.

..

...

​The third and final year of high school was supposed to be a countdown.

For most students in Japan, it was a grueling stretch of months dominated by cram schools, university entrance exams, and the bittersweet realization that youth was slipping away.

It was a time of predictable, structured stress.

​But as Ren stood across the shattered asphalt from the rusted iron gates of Kurogane High, he knew predictability was a luxury he had left behind two train transfers ago.

​He adjusted the high collar of his black turtleneck, pulling his heavy jacket tighter against the biting autumn wind. Reaching up, he checked the silver hoops lining the cartilage of his right ear—a nervous habit he couldn’t seem to shake. His silver-blonde hair, heavily bleached and long enough to fall into his eyes, was hastily pulled back into a loose, messy half-bun, leaving a few stray strands to frame his sharp face.

​Kurogane High didn’t look like an educational institution. Located on the industrial outskirts of the city, it looked like a concrete fortress that had survived a siege and lost. The perimeter walls were a patchwork of fading graffiti, overlapping gang tags, and poorly matched gray paint meant to cover up older, cruder insults.

Even from across the street, Ren could see the students loitering by the entrance. There were no neatly worn uniforms or laughing groups gossiping about club activities. There was only a heavy, watchful silence, broken occasionally by the harsh bark of a laugh or the scraping of modified boot soles against the concrete.

​This was a school where the traditional hierarchy was entirely replaced by reputation, and violence was the only language spoken fluently.

​Ren took a slow, deliberate breath, letting the cold air clear his head, and stepped onto the school grounds.

​The moment his boots crossed the threshold of the iron gates, the atmosphere shifted. It was subtle at first—a sudden lull in a conversation to his left, a turning of heads by the rusted bicycle racks. But within seconds, the collective attention of the courtyard converged on him.

The new transfer student.

​Ren didn’t look back at them. He kept his eyes straight ahead, his expression entirely blank. He knew what he looked like. He knew that his sharp, hooded eyes and the permanent shadow of a scowl made him look like he was looking for a fight.

In reality, he was just exhausted.

He had spent the last forty-eight hours unpacking heavy boxes in a cramped, damp apartment, and his shoulders ached. But in a place like Kurogane, vulnerability was an invitation. So, he wore his indifference like armor.

​"Hey. Blondie."

​The voice was loud, raspy, and thoroughly deliberate. It came from a concrete retaining wall to Ren’s right, where a group of four boys were lounging. The one who had spoken was tall, with a shaved head and a jagged scar cutting through his left eyebrow. He was casually tossing a heavy metal lighter hand to hand.

​Ren didn’t stop walking. He kept his steady, even pace toward the main building's entrance.

​"Yo! I'm talking to you, pretty boy," the guy called out louder, his tone dropping an octave. The lighter snapped shut with a sharp, metallic clink.

​Behind him, his friends stood up, their posture stiffening into a predatory stance. The rest of the courtyard went dead silent. The loiterers edged closer, forming a loose, natural arena. It was an initiation ritual they all knew by heart.

​Ren stopped five paces from the shoe-locker entrance. He closed his eyes for a fraction of a second, letting out a quiet sigh that fogged in the morning air. Then, he slowly turned his head.

He simply shifted his weight and directed his eyes toward the guy with the scar.

​It was the look that had gotten him expelled from his previous school, the look his father had always warned him would eventually get him killed. It was a heavy, unbothered stare—lazy, but intensely focused. It didn't hold anger; it held a profound, unsettling lack of fear.

​The scarred guy, Murata, opened his mouth to deliver a rehearsed threat, but the words died in his throat. He blinked, visibly thrown off by the absolute lack of panic in Ren's face. Usually, new kids either trembled or tried to bow their way out of trouble. Ren did neither. He just watched him, like a scientist observing an insect under glass.

​"You got a problem with your ears, transfer?" Murata sputtered, trying to recapture his lost momentum. His friends noticed the hesitation, and a few murmurs rippled through the gathering crowd.

​"No," Ren said. His voice was low, smooth, and entirely devoid of inflection. "I can hear fine."

​"Then you know you're supposed to bow when you walk past the third-year block," a shorter, stockier guy next to Murata barked, stepping forward to bridge the gap. He wanted to impress his leader, and he wanted to do it quickly.

​Ren turned his gaze to the shorter boy. The intensity didn't waver. "I don't care about your blocks. I'm just trying to find the administration office."

​"You think you're above us?" Murata asked, his face flushing red as he realized his authority was being subtly eroded by nothing more than a facial expression. He pocketed the lighter and took three heavy steps toward Ren, his chest puffed out. "You come here looking at me like I'm a joke? I'll tear those eyes right out of your skull."

​The crowd crept closer. Ren could smell the stale tobacco smoke clinging to Murata's uniform jacket. He could see the slight twitch in the guy's right jawline.

