POV: Sakura Aoyama
The rumor reached her before the bell did.
Sakura heard it in fragments—half-sentences carried on lowered voices, cut short when she passed. She felt it in the way students watched her more openly now, not bothering to hide the calculation in their eyes.
Something was coming.
The classroom was already nearly full when she entered.
Rows of desks. Tall windows. Morning light cutting across polished floors. The seating chart had not changed.
Back row.
Window.
Alone.
She took her seat calmly, setting her bag down with deliberate precision. Her long black hair slid over her shoulder as she leaned forward to pull out her notebook, her posture unhurried, unbothered.
That irritated them.
Miho was already there.
She sat two rows ahead, center-left—prime visibility. Her auburn hair fell in loose waves down her back, glossy and intentional. She looked flawless, as always. Legs crossed neatly, chin lifted slightly, lips curved in a smile that never reached her eyes.
She turned just enough to glance at Sakura.
Their eyes met.
Miho smiled wider.
Sakura didn't look away.
Don't react.
The teacher entered moments later—a woman this time. Late thirties. Sharp suit. Hair tied back tightly. Her expression was professional, tired, and already disengaged.
Attendance began.
The room settled into a familiar, brittle quiet.
Ren was not there.
That was worse.
Sakura noted his absence immediately, the way one noticed a missing weight rather than a missing person. The seat in front of her remained empty, untouched.
Around her, students shifted.
Whispers moved like static.
The lecture began—modern governance, institutional authority, social compliance. Sakura listened just enough to follow, pen moving steadily across the page.
Ten minutes in, the first thing happened.
A soft tap against her desk.
She looked down.
A folded piece of paper lay near the edge of her notebook.
She did not pick it up.
Another tap.
This one came from behind.
She remained still.
A third piece of paper landed, sliding just enough to touch her wrist.
Sakura lifted her gaze.
The teacher was speaking, back turned, words flowing uninterrupted.
Miho turned halfway in her seat.
Not fully.
Just enough.
She raised her eyebrows.
Sakura exhaled quietly and unfolded the nearest note.
'Do you think he'll still look at you when he knows?'
Her fingers tightened around the paper.
She folded it neatly and slid it into her bag.
The second note followed.
People are curious. They want proof.
The third note was heavier.
You don't get to pretend anymore.
Sakura closed her eyes for half a second.
Don't react.
Her pen continued moving across the page.
That was when Miho stood.
"Miss Aoyama?" Miho's voice was soft, polite, perfectly timed. "May I ask a question?"
The teacher paused. "Yes, Miho?"
Miho turned slightly, glancing toward Sakura as if just noticing her. "I'm confused about the example you gave earlier. About authority depending on compliance."
The teacher nodded. "Go on."
Miho smiled. "If someone benefits from authority without earning it—through proximity rather than merit—doesn't that weaken the system?"
A few students stiffened.
Sakura felt the room tilt.
The teacher hesitated. "That depends on the context."
Miho tilted her head innocently. "I was just wondering… doesn't it create resentment when someone receives attention they didn't work for?"
Silence.
The kind that stretches too far.
Sakura felt dozens of eyes slide toward her.
The teacher cleared her throat. "This isn't the time for—"
"But it's relevant," Miho pressed gently.
"Especially in our environment."
Sakura slowly set her pen down.
She raised her hand.
The teacher blinked. "Yes, Aoyama?"
Sakura stood.
The movement was unhurried. Controlled. Her long legs straightened smoothly, posture calm as she faced the front of the room.
"If attention is given," Sakura said evenly, "that's a choice made by the one giving it. Not the one receiving it."
A murmur rippled through the room.
Miho's smile sharpened. "So you're saying responsibility disappears?"
"No," Sakura replied. "I'm saying resentment is easier than accountability."
The teacher inhaled sharply. "That's enough. Sit down, Aoyama."
Sakura did.
Miho laughed softly.
The lecture resumed—but it was already over.
The rest of the class passed in fragments. Sakura felt the tension coil tighter, waiting.
The bell rang.
Students stood.
Miho moved fast.
As Sakura stepped into the aisle, Miho's arm swung—not hard, not aggressive—knocking Sakura's notebook to the floor.
Papers scattered.
"Oh," Miho said, voice dripping with faux concern. "I'm so clumsy."
No one moved.
The teacher watched for half a second.
Then turned away.
Sakura knelt.
She gathered her papers calmly, one by one, aware of the silence pressing in from all sides. Phones came out openly now. No one bothered hiding it.
Miho leaned down slightly.
"You should apologize," she whispered. "For misunderstanding your place."
Sakura looked up.
Their eyes met.
"I don't apologize for existing," Sakura said quietly.
Miho straightened.
Her smile vanished.
"Then you'll learn," she said.
The shove came from the side.
Not enough to knock Sakura over.
Just enough to make the point.
Sakura stumbled one step.
That was it.
The room inhaled.
The door at the back opened.
Footsteps.
Slow. Unhurried.
Deliberate.
Sakura knew without looking.
Ren Kurotsuki entered the classroom.
He stopped just inside the doorway, violet eyes sweeping the room with lazy precision. His uniform was immaculate, his posture relaxed, his expression openly amused.
The teacher froze.
"Kurotsuki," she said stiffly. "Class is dismissed."
Ren smiled. "I know."
His gaze locked onto Miho.
She went pale.
"You were saying something," Ren said lightly.
Miho swallowed. "I—no. I was just—"
Ren walked closer.
Each step pressed the room flatter.
"You touched what's mine," he said
conversationally.
The room went dead silent.
Sakura stiffened.
Ren stopped beside her desk.
"That was a mistake," he continued.
Miho's lips trembled. "I didn't—she tripped."
Ren tilted his head, violet eyes glowing faintly. "Did she?"
No one spoke.
Ren looked around the room.
"Who saw it?" he asked pleasantly.
No one answered.
Ren smiled wider.
"Good," he said. "That means no one will object."
Miho backed away instinctively.
Ren leaned down slightly, his voice still calm. "You wanted proof, didn't you?"
He straightened and looked at the teacher.
"You might want to step out," Ren said politely. "This is going to be educational."
The teacher hesitated.
Then left.
Ren turned back to Miho.
"By tomorrow," he said, "everyone will know exactly what happens when you confuse attention with permission."
Miho's eyes filled with panic.
Ren glanced at Sakura once.
Just once.
His smile softened—not kind.
Satisfied.
POV: Ren Kurotsuki
Miho had crossed the line.
Predictable.
The system required correction.
Ren watched Sakura carefully—not the way she looked shaken, but the way she wasn't. Her spine straight. Her breathing controlled.
She hadn't asked for help.
That made this better.
He adjusted the balance quietly, efficiently.
By the time the bell rang tomorrow, Miho would no longer exist in the hierarchy.
Ren straightened, violet eyes gleaming.
Class dismissed.