deal. But he won’t join unless he thinks I’m ruthless enough to control him—and stupid enough to have emotional vulnerabilities.”

“And that’s where I come in,” Ayanokouji muttered.

She nodded once. “Look nice. Something expensive, something she—” she paused, “—Ichinose might have bought you. Let them think you’re soft. Play the part.”

“I always do,” he said quietly.

Horikita turned back to her desk and resumed typing, as though the conversation was already over.

But before he could leave, she said one last thing—so casually it felt almost cruel.

“Oh,” she added. “And try to look like you care.”

Ayanokouji nodded once and turned for the door.

The ache in his chest hadn’t left. If anything, it had worsened. But he buried it deep. Like always.

After all, there was a game to play. And he was still just another piece on the board.

Ayanokouji now stood frozen in front of his closet, the weight of Horikita’s words echoing relentlessly in his mind: “Look nice.”

That phrase—so simple on the surface—now felt like a riddle wrapped in an enigma. What exactly did she mean by “nice”?

Was it a sharp, tailored suit with a crisp white shirt and a slim black tie, the kind of outfit that commanded attention and respect at high-stakes meetings?
Or was it something more casual—a button-up shirt neatly tucked into tailored slacks, polished shoes, and an air of effortless elegance that said, “I belong here, but I don’t have to try too hard”?

He opened his closet and stared inside, not really seeing the clothes that hung there. Each option felt loaded with implication, like choosing the right disguise in a game of espionage—except this game was real, and the stakes were everything.

What does she want from me? The question gnawed at him with increasing ferocity.

God, what does she ever want from me?

Horikita. She was a storm—unpredictable, cold, and so impossibly brilliant that she made everything around her seem dull in comparison.

She treated him like a pawn. Like a piece to be moved and sacrificed when convenient.
She haunted his dreams with the softest, lightest kisses—ghosts of intimacy that left him aching and confused in the waking world, with her laugh—the kind of laugh that sounded so genuine, so warm, it made him want to hear it outside his dreams.

And now? Now she expected him to pretend to be her boyfriend.
To be seen with her, to play the part, to look the way she wanted, like some flawless accessory to her grand scheme.

The cold truth sat heavy in his chest:
If only she knew.

If only she knew how much it tore him apart inside.

How he wanted to be more than a pawn—more than a mask or a tool.

How, beneath the calm, calculating surface, his heart was breaking for her.

He slid out a crisp white shirt and held it up. The fabric felt smooth, cool, and impersonal.
A shirt to look the part.
Not to be him.

He ran his fingers along the collar, imagining how it would feel under his chin, the neatness of it clashing with the chaos he felt inside.

Pretend. Perform. Deceive.

Those words echoed again and again in his mind, a mantra to steady himself.

Because that’s what she needed.
Not the real Kiyotaka Ayanokouji.
Not the boy who felt, who longed, who broke silently in the dark.

She needed the perfect pawn.

The perfect mask.

He closed the closet door slowly, resolve hardening in his eyes.

He would look nice.

Not because he wanted to impress her.
Not because he believed in the act.

But because he had no other choice.

Because in this twisted game of power and manipulation, sometimes the greatest weapon was a smile worn like armor—and a heart locked away where no one could see it bleed.

Ayanokouji’s hand hesitated briefly before he raised his knuckles to knock on Horikita’s dorm door. The moments stretching thin as his mind replayed her cold command—“look nice.” The phrase echoed like a challenge he wasn’t quite sure how to meet.

Then, from inside, a soft voice called out, “Step inside.”

He pushed the door open and stepped in, immediately struck by the transformation before him.

Gone was the sleek, tailored outfit from earlier—the one that had seemed so commanding and sharp. Instead, Horikita stood near her full-length mirror, draped in a long, deep red dress that clung to her in all the right places, sculpting her silhouette into something almost lethal in its elegance. The fabric shimmered subtly under the soft dorm lighting, rippling like a flame with every movement she made.

Her hair, which he had only ever seen tightly pulled back or messily styled in hurried school mornings, was now perfectly straightened, cascading smoothly to her shoulders. But what caught his eye—what made his breath hitch for a fraction—was the way a portion was tied back, revealing her neck and delicate ears where dangly gold earrings swayed gently, catching the light with every subtle turn of her head.

She was bent forward over her vanity, her gaze locked on the mirror as she deftly worked on something around her eyes. Her fingers moved with the precision of a surgeon, adjusting lashes or lining lids, but Ayanokouji couldn’t quite place what exactly she was fixing. He was too mesmerised to think clearly.

Then, without warning, she straightened and turned toward him.

The Horikita standing before him was both familiar and utterly foreign. Her makeup was impeccable, crafted to perfection—not the shy, cold student he once knew, but a woman transformed.

Red lipstick boldly painted her lips, vibrant yet menacing.
Her eye shadow was subtle, yet it emphasised a dangerous glint in her eyes.
And those eyelash extensions—long, thick, and impossibly elegant—gave her gaze a predatory sharpness.

She was stunning.

And terrifying.

She stepped closer, voice calm and steady.

“You look nice.”

It wasn’t praise. It was a statement. An observation.

“I’m almost done. Don’t worry.”

Before Ayanokouji could respond, she reached to the side and grabbed a pair of designer heels—sleek, black, and polished to a mirror shine. She slipped them on with effortless grace, the heels accentuating the length of her legs and the elegance of her posture.

Then, without missing a beat, she turned back and pulled a small box from the table.

“Here. Put this on me.”

He blinked, startled by the sudden intimacy of the request.

Opening the box carefully, he found a simple gold necklace resting on black velvet—delicate, understated, with a single charm shaped like the letter ‘A’.

He took the necklace and lifted it gently around her neck, fastening the clasp at the nape.

“Why the A?” he asked softly, his fingers brushing a stray lock of hair from her neck.

Horikita’s eyes gleamed with a cool certainty.

“It sends the message that we’re serious.”

Her voice was quiet but unwavering—an unspoken declaration wrapped in that single letter.

She took a step back, adjusted the pendant so it rested perfectly over her collarbone, and gestured toward the door.

“Come. We don’t want to keep Ryuen waiting.”

Ayanokouji swallowed hard, the weight of the night settling over him like a cloak. This was no longer a game of pretend.

This was a declaration of war.

And he was right there beside her—whether he liked it or not.

They walked side by side, a strange pair if anyone had been watching them from afar: Ayanokouji Kiyotaka, the boy of few expressions and infinite secrets, and Horikita Suzune, draped in elegance and ambition, her red dress catching the summer breeze like the banner of a rising empire. The hum of cicadas filled the air, and the warm wind carried the scent of blooming sakura mixed with distant street food—an oddly tranquil backdrop for a conversation that, at its core, was about the foundations of something dangerous.

"How did you get him to agree to be your lieutenant?"

Ayanokouji’s voice broke the silence, steady but genuinely curious. He had his suspicions, of course—he always did—but Horikita had started operating on a level even he couldn’t fully predict anymore.

Horikita didn’t answer right away. The corners of her mouth tugged slightly in amusement, her earrings swaying as she turned her head toward him.

“You mean Ryuuen?” she said lightly, as if they were discussing the weather and not the most chaotic, violent mind in the second-year cohort. “I asked nicely.”

Ayanokouji gave her a slow, skeptical look, one brow raising with pointed disbelief. She saw it and smirked, brushing a stray lock of hair from her cheek with a casual grace that somehow made her even more dangerous.

“Don’t look so surprised,” she said. “You know as well as I do that respect isn’t earned from dominance alone. Not with someone like him.”

“You didn’t beat him in a fight,” he replied dryly. “You didn’t blackmail him. So what did you offer him?”

Horikita’s gaze sharpened, a glint flashing in her eyes—not hostility, but calculation.
“I offered him exactly what he’s always wanted,” she said, her tone silk over steel. “Chaos. Control. A real seat at a table built from something other than arrogance and bluster. I told him that I wasn’t going to play the game the school gave us anymore. I’m rewriting the game entirely.”

Her words hung in the air, bold and terrifying. Ayanokouji didn’t interrupt.

“Nagumo talks about power,” she continued, “but he clings to the rules. Ryuuen? He thrives outside of them. I showed him that I could offer him more than a Class A badge or another fight to win. I showed him the foundation of something new.”

“You made him feel important,” Ayanokouji said at last, eyes narrowed slightly.

“No,” she corrected smoothly. “I made him feel needed.”

That distinction wasn’t lost on him. It was strategic, psychological. Ryuuen wasn’t loyal to loyalty itself—he was loyal to thrill, to purpose, to danger. And Horikita, in her terrifying brilliance, had become all three.

They turned a corner. The evening sun dipped lower now, casting long golden shadows that danced across the stone paths and lit her in a glow that made her look ethereal. The campus was quiet—the eye of a storm that none of the students knew they were standing in.

“He’s dangerous,” Ayanokouji said softly, as if the words needed to be spoken aloud to remain real.

“He’s useful,” Horikita said immediately. “Dangerous men are only a liability when they’re directionless. But when someone like Ryuuen sees a vision larger than himself? He becomes a sword pointed at your enemies instead of your back.”

She adjusted the strap of her bag on her shoulder and kept walking.

“Ryuuen’s reputation will pull in the people I can’t reach. The ones who live in the cracks of this school—the ones who think order and politeness are a game for the weak. If he’s standing beside me, if he’s calling me boss…” She glanced sideways, eyes glittering, “…then even the shadows will start to listen.”

Ayanokouji mulled over the implications. She wasn’t just recruiting pawns anymore. She was forming something like a faction—no, a regime. A shadow empire, thriving beneath the polished floors of the school’s hierarchy.

“And when he turns on you?” he asked, careful to sound indifferent.

Horikita smiled faintly. Not the kind smile she offered her “friends” at school. This was the smile she only wore when no one else was looking—ambitious, cold, brilliant.

“That’s what you’re for, honey.”

The word honey dropped from her lips like poison in wine—sweet on the surface, but never meant to be comforting.

“A vulnerability he can try to exploit.”

Ayanokouji didn’t flinch, but something inside him tightened, just slightly.

That was the role she’d given him. Not partner. Not confident. A vulnerability. A beautiful, intentional flaw in her armour.

An illusion of intimacy crafted for the sake of manipulation.

And yet, walking beside her, watching the way she moved with purpose and grace, hearing her talk about empire-building as easily as others spoke about lunch plans—he couldn’t help it.

He still wanted her.

Not the mask. Not the empire. Just her.

But that was the one thing he could never have.

“Do I get a cool nickname in your little underworld?” he asked finally, keeping his voice light.

Horikita chuckled, the sound low and velvety, almost flirtatious if it hadn’t been so chilling.

“You’re already infamous enough,” she said. “But don’t worry—I’ll make sure they call you mine.”

The late afternoon sun cast long shadows over the campus, the golden light filtering through the sparse clouds with a softness that seemed at odds with the tension simmering just beneath the surface. Horikita led the way, her heels clicking decisively against the concrete path as Ayanokouji followed, his expression unreadable but his mind racing.

“We’re meeting with someone else too,” Horikita announced, her tone clipped yet carrying that signature undertone of command. “Sakayanagi”

Ayanokouji’s lips twitched in a dry smirk. “Your new bestie?” he teased, the words slipping out before he could stop them. He referred to the handful of times he’d seen Horikita with Sakayanagi — their interactions casual on the surface but layered with unspoken complexities.

Horikita turned her head sharply, her glare slicing through the space between them like a blade. It was the same look she gave him in his dreams when he dared to pick food from the pot before it was ready, the kind that left him feeling small and cautious. Ayanokouji raised his hands in mock surrender.

“Alright, alright,” he muttered, letting the comment go for now.

She resumed walking, her posture unyielding, the faintest hint of a smirk playing at the corner of her mouth. “We’ll meet them on the rooftop,” she said, casting a glance back. “Try not to sulk in front of Sakayanagi. It makes you look weak.”

Ayanokouji’s eyes flicked toward her, brows lifting in mild disbelief. “I don’t sulk.”

“Keep it that way,” she said, voice low but firm.

The atmosphere between them shifted subtly—a silent acknowledgment that, beneath the layered manipulations and calculated facades, there was an unspoken game of wills playing out. Horikita was the grandmaster, and Ayanokouji, despite himself, was the most complicated piece on her board.

They ascended the stairs, the noise of the school fading behind them until only the whisper of the breeze and distant birdcalls remained. The rooftop was bathed in warm light, the cityscape stretching out beyond the school grounds like a silent witness to the machinations unfolding within these walls.

Sakayanagi was already there, standing by the railing with her usual confident poise, her eyes sharp as they flicked between Horikita and Ayanokouji. Beside her, Hashimoto stood with a small smirk on his face.

Ryuuen was a few steps away from her behind him stood Albert, his face serious as always and arms crossed clearly just there to appear scary. His eyes immediately flicked to Ayanokouji and Horikita,

Horikita’s gaze sharpened as she approached, the delicate gold necklace with the ‘A’ charm glinting in the fading sunlight. She gave Ayanokouji a quick, imperceptible nod—an unspoken reminder that this was no ordinary meeting. Every word, every gesture would be a thread woven into the larger tapestry of their plan.

Ayanokouji squared his shoulders, hiding the storm of emotions beneath a mask of calm. The game was escalating, and the rooftop was the new battlefield.

Horikita’s voice was steady as she broke the silence. “Let’s get started.”

Horikita didn’t flinch.

She didn’t even blink.

Her heels clicked softly against the concrete as she crossed the final few feet toward the rooftop’s edge, where Sakayanagi waited in her wheelchair and Ryuuen stood, arms crossed, a cigarette lazily pinched between two fingers he hadn’t yet lit. The sky behind them was painted in a mix of purples and orange, but the mood on the rooftop was anything but serene.

Ryuuen’s eyes narrowed as they landed on Ayanokouji, his lip curling into something halfway between disdain and amusement. “What’s he doing here?” he asked, voice low and rough, a growl beneath the words. “Didn’t know this was a babysitting job.”

Ayanokouji stopped beside Horikita, his posture as unreadable as ever, hands casually slipped into the pockets of his slacks. But his gaze met Ryuuen’s without hesitation.

“I was invited,” he said flatly.

Ryuuen snorted. “So, it’s like that again, huh? Back to the puppet show. Tell me, Horikita—” he leaned a little closer, “—is he your guard dog or your lapdog?”

Horikita didn’t rise to the bait. Her face was a porcelain mask—flawless, cold, and unreadable. She stepped between the two boys, perfectly centered, commanding the space with that eerie calm she had perfected over the past term.

"he's just.." horikita paused for effect reaching up and fixing ayanokoujis collar and pressing a kiss to his lips "mine" she finished off when she pulled back ayanokoujis heart stopped he was so screwed"jealous?" horikita smirked

Ryuuen snorted, "never"

The moment hung in the air like the scent of a storm about to break. Ayanokouji blinked, but the rest of him didn’t move.

Couldn’t move.

Not when Horikita’s lips had just touched his—soft, strategic, calculated. It wasn’t a kiss meant for him.

It was a power play.

A move in the grand chess game she’d been orchestrating all along.

And yet… His heart hammered in his chest like it hadn’t done since he was a child in the White Room, and the worst part?

He hated himself for how much he wanted that kiss to be real.

Horikita, meanwhile, didn’t even glance at him again. She turned back to Ryuuen, the faintest trace of a smirk still playing at the corners of her painted lips—red as blood, and just as dangerous. “Jealous?” she asked, voice laced with mocking sweetness.

Ryuuen’s laugh was a harsh exhale of breath through his nose. “Never.”

But the tension in his shoulders gave him away. He didn’t like being surprised. And Horikita had just reminded him—again—that she was the one holding the reins.

Sakayanagi clapped her hands softly from where she sat, amusement dancing in her eyes. “How wonderfully theatrical,” she said with a small chuckle. “Suzune, darling, I never took you for a romantic.”

Horikita turned slightly, offering a subtle nod to Sakayanagi without softening her expression. “I’m whatever I need to be to win. You of all people should understand that.”

“Oh, I do,” Sakayanagi said with delight, brushing a lock of hair behind her ear. “I really, truly do. That’s why I agreed to meet.”

Ryuuen finally lit his cigarette, the flame from his lighter flickering briefly between them before vanishing. He took a slow drag, the end burning like a tiny eye watching every movement.

“So, what’s the pitch, boss?” he asked, smoke curling from his lips.

"First", Horikita looked up at Ayanokouji. he opened up the briefcase Horikita had made him take and pulled out two contracts, handing each one to one of them "I need proof of your cooperation. Sign it. and after a fingerprint with your blood"

The tension on the rooftop deepened, like the air just before lightning cracked across the sky.

Ryuuen stared at the contract in his hand, his amusement sharpening into something darker. He didn’t look at Horikita, not immediately. Instead, he watched Ayanokouji, who had stepped forward like a shadow from her side, holding out the documents as if they were sacred texts—unchallenged, unflinching. It was unsettling how effortlessly Ayanokouji fit into this new role, as if Horikita had carved a mold for him and he’d slipped into it without resistance.

But Ryuuen knew better. He could see it in Ayanokouji’s eyes—that glint of quiet fury barely suppressed beneath the surface. Rage, confusion, heartbreak—it was all there, buried under layers of stoicism. Horikita hadn’t just played the other students. She’d played him. And the worst part?

She was still playing him.

Ryuuen took a slow drag of his cigarette, eyes narrowing over the smoke. “You’re serious,” he said, tone tinged with disbelief. “You want blood. Literally.”

Horikita’s expression didn’t change. “Words are wind. Ink fades. I want loyalty,” she said, voice crisp, composed, cold. “The kind of loyalty that stains.”

Sakayanagi tilted her head, fingers tapping the contract’s corner. “You really are pulling out all the stops, aren’t you, Suzune?” Her smile widened, almost dreamy. “A blood contract… how archaic. And yet, so deliciously dramatic.”

“Symbolism matters,” Horikita replied. “So does intimidation. This marks the foundation of something more than class wars and student council clout. It says: we’re all in. No deniability. No half-measures.”

She glanced at Ryuuen. “If you walk away, you’ll never be trusted again. Not by me. Not by anyone who ever learns you were here.”

Ryuuen’s jaw flexed as he considered her words. Then, with the careless bravado only someone like him could carry, he reached into his pocket, pulled out a utility knife, and flicked it open.

“No need for the dramatics,” he said, though his actions betrayed him. He nicked the tip of his finger with a practiced motion, letting a single drop of blood fall onto the page. It spread, small and precise, marking his fingerprint like a crimson seal.

He looked up, expression unreadable. “There. Happy?”

Horikita’s lips curled ever so slightly. “Ecstatic.”

Sakayanagi watched the exchange with rapt attention, then looked down at the paper in her lap. She didn’t flinch when she pricked her own finger with a pin pulled from her sleeve, the gesture graceful, almost elegant. The blood she pressed into the paper was delicate but deliberate.

When she was done, she passed it back to Ayanokouji, who took both signed documents and slid them back into the briefcase, locking it shut with a soft click.

“This is the first step,” Horikita said, her voice carrying over the wind. “We consolidate control. Over people, over information, over fear. There are cracks in the hierarchy already—Nagumo’s fall proves that. But what I’m building isn’t a coup. It’s a replacement.”

Ryuuen blew a stream of smoke into the air. “And what exactly do you want us to do, Suzune-sama?”

Horikita stepped forward. “I want three things. Control of the underground—the quiet black-market systems of this school. Ryuuen, that’s your domain now, but you’ll funnel everything through me. No more independent chaos. You’re my hammer, not my rival.”

She turned to Sakayanagi. “And you? You’re the face. Everyone already sees you as Class A’s queen. You’ll keep that up. Smile. Dance. Host your tea parties. But you’ll report every whisper, every alliance, every threat.”

“And what about him?” Sakayanagi asked, glancing at Ayanokouji, her tone dipped in honey but edged like a blade.

Horikita looked back at him then. For a moment, her gaze softened, just for a moment—then it was gone.

“He’s mine,” she said again. “He stays close. He watches everything. And when the time comes... he strikes.”

Ayanokouji didn’t respond. His heart was still beating too fast. The taste of copper still sat on his tongue from biting it too hard during the kiss earlier. He hated her, and he loved her. And in this moment, standing beside her in the growing twilight with the city glowing beneath them, he couldn’t tell which of those truths hurt more.

Sakayanagi folded her hands in her lap. “Well. This is shaping up to be quite the little empire.”

Horikita nodded. “It’s already more than that.”

Ryuuen tossed the stub of his cigarette to the floor and crushed it under his heel. “So what now, Empress?”

Horikita turned to face the skyline, the red of her lipstick matching the setting sun.
“Now?” she said. “Now we let the second semester begin.”

Ayanokouji lingered for just a moment, eyes trailing after Horikita’s retreating figure as her silhouette disappeared down the dimly lit stairwell—red dress swaying like a crimson flag in the wind. Something about the way she walked—unhurried, unbothered, unchallenged—felt final. Like a ruler departing her throne room after an audience, leaving the lesser lords to ponder her will.

He’d followed her down this path willingly once.

Now, he followed because he didn’t know where else to go.

He wasn’t her puppet—not in the traditional sense. But that line, the one he used to comfort himself with, I’m only involved because I choose to be, had frayed. Somewhere between her telling him he was hers and the taste of her lipstick still haunting his mouth, he'd started to wonder if he’d ever really had a choice.

And that realization cut deeper than anything else.

Ryuuen exhaled slowly, another plume of smoke curling upward like a ghost above his head. His smirk was still in place, but his eyes… they were narrowed now. Focused. Not amused—interested. A look Ayanokouji had seen Ryuuen wear only once or twice before. The look of a man who’d spotted the incoming storm and decided he wanted to ride it.

“Crazy bitch,” Ryuuen muttered under his breath, but there was no venom in the words. Only admiration. The sort that a monster gives another for the way they tear open the world.

Sakayanagi, still perfectly poised in her chair, adjusted the hem of her skirt with slow, meticulous grace. Then, without any theatrics, she turned her head toward Hashimoto, who had waited just out of sight—silent, unassuming, the way someone who survives in the shadows always is.

“Let’s go,” she said lightly, her eyes never leaving the now-empty stairwell. Her voice held none of Horikita’s steel, but it was no less commanding.

Hashimoto stepped forward immediately, eyes darting once toward Ryuuen, then Ayanokouji, before settling on his usual casual detachment.

“I take it we’re pretending this never happened?” he asked, tone teasing but hushed.

Sakayanagi’s smile was demure. “Oh, quite the opposite. I intend to remember every moment of tonight very clearly.”

And then she too was wheeled away, the sound of her chair’s soft wheels like whispers against the rooftop’s concrete.

That left Ryuuen and Ayanokouji in silence.

Ryuuen flicked the end of his cigarette, a long ash falling to the floor. “She’s got teeth now,” he muttered, almost to himself. “You feel it, don’t you?”

Ayanokouji didn’t answer.

Because he did feel it.

Horikita Suzune had always been calculating. Always cold. But now she was something else—something polished and weaponized. She had moved beyond survival, beyond ambition. She was becoming inevitable.

And worse?

She was enjoying it.

“She’s going to break this school,” Ryuuen said finally, his grin spreading again. “And maybe us with it.”

Still, Ayanokouji didn’t reply. He simply turned and followed after her—one step behind, as always. Not because he had to. Not because he was forced.

But because some part of him, some traitorous, aching part, still wanted to be close enough to see how it all ended.

Even if it destroyed him.

Chapter Text

“Horikita,” Ayanokouji called out as he followed the echo of her heels down the empty corridor. The hallway leading away from the rooftop was lined with dim windows, moonlight filtering through just enough to cast fractured shadows along the polished floor.

She didn’t turn around. She didn’t even slow her stride. She simply continued walking with the kind of poise that made every step seem planned—every movement part of a greater purpose only she could see.

“Yes,” she said, her voice drifting back to him, cool and clipped.

Ayanokouji matched her pace, falling into step beside her, though she didn’t acknowledge his presence with so much as a glance. Her perfume lingered faintly in the air, floral and sharp—like something beautiful grown from thorns.

“What’s next?” he asked, his voice low, unreadable.

For a moment, there was only silence between them. Then Horikita spoke, her words laced with faint irritation, like someone swatting away a buzzing fly.

“You ask too many questions.”

Ayanokouji’s lips parted, just slightly. He wasn’t surprised, not really—but there was a subtle shift inside him at her words. Something small, something human, flinched.

Horikita continued walking. The moonlight caught the gold of her necklace—the charm marked with his initial. The symbol of their fake relationship. The leash she’d fastened to him with surgical precision.

“We’ll discuss it when we’re somewhere private,” she added, her tone sliding back into command, into the careful, merciless register she’d been perfecting all term.

Ayanokouji stared at her back as they walked. She didn’t look like someone playing a role anymore. She looked like someone who had become it. The mastermind. The queen. The storm.

And him? He couldn’t shake the feeling that he wasn’t the pawn.

He was the offering.

But still—he followed.

Because for all the games, all the manipulation, all the damage she left in her wake, Horikita Suzune was the plan now.

And whatever came next—whether it was domination, destruction, or something far more twisted—he would see it through.

Even if it cost him everything.

The hallway they walked down felt colder than it should have. The hum of the school’s late-night silence was absolute—no students lingering after hours, no teachers wandering. Only their footsteps echoed softly on the linoleum floors. Horikita led the way, her stride unbroken, her silhouette sharp against the thin moonlight trickling in through the tall windows. Ayanokouji followed, watching her back more than the path in front of him. There was a weight to her tonight, a heaviness in the way she moved—not tired, not hesitant. Calculated. As always.

She stopped in front of a classroom door tucked into one of the lesser-used wings of the building. There was no sign on the frame, no number—just aged wood and a tarnished handle. Horikita glanced around once, as if confirming the coast was clear, then opened the door.

Inside was a classroom forgotten by time.

Desks layered in thin sheets of dust. Chairs stacked sloppily in a corner. The whiteboard stained yellow with age, and shelves along the back wall warped from years of moisture and neglect. It smelled faintly of chalk and something old—like paper left to rot.

Ayanokouji stepped in behind her, his brow furrowing slightly as he scanned the room. “This isn’t where I expected our secret meeting to happen,” he said quietly.

Horikita didn’t respond. She walked in a straight line across the room, her heels thudding softly against the dull tile. She moved to a corner where a rusted metal supply closet stood half-ajar.

Then, without ceremony, she reached into her pocket, pulled out a small key, and locked the classroom door behind them. The click echoed through the room like the toll of a bell. Ayanokouji turned his head to watch her, silent as she pocketed the key and stepped toward the supply closet.

“Come,” she said without looking at him, her voice smooth and deliberate.

Ayanokouji followed.

He stood just behind her as she opened the closet door fully. Inside, it looked like… well, a closet—crowded with old boxes, cleaning supplies, a broom that had half turned to splinters, and a metal shelf bolted to the back wall. Nothing unusual.

Then Horikita turned slightly toward him, her expression unreadable in the shadows.

“Push this back,” she murmured, placing one hand lightly against his chest. Her fingers brushed over the fabric of his shirt slowly, deliberately. Her gaze flicked up to meet his as she added, “Since you’re so…” she paused, her smirk ghostly in the dim light, “…strong.”

Her touch lingered a second too long.

Ayanokouji didn’t say anything. He just looked at her—for a breath, for a moment longer than he should have. He didn’t trust the look in her eyes. It was layered. There was nothing soft in it. And yet something beneath it burned.

He stepped past her without a word and approached the back wall. The shelf she had referred to wasn’t just bolted—it was reinforced with thick steel brackets. Whatever it was hiding wasn’t meant to be found easily. He tested the weight, planting his feet before putting his strength into the push.

It was heavier than it looked.

It resisted. For a second, he thought it wouldn’t budge. Then, with a low scrape and a groan of metal grinding against concrete, it began to move. Dust flew up in clouds as he forced it back—and as it did, the hidden passage behind it was revealed.

A narrow archway opened to a staircase spiraling downward, carved of aged stone and lit faintly by what looked like a row of antique wall sconces. The light was dim, gold-tinted, flickering.

It didn’t feel like the rest of the school.

It felt like something out of a historical novel—a place students were never meant to find. A place built for secrecy. For power.

For control.

Horikita stepped beside him and finally looked at the passage like she had been waiting for this moment all along.

She didn’t say a word.

She simply descended the first step and motioned with two fingers for him to follow.

And so he did.

The staircase was narrow, just wide enough for one person at a time. The stone underfoot was cold, uneven, and worn smooth by decades of use. There was a faint scent—dampness, dust, and something chemical. Not quite mold. Not quite paint. Something in between. As they moved downward, the air got cooler, and the weight of the silence pressed closer around them.

Horikita’s red dress caught the glow of each passing wall sconce, like fire licking at the darkness. Ayanokouji followed her in silence, his mind racing even though his steps remained measured.

Where the hell were they going?

And how long had she known this existed?

After what felt like several minutes, the stairs finally leveled out. They emerged into what could only be described as an underground annex—a room hidden beneath the school, complete with vaulted ceilings, low lighting, and walls lined with old cabinets, tables, and what looked suspiciously like filing drawers that hadn’t been touched in decades.

There was a long table at the center, surrounded by mismatched chairs and topped with maps, documents, and a sealed black folder.

Horikita walked to the head of the table and finally looked at him.

“This,” she said, her voice echoing just slightly off the stone walls, “is where the real planning begins.”

Ayanokouji’s eyes swept the room again, heart steady but mind racing. This wasn’t just secrecy. This was architecture—an infrastructure built for the unseen.

“Is this… part of the school?” he asked.

Horikita gave the faintest nod. “It was. Decades ago. Before even my brother’s time. Student council presidents used it. The real ones. The ones who understood power doesn’t live in classrooms.”

She stepped behind the table, picked up a folder, and slid it toward him.

“You wanted to know what’s next?” she said. “This is next.”

Ayanokouji reached forward and opened it.

And what he saw—names, connections, surveillance notes, hidden alliances, weaknesses, blackmail—was more than strategy.

It was a manifesto.

A conquest.

This wasn’t about Class A anymore.

This was about everything.

Horikita took a step back from the long table, her heels clicking softly against the aged stone floor. She spread her arms slowly—shoulders proud, spine straight—and then, with a sudden, deliberate motion, she spun.

It wasn’t clumsy or awkward. It wasn’t even performative in the way someone else might do it for attention. No—Horikita’s spin was measured. Controlled. Dramatic by design.

Her red dress flared slightly at the hem as she turned, a halo of crimson that caught the warm flickering light from the sconces lining the walls. When she stopped, her hair swept across one shoulder, her expression carved in calm elegance.

Ayanokouji stared at her, at the strange contrast of grace and danger she carried so effortlessly now.

“This,” she said slowly, her voice echoing through the hollow room, “is the underground.”

She raised a hand and gestured broadly, indicating the entire chamber—the high-vaulted ceiling, the carved pillars in the corners that seemed ornamental at first but hinted at deeper architectural purpose, the lines of corridors barely visible through the archways leading off in different directions.

“Both literally,” she continued, her gaze flicking to his, “and figuratively.”

She paced forward now, each word crisp, almost amused—like a teacher explaining something to a student she knew would never truly grasp the depths of the lesson.

“This annex spans beneath the entire school. Every building. Every wing. Connected by pathways, corridors, tunnels that haven’t been used in decades. Forgotten. Abandoned by the administration long before either of us set foot in this institution.”

She reached the wall and tapped gently on a cabinet. A hollow sound echoed back—proof of a space behind it.

“I’ve spent months cataloguing the entrances, exits, blind spots. I’ve had supplies moved down here under dummy requisitions. Cameras installed on wireless internal servers the school doesn’t monitor. All of it hidden in plain sight.”

She turned again, walked back toward him with slow, measured grace, every step purposeful.

“I’ve fashioned it to my liking,” she said, her voice lowering. “Adjusted every inch to suit my needs.”

She stopped just in front of him, barely a breath of space between them, and tilted her head slightly. There was something sharp in her eyes now. Something feral.

“For the perfect criminal underground.”

Ayanokouji’s breath caught. Not because he was surprised—he’d known Horikita was capable of ambition beyond anyone else in this school. But standing here, in the belly of the institution, surrounded by evidence of her reach, her foresight, her power—it hit him differently.

This wasn’t a plan anymore.

This was an empire.

“Drug trafficking?” he asked softly, tone almost sardonic. “Illegal weapon sales? Blood sports?”

Horikita’s tone was casual at first—too casual.

“Of course,” she said, with a faint shrug, as though she were discussing something as mundane as the weather. “What kind of underground would I be running without it?”

She didn’t need to specify what it was. Ayanokouji already knew.

Corruption. Leverage. The quiet, festering tools of influence that lived in the shadows of every great institution. And she wielded them like scalpels—not for violence, but for precision.

“But I’m not naïve,” she continued smoothly, still walking the perimeter of the hidden chamber like a queen surveying the borders of her kingdom. “I know I need more than that. Chaos alone doesn’t build control. It just… loosens the pieces.”

She stopped in front of a blackboard, covered in dry-erase notes and rough sketches of building schematics, class schedules, and arrows connecting names—some circled, some crossed out. Her fingers traced a line down the center of the board as she spoke.

“And favors? Surveillance? Manipulation of staff and students? Hidden debts, influence trading, anonymous sabotage of rival candidates?” She tossed the words out like stones skipping across water—calm, practiced, deadly. She glanced at him over her shoulder, her eyes gleaming in the low light. “That’s necessary as well.”

Ayanokouji remained still, his hands in his pockets, though his pulse had begun to pick up. It wasn’t the content of what she said—it was the ease. The comfort in her voice. As if this plan hadn’t just taken shape this semester, but had lived within her for much longer, merely waiting for the right time to unfold.

She turned then, fully facing him, and her voice sharpened—not loud, but imbued with a cutting clarity that left no room for misunderstanding.

“This school,” Horikita said, “is built on systems. Points. Reputation. Performance. Illusion. It's a hierarchy masked as meritocracy. Rules that reward conformity, punish creativity, and cloak manipulation under the guise of discipline.”

She stepped toward him again, the echo of her heels tapping with a quiet finality that seemed to punctuate her words.

“Those systems were created to be gamed. And for a long time, people like Nagumo and Sakayanagi did just that—exploiting the rules, bending them to their will, but always within the framework.”

She paused in front of him now, her red dress still catching the faint flicker of golden light. There was something in her eyes—not triumph, not ambition.

Conviction.

“My criminal underground,” she said, her voice low but absolute, “exists to rewrite the game. To seize full control of this school—not by fighting the system, but by becoming the system. Quietly. Completely. Irrevocably.”

She held his gaze for a moment longer, then added with quiet venom:

“I will target those who don’t play by the rules. The cheats. The abusers. The ones who thought they could manipulate this place without consequences. I’m going to show them what true manipulation looks like.”

Ayanokouji felt something strange stir inside him. Not fear. Not admiration. Something colder. Something heavier.

He had seen what control looked like.

But this?

This was dominion.

Horikita Suzune wasn’t trying to win the game anymore.

She was redefining it.

And in this new order she was building beneath the surface of the school—beneath the illusion of normalcy, of daily lessons and student council memos and mock exams—there would be no room for second place.

Only those who served her purpose.

And him?

He wasn’t sure if he was her partner, her shield, her leverage…

…or just the next piece she would sacrifice when the board demanded blood.

Horikita didn’t flinch. She didn’t fumble. The question hadn’t caught her off guard. She simply paused—deliberately—like she wanted the silence itself to speak before she did.

Ayanokouji had asked it plainly, standing across the room in the cool glow of the underground sconce-light.

“And how,” he repeated slowly, “do you plan to start?”

Horikita’s eyes moved—not with doubt, but with calculation. She reached to her side and picked up a slim folder with a black spine and red binding. It looked official. Clean. Clinical.

She cracked it open with practiced fingers, revealing a thick stack of papers inside. Ayanokouji moved toward her, but not too close—close enough to glimpse the top sheet.

Chemical formulas. Dosage tables. Compound analysis.

Scientific documentation—precise and complex.

“I’ve done the research,” Horikita said, voice cold and unwavering. “Extensive research. On the manufacturing, the effects, the dispersal. Chemical agents, delivery methods. I’ve compiled studies on both synthetic and organic compounds, mapped out their psychological impacts, their physical durations, their side effects.”

She flipped a few pages, revealing diagrams of capsules, liquids, and powder packets—mock-ups of how the substances could be disguised, from vitamin gummies to eye drops to dissolvable paper strips.

“I’m not talking about street drugs,” she said sharply, anticipating the judgement she knew he was already forming behind that blank expression. “I’m talking about custom solutions. Designer compounds tailored to purpose. Focus boosters. Mood enhancers. Sleep regulators. Performance balancers. Memory supplements. Each formula designed to either give someone the edge… or quietly take it away.”

Ayanokouji’s face remained unreadable, but he said nothing—because she wasn’t finished.

She opened a second folder, even thicker than the first.

“The process will be simple,” Horikita said. “Like ordering a package. Customers will submit an anonymous form using coded language we teach them. They’ll specify the desired effect—heightened focus, suppressed anxiety, adrenaline boost, emotional dulling, memory fog, whatever they need. They’ll also choose how long they want it to last, how many doses, and the method of delivery. Oral, injection, transdermal patch, inhalant…”

She flipped another page, revealing a chart: ‘Desired Outcome,’ ‘Delivery Method,’ ‘Half-Life,’ ‘Cost.’

“I’ll have runners. Trusted ones. All under layers of deniability. People who don’t know each other’s roles. No one knows the full chain but me.”

“And me,” Ayanokouji said flatly.

Horikita glanced up at him, her expression unreadable. “You’re at the top,” she said. “I’ll always tell you the truth. Whether or not you like it is irrelevant.”

He didn’t speak, so she went on.

“These compounds are synthesized in micro-labs. Harmless individually—almost undetectable. Legal, even. But combined, they create powerful short-term effects. Enough to make someone crash mid-exam. Enough to make a speech fall apart. Or keep someone too calm to care they’re failing.”

Her voice lowered, taking on a velvety, razor-thin softness.

“I can make someone succeed, or destroy themselves, and neither the teachers nor the administration will ever suspect a thing. They’ll think it’s stress. Burnout. Natural fatigue.”

She handed him a final page—a test subject log, with entries like: R.T., male, 17 — Formula B6 — Result: Temporary euphoria, reduced inhibition, increased verbal confidence, mild dehydration, 2-hr duration.

Ayanokouji scanned the page.

“You’ve already tested these,” he said quietly.

Horikita only smiled.

“I never launch an initiative I haven’t verified.”

For a moment, the silence returned. It wasn’t the emptiness of before—it was dense, now. Weighted by the implications. What she was suggesting… what she was doing… wasn’t just morally gray.

It was criminal.

It was precise.

And it was undeniably effective.

Ayanokouji exhaled slowly through his nose. “What happens if the school finds out?”

“They won’t,” Horikita answered without hesitation. “Because I’m not distributing to the entire student body. I’m curating. Targeting. The first wave of clients will be selected based on loyalty and utility. The rest will never know they’re being manipulated.”

A beat passed.

“And if they refuse to pay?” he asked.

Horikita met his gaze, calm and assured.

“Then they become test subjects,” she said. “Or examples.”
Ayanokouji stared at her, feeling that same, slow unease crawl up his spine—not fear. Not even moral conflict.

Just awe.

Awe at what she’d built.

Awe at what she was becoming.

And awe at the terrifying realization that—

He still couldn’t walk away.

Ayanokouji leaned against the edge of the long table, his eyes not on her this time, but on the layout of documents and schematics she’d spread out like puzzle pieces in a game only she knew how to win.

“And how,” he asked slowly, “do you plan to distribute without getting caught?”

It was a fair question. The kind only someone like him could ask with such dispassionate calm. But she’d been waiting for it.

Horikita Suzune didn’t hesitate. She didn’t even blink.

“I’ve already secured routes of distribution,” she began, stepping away from the table and moving toward the far wall, where a faded map of the school campus had been marked up with red string, pins, and notes. “Through clubs. Councils. After-school study sessions.”

She reached out, tapping her finger to a corner of the map—the debate club office.

“I have three potential lab technicians under review. Two from the chemistry club, one from the AV room. All of them gifted, desperate for recognition, and isolated enough to be discreet.”

She moved her hand to a spot near the gymnasium—a room labeled ‘Sports Archive B.’

“I’m converting the sub-basement beneath the old sports archives into a clean-room lab. It’s unused, off the grid, and connected to the back utility stairwell. No cameras. No faculty pass-through.”

She turned back to him, now fully in her element, voice steady and clinical.

“From there, we’ll use an array of drop points—repurposed lunch trays in the cafeteria loaded by kitchen staff I’ve paid off with favors and test scores. Library book returns monitored by planted volunteers. And after-school tutor programs, which give us a rotating set of delivery ‘agents’ with access to every class level.”

She paused, letting the weight of her planning sink in.

“Customers will be able to select their preferred method of delivery from a rotating list. Some will want subtlety—pills hidden in pens, liquids in eye-drop bottles. Others will want speed—syringes disguised as insulin pens, patches inside book covers. Each method coded, each order encrypted.”

Ayanokouji’s eyes finally rose to hers. “You’ve accounted for every variable.”

“There’s nothing I haven’t thought of,” she replied without modesty. She didn’t need to be modest anymore. Not here. Not with him.

She walked back toward him, slower now, her heels echoing across the aged stone floor.

“Whispers,” she said softly. “That’s how it begins. Not announcements. Not promotions. Rumours.”

She stopped directly in front of him, arms folding lightly over her chest, the red of her dress catching the low light and making her look more like a symbol than a girl—something powerful, dangerous, inevitable.

“All it takes is a whisper,” Horikita said. “One passing comment in the girl’s locker room. One question slipped between jokes in a club meeting. One upperclassman handing off a package and calling it an ‘energy boost.’ And the students will come running.”

Ayanokouji didn’t reply.

Because she was right.

This school thrived on silence and pressure. On breaking points and desperate students clawing at any advantage. A rumor would grow like wildfire—especially if it sounded forbidden. Especially if the product worked.

Especially if it promised what no one else could legally provide:
An edge.

“Are you worried?” Horikita asked, eyes narrowing, head tilting slightly. “That I’ve gone too far?”

He stared at her a moment. His mouth opened slightly. Then—

“No.”

He stepped forward.

“It’s perfect.”

You’re perfect

Horikita Suzune didn’t break eye contact with Ayanokouji. She didn’t have to. Her posture, her tone, her flawless delivery—every part of her radiated control. Command. It was like watching an actress so perfectly inhabit a role that the audience forgets they’re watching a performance.

“You say you’ve thought of everything,” Ayanokouji said, his voice as still as ever, eyes narrowing slightly. “The potential lab technicians—are you sure they’ll agree?”

