POV: Sakura Aoyama
Kurotsuki Academy did not technically trap its students.
The gates opened every evening at exactly six.
People could leave.
That was the lie.
Sakura stood at the edge of the courtyard as the final bell rang, watching students gather their things with familiar efficiency. Clubs dismissed in neat clusters.
Teachers exited through side paths. Prefects lingered just long enough to ensure order dissolved correctly.
The gates slid open.
No rush followed.
Students left in groups—pairs, trios, tightly knit circles—laughing softly, already discussing dinner plans, cram school schedules, weekend outings.
Cars waited beyond the gates, engines idling. Chauffeurs stepped out, doors opening before their passengers reached them.
Sakura waited.
She always waited until the space thinned.
It was easier to move when no one expected anything from her.
She stepped through the gates alone.
The world outside Kurotsuki Academy felt louder immediately.
Traffic hummed. Neon signs flickered to life as the sky darkened. The smell of street food mixed with exhaust and winter air.
Students in different uniforms crowded sidewalks, their laughter sharper, less controlled.
This was the part of the day Kurotsuki tried to pretend didn't exist.
Sakura walked.
She didn't own a car. Didn't have a driver waiting. She liked it that way. Her steps carried her past convenience stores glowing warmly, past a bakery closing for the night, past a small park where children were still playing under dim lights.
Normal life.
It felt strange now.
She reached her building just after sunset.
It wasn't luxurious. Not shabby either. A mid-rise apartment complex with clean hallways and quiet neighbors.
The kind of place that disappeared into the background of the city.
Her key turned smoothly in the lock.
Inside, the apartment was silent.
Two rooms. Minimal furniture. Clean lines. No personal clutter beyond necessity.
Sakura slipped off her shoes, coat, and bag with the same careful precision she carried everywhere else.
This was her space.
No whispers.
No eyes.
No pressure.
She exhaled slowly, leaning back against the door for a moment longer than usual.
The silence didn't feel lonely.
It felt earned.
She heated leftovers, ate standing by the counter, her thoughts drifting despite herself. The principal's gaze.
Ren's smile.
The way the school adjusted without ever admitting it had.
Her phone vibrated.
Unknown number.
She stared at the screen before unlocking it.
You made it home.
Her fingers paused.
How do you know? she typed.
Three dots appeared almost immediately.
You didn't go to the station.
She frowned.
Are you following me?
A pause.
Then:
No. I'm not that careless.
She didn't know whether to believe that.
Why are you texting me? she typed.
This time, the pause was longer.
Because outside the school, things change.
She stared at the message.
That's exactly why I leave alone.
Another pause.
Then:
Good. Don't stop doing that.
Her jaw tightened.
She set the phone down without replying.
The next morning felt different.
Not heavier.
Looser.
As if the academy had inhaled and decided to watch instead of act.
Club recruitment posters multiplied overnight, covering walls in layers of color and promise.
Students handed out flyers aggressively, voices bright, smiles practiced.
"Join the debate club!"
"Basketball tryouts today!"
"Photography needs models!"
Sakura slowed.
Photography.
The word lingered.
A group of students stood nearby, clustered around a tall boy holding a camera. He was handsome in a polished, public way—styled hair, confident posture, eyes trained to notice angles.
Ren stood a few steps away.
Not posing.
Observing.
He wore the uniform like it was optional, jacket unbuttoned, tie loose enough to look intentional. Violet eyes flicked toward Sakura when she passed.
The photographer noticed too.
"Oh," the boy said, lowering his camera.
"You're new."
Sakura didn't stop walking. "Relatively."
"You should consider joining," he called after her. "We need people who look natural on camera."
She didn't reply.
Behind her, she heard Ren laugh quietly.
Classes passed uneventfully.
That, too, felt intentional.
By afternoon, whispers had shifted.
Not about Miho.
About Ren.
"I heard he was scouted before."
"My cousin saw him in a magazine once."
"They say he turned it down."
Sakura heard it all without comment.
She stayed after school that day—not for cleaning duty, but because she didn't feel like leaving yet.
She wandered past the club rooms again.
Music drifted from the karaoke club room—students practicing performances, voices overlapping chaotically. Laughter spilled from the game club, screens flashing with color.
The photography club door was open, lights set up inside.
Ren stood there.
This time, he was inside the room.
The photographer adjusted a camera,
frustration evident. "You can't just stand there," he said. "We need test shots."
"I'm standing," Ren replied lazily.
"Posing," the boy corrected.
Ren sighed. "You're overthinking it."
He turned slightly.
The room went quiet.
Sakura felt it even from the hallway.
The photographer's eyes widened. "Hold that."
Click.
Another click.
Ren didn't smile.
Didn't adjust.
Didn't try.
The camera loved him anyway.
Sakura watched from the doorway, unnoticed. There was nothing theatrical about the moment. No glamour. No effort.
Just presence.
The photographer lowered the camera slowly. "That's… unfair."
Ren shrugged. "You asked."
"You could actually do something with this," the boy said carefully. "Not just school stuff. External shoots. Agencies—"
"No," Ren said simply.
The photographer blinked. "You didn't even ask what—"
"No," Ren repeated.
His gaze shifted.
Found Sakura.
She froze.
He didn't react.
Didn't call her out.
Just held her gaze for a second longer than necessary.
Then looked away.
The photographer followed his line of sight and noticed her. "Hey—"
Sakura stepped back before he could speak.
She left the building quickly, pulse steady but awareness sharp.
That night, she walked home a different route.
Past a small arcade glowing with color and sound. Past a karaoke place advertising late-night student discounts. Past a mall still alive with teenagers drifting in groups, hands full of shopping bags and bubble tea.
Possibilities.
She hadn't thought about those things in a long time.
Her phone buzzed as she passed the mall entrance.
You were watching.
She stopped walking.
You're perceptive, she typed.
So are you, he replied.
She hesitated.
Then:
Is that world off-limits too? she asked.
Several seconds passed.
Not yet.
Her lips pressed into a thin line.
That doesn't sound reassuring.
It wasn't meant to.
She slipped her phone into her pocket and continued walking.
POV: Ren Kurotsuki
The school was only half the board.
Ren knew that.
He watched Sakura disappear into the city from the photography club doorway, her posture relaxing the farther she moved from the academy walls.
She didn't know it yet, but distance gave her leverage.
That made her dangerous.
The outside world didn't follow Kurotsuki's rules.
Not completely.
Ren had learned that early.
His own home was quiet, expensive, empty. A high-rise apartment with too much space and no warmth. Staff came and went without leaving traces.
Dinner arrived whether he ate it or not.
He stood by the window, city lights reflecting faintly in his violet eyes.
Offers would come again.
Modeling. Media. Exposure.
He could take them anytime.
That was the difference.
Sakura didn't know her options yet.
When she did, the balance would shift.
Ren smiled faintly.
The gates didn't trap people.
They filtered them.
.