The cold kiss of steel was my alarm clock.
Long before the sun had the courage to climb over the rooftops of our cramped suburban neighborhood, I was in the garage, my hands wrapped, my breath pluming in the chilly air. Seventy kilograms. The barbell groaned in protest as I pushed it up from my chest. One. Two. The burn started in my pecs, a familiar, cleansing fire. Three. My arms trembled, not with weakness, but with contained power.
Dad's creed. My inheritance.
"Strength isn't about winning, Rin," he used to say, his voice a low rumble like distant thunder, even years after his last fight. "It's about never having to lose."
I racked the weight with a deafening clang that probably woke the neighbors. Again. They were used to it.
My morning routine was a ritual, a prayer recited in reps and sets. After the bench press came squats, then pull-ups until my lats screamed. A ten-minute shower followed, the water set to a temperature just above freezing. It wasn't for pleasure; it was a discipline. A way to hammer the softness out of my body, to temper the steel.
Breakfast was two skinless chicken breasts and a scoop of unflavored protein powder mixed with water. It tasted like chalk and obligation. As I forced it down, staring at the scarred punching bag hanging in the corner of the kitchen, I had a familiar thought.
Is this how a normal seventeen-year-old girl is supposed to live?
Probably not. But "normal" was a luxury I'd never been able to afford.
The gates of Seiryo High School were a daily trial.
As I walked through them, my bookbag slung over one shoulder, the same thing always happened. The noisy, chaotic river of students would part down the middle, creating a wide, silent path just for me. It wasn't a sprint; it was a slow, inexorable parting of the human sea.
Whispers followed in my wake, skittering like mice.
"It's Kanzaki…"
"The Iron Queen of 2-A."
"I heard she broke a third-year's arm with one punch last year."
That last one was an exaggeration. It was two punches. And he'd deserved it.
The nicknames were always changing, always dramatic. "Kanzaki the Crusher." "The Unbreakable Wall." My personal favorite, for its sheer lack of creativity, was simply "That Scary Girl."
I kept my eyes fixed forward, my expression a carefully constructed mask of indifference. I wasn't proud of the reputation. I wasn't ashamed of it, either. Mostly, I was just tired. It was like wearing a suit of armor that was three sizes too big. Clunky, heavy, and impossible to take off.
I slid the door to Class 2-A open with a quiet rattle. The morning chatter died for a split second before resuming at a slightly lower volume. A few heads turned my way, then quickly snapped back. Business as usual.
My seat was in the back, third from the window. It offered a good vantage point of the entire class and an easy escape route to the world outside, where clouds drifted by without a care. I dropped my bag and sank into my chair, letting out a breath I didn't realize I'd been holding.
The armor was a little lighter, here.
My gaze drifted across the room, cataloging the familiar faces. The gossiping girls in the front row, the gamers huddled in the back corner, the overachievers already reviewing their notes. And then, my eyes landed on him.
By the window, in the seat closest to the glass, was Yuuto Amamiya.
He was like a watercolor painting in a room full of sharp, digital photos. Pale, with fine, dark hair that fell over his eyes as he read. He was thin in a way that suggested he forgot meals rather than skipped them. He wasn't part of any clique. He just… existed. Quietly.
He was currently absorbed in a paperback book, its cover faded and its edges softened with wear. He held it with a delicate sort of reverence, his long fingers tracing the lines of text.
As if feeling my stare, he looked up.
Our eyes met for no more than a second. His were a dark, unreadable shade, but in that briefest of moments, I saw something in them. Not fear, or awe, or any of the usual reactions I got. It was… curiosity?
A strange, unfamiliar flutter sparked in my chest. A quick, sharp pang, like a muscle twitching in a place I didn't know I had a muscle.
I broke eye contact first, turning my head sharply toward the window. My heart was hammering against my ribs, a frantic, disorderly rhythm completely unlike the steady beat of a workout.
What was that?
Annoyed at my own reaction, I dismissed it. Just a fluke. A misfire in the machine. I was the Iron Queen. My heart was made of forged steel, not flimsy, fluttering paper. It didn't do… that.
The day droned on. Modern Japanese history. The Tokugawa shogunate. Dates and names swirled around my head, refusing to stick. My mind was elsewhere.
Strength is everything.
Dad's words had been my gospel. Strength protected you. Strength earned you respect. Strength meant you would never be a victim. I'd built my entire life on that foundation, piling on weights and discipline like bricks in a fortress wall.
The fortress was tall and imposing. Everyone could see it. No one dared to approach.
And I was the only one living inside.
I glanced over at the window seat again. Amamiya was still reading, occasionally jotting a note in a small, worn-out notebook. He seemed to exist in his own self-contained world, a world of paper and ink. It wasn't a fortress; it was more like a quiet garden.
I can deadlift one hundred and forty kilograms. I can run ten kilometers without breaking a sweat. I can shatter a cinder block with a palm heel strike.
A bitter, silent laugh echoed in my head.
I can break a punching bag. But can I even hold a conversation?
The thought struck me with the force of a physical blow. What did people see when they looked at Rin Kanzaki? A body built for combat. A face set in a permanent scowl. An aura that screamed stay away. They saw the Iron Queen, ruling over an empty kingdom of one.
They didn't see the girl who sometimes wished her breakfast tasted like strawberries instead of chalk. The girl who wondered what it felt like to laugh with friends until your stomach hurt.
The girl who, for one stupid second, felt her heart skip a beat just from a stranger's gaze.
The final bell chimed, a shrill, merciful sound that released us from our educational prison. Students exploded into motion, scraping chairs, shouting plans for the afternoon. I packed my bag with my usual deliberate slowness, letting the flood of bodies pass me by. My path was always clear, after all.
I was heading toward the gym—not for club activities, but for my own training—when a sound cut through the hallway noise.
It was a cough. A small, dry, nervous sound.
I stopped. My route took me past the back entrance to the gym, a secluded spot often used for clandestine meetings and confessions. Leaning against the wall were three guys I vaguely recognized. Upperclassmen, delinquents by the look of their sloppy uniforms and lazy, predatory smiles.
They had someone cornered.
It was him. Yuuto Amamiya.
He wasn't fighting or struggling. He just stood there, his worn book clutched to his chest like a shield, looking pale and hopelessly out of his depth. One of the delinquents shoved him lightly against the wall.
"Come on, Amamiya," the leader sneered, his voice oily. "We just wanna borrow some cash. Your parents are loaded, right?"
Amamiya didn't answer. He just coughed again.
Something inside me snapped. It wasn't logic. It wasn't a calculated decision. It was a raw, primal instinct, the same one that made me lift the weights and run the miles. It was the instinct to protect.
I changed my course. Each step was measured, silent on the concrete floor. My shadow fell over the group long before they noticed I was there.
The leader finally looked up, his smirk faltering as he took in the sight of me. His cronies froze. The air grew thick and heavy.
I didn't raise my voice. I didn't have to.
"Hey."
My voice was low, flat, and carried the chill of the morning's steel.
"You've got exactly three seconds to back off before I break something you'll miss."