“Of course,” Horikita replied coolly, not even missing a beat. Her heels clicked softly against the ancient stone floor as she turned, glancing back at him with a faint, almost amused smirk playing on her lips. “They’ll be brought in under the guise of a special program—one developed by a prestigious university’s off-campus research branch. Supposedly, it’s a mentorship initiative, exclusive to our school.”

Ayanokouji didn’t respond, but his silence carried weight. He didn’t need to speak—his expression alone questioned her sanity, her audacity, and above all… the horrifying effectiveness of it.

Horikita walked back toward the long central table, her crimson dress trailing just behind her. She pulled a manila folder from one of the organized stacks—thicker than the rest—and slid it across the table toward him.

Stamped neatly across the front were the words:
Synthetic Research Internships: Kisei Academy of Innovation

She opened it, revealing a polished, professional-looking series of documents inside. The logo in the upper-right corner of each page looked official—hell, it looked real. The formatting was precise. The font was corporate. There was even a QR code linking to a mock website, complete with testimonials, academic bios, and a contact page for “Professor Mika Tanaka,” an equally fictional expert in nootropic research.

“I forged the name and history of the academy,” she said, calmly flipping through the pages as though reading from a menu. “Fake credentials, a detailed academic history, testimonials from fake alumni who went on to top-tier medical programs, neuroscience labs, and biotech companies. All entirely fabricated, of course. But professionally done.”

She tapped the final page with one manicured finger.

“Each of the selected students will receive an acceptance email congratulating them for their ‘exceptional skill in applied biochemistry’ and inviting them to participate in this off-the-record internship,” she continued. “The offer includes a highly confidential research task: to develop safe, personalized nootropics and biochemical prototypes designed to help students survive and thrive in high-stress educational environments.”

Ayanokouji scanned the paperwork silently. It was flawless. The kind of forgery that could fool a real university dean.

Horikita leaned closer, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper that was more intimate than necessary.

“In simple terms—they’ll think they’re developing personalized ‘study aids,’” she said. “Formulas to help students sleep better, focus harder, recover faster, reduce anxiety. Each technician will work independently, believing they’re contributing to a broader study. But in truth…”

She straightened, lips curving into a smile that sent a chill down his spine.

“…they’ll be manufacturing custom designer drugs tailored to my specifications.”

“And when they ask where the products go?” he asked, because he had to ask, even if he already knew the answer.

“They’ll believe their compounds are being shipped off to the university for trial evaluation. Each ‘shipment’ will be picked up by a courier wearing a fake institute badge. In return, the students will receive monthly ‘stipends’ and quarterly ‘evaluations’ of their progress—including phony grades, recommendations, and simulated responses from fake professors.”

She slid another paper across the table—a pay schedule.

“Cash transfers will be made from third-party accounts using dummy shell businesses. I’ve already had two of them established: one posing as an educational publishing house, the other as a biotech startup. The shell corporations will ‘hire’ the students as freelance developers, shielding them from suspicion.”

Her eyes sparkled now. Not from joy, not from pride—but from the sheer precision of the plan she’d built from the ground up. The way her voice didn’t waver, the calm in every step of her operation—it made her look less like a student and more like a queenpin in the making.

“This isn’t just a few lab techs,” she said. “Eventually, it will become a full network of workers—each operating in their own little bubble. All believing they’re part of something noble. Something important. But every compound they design will be tracked, recorded, and diverted straight to my supply lines.”

“And no one suspects a thing?” Ayanokouji asked. Not because he doubted it—but because he had to hear her say it out loud.

Horikita exhaled slowly, then walked toward the massive corkboard behind her, dotted with pins and names—some of the top chemistry and biology students in the school, all of them highlighted in different colors.

“No one will ask questions,” she said softly. “Because in a school where everyone is desperate to get ahead, an opportunity like this is the kind of miracle they pray for.”

Ayanokouji stared at her, truly stared at her—into her. It wasn’t the dress, or the lipstick, or the confidence in her tone. It was the certainty. The way she delivered every word as though she’d already lived it. As if the blueprint wasn’t theory but memory.

And for a terrifying second, he wondered if maybe it was.

He looked back down at the documents spread across the table like an altar to her ambition. The stamped logos. The forged institute bios. The student testimonials that never existed. And now—another folder.

A new one.

Stamped in silver foil:
Kisei Academy of Innovation – Applied Mechanics & Field Engineering Division

Horikita’s eyes glittered in the soft underground light. She stepped beside him, placing two fingers gently on the edge of the folder and sliding it toward him like an offering.

“Weapons sales,” Ayanokouji said flatly, the weight of the words more surreal than even he expected. “You’re actually doing it.”

Horikita’s lips curved upward, her signature red smile curving like a blade. “You remembered.”

“It’s been a few minutes.”

“I know, darling,” she replied, voice laced with that same intoxicating irony, the word darling slipping off her tongue like syrup over venom. A quiet weapon of its own. She only ever said it when she wanted to remind him: she was in control.

She flipped open the new folder.

Inside were weapon schematics—non-lethal designs for school-appropriate “defense tools,” but Ayanokouji knew better than to believe they’d stay that way. Foldable batons disguised as umbrella rods. Pen casings that housed retractable blades. Brass knuckles with fingerprint sensors for user authentication. Even stun devices cleverly built into smartphone shells and portable chargers.

“The sales operation will mirror the drug distribution model,” she began, clinical once again. “Buyers will submit a request through an encrypted channel. They’ll indicate the desired use—defense, intimidation, sabotage, assault. The length of use—single-use, sustained engagement, long-term carry. The delivery method—concealed, wearable, or remote. After payment, the product will be delivered through the same shadow logistics system.”

“And the manufacturing?” Ayanokouji asked.

Horikita smiled again and tapped the top of the folder.

“The Kisei Academy of Innovation is also offering a mechanical engineering program,” she said smoothly. “Another ‘prestigious’ university partnership. Invitation-only. Targeted at students in the Robotics Club, Tech Workshop, and Engineering electives.”

She walked slowly back toward the corkboard now adorned with student names and red strings—the map of her empire-in-progress.

“They’ll be recruited as R&D fellows,” she continued. “Told they’re part of a program exploring ‘next-gen mechanical solutions for emergency response scenarios.’”

She turned and leaned against the wall, arms crossing slowly. Her red dress shimmered in the warm light, the perfect image of elegance wrapped around a loaded gun.

“They’ll be tasked with creating ‘compact tools for safety and defense,’ under the assumption they’re designing for field medics, disaster relief workers, and search and rescue teams. They’ll receive schematics, templates, and assembly plans—most pre-drafted by me. They’ll think they’re helping people.”

Ayanokouji stepped forward, his fingers flipping through the schematics. Everything had been designed down to the millimeter. The trigger pressure. The casing metal. Even the weight of the false product IDs on each device.

“They’re going to make weapons,” he said, barely above a whisper.

“They’re going to make hope,” Horikita said without blinking. “Hope for the desperate. Protection for the weak. Fear for those who prey on others. Call it what you want, Kiyotaka. I’m just giving this school what it’s always wanted but never admitted it needed.”

He looked up at her. Something in his chest felt like it was splitting open—an emotion he hadn’t earned the vocabulary to name yet. Dread? Awe? Jealousy? A twisted kind of admiration?

“Someone’s going to get hurt,” he said. He didn’t mean it as a warning. He meant it as a truth.

Horikita tilted her head, her expression as unreadable as ever. “Someone already has,” she replied. “Hundreds of students at this school are casualties of the system. Bullied. Blackmailed. Broken. Every exam, every class war, every fake friendship that’s just a stepping stone to a higher rank—this school was built on collateral damage.”

She walked back toward him now, slowly, her heels echoing like war drums. She stopped just in front of him, their faces only inches apart.

“I’m just organizing the damage,” she whispered. “Directing it. Choosing who gets hit. And who doesn’t.”

Ayanokouji didn’t back away.

He couldn’t.

Not from her.

Not from this.

And somewhere—beneath the calm mask he wore, beneath the quiet, perfect boy they all believed him to be—he wanted to see what she would do next.

Because Horikita Suzune wasn’t building a kingdom.

She was forging a regime.

And it had already begun.

Ayanokouji’s hand hovered over the stack of schematics as if touching them might burn him. He didn’t speak right away. His eyes moved slowly across each printed diagram—the sleek contours of disguised knives, retractable stun batons embedded in umbrella handles, customized brass knuckles engineered for precision impact. Every one of them was disturbingly elegant. Purposeful.

But that wasn’t what chilled him.

It was how refined it all was.
How quietly intimate.
Like the weapons were less tools of violence and more artifacts—each with its own story waiting to unfold.

He motioned toward the stack. His voice was calm, almost bored, but she knew him too well to be fooled.

“These the only weapons you’ll be manufacturing?” he asked. “Non-lethal?”

Horikita didn’t even pretend to hesitate. Her expression didn’t shift. Her body language didn’t falter.

“No,” she said. Like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like she was stating a scientific fact. Gravity. Thermodynamics. Weapons escalation.

Ayanokouji didn’t reply—he just waited.

“There will be other, more… creative options,” she said smoothly, fingers tracing one of the schematics almost fondly before pushing it aside to reveal a black folder beneath. “Disguised weaponry. Tools that look like the real thing—if the buyer desires that aesthetic. Others designed to be unrecognizable. Anything the buyer desires. The only limits will be what their imaginations can provide and what my technicians can produce.”

She opened the folder.

Inside: mockups of lipstick tubes with hidden blades, fountain pens that concealed a tiny syringe of paralytic toxin, and metallic cigarette lighters retrofitted to house ignition charges strong enough to break glass—or a kneecap.

“Some students want to make a statement,” she continued, glancing at him from under her lashes. “They want something loud. Brash. Obvious. A knife that looks like a knife. A… you get the point.. And that’s fine. Those orders are easy to fill—because they’re the ones most likely to get caught and serve as the perfect scapegoats.”

She said it like she was listing off grocery items.

Ayanokouji motioned to the neat, typed stack of blueprints and proposals. “And for the students who want more than a self-defense tool? The ones who want to cause actual harm?”

Horikita’s eyes glinted under the low, yellow light of the underground bunker. There was no hesitation. No pause.

“For those who want lethality,” she said calmly, “there will be a different tier.”

She turned and walked to a smaller drawer tucked beneath the desk. From within it, she pulled another manila folder. This one was marked in red ink, the words:
Tier-3 Operations: Restricted Access

“Guns,” she said, flipping it open. “Poisons. Nerve agents. Smoke bombs. Even customized drones with concealed payloads. These requests will be handled separately from the general order pool. No student will be able to request something lethal without undergoing a vetting protocol.”

“Vetting protocol?” Ayanokouji asked, raising a brow. “You’re going to screen students before you arm them?”

Horikita gave a short nod. “Correct. There will be interviews. Psychological profiles. I’ll use data gathered from surveillance, exam records, faculty feedback, and social behavior metrics. Hirata and Ichika will help create false counselor reports. Every dangerous request will be reviewed—and only approved if the fallout can be contained.”

Ayanokouji stared. “You’re planning to contain a gun.”

She met his gaze directly. “No. I’m planning to control the narrative.”

The silence after her words felt like glass stretching, about to shatter.

“You’re going to allow students to access lethal weapons,” he said slowly. “In a school.”

“I’m going to sell them lethal weapons,” Horikita corrected. “To the right students. With the right enemies. And with the right reasons. I won’t arm sociopaths. But I will arm revolutionaries. Students on the brink of destruction. Students who have no one left and nowhere to go.”

She walked back toward him now, placing the Tier-3 folder on top of the others.

“I am not creating monsters,” she said. “I’m creating balance. Controlled chaos. I am eliminating the randomness of pain in this school and making it predictable. I decide who gets hurt. I decide who gets protected. And yes—there will be casualties. But they will be intentional. Not accidents. Not symptoms of a broken system.”

“And the poisons?” Ayanokouji asked, barely above a whisper.

Horikita nodded. “They’ll be produced by a specialized branch of the Kisei Biochem program. Cloaked as pharmaceutical studies—sleep agents, truth serums, anxiety suppressants, aphrodisiacs. Delivered through edibles, perfumes, pills, vaporizers. We’ll start with trace amounts in non-lethal doses to test student reaction. Anything stronger will require a formalized tier request.”

Ayanokouji looked down again. The words on the documents blurred slightly. He wasn’t sure if it was from exhaustion or the sheer weight of what she was saying.

“You’re building an underworld,” he murmured. “You’re creating a school-wide black market, divided by class, psychology, and social vulnerability.”

Horikita leaned closer.

“You’re not as dense as I thought”

Horikita stood with her arms crossed, the light from the bare bulb above catching the gold in her bangles and the faint metallic thread running through her dress. There was a stillness to her—like the silence before a detonation—and Ayanokouji had learned by now that when Horikita paused, she wasn’t searching for words.

She was measuring impact.

“You’re not as dense as I thought,” she said finally, her tone unreadable—mockery laced in velvet, or maybe something resembling reluctant praise. Or maybe just Suzune being Suzune: brutal, exact, and devastating in her clarity.

Ayanokouji blinked once.

He didn’t ask what she meant. He just tucked the words away, like he did everything else.

“So then,” he said, stepping slightly to the side to glance at the documents again, “the Kisei Biochem Program… that’ll operate separately from the ones producing the nootropics and stimulants?”

“Correct,” Horikita replied, her tone flat as a scalpel. “There will be division of labor. The general-use compounds—the things that mimic stress suppressants, hyper-focus enhancers, and emotional stabilizers—will be crafted by the ‘undergrad researchers’ in the Biochem Development Initiative.”

She tapped her manicured finger against the folder marked with the Kisei Institute’s medical seal.

“But the specialty compounds—the poisons, the sedatives, the amnestics, and truth serums—those will be restricted to a different lab team. They’ll believe they’re working on prototype medical emergency agents. ‘Controlled chemical therapies for psychiatric and combat response conditions.’ It’s all there in their forged contracts.”

Ayanokouji nodded slowly, the logic unfolding itself in his mind with terrifying coherence. Two teams. Two goals. Neither knowing about the other’s true purpose. And both believing they were chosen for their excellence.

“And this black market of yours?” he asked. “What else is included?”

Horikita didn’t respond right away. She turned slightly, walking to the far side of the room where a tall whiteboard stood, half-covered with documents, names, hand-drawn charts, and a web of crimson thread linking them all. At the bottom corner was a list written in her neat handwriting:
Substances

Protection

Surveillance

Weapons

Favors

Her hand drifted down to that last word.

“…Favors,” she said at last.

The word came out quiet. Not weak. Measured.

Ayanokouji waited.

Horikita turned back to face him, her expression as composed as always, though her eyes shimmered with that unmistakable, dangerous edge that only came out when she was truly herself.

“Most students won’t need a weapon,” she said calmly. “Most don’t even want drugs. But every single one of them? They need something. Answers. Opportunities. Mercy. Revenge. Forgiveness. Silence. Influence.”

She walked slowly back to the table, resting one hand against its edge as if the next piece of the puzzle required just the right dramatic weight.

She tapped a section of the board titled Favor Ledger. Beneath it were dozens of color-coded names—each tagged with notes: ’Paper rewrite.’ ‘Club sabotage.’ ‘Faculty distraction.’ ‘Room swap.’ ‘Relationship destruction.’

“You’d be amazed,” she continued, “how many people are willing to trade their dignity, their pride, their loyalty, just to have someone handle something messy for them.”

“And what do you charge?” Ayanokouji asked.

“Depends on the favor,” she answered. “Sometimes it’s points. Sometimes money. Sometimes information. Sometimes silence. I’ve created a secondary market within the black market—one that runs on credit.”

Ayanokouji frowned. “Debt.”

Horikita smiled again. “Exactly. They’ll owe me. And the moment I call it in, they won’t even think to say no.”

She walked toward a heavy-looking filing cabinet tucked beneath a tattered school banner. She pulled open the top drawer and produced a thick leather-bound ledger, flipping through page after page of logged “contracts”—requests fulfilled, debts created, alliances quietly forged in ink and secrecy.

Ayanokouji stared at it.

“You’ve created an invisible economy,” he murmured. “Every favor, every task, every betrayal—recorded and catalogued.”

“Yes,” Horikita said. “Because points are just a symptom of power. Favors are the currency of control.”

She held the ledger out toward him.

“Take a look. Page 19. See whose name you find.”

Reluctantly, Ayanokouji took it, his fingers trailing along the thick binding. He flipped to the page.

His eyes stopped.

“Hashimoto,” he read aloud.

Horikita nodded, satisfied. “He owed me three favors. I called in one last week. He sabotaged Nagumo’s schedule—cancelled a mandatory student council prep meeting without notice. Nagumo arrived unprepared in front of Chairman Tsukishiro. You can imagine how that went.”

“You’re going to burn this place to the ground,” he said quietly.

Horikita stepped closer, her breath cool against his neck.

“No,” she whispered. “I’m going to make them thank me for the fire.”

“You’ve weaponised favors,” he said finally, his voice low and quiet, reverberating in the chilled air of the hidden chamber.

Horikita nodded once, a quiet sort of pride flitting in her expression, but not joy. She hadn’t built this empire for satisfaction. She built it because she could.

“I learned early,” she began, walking slowly back toward the board, “that students—no matter how proud, no matter how polished—will always choose the easy wrong over the hard right if it’s offered with enough discretion. All they need is the illusion that they’re still the ones in control.”

She traced one of the lines connecting three names: a minor club leader, a failing upperclassman, and a boy whose name Ayanokouji barely recognized.

“All I did,” she said softly, “was make it easy for them.”

She tapped the name Nariko Murakami with a fingernail. Next to it: Room Swap – Class 2-D.
“She wanted to room with a boy she liked. Problem was, the room was full. So she asked for help. I moved her in, cleared the original roommate by exposing a minor cheating scandal, and destroyed a relationship in the process.”

Ayanokouji blinked. “For what? A date?”

“For a favor,” Horikita answered. “Nariko is a photographer for the school’s unofficial news blog. She controls the lens of the student body’s public perception. Now she filters images through my narrative.” She stepped closer, her heels silent on the worn tiles beneath them. “One whispered request. One broken couple. One new tool in my arsenal.”

It was so clean. So efficient. So absolute.

"What else?" Aynokouji asked

“You’re not ready for all the answers,” she said, but the smirk playing at her lips betrayed the truth—she wanted to tell him. Maybe because it was him. Maybe because it was her way of showing off. Or maybe because deep down, part of her still believed in partnership, even if she twisted the word into something colder, sharper, and infinitely more dangerous.

“I’ll tell you the rest,” she said smoothly, stepping past him toward the long metal table in the center of the room. She dragged a thin drawer open, revealing several more folders. “But remember something, Ayanokouji…” Her eyes met his. “Everything here is real. Tangible. Consequential. This isn’t theoretical anymore.”

“I understand,” he said. He wasn’t sure if he did. But he meant it.

Horikita placed the folders on the table and began flipping through them one by one, each bearing a new label—each one an extension of her black market, her empire beneath the surface.

Identity Services
“The first thing I started offering,” she explained, “was identity manipulation. A fake parent signature. Forged attendance logs. Cleaned-up test records. Club participation certificates. If you want to join the track team but your grades aren’t good enough? I fix that. You want to appear on the honors list to impress a girl? I make it happen. A background check for an internship? I create it from scratch.”

She tapped the folder. Inside were fake report cards, parent notes with identical handwriting samples, even falsified emails between students and staff—all printed on official stationery, even down to Principal Mashima’s forged signature.

“How?” Ayanokouji asked.

“I have someone in the office who thinks she’s helping me balance student workload inequalities,” Horikita said with a wry look. “She’s my proofreader. She types up most of these without realizing they’re fraud.”

Emotional Services

The next folder was a soft green one labeled Companionship.

Ayanokouji raised an eyebrow.

“Don’t jump to conclusions,” Horikita said dryly. “I’m not running a dating ring. But I am running an emotional outlet network. Some students just want to feel needed, admired, loved. So I created profiles—boys and girls—trained to offer companionship for an hour or two. Pretend dates. Emotional support. Words of affirmation. All paid in points or favors.”

“You’ve hired actors,” he said.

“I’ve trained them,” she corrected. “There’s a difference. They’re not pretending to care. They’re offering a curated experience. Just enough warmth to pull someone back from the edge, but never enough to let it get dangerous.”

“And if someone gets attached?”

“They sign a non-binding emotional waiver,” she said. “And I keep copies of every conversation for monitoring. If a boundary gets crossed, I pull the plug.”

Exam Prep Sabotage

She moved to the next folder, crisp and white with ACADEMIC STRATEGY stamped on it.

“This is where things get interesting,” she said. “I sell not only answers—but distractions. Students can pay to have their competition subtly sabotaged. A tutor doesn’t show up. A study group gets relocated without notice. A teacher suddenly adds ‘surprise topics’ to a test only certain students know about. I even offer last-minute cram materials for a price.”

Ayanokouji narrowed his eyes. “How do you manage all that?”

“Through scheduling manipulation,” she said. “I have someone in the Events Office who manages room bookings. They think I’m helping optimize study flow. In reality, I’m just moving the right people into the wrong rooms at the right times.”

Staff Influence

“The most profitable service,” Horikita said, pulling a folder labeled Faculty Relations. Inside were photos of staff, profiles, rumors, schedules.

“Blackmail?” Ayanokouji asked.

“Not usually,” she said. “I prefer strategic leverage. You’d be amazed how many teachers play favorites. I let them think they’re helping the right kids—the deserving ones. Sometimes it’s lunch vouchers, extended deadlines, grade curve bumps, exemption from cleaning duty. I use gossip, student feedback, minor manipulations. And if a teacher gets too curious, I replace them.”

“Replace them?” he repeated.

“I push them into taking temporary leave. Or I shift student pressure around them. Eventually, they crack.”

Reputation Engineering

Horikita leaned back now, her voice quieter.

“This one’s the simplest,” she said. “Students don’t rise or fall on skill alone. Perception is everything. So I created an artificial narrative control system. Photos, articles, rumors, and praise all distributed across student social media and whisper networks. I engineer the stories people believe.”

She showed him a mock news post.

Horikita opened the black folder next.

Security.

“This one includes surveillance footage edits. Hidden camera placement. Voice splicing. Data retrieval. If someone needs to erase a moment or fabricate one… this is the tier for it. We provide untraceable tech, trained students with access to internal systems, and the perfect alibi.”

Red folders came next.

Escapes.

“Need to disappear for a few hours?” Horikita said softly. “Want to fake illness to miss an exam? Want someone else to take a punishment for you? Want to break curfew without being caught?” She flipped through the red folder. “The Escape tier handles that. We supply false documentation, bribes to lenient faculty, nurse office access, and hall pass systems you’ve never seen before.”

Ayanokouji stood still. The air was heavy again. The walls, once concrete and ancient, now felt like they were built from secrets and sins.

“This is a different kind of battlefield,” he said.

“No,” Horikita whispered, closing the last folder. “This is still the same battlefield. It just doesn’t look like war anymore.”

That night, Ayanokouji lay in bed beneath the still ceiling fan, its lazy turn carving shadows across the walls. The dorm room was quiet, save for the gentle hum of the night outside—the distant wind, the hush of summer leaves brushing against one another. His phone buzzed once. A simple goodnight message from Ichinose. Sweet. Thoughtful. Kind.

He stared at it longer than he should’ve before setting the phone aside, face down.

And then, sleep.

Like clockwork.

The dream returned.

Same house. Same hill. Same old willow tree bowing just beside the porch, its leaves swaying like ribbons in the warm twilight breeze. A home that didn’t exist, but in his sleep, felt more real than anything in the waking world.

He didn’t remember how they got there.

Only that they were there.

Horikita sat beside him on a vintage green couch, the kind with cushions too deep and upholstery too soft. She wore a long-sleeved sweater and cotton shorts, her legs tucked beneath her. The light from the movie playing on the old television flickered softly across her face—casting her in golden warmth.

Not crimson. Not commanding. Not calculating.

Warm.

Her hair was down, slightly tousled, and her makeup gone. Her expression wasn’t the hard mask she wore at school—it was open, lazy even, as if for once, nothing in the world demanded her attention.

She turned slightly toward him, her head resting against his shoulder.

"You're warm," she mumbled.

He chuckled in that low, distant way dreams allow.

The movie played on, grainy and quiet, some black-and-white film neither of them cared much for. It was just background noise—an excuse to exist beside each other without having to explain the why of it.

Horikita’s hand slipped under his shirt lazily, not with hunger, but familiarity. She didn’t speak, not really. Just hummed a tune he didn’t know. A domestic rhythm he could never imagine her knowing.

Then, without preamble, she tilted her head up and pressed a slow, lingering kiss just beneath his jaw.

“I love you,” she whispered, almost bored in tone but devastating in delivery. “Always have.”

His heart stuttered in his chest like it always did when she got too close. Like even here, in the cradle of his subconscious, she held him by the throat with nothing but her presence.

Ayanokouji turned toward her.

He wanted to say it back.

He wanted to tell her that he loved her too, that he always had, even back when he denied it—back when she was just a rival, a classmate, a mask he thought he could see through. But when he opened his mouth…

Nothing came out.

Instead, Horikita smiled at him. Genuinely. Gently. As if she already knew what he was trying to say. Her fingers traced soft patterns along the side of his neck.

“You don’t have to say it,” she murmured. “You’re here. That’s enough.”

She curled into him then, arms folded against his chest, her breath steady and warm.

And for a fleeting moment—just one—he believed this could be real. That this version of her, this softness, this quiet love that didn’t ask for anything, wasn’t a lie. That somewhere, buried beneath all the sharp edges and brilliant schemes, Horikita Suzune did love him back.

And that maybe…

Maybe he wasn’t just a pawn.

But as dreams often do, it began to unravel.

Outside, the willow tree shuddered. The wind turned colder. The static of the movie grew louder.

And when he looked down again…

She was gone.

The couch was empty.

The room dimmed.

Only the echo of her touch remained—like the trace of perfume in a room long vacated, or the memory of warmth in a bed gone cold.

Ayanokouji’s eyes fluttered open.

The dorm ceiling greeted him.

The hum of the fan returned.

And his chest ached with a grief that had no name.

He rubbed at his eyes, quietly, angrily. They were wet.

Again.

The words slipped out before he could stop them—barely a whisper, as if spoken too loudly they’d shatter the fragile glass of his reality.

"I love you too," Ayanokouji breathed into the darkness, his voice thin and trembling, as if even now, alone in the silent cocoon of his dorm room, he wasn’t allowed to say it.

But he had to say it.

He had to let it out somewhere.

It echoed faintly in the stillness, as though the very walls recoiled from the confession. The air was thick—hot, unmoving, stifling—and still that phantom warmth of Horikita lingered in the sheets. Not physically. Not in scent. Not in anything tangible. But in memory. In the hallucination of a dream where her smile didn’t come with conditions and her touch didn’t mean control.

He blinked slowly, his fingers clutching the edge of the mattress like an anchor.

She wasn’t here.

Of course, she wasn’t. Horikita didn’t belong in soft dreams and lazy smiles. She belonged in whispered plans beneath the school, in contracts signed in blood, in puppet strings and cold glances.

But God—he wanted her to.

He wanted that version of her. The one who curled against him like they had always fit together. The one who said, “You don’t have to say it.” The one who believed being with him was enough.

But maybe that Horikita didn’t exist.

Maybe she never had.

Maybe it was just what he wished she could be. What he let himself believe she might become—if he stayed. If he helped. If he followed her deeper into her empire of shadows and smoke.

Ayanokouji exhaled shakily, dragging his palms over his face, into his hair. He was slipping. Losing whatever distance he had left between himself and the girl who wore power like perfume.

And worse?

She didn’t know.

She couldn’t know.

If she did—if she even suspected—she’d weaponise it.

Because that’s what Horikita Suzune did.

And still…

“I love you,” he whispered again, quieter this time, more to himself than anyone else. As if the words might ground him. Or maybe drown him. He didn’t know which he preferred.

The night didn’t answer him.

Only the steady hum of the fan and the weight of dreams he couldn’t bear to forget.

Chapter Text

The next morning, sunlight bled gently into the world as if it hadn’t heard the things Ayanokouji had whispered into the dark.

He dressed like always—clean lines, pressed uniform, perfectly neutral. But the feeling from the dream still clung to him, stubborn as ash. He hadn’t slept much after waking. Just lay there, staring at the ceiling, hearing her laugh from the dream echo in his mind.

Horikita’s laugh.

But now, he was with Ichinose. And Ichinose was warmth. Light. Simplicity.

She had texted him again that morning, chipper and sweet, and dragged him to that newly opened café on the outer edge of campus—Brew & Bloom, it was called. Bright decor, light music playing, and ivy hanging in ceramic pots from the ceiling. All of it too cheery for the thoughts buzzing in his head.

Ichinose sat across from him in a yellow blouse, smiling like nothing in the world could touch her. She looked like she belonged in this place—open, smiling, full of good intentions. She held her drink between her hands like it was something delicate.

“I’m really glad we get to spend time together again,” she said softly. “Lately everything’s felt a little... different, but this—it feels like before.”

Ayanokouji nodded. “Yeah. It does.”

But it didn’t. Not to him.

He stirred his coffee just to do something with his hands, watching the milk cloud slowly dissolve. He wondered if she noticed how quiet he’d been. How much of his attention was just slightly—tilted.

She reached across the table, her fingers brushing his wrist. “Hey. Are you okay?”

He looked up. Her eyes were so wide and kind, full of concern. So different from the eyes in his dream, that looked at him like they already owned every piece of him.

“I’m fine,” he replied with the same evenness he always did. “Just didn’t sleep well.”

Ichinose gave a soft hum of sympathy, her thumb tracing small circles against his skin. “Maybe you’re thinking too much again. You always get quiet when you’re overthinking.”

He didn’t answer right away. His mind flicked to Horikita again—her spin, her confidence, her kingdom beneath the school. The feeling of her body curled into his on a dream-soaked couch. Her lips pressed to his skin, just because.

Then back to Ichinose. Present. Smiling. Real.

“I’ll try not to overthink,” he said at last, offering her a small smile. It was the best he could manage.

Ichinose’s eyes softened, clearly satisfied with the gesture. “That’s all I ask.”

They ate together after that, her talking gently, occasionally laughing, while he offered just enough to keep the conversation going. It wasn’t unpleasant. In fact, he wanted to want this—this quiet, simple morning with a girl who genuinely cared for him.

But part of him—traitorous and aching—was still on a couch that didn’t exist, in a house that never had, with a girl who’d never once said she loved him, but who in that dream had meant it in every touch.

“I’ll walk you to class,” Ayanokouji said calmly as they exited the café. The breeze was soft, brushing past in slow intervals, carrying the scent of brewed coffee and early summer leaves.

Ichinose lit up at his offer. “Really? That’d be nice,” she said, slipping her hand into the crook of his offered arm. She leaned into him slightly, a picture of ease and warmth.

It felt foreign. Not wrong, not unpleasant—just... not grounded.

As they walked past the main courtyard, the hum of students beginning their day buzzed around them. Laughter, snippets of hurried conversation, rustling bags and the occasional chime from phones. He let the sounds blur together, until something made his steps hitch.

Across the way, near the benches by the flower beds, stood Horikita. And she was smiling.

Not a practiced smirk. Not a sarcastic quirk. A smile.

She was speaking to Hirata, who stood with his usual gentle air, hands in his pockets, that effortless charm radiating off him. But Ayanokouji had known Hirata long enough to see past it. The smile Hirata gave back—it wasn’t just friendly. It wasn’t even flirty.

It was calculating.

A flicker passed through Ayanokouji’s mind, sharp and unwelcome. He stopped walking mid-step, gaze lingering on the way Horikita tilted her head, the soft line of her shoulders as she laughed—laughed—at something Hirata said. And again, her smile held.

Ichinose looked up at him curiously. “Something wrong?”

He forced his eyes away. “Nothing. Thought I saw something.”

But he had. He wasn’t sure what—only that something in Hirata’s expression was off. Subtle. Intentional. Like a hunter watching prey that didn’t even know it was being stalked. And Horikita—damn her—she was smiling. Really smiling. The way she hadn’t even smiled in the dream.

And yet… it felt wrong.

Not like it shouldn’t happen—but like it wasn’t her.

“She seems... happy,” Ichinose said beside him, having followed his line of sight before he could redirect her. She sounded surprised. Maybe even a little skeptical. “I didn’t think they were that close.”

“They weren’t,” Ayanokouji replied, and the words tasted heavier than they should have.

He watched a moment longer. Long enough to see Hirata gently place his hand on Horikita’s shoulder, and her not flinch. Not roll her eyes. She let him.

A quiet, irrational surge coiled in his chest, and he didn’t recognize it at first. But it was possessive. Not jealous. Not yet. But alert. On edge. Like some primal instinct had been set off deep beneath his composed exterior.

He didn’t say anything else as they continued walking. Ichinose tried to keep the conversation going, bless her, talking about club events and how the café’s pastries reminded her of her hometown, but he only gave half-hearted replies.

His thoughts kept circling back—like a loop he couldn’t escape.

Horikita. Smiling. With Hirata.

And something about it didn’t sit right.

Not because she was happy.

But because he didn’t know why she was.

“Maybe something changed,” Ichinose said, her tone brightening as she squeezed his arm. Then her eyes lit up with a spark of romantic curiosity, and she gasped. “Maybe they like each other!”

Ayanokouji blinked slowly, letting the suggestion hang in the air.

“Maybe,” he said, though the word landed with a strange hollowness on his tongue.

Ichinose looked up at him, about to ask more—probably something playful, something sweet, the way she always did when her mind was off chasing daydreams and connections—but before she could, they reached the classroom.

There were already a few students filing in. The bell hadn’t rung yet, and a handful lingered in the hallway chatting in low voices.

“Guess this is you,” Ayanokouji said smoothly, and leaned in.

He didn’t think about it, didn’t overanalyze the moment. Just placed a light kiss on her lips—just enough to draw a small sound of surprise from her and a flustered blink.

When he pulled away, her cheeks were tinted pink.

“Wha—wait, hey!” she called after him, but he was already walking off without looking back.

He felt her stare on his back for a long few seconds, and then the door shut behind her as she went inside.

Ayanokouji didn’t return to his own classroom right away. He took the long way around the building, his hands in his pockets and his thoughts dragging behind him like an anchor.

He should’ve dismissed it. Brushed it off like everything else.

But the way Horikita had smiled…

It wasn’t like her. Not the Horikita he’d come to know. She’d softened around the edges lately, sure. Let her guard down a bit. Let him in—even if she never really said it out loud.

But she didn’t smile like that. Not for just anyone.

And not for Hirata.

Something didn’t add up. He’d seen Hirata wear countless masks—always kind, always collected, the perfect golden boy. But that look in his eye earlier? It wasn’t the usual social polish. It was focused. Like he wanted something.

And Horikita? Either she didn’t see it…

Or she let him think she didn’t.

He wasn’t sure which one bothered him more.

Ayanokouji turned a corner and paused in a quieter hallway. There was no one around. Just the distant shuffle of shoes and a faint announcement over the PA system.

He pulled out his phone. For a second, he stared at the screen, then at the blank message box in his chat with Horikita. His thumb hovered.

Then he typed:

“Meet me after school. We need to talk.”

He didn’t wait for a reply. He just put the phone away and continued walking, the sound of the class bell finally ringing behind him.

The classroom was unusually light that morning.

Sunlight poured through the high windows, casting soft reflections off the desks, and a breeze drifted through the cracked-open pane near the back, ruffling papers and tugging at a few stray strands of hair.

And at the center of it all—Horikita Suzune was giggling.

It wasn’t forced. It wasn’t part of a calculated move. It was genuine, soft, and even a little awkward, like she wasn’t used to letting that sound out of her mouth in front of anyone.

She sat sideways on her desk, one leg crossed over the other, feet swinging lightly as she talked with a few of the girls who’d circled around her. It wasn’t a crowd—just two or three classmates who had been slowly warming up to her over the last few weeks. Her tone was light. She made a sarcastic remark that earned a ripple of laughter, even a gentle smack on the arm from one of the girls who knew she didn’t really mean it.

Her shoulders weren’t so stiff anymore. Her voice didn’t drop to a hush every time someone new joined the conversation. She wasn’t trying to be part of the class anymore—she simply was.

Karuizawa stood close by, half-leaning on her own desk, watching the scene with tired but amused eyes. Her posture was more relaxed than it had been in weeks, and her laugh—even if it didn’t reach the far corners of her expression—still sounded like hers again. Like the version of her from before everything cracked.

Her eyes, however, remained dulled, hollow in the way of someone who’d looked too long at something she wasn’t supposed to see and now couldn’t unsee it. She hadn’t fully come back yet. But she was trying. And in her own quiet way, she seemed glad—relieved, maybe—to have Horikita there.

For once, Horikita wasn’t just the class representative. She was a classmate. Someone the girls could talk to. Someone real.

Yukimura glanced up from his desk and did a double-take. Even Sakura looked up from her book and blinked in surprise at the sound of laughter—Horikita’s laughter, of all things.

And Hirata?

He stood not far off, watching with a soft, serene expression. He didn’t join in, didn’t interrupt—just watched, like he was proud of what was unfolding.

But there was something else, too.

A flicker of calculation. A glint in his eye that looked more like quiet ownership than admiration. Like a man who had finally managed to polish something that once seemed too rough to touch.

And that?

That was what Ayanokouji had seen earlier.

That was what didn’t sit right.

The door slid open suddenly, and Chabashira-sensei walked in, coffee in hand and her usual no-nonsense energy wrapped around her like a cloak.

“Seats, now,” she called.

The girls dispersed with cheerful murmurs, returning to their places. Horikita slid off her desk with a graceful motion, still smiling faintly as she took her seat, and Karuizawa offered her a knowing look before they both settled in.

From the corner of the room, Ayanokouji finally entered.

He didn’t say a word as he passed her. But his eyes caught hers—just for a second.

Her smile faltered.

And then class began.

Class passed like any other.

Lectures were lectures. Assignments were scribbled down in notebooks. The soft hum of Chabashira’s voice filtered in and out, broken by the scratching of pens, the occasional shuffle of a chair, or the low murmur of agreement when she mentioned something that would likely appear on the next quiz.

Ike and Yamauchi, of course, couldn’t resist.

Every now and then, one of them would whisper something stupid across their desks—usually about lunch, girls, or how Hirata probably had six secret girlfriends—and earn a burst of laughter from the other. Chabashira didn’t even look up anymore. She just let the noise slide by with a sigh and continued.

Ayanokouji, for his part, said nothing. As always. But his gaze drifted toward Horikita more than once.

Not because he meant to. It was more like his eyes were drawn there, unwillingly, every time she leaned closer to whisper something to one of the girls. Every time she smiled or tilted her head as if considering a joke before softly letting out another of those giggles.

It was new. And yet it wasn’t entirely unnatural.

It suited her.

That part was what disturbed him most.

When the lunch bell rang, chairs scraped back and bags zipped up. The students spilled into the hallway like water from a tilted bucket, some already complaining about the cafeteria lines, others boasting about their new energy drink discoveries or limited-time desserts.

Horikita stayed back just long enough for Hirata to finish gathering his things. They walked side by side toward the cafeteria, chatting.

It wasn’t flirtatious—not outwardly. Hirata kept his voice gentle, warm. He laughed at something she said about a reading they’d been assigned. She nodded along, responding in complete sentences, even asking him questions back.

To an outsider, they might’ve looked like a couple.

To Ayanokouji, following behind at a lazy pace, it looked like a performance—but he couldn't tell if it was her pretending for Hirata or Hirata pretending for her. Or worse—neither of them pretending at all.

As they waited in line for food, Hirata leaned in to whisper something to her, probably about which curry was better or which desserts had already sold out. Horikita rolled her eyes and gave a small laugh before giving her answer.

And then, without warning, she shifted.

She turned slightly, as if sensing someone behind her—perhaps she had. Perhaps it was him. But she didn’t make eye contact.

Instead, she gave Hirata a brief nod and peeled away from the line entirely.

“Save me a seat,” she said simply.

She walked across the cafeteria with confidence, her tray in hand, heading straight toward a crowded corner where laughter and conversation were already flowing. Sakayanagi sat at the center of it, her wheelchair tucked neatly between two benches as she held court over nearly every other girl from their year.

Ichika, Kushida, Satou, even Matsushita—all were there. Girls from Class A, B, C, and D. The most powerful and the most overlooked. Somehow, they'd all clustered together in what looked like a spontaneously forming coalition.

And Horikita walked right into it.

She greeted them calmly, even nodded to Sakayanagi with a neutral sort of politeness before slipping into a seat. Some of the girls scooted over to make space for her immediately. Conversation didn’t pause—if anything, it lifted with curiosity and interest.

Horikita didn’t dominate the conversation. She didn’t even seem to try.

But she was included.

Kushida passed her a bottle of tea without asking. Matsushita offered her half a boiled egg from her tray. Satou cracked a joke and leaned in to whisper the punchline to her, and Horikita—again—laughed.

A soft, unguarded laugh.

Hirata watched from the other side of the room, seated now, tray untouched.

He smiled.

But his hand was clenched beneath the table.

And Ayanokouji? He took a seat at the far end of the cafeteria, his own tray of food cooling beside him, eyes narrowed just slightly as he watched the impossible unfold.

Horikita wasn’t just breaking out of her shell.

She was changing the shape of the room.

And the people around her?

They were letting her do it.

But to what end—and under whose influence—that was still unclear.

After the last bell echoed through the hallways and the school emptied into a river of students eager to disappear into the freedom of the afternoon, Horikita Suzune remained seated at her desk for a moment longer, her fingers idly scrolling through her phone’s notifications. The screen glowed softly in the dimming light of the classroom, casting faint shadows across her focused face.

Ayanokouji’s message was there, blinking insistently in her inbox: “Meet me after school. We need to talk.”

She read it once. Twice. Then, without a hint of hesitation, she locked her phone and slipped it into the pocket of her school blazer, the motion practiced and deliberate. The message would wait.

Because Horikita had bigger things to attend to.

She rose smoothly, her red lipstick catching the last rays of the setting sun filtering through the windows, and stepped into the quiet halls. The school felt different at this hour—still, almost expectant—as if it too was holding its breath for what was about to come.

Horikita moved with purpose, her heels clicking softly against the polished floor as she disappeared into a secluded corner of the campus where the shadows grew long and the hum of everyday life faded away.

Hours slipped by in a blur of hushed conversations, careful movements, and calculated decisions. Her plans unfolded like a spider weaving a web—intricate, precise, and lethal.

When twilight deepened into night, Horikita finally glanced at her phone again.

She tapped out a message:

“Meeting this Thursday night at 11. Look nice. Come get me. Don’t be late.”

She sent it without a second thought.

The words were cold and commanding, but beneath that frost lay the unmistakable pulse of expectation.

The game was entering a new phase.