He's a right-handed fighter

Ren noted automatically, his brain analyzing the mechanics of the threat before his conscious mind could even process the danger.

Weight is on his back foot. He's going to lead with a wild hook.

​"I don't want to fight you," Ren said softly.

​"Too bad," Murata snarled.

​He lunged. Just as Ren predicted, it was a heavy, telegraphed right hook aimed directly at his jaw.

​Ren didn't panic.

To anyone watching, it looked like he barely moved, but it was a matter of precise inches. He ducked his head slightly to the left, letting the fist whistle past his ear, the wind of the punch rustling his loose hair. Using Murata's own forward momentum against him, Ren caught the man's extended right wrist with his left hand, planting his foot firmly behind Murata's heel.

​With a swift, clinical twist of his hips, Ren redirected the force. Murata stumbled violently over Ren’s leg, losing his footing completely, and crashed heavily into the gravel, skidding a few feet before coming to a stop.

​A collective gasp echoed through the courtyard.

​The shorter guy’s eyes went wide. He looked from his leader groveling on the ground back to Ren. Ren hadn’t even taken his right hand out of his jacket pocket.

​Murata groaned, pushing himself up onto his hands and knees, his face covered in gray dust and small pebbles. He looked up at Ren, his expression a mixture of pure shock and blinding rage. "You dead-meat piece of—"

​BRRRRRRRIIIIIIING.

.

..

...

​The morning bell shattered the tension, its harsh, mechanical ring vibrating through the concrete walls.

​For a long moment, nobody moved.

The crowd looked back and forth between the fallen enforcer and the new transfer student.

​Ren didn't gloat. He didn't offer a snarky one-liner. He simply let go of the tension in his shoulders, his expression returning to that same bored, exhausted neutrality. He looked down at Murata one last time, his dark eyes conveying a silent, unyielding message:

Don't

​Then, he turned around, pushed open the heavy entrance doors of Kurogane High, and walked inside to change into his indoor shoes.

Behind him, the courtyard erupted into a frenzy of whispered conversations, but Ren didn't look back. He had made it through the gate, but as he looked down the long, dimly lit hallway ahead of him, he knew the real fight hadn't even begun.

The interior of Kurogane High was a labyrinth of flickering lights and lockers that looked like they had been systematically dented by steel-toed boots. Located on the industrial outskirts of the city, it was a school governed entirely by reputation, where the traditional hierarchy was replaced by a rigid social order of cliques, delinquents, and street brawlers.

As Ren Atami walked down the main corridor, the echoes of his courtyard fight preceded him like a shockwave.

The student body moved in an anxious dance of survival. Groups of tightly knit cliques leaned against the classroom doors, their eyes tracking Ren’s progress with a newfound intensity. The whispers were immediate, a low hiss of murmurs that rippled through the hallway the moment his black jacket passed them by.

"That’s him.”

“The silver-haired guy?”

“Yeah. Dropped Murata out front. Look at how he walks. He’s completely unbothered.”

"A total psycho. He moves like a ghost.”

"He's kinda hot."

..

..

"Shut up Hiro." Most of them say to their friend.

Outwardly, Ren kept his gaze fixed straight ahead, his eyes half-lidded, perfectly projecting an aura of complete, cold-blooded confidence. He looked like a seasoned fighter who ruled the streets.

In reality, Ren was currently fighting for his absolute life.

When he had hurriedly unboxed his new black combat boots the previous night, his sleep-deprived brain had forgotten one crucial detail: peeling the bright neon-orange, circular "50% OFF - FINAL CLEARANCE SALE" price sticker off the bottom of his right sole. He had only realized it the moment he stepped onto the floor of the school hallway, hearing a faint, sticky thwack with every single step.

If he lifted his right heel even an inch too high, the entire hallway would get a clear, unobstructed view of his bargain-bin shame.

To prevent this social execution, Ren was forced to walk in a bizarrely rigid, flat-footed glide, keeping his right foot completely parallel to the floor like a competitive speed-walker. He kept his jaw clenched tightly from the sheer concentration required to maintain the stride, his eyes cutting a lethal glare through the crowd.

To the surrounding delinquents, this stiff, calculated march looked like a terrifying psychological display of dominance—the stride of a martial arts master who felt no need to rush.

...

Please don't let there be stairs,

Ren prayed frantically to himself, his terrifying eyes scanning the corridor.

If there are stairs, I'm going to have to crawl up them like a spider to hide my sole.

He found the main office tucked behind a scratched sheet of glass near the faculty room. Inside, a middle-aged administrative clerk with tired eyes was aggressively hammering away at a desktop keyboard. Her nameplate read Ms. Endo.

