The first day at Kosei High started with chatter echoing down the hallway and a bunch of freshmen pretending they weren't terrified. Yuto Kimura walked through the entrance gate like someone reenacting a protagonist entrance scene from memory. Tall, handsome, never noticed because his hair looked like it hadn't been brushed since the Meiji era. That mop blocked half his forehead and most of his appeal, but he didn't care. Messy hair looked "cooler." Or so he believed.
Class 1-B was on the third floor. Yuto stepped inside, scanned the room once, and immediately walked to the second-to-last bench by the window. Perfect loner spot. The light angle was good. People wouldn't sit beside him unless they were desperate. It was ideal.
He placed his bag down, sat, folded his hands, and stared outside as if contemplating life, when actually he was thinking:
"Good. Now no one will attempt small talk. Just like a true observer."
Then someone behind him said, "Did you watch the match last night? Kimmich was wild."
The name alone sent Yuto's soul flying. He physically twitched. His eyes widened. His brain screamed at him to turn around and join the conversation. His heart begged him to share his analysis of the midfield press.
His mouth opened—
—and his inner voice grabbed him by the neck.
"No. Stop. If you talk suddenly, you will seem like an extrovert. You're supposed to be an aloof, unreadable strategist lurking in the shadows. Maintain your persona, idiot."
So he didn't turn around.
Didn't join.
Didn't say a word.
He sat there gripping the edge of the window frame like he was resisting an exorcism.
The conversation continued behind him, every word stabbing him right in the heart. He wanted to debate tactics, defend Kimmich's honor, explain why fullbacks matter, everything. But he stayed silent. Because he was committed. Too committed.
He had been playing this role for months now. Barely speaking unless someone directly addressed him. Never initiating conversation. Carefully choosing the seat where he could retreat into himself. Long-term consequences? He was now genuinely a loner. Not a manipulator. Not a mastermind. Just a quiet kid pretending he meant to be quiet.
A teacher entered the room a little later, calling out everyone's names. Yuto answered with a polite "Hai," nothing more. No greeting. No comment. Nothing extra. Always minimal.
The teacher scanned the class. "Alright. Now, someone left their orientation form unsigned. Who's missing it?" She held up a sheet.
A real manipulator at this moment would lie without blinking. Pretend they signed it. Deflect. Confuse. Distract.
Yuto raised his hand with no hesitation.
"That's mine, sensei. I forgot."
The class stared.
The teacher blinked.
"Well then… take it. Don't forget again."
He bowed. "Yes, sensei. I'm sorry."
The girl in front whispered, "Why did he admit that so fast?"
Her friend whispered back, "Maybe he's really honest?"
"Or he's terrible at lying."
Both were correct.
By lunch break, Yuto had already been spoken to by five people. They found him polite, easy to talk to, easy to ask for help with tiny things. He answered all of them gently. He just never asked anything back. Didn't continue the conversations. Didn't turn them into friendships.
So the pattern was set:
Everyone liked him.
No one truly knew him.
He drifted through the room like a friendly ghost.
After classes, the school held tryouts for the soccer team. Yuto tied his shoelaces under a tree, eyes glowing with excitement he'd rather die than show on his face. Becoming a pro player was one of the few things he truly wanted. He had trained for years. He wasn't missing tryouts. Not even if a meteor landed on the field.
When he arrived at the pitch, the seniors were already there, stretching and looking bored. Yuto bowed to each of them individually with annoying politeness.
"Please take care of me!"
"Thanks for this opportunity!"
One senior muttered, "Why's he so formal…"
Another said, "Maybe he thinks we're old."
Tryouts began. Yuto wasn't flashy. He didn't want to be. But he was good. Silky touches, calm decisions, smooth passes. Nothing loud, but impossible to miss. When a loose ball rolled near him, he intercepted it cleanly, looked up, and pinged a long diagonal straight to the winger's feet.
The seniors stared like they'd been slapped.
"What was that?"
"Was he aiming?"
"He bowed after passing. Is he mocking us?"
Yuto jogged back into position thinking calmly,
"I must not show excitement. Calm. Cold. Stoic. Manipulator vibes."
Meanwhile one of the seniors whispered, "If he apologizes after another good play I swear he's doing it on purpose."
He did. Twice.
By the end of practice, the coach called him over.
"We'd like you to join the team."
Yuto bowed so deeply his forehead almost touched the grass. "I'll do my best!"
The seniors exchanged looks that said, he's absolutely messing with us.
He wasn't.
Walking home that evening, Yuto replayed the day in his mind. The silence. The urge to talk about soccer. The truth he blurted to the teacher. The way the seniors misunderstood his politeness. The long diagonal pass.
He smiled faintly.
"Good. I maintained my persona. I didn't fold."
He had no idea how quickly that quiet, carefully built world of his was going to crack later.
And it all began on this ordinary day.