And Horikita Suzune was ready to lead.

Ayanokouji stared at the message longer than he needed to.

Meeting this Thursday night at 11. Look nice. Come get me. Don’t be late.

It was curt. Commanding. Cryptic, even for Horikita. He read it again. Then again.

He didn’t reply.

The next morning, the confusion still lingered at the back of his mind like the last remnants of a bad dream. But he didn’t let it show. Not when Ichinose met him outside the dorms with a cheerful smile and a soft, "Morning!" that nearly swept the tension from his mind.

They walked together down the tree-lined path, Ichinose excitedly recounting something from one of her group chats. Ayanokouji offered the occasional hum, a small smile, a nod in the right places. His hands were buried in his pockets, but his posture had relaxed slightly in her presence.

He bought her coffee from the little café she liked—a caramel latte with just a hint of cinnamon, the way she always asked for it—and she practically lit up. Ichinose leaned close as they walked, the edge of her scarf brushing his arm, eyes warm.

“You’re sweet, you know that?” she said, looking up at him, cheeks tinted from the morning chill.

He gave her a barely-there smile. “You’ve said that before.”

“Because it’s true.”

By the time they reached the building, the halls were already buzzing. They stopped outside her classroom, and she hesitated a moment before stepping inside. Ayanokouji leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to her lips—something simple, something grounding. Her fingers curled into the fabric of his sleeve for a moment before she let go with a bright, “See you later!”

As he turned to go, his gaze swept across the hall—and locked onto Horikita.

She stood with Hirata by the lockers, her hair falling neatly over her shoulder, a perfectly polite smile on her lips. Hirata said something that made her laugh. Not her usual restrained, tactical amusement—an actual laugh. It wasn’t loud, but it was real enough that Ayanokouji’s steps slowed.

It was a strange sight. The way she angled her body toward Hirata, the casual nature of their conversation, the genuine tone of her voice—he couldn’t place it. It wasn’t performative. It wasn’t cold. It wasn’t Horikita as he knew her.

And Hirata… he looked almost smug. Not in an overt way, but there was something self-satisfied in his posture. A sort of quiet confidence that hadn’t been there before.

Ayanokouji narrowed his eyes ever so slightly.

Something had shifted.

And whether it was part of a game Horikita was playing, or something real beginning to sprout in the shadows of their war, he couldn’t quite tell.

But he knew one thing for certain:

Thursday night… would be interesting.

Thursday night arrived cloaked in warm shadows and the distant hum of cicadas still clinging to summer’s end.

Ayanokouji stood outside the girls' dormitory, hands tucked into the pockets of his dark jacket. The campus was silent, bathed in a soft golden haze from the few lampposts that lit the path behind him. 11 o'clock on the dot. He hadn't responded to Horikita’s message—hadn't asked for clarification, hadn’t protested the vagueness—but he was here.

Because he always was.

The door opened behind him with a faint click.

His posture didn’t shift, but his gaze lifted just enough to catch her silhouette—and he had to consciously stop his expression from changing.

Horikita stepped out of the dorm like she’d been born to rule it.

Her suit was a deep navy-black, fitted perfectly to her slim frame, sharp-shouldered and tailored in a way that somehow emphasized both power and elegance. Beneath the jacket, a simple yet elegant black top dipped into a slight V, and her slacks flowed down to pointed heels that clicked softly on the pavement. Her hair was drawn back into a sleek ponytail, no flyaways in sight, emphasizing the delicate angles of her jaw and the controlled intensity in her eyes.

But what struck him most was the lipstick—a bold red, unapologetic, painted on with precision. Not an accident. A message.

And hanging around her neck, resting just above her collarbone, was that same familiar necklace: a single, small ‘A’ charm.

Ayanokouji’s eyes flicked toward it briefly before meeting her gaze.

She stopped in front of him, perfectly composed, eyes unreadable, like this was just another strategy meeting between war generals. But there was something in the way her lips curled—not quite a smirk, not quite a smile.

“You’re on time,” she said coolly, glancing at her phone like she hadn’t expected him to be.

“You said not to be late.”

“Good,” she said simply, and walked past him, heels clicking with quiet authority.

He turned and followed without a word. For a few moments, they walked in silence under the flickering glow of campus lights. The tension between them wasn’t awkward—it was charged, electric, yet subtle, like the silent pause before a violin string is drawn.

Finally, he asked, “Where are we going?”

“You’ll see.”

Of course. No answers. Only hints. But her tone was deliberate—almost playful beneath the layers of control. She was making him chase again, and yet, as she led him further into the night, Ayanokouji couldn’t help but wonder: who was really in control of this evening?

And what exactly did she mean by look nice?

Because he did.

But she looked dangerous.

They walked in silence, the rhythm of their steps echoing softly against the deserted halls. Ayanokouji noticed quickly that they were heading off-campus, but didn’t question it. He recognized the path—he remembered it from before.

They were heading back to that place.

The old, seemingly forgotten building tucked at the edge of the school grounds, hidden behind overgrown trees and long-abandoned landscaping. The place that looked condemned from the outside, its windows dusty, its frame aged with time—but whose secrets lay buried much deeper.

Horikita led the way without hesitation, as though she owned every inch of ground they crossed. She didn’t glance back once to see if he was still following. She didn’t need to.

They entered through a side door, the creak of its hinges long since familiar to Ayanokouji. Inside, the building felt cold, silent… haunted by a hundred unspoken conversations and dangerous deals whispered through the dust.

They didn’t pause. She led him down into the underground.

The same underground hallway she’d revealed to him once before—just a glimpse of something larger. Now, she was guiding him deeper into its hidden veins, past dim overhead lights that buzzed and flickered, past sealed doors and decaying walls. The stillness here was oppressive, like the air had been holding its breath for years.

And then—light.

They stepped into what looked like a repurposed office space, or what once had been. The room was large, lit by overhead fixtures that gave off a low, golden glow. Desks had been pushed aside or dismantled completely, replaced by a long meeting table at the front and scattered chairs around the space. On the walls were old, peeling posters and chalkboards still bearing scribbled notes from another era—but now, the room pulsed with a very modern, very real energy.

It was packed.

Ayanokouji’s eyes swept the room. Hirata was seated near the left, back ramrod straight, eyes wary but present. Rokusuke Kōenji, unusually serious, lounged near the edge of the group, eyes half-lidded as though amused by the entire affair.

Ryuen sat dead center, spread out in a chair like he owned the place, arms crossed. His crew flanked him—Ishizaki leaned forward as if itching to say something cocky, while Albert stood tall behind him, silent. Ibuki sat just beside Ryuen, legs crossed, one brow raised slightly as her sharp eyes flicked between Horikita and Ayanokouji.

Sakayanagi was here, too. Somehow unsurprising. She sat with an easy smile in her custom wheelchair, Kamuro and Hashimoto at her side. Her fingers tapped idly on the armrest, the rhythm of a song only she could hear.

Every person in the room was important. Every pair of eyes turned when they entered.

And the desk at the very front—the seat of power—was empty.

Until Horikita crossed the room without a word and sat down behind it.

Not like she was assuming control.

But like she already had it.

Her posture was impeccable, her gaze steady, her expression unreadable. The bold red lipstick hadn’t smudged in the slightest. She folded her hands on the desk, shoulders squared, eyes meeting the room with cold confidence.

No one questioned her.

Not Hirata. Not Ryuen. Not even Sakayanagi, whose grin only grew more intrigued.

Ayanokouji stood at her side, silent, unreadable, the observer and the ghost in the machine. But for the first time in a long while, he wasn’t the one pulling the strings.

Horikita Suzune was seated at the helm.

And it looked disturbingly right.

Ryuen let out a low chuckle, clearly entertained by her assertion, but he didn’t speak—yet. Sakayanagi tilted her head slightly, eyes glimmering with amusement, but she too remained quiet, allowing Horikita her moment. Ayanokouji stood near the back, arms crossed, observing carefully as the room silently acknowledged Horikita’s words.

“I don’t care who you used to be,” Horikita continued, voice cold but calm. “You’re here because you want something. Money. Favors. Power. Information. You’ll get it—if you earn it. But make no mistake: this isn’t some school club. It’s not a hobby. This is a real operation. And if you cross the line, you’ll be out before you can even apologize.”

Ibuki smirked, leaning her weight into one hip. “Tough talk. Hope you’ve got more than words.”

Horikita met her stare. “You’ll find out soon enough.”

From the shadows near the far wall, Ryuen finally stepped forward, hands in his pockets. “Fine by me,” he said with a grin. “Just don’t expect me to bow.”

“I’d never expect something so unnatural,” Horikita replied smoothly, “but I do expect results. Each of you will play your part.”

She opened a folder on the desk before her and began reading out assignments—Ryuen’s group would manage distribution logistics through channels previously used for exam sabotage. Sakayanagi’s girls would handle data procurement and intelligence exchange, using their pristine reputations as shields. Hirata, surprisingly, was given oversight of the public mask—the clean face of any social projects they’d align with.

Then she glanced at Ayanokouji. “You’ll stay with me. For now.”

He didn’t respond, only nodded.

Horikita stood again. “You all have your roles. This network is to run seamlessly. If something goes wrong, I’ll know who was responsible. We’ll reconvene next week—same time. Until then, stay quiet. Stay smart.”

With that, she dismissed the meeting. One by one, the students filed out—some curious, some skeptical, but none of them foolish enough to challenge her directly.

When the room was nearly empty, Horikita turned to Ayanokouji, still seated beside her desk, still watching everything. “So?” she asked. “What do you think?”

He stared at her for a moment, then said flatly, “You’re building an empire.”

Horikita didn’t smile, but her eyes flicked with satisfaction. “No,” she said, brushing a loose strand of hair back. “I’m building a kingdom. And every kingdom needs its ghost.”

Ayanokouji met her gaze. “And what’s the ghost’s job?”

“To ensure it survives the war that’s coming.”

They left the underground office together. Horikita didn’t reach for his hand, didn’t say another word—but Ayanokouji could still feel her pulse in the air beside him.

She didn’t need to say it.

He was already in too deep.

"whats Hiratas role?" Ayanokouji said

"he helps coordinate everything being trafficked into and out of the school. he also coordinates the black market in the school, " Horikita responded "he's quite the asset"

“Hirata’s the last person I would’ve pegged for black market logistics,” he said quietly, though there wasn’t judgment in his tone—only curiosity.

Horikita didn’t flinch. “Exactly why he’s perfect for it. No one suspects the golden boy.”

She began walking again, heels tapping softly against the concrete floor as they headed back through the underground corridors. “People trust him. Teachers adore him. Students lean on him. He has access to places even I don’t. He doesn’t have to sneak around—he just walks in and smiles.”

Ayanokouji glanced at the faded brick walls, still taking everything in. “What does he get out of it?”

“Control,” Horikita said simply. “It’s not always about power in the traditional sense. For him, it’s about maintaining the illusion of peace. This way, he keeps things from boiling over. It’s a deal he made with himself—better to be the one steering the chaos than letting it run wild. And payment of course."

"You seem to have an abundance of points" Ayanokouji said "explain"

Horikita looked at him like mother about to scold her child

"...please" ayanokouji asked voice gentle this time

"the point system is digital" Horikita responded "it isnt easy to manipulate. family members and friends outside of the school can pay to have points put into a students account. Using this knowlege I had someone hack into my account and increase the amount while also making it appear that someone outside of the school added into my account to avoid suspision "

Horikita’s voice was calm and level, but there was a glint in her eyes now—a silent dare. “It’s risky, yes. But not impossible. Especially if you have the right people in the right places. A fake wire trail, forged documentation, and a little bit of smoke and mirrors... it’s just enough to pass the school’s security system.”

Ayanokouji nodded slowly, taking in the weight of what she was saying. “And if they ever audit you?”

“They won’t,” she replied confidently. “Because the school only audits accounts under suspicion. And I’ve made sure mine looks squeaky clean—perfect little overachiever with a generous family. Besides, Sakayanagi’s father has enough clout to distract anyone who looks too closely at our side of the board.”

Ayanokouji looked at her, almost amused. “So Sakayanagi’s involved for cover?”

“She’s involved because she wants to be,” Horikita replied with a shrug. “But yes, she’s useful in more ways than one. Her involvement legitimizes us to the upper-class students. They think it’s a game. She enjoys manipulating them.”

“And what about Ryuen?”

“Fear.” Horikita stopped walking, turning toward him fully. “He keeps the underclass in line. No one dares step out when he’s watching. And even better—he thinks this whole thing is about brute force. He hasn’t figured out that we’re using him as a leash.”

Ayanokouji’s brow twitched, almost imperceptibly. “So everyone here is being used in one way or another.”

“Everyone except you,” Horikita said softly, the echo of her heels ceasing in the silence that followed. “You’re the one person I can’t afford to manipulate.”

He looked at her, quiet again. Something passed between them, unspoken.

Then he asked, “So what is this exactly, Horikita?”

She stepped closer, close enough that the artificial lights overhead caught the gleam of her lipstick. “This is the beginning of something bigger. We’re not just playing the school’s game anymore, Ayanokouji. We’re building a new one. One where we decide the rules.”

“And what do you want me to do?”

Her lips curled ever so slightly. “Keep doing what you do best. Be invisible. Listen. Collect data. Eliminate threats if they get too close. We’re not just moving pieces around anymore—we’re constructing the entire board.”

He studied her carefully, then after a pause, asked, “And if I say no?”

Horikita didn’t answer right away. Instead, she stepped around him and resumed walking toward the stairwell that would lead them back above ground. But over her shoulder, she said, “Then I’ll still count on you to protect what we’ve already built. Whether you admit you care or not, I know you’ll act.”

They ascended in silence after that, the low hum of fluorescent lights above barely covering the tension between them. When they emerged back into the night air, it was cool and quiet. The moon was high above the dorm buildings, casting pale silver shadows on the pavement.

Horikita turned to him again, smoothing the lapel of her jacket. “I’ll see you in class.”

She started to walk away but paused. “And thank you... for not being late.”

Then she disappeared into the dark, leaving Ayanokouji standing alone under the pale glow of the school’s exterior lights, her words echoing long after she was gone.

That night, sleep didn’t come gently to Ayanokouji. It pulled him under like a riptide, quiet but unrelenting. And then came the dream. It wasn’t like the strange, abstract ones he sometimes had—this one felt grounded, intimate, almost like a memory he couldn’t place.

He was at a party. Not one of the stiff, school-sanctioned events, but a lively, chaotic sort of celebration more often seen in teen movies. The lights were dim, flickering with deep red and gold tones, and music thumped faintly beneath the chatter and laughter. He was sitting on a worn-out couch that smelled faintly of cheap liquor and the remnants of perfume.

A red solo cup was in his hand—so cliché it almost made him laugh. Across from him, Horikita was laughing too, giggling at something he’d said. Her laugh was real, unguarded, and so unlike her usual restrained self that it left him breathless for a second. She wore something casual but striking—a fitted top, her usual sharp ponytail slightly loosened as if she'd stopped caring for just one night.

Then, in a motion that felt slow and deliberate, she walked over and settled herself on his lap. She didn’t ask, didn’t hesitate—she just moved like she knew she belonged there. Her arms draped around his neck, her fingers brushing against the back of his hair, her eyes locked on his.

“You’re not bad company when you loosen up,” she murmured, lips brushing the shell of his ear.

He opened his mouth to say something back, but before he could, she leaned in and kissed him. Soft, at first. Then again, with more heat, more urgency, like she'd been holding back for a long time and finally gave in. His hands moved instinctively to her waist, her warmth grounding him in a way he hadn’t expected.

In the distance, he could still hear the muffled party, laughter echoing faintly. But all of it blurred—there was only her. Her weight against him, her lips on his, the faint taste of fruit punch and something stronger. Her breath was hot against his cheek as she pulled back just enough to smile at him.

“Maybe I like you more than I should,” she whispered.

The dream didn’t break like they usually did. It lingered. That moment—the heat of it, the tension, her scent, her voice—felt so vivid he almost believed it was real.

And then he woke up. Alone. In his room. The faint glow of his phone lit the ceiling. His chest rose and fell in quiet disbelief as he lay there, staring up into the dark.

He didn’t move. He couldn’t.

He just kept hearing her voice—Maybe I like you more than I should—and tried to shake off the warmth that hadn't entirely faded.

In the dream, Horikita leaned down with a sly, rare smile that danced on her lips—a look Ayanokouji had never seen from her in reality, yet somehow felt so familiar here. She pressed a line of soft kisses along the side of his neck, featherlight but lingering, deliberate. The warmth of her breath sent a chill down his spine, the kind that made him tighten his grip on her waist without even realizing it.

Around them, the party burst into playful chaos.

“Oooh!” someone shouted over the music, followed by a chorus of teasing cheers and whistles.

“Get a room!” Ibuki's voice called out, mocking but amused. Even Rokusuke snorted into his drink.

A nudge from behind nearly knocked Horikita further into him. He caught her instinctively, one arm locked around her back now, her cheek pressed to his shoulder as she laughed—openly, freely, like she hadn’t a single wall left standing. A sound he never thought he’d be the cause of, even in a dream.

“Didn’t know you were the clingy type, Horikita,” Hirata chuckled as he walked by with a drink in hand, clearly half-teasing, half-shocked.

But she didn’t budge. She just turned her face slightly, her lips brushing against the edge of Ayanokouji’s jaw.

“I didn’t know I was either,” she said quietly, just loud enough for him to hear.

There was something surreal about it. The crowd around them—Sakayanagi chatting with Hashimoto in the corner, Kei dragging Sato to the makeshift dance floor, even Rokusuke and Albert deep in a drinking contest—blurred into the background. It was just her now. Her body against his. Her lips on his skin. Her eyes, warm and dark, looking at him like he was the only one that mattered.

And he couldn’t deny how real it felt. How much he wanted to stay here, frozen in that strange, imagined world where Horikita clung to him with flushed cheeks and something close to affection in her gaze.

Even in the back of his mind, where logic and instinct tried to warn him this was all just a dream—he didn’t care.

He just wanted to keep holding her. Keep kissing her. Keep pretending that, for once, neither of them had to hide behind walls of pride or logic.

Because in this dream, she chose him. Openly. Unapologetically.

And it was everything he hadn’t realized he wanted.

Ayanokouji didn’t hesitate—his lips crashed against Horikita’s again in a kiss that was rougher this time, faster, hungrier. There was a kind of desperation behind it, something fierce and possessive, as if this dream-version of him had been waiting forever for this moment. His hand, bold and unrestrained, slid upward beneath the edge of her skirt, fingers brushing her bare thigh. The sensation made her gasp softly into his mouth, but she didn’t pull away—instead, she leaned into it, her arms tightening around his neck.

A loud whoop cut through the music.

“YEAH! GET IT, MAN!” Ike shouted from across the room, nearly choking on his drink from laughter.

“Alright, calm down, Romeo!” Hirata called out, throwing an empty red solo cup at them. It bounced off Ayanokouji’s shoulder and hit the floor harmlessly. “At least pretend there are other people in the room!”

There was more laughter, someone shouted “Couple of the year!” and Ibuki muttered something sarcastic about Horikita being corrupted by bad influences. But even then, none of it really reached them—not fully. Horikita didn’t move off his lap, and Ayanokouji didn’t stop holding her as if she might disappear. Her forehead rested against his now, eyes searching his with a strange mix of amusement and challenge.

“You’re being bold tonight,” she whispered, voice just loud enough to cut through the background noise.

He smirked faintly. “Maybe it’s the dream.”

“Maybe,” she said, brushing her lips against his again. “Or maybe you’ve been holding back too long.”

The lights shifted, the music blurred, and the dream began to dissolve at the edges—but the warmth of her in his arms, the pressure of her thighs over his, and the electric hum of her kiss remained imprinted in him like an echo.

And when he woke up—breath catching, heartbeat too loud in his ears—his room was silent, dimly lit by the early morning sun. But the ghost of her laugh, and the feeling of her kiss, still clung to him.

And for the first time, he wasn’t sure if he wanted to forget.

Chapter Text

Days blurred into weeks, and Horikita’s operation progressed with the kind of calculated precision that even Ayanokouji had to admit was impressive—perhaps even terrifying. The network she’d built was expanding, their influence sinking its roots deep into Class C and beyond. Her leadership was sharp, strategic, and quietly ruthless, and her orders came with a softness that masked their cold intent.

To the world, they were friends. Close friends. Horikita was bright in public, all smiles and harmless affection—a casual arm around Ayanokouji’s shoulder, a teasing nickname, exaggerated gags of disgust whenever someone dared to suggest there might be something more between them. “Bestie,” she’d call him, laughing like it was a joke they were both in on. When the rumors cropped up, she dismissed them with such conviction that even those who suspected the truth began to doubt themselves.

And every morning, without fail, she’d offer him a suggestion with that quiet smirk of hers.
“Take Ichinose to the botanical gardens,” she’d say, pushing a wrapped bouquet into his hand. “She seems like the type to like things that bloom.”

He would nod. He would go.

He would hold Ichinose gently, smile when she smiled, kiss her when expected. He’d whisper that he loved her. And each time, it scraped something raw inside him—like thorns under the skin. He’d go home and shower for too long, trying to wash off the guilt, the deception, the echo of a kiss that didn’t belong to her. The worst part was that Ichinose never noticed. She loved him too earnestly, trusted him too fully. It made everything worse.

But when it came to Horikita, behind closed doors and under the umbrella of their secret work—she was someone else entirely.

In the network, there were no boundaries. She would lace her fingers through his in a meeting, rest her head on his shoulder, call him my love without a second of hesitation. Her voice was sweet, tender even, but her eyes were hard and unyielding. Anyone who tried to challenge Ayanokouji’s position, anyone who made the mistake of implying he was dispensable, was met with a look that could cut glass.
And if they touched him?

She would stare them down until they folded, retreated, or apologized. Sometimes she didn’t need to say a word. Other times, she would do the talking for him:

“He’s mine. Don’t forget that.”

Once, when someone—some junior in the network—offhandedly joked that Ayanokouji should watch his back because he wasn’t irreplaceable, Horikita smiled in that particular way of hers, the smile that never reached her eyes.

She leaned in, ran her fingers over Ayanokouji’s collar like she was adjusting it, and said, “You’re right. No one is irreplaceable.”

Then she glanced at the junior. “Especially not you.”

They never questioned his place again.
And yet, it was always like this—two separate masks.

Horikita, the bright and teasing friend in public, all “ew, gross!” at the thought of him being anything more than a comrade.

And Horikita, the possessive and territorial partner in the network, who seemed incapable of letting him be anything less than hers.

He couldn’t decide which version of her he hated more—or which one he craved. Because somewhere between the staged kisses and the genuine glances, between the orders and the affection, he couldn’t tell what was real anymore. And every day, it chipped away at him a little more.

He wondered, bitterly, if she knew.

If she wanted him to suffer.

Or if she was just as trapped as he was in the web they’d both spun so carefully.

By the end of the term, Horikita’s web of influence had grown into something almost self-sustaining. Her people operated like clockwork—silent, precise, effective. Supplies moved through the school without a hitch, points flowed where they were meant to, and her command of Class D had sharpened into something undeniably impressive. They were a breath away from overtaking Class B, and it was clear to anyone paying attention: this was no longer just about school rankings. It was about dominance.

Ayanokouji watched it all unfold with the same neutral expression he always wore, but inwardly, he was aware of how Horikita’s ambition had bloomed into something razor-sharp. Ruthless. Efficient. Dangerous. And she was still the only one who truly understood him.

Ichinose, ever sweet, ever trusting, clung to him like a lifeline. Her love was so genuine it made his stomach churn with guilt every time she kissed him, every time she smiled as if he were the sun in her sky. He played the role perfectly—gifts, dates, soft touches—but every night he felt hollow. He scrubbed the scent of her perfume off his skin like it was filth.

Meanwhile, Horikita remained his constant shadow. In public, she mocked their closeness with wide grins and dramatic eye-rolls. She called him her "bestie," looped arms with him casually, and scoffed at every accusation with a bored expression. But in the tunnels beneath the school, behind locked doors and low lights, she was something else entirely.

“My love,” she’d whisper against his ear during briefings. She’d hold his hand in meetings and sit in his lap when she was in a mood. Anyone who questioned him, doubted him, or even hinted that he didn’t belong at her side would be cut down with a single glare from her. Her possessiveness didn’t feel like affection—it felt like branding.

One evening, after a successful negotiation with a Class B informant, Horikita pulled him aside into an abandoned lecture room. She locked the door behind them and pressed him against the wall, her lips brushing his ear.

“You’ve done well,” she whispered, eyes half-lidded. “Ichinose is head over heels. Our operations are untouchable. You’re mine in every way that matters.”

Ayanokouji didn’t respond right away. His mind was spinning. He wasn’t sure when the game they played had stopped being a game.

“She thinks I love her,” he said finally.

Horikita smiled faintly, tilting her head. “That’s the point.”

He turned toward her, eyes narrowed slightly. “And what do you think?”

Horikita reached up, brushing her fingers against his jaw, her touch surprisingly tender. “I think you’re doing exactly what I need you to. And maybe,” she added, voice softer, “just maybe… I don’t hate seeing you beside me.”

The silence between them stretched for a long moment.

He didn’t kiss her. She didn’t move.

But something shifted in that room.

Outside, the school hummed with the pressure of final exams and year-end evaluations. Class B was within reach. Ichinose had begun talking about introducing Ayanokouji to her parents. Hirata was planning a celebration party for Class C’s progress. And Horikita?

Horikita was quietly building an empire.

And she wasn’t going to let anyone—including Ayanokouji—walk away from it.

"Horikita," Ayanokouji said, his voice unusually quiet, his eyes locked on hers. She stood close—too close to ignore the heat of her body, too close for the weight of his words not to press between them like a held breath.

She didn’t move, didn’t flinch. Her eyes met his, sharp and unreadable. He could see the flicker in them though—the hesitation, the brief widening, the way her lips parted ever so slightly as if she expected something.

"I lo—"

"I need you to run some errands for me," she interrupted swiftly, her voice louder than necessary. Too rushed. Too practiced.

He blinked.

The moment fractured like glass.

Her expression didn’t change—still composed, still calculating—but her hands betrayed her. One of them tightened into a fist at her side, the other toyed absently with the hem of her blazer.

“Horikita,” he said again, softer this time. “Don’t do that.”

She glanced away, just for a second. “You still have the list from earlier, don’t you?” she asked, her voice clipped, cold. “I added a few more things. Paperwork from Student Council. A couple of notes to Class B’s vice rep. Some updates from Kushida’s intel group.”

Ayanokouji didn’t answer. He just watched her, waiting—giving her space to meet him there, to acknowledge what they both knew was hanging in the air between them.

She refused.

Eventually, she looked back at him, her gaze distant and careful. “What you’re about to say,” she murmured, “don’t. Just… don’t.”

“Why?”

“Because if you say it, I might not be able to pretend anymore.” Her voice was nearly a whisper now. “And I need to pretend. I need to focus. We’re not done yet. We’re still behind Class A. There’s still too much at stake.”

He nodded, slowly. “So it’s strategy. Always strategy.”

She looked up at him then, and there was something raw in her expression—a quiet kind of ache she couldn’t quite hide. “You’re part of that strategy,” she said, “but you’re also… something else. And if I admit that now, I’ll lose focus. We both will.”

He considered that. Then, with a slight nod, he reached out, gently brushing her knuckles with his fingers before turning away.

“I’ll run your errands,” he said.

She didn’t stop him.

But when the door shut behind him, Horikita finally exhaled, her back pressing against the wall as she whispered to the empty room, “I love you too, idiot.”

Ayanokouji completed the tasks on Horikita's list without protest or pause. His body moved on autopilot—efficient, silent, methodical. But his mind refused to be as disciplined.

He made his way to the Student Council room first. The moment he stepped in, Ichika greeted him with a polite nod and handed over the neatly bound stack of papers Horikita had requested. He accepted them with his usual blank expression, murmured a thank you, and left without lingering. His footsteps echoed softly down the corridor, but inside, the memory of Horikita’s eyes—wide, conflicted, almost vulnerable—played on repeat in his head.

Next was Class B’s vice representative, Kanazaki—a quiet, observant boy who was always a little too formal for Ayanokouji’s taste. He found him outside the library, seated on a bench with a tablet in hand, no doubt analyzing some kind of strategy for their next group assessment.

“Horikita asked me to pass these along,” Ayanokouji said simply, extending the sealed envelope.

Kanazaki looked up, startled for a moment. “Oh. Thanks.” He took the envelope, clearly unsure whether to make conversation. Ayanokouji didn’t give him the chance. With a nod, he turned on his heel and walked away, barely hearing Kanazaki’s polite farewell.

Kushida’s intel group was the last major stop. The arrangement between them was tenuous at best—Horikita didn’t trust Kushida, and Kushida didn’t like Horikita. But she still delivered when it came to information, especially if it served her own interests.

Kushida greeted Ayanokouji with her usual syrupy smile, her eyes sharp beneath the sweetness.

“You’re running errands for your little president again?” she teased, handing over a small folder with neatly written summaries and updates. “How devoted.”

Ayanokouji didn’t dignify it with a response. He took the folder, gave a short nod, and left.

And still, through all of it—walking the halls, hearing the buzz of students preparing for the final term exams, listening to the quiet scuffle of shoes on tile—his mind never left her.

The way she’d looked up at him.

There hadn’t been fear. Not exactly. It was more complicated than that—something caught between restraint and longing. Like she was fighting the part of herself that wanted to listen to what he had been about to say. Like she already knew and wasn’t ready to hear it aloud.

That expression stuck with him more than he wanted to admit. It wasn’t the first time he’d seen her walls slip, but this time it wasn’t under pressure or emotional stress. It was just them, quiet and alone in the room, and she had let that flicker show.

By the time he returned to their shared study room and laid the papers out neatly for her review, his face betrayed nothing. But his fingers lingered just a second too long on the folder. His gaze rested a moment too long on the chair where she always sat.

She wasn't there yet.

And maybe that was for the best. Because if she looked at him again the way she had earlier, he wasn’t sure if he’d stop this time.

When Horikita stepped into the quiet student council office, the atmosphere felt still—eerily so. The late afternoon light spilled through the windows, casting a faint golden hue across the room. The stack of papers she’d asked for was already neatly laid out on her desk, perfectly organized. She recognized his touch immediately: efficient, clean, untraceable—just like him.

Her eyes scanned over the documents with the precision and speed that had become second nature. The updated council minutes, the notes from Class B, the intel Kushida had reluctantly provided—it was all here, flawlessly handled. He hadn’t missed a single item.

She let out a soft sigh, placing the last document in the correct folder and sliding it into the cabinet behind her. Her fingers lingered against the drawer’s edge, her mind drifting as the silence around her deepened. It wasn’t the tasks that weighed on her—it was the emptiness of the room.

He had been here. Sat in that chair, walked across this floor, laid out the work in his usual careful manner. But now, he was gone.

She skimmed the documents with practiced efficiency, ticking each item off in her mind. Everything had been done perfectly. Of course it had. He always carried out her instructions to the letter. There was no reason to feel unsettled—no reason at all. And yet, that vague unease still crept in beneath her skin, a quiet whisper she refused to acknowledge.

The room was still. The type of stillness that echoed.

Her pen tapped against the desk, rhythmic and hollow. She glanced toward the doorway, almost on instinct. It was empty. No figure leaning casually against the frame, arms folded, gaze unreadable. No subtle weight to the air, no silent presence anchoring her thoughts.

She tried not to sigh. Tried not to think about how used to his presence she’d become.

It doesn’t matter. She told herself. None of it does. He’s doing what needs to be done.

Just as she reached for the next file, her phone buzzed.

She picked it up without much thought, opening the screen—and froze.

The girls’ group chat lit up her screen with fresh messages and a new photo from Ichinose.

It was a group of two—Ichinose and Ayanokouji, posed outside a sleek, modern boutique. Ichinose’s smile was radiant, infectious even through the screen. The next two images were mirror selfies: Ichinose in a pink swimsuit, then a blue one. Ayanokouji stood behind her in both, subtly in frame, holding the phone for her with a carefully measured smile. Polished. Calm. Like it wasn’t costing him a thing.

Ichinose’s caption was bright and innocent.

"Help me choose! Pink or blue?"

Replies flooded in instantly.

Karuizawa: the pink one, duh!

Sakura: you both look so nice there…

Hondou: wait, Ayanokouji actually agreed to go shopping with you?? Lol

Ibuki: the blue one brings out your eyes

Horikita stared at the screen, her thumb hovering just above the keyboard. Her expression didn’t change, not even slightly—but her grip on the phone tightened, just for a second.

She didn’t type anything.

Instead, she set the phone down face-first and turned back to the documents. Her pen resumed its tapping, a little more forcefully now.

Her phone pinged again. Then once more.

Horikita glanced down, thumb swiping over the screen with practiced ease, though her chest felt oddly tight.

Ichinose: Horikita what’d you think?

Sato: The pink one’s cuter!

Horikita stared at the screen longer than she should have, the cursor blinking in the message bar as if daring her to answer. She hesitated. The image of Ayanokouji behind Ichinose lingered in her mind—the relaxed smile, the ease with which he held the phone, the way he stood close enough for it to feel natural.

Natural.

She exhaled quietly through her nose, then typed her reply with calm precision, as if this wasn’t just another exchange between friends.

Horikita: They both suit you, but if I had to choose, probably the blue one.

Her fingers hovered before adding one more message—too much? Not enough?

Horikita: It brings out the warmth in your eyes :)

She set the phone down, screen face down against the desk. A moment passed. Then two.

The silence returned, pressing in around her like fog.

Her pen no longer tapped.

Later that week, the results were posted.

Students swarmed the bulletin board, the hallway buzzing with anxious energy—footsteps echoing, whispers turning to cries of joy or groans of disappointment. But Horikita was already there, having arrived before the crowd. She stood still amidst the growing commotion, eyes scanning the ranking sheet with practiced calm.

Class 2-A: 937 points

Class 2-B: 821 points

Class 2-C: 822 points

Class 2-D: 781 points

There it was. Plain as day. Clear and undeniable.

Class 2-C had overtaken Class 2-B.

They were finally out of the bottom ranks.

She let out a small breath before straightening her back and allowing a rare grin to cross her face. The crowd erupted around her, classmates squealing and laughing, arms thrown around one another in celebration. A few even hugged her, cheering her name.

She matched their joy with just enough enthusiasm, her laughter light and perfectly timed. She congratulated others, nodded at praise, even offered a high-five or two. On the outside, she blended right in—radiating satisfaction and camaraderie.

But beneath it all, her mind was already racing.

The celebration was fleeting. They were Class B now, yes—but that wasn’t the end goal. Not even close. She was already planning the next steps. Strategies, alliances, potential threats. How to maintain the momentum—and who she needed to pull closer… or push away.

Still, as her gaze drifted back toward the rankings one last time, a flicker of quiet pride stirred in her chest.

They’d done it.
No—she had done it.
And she wasn’t done yet.

Ayanokouji looked down at Ichinose, her warm expression completely open to him, the summer sun catching in her eyes.

"I'm sorry," he said quietly. His voice was nearly drowned out by the ocean breeze and the distant laughter from other students at the beach.

Ichinose blinked, caught off guard for a moment. "Hmm?" she tilted her head with that usual gentle curiosity, then smiled like it was the easiest thing in the world. "Don't be. You reached Class B now! You'll be in Class A in no time," she said brightly, before throwing her arms around him in a cheerful hug.

He stood there for a moment, still. Letting her hold him.

He should’ve felt something—pride, maybe. A sense of achievement. Relief that all their efforts had pushed Class C forward, that the path to Class A was now clearer. That they’d passed another milestone, another hurdle. But the only thing sitting with him was a heavy silence behind his eyes.

Ichinose didn’t see it. She was too kind, too busy shining hope and encouragement toward him like sunlight through a window. He raised his arms slowly, uncertain, and gave her a light, almost mechanical pat on the back.

“Thanks,” he said after a beat. The word felt shallow in his mouth.

Because the truth was… he hadn’t done it for Class B. Not really. Not even for himself.

His mind wandered, unbidden, to the way Horikita’s voice had caught the last time she spoke to him, the brief flicker of vulnerability in her usually sharp eyes. The way she smiled at him in private when no one else was looking. The weight of her trust pressed heavier on him than any exam or test ever could.

Ichinose pulled away, still smiling, though something flickered in her expression—just a faint pause, like she was reading something deeper in him. But she didn’t ask. She never pushed.

Instead, she nudged his arm. “Let’s go swimming before Hirata tries to drag everyone into a team-building game again,” she said, laughing.

Ayanokouji nodded. “Alright,” he replied, walking alongside her toward the water. But inside, his thoughts were already somewhere else.

He’d made it to Class B.

And he was already planning how to take the next step forward—for her. For them.

For Horikita.

Elsewhere, far from the buzz of the beach and the celebration of the exam results, the ambiance was quieter—refined. A modest yet elegant café nestled on the corner of a quieter street provided the perfect escape from the rest of the school. Inside, soft piano music played in the background, mixing with the hum of conversation and the gentle clinking of porcelain cups.

At a table near the window, Sakayanagi sipped delicately from a cup of chamomile tea, her posture as regal as ever, her parasol resting beside her chair. Across from her, Hashimoto leaned forward, elbows on the table, grinning with unrelenting charm.

“So,” he said, eyes glinting with mischief, “did it hurt?”

Sakayanagi raised a delicate brow, lips curved in polite amusement. “Did what hurt?”

“When you fell from heaven,” Hashimoto said smoothly, tapping his fingers on the table like he’d just dropped the cleverest line in the world.

Sakayanagi blinked once, then let out a light, musical laugh. “That one again?” she teased, cheeks flushed ever so faintly with color. “Your creativity has no limits, does it?”

“Only when it comes to charming you,” he replied without missing a beat, leaning in slightly, just close enough for his words to land soft and intentional.

She rolled her eyes, but the smile playing on her lips betrayed her fondness. “If you weren’t so persistent, I might almost think you were sincere.”

“Who says I’m not?” he said, quieter this time, a hint of actual tenderness slipping into his usually cocky tone.

Before she could respond, he leaned in just a bit closer and brushed a kiss to her cheek—gentle, almost reverent.

Sakayanagi’s expression flickered. Her breath hitched faintly—not from surprise, exactly, but from the sheer simplicity of the gesture. Her cheeks turned a touch pinker, and this time her smile faltered into something softer. More real.

She looked away, just briefly, as if to compose herself, then tilted her head toward him with a wry look. “That was bold of you,” she said quietly.

Hashimoto leaned back in his chair, looking far too pleased with himself. “You bring out the best in me.”

Sakayanagi chuckled, resting her chin on her hand as she gazed out the window, then back at him. For all her power and poise, there was something disarming about the way he looked at her—like she was a girl first, and a strategist second.

And she didn’t mind that. Not today.

"Princess," Hashimoto said, his voice low with a teasing edge as he reached beneath the table, retrieving a sleek, velvet box from his bag. He set it gently before her. "I have something important to ask you."

Sakayanagi tilted her head, her expression unreadable. Her tone remained velvety smooth, but there was a flicker of something sharper beneath the surface. "You’ve piqued my interest," she murmured. "That doesn’t happen often. What’s in the box?"

"Something fitting for a princess," Hashimoto replied with a soft grin. "Hopefully… my princess."

She was already raising a brow when his hand reached across and settled over hers. Her breath caught.

"Arisu Sakayanagi," he said, eyes locking with hers. For once, she didn’t have a clever retort ready. "Would you give me the honor of being your boyfriend?"

She blinked, momentarily stunned. "You’re… asking me out?"

"Yes."

Sakayanagi looked down at their joined hands, her fingers twitching slightly before she glanced back up at him. Her voice, usually calm and composed, came out just a little softer than usual.

"Of course I will."

Hashimoto's signature smile broke through as he leaned across the table, one hand cupping her cheek, the other bracing himself beside her. His lips pressed gently to hers. Her eyes widened for the briefest second before fluttering closed, a quiet sigh slipping from her as she returned the kiss. One hand curled around his wrist, the other clutched at the fabric of his shirt. The world seemed to still — a moment suspended in something like magic. When they finally broke apart, they both felt breathless, and a little dazed.

They held each other’s gaze, unspoken thoughts swimming between them. Then, Hashimoto blinked and jolted slightly.

"Right! The gift." He grabbed the box again. "Close your eyes."

Sakayanagi narrowed her eyes suspiciously. "I don’t trust you."

"Just do it, Princess," he rolled his eyes, but the fondness in his voice was unmistakable.

With a reluctant but amused sigh, she complied. "Fine. But if you put anything ridiculous in my hair, I’ll revoke my acceptance."

"I wouldn’t dare." Hashimoto chuckled as he stood and moved behind her. Carefully, he opened the box and revealed its contents — a tiara. Delicate yet regal, gold with violet gemstones and diamonds woven through its intricate design. He gently placed it atop her head and leaned close, his breath warm against her ear.

"Open your eyes, my love."

She hesitated… then obeyed. Her reflection in the café window caught her off guard. Her breath hitched softly.

"Yoshi…" she whispered, trailing off. "It’s beautiful."

Hashimoto kissed her cheek, smiling as he whispered once more,

"Something fitting for a princess."

Sakayanagi reached up with delicate fingers and cupped his cheek, her eyes locking onto his with a softness rarely seen behind her usual cunning composure. In that moment, the mask slipped — just a little — replaced by something warmer, more vulnerable.

She leaned in.

Hashimoto didn’t hesitate. As soon as her lips brushed against his, he met her halfway, his hand instinctively resting on the side of her waist, pulling her gently closer. The kiss was tender at first — an affirmation, a seal of something they'd both danced around for far too long — then deepened just slightly, charged with emotion and the quiet thrill of mutual understanding.

When they finally broke apart, their foreheads touched, breath mingling, both of them momentarily lost in the silence that followed.

"You really are mine now," Sakayanagi whispered, her voice barely audible, but laced with a quiet claim.

Hashimoto smiled, eyes half-lidded. "Always was, princess."

Sakayanagi smiled softly, her eyes glinting with something almost playful. “Take a photo of us,” she said, her tone light but her expression earnest.

Without missing a beat, Hashimoto reached for her phone, unlocking it with a practiced ease. He leaned in close, resting his chin gently on her shoulder. Sakayanagi leaned back against him, the closeness drawing a faint blush to her cheeks — rare and fleeting, but undeniably there.

Just as he lifted the phone and steadied the frame, he pressed a kiss to her cheek.

Sakayanagi’s eyes widened at the sudden affection, her flush deepening as she turned her head slightly to glance back at him. The moment was sweet, unscripted — her lips parted like she was about to scold him, but no words came out.

The camera clicked.

Captured in the photo: her cheeks dusted with pink, her eyes mid-turn, his lips still grazing her skin, both of them wrapped in something real and quietly profound.

She didn’t say anything at first, just glanced at the screen and then at him, a knowing smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. "You're lucky you're charming," she murmured.

"And you're lucky you’re gorgeous," Hashimoto replied, slipping an arm around her waist. “Perfect photo, by the way.”

“I suppose I’ll allow it,” she said with a mock sigh, leaning her head back onto his shoulder — and, for once, letting herself just be held.

Sakayanagi stared at the photo for a long moment before hitting send.

It wasn’t something she did often—share anything personal. But something about the moment, about the warmth that still lingered from Hashimoto’s kiss and the genuine smile she hadn’t realized she was wearing until she saw it reflected on the screen, made her want to preserve it. Not just for herself, but to show the other girls in their year something they rarely saw from her: vulnerability wrapped in joy.

With a few deliberate taps, she sent the photo to the group chat.

Within moments, the typing indicators popped up. The responses followed in rapid succession,

Ichinose: omg?? you two are so cute!!! <3
Sato: I KNEW it!! Finally!!
Kushida: You’re glowing, Sakayanagi
Hoshinomiya-sensei (yes, she was added to the group once by accident and never left): Young love~ <33 Just don’t let this distract from your studies! ;)

Sakayanagi smirked faintly at the screen, her fingers scrolling lazily through the compliments, the teasing, the playful jeers. But despite the flurry of buzzes and pings, none of it really registered beyond surface amusement. It was background noise—pleasant, even welcome in its own way—but ultimately, it wasn’t where her attention was.

Everything she needed was right in front of her.

Hashimoto’s arm was still loosely draped around her, his body heat comforting in the cool air of the cafe. His free hand was stirring what was left of his iced coffee, but every so often, he’d glance at her with that cocky, boyish grin that both annoyed and delighted her more than she cared to admit.

She leaned against him a little more, resting her head lightly on his shoulder. His thumb began to trace gentle patterns on her wrist, slow and rhythmic. She didn’t pull away.

“I think we broke the chat,” he murmured, glancing at her screen. “Should I feel honored or terrified?”

“Both,” she replied simply, her voice softer than usual. “You’re dating me, after all.”

Hashimoto chuckled. “Then I’ll prepare my will.”

She let out a rare, quiet laugh and looked up at him. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And yet… you’re still here,” he teased, nudging her gently.

“I suppose I am,” she replied, watching his expression carefully. “And I don’t want to be anywhere else right now.”

Her phone vibrated again with another message, but she didn’t bother to check it. Instead, she tilted her face up and kissed his jaw, the contact feather-light and full of silent meaning.

Let them gossip. Let them speculate. Let them laugh or swoon or scream into their pillows. Let the whole world talk.

She didn’t care.

In this moment, with his heartbeat steady against her shoulder and his fingers linked with hers under the table, Sakayanagi felt something rare and unfamiliar — not triumph, not victory, not strategy. Just peace.

And for once, it was enough.

Ayanokoji sat on the floor of his dorm room, his back propped against the foot of the bed, long legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles. The movie playing on his laptop wasn’t exactly captivating—some over-the-top action flick with too many explosions and not enough plot—but Ichinose seemed to be enjoying it, curled up beside him with a blanket over her lap and popcorn balanced precariously between them.

He was vaguely aware of the dialogue in the background when Ichinose suddenly turned her phone toward him.

"Look," she said, smiling brightly as she showed him the screen. “Aren’t they cute?”

Ayanokoji glanced at the photo.

It was Sakayanagi and Hashimoto—clearly close, clearly comfortable. Hashimoto had his chin resting on Sakayanagi’s shoulder, his lips pressing a casual, almost possessive kiss to her cheek, and Sakayanagi was blushing, her usual cold, composed demeanor replaced by something softer. Something real. The way her eyes had fluttered halfway closed in the picture—like she wasn’t just tolerating the affection but quietly savoring it—stood out more than the physical closeness.

For a moment, Ayanokoji just studied the image in silence.

He didn’t smile. He didn’t frown either. It was hard to say what he felt, if anything. But his eyes lingered a bit longer than they needed to.

Ichinose noticed.

"You’re not gonna say anything?" she asked, teasing, nudging his shoulder gently with her own. “I think it’s sweet. Sakayanagi’s usually so…” she paused, searching for the right word, “...controlled. This is like seeing a cat decide it actually likes you.”

That earned the faintest flicker of amusement from him.

“I didn’t expect them,” he admitted. “But… it fits. In a way.”

“You think so?”

Ayanokoji shrugged, leaning his head back against the bed frame. “Hashimoto knows how to handle people. And Sakayanagi… doesn’t usually let anyone that close. If she’s letting him in, he must’ve earned it.”

Ichinose nodded thoughtfully, gazing down at the photo again. “It’s kind of nice seeing everyone grow up a little, isn’t it? Like we’re all changing, even if we don’t notice it happening.”

He glanced sideways at her, the corner of his mouth twitching slightly. “Sentimental.”

She laughed, leaning into his side a little more. “Guilty. I guess that’s just who I am.”

There was something soft in her eyes as she looked at him then—something not entirely unlike the expression Sakayanagi had in the photo. Ayanokoji didn’t miss it, though he didn’t comment on it either. Instead, he looked back at the screen. The movie was still playing, still loud and absurd. But now it felt farther away, like the real world had shifted focus.

“I’m glad she’s happy,” Ichinose murmured after a moment, slipping her phone back into her pocket.

Ayanokoji looked at her again, quieter now. “Are you?”

Ichinose blinked, a little caught off guard by the question. But then she smiled, the kind of smile that didn’t come from politeness or habit—but something warmer, deeper.

“I am,” Ichinose smiled softly, leaning up to kiss him briefly—just a light brush of her lips on his—before settling back against his chest, her head resting comfortably near his collarbone. The moment lingered as her fingers found his and intertwined with them under the blanket, a kind of quiet intimacy she didn’t press or question. She just… existed there with him. Warm, peaceful, trusting.

Ayanokoji’s hand rested loosely at her waist, his gaze drifting toward the laptop screen again, though none of it registered anymore. His body stayed still, posture relaxed, but something within him shifted—fractured, almost imperceptibly. The warmth of her body, the familiar scent of her shampoo, the soft, rhythmic sound of her breathing against him—it should’ve felt grounding. Safe. Real.

But instead, it made the image in his head sharper.

For a brief, traitorous moment, he imagined Horikita in her place.

Not out of desire. Not out of longing. But something stranger, harder to define—like an itch behind his ribcage he couldn’t quite reach. In his mind’s eye, it wasn’t Ichinose tucked into his side, but Horikita, stiff and tense at first, as if uncomfortable with the closeness… until she slowly relaxed. Until she leaned her head on his shoulder with unspoken trust. Until her hand found his without asking, as if it belonged there.

He blinked.

Ichinose shifted slightly against him, drawing him back to the present, to the girl actually here—gentle, earnest, kind. The one who had always offered him warmth without demands, affection without calculation. And yet, even with her in his arms, he felt strangely… disconnected.

Guilty? Not exactly. But distanced. Like he was borrowing a life that didn’t quite belong to him.

“Hey,” Ichinose murmured, her voice muffled slightly by his shirt. “You okay?”

A beat.

“Yes,” he said. The lie was smooth, effortless. It slipped past his lips with the same precision as always.

But Ichinose didn’t question it. She closed her eyes and nestled closer, content.

And Ayanokoji remained still—mind somewhere else entirely, haunted not by regret, but by the weight of a truth he hadn’t yet acknowledged.

Summer holidays were, in a word, eventful—and that was to be expected.

Horikita, allowed herself to be dragged into swimming trips with the other girls and somehow, through sheer force of presence and organizational prowess, ended up rallying nearly half their year into group outings. Beach days, amusement parks, karaoke nights, hiking expeditions—if there was something to do, she planned it. Her contacts list grew rapidly; her social calendar, even faster. She laughed when expected, posed for selfies, even made casual small talk with students she’d once coldly ignored. Her transformation was almost eerie. But the time to question it had long passed.

And no one questioned it.

Not when she smiled. Not when she teased. Not when she linked arms with others like they were old friends.

Ayanokoji, meanwhile, had his own part to play. Ichinose, ever radiant, had filled his days with energy and affection. They went on regular dates—ice cream runs, movie nights, long strolls through shopping districts—and even joined a few double dates with other couples from their year. It was all very normal. Very expected. Very public.

Sometimes it even felt real.

Sakayanagi and Hashimoto had finally, inevitably, taken the plunge into coupledom, their dynamic a chaotic but oddly functional mess of strategy and chemistry. They were frequent victims of the infamous year-group chat—where no romantic move went unnoticed and teasing was practically a ritual. Even Horikita wasn’t spared, despite her constant insistence that there was absolutely nothing between her and Ayanokoji. She dismissed the rumors with practiced grace, always citing his very public relationship with Ichinose. It was an airtight defense.

And the most ironic part of all? She was the one who had engineered it.

But when the cameras were off and the audience dispersed—when the two of them were alone—everything changed.

Horikita dropped the mask. Her expression would harden, eyes calculating as she ran through network connections, political leverage, and class movements like a general planning a campaign. Her composure was icy, efficient, near-lethal. She was always moving chess pieces, whispering commands, tightening the noose around their enemies—and occasionally around him. She didn’t ask for help so much as command it.

And yet, she’d press soft kisses to his lips when their workers were watching. Wrap her arms around his neck and murmur things like “You’re mine” against the curve of his neck. She would claim him in hushed tones that felt too intimate, too real, and yet were followed by another spreadsheet or list of students to monitor.

It was maddening.

Ayanokoji played the part because he had no other choice—not one that wouldn’t unravel all they’d built. But sometimes it felt like being trapped in a never-ending theatre production where the lines blurred between reality and performance. With Ichinose, everything was genuine, simple, full of warmth. But with Horikita?

It was a paradox.

A war disguised as affection. A relationship buried in secrecy, strategy, and strange touches of possessiveness that felt far more dangerous than any opponent.

She organized group events like it was her divine purpose, dragging their year together through sheer willpower and charisma. People loved her for it. They thanked her, praised her, admired her.

They had no idea who she really was.

But he did.

And sometimes—when she smiled at him in public, pretending like they were best friends, only to whisper his name with terrifying tenderness behind closed doors—he wasn’t sure if that made him privileged… or damned.

One afternoon, Horikita called Ayanokouji to her dorm room. When he arrived, the door was already unlocked — an unspoken sign he was expected to let himself in. She was seated at her desk, scribbling notes with an intense focus, barely glancing his way as the door clicked shut behind him.

“We have a special exam coming up,” she said flatly, her pen not pausing for a second.

Ayanokouji didn’t respond immediately. He stood there silently, taking in the way her brows furrowed as she wrote, the late afternoon sun casting warm lines of light across her desk and her half-shadowed expression.

Then finally, she looked up, her eyes meeting his with familiar sharpness. She held out a small plastic container wrapped in a neat ribbon.

“Here,” she added, voice quieter but still tinged with her usual cool edge. “For your troubles. Mini strawberry shortcakes.”

There was a brief pause before she smirked, almost teasing.

“Ichinose loves them, so… be generous and share.”

“You’ve been busy,” Ayanokouji said casually, taking the container from her hand. His fingers brushed against hers briefly—warm, steady, unintentional but somehow not unwelcome. “Still making time to bribe me, though?”

Horikita didn’t answer immediately. She tapped her pen against the notebook in front of her, her eyes fixed on the page even though she wasn’t reading anymore. “It’s called incentive,” she replied coolly. “You’re more agreeable when you’re sugared up.”

He let out a low breath of amusement and leaned against the edge of her desk, his gaze drifting from her notes to her face. “Ichinose will love these,” he said, repeating her earlier words with the faintest hint of teasing.

“Go prepare for your picnic with your girlfriend tomorrow,” Horikita muttered, rolling her eyes. “She likes strawberries, in case you couldn’t tell.”

“Oh, so that’s how it’s gonna be?” Ayanokouji grinned—a rare, genuine smile that made her shift in her seat. He wasn’t mocking. He was enjoying this. Her.

“You should already know that about her,” she replied, brows raised, feigning disapproval.

“Next time you want to reward me, maybe actually try,” he said, sliding into the chair across from her with ease.

“And what exactly is that supposed to mean?” she asked, finally looking up from her notes, lips curling into a knowing smirk.

“Every time you’ve made something for me, it’s been something for one of the girls I’m with,” he said simply, voice calm but laced with something pointed.

“Only to compensate for your lack of thought when it comes to gifts,” Horikita shot back smoothly, resting her chin in her hand.

“I use plenty of thought,” he said defensively, leaning forward. “I just don’t… overthink it.”

“You turn into a stalker,” she deadpanned. “What did you even want anyway?”

“A yogurt maker,” Ayanokouji said without missing a beat.

Horikita blinked. “...Are you serious?”

“Mine broke,” he said with a shrug, as though it were the most reasonable answer in the world.

There was a beat of silence before Horikita snorted. “I’ll consider it. Now go!” she said, laughing as she picked up a pillow from her bed and threw it at him.

He caught it against his chest with dramatic flair and clutched it like a wound. “You wound me.”

She rolled her eyes again, but the corner of her mouth tugged upward despite herself. The banter lingered in the room like a warmth neither of them acknowledged out loud.

“Go!” Horikita threw another pillow, this one with a little more force. It missed his head by a hair, hitting the doorframe instead with a dull thud.

Ayanokouji raised both hands in surrender as he stepped back. “I’m going, I’m going!” he said, laughter tugging at his voice as he made a strategic retreat toward the hallway.

Behind him, Horikita huffed, crossing her arms but unable to completely smother the small smirk tugging at the corner of her lips.

“Don’t forget the strawberry cakes,” she called as the door clicked shut.

Ayanokouji’s voice drifted back faintly through the door. “I won’t. Ichinose will think I’m thoughtful. You’ll get all the credit, as usual.”

Horikita shook her head, her smile lingering as she turned back to her desk, pen tapping idly once more. “Idiot,” she muttered to herself. But the warmth in her voice said otherwise.

That night, Ayanokouji’s dream was soft and familiar—like slipping into a memory he never knew he had. The house was the same, perched on that quiet hill beneath the gentle sway of the old willow tree. Warm light filled the kitchen, and music played low in the background, something upbeat and cozy.

He and Horikita stood side by side at the counter, flour dusting the air. She was mixing batter, focused but relaxed, her sleeves rolled up. Without thinking, he wrapped his arms around her from behind, swaying slightly to the rhythm of the song.

She laughed, tilting her head toward him with an amused groan. “Stop distracting me!”

“Never,” Ayanokouji murmured, nuzzling into the curve of her neck. Her laugh deepened, more real than any sound he thought dreams could hold.

“If you’re going to hover, then make yourself useful,” Horikita said, elbowing him gently. “Start on the frosting.”

He grinned against her shoulder. “You’re my frosting.”

She stilled, then let out an incredulous laugh. “What?”

“Because you’re so sweet,” he added proudly, unable to keep the teasing edge out of his voice.

“That was terrible,” she said between laughs, shaking her head.

“That’s what makes it perfect,” he said, laughing with her—genuinely, carelessly.

And for a few moments longer, the kitchen stayed filled with laughter, light, and something warm that lingered even after he woke.

Horikita’s dream that night wasn’t really a dream at all—it was a memory, twisted just enough by her subconscious to become a nightmare.

She found herself standing in the doorway of her old childhood bedroom, the one with the pale blue curtains and the perfectly organized bookshelf. It was a room that never really belonged to her, just a carefully curated display of what her parents expected their daughter to be. The walls felt like they were closing in as she stepped inside, and her stomach twisted with a familiar weight—the one that always settled in when she disappointed them.

Her father’s voice boomed through the room, loud and unforgiving. He stood in the hallway, holding a sheet of paper, red marks scrawled across the top.

“A B?” he thundered, eyes narrowed with disdain. “A B? You dare bring this disgrace into my house?”

Each syllable hit her like a hammer, the volume growing louder than any real voice should be. Her fists clenched at her sides, nails digging into her palms, but she said nothing. She never had the right to speak when he was like this.

Her mother sat on the edge of the bed, arms crossed and eyes narrowed with an expression that was equal parts boredom and cruelty.

“If you can’t be brilliant,” she said coldly, “at least be useful. I suppose we could still marry you off—some poor fool might take pity on your looks. But even that’s doubtful with your personality.”

Horikita flinched. It wasn’t just the words—it was how casually they were spoken, as if they’d been rehearsed a hundred times. Her mother’s tone was sharp, but light. Dismissive.

“Honestly,” she continued with a sigh, “it’d be a miracle if anyone wanted you. You’re a burden now. Always have been. Always will be”

And there he was—her brother. Standing near the door, silent. Watching. His face was unreadable, cold, passive. He didn’t step in, didn’t speak up, didn’t defend her. She reached out slightly, as if to say something, but he turned his head away like she wasn’t even worth the effort.

The dream twisted, the room growing darker, the shadows swallowing the corners. Her father's voice kept echoing, over and over, growing less coherent and more like a roar of pressure in her ears. Her mother’s words looped again and again, digging deeper each time. Her brother faded into the background, and suddenly, she was alone in the room—small, helpless, invisible.

She couldn’t breathe.

She couldn’t move.

And then she woke up.

The cold sweat on her forehead mirrored the coldness in her chest. The silence of her dorm room was deafening in comparison. She lay still for a long while, eyes wide open in the dark, her body tense, as if still bracing for the next cruel word or scolding. And yet… the emptiness of the quiet almost hurt more.

She didn't cry. She never cried.

She scrambled out of bed, her breaths short and shallow, heart racing as if trying to escape the prison of her ribs. The remnants of the nightmare clung to her like a second skin—her father's voice still echoed in her skull, thunderous with disapproval, sharp with disappointment. Her mother’s cold, cruel laugh lingered like a poison in the air, the words she had spoken—words about being a burden, about marrying her off to whoever would have her—still stabbing at the most vulnerable parts of her soul. And her brother... he had just stood there. Silent. Passive. Watching her fall apart without lifting a finger.

Her hands shook as she pulled the old box out from beneath the bed, the one she swore she wouldn’t open again. Dust clung to its corners like old ghosts. She opened it, and as the lid creaked, her resolve shattered completely.

Tears spilled over the moment she saw what was inside.

On top was a simple gold pendant, its center a dull ruby that once shimmered in the sun. She remembered the day she got it—his fingers had been warm when he clasped it around her neck, calling her his "anchor," the person who kept him grounded.

Next were the plastic flowers—cheap, a little crinkled now with age—but still carefully arranged, as if he'd known she'd keep them forever. There was a small bottle of perfume, barely touched, and the scent still clung faintly to it—vanilla and something soft, like the beginning of spring. He’d told her it suited her.

Then, there was the tiny stuffed bear, its white fur slightly yellowed with time. It held a little red heart, embroidered with the words I love you. Her sobs grew harder as she picked it up, because it was missing its twin—the counterpart she had given him. The one they used to joke were like them: one stubborn, one sweet, but both always side by side.

And then... the photos.

She wasn’t prepared.

Her trembling fingers pulled out the stack, and she stared down at pieces of a past too fragile to touch. Blurry snapshots of her and him—laughing, close, alive. Her smile was always directed at him, even in the candid ones. In a few, he kissed her cheek, her temple, or her lips, or leaned in as if the world beyond her didn’t matter. They had been so young, so stupidly in love.

But the one that broke her—the one that shattered her all over again—was the photo taken at the fair.

She remembered the cotton candy he insisted she hold even though it was too big for her hands, how he snuck up behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist, whispering something in her ear right before he kissed her cheek. She remembered laughing, blushing, trying to act annoyed but failing miserably. Someone had snapped the picture just as he pressed that kiss to her skin.

He looked at her like she was his whole world.

And then... he was gone.

That was the last photo. The last real memory.

Horikita collapsed to her knees, clutching the bear to her chest, the box lying open beside her like a casket for a life that could’ve been. Her sobs were quiet but raw, stripped of dignity. The nightmare from earlier felt like a cruel reminder that love, comfort, and safety had always been fleeting things in her life.

But with him... for a little while... they hadn't been.

Chapter Text

The next term passed in a breeze—smooth, sharp, and precise, much like the girl at the center of it all. Horikita Suzune was flawless in every sense of the word. Academically, she soared, topping exams and leading strategic victories during group projects and special assessments. She didn’t just pass—she dominated. And yet, her excellence wasn’t born from the naive optimism or blind hard work that once defined her. No, this version of Horikita had evolved into something far more calculated. Every step, every misstep, every perceived weakness—each one was part of a larger plan.

She had even engineered her own flaws, subtle enough to seem genuine, but placed just right in case someone tried to exploit her. Her imperfections were weapons—shields, traps, and decoys—all in one. And as expected, there were those foolish enough to test her.

The first major attempt came from a boy in her year who thought he could blackmail her with doctored photos. They were tasteless and amateur, but dangerous enough if shown without context. Unfortunately for him, Horikita had predicted such a scenario over a year ago. She’d made a quiet arrangement with Sakura, who still held influence in the school's social media circles. The moment the blackmail was hinted at, Sakura released the unedited originals alongside a formal report to the school’s ethics board. The boy was expelled by the week's end. He never even saw it coming.

The second was bolder—and far more dangerous. A kidnapping attempt. It hadn’t gotten far. The student, a second-year with delusions of grandeur and a grudge from a failed group project, had tried to corner her late one night. He didn’t count on Horikita being a skilled fighter. Her self-defense training—honed in secrecy—was precise and brutal. He ended up in the infirmary for two weeks. The official report labeled it “a serious accident during voluntary sparring practice.” Privately, the administration advised him to withdraw from the school for "medical reasons" and to avoid any legal investigation. He did.

By the time the second term came to an end, everyone had learned two important things: never underestimate Horikita Suzune, and never, under any circumstance, try to cross her. The air around her shifted. She wasn't just feared—she was respected, even revered by some. Her icy demeanor hadn't thawed, but it no longer needed to. People didn’t get close enough anymore to see past it.

But behind all the perfect planning, flawless execution, and layers of defense, the truth remained. There were cracks in the foundation. Not in her control—never that—but in her heart. Small, aching spaces no one dared to look into. Spaces carved out by dreams that haunted her, and by a memory of a boy whose laugh echoed in her mind when the world was quiet. A memory that—no matter how flawless she was—she could never outmaneuver.

By the time the fourth term arrived, the atmosphere had shifted. The air felt colder—not just from the encroaching winter, but from the tension that had begun to snake its way through the school halls. There was a new kind of silence in the air—one that trembled under whispers and side-glances. Only this time, the threat didn’t target Horikita Suzune directly. It was more intimate, more dangerous.

They came for Ayanokouji.

The mastermind behind it was a third-year student—a legacy name, draped in entitlement, family connections, and an inflated sense of superiority that had gone unchecked for far too long. He wasn’t just ambitious—he was desperate. Horikita's strategic dominance, her elevation of Class C to Class B, her influence across the student body—it all offended him. To him, her control was a blemish on the perfect system he believed he was born to rule.

So, rather than confront her, he chose a different path. He went after her partner.

Ayanokouji was alone during a scheduled inter-class transition event, something designed to foster cooperation between years. The event’s looseness made it the perfect opportunity for someone to isolate him without drawing too much attention. The third-year thought he was clever. Thought he'd identified the one thread Horikita couldn’t afford to lose. Thought he could bend her to his will by threatening to cut it.

What he didn’t understand—what very few people ever truly grasped—was that Ayanokouji didn’t fear traps. He walked into them willingly. And Horikita? She was the one who laid the bait.

They had anticipated a move like this weeks ago. It was just a matter of when. And when it came, they let it play out.

Ayanokouji didn’t resist. He was taken quietly, without a struggle. That alone should have raised alarms, but arrogance blinded the enemy. Hours later, Horikita received the message: a location, a demand, a deadline. The threat was clear—her points for Ayanokouji’s life.

The meeting point was an abandoned maintenance hall on the edge of campus, long forgotten except by those who knew how to exploit blind spots in the school’s surveillance. When Horikita arrived, her performance was flawless. She didn’t stride in with confidence—she stumbled, breathing fast, trembling hands clutched around a bag she claimed held the ransom.

“Kiyokata?” she called out, her voice cracking with panic. “Please—please don’t hurt him. I’ll give you what you want, just don’t kill him…”

Makabe was already standing behind Ayanokouji, who was bound to a chair—but not well. His wrists weren’t bleeding, and his breathing was far too steady for someone in real distress. Makabe didn’t notice. He was too high on his own sense of power.

“20 million points,” he said, flipping a knife in his hand and pointing it toward Horikita. “Transfer them, or I open him up like a biology project.”

Horikita froze, eyes wide, tears threatening. “I—I don’t even have that much,” she whispered, stumbling forward. “Please, I need more time—”

“Too bad,” the boy hissed. He grabbed Ayanokouji’s hair and yanked his head back, placing the blade to his throat. “Maybe I take a piece of him as a warning. Just enough to make you understand what’s at stake.”

Horikita’s eyes widened, voice breaking on a sob. “That’s— I don’t even have that kind of— Please, just give me some time, I can—”

Makabe cut her off. “No more stalling. If you can’t pay, he’s gonna have to.” The blade pressed closer to Ayanokouji’s neck. “And when I’m done, I’ll make sure—”

Click.

The sound of a gun being cocked—cold and unmistakable—rang through the air.

Makabe froze as he felt something metal press against the back of his head.

“You’re late,” Horikita said flatly, her tears gone. Her voice was steel now. Controlled. Measured. Lethal.

“Traffic,” Albert replied, his gravelly voice reminiscent of an old mobster flick.

Makabe didn’t dare move. A bead of sweat dripped down his temple. From the shadows, Albert had emerged, weapon in hand and calm as ice.

Ayanokouji stood up calmly, brushing the restraints off like loose threads. He rolled his shoulders back and rubbed his wrists, then walked over to Horikita, wrapping one arm loosely around her waist.

“Want me to take him out?” Albert asked, calm, like he was talking about a grocery list.

Makabe went rigid. The fear in his eyes bloomed. He tried to speak, but the words choked in his throat.

Horikita met Albert’s gaze without flinching. “Make it look self-inflicted.”

She turned on her heel and walked away, Ayanokouji by her side, her hand finding his for the briefest moment before letting go.

Behind them, Makabe collapsed to his knees, Albert still standing like a shadow behind him.

No one ever heard from Kiyokata Makabe again. Official reports claimed he transferred out due to "family issues." But the student body knew the truth without ever saying it aloud.

You don’t come for Ayanokouji.

And you never, ever threaten Horikita’s people.

Ayanokouji flinched as the sharp crack of the gunshot echoed through the corridor, reverberating off the sterile walls like a cold reminder of the power Horikita now wielded. The scent of gunpowder still lingered faintly in the air, but Horikita didn’t so much as blink. Calm and composed, she slowly turned to face Albert, her eyes meeting his with an unflinching, calculated calm.

“Make sure anyone else involved is taken care of,” she said, her voice even but laced with authority. “I’ll have one of Kushida’s workers send you a list.”

Albert nodded without question. “Yes, ma’am.” There was a rare seriousness in his tone, not out of fear, but respect.

Then, without a word, he knelt before her—a quiet gesture of loyalty—before placing the still-warm weapon gently into Makabe’s waiting hands. He stood, offered a final nod, and disappeared into the shadows with silent efficiency.

Ayanokouji stood in the corner of the room, silent, still processing. He had seen many things—he had done worse—but the quiet ruthlessness Horikita commanded now… it was different. It wasn’t recklessness, nor cruelty—it was precision. Strategy. She hadn’t flinched because she had anticipated every part of this.

She had learned how to survive in a world that didn’t allow mistakes. And now, she was building a new one on her terms.

"I didn't realize you had the capacity for something like that," Ayanokouji said, eyes following Albert as he left, the door closing behind him with a heavy click that seemed to echo in the silence left in his wake.

There was no judgment in his voice—only quiet observation, as though he were reevaluating everything he thought he knew. Still, even the slight lift in his brow was telling. This wasn't just unexpected; it was a shift in the very foundation of what he’d come to understand about her. The way she’d issued the order. The way Albert had responded—without hesitation, without even questioning it. The way she hadn’t blinked at the sound of violence erupting just outside the door. Horikita had moved pieces into place for this moment long before it came, and now she was merely watching the board respond accordingly.

Horikita didn’t bother to meet his gaze. She was back at the desk, turning over documents with steady fingers, scanning pages and marking notes without pause.

“Stop underestimating me,” she said simply, without venom or heat. Just truth. Just resolve.

There was no pride in her tone either—only a quiet acceptance that she had become exactly the person she needed to be. And maybe she always had been. Maybe she had simply taken longer than others to allow herself to act.

Ayanokouji leaned against the wall, arms crossed loosely over his chest. His expression was unreadable, but his silence pressed on her like a weight, as though waiting to see if she would say more. She didn’t indulge him with anything more than what was necessary.

“When we receive the results for this year’s tests, we should reach Class A,” she said, still not looking at him, her voice shifting into that tone she used when laying out strategy—firm, grounded, impenetrable. “From then on, our goal should be staying in Class A for our third and final year.”

She flipped to the next page, circled something, then finally paused—only to lift her head and meet his eyes at last.

“And I’ll begin planning for after graduation in more detail.”

There was a subtle intensity in the way she said it—not rushed, not overly ambitious. It was calculated, rooted in deep planning and foresight. Horikita wasn’t merely satisfied with achieving the current goal; she was already building the path beyond it. Every alliance, every contingency, every manipulated outcome—it was all designed not only to ensure their rise, but to secure their legacy.

It was the kind of thing he would’ve expected from someone like Ichika or Sakayanagi. But coming from Horikita—it meant something more. Because she hadn’t been handed power. She hadn’t been trained for it like him. She had earned it. Fought for every inch of it with grit and bruised pride and nights spent picking herself up again after every failure. And now, it was as if she was finally unshackled from her old self—no longer striving to impress her brother, no longer relying on Ayanokouji to shield her from behind the curtain.

For a moment, Ayanokouji said nothing. He simply watched her.

The silence between them wasn’t tense. It was weighted.

And then he pushed himself away from the wall and stepped toward her, resting a hand lightly on the back of the chair across from her desk but not sitting.

“You’re already thinking about life beyond this school,” he said, not as a question, but a recognition.

Horikita nodded, placing her pen down with deliberate care.

“Class A was never the end goal, Ayanokouji. It was a stepping stone. If I stop here, then everything I’ve built will be left to decay. I’m not interested in a hollow victory.” Her gaze flickered briefly to the door Albert had exited through. “People like Kushida and Makabe… they’re useful now. But once we graduate, the rules change. That’s why the foundation needs to be strong, unquestionable. I want us to leave this school not just as top students… but as people whose influence continues to ripple outward. I’m not just planning for our future—I’m planning for our reach.”

He didn’t respond immediately.

Instead, he looked down at her—this girl who had once been so obsessed with perfection she’d failed to see the power of adaptability. This girl who had once tried to do everything alone, and who now wielded others like chess pieces not out of manipulation, but because she’d earned their respect—or fear.

She had changed.

But then again, so had he.

“Then I guess I’ll have to make sure I’m still at your side when that happens,” Ayanokouji said at last, voice low, but edged with something surprisingly sincere.

Horikita’s lips tugged slightly, just at the corner.

“You already are,” she replied quietly. “And I expect you to keep up.”

"What happens to your empire when we graduate?" Ayanokouji asked, his tone unreadable as always, but his eyes scanning her face with genuine curiosity.

Horikita didn’t answer immediately. She tapped her pen lightly against the desk, her gaze still fixed on the spreadsheet she was analyzing, filled with numbers, names, and small annotations. Her silence stretched just long enough to suggest that she’d already thought deeply about it—already planned far ahead, as she always did.

“Next year,” she said finally, her voice calm but firm, “I’ll begin scouting someone to take over operations within the school. Someone capable, loyal, and smart enough not to draw unnecessary attention. It won’t be easy, but I’ve already been keeping an eye on a few first years. A couple second years too, just in case.”

She paused, finally looking up at him, meeting his eyes directly.

“Of course, I’ll still be in charge,” she added. “Everything will still come back to me. But I’ll need someone on the inside to keep things running smoothly when I’m no longer here in person. The foundation I’ve built can’t be left to crumble the moment I walk out the gates on graduation day. It’s not just about us reaching Class A anymore. This system I’ve created—it matters. And I intend to see it survive.”

Ayanokouji leaned back slightly, arms crossed, studying her. “You’re planning like a CEO preparing to hand over to their successor.”

“That’s exactly what I’m doing,” she said plainly. “I’ve invested too much to let it end with us. This—” she gestured around the room, not at the walls, but at the power she now held, the influence they both knew she’d carefully nurtured “—is bigger than just a school ranking now. It’s a structure. A legacy. One I won’t abandon.”

He nodded slowly, the corners of his mouth twitching ever so slightly. “You’ve changed a lot.”

“I’ve grown,” Horikita corrected. “And I don’t plan on stopping.”

Ayanokouji looked down at her from where he stood, his voice quiet but laced with something just shy of curiosity. “Ichinose’s been acting strangely lately.”

Horikita didn’t even pause, her eyes still scanning the documents in front of her, her fingers flipping through neatly organized pages. “She wants to break up with you,” she said plainly, without malice or judgment. “But she’s trying to do it carefully—strategically. She wants to walk away from the relationship without losing your favor. She knows you're a valuable asset, and she’s afraid that cutting ties too harshly will sever her access to your support.”

Ayanokouji's gaze lingered on her face for a moment, unreadable as always, though something flickered faintly in his expression—whether it was amusement or appreciation, even he didn’t bother to define it. “Just as you predicted.”

At that, Horikita finally glanced up, and a slight, knowing smile curved her lips. “You doubted me?”

“Never.” He gave her a rare smile—one of those fleeting expressions that barely lasted a moment but carried more meaning than most words ever could.

They stared at each other for a breath too long, the quiet tension between them soft rather than sharp—almost like the echo of something that hadn’t fully formed yet, but existed all the same.

Horikita turned her attention back to the files, but the smile lingered. “Good,” she said softly. “Because you’re the only one I allow to see this far into my plans. The others… they only see what I want them to see.”

Ayanokouji sat down across from her without being invited, arms resting loosely on the table. “And what do I get to see that they don’t?”

Horikita didn’t answer immediately, but her expression softened around the edges. “Enough,” she murmured, “to make you dangerous.”

He smirked faintly. “I always have been.”

And in that shared quiet, full of unspoken truths and carefully managed vulnerability, they both understood that while others played games for control, power, or reputation—this was something else entirely. Something built on trust, intellect, and the ever-growing comfort of knowing that even in a world full of manipulation, the two of them could afford to be honest with each other… even if only in small doses.

“Anyway,” Horikita said, finally looking up at him with that cool, composed expression she always wore, though there was something a little more casual in her tone now—less like a leader issuing commands, and more like someone who’d grown comfortable enough to let her guard down slightly. “I’m going out with the girls tonight.”

She began closing the folders in front of her, stacking them into a neat pile with practiced ease. Her movements were precise, almost methodical—just like everything she did. Still, the comment itself was unexpected. Horikita wasn’t known for social outings, much less voluntary ones. It was clear this was one of those rare nights where she allowed herself to breathe outside the world of strategy and academic dominance.

Ayanokouji raised an eyebrow ever so slightly, watching her. “Girls’ night, huh?”

“It’s necessary to maintain appearances,” she added smoothly, standing and brushing nonexistent dust from her skirt. “Besides, it doesn’t hurt to bond with my closest allies now and then. Sato, Matsushita, and even Ichika—they’re more inclined to support my leadership when they feel personally connected. That’s something I learned from you.”

Ayanokouji gave a soft exhale that might’ve been a laugh. “I see. So even your downtime is strategic.”

Horikita ignored the comment, grabbing her coat. But just before she turned to leave, she glanced over her shoulder and added, “Make sure you study tonight. I don’t want to have to carry you through the next mock exam.”

There was a flicker of teasing in her voice, subtle but unmistakable.

Ayanokouji smirked faintly. “You’re worried about me?”

“I’m ensuring the empire doesn’t crumble in my absence,” she replied briskly, but her lips quirked in a ghost of a smile before she turned toward the door.

As she stepped out, he leaned back in his seat and watched her go, the echo of her footsteps fading down the hallway. He knew Horikita well enough to recognize that wasn’t just a casual goodbye—it was a small show of trust. She didn’t tell people where she went or what she did. Not unless it mattered that they knew.

And somehow, it mattered that he did.

Horikita stepped into Sakayanagi’s room and was immediately greeted by a wave of sound and light. Laughter bubbled from the open bathroom, pop music pulsed from a speaker perched precariously on a shelf, and the scent of hairspray mixed with the soft traces of floral perfume in the air. The place was alive with motion—girls in various stages of preparation bouncing between mirrors, makeup bags, and straighteners, their voices overlapping in a chaotic but oddly comforting rhythm.

It was not a space Horikita would have found herself in a year ago. And yet, tonight, she crossed the threshold with practiced ease, plastering a smile across her face like armor. It was warm, open, friendly—completely at odds with the aloof, intense image most of the school had of her. But that was the thing about Horikita: when she committed to a strategy, she threw herself in completely.

Sakayanagi, seated elegantly on the edge of her bed with her phone in hand, greeted her with a knowing smirk. “Ah, our future empress has arrived. I hope you brought your camera, Horikita. Hashimoto will be devastated if I don’t send him at least three more photos of me looking radiant.”

Horikita gave a light chuckle, already lifting her phone. “I’m surprised you haven’t created a shared photo album at this point.”

Sakayanagi merely winked and posed with a graceful tilt of her chin.

Across the room, Sakura was squinting at a compact mirror, tongue poking out in concentration as she fumbled with her eyeliner. Her hands shook slightly. Horikita swept in beside her, crouching down with the ease of a practiced older sister. “Let me help,” she offered, her voice low and reassuring.

Sakura blushed but nodded, relaxing under her steady hands.

“Thanks, Horikita-san…”

“Close your eyes. Hold still.”

In another corner, Sato waved a flat iron wildly. “Can someone help me? This thing isn’t heating properly—I think I broke it again—oh wait no it’s working—nope. Nope. Dead. Horikitaaa?”

Horikita stood smoothly, eyeliner finished, and moved toward Sato, grabbing the second flat iron with the casual air of someone used to managing disasters. “Let me see,” she said, taking over with quiet confidence. As she worked, Sato gushed about a new outfit she’d seen online, her voice light and excitable, and Horikita even let herself laugh, brushing a lock of hair over Sato’s shoulder with practiced ease.

Someone else—Nanao from Class 2-D—called out, holding two dresses in either hand. “Red or black?”

Horikita didn’t miss a beat. “Red. It suits your skin tone better.”

The girl beamed and dove back into her closet.

For the next hour, Horikita moved through the room like a quiet engine behind the noise—helping with zippers, smoothing out dresses, taking impromptu group selfies with perfect angles, even teaching someone how to re-apply mascara after sneezing mid-application. And all the while, she laughed and smiled and teased like she’d been part of this world from the start.

But in truth, it was all deliberate. Genuine in moments, yes, but calculated at its core. These weren’t just girls—they were key players. Supporters. Watchers. Allies. And if Horikita had learned anything from Ayanokouji, it was that power didn’t always come from control. Sometimes it came from presence—being the one who was remembered fondly, who made people feel better simply by being in the room.

And as the music grew louder and the final touches of perfume were sprayed into the air, Horikita found herself in the center of it all—not just as a class leader, but as something far rarer in Advanced Nurturing High School.

A trusted friend.

The night was electric, buzzing with a kind of carefree joy that Horikita rarely allowed herself to experience. The bar they started at was dimly lit and cozy, tucked between two narrow alleyways like a secret only they knew. It served nothing alcoholic, but the drinks were sweet and fizzy, the kind that made your tongue tingle and your chest feel light. Horikita sipped her cherry soda slowly while Sato giggled into her lavender-colored mocktail, teasing Sakayanagi about texting Hashimoto too much.

Sakayanagi blushed but didn't deny it, and Horikita leaned in to help her edit her latest message—half teasing, half sincere. The girls around her sparkled with glittery makeup and excited energy. Sato had somehow convinced two others to do a matching TikTok dance with her in the corner, and even Horikita had smiled, genuinely, at their attempts.

They hopped between small parties around the campus perimeter—nothing too wild, nothing too serious. Laughter echoed through the halls, sneakers squeaking against the floors, arms looped together as they darted from one dorm to the next. Someone had brought speakers and lights to one of the empty rooftop lounges, so for a while they danced under the stars. Horikita didn’t dance much, but she swayed in time with the music, letting the sound carry her thoughts away.

When the night began to wind down, they sat on the grass just outside one of the dorm buildings, shoes in hand, chatting about everything and nothing. For once, there were no schemes, no calculations, no strategies. Just shared stories, soft laughter, and the buzz of harmless secrets.

Horikita felt a strange warmth settle in her chest—not just from the camaraderie, but from the realization that she had built this. All of it. Not just the rise to Class A, but a network of people who trusted her, liked her, even admired her. It wasn’t something she had ever imagined wanting before.

But now, as she glanced around at the girls dozing off against each other's shoulders or scrolling through pictures from earlier, Horikita allowed herself to feel proud—and maybe even a little happy.

Horikita’s dorm room was quiet and still when she entered, the leftover energy of the night clinging to her skin like a shimmer she couldn’t quite wash off. Her hair smelled faintly of someone else’s perfume—Sato’s probably—and her cheeks were still a little warm from laughing too hard, too freely. She dropped her keys with a soft clink onto her desk and toed off her shoes with a tired huff, barely glancing at the way the dim desk lamp cast long shadows across her room.

The moment she sat down on her bed, her phone buzzed softly. She picked it up lazily, thumb unlocking the screen before she even really looked.

Ayanokouji: Studied. As ordered.

She stared at the message for a long moment, lips tugging into the ghost of a smile. It was short, sarcastic in the way only he could be, but threaded beneath it was something familiar—his strange brand of attentiveness. The way he always seemed to do exactly what she told him, not because he had to, but because he chose to.

Horikita considered replying. Something simple like good. Or maybe a teasing I expected nothing less. But her fingers hovered over the screen, unmoving.

Instead, she locked her phone again and set it on the nightstand, letting her body sink into the mattress. The sheets were cool against her skin as she tucked herself in, her limbs heavy from the buzz of adrenaline and sugary drinks finally wearing off. Her muscles ached in the best kind of way—the kind that told her she’d done something different, something good.

Her eyes fluttered closed, and her mind replayed the images of the night like an old film reel: Sakura smiling shyly as Horikita dabbed the edge of her eyeliner clean, Sato spinning barefoot under the rooftop lights, Sakayanagi giggling uncontrollably as she received a voice message from Hashimoto. The sounds of laughter, the flickers of shared glances and inside jokes.

And somewhere in the back of it all, like a thread that held everything together even in his absence, was Ayanokouji. The quiet acknowledgment of his message lingered like a presence at the edge of her consciousness. No expectations. No questions. Just a single line, and the unspoken understanding that she didn’t have to reply for him to know she saw it.

Horikita turned onto her side, pulled the blanket up to her chin, and allowed herself to drift off—surrounded by silence, yet strangely not alone.

The next few days unfolded in a haze of motion—so much so that Horikita barely had time to breathe, let alone reflect. It wasn’t that she was overwhelmed, not exactly. She was too competent for that, too sharp, too methodical. But the pace of everything, the rapid-fire rhythm of exams, parties, whispered favors and secret texts, made time feel slippery. Mornings bled into nights, and somewhere in between, she mastered the art of appearing unbothered while running an empire.

By day, Horikita was the picture of the model classmate. She moved seamlessly between study sessions, offering quiet but firm guidance to those struggling. Kushida and Sato often joined her in the library, and even Hirata stopped by to clarify the odd question or two. She helped Sakura revise for math with a calm precision that left the other girl thanking her profusely, almost embarrassingly so. When Sakayanagi anxiously questioned her date outfits, Horikita offered honest feedback, pretending not to smirk when Sakayanagi practically lit up at the thought of Hashimoto seeing her in them.

"He's going to say you look beautiful no matter what," Horikita muttered one afternoon, brushing lint off the collar of a white dress. “You could show up in a trash bag and he’d still smile like you invented sunlight.”

Sakayanagi grinned. “I like this new version of you, Horikita. More charming. Less frosty.”

Horikita raised a brow. “This is me at half capacity. Don’t get used to it.”

But the real show happened behind the curtain.

Her underground operations had never seen such explosive growth. Word had spread like wildfire—students whispering in the corners of study rooms, messages slipping through encrypted apps, and money being exchanged in neat little envelopes under desks. Exam season brought with it desperation, and desperation was the perfect fuel for business. Her "pharmaceuticals" were flying out of hidden drawers and drop spots—nootropics, focus enhancers, sleeping aids to crash after twenty hours of study. Not enough to cause suspicion, never that. Just enough to keep her clients barely ahead of their limits.

Third-years were especially frantic, and their requests became increasingly shady: planted misinformation, forged cheat sheets, ways to derail a rival’s score. Horikita filtered the chaos, managing it all with cold efficiency. She had lieutenants now, people who didn’t even know who they worked for, just that someone powerful was making things happen. The anonymity was part of the brilliance. No one suspected quiet, diligent Horikita Suzune—at least, not beyond being a little intense about class rankings. And so she thrived, hidden in plain sight, the queen behind a curtain of schoolgirl smiles and sensible ponytails.

Even Ichinose had changed.

The once headstrong, earnest girl who wore her heart on her sleeve had grown cautious, more measured in her approach to Ayanokoji. There were still glances, still that unmistakable fondness—but Horikita noticed how Ichinose began pulling back in conversations, redirecting the topic away from romance, subtly steering her affection toward something platonic. She never admitted it outright, of course. That wasn’t Ichinose’s style. But her change in behavior was unmistakable.

“I think he’s better off as a friend,” she told Horikita one afternoon, watching the boys play basketball from a shaded bench. “He’s just not really what I’m looking for, you know .” she shrugged “I hope he finds someone for him though, hes really sweet.”

Horikita didn’t respond at first. She simply offered a slight nod, eyes following Ayanokoji’s unremarkable movements across the court. To anyone else, he looked bored, mechanical. But Horikita knew better. He never moved without purpose.

Later that evening, she walked the campus alone. The air was crisp, touched with the fading warmth of early summer. She wore her calm like armor, but underneath it was the hum of everything she’d built. The empire, the friendships, the balance of power. It was fragile—but perfect. And all of it rested on her ability to keep every part of her life in its own neat, locked compartment.

When she got to her room, her phone buzzed once. Ayanokoji.

“Still studying. As instructed.”

She allowed herself a small smile. It was his way of letting her know he was watching. That he hadn’t forgotten her.

She didn’t respond this time either. She simply put her phone down, slid beneath the covers, and closed her eyes.

She was winning.

But in this school, even that came at a cost—and she knew it better than anyone.

One afternoon, Ichinose messaged Ayanokouji: "Can we meet at that café? We need to talk." There was a certain finality to her words, something unspoken but clear enough.

When he arrived, she was already seated by the window, her hands wrapped around a half-full coffee cup, the rim stained slightly with gloss. She looked up as he entered, offering a small, tentative smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

“Thanks for coming,” she said gently, motioning to the chair across from her. “Please… sit.”

Ayanokouji sat, quiet and unreadable, his gaze steady as it met hers. For a second, neither of them said anything, the sound of clinking cutlery and low music filling the silence between them.

“I think we should just be friends,” Ichinose said at last, voice soft, apologetic.

“You’re breaking up with me,” he stated, not as a question but as an observation, calm and unsurprised.

Ichinose’s shoulders relaxed slightly at his tone. She nodded, giving him a sad, almost relieved smile. “Yeah… I guess I am. You’ve been good to me—really good. It’s not that there’s anything wrong. I liked being with you. I just think… we’re not right for each other in that way. Not anymore.”

Ayanokouji watched her for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then, slowly, he nodded.

“Alright,” he said, folding his hands on the table. “Friends it is.”

Ichinose exhaled, almost imperceptibly, like she’d been bracing herself for something worse. Ayanokouji simply sat back in his chair, unshaken, as if nothing significant had happened at all.

Ichinose smiled gently at him, her fingers brushing a strand of hair behind her ear as she leaned forward just a little. “I really hope you find the right person someday,” she said softly, sincerity ringing clear in her voice.

Ayanokouji gave a small shrug, his tone light but not dismissive. “And you. You deserve that too.”

Her smile widened a touch, eyes glimmering with warmth. “You’re so sweet,” she murmured, almost like she was surprised by it—even after all their time together. For a moment, they just sat there, the weight of the conversation fading into something gentler, more nostalgic than painful.

It wasn’t a bitter ending. If anything, it felt like closing a chapter that had run its course, both of them quietly acknowledging it without anger or regret.

Horikita had called him over without much explanation, just a simple, “Come to my dorm. I need to talk to you.” So, Ayanokouji came, curiosity mildly piqued though his expression—as always—remained unreadable.

When he stepped into her dorm, the room was dimly lit, the faint hum of lo-fi music coming from her laptop on the desk. Horikita was sitting on her bed, legs crossed beneath her, dressed comfortably in shorts and a hoodie, scrolling through her phone like she hadn’t just summoned him over. She didn’t look up at first, but when she heard the door close behind him, she glanced his way with a small, satisfied smirk.

“You came,” she said, putting her phone down beside her and leaning back on her hands like she’d been expecting him all along.

“I didn’t have much of a choice,” Ayanokouji replied flatly, his tone carrying a subtle edge of irony as he stepped further into the room. “She broke up with me. Just like you said she would. Said she just wanted to be friends.”

Horikita’s gaze didn’t waver. She studied his face for a moment, taking in his usual calm, the way his shoulders remained relaxed even now. “And how do you feel about that?” she asked, her voice even, but there was something probing beneath it. Something a little more personal.

He shrugged, settling into the chair across from her. “It was expected. I could see it coming the last few times we talked. She wasn’t the type to say it outright, but the signs were there. She was looking for something I wasn’t giving, and I wasn’t about to pretend I could be that person.”

“I think most people confuse it for that,” Ayanokouji said. Then, he looked directly at her. “You didn’t call me here just to say ‘I told you so.’”

She let out a soft laugh, low and amused, standing up and walking over to him, her arms folded loosely across her chest. “No, I didn’t. But I did want to see how you’d handle it. How you’d feel now that the charade is over.”

“It wasn’t a charade,” he said. “It just wasn’t… sustainable.”

Horikita tilted her head slightly, studying him in that sharp, analytical way she always had when she was trying to read something between the lines. “So now what?” she asked. “You go back to being alone?”

Ayanokouji met her gaze evenly. “You tell me.”

For a second, the air shifted—just slightly. Her smile faded into something softer, more thoughtful. “We’ve got finals coming up. You’ll need to focus.”

He smirked faintly. “So that’s what this is about. You wanted to make sure I didn’t fall into an emotional spiral.”

Horikita rolled her eyes, though the corner of her mouth twitched. “Don’t flatter yourself. I just need you sharp. You’re the foundation of this whole empire, remember?”

“Right,” he said, leaning back in the chair. “Your secret empire. How could I forget.”

She looked at him for a moment longer, something unreadable flickering across her face. Then, finally, she turned back toward her bed and picked up her phone again.

“Stay a while,” she said casually, almost offhanded. “We can go over the third-year sabotage requests. I want your opinion.”

Ayanokouji didn’t answer right away, but after a pause, he stood and moved to sit beside her on the bed, glancing at the screen over her shoulder.

Neither of them said anything about the breakup again. They didn’t need to.

Horikita didn’t look at him right away when he sat beside her. She kept scrolling for a moment, the glow of her phone reflecting in her eyes, before finally speaking again. “She wasn’t right for you,” she said, her tone neutral, but there was something firm beneath it. Not mocking. Not triumphant. Just… certain.

Ayanokouji didn’t respond at first. He watched her profile, the way her expression remained carefully composed, the faint crease between her brows as she focused. “You say that like you know who is.”

Horikita finally turned to him. “I know the type of person you wouldn’t tire of,” she said simply. “Someone who doesn’t try to fix you. Someone who doesn’t need anything from you you’re not already offering.”

“That’s a rare type,” he said. “Most people want more.”

“Not everyone,” she replied, and this time, she looked him directly in the eye. “Some people are just used to walking alone, and when they find someone who walks at the same pace… they don’t need to talk about it. They just match stride.”

There was a beat of silence, heavy but not uncomfortable. Ayanokouji’s gaze lingered on her, and for once, his expression gave away a flicker of something. Not emotion exactly—something quieter. Acknowledgment. Recognition.

“You sound like you’ve been thinking about this,” he said at last.

“I think about a lot of things,” she murmured, looking back to the screen. “That’s how I’ve kept this business running. And why I keep you close.”

“You keep me close because I’m useful,” he said, smirking a little.

She shook her head, just slightly. “That’s part of it,” she admitted. “But not the whole reason. You know that.”

He didn’t press her. Not directly. Instead, he glanced down at her screen, taking in the names on the list. Requests from third-years, carefully coded plans, contingencies.

“You really want my thoughts on these?” he asked.

“I always want your thoughts,” she said, calm as ever. “You see things I miss.”

They fell into a rhythm after that, as they always did. Discussing strategies. Unraveling motivations. The quiet hum of collaboration filling the space between them. But beneath the conversation, under every shared glance and unspoken cue, something had shifted—just slightly.

It wasn’t about Ichinose anymore. That chapter had closed without fanfare. What lingered now was a different tension. Not romantic, not yet—but deeply intimate. A trust not born from affection, but understanding. Two people who had never needed to explain themselves to each other to be understood.

And maybe, just maybe, that was what made it feel like the beginning of something else entirely.

“Karuizawa’s getting close to the edge,” Horikita said abruptly, her tone more clinical than concerned. “She’ll snap the moment we announce our fabricated relationship.”

Ayanokouji didn’t react immediately, but when he spoke, his voice was even, almost indifferent. “And how exactly does pushing her over the edge help you ‘remove her from the equation’? How does that benefit you?”

Horikita met his gaze flatly. “You’re not that naive, Kiyotaka.”

“Maybe not. But humor me anyway,” he replied.

She let out a sigh, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear before speaking again—more sharply this time. “Karuizawa is a liability. One I can’t fix. Others in our class have weaknesses that can be refined, sharpened, repurposed. But her?” She scoffed. “She’s volatile. Emotionally fragile. And too entangled in our class’s image. If we make it to Class A, we can’t afford weak links—no exploitable flaws. And she’s the biggest one we’ve got.”

“So your solution is to... what? Break her mind and hope the school steps in?”

“I don’t ‘hope,’ Kiyotaka. I’ve done the research. When she breaks, the school will label her unstable and quietly remove her for her own ‘well-being.’ There’s a facility—not far, discreet, effective. I already know the name of the director.”

Ayanokouji’s eyes narrowed slightly. “So you’re compassionate enough to look into quality care, but you couldn’t spare Makabe’s life?”

Horikita’s expression didn’t flinch. “Completely different situations. I’m an emperor, not a dictator.”

He studied her, unreadable. “You keep saying that like it’s supposed to make what you’re doing any less cold.”

“It’s not about cold. It’s about calculated,” she said smoothly. “And if Karuizawa can’t survive in the world we’re building, then she doesn’t belong in it.”

“You’ve planned the announcement, haven’t you?” Ayanokouji asked, his voice calm but edged with something unreadable—curiosity, maybe, or quiet disapproval.

Horikita nodded without hesitation. “It’ll be at the New Year’s party. Midnight.” Her gaze didn’t waver as she continued. “It’s traditional for couples to kiss when the countdown ends. That’s when we’ll make it official. By then, no one will doubt the relationship is real.”

He raised an eyebrow, expression still unreadable. “And until then?”

“We drop hints,” she said simply. “Subtle at first. Glances. A few ‘accidental’ touches. Sitting closer than necessary. Small things that people can start whispering about. If we execute it right, by the time we kiss, it won’t be a shock—it’ll be a confirmation of what everyone already suspects.”

Ayanokouji leaned back slightly, studying her like a puzzle. “You’ve put a lot of thought into this.”

“I have to,” she replied. “If we’re going to lie, it needs to be flawless. The moment people think it’s a strategy, we lose the impact.”

“And Karuizawa?”

“She’ll break before midnight,” Horikita said coolly. “That’s the point.”

Ayanokouji said nothing for a moment, the silence between them thick with implication. Finally, he offered, “If this blows up, it won’t just be her you damage.”

Horikita looked at him, her voice softer, almost regretful. “I know.”

“And it won’t,” Horikita said flatly, her voice carrying the sharp certainty of someone who had already run through every possible scenario and eliminated all the failures. She shrugged once, as if brushing off the weight of the conversation, and leaned back against the couch, folding her arms.

A comfortable silence settled for a brief moment, only broken when her eyes flicked upward toward the wall clock. The hands ticked just past midnight. Her expression shifted—still composed, but with that quiet edge of control she rarely let slip.

“It’s late,” she said, her tone returning to something that almost sounded like concern, though wrapped in her usual blunt delivery. “Leave. You need to get some rest.”

Ayanokouji didn’t move right away. He studied her face in the dim light, searching for anything beneath the surface—hesitation, guilt, doubt—but all he found was quiet resolve. Still, her words held weight. They always did when she dropped the mask for even a second.

He stood slowly, slipping his hands into his pockets. “You know,” he said mildly, “for someone who acts so cold, you have an odd way of showing you care.”

Horikita didn’t answer, not with words. She just turned her head slightly toward the window, her reflection faint in the glass.

“Don’t be late tomorrow,” she murmured instead, her voice lower. “We have a lot to do.”

Ayanokouji gave a faint nod, then walked out into the hallway without another word.

Behind him, Horikita remained still, staring at the clock for a moment longer. Tick. Tick. Tick.

It had begun.

Chapter Text

The next few days passed in a disjointed haze, as though Ayanokouji were floating through them rather than living them. He went to class, took notes, answered when called on, and executed every task with the same mechanical precision he was known for. But it was all surface-level—detached, automatic. His body was present, but his mind was somewhere else entirely. Somewhere softer, stranger, and entirely unexpected.

Suzune.

She dominated his thoughts without permission, pressing her way into every quiet moment like an intrusive melody that refused to leave. It wasn’t just her presence during the day—how her eyes lingered too long when they exchanged glances, or the way she brushed her hair behind her ear when she spoke to him in private, voice quiet but laced with veiled intentions. It was her presence at night that unnerved him the most.

The dreams had started subtly. At first, it was just her voice calling his name. Then came images—vague silhouettes of her in his room or at the school gates, standing too close, eyes soft in a way they never were in waking life. And then, gradually, they grew vivid. Tangible. Real.

He dreamed of her curling up beside him on a couch during winter break, her head resting on his shoulder, their fingers intertwined lazily. He dreamed of her giggling—actually giggling—as he spun her around in some fantasy ballroom, her hair catching the light like strands of midnight silk. He dreamed of her cooking in his kitchen, barefoot, scolding him for being useless at chopping vegetables, only to kiss him anyway when he teased her. He dreamed of laughter, of stolen kisses, of something terrifyingly close to love.

And every time he woke, it hit him like a punch to the chest.

There was a physical ache that accompanied the end of those dreams, a tight, dragging heaviness in his ribs that refused to fade. He would lie there in the dark, staring up at the ceiling, feeling like a man split in two—the strategist who had agreed to fake a relationship for the sake of a plan, and the boy who secretly longed for those fabricated moments to be real. It was foolish, sentimental, irrational—and utterly unlike him.

But no matter how much he told himself it meant nothing, that it was all manipulation and illusion, he couldn’t shake the way she laughed in those dreams. Or the way he held her like she belonged to him. Or the way he wished, somewhere deep and buried and silent, that she did.

By the time the New Year’s party loomed on the horizon, Ayanokouji realised with an unsettling clarity that he wasn’t afraid of the kiss they were planning.

He was afraid of how badly he wanted it.

One day before the final 'special exam' of the year, Horikita called a meeting with her lieutenants. The meeting room was cold, not in a temperature sense, though. Kushida sat with her legs crossed and her expression cold. Sakayanagi looked up at Horikita when she arrived. Hashimoto sat next to her, seriously, hands folded on the table. Ryuen was there to Ibuki sat in his usual seat looking up at him. Ryuen stood behind her, hands on the back of her chair, standing there like a protector. Albert had opened the door for Horikita and Ayanokouji, closing it behind them, and stood by the door like a guard.

Horikita stopped looking at Ibuki "Why did you bring her?"

"Why'd you bring your loyal dog?" Ryuen said without missing a beat

"I'll allow it", Horikita said, taking a seat at the head of the table, Ayanokouji sitting as well "Sit down."

Ryuen sat by Ibuki, placing his hand over hers

"Now then", Horikita straightened ", let's begin. The third year is becoming increasingly desperate. production on the weapons need to increase quickly tell the engernierring studebts that the Kesei Academi has begun suppluying research to real weapons manufacturers, as well as fo the elicit substance manufacturing demand has gone up so increase production to tell them the kesei institute wants to supply to pharmasists, kushida I'm gonna give you some more workers do more research on everyone, you need to know everything about everyone, especially the third years this term is the most important, they're graduating so their more desprate they have more to lose. that goes for everyone. Am I understood? Sakura, I have a list of students who still owe us points. The list will grow, but keep track of it. After graduation, you should track them down and remind them of the payment. You already have incriminating information on all of them, so it shouldn't be difficult. If any of you receive any complications, try to fix it yourself, and if not, let it be known, and I will handle it," she paused, looking up at Albert

"Your business is going well, I presume?"

Albert nodded, "The disposal system you provided helps."

"Good", Horikita nodded ", Third years will request more people will be taken out as well, make sure it doesn't look suspicious that so many students are suddenly dropping out."

Albert nodded, "We've framed a few as suicides and foul play of other students who've been eliminated as well"

"Good", she nodded

The silence that followed Horikita’s words was thick, loaded with unspoken weight. The room remained hushed, only the faint hum of the overhead lighting casting a sterile glow across the table as her lieutenants absorbed the orders. Ayanokouji watched from his seat beside her, arms crossed, his face blank as ever, but internally cataloguing everything with precise clarity. Horikita’s voice, sharp and clear, echoed in his mind even as she stilled, her fingers laced tightly together before her on the table.

Ryuen leaned back in his seat now, arms stretching out with a lazy smirk curling on his lips. “You sound like a mob boss, Suzune,” he drawled, amusement flickering in his eyes. “I’m not complaining. You’ve got some bite to you these days.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Horikita replied coolly, barely sparing him a glance. “But I prefer the term strategist. I have no interest in being seen as a criminal, even if our actions tread a fine line.”

Ibuki didn't say anything, but the way her eyes flitted between Ryuen and Horikita suggested she was keeping mental tabs on everyone in the room, cataloguing threat levels like a soldier preparing for war. She tightened her grip slightly beneath the table where Ryuen’s hand still rested over hers, but didn’t object to his touch. A quiet show of loyalty — or solidarity.

Sakayanagi finally spoke, her voice lilting with its usual amusement, but it held an undertone of interest that hadn't been there before. “You’ve become rather...efficient, Horikita-san. I remember when you struggled to give orders without second-guessing yourself.”

Horikita didn’t rise to the bait. “That was a long time ago. I’ve learned from the best.” Her gaze flicked to Ayanokouji for a brief moment. It was subtle — so subtle that no one else might have noticed. But he did. She’d said it casually, like it was nothing, but it hit him like a soft knock on the heart.

Kushida scoffed from her side of the table, flipping a strand of hair over her shoulder. “You’re really leaning into this whole queen bee act, huh? You want everyone to fear you now?”

“No,” Horikita said, folding her arms. “I want them to respect me. Fear is a cheap tool. Useful in a pinch, but fragile. Respect, on the other hand, is a shield. One earned.”

“You think that’s how this works?” Kushida raised a brow, but her voice wasn’t mocking — not really. She sounded more tired than anything. “The school’s turned into a battlefield. Respect doesn’t last long when people are dying for points and power.”

“They can respect me and fear me,” Horikita said plainly, then turned her attention to Sakura, who’d remained quiet, scribbling notes diligently.

“Sakura. The list.”

Sakura looked up, nodding. “I’ve been tracking the names. Most of them are from Class 3-B and 1-D. A few in the higher classes, mostly hiding behind support roles. They think we won’t notice because they’re not frontliners.”

“Make them notice,” Horikita said, tone sharp. “A reminder that even shadows can be brought into the light.”

Hashimoto leaned forward at last, his expression serious. “The third-years are building alliances outside the school. Parents. Corporations. Some of them are being promised real-world positions if they can take over the student council or shut down our supply chains. They’re using our rulebook against us.”

“Then we burn the rulebook,” Ayanokouji said flatly, his voice cutting through the tension like a blade. “We adapt. That’s what we’ve always done.”

Horikita nodded in agreement, her gaze steady as it met his. “Exactly. They’re desperate, but desperation makes people sloppy. That’s our advantage.”

A beat of silence passed, everyone absorbing the weight of that truth.

Albert, quiet but reliable, finally spoke again. “We’ve begun to rotate the clean-up crews. No one person is ever seen in the same zone more than twice in a week. There’s no pattern for the security cameras to trace.”

Horikita nodded, satisfied. “Keep it that way. The quieter we operate, the more powerful our moves appear. Rumors work in our favor. If they think we’re everywhere, then they’ll hesitate.”

There was a stillness that settled after that — a quiet respect in the air, even from those who still held a thread of opposition to her. It wasn’t admiration, but it was something stronger than disdain.

Power.

Ryuen stood up, offering Ibuki his hand "Babe, let’s go"

Ibuki rolled her eyes, reluctantly taking his hand "Stop calling me that in front of people"

Ryuen pulled her into his chest and whispered in her ear, "Why not? You seemed to love it last night"

Sakayanagi let out a short laugh at Ryuen’s audacity, tapping her cane once against the ground as if it were a stamp of amusement. “Charming as ever,” she said dryly, glancing toward Horikita with a smirk.

Horikita didn’t even blink. She watched the two of them with a blank expression, utterly unamused. “Please keep your personal affairs out of business meetings,” she said, voice cold and clipped. “I’m not interested in the details of your romantic escapades.”

Ibuki muttered something under her breath—something that sounded suspiciously like *“neither am I”—*but Ryuen just chuckled and draped his arm over her shoulder like he hadn’t heard a word of protest.

Hashimoto looked between them all with a wry expression. “The chemistry in this room is electric,” he said sarcastically, folding his arms and leaning back in his chair. “Should we take bets on who’s going to try to kill who first?”

Kushida didn’t react, her gaze was fixed firmly on Horikita, calculating and cool. “You’re taking this much further than I thought you would,” she said softly, almost to herself, then added, “But I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. You always wanted control.”

“Control is how we survive,” Horikita replied evenly, not looking at her. “We don’t get to play fair in this game, Kushida. You knew that the day you joined me.”

Ayanokouji, silent until now, watched Horikita from his seat beside her. His posture was relaxed, casual even, but his gaze was sharp. He was assessing everyone in the room the same way he always did—quietly, thoroughly. He didn’t need to speak. He knew his presence was reminder enough that Horikita wasn’t alone, that her power wasn’t unchecked.

There was a long silence.

Finally, Horikita stood. “This meeting is over. Continue as instructed, and report back in three days. If I’m not satisfied with the progress, I will make changes. That is all.”

She turned and left the room without waiting for acknowledgment, Ayanokouji following silently behind her.

Albert opened the door as they passed. As it closed behind them with a soft click, the rest of the room remained in a tense quiet—until Ryuen laughed again, sharp and amused.

“She’s serious this time,” he said, grinning. “That’s gonna make things fun.”

Ibuki shoved his hand off her shoulder but didn’t pull away completely.

Sakayanagi leaned toward Hashimoto, murmuring, “If nothing else, at least we won’t be bored.”

"Aww, what’s the problem, my love?" Ryuen teased, his voice low and mocking as he leaned down to press a light kiss to Ibuki’s shoulder. His tone was far too amused—soft enough to sound like affection, but anyone who knew him could hear the provocation woven into every word. He didn’t do anything without stirring the pot.

Ibuki’s eyes flared wide, and her whole body stiffened. She shoved him away, harder than necessary, the blush creeping up her neck like wildfire. “Get off me, you’re insufferable” she hissed, unable to meet his eyes as she turned abruptly and stormed toward the hallway.

But Ryuen only grinned wider, his eyes flashing with delight at her reaction. “Aww, don’t be like that, baby!” he called after her, striding casually behind her like a cat playing with its prey. “You weren’t calling me that last night when—”

“Finish that sentence and I’ll put you in the hospital,” Ibuki snapped over her shoulder, her face bright red, though her voice was hard and fast, razor-sharp with embarrassment and frustration.

Some of the Class D students lingering nearby exchanged looks, most too terrified—or too entertained—to say a word.

“Oh?” Ryuen’s voice practically purred now. “So you do remember last night.”

Ibuki spun on her heel, glaring at him, fists clenched at her sides. “You’re unbelievable.”

“And you love it,” he said without hesitation, closing the distance between them with infuriating ease, his smirk never wavering.

Before she could deliver the punch clearly forming in her thoughts, she caught a glimpse of Sakayanagi and Hashimoto watching from the hallway entrance, and worse—Horikita and Ayanokouji were standing not far behind them, just barely arriving and catching the tail end of the chaos.

Ibuki groaned under her breath and turned again, this time walking faster to get out of sight. “I swear, one day I’m going to strangle him.”

Behind her, Ryuen just chuckled and followed at a steady pace. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep, babe. You know I live for your violence.”

Ayanokouji blinked once and looked at Horikita. “Was that... foreplay?”

Horikita closed her eyes, muttering flatly, “Unfortunately.”

“Shut up!” Ibuki shouted, spinning on her heel so fast it startled even a few of the nearby students. Her face was already flushed—whether from anger or something else, she wasn’t sure—but Ryuen didn’t flinch. If anything, he smiled like her fury was the most romantic thing in the world.

Without missing a beat, Ryuen stepped in and grabbed her waist, effortlessly pushing her back against the wall. Not hard. Not rough. Just firm enough that she had nowhere to go.

“Come on, darling,” he said, his voice suddenly low, velvet-smooth, coaxing. “I’m sorry. Don’t be like that.”

She tensed as he leaned in, his lips brushing softly against her neck once, then twice, then again—each kiss gentler than the last, deliberate and lingering, like he was trying to undo her anger one touch at a time.

“Sto—don’t do that,” Ibuki stammered, her voice faltering against her will as the warmth of his mouth trailed over her skin. Her fists were clenched at her sides, trembling slightly—not in fear, not even really in frustration anymore. Something far more confusing had begun to bubble to the surface. “I’m still mad at you.”

Ryuen didn’t back off. He hummed, letting his lips linger against the sensitive skin just beneath her jaw, his breath warm and teasing as he spoke. “I love you, baby,” he murmured, slow and deliberate, every syllable sinking into her like a challenge. “Even when you’re mad. Especially when you’re mad.” His hand slid up her side, fingers brushing just beneath the hem of her jacket. He didn’t push further; he didn’t have to.

Ibuki’s heart was pounding so loud it was hard to hear anything else. She hated how much her body betrayed her—how one part of her wanted to knee him in the stomach and storm off, but another part just… wanted to melt into him.

The words hit harder than she expected. No teasing. No sarcasm. No smug grin—at least not at that moment. His lips were still at her throat, the warmth of his breath curling into her skin like a secret.

Ibuki’s breath caught. She didn’t move. Her eyes fluttered shut for half a second before she opened them again, hard and fast.

“You’re not allowed to say that when I’m mad at you,” she whispered, voice shaky, eyes darting to the side like she was afraid someone had heard. “You cheat.”

“I know,” Ryuen said again, softer this time. “But you love me anyway.”

“Asshole,” Ibuki hissed through clenched teeth, her eyes locked firmly on the ground. Her whole body was tense, knuckles white as her fists trembled at her sides. Everything in her screamed to walk away, to shove him off, to pretend like his words didn’t affect her. But they did. And worse—he knew they did.

Ryuen’s gaze softened, if only slightly. He reached out and tilted her chin upward with two fingers, coaxing her to look at him. His touch wasn’t forceful, just enough to guide her eyes to his.

“Look at me,” he said quietly, his voice suddenly devoid of its usual taunting edge. There was something more grounded there—something sincere that made her heart stumble even before their eyes met.

“I hate you so mu—” Ibuki started, voice sharp, but the words never got the chance to fully leave her lips.

Because Ryuen kissed her.

There was no hesitation. No teasing smirk or smug tone. Just the heat of his mouth against hers, firm but not rough, confident but not overwhelming. And despite herself—despite every part of her that wanted to be angry, to stay angry—Ibuki melted.

Her body reacted faster than her brain could process. Her fists uncurled, and without thinking, her hands reached up and grabbed the front of his jacket, clinging to it tightly. Like she was afraid he’d pull away too soon. Like she didn’t want to admit how badly she needed this moment, this contact, this him.

Her lips moved against his instinctively, softly at first, then with a desperation that betrayed everything she refused to say aloud. Her cheeks were burning, and her heart was hammering in her chest so violently she was sure he could feel it.

When they finally broke apart, her forehead rested against his, their breaths mingling between them.

“You’re such a jerk,” she muttered breathlessly, her voice barely a whisper. But her grip on his jacket never loosened.

Ryuen smirked faintly, brushing his thumb against her cheek. “Yeah,” he said. “But I’m your jerk.”

And for once, she didn’t argue.

"Damn it just shut up and kiss me"

Ryuen barely had a second to react before Ibuki’s hands were on his jacket again, yanking him down to her level as she crashed her lips against his with a fire that caught him completely off guard.

He stumbled slightly, gripping her waist tighter to keep them steady, but then he melted into it—melted into her. This kiss was different. More desperate. More raw. It wasn’t about teasing anymore, or taunts, or trying to get under each other’s skin. It was something that came from deep within her, a culmination of tension and emotion and need.

Her fingers curled into his hair this time, holding him there like she was afraid he’d pull away—and there wasn’t a chance in hell he would. Ryuen kissed her back like he meant it, like this was the only thing that mattered, his mouth slanting against hers as his hands roamed from her waist to her back, pulling her in even closer until there was no space left between them.

She gasped into the kiss when he nipped her bottom lip, and he used the moment to deepen it, swallowing the sound she made with a low growl of satisfaction. Her anger hadn’t vanished—it simmered beneath the surface—but right now, it was tangled with something much hotter.

When they finally broke apart, breathing hard, their foreheads rested against each other once more. Ibuki didn’t speak right away. Her hands were still clutching his jacket tightly, her lips red and swollen, her breath uneven.

“…I still hate you,” she muttered, eyes flickering up to his.

Ryuen smirked, brushing a knuckle over her cheek with surprising gentleness. “Yeah,” he whispered. “But you kiss like you don’t.”

And this time, Ibuki didn’t push him away.

Ryuen didn’t even hesitate—he just kissed her again, like they had all the time in the world and no intention of stopping anytime soon. The heat between him and Ibuki seemed endless, a silent agreement that words were no longer necessary.

Standing a short distance away, Ayanokoji blinked once, then turned to Horikita. “When did that happen?”

She didn’t even look away from the scene. “You never noticed? It’s been almost a year. Their anniversary is coming up.”

“Huh,” Ayanokoji murmured, furrowing his brow slightly.

Horikita’s eyes narrowed just a little. “You’ve been slipping. Is something bothering you?”

Ayanokoji glanced toward her, expression unreadable. “Define bothering.”

“Don’t play games with me,” she said crisply. “You know how dangerous distractions can be. If there’s something affecting your focus, resolve it—before it becomes a liability.”

A beat passed.

“Yes, ma’am,” he replied with a dry edge of sarcasm, though his gaze remained distant. “I’ve… been experiencing some new emotions. And dreams.”

Horikita paused, her expression shifting only subtly, but it was enough to suggest she was intrigued. “I see,” she said. “What triggered them?”

Ayanokoji hesitated.

His first instinct was to be honest—to tell her that she was the trigger. That she had started making his heart skip in ways that didn’t align with logic or strategy. That when she leaned closer during discussions or called him out sharply during meetings, he’d begun feeling something... unfamiliar. And troubling.

But instead, he exhaled softly and redirected.

“Well, for example,” he began blandly, “there was a sale on yogurt makers. Hirata recommended one. I went to the store, but it was sold out, so I had to order it online. The shipping cost almost as much as the yogurt maker itself. Then it took two weeks to arrive. The whole thing was irrationally frustrating.”

Horikita stared at him, unamused. “…Are you serious?”

“As serious as someone can be about dairy-based appliances.”

She rolled her eyes but didn’t press further. “Just don’t let yogurt—or anything else—cloud your judgment.”

Ayanokoji nodded. “Of course. I wouldn’t dare disappoint my commanding officer.”

Horikita gave him a long look, then turned away before he could see the faint color rising in her cheeks.

“Come to my dorm after dinner,” Horikita said, her tone calm but firm as always. “We need to practice… being a couple more. I don’t want us looking unconvincing.”

Ayanokōji raised a brow. “Shouldn’t we just act like we do in the underground? It’s worked so far.”

“Not exactly,” she replied, folding her arms as her gaze sharpened. “Our dynamic there fits the image I’ve built as a calculated leader. That version of our relationship feeds into how my subordinates perceive me. But here, in the classroom, things are different.”

She took a step closer, lowering her voice slightly.

“This relationship needs to reflect the persona I’m building — the perfect, approachable classmate everyone respects and trusts. And for that to work, we have to sell the illusion of a softer, more human connection. A couple that people like and root for.”

Ayanokōji regarded her silently for a moment.

“And you,” she continued, more pointed now, “need to start showing signs that you’re changing. That you’re becoming more… human. Or at least developing a conscience.”

“So people think I’m redeemable,” Ayanokōji said flatly.

“Exactly. I know your emotions are limited — or buried, whatever the case may be — but you’re a master of pretending. Use that skill. Smile sometimes. Show concern. Let people see glimpses of something they think is real. It’ll make everything we’re building more believable.”

There was a pause. Then, Ayanokōji gave a slow nod, lips twitching slightly at the corners.

“As you wish, Suzune. I’ll play the part.”

“Good.” She turned away, but not before glancing back and adding under her breath, “Just try not to make it so obvious you’re faking it.”

Ayanokoji studied her carefully, eyes narrowing just a fraction. “You’re putting a lot of thought into this.”

“Of course I am,” Horikita replied without hesitation. She didn’t look at him as she spoke, instead adjusting the papers she had neatly laid on her desk. “If we want this to be convincing, it needs to be consistent. Not just to others—but to ourselves.”

“To ourselves?” he echoed, tone unreadable.

She turned then, gaze cool but direct. “I’m not saying we have to believe it. But if we don’t at least act like it’s real, the illusion will eventually crack. It has to be second nature. So come to my dorm after dinner. We’ll work through more scenarios. Casual closeness, inside jokes, the way your gaze should linger, the subtle smiles. Things people notice, even if they don’t consciously register them.”

Ayanokoji’s gaze drifted toward the window for a moment. “And what about the truth? The fact that all of this is… manufactured.”

Horikita crossed her arms. “You think relationships aren’t? Most people play roles. They filter themselves. We’re just being honest about it. The only difference is that we have a goal.” She paused, voice softening ever so slightly. “Besides, we’ve already gotten too deep. If we back out now, people will start asking questions. I won’t allow that.”

“Understood,” he said. Then, after a pause: “What if I go too far? What if I start to believe it?”

Horikita’s expression flickered, a shadow of emotion darting through her features. “Then we deal with it. One problem at a time.”

Ayanokoji tilted his head. “You’ve thought of everything.”

“Not everything,” she admitted. “But I’ve thought about us. And what we need to be to succeed. So come to my dorm. I want us to be ready. And I want you to practice empathy—even if it's just an act.”

Ayanokoji nodded slowly. “Alright. After dinner, then.”

Horikita looked away again, but her fingers lingered on the hem of her jacket. “Good. I’ll be waiting.”

Later that afternoon, Horikita sat calmly in the salon chair, scrolling through her phone while her stylist trimmed away at her ends. She was texting her group chat when the stylist suddenly spoke up.

“Who’s that guy who dropped you off?” she asked casually, a playful glint in her eye. “Is he your boyfriend?”

Horikita blinked, then let out a small, practiced giggle—just enough to seem flustered. “Oh, Koji? No, he’s just a friend,” she said with a deliberately shy smile, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear as if embarrassed. Her phone buzzed again, and her eyes flickered down to the growing chaos in her group chat.

Group Chat: "Girls Only <33"
Suzune: Stop it, guys! Koji’s just a friend.
Honami: A friend you have a nickname for? ;)
Mio: You sure you weren’t scouting out secret makeout spots with him?
Suzune: You're one to talk, Ibuki.
Arisu: STOP DEFLECTING.
Sato: Why were you together? Was it a date???
Suzune: No!
Suzune: It’s just…

She paused, letting the "typing" bubbles pop up and disappear a few times to make them believe she was carefully crafting a lie. She glanced up briefly at the stylist, who was now watching her reflection with even more interest. Horikita offered a sheepish smile and then returned to the chat.

Suzune: He’s been feeling a little down since he and Honami broke up.

There was a collective pause in the chat for exactly three seconds.

Honami: You’re so sweet for taking care of him <3
Sato: IT’S A SIGN.
Suzune: You guys can’t be serious—he’s just a friend!
Arisu: Fine. We’ll let it go...
Arisu: ...for now.

Horikita sighed, letting her phone fall into her lap for a second. She kept her face composed, but internally, she was calculating. Ayanokōji’s reputation was shifting—and hers with it. The narrative was writing itself faster than she could control.

Still, she smirked faintly to herself. Let them wonder. A little confusion kept her ahead of the game.

At dinner, the cafeteria buzzed with conversation and laughter. Horikita sat with the girls, a rare soft smile on her face as she laughed along with the others. Sakayanagi was mid-story, gesturing subtly with her fork as she recounted one of Hashimoto’s more embarrassing—and hilarious—attempts to make her laugh during a class-wide event.

“He tripped over his own shoe trying to bow,” she said smugly, “then blamed gravity like it was conspiring against him.”

The girls burst into laughter. Even Horikita, composed as ever, shook her head with a soft chuckle. It was one of the few times she truly blended in with the group, her laughter unforced, natural. Her phone buzzed once, a reminder about her post-dinner plans, but she silenced it quickly.

Across the cafeteria, Ayanokouji sat with Hirata at their usual table. Their discussion was quiet, thoughtful—nothing like the chatter and gossip on the girls’ side.

“Last year’s final tests were all about assessing our adaptability under pressure,” Ayanokouji said calmly, picking at his food. “The uninhabited island, the cruise... they were layered with psychological evaluations.”

Hirata nodded. “Right. And this year we’ve already had the mountain exam and another island exam. Both were physically and mentally demanding.”

“This next test,” Ayanokouji continued, “it’ll be different. If they’re following the same logic, it’ll be crafted to push us to our breaking points—something unpredictable. A high-stakes situation designed to trigger panic or conflict.”

“You think they’ll try to isolate us again?” Hirata asked, brow furrowed in concern.

“Possibly,” Ayanokouji said. “But I suspect this time it won’t just be isolation. They’ll want chaos. Confusion. Emotional compromise.”

Hirata let out a slow breath. “We’ll need to keep the class stable, then.”

“We’ll need to make sure the class thinks it’s stable,” Ayanokouji corrected. “Perception matters more than reality right now.”

The two fell into silence for a moment, minds turning over the possibilities.

At the other table, Horikita glanced subtly in Ayanokouji’s direction. For the briefest second, their eyes met—just long enough for them both to acknowledge it. Then she turned back to her group, still smiling, still playing her part. Just as they’d agreed.

But beneath the mask, the gears were already turning. The next phase was coming. And neither of them planned to be caught off guard.

Ayanokouji looked over at Hirata, pausing for a second as if weighing the words in his mind. Then, quietly but clearly, he said, “Thank you… for being my friend.”

Hirata blinked in surprise before offering a relaxed, warm smile. “Hey, don’t say it like that,” he replied. “I’m glad we’re friends. You don’t need to thank me for that.”

There was a brief silence between them—not uncomfortable, but thoughtful. In a school where trust was rare and friendships often had hidden strings, a simple exchange like this carried more meaning than either of them said out loud.

Later that night, just ten minutes after dinner, Ayanokouji made his way to Horikita's dorm, as she had instructed. He knocked, then stood in the quiet hallway, listening for movement. For a moment, he thought she might have forgotten—but eventually, the door clicked open.

And for the first time in a long while, he found himself speechless.

Her hair, usually pinned back in its usual efficient style, was done slightly differently—softened somehow, as if she'd taken just a little extra time with it. But it wasn’t just her appearance that caught him off guard. It was her expression. She smiled, not the guarded, composed smile she sometimes offered to classmates, but something warmer… almost affectionate.

Later that night, just as the clock ticked past ten minutes after dinner, Ayanokouji walked silently down the corridor toward Horikita’s dorm room. The hallway was quiet, lit only by the soft yellow glow of the wall sconces, the gentle hum of evening settling over the building. He paused at her door, hand hovering for a moment before knocking twice.

No immediate answer.

He considered leaving—maybe she changed her mind, or maybe she was testing his patience. But just as he shifted slightly, the handle clicked, and the door creaked open.

And he froze.

Horikita stood there, framed by the warm light of her dorm room, her hair pinned back the way it usually was… yet somehow it looked softer, more deliberate. Not elegant in a flashy way, but purposeful in its simplicity. Her expression wasn’t the usual calm mask she wore around the class or even the more private, focused look she sometimes gave him when they were discussing strategy. This was different.

She was smiling—genuinely, warmly. There was no calculation behind her eyes, no tension in her posture. Just an open, disarming smile that caught him completely off guard.

“Koji!” she said brightly, her voice light and even a little playful. There was something about the way she said his name—so casual, almost intimate—that it pulled the air from his lungs.

Before he could respond or even gather his thoughts, she reached for his arm, wrapping her fingers gently around his sleeve. “Come inside,” she added, laughing softly. It wasn’t a sarcastic laugh, nor a nervous one. It was real. Familiar. Friendly.

Affectionate.

She pulled him in with surprising ease, her touch confident, as if she’d done this a hundred times before. As if they were already the couple she was trying so hard to portray to the class.

The door clicked shut behind them, sealing off the hallway. He stood inside her dorm, still quiet, still processing. The air was lightly scented—maybe a hint of tea or something floral, though it was faint. Her desk was tidily arranged, her bed made with sharp corners, but a faintly used book lay on the corner of her nightstand, a folded blanket beside it. It was a glimpse into a side of Horikita no one else really got to see.

She turned to face him, still holding onto his sleeve loosely, that small smile never quite leaving her face.

“Tonight,” she said calmly, “we’re practicing what it means to be a couple. Not just for strategy. I want this to be convincing enough that no one would question it even behind closed doors.”

Ayanokouji met her gaze quietly, the tension in his shoulders easing ever so slightly.

This wasn’t just about playing a part anymore. There was something changing. Something subtle—but real. And he wasn’t sure if she even realized it yet.

"Sit down," Horikita instructed, motioning toward the bed. Her tone was calm but firm, though not cold like it often was in class. There was something more relaxed about her tonight—something almost deliberate. “And take off your shoes.”

Ayanokouji didn’t question it. He nodded, quietly stepping out of his shoes before moving over to sit on the edge of her bed. He expected her to join him, maybe sit beside him and begin outlining another meticulous strategy. Instead, she stepped forward and, without warning, pressed a hand to his shoulder and gently pushed him back into the pillows behind him.

His breath caught for a moment—not out of nervousness, but surprise. It wasn’t like her to invade someone’s space so directly. But she didn’t stop there.

Horikita settled beside him, her movements smooth, practiced even, as if she'd rehearsed this in her mind. She lay back against him, her head resting on his chest, fingers lightly tracing aimless circles along the fabric of his shirt. Her legs tangled between his like it was the most natural thing in the world, like they’d been doing this for years.

“What are you—” he started to ask, but his voice was quiet, not entirely steady.

“Casual closeness,” she interrupted, her voice barely above a whisper. It was softer than usual—not cold, not lecturing, but thoughtful. “Inside jokes. The way your gaze should linger. The subtle smiles. Things people notice even when no one's speaking.”

She lifted her head just enough to glance up at him, eyes calm and searching. “That’s what we need to practice. Until it becomes second nature.”

Ayanokouji didn’t respond immediately. He was too aware of the weight of her against him, the warmth of her body, the softness in her voice that felt both foreign and oddly familiar. He realized then that this was more than strategy. At least for a moment, it had slipped beyond tactics and careful calculation.

And maybe, just maybe, she realized it too.

His heart was pounding.

Not the kind of subtle, barely-there thump that came with nerves during a test or the heat of a confrontation. This was deeper—louder. He could feel it practically vibrating through his chest, a steady beat that made it almost impossible to focus. He didn’t even think about the fact that Horikita could feel it too—pressed as closely against him as she was, her ear resting right over where his heart was hammering like a war drum. Maybe she did feel it. Maybe she was pretending not to notice.

But she didn’t lift her head. She didn’t move away. Instead, her fingers continued to trace soft, meaningless patterns on his chest as if this were all completely normal. As if she hadn’t just dismantled every rule of personal space between them.

Then, her voice broke the quiet again—more firm this time, more like the Horikita he knew. But not cold. Never cold, not right now.

“Inside jokes,” she began, her words measured and deliberate, “are a sign of a special connection. Something that makes people think—‘they’re close.’”

Ayanokouji didn’t respond, not right away. He didn’t know how to. She spoke like this was still about the plan, about keeping up appearances, about making Class D- Class B look united, impenetrable, familiar. And maybe it was. Maybe she had spent the day thinking about how to construct the perfect image of closeness for them to perform—tactics dressed up as tenderness.

But it was hard to focus on strategy when her breath was warm against his collarbone, when her body was curled into his so naturally that it didn’t feel rehearsed at all. His arms weren’t wrapped around her, but they ached to be. He felt suspended in this strange moment—caught between the person he had carefully constructed himself to be and the version of him that might be allowed to feel something. Someone who might even deserve this closeness, this trust, this quiet, impossible affection.

Horikita didn’t say anything for a while after that. She just stayed there, comfortable and unbothered, as if she hadn’t just shattered the distance between them in one quiet, calculated move. But if Ayanokouji had learned anything from observing her all this time, it was that Horikita didn’t do things without intention. Even this moment—especially this moment—had purpose.

And still, as her fingers traced another soft circle, and her legs shifted slightly to tangle even more firmly with his, he couldn’t help but wonder if, beneath the purpose… there was a little bit of something real too.

“We should come up with a few,” Ayanokouji said suddenly, the words barely pushing past his lips.

He wasn’t sure where he found the breath to say them. His lungs felt like they were being squeezed, like his body had forgotten how to regulate itself under the pressure of Horikita’s weight tucked so comfortably against him. Her head still rested on his chest, and he was suddenly hyper-aware of every detail—the feel of her hair brushing his neck, the warmth of her body soaking into his, the way her fingers continued their lazy tracing on his shirt like she had every right to be there.

It was absurd how natural she made it feel. Like this had happened a hundred times before. Like this wasn’t completely unraveling him from the inside out.

And for a moment—just a fleeting second—he considered pinching himself. Yes, he knew how ridiculous that was. How embarrassingly cliché. But honestly, what was he supposed to do? This felt so surreal that the possibility it might be a dream wasn’t entirely out of the question. Horikita Suzune, stern, composed, proudly independent Horikita, was not only curled up against him in a way that could only be described as intimate, but she was doing it with purpose. Calmly. Casually. Like this was just another part of their plan.

And maybe it was. But it felt like something else, too.

Horikita lifted her head just enough to look at him, one brow slightly raised. “Inside jokes?” she prompted, clearly still following the thread of conversation, completely unbothered by his internal crisis.

Ayanokouji blinked, trying to center himself. “Yeah,” he said, willing his voice to sound normal. “If people overhear us laughing at something only we understand, they’ll assume we’re close. More than friends, maybe.”

He didn’t miss the way her lips curved ever so slightly at that. Not quite a smile—Horikita rarely smiled outright—but a quirk of her mouth, a glint in her eye. She wasn’t just humoring the idea. She liked it.

“Something subtle, then,” she said, finally shifting her body a bit so she could look at him more directly, though she didn’t pull away. “Something that sounds normal but has meaning only to us.”

He nodded, swallowing hard. “Exactly.”

Her gaze lingered on his for a moment longer than necessary, and Ayanokouji could feel the air between them thicken. His mind raced—inside jokes, nicknames, shared glances, lingering touches. All things they could fake. All things they were apparently about to start practicing.

But if this was the practice… what would the performance look like?

She settled back down, head on his chest again. “Fine,” she said quietly. “We’ll come up with a few. But nothing too obvious.”

“Of course,” he managed to say, trying to slow his breathing before she noticed how unsteady it had become.

But it was already too late. Horikita’s next words were spoken so softly, they were barely audible.

“…You’re trembling.”

Ayanokouji closed his eyes, exhaling through his nose. “I’m not used to this kind of training,” he muttered dryly, his voice laced with an edge of sarcasm in a desperate attempt to maintain control.

To his utter disbelief, Horikita chuckled. Not just a quiet exhale, but an actual amused sound that vibrated against him. And for the first time, it wasn’t strategy or structure or roles.

It was just… real.

And that terrified him more than anything else.

"That’s the point," Horikita said softly, her voice taking on a more deliberate tone as she shifted beside him, propping herself up on one arm. Her eyes held his with steady precision, the kind of gaze that didn't waver, didn't apologize. "So you don’t tremble when I do... this."

Before Ayanokouji could ask what she meant, she leaned down, pressing a gentle kiss to the curve of his neck. His breath caught. Every muscle in his body tensed—but it wasn't fear. It was something far more dangerous: anticipation.

"Or this," she murmured against his skin, trailing her lips along his jawline and placing a kiss there. It was delicate, fleeting, yet it sparked like a live wire. Ayanokouji's heartbeat thundered in his ears, so loud he was sure she could hear it.

"Or this," she whispered again, her lips grazing the corner of his mouth. It was so close—so maddeningly close—to being a real kiss that it left him breathless. He didn't dare move, as if doing so would shatter whatever strange, charged moment they were suspended in.

"And especially this," she finished.

This time, her lips met his fully—firm but slow, confident but unhurried. She kissed him like it wasn’t their first, like it was already something they’d done a hundred times in secret. Her hand cupped his cheek, fingers light and cool against his skin. He froze for a second, then melted into it, instinct taking over.

When she pulled away, her face was unreadable—yet something in her expression had softened, just a little. The calculated edge remained, but beneath it was something warmer. Something she wasn't quite ready to name yet.

"Still trembling?" she asked lightly, but there was a seriousness in her tone that made him pause before answering.

"Less than before," Ayanokouji admitted, voice low. "But I might need more... practice."

Horikita smirked at that, settling back down beside him and tucking her head into the crook of his shoulder like it was the most natural thing in the world. "Good. Because this is a long-term strategy."

He didn’t respond at first. He just let his hand settle lightly on her back, drawing absentminded circles with his thumb as silence fell over them. Comfortable, steady silence. The kind that made his mind race less and his heart race more.

Maybe this plan of hers wasn’t just about appearances. Maybe, like her subtle touches and the kisses she’d left in her wake, it had layers neither of them had really acknowledged yet.

But neither of them pulled away. Neither of them said a word.

And in that silence, something between them quietly, undeniably changed.

“Horikita… we—I—we should—” Ayanokouji’s words stumbled over each other as he looked down at her. His voice wasn’t often uncertain, but now it cracked slightly under the weight of everything he didn’t quite know how to say. She was still resting against him, her presence warm and grounding, but the closeness... the intimacy... it was unraveling him in quiet, invisible ways.

Horikita looked up at him without flinching. Her dark eyes held a quiet firmness, but they weren’t cold—not tonight. She studied him for a moment, then interrupted him, softly but decisively.

“Call me Suzune,” she said.

He blinked, caught off guard.

“Call me Suzune,” she repeated. “I’ll call you Kiyotaka.”

The simplicity of the words hit harder than anything else could have. It wasn’t just about names—it was about walls. About trust. About letting go of the roles they always hid behind. She was asking him to meet her on even ground. No masks. No layers. Just who they really were.

He let out a breath, quiet and long, and nodded once. “Okay… Suzune.”

A small smile flickered across her lips—barely there, but genuine. She lowered her head slightly, letting her forehead rest against his chest, her fingers curling lightly into the fabric of his shirt.

“Kiyotaka,” she whispered, testing the sound, letting it settle in the space between them. “That feels… different.”

“It is,” he murmured, his voice quieter now. His hand moved up to gently brush a strand of hair behind her ear, the action almost unconscious. “Everything about this is.”

She didn’t answer right away. She didn’t need to. The silence they shared said enough—that they were in uncharted territory now, no longer just allies, no longer just classmates. Whatever they were becoming, it was slow, subtle, and maybe a little terrifying. But it was real.

And neither of them was ready to let go of it just yet.

Ayanokouji shifted, the motion smooth, deliberate—one hand sliding gently to her waist as he guided her down beneath him, his touch never rushed. Her breath caught softly, and her lips parted as her back touched the mattress, her eyes locked onto his as though trying to read him, trying to understand what this really was. Maybe she was still analyzing him—dissecting every word, every motion for cracks. But tonight, he wanted her to stop calculating.

“You should try not to tremble,” he said, voice low, nearly a whisper. His gaze lingered on her, the curve of her lips, the soft defiance in her expression. Maybe she was searching for weakness in him, the strategist in her always alert. But he told himself she was searching for something else—hope, affection, some hidden thread tying them together.

He leaned in slowly, letting every breath between them stretch like a thread pulled taut. “Not when I do this,” he murmured, and then his lips met her neck.

Each kiss was unhurried. He trailed them along the delicate line where her pulse beat strongest, down toward the hollow of her collarbone and back up again. Her skin was warm, soft beneath his mouth, and faintly sweet—he couldn’t explain why it felt so vivid, so alive, but it did. It wasn’t the first time he’d kissed her like this. But something about it now was new. Different. Less like curiosity and more like surrender.

Her breath hitched quietly, and her fingers curled tighter around his shirt, knuckles brushing his ribs. Her eyes fluttered shut, lashes trembling faintly, and for a moment, neither of them said anything.

He paused just above her jawline, lips hovering near her skin, breath warm. “Suzune,” he said, almost reverently this time. Like the name itself had become sacred. “Tell me to stop.”

But she didn’t. Not with words.

Instead, she opened her eyes and looked up at him—not with calculation, but something softer. Her hand came up, not to push him away, but to brush lightly against his face, tracing the edge of his jaw.

“I’m not trembling,” she whispered. “You’re just close.”

He exhaled slowly, forehead dipping to rest against hers, their breath mingling, hearts thudding in rhythm. For once, they weren’t strategizing. They weren’t calculating the most efficient path forward or weighing pros and cons. They were just two people learning what it meant to be vulnerable—with each other.

And neither one turned away.

“Please…” Suzune murmured, her voice soft and urgent as she lifted her head and pressed her lips to his. Her arms wrapped tightly around his neck, fingers gripping the back of his shirt. Between kisses, she gasped out, “C–casual… closeness,” her words trembling as she clung to him.

Ayanokouji’s heart slammed against his ribs. He responded by threading his fingers through her hair, holding her close. “That’s right,” he whispered against her mouth, his voice husky with emotion. “Casual closeness.”

He deepened the kiss, matching her urgency with his own. Each touch, each brush of lips, felt like private language—inside jokes made flesh. His arms slid down to cradle her waist, pulling her fully into him as if he couldn’t bear any space between them.

Suzune’s breath hitched. She broke the kiss only long enough to gaze up at him, her eyes gleaming with vulnerability and something else—hope, perhaps. “Do you… feel it?” she asked, voice barely above a whisper.

He paused, forehead resting against hers. Every throb of his pulse seemed to answer. “I do,” he admitted. “More than I ever thought I would.”

Her fingers tightened, and she kissed him again, slower this time—each press of her lips a confirmation that this wasn’t just practice. It was real, powerful, and entirely theirs.

In the hush of her dorm room, surrounded by pillows and the soft glow of the desk lamp, they lingered in that perfect moment. There were no strategies, no alliances—only Suzune and Kiyotaka, discovering the truth in every gentle touch and every whispered word.

Horikita refused to meet his eyes as she straightened her spine at the desk, her back a little too rigid. Her hands moved for the pen and notebook she’d left there earlier, though she didn’t write. “It’s nothing,” she said again, her voice firmer now. “A natural human reaction. That’s good—it means you’re growing emotionally.”

Ayanokouji sat motionless for a moment longer, watching her with unreadable eyes. Then, with a soft exhale, he pushed himself upright, letting the shift between them settle in the quiet. The lingering warmth of her kiss was still on his lips, and the ghost of her hands on his neck seemed to thrum like static beneath his skin.

She didn't look back as she added briskly, “Let’s think of some inside jokes.”

He watched the tension in her shoulders and didn’t push her. Not now. Instead, he adjusted easily, falling into the rhythm she needed.

“We should make a story for them, too,” he said casually, as if they hadn’t just kissed like it meant everything. “People may ask about them. We can laugh and say, ‘You had to be there.’ Make it sound real.”

That got her attention—if only slightly. She glanced over her shoulder, lips twitching the faintest bit. “That’s an oddly social suggestion from someone who claims to avoid unnecessary interaction.”

Ayanokouji shrugged, standing and stretching slightly before walking over to lean against the edge of her desk. “If we’re going to play this part convincingly, it should feel authentic. A shared narrative. Something only you and I know.”

Horikita hesitated, but she nodded. “Alright. Something believable. Not too complicated.”

“Of course,” he said. “For example… maybe there’s an inside joke about a time we got lost together and refused to ask for directions.”

Horikita raised an eyebrow. “That seems unnecessarily humiliating.”

“Exactly. That’s what makes it real.”

She sighed, but she didn’t argue. “Fine. That one’s yours. I’ll add one about how we accidentally ended up in the wrong classroom and stayed the whole period out of spite.”

Ayanokouji actually smirked at that. “That sounds like you.”

“And you,” she said, tapping the pen to the notebook. “Let’s list them. Five. That’s a good number. Enough to feel real. Not so many that people get suspicious.”

He watched her with a quiet intensity. Her cheeks were still faintly pink. She still hadn’t mentioned the kiss again—but she wasn’t pulling away either. She was grounding herself in the familiarity of planning, of structure, of emotional distance disguised as logic.

And for now, he’d let her.

“Alright,” he said softly. “Five stories. Five jokes. One connection.”

She looked up at him briefly, something unreadable flickering in her gaze. Then she started writing.

“We can add more later,” Horikita said, her tone carefully neutral again, the pen in her hand tapping lightly against the page. “Real ones. If any happen naturally. For now… maybe so.”

Her voice trailed off just slightly at the end, almost like she wasn’t sure whether to commit to that softness. Like the possibility of letting something become “real” unsettled her more than she’d admit.

Ayanokouji leaned his weight slightly against her desk, arms folded loosely, gaze flicking over her profile. “Once…” he began, voice unhurried as though he were pulling the memory from deep storage, “you were exhausted from studying. I walked you to your room. You looked me right in the eyes and said, ‘Good night, cupcake’ instead of ‘Kiyotaka.’”

Horikita froze, the pen stilling mid-air. Slowly, she turned her head, glaring at him in disbelief. “I did not.”

“You did,” he said, expression infuriatingly calm. “It was around exam season. You hadn’t slept in twenty-two hours. I considered responding, but you shut the door in my face before I could say anything.”

Horikita buried her face in her hands for a moment, groaning. “That can’t count as an inside joke if I wasn’t even conscious when I said it.”

“Which is what makes it perfect,” Ayanokouji said mildly, the corner of his mouth twitching with the barest trace of amusement. “No one else will know the context. Just the phrase. ‘Good night, cupcake.’ You’ll flinch, I’ll laugh. It’s bulletproof.”

She sat back in her chair, arms crossed, leveling him with an icy stare. “If you ever say that in public—”

“I’ll save it for emergencies,” he replied smoothly. “Maybe when I want to confuse the entire class into thinking we’re closer than we are.”

Horikita rolled her eyes but didn’t argue further. Instead, she jotted it down—perhaps out of spite, perhaps because it was kind of effective. “Fine,” she muttered. “One joke. One story. Four more to go.”

“And all the time in the world,” Ayanokouji added.

Horikita paused at that, then gave him a long look. “You make it sound like we’re going to keep doing this for a while.”

He held her gaze without hesitation. “Aren’t we?”

A silence stretched between them—tense, uncertain, but not unwelcome.

“…We’ll see,” she said finally, turning back to the notebook. “Start brainstorming. And no more pastry-themed nicknames.”

“No promises,” he replied, but his voice was quieter now. Warmer. Almost fond.

Horikita didn’t comment on it. But she didn’t shut him down either.

Chapter Text

The morning of the special exam was unusually bright, sunlight gleaming off the school’s polished brick paths as Class 1-D and the others gathered near the front entrance, luggage piled in neat rows and teachers ticking off names against their rosters. A quiet buzz of anticipation hovered in the air—students laughing, whispering, speculating on what kind of challenges they’d be facing this time.

Ayanokouji stood slightly apart from the cluster, hands in his pockets, gaze wandering until it landed on her.

Horikita Suzune.

She wore a dress. A short one.

He blinked once, twice. It wasn't like it was revealing by most standards—navy blue, sleeveless, modest neckline—but it cut off at mid-thigh, and when the breeze caught the hem just slightly, something tight and territorial curled in his chest.

He didn’t say anything, of course. He wouldn't. But his eyes lingered longer than usual, his posture subtly shifting like he was unconsciously positioning himself between her and the crowd.

What was worse—she wasn’t even looking his way. She was talking to Kushida.

Or rather, being talked at by Kushida, whose sugary voice could curdle milk when one knew her well enough. Horikita, to her credit, wore what might pass to the untrained eye as a friendly smile. But Ayanokouji recognized it instantly for what it was: fake. Stiff. Thin. The kind of smile someone wore when they were counting every second they had to keep it up.

He had to give her some credit. That mask—while not on par with Kushida’s—was still impressive. Anyone else might’ve thought they were just chatting. A pair of girls catching up before the buses arrived.

But Ayanokouji could see the tension in Horikita’s posture, the faint twitch of her brow, the way her hand clutched the strap of her bag a little too tightly. She was enduring it.

And he hated that too.

Hated that she had to pretend. Hated that someone like Kushida could still get under her skin. Hated that his gut reaction to the way that dress shaped her legs had been possessive—not protective.

He looked away, jaw tightening.

They weren’t anything, he reminded himself. Just allies. Strategic partners. Two people navigating a system built on manipulation and deception. She didn’t owe him her attention. Her expression. Her outfits.

And yet—

“—Stop glaring,” Horikita’s voice said suddenly, low and clipped beside him. She had left Kushida’s side at some point and now stood next to him, arms crossed, eyes narrowing as she caught him mid-scowl.

“I’m not glaring,” Ayanokouji said, his voice flat.

“Yes, you are,” she shot back. “At me or Kushida?”

“…Neither.”

Horikita raised an eyebrow, unconvinced. “You’re weird today.”

He shrugged. “You’re imagining things.”

She gave him a long, appraising look, then glanced down at her dress. “Is this about what I’m wearing?”

A beat passed.

He didn’t respond.

“That’s it, isn’t it?” she said, deadpan, almost amused now. “Unbelievable.”

“It’s short,” he said finally, eyes still fixed on the horizon where the buses would arrive.

“It’s summer,” she replied coolly. “Should I wear a sweater next time?”

Ayanokouji glanced at her, briefly. “I wouldn’t object.”

Horikita blinked, then gave a very dry, very unimpressed sigh. “Control your delusions.”

“I’m not delusional.”

“No? Then why are you acting like you’d rather stab Kushida with a clipboard than let her talk to me?”

His silence said enough.

“…You’re impossible,” she muttered, but there was a faint heat rising on her cheeks now. She turned away before he could comment, adjusting her bag and facing the crowd again.

The buses pulled in just then, tires crunching gravel as brakes hissed. Teachers called out for students to start boarding.

But Ayanokouji didn’t move right away. He stood beside her, close enough for their shoulders to almost brush, and said under his breath:

“If anyone says anything stupid about the dress, I’ll trip them before they make it to the bus.”

Horikita tilted her head, half turning toward him. “That sounds a lot like jealousy.”

“No,” he said flatly, starting toward the buses. “Just anticipation.”

And this time, she didn’t bother hiding her smile—not a fake one, but small, real, and just for herself.

Ayanokouji’s brows lifted slightly, more from surprise than confusion, when Horikita’s hand slipped around his arm and she leaned into him as though it were the most natural thing in the world. Her body pressed lightly against his side, warm and solid, grounding him despite the way her words and sudden shift in behavior sent his thoughts spiraling.

“Don’t be sad, Koji,” she said with an unfamiliar softness, tilting her head up and offering him a smile that didn’t belong to the cold, calculating girl most people knew. This one was quieter, more personal—just for him.

His name, shortened so casually, sent a strange shiver through him. It was absurd, really, how such a small thing could undo him so thoroughly. “You worry too much.”

Her voice was teasing, her eyes brighter than they usually were. For a moment, it felt like the bustling courtyard, the line of waiting buses, and the chattering students faded to background noise. Ayanokouji didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he stared down at her, trying to read the motive behind her sudden affection. But all he saw was someone who was choosing to stand beside him—literally and metaphorically—despite the crowd, despite the image she usually guarded so fiercely.

“I didn’t think I looked worried,” he said finally, tone even as ever. But there was a hint of something in his eyes—relief, maybe. Or something closer to pride.

“You don’t. That’s the problem.” Her grip on his arm tightened just slightly. “You think you have to carry everything alone. You don’t.”

The words were barely above a whisper now, just for him.

He glanced away for a moment, not because he was embarrassed, but because that raw honesty was hard to look directly at. Not when it came from her. And not when it stirred something in his chest he didn’t want to name.

“I’ll try,” he murmured.

Horikita hummed in approval, still smiling faintly. From the corner of his eye, he saw Kushida glance over, her brows raised ever so slightly, clearly trying to process what she was seeing.

It didn’t matter.

Let them watch.

Because right now, she was holding onto him, and for once, he wasn’t going to question it.

The ride to the special exam site was a strange kind of chaos—loud, cluttered, filled with the sounds of youth. Students crammed onto the bus like it was a school trip, laughing too loudly, yelling over one another, passing bags of snacks and soda cans like they were currency. Music played from someone’s phone at the back, half drowned out by a chorus of complaints and off-key singing.

Ike was making a joke—something crude, likely at Sudou’s expense—but for once, Ayanokouji didn’t register the punchline. He wasn’t analyzing the group dynamics, wasn’t mentally cataloging who was sitting with who or calculating who might be a threat in the upcoming exam.

His mind, for the first time in a while, was still.

Not quiet in a peaceful way—more like the eerie calm just before a storm. The kind of silence that doesn’t feel earned but forced.

And beside him, Horikita sat perfectly still. Her posture was composed, almost rigid, her legs crossed neatly at the knee as she stared out the window with unreadable eyes. Her face was still—too still. The mask she wore had not cracked once since they left the school grounds. That faint smile she used when others were watching, the soft-spoken, aloof tone she adopted in public—it was all perfectly in place.

But he could feel it.

There was a tension in the way she held her arms too close to her body, in the way her thumb pressed just a little too hard against her knee. No one else would notice it—not even Kushida, who sat just a few rows back, still occasionally sneaking glances their way.

To the others, Horikita looked unbothered, confident. Maybe even smug.

But Ayanokouji saw what they didn’t.

She hadn’t spoken a word since they got on the bus. Not to him, not to anyone. Her earlier warmth, the way she’d clung to him in front of Kushida, had vanished the moment they boarded. Whatever game she was playing, whatever story they were telling the others, it hadn’t followed them into the bus.

She was distant again.

And somehow, that bothered him more than he thought it would.

He looked out the window too, watching the trees blur past as the bus sped down the road toward whatever twisted scenario the school had cooked up this time. He could hear Ike’s laughter, Hirata’s easygoing voice, even Sudou complaining about how long the ride was.

But none of it touched him.

All he could think about was the girl beside him—so close, yet so far—and how, for once, he didn’t want to be calculating or composed. He just wanted her to look at him again like she had earlier. Like he wasn’t just a tool in a plan or a partner in a strategy.

Like he was him—and that was enough.

They had been stopped for maybe fifteen minutes, just long enough for the students to flood the small petrol station convenience store, buy cheap lunches and energy drinks, and stretch their legs. The sun was high overhead, its glare making the pavement shimmer like a mirage. The air reeked faintly of gasoline and processed food, but no one seemed to care—especially not Ike, who was loudly arguing with Sudou about the superior flavor of melon bread.

Ayanokouji had quietly peeled back the plastic on a ham and cheese sandwich, sitting on a small curb near the edge of the parking lot, half-listening to the noise around him, half-lost in thought again. That uneasy quiet from earlier hadn't left him—it lingered in the back of his mind like a fog he couldn’t shake.

Then Horikita appeared beside him.

He didn’t hear her approach; he simply looked up and saw her standing there with that cool, impassive expression that somehow felt heavier today than it ever had before.

Without warning, she grabbed his wrist.

“Come with me.”

There was no explanation, no room for debate. She pulled, and he followed—more out of habit than confusion—as she led him around the side of the building, away from the crowd. The moment they were out of sight, surrounded by crates of soda and stacked cardboard boxes meant for recycling, she turned.

And kissed him.

Hard.

Ayanokouji froze. His sandwich dropped to the ground unnoticed. For a split second, his brain went utterly blank. She was pressed against him, hand still loosely curled around his wrist, her lips moving with intent and urgency.

And then, almost instinctively, he kissed her back.

It wasn’t calculated. It wasn’t even particularly romantic. It just was. And that scared him more than anything.

She pulled back only when she needed air, her breath brushing his skin as she looked up at him—her expression unreadable.

“What… what was that for?” he asked, throat dry, heart thudding in a way he wasn’t used to.

Horikita didn’t flinch. “People will see that we went away together,” she said matter-of-factly, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “It helps build the narrative for New Year’s.”

He blinked, still reeling. “And the kiss?”

Her eyes flickered to his lips for just a moment, then back to his gaze. “Authenticity,” she replied simply.

Then, without waiting for his next question—or giving him time to process—she surged forward and kissed him again.

This time slower.

Deeper.

More intentional.

And Ayanokouji, for all the clarity he was known for, for all the logic and composure he usually wore like armor—found himself completely disarmed.

Not because he didn’t see through her reasoning.

But because this time, it didn’t feel like a performance.

Not entirely.

Horikita made a faint noise of surprise when Ayanokouji’s hands found her hips. She didn’t resist—maybe couldn’t—and before she could readjust, he’d already switched their positions in one smooth motion. Now she was the one with her back against the cold concrete wall, a barely noticeable gasp slipping past her lips as he leaned in closer.

His fingers pressed lightly into the curve of her waist, steady but not forceful. His control was precise—deliberate—but not cold. Not this time.

He tilted his head slightly, and without saying a word, began placing slow, careful kisses along the line of her jaw, then down to the sensitive skin of her neck. His lips brushed lightly at first, testing, and when she didn’t pull away, he continued—each kiss more lingering than the last. The space between them became thinner with each heartbeat, each breath they shared.

Horikita’s hand came up to his chest, not to push him away but to anchor herself. She could feel the beat of his heart beneath her palm—steady, maddeningly calm, just like him. But his actions betrayed that calm.

She bit her lip, eyes fluttering shut as he reached just below her ear. Her breath hitched when he kissed there—slow, warm, and maddeningly purposeful.

“Ayanokouji…” she whispered, her voice uneven for once, touched by something raw. She didn’t say more. She didn’t know what else to say.

He didn’t answer right away.

He just kissed her collarbone next, slow and steady. Then, finally, he pulled back just slightly, his hands still at her waist, forehead brushing against hers as he looked into her eyes.

“This part still part of the narrative?” he asked softly, something unreadable flickering in his gaze—humor, maybe. Or challenge.

Horikita’s mouth opened, then closed again. Her composure had finally cracked, and for once, she didn’t have an immediate answer. She looked at him like he’d suddenly shifted the ground beneath her feet. Like he wasn’t playing by the rules anymore.

And somehow, that terrified her more than she’d expected.

“…Maybe,” she whispered, voice barely audible. “But you didn’t have to do that much.”

He gave a faint, half-smile. “Maybe I wanted it to be convincing.”

She couldn’t tell if he meant for the others… or for her.

Ayanokouji arched a brow, his hands finally slipping from her waist as she straightened her dress with practiced grace. Horikita’s cheeks still held the faintest flush, but her expression had settled back into something more composed—though not quite her usual unreadable mask.

She didn’t look at him right away. Instead, she smoothed down the hem of her skirt, tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, and then cleared her throat. “Let’s get back inside.”

He gave her a dry look, one brow raised in that quietly amused way of his. “Back to the bus or back to pretending nothing just happened?”

She glanced sideways at him, cool and sharp—though her lips twitched like she was fighting the urge to smirk. “Both,” she replied, voice clipped but somehow softer than usual. “And buy me fries.”

Ayanokouji blinked. “Fries?”

“Yes.” She stepped past him, her arm brushing his for just a second longer than necessary. “You owe me now.”

He followed after her, still watching her carefully, as if trying to recalibrate his read on her all over again. “You kissed me. Twice.”

“For authenticity,” she shot back without missing a beat. “And emotional labor.”

“You call that labor?”

Horikita paused just before the corner of the building, then turned her head slightly, her voice low but pointed. “You’re not as stoic as you pretend to be.”

Then, without waiting for a reply, she strode ahead, heels clicking softly against the pavement.

Ayanokouji stood there a moment longer, watching her walk away, his hand brushing idly at his collar like he still felt her breath there. A part of him wondered if he’d just been manipulated—or if she was just as off-balance as he was pretending not to be.

Either way, he sighed, shoved his hands into his pockets, and muttered, “Guess I’m buying fries.”

The rest of the trip unfolded with a strange kind of normalcy—normal in the way it appeared, at least. It was the kind of chaos that only came from a group of high school students let loose on an overnight excursion, energy high and patience low.

Ike and Yamauchi were as insufferable as ever, practically bouncing in their seats as they rattled off loud, obnoxious jokes—most of them inappropriate, all of them met with groans or laughter. The two seemed determined to get a reaction out of someone, and whenever they noticed Ayanokouji’s silence, they'd turn their efforts toward him like it was a personal mission.

"Come on, Koji! You’re killing the vibe!" Ike cried, dramatically leaning across the aisle. "You always look like you just read a death poem."

Ayanokouji didn’t bother responding. His gaze remained on the small screen in front of him, where he half-heartedly watched a movie Hirata had convinced him to put on. Some light-hearted action flick. He didn’t retain any of it. Hirata chatted beside him occasionally, trying to bridge their differences with easy conversation, but Ayanokouji was only half-listening.

Meanwhile, at the back of the bus, Horikita was doing something… unfamiliar. She was gossiping. Or at least pretending to. Her voice rose now and then with feigned interest as she leaned in to whisper with Sato and Kushida. It was odd watching her wear a mask so different from her usual one—lighter, flirtier, more socially adept than even he expected from her. But he knew it was an act. Everything they were doing today was a prelude to what they’d decided together.

And yet… her laugh.

There was one moment when she laughed—actually laughed—and Ayanokouji found his eyes drifting to the back of the bus before he even realized it. Her smile was wide, careless in a way that had nothing to do with strategy. For a second, he wondered if she was slipping into the mask too easily, or if it was simply nice to forget herself.

As the sky outside began to dim and the scenery blurred with the fading daylight, students settled into a soft hum of activity. Someone passed out chips. Someone else started a game of cards. The road stretched on ahead.

Ayanokouji leaned back in his seat, arms crossed loosely over his chest. The movie continued to play, but he wasn’t watching it anymore. His eyes flicked to the reflection in the window—where he could just barely make out Horikita glancing his way.

Neither of them smiled.

But neither of them looked away.

The testing site seemed deceptively simple—just four large apartment buildings that loomed over a sparse training compound nestled deep in the forest, far removed from any hint of civilization. It was eerily quiet except for the humming of generators and the occasional distant voice echoing across the compound. The rules, on paper, seemed just as straightforward.

For the duration of a week, each student would be expected to complete five tasks—one per day. These tasks ranged in difficulty and nature, but there was a catch: each day, one student would be secretly assigned a separate and unique task. This student’s job was to complete their task while blending in and pretending to do the same as everyone else. The twist? They couldn't let anyone find out they had a different objective—not even their own classmates.

Each task was worth 1,000 points, and the class with the most points at the end of the week would be declared the winner. But secrecy was crucial. If a student failed to complete their unique task or was discovered, the class would forfeit all 1,000 points for that day’s special mission.

To complicate matters, the four classes were strictly confined to their assigned buildings. Each class received its own floor within the building, and no one was permitted to leave or visit the other buildings under any circumstances—not even under the guise of an emergency. Food was delivered on a set schedule, and surveillance was hinted at but never confirmed. The psychological pressure was immense; no one could be trusted completely, not even your closest ally.

There were also whispers of “bonus points” being awarded for particularly creative or difficult task executions, but the conditions for these were purposefully left vague—adding yet another layer of uncertainty and strategy to the test.

As the students filed into their respective buildings, Horikita’s gaze lingered on the list she’d been handed before boarding the bus. It was blank—except for her name printed at the top in a small font and one sentence underneath:

“Your mission will be delivered at midnight.”

Beside her, Ayanokouji scanned the compound with lazy indifference, hands tucked into his pockets, but his eyes were quietly observing the perimeter, the layout of the buildings, the line of sight between cameras, and the expressions on every teacher’s face.

Let the game begin.

The first day unfolded just as Ayanokoji had anticipated. Everyone took time to settle into the modest apartments assigned to them, unpacking their belongings and getting used to the cramped but manageable living arrangements.

Horikita, as usual, quickly assumed a leadership role—though this time she seemed softer around the edges. She spent most of the afternoon helping Hirata organize supplies, offering suggestions and taking notes as they discussed how best to tackle the week’s tasks. There was even a faint smile tugging at her lips, a rare expression that drew the attention of more than a few classmates.

Ayanokoji, standing a few steps away, found himself watching her longer than he meant to. The easy way she laughed at something Hirata said, the relaxed way she leaned over to check his list—it all made sense in the context of teamwork. Yet, for reasons he didn’t care to examine, it stirred an unfamiliar, uncomfortable feeling in his chest. He told himself it was nothing, just an odd flicker of thought. Still, the faint unease lingered, refusing to dissolve even as he turned away and busied himself with his own preparations.

That night, everyone had gathered in the shared dining area for their first proper dinner together. Pizza boxes were stacked high on the table, their lids barely containing the steam and rich scent of melted cheese and seasoned toppings. The moment Ike caught a whiff, his eyes widened, and he threw his head back in exaggerated bliss, groaning dramatically as if he’d just been transported to some kind of heavenly realm. The sound made a few people snicker, and Horikita, seated beside Ayanokouji, allowed herself a small laugh — the kind that was rare for her, warm yet understated.

She joined in on the casual chatter, her tone lighter than usual, making dry remarks at Ike’s expense while still somehow encouraging his antics. Every now and then, she leaned over, plucking loose pepperonis from Ayanokouji’s plate with the ease of someone who had already decided his food was fair game. He didn’t stop her — not because he didn’t notice, but because the gesture felt oddly… familiar.

As the noise of clinking plates and overlapping conversations filled the room, Horikita’s hand suddenly shifted under the table. Without a word, she reached for his, her fingers brushing his knuckles before curling around them. Then, with a smooth, deliberate motion, she placed his hand onto her thigh, covering it with her own as if to keep it there. She didn’t look at him, didn’t change her expression, didn’t even pause in her conversation with Hirata across the table. To anyone watching, it was as if nothing had happened.

But Ayanokouji felt the subtle pressure of her fingers holding his in place — firm enough to be intentional, yet not possessive. The warmth of her skin seeped through the fabric of her dress, grounding him in the moment even as his mind tried to process the meaning behind it. She continued speaking as though she hadn’t just crossed a quiet, invisible line, her voice steady and composed.

Around them, Ike was rambling about which pizza toppings were “peak performance,” Hirata was organizing the leftover slices so everyone could have a fair share, and Yamauchi was making half-hearted jokes that earned more groans than laughs. Yet for Ayanokouji, the buzz of the room felt distant, muffled beneath the weight of her silent, unflinching gesture. He didn’t pull his hand away. And she didn’t let go.

Chapter Text

By the time lights out rolled around, the entire group was in that comfortable haze that came after too much pizza and fizzy drinks, everyone sluggish and smiling as they drifted off to their own rooms. Horikita, however, wasn’t ready to let the night end just yet. The moment they stepped into the dimly lit hallway, she reached out without hesitation, fingers curling firmly around Ayanokoji’s wrist. Her grip was unyielding, her expression unreadable as she tugged him through the moving crowd of classmates heading to their dorms.

Ayanokoji didn’t resist, though his eyes flicked toward her with quiet curiosity. She didn’t stop until they reached his door, and before he could so much as tilt his head in question, she slipped inside with him, shutting the door firmly behind them. The faint click of the lock was the only sound between them for a heartbeat.

He opened his mouth, the beginnings of a calm, measured question on his tongue, but it never made it out. Horikita took a sharp step forward, closing the distance, her hands pressing against his chest as she pushed him back until his shoulders met the solid wood of the door.

Then she kissed him.

It wasn’t like before — not tentative, not testing the waters — but fierce, sudden, and almost desperate. Her lips pressed hard against his, the contact sending a jolt through him before he could even think to react. Her fingers curled into the front of his shirt, holding him in place as though she was afraid he might slip away if she let go. The faint scent of her shampoo mixed with the lingering warmth of the evening’s meal, and he could feel the rapid rhythm of her breathing against him.

For a moment, the silence of the dorm was filled only by the sound of that kiss — insistent, deliberate — as though she was making a statement without using a single word. And Ayanokoji, for once, didn’t try to analyze it. He simply let it happen.

She pulled away for a moment, breathless, her lips tingling from the force of it, but before she could even take in a proper breath Ayanokouji leaned forward again, chasing her lips like he didn’t want to waste a single second of separation. His hands slid up, steady but firm, cupping her face as though he was trying to memorize every detail of her expression, every tremor in her breath. Horikita’s fingers twisted in the fabric of his shirt, holding him as though letting go wasn’t an option. She gasped softly at the growing pressure between them, her heart hammering so loudly she thought for a moment he might be able to hear it.

Ayanokouji broke away just barely, his lips hovering a fraction from hers, his breath warm against her skin. His voice came out low, almost teasing, though there was a raw edge behind it. “You’re really taking this practice seriously.”

“It’s important everything is flawless,” Horikita murmured, her words brushing against his lips before she kissed him again. Her tone was steady, as if she wanted it to sound logical, practical, but her actions betrayed her. Every press of her lips was more insistent than the last, more desperate.

“Yeah?” Ayanokouji whispered into her mouth, his tone softer now, like he was searching for something in her answer, in her kiss.

“Yeah.” Her grip on his shirt tightened further, pulling him closer, anchoring him to her. She pressed her forehead against his briefly, their breaths mingling in the silence of the small dorm room. The faint hum of voices from the hallway outside seemed a world away compared to the electricity thrumming between them.

Her voice dropped, quieter but firmer. “If we’re doing this, we do it properly. No half-measures.”

Ayanokouji studied her eyes in the dim light, the intensity behind them, and felt something stir in him—something that wasn’t just amusement or curiosity. He tilted his head slightly, brushing his thumb over her cheek as if testing her resolve, then leaned in again, sealing the space between them with another kiss, slower this time but deeper, more consuming.

Horikita’s hands slipped up from his shirt to his shoulders, holding onto him with an urgency she didn’t quite understand herself. For a girl who prided herself on control, every second of this “practice” felt like she was willingly stepping further into dangerous territory. And yet, she didn’t stop.

Neither of them did.

The week melted together in a haze that Ayanokouji could hardly separate into days. Every morning began the same: Horikita standing at the front of the group, clipped voice giving orders, her posture as straight and untouchable as ever. She was sharp, efficient, relentless—everything the class had grown to expect from her. But behind the facade, she had become something else entirely for him.

At least once a day, sometimes twice if she was feeling bold, she would tug him by the wrist, her grip firm and commanding, pulling him into some secluded corner or empty closet where no one would think to look. There, her composure unraveled. She pressed her lips against his like she was burning with a secret she couldn’t keep any longer, her hands sliding up his shirt or fisting in his collar as if holding him in place. She kissed him until he felt his carefully constructed calm beginning to crack, until the world outside blurred into nothing but her breath, her warmth, and the dizzying heat that grew between them.

Then, just as quickly, she would pull away, smoothing her uniform and fixing her hair with the practiced calm of someone erasing evidence from a crime scene.

Each time, she left him more rattled than before. Horikita, though, always returned to the surface world with unshakable poise. She slipped right back into her role as the dependable classmate, her sharp eyes scanning every movement around her, cutting through plans meant to sabotage them. When someone tried anything, she was usually the first to find out—catching signs no one else bothered to look for. Ike, especially, never stood a chance. He gave himself away so obviously it was almost laughable the class ended up teasing him for days after which he couldn't stop laughing , and Ayanokoji had to admit that watching Horikita dismantle him with just a few clipped words was as impressive as it was predictable.

But what truly amused Ayanokoji was the contrast. One moment, she would be pressed against him in a closet, her breath uneven, her hand fisted in his shirt as though she couldn’t stand to let go. The next, she was smilling, rolling her eyes at every teasing comment that paired their names together. When one of the girls snickered that maybe she and Ayanokoji were getting “a little too close,” Horikita shut it down immediately with a sharp, almost offended glare. Then, not a minute later, she was laughing lightly at some trivial piece of gossip with them, nodding along as though she cared about every meaningless detail.

It was an act so seamless that no one suspected the truth—that beneath her cold exterior she’d carved out secret, fleeting moments that belonged only to the two of them. Ayanokoji found himself caught somewhere between irritation and fascination. She was disciplined to a fault when it came to her public face, but in private, she seemed determined to test the limits of his restraint.

And perhaps, he thought, that duality was the most dangerous part of all.

By the time the special exam was finally over and they were all piled onto the bus headed back to campus, Ayanokouji sat slouched in his seat by the window, exhaustion pulling at every fiber of his body. His lips were faintly bruised, a small but damning reminder of just how relentless Horikita had been throughout the week. He pressed his thumb absently against them, almost as if trying to erase the proof, but the dull ache was stubborn, lingering like her presence in the back of his mind.

He stared out the window, watching the trees blur by, but his thoughts refused to settle. Every time he closed his eyes, all he could see was her—cornering him in storage rooms, pressing him against walls, pulling him into shadows with an intensity that shattered the calm mask he always wore. And then, just as quickly, she’d disappear, slipping back into her role as the composed, diligent classmate who smiled politely at Hirata, laughed quietly with the other girls, and treated him like he was nothing more than a passing shadow.

It was maddening. He had handled schemes, manipulations, and plans layered ten steps deep without faltering—but when it came to Horikita, he could barely think straight. His body still carried the ghost of her warmth, the taste of her lips, the sound of her hurried whispers before she vanished again. He wondered, for perhaps the first time, if he had lost control of something far more dangerous than any exam.

Across the aisle, Horikita sat with her arms crossed, her eyes shut as though she was taking a light nap. To anyone else, she looked calm, maybe even a little tired. But Ayanokouji knew better. She’d open her eyes in an instant if she sensed anything worth her attention. She always did. And yet, she remained composed, untouched, like the chaos of the week hadn’t left its mark on her at all.

He exhaled quietly, resting his head against the glass. If she noticed the state she’d left him in—if she cared—she wasn’t showing it. And that thought made his lips ache all the more.

The holidays wrapped the class in a haze of fake cheer and hidden motives, but for Ayanokouji it was something far more dangerous—it was the season of Horikita.

Her game of duality grew sharper by the day. In public, she perfected her mask: teasing smiles, playful swats at his arm, laughter at jokes that didn’t touch her heart, and the carefully rehearsed indifference of a girl who claimed to be utterly uninterested. She let people assume she and Ayanokouji were just a temporary rumor, a fleeting curiosity. When someone joked they should “just kiss already,” she curled her lips in a light giggle, dismissing it with that infamous quip about frogs. On the surface, she looked amused. To Ayanokouji, though, her words landed like stones in his chest, dull and heavy, echoing long after the laughter faded.

And yet, when the curtain of everyday life fell—when she pulled him into hidden corners, when her lips crushed against his like she was starving, when her breath came ragged and desperate—her walls slipped. She kissed him like he was oxygen. She kissed him until his mind spun, until his lips throbbed raw, until all he could think about was her heat and her contradictions. Then, without warning, she’d vanish back into her role, slipping seamlessly into Karuizawa’s orbit, into study groups, into quiet whispers of support for her classmates.

That part unsettled him the most. Her bond with Karuizawa wasn’t fake—he could see that. She coaxed the girl toward strength, stood by her in small ways, spoke softly when Karuizawa wavered. But underneath that support, Horikita herself seemed to hollow out, each kindness eating away at something internal she never showed the others. It was as if she was building everyone else up so she could quietly collapse when the time came, leaving nothing behind but ashes.

Meanwhile, the class drowned themselves in the distraction of the holidays. The girls orchestrated a Secret Santa, buzzing with excitement over nail appointments, shopping trips, and late-night calls. Horikita even dragged Ayanokouji with her to a nail salon, a move that shocked everyone who caught wind of it. People teased him endlessly, grinning wide at the absurdity of the stoic, untouchable Ayanokouji sitting in a pastel chair while Horikita’s nails gleamed under fluorescent lights. She only laughed when people asked, tossing her hair back and saying he was just “good company.”

The boys were no better, determined to outdo each other with the most ridiculous gag gifts imaginable. Someone unwrapped a neon pair of underwear; another received a rubber chicken. Even Hirata cracked a smile at the nonsense.

For everyone else, the holidays were a season of play and camaraderie. But for Ayanokouji, every moment was a slow unraveling. Horikita was everywhere—laughing, teasing, keeping her mask in place—but in the shadows, in stolen seconds, she gave him fragments of a truth no one else would ever see. It left him torn between dread and hunger, between tightening his grip and letting her slip through his fingers entirely.

The tension in Ayanokouji’s room had been building all day, each quiet moment carrying the weight of unspoken words and barely suppressed impulses. Horikita hadn’t even waited for propriety—she had simply climbed onto his lap, pressing her body against his with a need that seemed almost raw, almost frantic. Her lips were on his like air and water and warmth all at once, soft at first, then urgent, and each kiss stole the careful calm from his mind.

Her hands slid under his shirt, fingers grazing over the planes of his chest, tracing lines as if memorizing them, her touch insistent, desperate. She moved with a rhythm that was both reckless and precise, like she had rehearsed it in private a thousand times but could never quite match the ache she felt. Ayanokouji’s hands threaded into her hair, holding her close, fingertips pressing into her scalp almost as if he could anchor her to him, to this moment, to reality itself.

Neither of them spoke; words would have broken the fragile spell. Their breaths mingled, ragged and uneven, hearts hammering in tandem like drums in the silence of the room. There was a desperation there neither would admit—an admission of need, of attachment, of the small, dangerous tethers that bound them together in ways neither wanted fully to acknowledge.

Horikita’s lips left his for a moment, brushing along his jaw, a whisper of heat and intent, before she returned, burying herself against him again. Her eyes fluttered closed, but her grip on him was fierce, possessive. Ayanokouji’s hands tightened in her hair, his other arm moving to her back, pressing her closer, as if to remind both of them that this was a collision neither could escape.

Even in their silence, the room seemed to hum around them. The air between them thick with a mixture of longing, restraint, and the unspoken understanding that this—this closeness, this intimacy—was theirs and theirs alone. The world outside could wait. The masks, the strategies, the games—they could all vanish for just these moments, leaving only them, desperate and undeniable.

Horikita’s fingers lingered on his chest, tracing idle patterns as her breathing slowly evened out. She pressed her forehead to the side of his neck, inhaling the faint scent of him, and let out a shaky laugh. “We definitely need more practice,” she murmured, voice low and intimate, almost lost in the quiet of the room.

Ayanokouji’s hands stayed firmly around her, cradling her head as if afraid she might slip away, his thumb brushing gently over her hairline. “I couldn’t agree more,” he said softly, the words almost a whisper, but laden with the weight of his own emotions he rarely allowed himself to acknowledge. His chest rose and fell against hers, each breath syncing with hers, a rhythm that made the outside world vanish.

Horikita tilted her head slightly, glancing up at him with a rare vulnerability flickering in her eyes. “You’re… surprisingly gentle,” she teased lightly, though there was no mockery in her tone, only a quiet acknowledgment. She shifted slightly, resting more fully against him, letting her body mold to his. “We’ll need to perfect not just the gestures… but everything. How we look, how we feel, how we respond.”

Ayanokouji adjusted slightly to hold her closer, his hands sliding down her back as if to anchor her to him, both for her and for himself. “Everything,” he echoed, his voice low, measured, yet not without warmth. The weight of their shared silence between the words made it feel like a vow—one they didn’t need to speak aloud.

Outside, the faint hum of the city seemed distant, irrelevant. Inside, there was only them—the soft rustle of clothes, the quiet sighs, the steady heartbeat under his palm—and the unspoken promise that they would continue this… practice, again and again, until every touch, every glance, every gesture became second nature.

Horikita shifted off his lap, her movements deliberate and graceful, but the closeness lingered, the warmth of their connection still palpable. She perched on the edge of the bed, her eyes meeting his with that same sharp, calculating gleam, though softened by an undercurrent of intimacy. “We should work on more subtle gestures as well,” she said, her voice low, almost conspiratorial.

Ayanokouji’s gaze followed her every movement, steady but unblinking, taking in the way she held herself, the slight curve of her shoulders, the way her hands fidgeted just enough to draw attention without making it obvious. “Subtle gestures?” he asked, tilting his head slightly.

“Yes,” Horikita replied, a faint smile tugging at her lips. She leaned in, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear, her fingers lingering just long enough to make the motion seem accidental. “A touch here, a glance there… the smallest things can say more than a kiss or a loud declaration. People notice those details, even if they don’t realize it immediately.”

Ayanokouji’s lips quirked into a small, thoughtful smile. “So… everything we’ve been practicing—less overt, more nuanced.” His hand brushed lightly along her arm, testing the boundaries of subtlety himself, feeling the tension and warmth beneath her skin.

Horikita’s eyes flicked down to his hand, then back up, her expression unreadable for a heartbeat before softening. “Exactly,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. She reached out, letting her fingers graze the back of his hand, holding it for a second longer than necessary. “The challenge is to make it look natural. To make people believe it’s effortless.”

Ayanokouji nodded, letting her touch linger, his heart quickening at the simplicity of the gesture. It was a practice in restraint, in control, but also in connection—an exercise in conveying intimacy without being obvious, in speaking volumes with the smallest movements.

Horikita shifted slightly closer again, her knee brushing his, and whispered, “If we master this… no one will ever see the real depth of what’s between us.” Her eyes held his, unwavering, challenging him to match her calm yet electric composure.

Ayanokouji’s hand tightened just a fraction, his thumb stroking hers subtly, a silent acknowledgment that he understood—and that he was willing to practice with her, every step, every whisper, every glance.

Horikita straightened her clothes and smoothed her hair back into place, trying to steady her breathing even though her chest still rose and fell rapidly. Her cheeks were faintly pink, though she was already working to compose herself as if nothing had happened. She glanced at Ayanokouji, who was leaning casually against the wall, his expression as unreadable as always, though the faint redness on his lips betrayed their earlier desperation.

“Let’s also continue working on some stories,” she said after a pause, her tone more controlled now but her voice quieter than usual, as though she didn’t want to break the fragile atmosphere between them. “Not just the bigger narratives—things like where we were, who we spoke to, how we reacted. We should rehearse until both gestures and words come naturally.” She folded her arms, but her eyes flickered toward him again, lingering for a moment longer than necessary.

Ayanokouji gave a slight nod, his hand brushing his jaw as if considering. “So, practice until it looks effortless. Subtle displays of closeness, enough to make it believable without ever drawing suspicion.” His gaze moved toward her, and for once, it softened—just a fraction, as though acknowledging that this went beyond mere strategy.

Horikita shifted on her feet, her lips pressing together before she spoke again. “Exactly. If anyone questions it, we shouldn’t have to think before we answer. It should feel…natural.” She hesitated at the last word, as if the weight of it had struck her only after she said it aloud.

The room fell into a quiet lull, heavy but not uncomfortable. She moved toward the door but paused with her hand resting on the frame, looking back at him. “We’ll work on both—the physical gestures and the stories—until they’re second nature. That way, neither of us slips up when it matters most.”

Ayanokouji met her gaze, calm as ever, though deep down he couldn’t ignore the faint warmth that lingered from her touch. “Then I’ll follow your lead,” he replied simply, though his words carried more meaning than usual.

Horikita gave the smallest of nods, and then, almost reluctantly, stepped out into the hallway, leaving him alone with the silence and the fading memory of her lips against his.

"we have a meeting on friday," Horikita said firmly as she adjusted the strap of her bag and turned slightly on her heel to face him. Her sharp gaze lingered on him, as though making sure he was actually listening this time. "Look nice."

Ayanokouji leaned back in his chair, expression flat as ever, his eyes following her movements with that unreadable calm. "That’s what you always say," he replied in his usual deadpan tone, as if her words were nothing more than background noise.

Horikita didn’t flinch, but her brow twitched ever so slightly. "And every time I do, you still show up acting as if you’re doing me some kind of favor by wearing a clean shirt. People notice these things, Ayanokouji. The smallest details can shift the impression we make. A wrinkle here, a careless look there—it can mean the difference between someone dismissing us or taking us seriously."

He tilted his head, faintly amused by her persistence. "You sound like you’re preparing me for a job interview, not a school meeting."

"That’s because you still treat these things too lightly," she countered, her voice steady but carrying that quiet sharpness she often reserved for him. "I don’t expect you to care about appearances, but I need you to act like you do. If you show up sloppy, people assume you don’t take it seriously, which in turn reflects poorly on both of us. You know how much I’ve been working to shift Class 1-D’s reputation. I can’t afford you undermining it just because you’re indifferent."

For a moment, Ayanokouji let silence hang between them. His eyes narrowed slightly, not in defiance, but in that subtle way he did when he was weighing her words. "So what you’re really saying," he murmured, "is that you want me to look nice for your sake, not mine."

Horikita held his gaze, lips pressed together. After a pause, she finally exhaled through her nose. "If putting it that way helps you remember, then fine. Yes. For my sake. But also for the sake of everyone relying on us. I don’t have time to repeat myself, so do it properly."

He let out a faint sigh, though the corner of his mouth almost tugged upward. "You really don’t trust me to handle the basics, do you?"

"I trust you," she answered quickly, surprising even herself with the sharpness of her tone. Her expression softened, if only by a fraction, before she turned away to hide it. "But trusting you doesn’t mean I’ll stop reminding you. You’re… the type who needs reminding."

With that, she adjusted her bag again and started walking off, her shoulders stiff as though she didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of seeing any more hesitation.

Ayanokouji watched her leave, his face unreadable, though his thoughts lingered longer than he cared to admit.

"Wait." Ayanokouji’s voice was calm but low, the kind that made Horikita pause mid-step despite herself. He closed the space between them in an instant, his hand sliding with quiet certainty to her waist, fingers firm yet hesitant—as if giving her the chance to pull away if she wished. But she didn’t. Instead, her breath caught, her eyes widening only briefly before his lips crashed against hers, hard and unrelenting.

The world around them seemed to dissolve, the silence of the hall stretching endlessly, broken only by the sharp thud of her heartbeat pounding in her ears. Her hands moved before she could think, clutching tightly at the fabric of his blazer, pulling him closer, deepening the kiss with a force that betrayed the composure she always tried to maintain. It was rough at first, demanding, but then it softened, grew tangled with something far more dangerous—something warm.

When she finally pulled away, her breath came quick and shallow. A flush dusted across her cheeks, a vivid red that betrayed the storm inside her. Her gaze flicked away for only a moment before she leaned back just slightly, still close enough to feel the heat of him, still unable to break free of the pull.

“Just feeding the narrative,” Ayanokouji murmured against her lips, his tone faintly mocking yet subdued, as though even he wasn’t sure if he believed his own words.

Horikita’s lips curved, her expression controlled but her eyes betraying a flicker of something less certain. “Mmm, don’t get too cocky,” she hummed softly, her voice husky as she pressed another kiss to his lips, slower this time, deliberate, savoring it. “Remember what I can do to you.”

Her warning wasn’t empty. It was both a tease and a reminder of the sharpness she carried beneath her calm façade, the strength she wielded both in her mind and her heart.

“How could I forget?” Ayanokouji replied quietly, his hand lingering at her waist before he reluctantly let go, the weight of his hesitation heavy in the air. His gaze followed her as she turned, walking down the hall with her usual composed stride, but this time, he could see the faint stiffness in her shoulders, the subtle tremor of her hand as it brushed her hair back into place.

For the first time, he wasn’t entirely certain if he’d acted for the narrative—or for something else he couldn’t yet name. And watching her walk away, he realized that uncertainty was what made it dangerous.

"Wait." Ayanokouji’s voice was calm but low, the kind that made Horikita pause mid-step despite herself. He closed the space between them in an instant, his hand sliding with quiet certainty to her waist, fingers firm yet hesitant—as if giving her the chance to pull away if she wished. But she didn’t. Instead, her breath caught, her eyes widening only briefly before his lips crashed against hers, hard and unrelenting.
The world around them seemed to dissolve, the silence of the hall stretching endlessly, broken only by the sharp thud of her heartbeat pounding in her ears. Her hands moved before she could think, clutching tightly at the fabric of his blazer, pulling him closer, deepening the kiss with a force that betrayed the composure she always tried to maintain. It was rough at first, demanding, but then it softened, grew tangled with something far more dangerous—something warm.
When she finally pulled away, her breath came quick and shallow. A flush dusted across her cheeks, a vivid red that betrayed the storm inside her. Her gaze flicked away for only a moment before she leaned back just slightly, still close enough to feel the heat of him, still unable to break free of the pull.
“Just feeding the narrative,” Ayanokouji murmured against her lips, his tone faintly mocking yet subdued, as though even he wasn’t sure if he believed his own words.
Horikita’s lips curved, her expression controlled but her eyes betraying a flicker of something less certain. “Mmm, don’t get too cocky,” she hummed softly, her voice husky as she pressed another kiss to his lips, slower this time, deliberate, savoring it. “Remember what I can do to you.”
Her warning wasn’t empty. It was both a tease and a reminder of the sharpness she carried beneath her calm façade, the strength she wielded both in her mind and her heart.
“How could I forget?” Ayanokouji replied quietly, his hand lingering at her waist before he reluctantly let go, the weight of his hesitation heavy in the air. His gaze followed her as she turned, walking down the hall with her usual composed stride, but this time, he could see the faint stiffness in her shoulders, the subtle tremor of her hand as it brushed her hair back into place.
For the first time, he wasn’t entirely certain if he’d acted for the narrative—or for something else he couldn’t yet name. And watching her walk away, he realized that uncertainty was what made it dangerous.

Christmas evening carried a warmth that felt strange to Ayanokouji. The cafeteria had been decorated with simple garlands and makeshift paper ornaments crafted by the more enthusiastic members of the class. Candles flickered on the tables, filling the air with a soft glow that made everything look softer, less clinical than their usual environment. The chatter and laughter of his classmates rose and fell like a tide, and while normally he would’ve stayed at the edge of the current, Horikita had other plans.

She’d already pulled him aside three times throughout the day—once to “help carry the decorations” (which really meant she cornered him in the hallway to press a brief kiss against his jaw before running off), another when she “needed his opinion” on how the seating arrangement looked (though all she did was lace her fingers with his for just a moment under the table), and then, of course, when she deliberately leaned too close as they sorted through the wrapped gifts. Each time, Ayanokouji’s calm mask cracked just slightly more. His patience wasn’t limitless, and Horikita seemed all too aware of that, delighting in testing the boundaries.

Now, seated at the long tables with his classmates, he watched her out of the corner of his eye. Horikita was laughing—actually laughing—her usual composed exterior softened by the holiday mood. Ike was already halfway through his third plate of food, crumbs smudging his shirt, and Sudo was cheering him on like this was some sort of athletic competition. When Horikita joined in, grabbing a piece of bread and trying to toss it into Ike’s open mouth, Ayanokouji almost didn’t recognize her. She missed, of course, and Ike nearly toppled backward in his chair trying to catch it, but that only sent Horikita into a fit of laughter, her shoulders shaking as she quickly covered her mouth with her hand.

He could hear her voice—clear, bright, tinged with a happiness he didn’t often see in her. It wasn’t the reserved chuckle she gave in polite conversation, or the rare smirk she directed his way when she thought she’d won something over him. This was genuine, and it caught him off guard.

Her laughter drew attention from others, too. Kushida, ever the social butterfly, teased her about finally “loosening up.” Even Hirata smiled warmly at the sight, clearly relieved to see her blending with the group so naturally. Ayanokouji, however, didn’t feel relief. He felt something else—something far more unsettling. Watching her surrounded by everyone else, seeing the way her walls seemed to come down with ease, it tugged at him in a way he couldn’t quite name.

And still, Horikita didn’t forget him. Between conversations, between her moments with the others, her eyes always flickered back to where he sat. Once, when Ike had failed spectacularly to catch a piece of chicken Sudo tossed at him, Horikita’s gaze darted across the table to Ayanokouji. Her smile lingered just a little longer, and though no one else seemed to notice, he knew it was for him.

Every subtle glance, every tiny gesture was another thread pulling him further in, weaving something that was beginning to look dangerously like a trap. And yet… for the first time, Ayanokouji didn’t feel the urge to cut himself free.

Chapter Text

Ayanokouji sat in Horikita’s office, his posture as relaxed as always, his eyes watching the faint reflection of the snow outside against the polished glass. The room smelled faintly of paper, ink, and something sharper—power, in its purest form. Horikita’s voice was cool and precise as she spoke into the phone, confirming details about an incoming shipment of contraband that would circulate through the black market she had built from the ground up. Her words carried a subtle authority that left no room for question, no gap for weakness. She had long since become the center of this hidden empire, and he, sitting quietly in the corner, had become an integral piece of her carefully curated illusion.

When she hung up, there was no sigh of relief, no moment of weariness. She simply turned, her gaze sliding to Ayanokouji like a blade. To the outside world, to the girls who giggled with her during lunch and to the teachers who praised her growth, Horikita Suzune was the embodiment of progress, warmth, and maturity. But here, behind closed doors, she was something entirely different—calculated, merciless, and fully aware of the image she projected. Their relationship, the one that had become whispered rumor in the underground society, was just another extension of that image. A “weakness” that was meticulously staged so that her enemies would circle around the wrong target while her true vulnerabilities remained buried too deep to touch.

“You’ll be present on New Year’s Eve,” she said without inflection, her tone closer to a command than a suggestion. “The moment the countdown ends, we’ll seal it publicly. A kiss, a declaration. No one will question us afterward.” She leaned back in her chair, folding her arms. “It will solidify the narrative. By midnight, I’ll no longer be just the capable leader of 2-B—I’ll be the girl who has everything. Friends, admiration, and a romance that looks genuine enough to distract anyone foolish enough to pry.”

Ayanokouji’s expression never shifted, though inwardly he took note of the precision in her words. There was no hesitation in her plan, no trace of personal feeling. She was willing to weaponize even the most intimate gestures. It wasn’t affection, it wasn’t trust—it was strategy. He had seen her growth firsthand, the way she had carved herself into something sharper and colder, leaving behind the shadow of the girl who once clung to the idea of surpassing him. Now she had surpassed him, not in power of manipulation perhaps, but in ambition. She wasn’t afraid to dirty her hands in ways even he sometimes avoided.

She stood then, moving across the room with the same deliberate poise she carried in public. Every step radiated authority. “Karuizawa will break when she sees it,” Horikita continued. Her voice wasn’t cruel, but it wasn’t kind either. It was simply factual, the words falling with the same inevitability as gravity. “Her fixation on you has always been a potential disruption. If she believes you’ve chosen me, then her role becomes irrelevant. She’ll fall into silence, and I’ll be free to weave the narrative exactly as I see fit.”

Ayanokouji’s gaze trailed after her, calm and unreadable. He knew the truth of her words. Karuizawa’s attachment was fragile, held together by a sense of belonging she had found at his side. Once that illusion shattered, there would be nothing left to anchor her. Horikita wasn’t merely manipulating power structures anymore—she was dismantling emotional ties to rebuild the battlefield to her own design.

The office itself mirrored her ambition. Once bare and utilitarian, it now held subtle touches of control: neatly stacked files on every student worth monitoring, locked drawers filled with ledgers detailing trades and exchanges, and a soft rug beneath her desk that dulled the sound of footsteps, ensuring that whoever entered was immediately swallowed by her presence. Even Ayanokouji, so difficult to corner, found himself surrounded by her influence whenever he stepped inside.

“You’ve already played your role well in the underground,” she remarked, pausing by the window. Her reflection, sharp and composed, glimmered against the glass. “They believe you’re my soft spot. That you’re the reason I’ve not become untouchable. That is exactly the weakness I want them to see.” Her lips curved faintly, not in amusement but in satisfaction. “When I ascend, it will be because I mastered every perception of myself. A leader admired above ground, a dealer feared below, and a girl in love for those who wish to dig too deeply.”

For a long moment, silence filled the office. Outside, laughter drifted faintly from the halls where students celebrated the lingering holiday spirit. It was a sharp contrast to the stillness within, where Horikita’s empire was being cemented piece by piece. Ayanokouji tilted his head slightly, his voice breaking the silence at last. “You’ve thought of everything.”

She met his gaze with a look that betrayed nothing. “Of course. In this school, hesitation is death. Sentiment is weakness. I can’t afford either.” Her tone was sharper now, laced with conviction. “That’s why this plan must proceed without flaw. Every eye must see us together. Every rumor must confirm it. By the time they realize the truth, it will be too late.”

He leaned back slightly in his chair, hands folded loosely. It was ironic—once, he had been the mastermind moving Horikita into place, nudging her toward strength. Now, she was the one orchestrating every move, and he the instrument she wielded. But he didn’t resist. Resistance wasn’t in his nature, not unless it was necessary. For now, he let her sharpen herself on this path.

Her gaze softened just slightly, but only for a heartbeat. “When the clock strikes midnight, don’t hesitate. We’re actors in this play, and the audience is waiting.” She returned to her desk, her hands gliding over the ledgers again as if nothing significant had been spoken. “Once the curtain falls, class A will have no choice but to recognize me. And the rest will only scramble to keep up.”

The hum of the heating system filled the background, a low and constant reminder of the winter night pressing against the glass. Horikita flipped another page in her records, the faint scratch of pen against paper joining the rhythm. Ayanokouji watched her, the faintest trace of something unreadable flickering in his eyes. Whether it was admiration, calculation, or silent warning, only he knew.

But in that office, on that winter night, one truth stood unshakable: Horikita Suzune was no longer the girl chasing after others’ shadows. She had become the shadow itself, stretching long and wide across the school, swallowing everything in its path. And at midnight on New Year’s Eve, she intended to make sure the entire school understood it.

“New Year’s is in a few days,” Ayanokouji stated flatly, his tone betraying no emotion, as if he were pointing out the weather.

Horikita lifted her gaze from the open ledger on her desk, her eyes narrowing with a faint, almost imperceptible smirk. It was the kind of look a mother might give her child after he finally figured out something everyone else already knew. “It is,” she answered, her voice level but touched with the faintest edge of amusement. With practiced ease, she pulled open the drawer to her right and withdrew a small, red envelope decorated with golden accents—ornamental yet formal, deliberate in its design. Without ceremony, she slid it across the polished surface of her desk toward him. “Your bonus.”

Ayanokouji glanced down at the envelope, his expression unchanged, then back up at her. “I’m not a child,” he replied, his voice calm, cool, as though he were simply stating a fact rather than rejecting the implication behind her gesture.

“It’s a bonus,” Horikita said, her tone leaving no room for argument. To her, it was obvious, unshakable—just another detail handled, another arrangement neatly tied into place. The way she said it carried the weight of inevitability, as if she had already accounted for his response before he had even opened his mouth.

Ayanokouji reached forward and picked up the envelope, turning it lightly in his hand. He didn’t open it, didn’t even seem particularly interested in its contents. For him, the money wasn’t the point, nor was the gesture—it was the layers beneath it. Horikita had no reason to reward him for anything, not truly. Their “relationship” was an illusion, an act for the underground society and soon for the whole school. But even her smallest moves always had significance, always served a purpose. This envelope wasn’t generosity. It was control dressed as kindness.

“You’ve started treating everything like a transaction,” he observed, his tone lacking criticism but edged with a detached kind of curiosity.

“Everything is a transaction,” Horikita countered, her fingers lacing together on the desk as she leaned forward slightly. “Every word we speak, every action we take, it all shifts the balance of power. This is no different. You play your role, you get compensated. Simple.” Her eyes held his, sharp and unwavering. “Would you rather I feign sentiment? Pretend this was out of some misplaced affection?”

He studied her for a long moment, silent as always. His calm expression made it impossible to tell whether he found her words sharp, admirable, or foolish. In truth, he likely found them all three. Yet he said nothing, simply setting the envelope down beside him without opening it.

Horikita’s lips pressed into the faintest hint of a smile—controlled, restrained, but a smile nonetheless. “You’ll keep it,” she said, as if declaring the matter closed. “Refusing it would only be childish. And as you said, you’re not a child.”

The room was quiet for a few moments, the only sound the faint hum of the building’s heating system and the occasional scratching of Horikita’s pen as she resumed jotting notes in the ledger. She didn’t look at him again, didn’t need to. She knew he was still watching her, the same way he always did—silently, analytically, like one observing a puzzle rather than participating in it.

Finally, she spoke again, her voice smooth, deliberate. “This New Year will mark the end of the old order. By the time that clock strikes midnight, I’ll be untouchable.” She didn’t look up from her page, but her tone made the conviction clear. “And you—” her pen paused, then moved again “—you’ll stand by my side, as everyone believes. The role is yours, and you will play it.”

Ayanokouji leaned back in his chair, the envelope resting lightly against his fingertips. His expression was unreadable as ever, but there was a faint glimmer of something in his eyes—whether amusement, challenge, or calculation, it was impossible to pin down. “Then I suppose I’ll take my bonus.”

Horikita finally looked up again, her gaze cutting into his like the edge of a blade. “Good. Because the performance begins in a few days. And unlike in practice, there’s no room for hesitation when the curtain rises.”

The envelope sat between them like a silent contract, as binding as any verbal agreement. It wasn’t money. It wasn’t a gift. It was proof that Horikita Suzune had already thought two, three, ten steps ahead—and that Ayanokouji, for the time being, was content to let her lead the dance.

Ayanokouji slid a finger beneath the edge of the red envelope, tearing it open with the same casual precision he applied to everything. The paper gave way cleanly, and he drew out the crisp bills folded neatly inside along with a single slip of paper. His expression remained utterly unreadable as he examined the contents.

Horikita leaned back slightly in her chair, her arms folding as she watched him with hawk-like intensity. Her eyes flickered not with concern but with analysis, like a scientist awaiting the results of an experiment. She wasn’t looking for gratitude or excitement—she was searching for any crack in his mask, any ripple that might betray his inner thoughts. She already knew he wouldn’t thank her, but she wanted confirmation of something deeper.

Ayanokouji held the bills between two fingers, fanning them slightly as though verifying their authenticity. They were immaculate, arranged with precision, the exact kind of detail Horikita would ensure. But his attention shifted to the slip of paper tucked between them. He unfolded it silently, his eyes scanning the text. It wasn’t much—just a brief set of instructions, a date, and a coded mark that tied it directly to the black market’s ledgers.

“Efficient as always,” he said finally, his voice level. There was no trace of sarcasm, no hint of amusement. Just observation.

Horikita’s gaze sharpened. She tilted her chin upward ever so slightly, the corners of her mouth curving in a restrained, knowing smile. “You thought it would only be money?” she asked, her voice low, each word deliberate. “That would be too simple. Too… pedestrian. You’re more valuable than that.”

He let the slip of paper rest against his palm, his eyes unreadable as ever. “So it’s a test, then. Or another assignment.”

“Both,” Horikita replied smoothly. “A transaction, yes. But also a reminder. Your role isn’t ornamental. You’re not here simply to stand beside me and nod on command. You are part of the machine I’ve built, whether you care to admit it or not. That slip of paper ensures you remain in it.”

For a moment, silence filled the office again. The low hum of the heating unit, the faint rustle of the papers on her desk—mundane sounds that carried weight in their stillness. Ayanokouji’s eyes lingered on the slip for another second before folding it neatly and sliding it back into the envelope along with the bills. He tapped it lightly against the armrest of his chair, his composure unshaken.

Horikita leaned forward then, resting her elbows on the desk, her fingers interlacing. Her stare bore into him, unyielding. “So?” she asked, her voice calm but edged with challenge. “Do you find it acceptable?”

Ayanokouji met her gaze without hesitation. “It’s acceptable.” The way he said it was almost dismissive, yet there was something faintly deliberate in his tone, as if he knew the answer itself mattered less than how it was delivered.

Her lips curved faintly again, but not in amusement—more in satisfaction. “Good. You’re learning,” she murmured. “Even silence can be a tool. But silence used correctly is what makes others afraid to underestimate you.”

He said nothing in response, simply setting the envelope down neatly on the desk beside him. His eyes shifted briefly to the snow outside, pale flakes drifting in the glow of the outdoor lamps. The sight seemed almost too calm compared to the undercurrent of tension within the office.

Horikita followed his gaze for a moment before speaking again. “In a few days, this envelope will mean nothing. The New Year’s declaration will overshadow it all. People won’t remember what you were handed in private—they’ll only remember what you gave in public.”

“The kiss,” Ayanokouji said evenly, his voice void of hesitation.

Her eyes narrowed slightly, but not in surprise. “Yes. The kiss. The final piece that binds the story together. And once it’s done, I’ll no longer need to remind anyone of my place. They’ll see it themselves.”

Ayanokouji turned his attention back to her then, his expression unchanging, though there was a faint glimmer in his eyes. Perhaps curiosity. Perhaps something else. He set the envelope back down on the desk, his fingers releasing it with deliberate care. “You’ve already decided the outcome. All that’s left is to play the part.”

Horikita nodded once, decisive, her gaze steady on his. “Exactly.”

And in that quiet office, under the glow of artificial light and the muted hush of winter outside, the envelope sat between them—not as a gift, but as a silent seal of the roles they were both bound to play when midnight arrived.

“...You’re pretty,” Ayanokouji said at last, his voice calm, almost detached, as if he were observing a fact rather than offering praise.

Horikita looked up from her ledger, her sharp eyes fixing on him. Before she could cut in, he spoke again, his tone unwavering.

“Compliments can show closeness between a couple.” The words were dry, repeated like a line from a textbook. He had quoted her directly, as though reminding her of the lesson she had once drilled into him.

“I remember,” Horikita replied evenly, her gaze flickering with a restrained trace of amusement. Her fingers drummed lightly against the surface of her desk as if marking time. “But try something more natural. You sound like a child stumbling over a confession he doesn’t understand.”

There was a pause. Ayanokouji tilted his head slightly, as if recalibrating, then tried again. “You look beautiful today.” His voice carried no tremor, no hesitation, only the same measured calm that made it difficult to distinguish sincerity from performance.

Horikita’s eyes narrowed slightly, and her lips curved into the faintest smirk. “Did I look ugly yesterday?” she countered smoothly, her words cutting with surgical precision.

“No,” Ayanokouji answered without missing a beat, his tone as level as ever. “You always look beautiful.”

For a moment, silence lingered between them. Then Horikita smiled. Not her sharp, analytical smile, nor the polite mask she wore for classmates. This was the carefully honed imitation she had perfected—the kind of smile that seemed to drip with tenderness, that could fool anyone watching into believing she was deeply, irrevocably in love. Her eyes softened, her posture shifted, and for all the world she looked like a girl surrendering to the warmth of affection. “Thank you,” she whispered, her voice tender, gentle, the very sound of love.

Ayanokouji’s gaze didn’t waver. He knew it was fake. He recognized every calculated angle of her expression, every modulated pitch in her tone. There wasn’t an ounce of truth behind it. And yet, despite knowing, despite seeing through the illusion entirely, his chest gave a subtle flutter, a quiet betrayal of the heart he prided himself on keeping locked away.

Horikita leaned back slightly, watching him with that perfect smile still on her lips. Her eyes—sharp, dissecting—studied his reaction like a predator watching prey twitch. She didn’t need him to believe her performance. She only needed him to play his part well enough that everyone else would. Still, there was something satisfying in the faint flicker she had noticed in his eyes, the almost imperceptible shift of breath. Proof that even the most unflinching mask could tremble when pressed in just the right way.

“See?” she said softly, her tone so affectionate it could have fooled anyone but him. “That wasn’t so hard. If you say things like that when people are watching, no one will doubt us. They’ll believe every moment of it.”

Ayanokouji sat silently, his expression unreadable once again, though inwardly he registered the truth: Horikita’s mastery of deception wasn’t just in her schemes or strategies. It was in how flawlessly she wove lies into gestures so simple they could pierce even someone who understood them as false.

And as her smile lingered, perfect and manufactured, Ayanokouji realized that when midnight came on New Year’s, and her lips touched his before the entire school, it wouldn’t matter whether it was real or not. The world would believe it. And perhaps, for just a fraction of a second, so would he.

Horikita stood gracefully, brushing invisible dust from her skirt, the movement sharp and deliberate. Her chair slid back with a soft scrape against the polished floor as she turned to face Ayanokouji. Her expression was composed, but her eyes glimmered with the cold precision of a strategist already ten steps ahead. “Come with me,” she said flatly, though her voice carried the weight of command rather than invitation.

Ayanokouji regarded her for a moment, his body still and relaxed in his chair. “Where?” he asked, though the calm tone suggested he already understood this wasn’t a casual errand.

Horikita moved toward the office door, her hand resting briefly on the handle before she turned back to him. “Someone’s been poking around where they shouldn’t be.” Her words were calm, almost indifferent, but the implication was anything but. Beneath her composed tone was the same ruthless edge that had built her black market empire. She wasn’t rattled. She wasn’t afraid. She was sharpening her blade.

He rose without hesitation, sliding the red envelope into his jacket pocket. His gaze lingered on her, unreadable, as though weighing her intentions. “And you expect me to play the part of the boyfriend who just happened to follow you?”

“You are the boyfriend,” Horikita replied smoothly, her voice dipping into the soft warmth she used for her masks. “To anyone watching, at least. That’s the story we’ve written, and every good story needs consistency.” Then, without waiting for further response, she opened the door and stepped into the dimly lit corridor.

The hallway outside was quieter than usual, the faint hum of heaters and the echo of distant laughter from the dorm common room the only sounds. Horikita’s footsteps were sharp, clipped, and purposeful. Ayanokouji followed beside her, his gait slower, more casual, but his eyes flicked along the corners, noting details as naturally as breathing.

“They’re testing you,” Ayanokouji said after a long silence, his tone even. “Whoever’s probing around isn’t just curious. They want to see how far they can go without being caught.”

Horikita’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Then we’ll make an example of them,” she replied coldly. Her voice was free of hesitation. “A soft push back isn’t enough anymore. If people think they can pry into my affairs without consequence, then the entire structure collapses.”

He glanced at her sideways. “So you intend to corner them?”

“I intend to break them,” Horikita corrected, her tone sharper now. “Publicly, if necessary. People will whisper, and that whisper will become fear. By the time I’m finished, no one will think of poking around again.”

They turned a corner, the shadows stretching long across the hallway as the soft glow of ceiling lights flickered overhead. Horikita slowed her pace, her eyes scanning a noticeboard plastered with flyers. A small slip of paper had been tacked carelessly among them, out of place, with coded markings that only someone familiar with her underground dealings would notice.

She plucked it free between two fingers, her brows narrowing faintly. “Sloppy,” she murmured. “Too sloppy for someone serious. A decoy, most likely.” She turned to Ayanokouji, her gaze sharp. “Which means the real probing is happening elsewhere.”

He studied the paper briefly before returning his gaze to her. “You’re enjoying this,” he remarked.

Horikita’s lips curved into the faintest smile, though it wasn’t the warm mask she wore in public. This one was sharper, more dangerous. “Of course I am. Let them think they’re clever. It only makes it more satisfying when they realize how far behind they really are.”

Ayanokouji said nothing, his calm silence a kind of quiet agreement. Together, they began moving again, deeper into the dormitory corridors, their steps measured and deliberate. To anyone who saw them, they would look like the perfect pair—a couple out for a late walk, perhaps exchanging private words. But beneath that façade, they were predators, closing in on prey that had wandered too close to the edge of the forest.

Horikita’s voice cut through the silence once more as they neared the stairwell. “When we find out who it is, you’ll be at my side. Say nothing, do nothing, just stand there. Your presence will be enough to confirm the illusion. My enemies will think I’ve revealed my weakness. But you and I both know the truth—my only weakness is letting them live long enough to try again.”

And with that, she pushed open the door to the stairwell, her eyes glittering with cold determination. Somewhere in the building, someone had dared to test her. And Horikita Suzune intended to ensure they regretted it.

Ayanokouji fell into step beside her, letting Horikita lead without question. He followed silently, his gaze casually observing the hallways and corners they passed, though he knew better than to try to predict where she was headed. Whatever trail she followed, it was methodical, deliberate—likely laid out in advance for someone who moved as carefully as she did.

At one point, she paused near the side of a stairwell and pulled her phone from her pocket with a fluid motion. Her fingers tapped the screen with precise efficiency, dialing a number without hesitation. The conversation was clipped, controlled, and cold.

“Hello?... I have an assignment for you,” she said, her voice quiet but unmistakably sharp. “Make it look like an accident. Jirou Sato, first-year. Tonight… thank you.”

She ended the call with a quick flick of her thumb, the phone sliding back into her pocket as though nothing significant had happened. Horikita then turned her gaze to Ayanokouji, her expression calm, composed, as if she had simply ordered tea instead of issuing a deadly directive.

“It’s dealt with,” she said, her tone carrying neither pride nor malice—just fact. The words were precise, final, and utterly devoid of hesitation.

Ayanokouji’s eyes met hers, silent acknowledgment passing between them. He didn’t react outwardly, didn’t question. It wasn’t fear or discomfort that kept him quiet; it was understanding. He had already seen the depths of her strategy, the precision of her decisions, and the lengths she would go to protect the empire she was building.

Horikita resumed walking, her posture perfect, every step echoing the control she exerted over her surroundings. Ayanokouji followed, letting her dictate the pace, the path, the timing. There was no conversation, no unnecessary movement—just the quiet, almost ritualistic synchronization between them, a duo perfectly aligned in purpose.

The hallway seemed to stretch endlessly around them, yet Horikita moved through it as if she owned every inch. Her sharp eyes occasionally flicked to corners, to doors, to subtle shifts in shadow, cataloging, analyzing, planning. The world outside her immediate perception might have seemed ordinary, but to her, every detail mattered.

Ayanokouji watched her, noting how fluidly she slipped between the mask of the composed student and the ruthless operator beneath. There was no hesitation in her movements, no sign of doubt in her voice—everything was intentional, precise, exact. Even this simple assignment, delivered in a few words, carried with it the weight of authority and inevitability.

By the time they reached the next junction, she slowed her pace slightly, the faintest glimmer of satisfaction in her eyes. Not a smile, not a sign of triumph—just that calm, unwavering certainty that comes with knowing the board is set and the pieces are moving exactly as intended.

Ayanokouji continued to follow, his presence quiet but unyielding. He knew that the shadows she cast extended far beyond what any student could perceive, and that whatever awaited them—or whoever crossed her path—would not leave unscathed.

She glanced briefly at him again. “Everything moves according to plan,” she said, almost conversationally, as if reminding him of the simple truth of their shared reality. “And anyone who believes otherwise will soon find out how dangerous miscalculations can be.”

Ayanokouji nodded subtly, maintaining his calm composure. He had long since learned that following her wasn’t submission; it was observation, patience, and acknowledgment of her superior design.

The two of them continued down the corridor, silent, precise, and synchronized, the quiet hum of the school at night filling the spaces between their steps. Horikita’s control was absolute, and Ayanokouji knew better than to disturb it.

Finally, she stopped again, turning her head slightly to give him a look that was more statement than question. “Stay close,” she said, her voice soft yet commanding. “We’re not finished. Not until every risk is neutralized.”

Ayanokouji adjusted his pace to match hers, his expression calm, unreadable, yet inwardly alert. In the world Horikita was crafting, every move mattered, and tonight was only the beginning.

Ayanokouji paused for a moment, his eyes flicking to her as she continued walking ahead, her posture unyielding, almost statuesque. Her voice was flat, calm, commanding without the slightest edge of hesitation. “Give me your hand,” she said, not even glancing at him.

He hesitated only briefly, the faintest tilt of his head betraying curiosity rather than resistance, before extending his right hand toward her. The motion was deliberate, casual, unhurried, as if he had all the time in the world to comply.

Horikita didn’t stop walking. Her hand reached back with the same precision she applied to every decision, her fingers brushing against his with the cold efficiency of someone accustomed to giving orders and having them followed without question. The contact was brief, light, but it carried the weight of unspoken authority—a reminder that even in this simple act, she dictated the terms.

Ayanokouji let her guide his hand without a word. There was no warmth, no tenderness—only the subtle control that defined her every movement. It wasn’t intimate in the usual sense, not a gesture of trust or affection; it was a tool, a mechanism to direct, to test, to manipulate the flow of the moment.

Horikita’s pace remained steady, her eyes forward, scanning the hallway and the shadows beyond. Her grip was firm enough to assert her command, but not tight, allowing him just enough freedom to follow without resistance. Every step, every gesture, was calibrated to maintain the illusion of normalcy while asserting dominance beneath the surface.

“You follow well,” she said finally, her voice carrying over the quiet hum of the empty corridor. There was no praise, only observation, and a faint satisfaction that came from control exercised efficiently.

Ayanokouji’s lips twitched slightly, the faintest acknowledgment of her remark, though it wasn’t clear whether it was amusement or simply recognition of the statement’s accuracy. He remained silent, letting her lead, analyzing the subtle cues in her stride, in her hand, in the way she moved through space as if the entire building bent to her will.

Horikita didn’t glance at him, didn’t need to. Her entire being radiated focus and intention. Even the smallest act—holding his hand—was executed with the same precision she applied to her plans in the black market, the class battles, and her public persona. Every motion reinforced her image, every gesture maintained the illusion she had carefully cultivated.

Ayanokouji noted the subtle flex of her fingers, the slight tightening that came and went with the rhythm of their steps. He understood what it meant—she was measuring his compliance, testing his awareness, ensuring that even in silence, he remained a perfect complement to her performance.

The hallway stretched before them, lined with the soft glow of muted lights and the occasional flicker of shadows from the windows. Horikita’s hand in his was not comfort, not intimacy—it was command. And yet, the simple act of following, of placing his hand in hers, drew him deeper into her orbit, reminding him that he was not just observing her schemes anymore; he was a part of them.

They moved together in that quiet corridor, a pair perfectly synchronized yet entirely unequal in power. Ayanokouji could feel the subtle insistence behind her hand guiding his, an unspoken assertion that while he could think freely, he would move exactly as she intended.

“You understand the rules of this game,” she said quietly, still keeping her eyes fixed ahead. “Do not forget them. Even the smallest lapse could be costly.”

He nodded almost imperceptibly, the faintest flicker of recognition passing through his composed mask. He had learned that compliance didn’t mean weakness—it meant survival, observation, and sometimes, the chance to strike at exactly the right moment.

Horikita’s hand released his just long enough to press a small, barely noticeable note into his palm, her fingers brushing his lightly before resuming their guiding position. The gesture was subtle, almost imperceptible, but its significance wasn’t lost on him.

“Read it when we reach the junction,” she said, her tone calm, absolute. “Every move counts. Every step is preparation.”

And with that, she continued forward, her hand returning to lead his, the perfect balance of command and calculated connection, a silent testament to the control she wielded over the world around them—and over him.

The next two days passed in a dizzying whirl of calculated intimacy and carefully orchestrated interactions. Horikita moved through the school with her usual icy precision, yet whenever she was near Ayanokouji, a different energy radiated—a closeness so infuriatingly deliberate that it forced him to be constantly alert. Each stolen glance, each fleeting touch, every teasing remark she tossed his way was designed to appear accidental, playful, even tender—but he could feel the underlying current of control.

Ayanokouji’s instincts screamed at him from the depths of his mind, warning him of the ache building in his chest. It was a tension he couldn’t ignore, no matter how much he told himself to remain calm and detached. Every time she leaned just a little too close, brushing against his arm as they walked through the hallways, the fire in his chest flared anew. His heart betrayed him despite the mask he had so meticulously perfected.

Horikita had a way of making the smallest acts feel significant. When she teased him about his awkward attempts at “couple behavior,” or when she made him rehearse public displays for the New Year’s declaration, the sensation was electric. Her voice, soft yet commanding, seemed to wrap around him, pulling him into her orbit despite his constant awareness of the performance. Each moment was carefully staged for the world, but for him, it hit like a jolt of reality he could neither deny nor control.

He wanted to shout into the night sky, to tear away the mask of calm he wore and confess the truth he felt deep in his chest. He wanted to tell her that the fluttering, torturous ache wasn’t merely the result of a game or a role—they were the pangs of real emotion, something raw and uncontrollable. But the truth remained locked behind the steel of his composure, hidden beneath a veneer of indifference he had honed through years of self-control.

Horikita, of course, seemed entirely oblivious to the storm she stirred within him. She moved with her typical poise, her expression unreadable, her interactions always perfectly measured. Yet there were moments—subtle, almost imperceptible—where her hand lingered just a fraction longer than necessary, where her gaze held his for a heartbeat too long. The faintest softening of her tone, the slightest curve of her lips when she smiled, suggested that even in her calculated performances, a spark of something real might exist.

Despite knowing it was part of the act, Ayanokouji couldn’t help the flicker of longing that rose each time their faces drew near. Every practiced kiss, every choreographed moment of closeness, felt simultaneously artificial and unbearably genuine. The contradiction gnawed at him, sharpening the ache that throbbed behind his ribs, making it impossible to fully separate his instincts from the performance.

He forced himself to focus, to maintain the mask of calm detachment, reminding himself that this was the plan—her plan, their shared charade. Every smile, every touch, every whispered word was part of the illusion they presented to the school, the underground network, and even to themselves. He couldn’t allow himself to give in, couldn’t let desire or confusion compromise the precision of her strategy.

And yet, restraint only made the emotions simmer more fiercely. When she laughed at something only he could see as ridiculous, when she leaned against him for a fraction of a second longer than necessary, his chest tightened. The restraint required to maintain his role made every beat of his heart feel magnified, every pulse echoing the truth he could not speak.

He noticed the way her eyes caught the light, the way her hair fell just so over her shoulder when she leaned forward, the subtle tilt of her head when she offered a rare, fleeting smile. Each detail etched itself into his memory with precision, a silent record of everything he both cherished and feared.

Horikita’s voice, calm and composed, guided him through their rehearsals and rehearsed interactions, and yet, each word seemed to leave a trace, a residue he could not ignore. Even when she criticized his gestures, teased his expressions, or scolded him for appearing “too stiff,” the closeness—deliberate, teasing, controlled—stoked the fire in him.

He couldn’t act. Not yet. Not without risking everything they had meticulously arranged, the delicate balance of the underground society, the public façade, and her carefully constructed reputation. So he remained composed, smiling when necessary, touching when necessary, reacting when necessary—all while suppressing the storm inside him.

And still, every stolen moment, every brief touch, every teasing word left its mark. The ache in his chest was no longer just anticipation or frustration—it was something deeper, something growing and undeniable. It was a pulse that refused to be silenced by reason or strategy.

By the time they returned to the office after the second day, their hands brushed once more, and he felt the familiar twist in his chest. Horikita didn’t look at him, didn’t acknowledge it, yet the air between them carried an unspoken charge that neither of them could entirely dismiss.

Ayanokouji kept his calm mask firmly in place, as always, but inwardly, he knew the truth: pretending was no longer enough. The ache, the longing, the quiet, insistent awareness of her presence—it was all growing, threading through him like fire. And no matter how carefully he played the role, no matter how composed he appeared, the storm inside him continued to swell.

Through it all, Horikita remained entirely herself—calculated, commanding, and flawless. But for Ayanokouji, every perfect façade she presented was now a challenge, a test not of strategy, but of his own capacity to control the wild, unspoken feelings that refused to be contained.

New Year’s Eve came like a shadow, quietly encroaching over the school as if the world itself were holding its breath. The corridors were unusually calm in the morning; some students had opted to sleep in, letting the soft light of dawn spill across empty hallways, while others stocked up on energy drinks and snacks, preparing for the late-night celebrations they had been scheming for weeks. The air was tense, charged with anticipation, yet under the surface, there was the usual hum of excitement that only a night like this could produce.

The third years had already departed, slipping into the “real world” beyond the school gates, leaving the underclassmen to carry on with their own schemes and festivities. The absence of the upperclassmen added a strange weight to the day, a sense of freedom tempered by the awareness that someone would inevitably take advantage of the gaps left behind.

Horikita moved through the school like a shadow herself, her presence sharp and unmissable. She spent almost every moment at Hirata’s side, double-checking logistics, confirming arrangements, and ironing out details with surgical precision. Her posture was immaculate, her movements fluid, and yet there was a subtle warmth in her expression when interacting with those around her, the same perfected mask that had allowed her to climb so steadily toward power.

Her smile, effortless and composed, was her signature—an image she projected outward to reassure, charm, and sometimes disarm. Anyone watching would have thought her entirely serene, perfectly in control of both the event and the school itself. And, as always, she was.

Ayanokouji observed her quietly from a short distance, noting the way she commanded attention even in the midst of last-minute chaos. She checked off lists with one hand while gesturing directions with the other, her eyes scanning every detail, catching mistakes before they could even manifest. Each interaction she had, whether with Hirata or the other students, carried the faintest touch of her calculated warmth, the kind that made people trust her instinctively, to follow her lead without question.

For her, this night wasn’t merely about celebration. It was about positioning. Every arrangement, every whispered instruction, every smile given in public or private, served a dual purpose. The party was a stage, a perfect cover for her larger strategy, and she moved through it like a conductor orchestrating a complex symphony.

The students bustling around her barely registered the subtle tension beneath her outward composure. They laughed, chatted, and hurried about their tasks, oblivious to the precise calculations that governed her every movement. Even Hirata, who had grown accustomed to her exacting standards, was occasionally caught in her careful scrutiny, his own actions double-checked with a polite nod or a faintly raised brow.

Ayanokouji’s presence, however, was different. He didn’t need her scrutiny; he had long since learned to observe without interfering. He noted the subtle ways she leaned in to clarify instructions, the brief pauses where she would glance at him as though confirming a silent understanding. There was an unspoken choreography between them, a delicate balance maintained with nothing more than small gestures and shared awareness.

As the hours crept closer to evening, the school began to hum with life. Students decorated common areas with banners, glitter, and lights, the atmosphere growing increasingly festive. Yet through it all, Horikita remained a calm epicenter, her smile unwavering, her commands precise. Every arrangement she made was double-checked, every detail accounted for—she left nothing to chance.

Even the food and drink stations, set up in the gymnasium and student lounge, were inspected personally by her, down to the exact placement of bottles and plates. She tested the flow of foot traffic, ensured emergency exits were clear, and even coordinated small distractions for any students who might try to bypass the designated areas. Every act was deliberate, every choice serving the dual purpose of maintaining order and reinforcing her position.

Ayanokouji watched as she leaned slightly over Hirata’s shoulder, discussing the final checks on a list of names and locations. Her smile never wavered, her voice calm, but there was an intensity in her eyes that spoke of strategy, of anticipation, and of the inevitable climax she had meticulously planned.

The clock ticked steadily toward nightfall, shadows lengthening across the hallways and corridors. Horikita, with her characteristic poise, continued her rounds, ensuring that everything aligned perfectly. Every handshake, every nod, every smile she gave was another thread in the tapestry of her influence, and every move brought her closer to the moment she had been orchestrating for months.

By the time the first students began trickling into the gymnasium for the night’s festivities, Horikita and Hirata were already finished with their rounds, pausing only to share a quick confirmation of final details. She turned, her eyes briefly meeting Ayanokouji’s across the space, the faintest flicker of something unspoken passing between them.

Her smile remained flawless, warm and inviting to anyone who might be watching, yet to him, it carried a different weight—one of precision, intent, and an unmistakable reminder that everything tonight was part of a larger design. And Ayanokouji, as always, stood ready to follow, silently noting each move while masking the ache that grew heavier in his chest with every glance, every step, every perfect smile she offered to the world.

The party kicked off around ten, the school gym and common areas already buzzing with energy and anticipation. By eleven, it had reached full swing. Music pulsed through the speakers, laughter and shouting mingling with the clatter of cups and bottles as students threw themselves into the chaos with reckless abandon. Beer pong tables were crowded, people swarmed around them, cheering as cups were sunk with both precision and lucky guesses, while other ridiculous drinking games drew equally enthusiastic crowds, each one more absurd than the last.

Ike, true to form, had turned his section into a spectacle of his own making. He held a bottle high above his head, tilting it with exaggerated flair as he tried to pour as much as possible into his mouth without spilling, his friends cheering him on and egging him to go higher and higher. Each failed attempt was met with boisterous laughter, and each near-success only escalated the excitement, creating a frenzy around his little challenge.

Groups of students wandered through the party, drinks in hand, shouting ridiculous toasts over the music. Some were playful, some deliberately over-the-top, but all carried the same chaotic energy that made the night feel alive and unrestrained. Chairs were pushed back haphazardly, decorations swayed with the movement of the crowd, and the air smelled faintly of spilled drinks, laughter, and the lingering tang of holiday food from earlier in the day.

Horikita moved through it all with her characteristic composure, slipping past the chaos like a shadow. Her signature smile remained in place, calm and perfect, as she checked on arrangements and subtly observed her classmates’ behavior. She didn’t need to participate; her presence alone was enough to anchor the scene, a silent reminder that even in revelry, control was never entirely absent.

Ayanokouji followed at a measured distance, letting her navigate through the crowded space while keeping an eye on the various groups. He noted every interaction, every gathering of students, every burst of chaos that might interfere with the balance Horikita had so carefully maintained. Despite the noise and the laughter, the two of them moved like calm islands in a storm, their synchrony quiet yet precise.

Some students had begun forming impromptu competitions beyond the planned games. Cups were stacked high, contests of balance and speed spontaneously erupting as people shouted challenges at one another. The energy was contagious, pushing even the most reserved students into participation, their inhibitions washed away by music, alcohol, and the thrill of the night.

Through it all, Ike’s antics drew continuous attention. Each pour from higher and higher points became a spectacle, the crowd’s cheering swelling into a near-roar every time he managed to down a large portion without spilling. Some of the more daring students attempted to mimic him, but most ended up drenched in liquid, the chaos only amplifying the laughter around him.

The floor vibrated slightly with the collective stomping and movement of dozens of students, cups clanging against tables, bottles rattling, and laughter echoing off the walls. In corners, smaller groups engaged in whispered conversations, some strategizing for the New Year’s countdown, others plotting pranks or minor mischief.

Ayanokouji kept track of the smaller disturbances quietly, noting patterns and ensuring nothing escalated in a way that could jeopardize the night’s overall flow. Horikita, moving beside him, seemed equally aware. Her calm demeanor contrasted sharply with the whirlwind of activity around them, a subtle but unmistakable assertion of her control.

By midnight, the party had become a living, breathing organism of its own, chaotic yet somehow contained under the watchful eyes of a few calculating students. The laughter, shouting, and music blended into a single overwhelming current of energy that carried everyone toward the climactic moment Horikita had been orchestrating all along.

Despite the chaos, Horikita remained untouchable, her movements deliberate and precise, her smile never faltering. Ayanokouji matched her stride, silent and attentive, both of them observing while the rest of the school lost itself to revelry.

The beer pong games continued without pause, the ridiculous toasts grew louder, and Ike, still atop his self-made stage, poured drink after drink into his mouth, the crowd roaring with each near-miraculous attempt. It was absurd, chaotic, and brilliantly alive—a perfect backdrop for what Horikita had been carefully planning.

In the midst of it all, Ayanokouji could feel the tension building, the anticipation of midnight threading through the revelry. Every cheer, every laugh, every clatter of cups only sharpened the contrast between the wild chaos around them and the meticulous control Horikita maintained over her domain.

The night carried on, unstoppable and frenzied, a blur of movement and noise, while Horikita and Ayanokouji remained the quiet axis at its center, watching, calculating, and preparing for the moment when all the orchestrated chaos would align with her carefully laid plans.

Hashimoto twirled Sakayanagi effortlessly, keeping her close as they spun across the gym floor. When he dipped her for a kiss, it was soft and measured, almost tender in contrast to the raucous energy around them. At one point, he tried balancing her cane on his head, the ridiculous challenge lasting only a few seconds before both of them collapsed into laughter, her giggles ringing out over the music. They held each other close again, wrapped in their own little world even as the chaos of the party swirled around them.

Nearby, Ryuen and Ibuki hovered close to one another, their faces mere inches apart. Fleeting kisses and whispered words passed between them, small but frequent, punctuating their constant proximity. It was clear they didn’t need the countdown to mark the beginning of anything—they had always been like that, drawn to one another effortlessly, a private current running beneath the public spectacle.

Meanwhile, Yamauichi had claimed the floor as his stage, lying flat with a grin that stretched across his face. Ike, perched on Sudo’s shoulders, held a bottle of beer aloft, tilting it carefully to pour a stream into Yamauichi’s open mouth. The audience erupted in laughter, cheering the absurd spectacle as the liquid spilled and dribbled down, creating a chaotic mess. Yamauichi choked and sputtered in the process, laughter escaping him uncontrollably, which only amplified the amusement of everyone around.

The scene was a whirlwind of energy: students shouting, slapping high-fives, and hooting at each new spill or failed attempt at some ridiculous stunt. Cups clattered, music thumped, and the smell of spilled beer mixed with the faint aroma of snacks left over from earlier festivities. Even in the frenzy, the small pockets of intimacy—Hashimoto and Sakayanagi, Ryuen and Ibuki—stood out, moments of connection quietly grounding the night’s chaos.

Sakayanagi leaned into Hashimoto’s chest as they spun, her laughter spilling freely, her cane bouncing off the floor for a beat before he caught it again. He laughed with her, his arms tightening around her in a way that spoke more of affection than performance. The absurdity of balancing the cane on his head had passed, but the warmth of the moment lingered, a small island of calm in the storm of celebration.

Ryuen brushed a strand of hair from Ibuki’s face as they exchanged another quick kiss, his grin mischievous, hers soft but just as teasing. They were perfectly synchronized in their silent rhythm, entirely oblivious to anyone else’s attention. The world around them could be loud, chaotic, or ridiculous—they simply existed in the space they created together, and the noise of the party could not reach them.

Yamauichi, still lying on the floor, caught a particularly large gulp of beer from Ike, who teetered precariously on Sudo’s shoulders. The choke that followed set off another round of laughter from the crowd, some students doubling over, others slapping the tables in delight. Yamauichi sputtered again, gasping between laughs, while Ike grinned from above, triumphant and equally ridiculous.

The party’s energy was contagious. Every attempt at absurdity seemed to spark a chain reaction—someone spilling a drink, someone else attempting an even more outlandish feat, and the crowd responding with escalating enthusiasm. Cheers, laughter, and clinking glasses blended with the music, creating a constant pulse that defined the night.

Through it all, Hashimoto spun Sakayanagi again, her laughter mixing with his, light and airy above the hum of the chaos. Their closeness was magnetic, a tether in a sea of motion, while Ryuen and Ibuki mirrored the same energy, their intimacy a soft counterpoint to the overwhelming hilarity elsewhere.

Ike’s next pour sent another spray of beer splashing across Yamauichi’s chest, drawing a howl of laughter that had half the room rolling on the floor. Yamauichi coughed and sputtered mid-laugh, his shoulders shaking as he tried to catch the liquid, failing spectacularly each time. Even the most rowdy students paused briefly to witness the spectacle before diving back into their own antics.

The room was a kaleidoscope of movement: students stumbling into one another, bottles tipping, beer sloshing over the edges of cups, and laughter bouncing off every wall. Yet within it, every little pair of interactions—every spin, every kiss, every playful gesture—was a testament to the bonds that held the chaotic scene together.

Sakayanagi’s hand tightened slightly on Hashimoto’s arm as he lowered her from another spin, their eyes meeting for just a moment before they were drawn back into the tide of party madness. Each laugh, each accidental stumble, each cheer from the crowd heightened the absurdity, yet the closeness between them remained, a quiet undercurrent amid the storm of noise.

Ibuki’s fingers brushed Ryuen’s as he leaned down for another brief kiss, their synchronization perfect, effortless, the familiarity between them palpable. Even as the music throbbed and the chaos swirled, these little bursts of intimacy created a rhythm entirely their own, a soft counterpoint to the night’s raucous energy.

And in the center of it all, Yamauichi gasped for breath again, Ike balancing on Sudo’s shoulders with a triumphant grin, the crowd’s laughter reaching a fever pitch. The absurdity of it was matched only by the energy radiating from every corner of the room, a perfect storm of chaos and delight that would carry them all into the final countdown of the year.

By the time the midnight countdown began, the gymnasium was a chaotic blur of energy, lights, and movement, but somehow the crowd had merged into a single pulse, unified by the anticipation of the new year. Ayanokouji had already lost Horikita in the sea of students countless times in the hours leading up to midnight, her figure disappearing and reappearing among groups, laughter, and dancing. He moved fluidly through the crowd, scanning, calculating, his patience tested by the sheer density of the celebration.

The countdown began, the collective voice of the students building as they recited each number in perfect unison. “5… 4… 3… 2… 1…!” And then, almost explosively, “Happy New Year!” The gym shook with cheering, laughter, and the clattering of cups, confetti fluttering down from above as if the world itself had erupted in celebration.

Couples leaned into tradition, pressing their lips together in fleeting kisses, while the crowd around them roared in approval, some erupting into laughter at the awkwardness of first-timers. The atmosphere was intoxicating, chaotic, and almost dizzying in its intensity. Ayanokouji’s hands moved on instinct, sliding to Horikita’s waist even before he had fully spotted her, and in perfect timing, her hands rose to cup his face, guiding him toward her with subtle precision.

Their lips met in a kiss that was deeper than a simple celebratory peck, one that drew them momentarily away from the crowd yet was executed with perfect awareness of the audience. It was deliberate, orchestrated, yet carried the illusion of spontaneity—the kind of control Horikita wielded effortlessly. Around them, the revelry continued, yet no one initially seemed to notice; her mastery of perception and timing ensured she commanded the moment without losing the crowd’s focus.

Horikita’s eyes, just barely visible above his shoulder, flicked toward the edges of the crowd, assessing, anticipating. She had accounted for Sudo, who had indulged in far too many drinks and had the kind of personality that couldn’t remain silent under such circumstances. Her lips curved into the faintest, almost imperceptible smile. She knew exactly when and how he would react—and how the reaction would amplify the spectacle for everyone around.

Sure enough, Sudo’s attention snapped toward them, eyes widening as he realized what was happening. Horikita had anticipated it perfectly: his sudden awareness would be loud, uncontrollable, and boisterous. Within seconds, his exclamations, amplified by his drunk exuberance, ricocheted off the walls, catching the attention of nearby groups and quickly spreading through the crowd like wildfire.

“Yo! Did you see that!? They’re—!” Sudo’s voice cut across the gym, interrupted by his own laughter as he stumbled back slightly, spilling some of his drink. The crowd’s attention shifted instantly, the chaos of revelry redirected toward Ayanokouji and Horikita, exactly as she had predicted.

Yet the pair remained perfectly composed, their kiss unbroken despite the sudden focus of dozens of eyes. Her hands remained firm yet delicate on his face, his on her waist, each gesture exuding the kind of intimacy that drew attention even without words. The contrast between their calm precision and the surrounding uproar only heightened the impact, making the moment feel monumental in the middle of the disorder.

The crowd’s reaction escalated almost immediately. Cheers, whistles, and the loud murmur of approval swept through the gym, interspersed with more spontaneous kisses as other couples mirrored the tradition. Horikita’s anticipatory glance confirmed her strategy was flawless; even Sudo, whose voice had now become part of the celebration, only served to magnify the effect she wanted.

Ayanokouji’s mind remained as calm as ever, cataloging reactions, movements, and the positions of key individuals. He felt the familiar pull in his chest, the ache and warmth that Horikita’s proximity always provoked, yet he allowed himself to lean into the performance she had designed, following her lead perfectly.

Horikita’s posture was immaculate, her smile calm and flawless despite the sudden shift in attention. Her eyes flicked briefly toward Sudo again, a silent acknowledgment that the disruption was not only expected but welcomed. The chaos of the party became a stage, and she had engineered every second of it with precision.

Nearby students were now whispering, pointing, and laughing, their collective energy swirling into a single wave that seemed to sweep through the entire room. The effect was exactly what Horikita wanted: admiration, surprise, and a subtle hint of envy all rolled into one, with Ayanokouji positioned perfectly at her side, the perfect partner in the illusion.

Even as Sudo’s voice continued to broadcast the moment to anyone not already looking, Horikita’s calm control never faltered. She had orchestrated the chaos, anticipated the variables, and now watched the culmination of her careful planning unfold with exacting satisfaction.

Ayanokouji’s lips met hers again briefly as the crowd’s attention swelled, a final, deliberate touch that sealed the performance. Around them, laughter and cheers merged into a single, overwhelming chorus, the perfect backdrop for a display that was both intimate and entirely public, perfectly in line with Horikita’s meticulous design.

As the seconds stretched into the initial minutes of the new year, the kiss ended, but the tension lingered. Their eyes met for just a heartbeat, a shared acknowledgment of both the charade and the deeper connection that simmered beneath it. Horikita’s smile remained flawless, her composure unbroken, and for Ayanokouji, the ache in his chest only grew, intensified by the knowledge that every detail of this moment had been engineered, every reaction anticipated, and every possibility accounted for.

As the crowd of second years—now freshly promoted to third years—turned their attention fully toward them, the teasing began in earnest. Laughter rippled through the throng, voices rising in playful accusation. “About time!” someone shouted, while another called out, “I knew it!” A flurry of half-joking demands for explanations followed, along with the inevitable chorus of “I told you so’s” echoing across the gym.

Horikita didn’t flinch. Instead, she leaned into the performance with meticulous precision. Her shoulders lifted slightly, a faint flush spreading across her cheeks, the most delicate hint of embarrassment. Her lips curved into a near-imperceptible smile, the kind that suggested both delight and chagrin, a carefully balanced illusion of vulnerability.

In a single, fluid motion, she nuzzled into Ayanokouji’s neck, her hands lightly resting on his shoulders, as if seeking comfort while simultaneously anchoring herself in the intimacy that the crowd now scrutinized. The act was subtle, elegant, and entirely convincing—an impeccable portrayal of a classmate caught off-guard by attention she couldn’t deny.

Ayanokouji responded with the same composed precision, letting her lean against him without hesitation, his hands remaining steady on her waist. The gesture was protective, natural enough to appear spontaneous, yet calculated to reinforce the narrative she had crafted: two students caught in the throes of a newly publicized relationship.

The crowd’s teasing only escalated, voices overlapping as students leaned in closer, nudging one another for a better view, laughing louder at every minute gesture. “Don’t hide behind him!” someone called, while another shouted, “Show us some proof!” Horikita’s performance intensified with each remark, her blush deepening just enough to suggest genuine embarrassment without ever straying from the controlled grace she maintained.

Every movement she made was choreographed to perfection. Her hair fell over her cheeks in just the right way to enhance the illusion of shyness, her body angled slightly toward Ayanokouji as though seeking support, and yet her posture remained elegant, her composure unbroken beneath the surface. Every eye on her believed the story she was telling without a second thought.

Ayanokouji felt the familiar pull in his chest—the subtle ache that always surfaced whenever she drew close—but he concealed it behind his usual mask of calm detachment. Even as the crowd pressed around them, shouting, teasing, and laughing, he remained a steady anchor, the perfect complement to her flawless act.

Horikita’s hands shifted slightly, brushing lightly against his sides, the motion natural and unforced. She pressed her cheek to his neck, letting out a faint, almost inaudible sigh of mock embarrassment, just enough for the onlookers to interpret it as shyness or bashfulness. Her eyes, partially hidden by her lashes, glimmered with a quiet amusement that only Ayanokouji could detect.

The students leaned in closer, some daring to tease with half-formed questions, others murmuring quietly among themselves. “I can’t believe they finally did it,” one whispered, while another muttered, “I told you, Horikita would make him hers eventually.” The chorus of voices grew louder, yet Horikita’s reaction never faltered, each blush, each subtle movement reinforcing her narrative as the embarrassed, overwhelmed classmate.

Even the most skeptical students were drawn in, unable to separate the authentic from the performance. Every flicker of her eyes, every delicate gesture of touch or shift in stance, reinforced the illusion. To anyone watching, it was impossible to imagine that a single detail was orchestrated.

Ayanokouji’s face remained stoic, almost impassive, yet he subtly guided the moment with his presence alone. The tilt of his head, the steady placement of his hands, the measured tension in his posture—all of it reinforced the illusion, making the couple appear inseparable yet naturally intimate, the perfect image of high school romance exposed to the world.

Horikita’s lips twitched into a small, almost secretive smile as she nuzzled further, the kind of smile that suggested she was both humored and triumphant. She had controlled every possible reaction, predicted every tease, and now watched the crowd respond exactly as she intended.

The teasing and laughter continued, but it was tempered by the undeniable presence of the couple. Horikita had achieved the perfect balance: playful embarrassment without vulnerability, intimacy without loss of control, a masterclass in performance.

For Ayanokouji, the moment was both infuriating and captivating. He felt the pull of real emotion behind her act, the faint traces of warmth that slipped through the perfect façade, yet he remained composed, participating fully in the illusion while observing every ripple in the crowd.

And as the laughter and teasing rolled around them, Horikita’s performance never faltered. She had become the very embodiment of the embarrassed classmate, perfectly positioned at Ayanokouji’s side, her every gesture a deliberate dance that captivated the students around them while concealing every secret of the power she truly wielded.

“Why didn’t you say anything!” a voice shouted over the pounding music, laughter lacing the words as the speaker stumbled slightly in excitement. The question ricocheted through the crowd, met with a chorus of chuckles and teasing murmurs from the students gathered around.

“I told you, 50 points, pay up!” someone else yelled, waving a hand dramatically, the declaration punctuated by a laugh that carried across the gym. The chaos of noise and movement didn’t disrupt Horikita at all—she was already moving seamlessly through the verbal barrage, her composure unshaken, her laugh slipping naturally into the tone of the room.

As she allowed herself to be drawn into the questions, her performance became flawless. She leaned in slightly toward the students, shoulders relaxed, smiling with just the right mix of embarrassment and charm. Her words flowed effortlessly, a story emerging as if it had always existed: they had wanted to be absolutely sure before making any public announcement. Her voice, light and warm, lent credibility to every syllable, drawing the audience in as if they were privy to the intimate truth.

“And, well,” she added, her tone shifting subtly to one of playful confession, “Kiyotaka couldn’t wait until we were alone for a New Year’s kiss. So… here we are.” Her eyes sparkled with amusement, but there was no overacting, no misstep. Every laugh she allowed herself, every gesture she made, reinforced the image of a classmate caught in a perfectly natural moment of flustered affection.

Ayanokouji, meanwhile, didn’t flinch. For once, he didn’t find the spotlight uncomfortable, didn’t mind the teasing or the sudden attention. “You didn’t ask,” he said simply when someone questioned why he hadn’t mentioned it sooner, shrugging with his signature casual precision. His calm demeanor acted as the perfect foil to Horikita’s playful embarrassment, cementing the story in the minds of everyone watching.

The crowd erupted again, laughter and chatter mixing with the thrum of music as students leaned in to whisper and speculate. Horikita responded with a soft laugh, eyes glinting faintly with amusement at the predictable reactions. Every explanation, every excuse, flowed just as she had planned, a performance honed to perfection over months of practice and calculation.

Some students nudged each other, murmuring excitedly, trying to parse how much was real and how much was orchestrated. Their curiosity, their teasing, fed perfectly into Horikita’s narrative, each reaction reinforcing the illusion of spontaneity and affection.

Ayanokouji remained still, letting the ebb and flow of attention revolve around them. His quiet acceptance, the casual shrug, and the understated words of acknowledgment made him appear entirely sincere, even as the scene around them teetered on the edge of chaos. It was a perfect complement to Horikita’s meticulous performance, the pair appearing as one seamless unit.

Horikita’s laugh rippled through the questions like liquid silk, smooth and controlled, and yet it carried the warmth of someone genuinely enjoying the moment. She tilted her head toward Ayanokouji, letting herself nuzzle slightly against his neck again, reinforcing the intimacy without needing to speak, a silent confirmation of the story she had woven so carefully.

Questions continued, ranging from the trivial—“How long have you been together?”—to the slightly incredulous—“Why didn’t you say anything earlier?” Each one was met with a response that seemed natural, effortless, and completely in character. Horikita never broke rhythm; Ayanokouji never flinched. The performance was airtight.

Even as some voices became louder, some students teasing with mock indignation or playful frustration, the pair remained the center of the room’s attention without ever appearing threatened or flustered. Horikita’s composure acted like a magnet, drawing the curiosity and laughter into the narrative she wanted, while Ayanokouji’s quiet presence provided balance.

At one point, someone shouted something about him being a “lucky man,” and the crowd roared in agreement. Ayanokouji didn’t blush, didn’t protest; he simply gave a small, measured nod. For once, he didn’t care about the perception or the teasing. The weight of the crowd’s gaze, the jabs and jokes—they didn’t matter. Not tonight.

Horikita watched him for a split second, noting the subtle calm in his expression, the faint gleam of amusement in his eyes. Her smile widened imperceptibly, a quiet acknowledgment that the performance was not only going as planned but that, for once, her partner in the act was fully aligned with her rhythm.

The gymnasium remained a blur of movement, cheers, and laughter, yet in the midst of it, the two of them stood perfectly composed. Horikita’s blush, her nuzzle, the seamless flow of her explanations—all reinforced the illusion of a perfectly embarrassed classmate, while Ayanokouji’s calm acceptance amplified it.

The moment was flawless, chaotic, and yet completely controlled. Every laugh, every question, every teasing shout played exactly into the scenario Horikita had designed. And Ayanokouji, for the first time in a long while, simply let it be, allowing himself to exist in the eye of the storm, the pull in his chest swelling as the night roared on around them.

By the time the sun began to peek over the horizon, the remnants of the night’s chaos had settled into a hazy, exhausted calm. The gym, once a riot of music, laughter, and shouted toasts, was now a quiet battlefield of discarded cups, toppled chairs, and confetti scattered across the floor. Half the room was littered with students passed out in improbable positions, curled against tables, draped over benches, or sprawled on the floor, their energy entirely spent after the relentless partying. Some had made it to their dorms before completely collapsing, but the majority remained, too drunk to navigate even a few steps without support.

Ryuen had found a comfortable patch on the gym floor, lying on his back with Ibuki draped across his chest. Her head rested against his shoulder, his arm loosely curled around her, a silent testament to their closeness amid the disarray. Even in his half-conscious stupor, Ryuen’s presence exuded a protective aura, a subtle warmth that kept Ibuki anchored despite the chaos surrounding them. Every so often, he muttered incoherently, causing Ibuki to chuckle softly, a rare and tender sound that contrasted sharply with the night’s earlier madness.

Hashimoto had claimed the stage as his final resting point, one leg dangling lazily over the edge while the other was bent, propped against the platform. Sakayanagi lay beside him, their fingers brushing in delicate, unconscious contact. The simple touch seemed to tether them to each other in a way that transcended the silliness of the night. Occasionally, Hashimoto’s head lolled slightly, and Sakayanagi would adjust her position to stay close, a silent agreement of intimacy that neither had to verbalize.

Ike, Sudo, and Yamauichi had collapsed in a tangled heap somewhere near the center of the gym. Their laughter from earlier still lingered faintly in the air, muffled by the weight of exhaustion and the occasional hiccup or groan. Those who had witnessed the scene would later call it “the bromance of the century,” a chaotic, inimitable display of friendship solidified in alcohol, ridiculous challenges, and unrestrained enthusiasm. The trio looked ridiculous yet unshakably comfortable, a monument to reckless friendship forged over the course of the evening’s absurd challenges and endless drinking games. Every so often, one of them would mutter an inside joke or make a noise of exaggerated distress, eliciting a sleepy laugh from the others that carried just enough energy to animate the scene without breaking the sleepy haze.

Horikita and Ayanokouji had claimed one of the lounge couches, curling into each other as if the world outside had ceased to exist. Ayanokouji’s leg swung lazily on the armrest, a casual motion that belied the tautness of the muscles beneath, and Horikita rested against him, head tucked just below his shoulder. Her hands were lightly draped over his chest, a subtle but deliberate display of closeness that matched the story they had woven for the night. Even in this quiet, post-party exhaustion, the air around them radiated the meticulous control Horikita was known for, tempered with a rare glimpse of intimacy.

The gym itself was a patchwork of chaos and stillness. Tables had been overturned in moments of drunken excitement, their surfaces coated with spilled drinks and sticky residue. Streamers hung in precarious angles, some ripped from their hooks in the night’s frenzied movements. Music, though turned down or replaced by the low hum of the morning, still reverberated faintly from the speakers, a lingering echo of the frenzy that had overtaken the space only hours before.

Scattered groups of students stirred occasionally, muttering to one another or groaning in protest as they tried to orient themselves in the aftermath. Some leaned on friends for support, others dragged themselves toward the exits, and a few remained where they had collapsed, too spent even to care. The collective scene was absurd, ridiculous, and almost beautiful in its disorder—a living snapshot of their year’s recklessness and camaraderie.

Ayanokouji, his usual calm intact despite the lingering adrenaline of the night, subtly adjusted Horikita on the couch,—dragged from somewhere unknown— ensuring her comfort without disrupting their intertwined positions. Her head tilted slightly against him, her breathing steady, and the faint rise and fall of her chest mirrored the rhythm of his own. It was a quiet intimacy, perfectly hidden within the chaos, yet completely genuine in the way only the two of them could experience it together.

Nearby, Ryuen shifted slightly, causing Ibuki to murmur softly in her sleep, a sound that drew a faint, satisfied smile across his face even in his stupor. Hashimoto and Sakayanagi’s hands brushed once more, fingers lingering longer than before, an unspoken connection amidst the remnants of the night. Their small gestures of closeness contrasted sharply with the loud, chaotic antics that had defined the earlier hours, creating a sense of calm within the storm.

Ike, Sudo, and Yamauichi were still murmuring fragments of jokes and laughter, their voices low but unmistakable. Yamauichi’s head lolled to one side, eyes half-closed, while Ike occasionally propped him up with a soft chuckle. Sudo, sprawled at a slight angle, remained the anchor of the trio, steady even in his drunkenness, a paradoxical mix of chaos and control that somehow worked.

Across the gym, the lingering energy of the party manifested in stray confetti, abandoned cups, and the faint aroma of beer mingling with sweat and the remnants of snacks. Despite the mess, despite the exhaustion, the atmosphere was still one of shared experience, a testament to the bonds forged through weeks of competition, strategy, and endless scheming.

Horikita’s fingers twitched ever so slightly against Ayanokouji’s chest, a subtle reminder that even in rest, the meticulous attention to detail that defined her personality remained. Ayanokouji’s hand shifted in response, brushing against hers with a gentle, unspoken acknowledgment. The two were connected, a calm center in a world that had spiraled into unrestrained chaos, perfectly aligned even in repose.

The scene, in its entirety, was a living portrait of the year’s dynamics: laughter, exhaustion, intimacy, chaos, and control intertwined in a way that only they could have orchestrated. Every person, every pair, every group reflected a facet of their year—reckless, strategic, playful, and fiercely connected. And in the center, Horikita and Ayanokouji remained intertwined, both participants and observers, perfectly poised in the aftermath of a night that had been as lawless as it was memorable.

By the time the sun fully crested over the horizon, casting pale light across the gym, the remnants of the party still clung to every corner: sprawled students, lingering laughter, and a palpable sense of triumph and exhaustion. It was a night that would be remembered, a perfect encapsulation of their year’s energy, and in the midst of it all, Horikita and Ayanokouji remained the quiet axis, calm, connected, and unshakable amid the chaos.