Ren slid his left foot forward and brought his right foot down flatly with a loud, aggressive thud against the linoleum to mask the stickiness. He waited silently.

Just as Ms. Endo raised her eyes, the heavy black walkie-talkie on her desk crackled to life.

"Endo-san, we got a situation in the front courtyard. Murata’s crew is pitching a fit. Said some new guy ambushed him."

The clerk didn't blink. She reached out, clicked the side of the radio, and spoke into it without breaking eye contact with Ren. "Send Murata to the infirmary to cool off."

She dropped the radio and sighed, turning her attention back to Ren. "Name?"

"Ren Atami. Transfer student," he said, his voice smooth, low, and quiet.

Ms. Endo shuffled through a disorganized stack of folders, pulled one out, and slid a printed slip of paper through the counter opening. "Here’s your schedule, Mr Atami-kun. Class 3-C for homeroom. Takahashi-sensei. Kurogane has a way of breaking teeth, Ren. Try to keep your hands to yourself."

Ren took the paper, directing his trademark heavy, intense stare right at her.

He didn't mean to look like he was threatening her, but his brain had just completely blanked out on whether Class 3-C was on the second or third floor.

He was too deeply intimidated by her stern, unbothered aura to actually ask for directions.

To Ms. Endo, his silent, unblinking gaze looked like the chilling defiance of a hardened criminal who didn't care about the rules.

She narrowed her eyes, returning to her keyboard with an aggressive click of her mouse.

Ren internally wept, bowed a perfectly polite ninety-degree angle—which the delinquents watching through the window interpreted as a mockingly formal declaration of war—and glided away flat-footed.

Class 3-C was, mercifully, on the second floor.

When Ren pushed the heavy wooden sliding door open, the low hum of teenage chatter abruptly died. Twenty pairs of eyes pivoted toward him in perfect unison.

At the front of the room, Takahashi-sensei didn't even look up from his attendance book.

He merely gestured vaguely toward the back of the classroom with a chalk-stained finger. "Find an open desk. Don't make noise."

Ren scanned the room. The seating arrangement at Kurogane apparently followed a strict social hierarchy. The front rows were completely empty. The middle rows were packed with anxious-looking students sitting shoulder-to-shoulder for safety. The back row, however, was occupied by only a choice few.

An empty desk sat in the far corner, right by the cracked window. Ren walked down the aisle, his right shoe sticky-thwacking against the floor, though his terrifying expression made everyone assume it was the sound of custom combat steel. He slid into the wooden chair, leaning his chin in his hand, turning his face toward the window to watch the gray clouds.

To the classroom, he looked like a brooding, dangerous lone wolf plotting his next conquest.

In reality, Ren was staring intensely at a small, fat sparrow sitting on the windowsill.

Man, I wonder if that bird knows how lucky it is,

Ren thought, his mind drifting completely into outer space.

No midterms. No terrifying school secretaries. Just eating worms and flying around.

I wish I was a sparrow. Wait, do sparrows get cold? His feathers look pretty fluffy. Good for him.

I wonder if I can train him to bring me shiny objects.

"You've got a lot of nerve sitting there."

The sharp voice came from the desk to his left, completely shattering his deep philosophical thoughts about the bird.

Ren shifted his lazy gaze away from the window.

Sitting next to him was a guy with an incredibly jittery posture, his uniform jacket covered in custom anime pins, aggressively spinning a sleek mechanical pencil between his fingers. His name was Daiki, and he was currently having a minor heart attack. He had watched Ren from the window earlier, seeing him take down Murata, the biggest, baddest enforcer of the third-year block, without even removing his hand from his pocket.

Now, sitting next to him, Daiki could feel the sheer, crushing weight of Ren's presence.

Look at him, Daiki thought, his knuckles turning white as he spun his pencil.

He’s staring out the window, completely indifferent to human society. He’s probably the leader of some massive underground street gang. If I breathe too loudly, he’s going to dismantle me.

"Is this seat taken?" Ren asked, his voice naturally dropping into a low, rumbling baritone.

"N-Not by anyone alive," Daiki stammered, trying to sound tough but failing as his voice cracked slightly. "I'm Daiki. This one is free." He points to the desk besides it.

"And that desk belongs to someone who doesn't like people breathing his air. Especially not a transfer who just embarrassed the front gate crew, so I'll warn you."

Ren stared at him, his eyes narrowing slightly under his silver-blonde bangs.

To Daiki, that look was a chilling warning, a silent message from a predator telling him to shut his mouth or face total annihilation. Daiki instantly froze, clutching his mechanical pencil like a lifeline.

But inside Ren’s head, an entirely different conversation was happening.

MY WORD. That sleek, silver mechanical pencil he’s holding... it looks exactly like the limited-edition mecha weapon accessory from the premium gachapon machine near my old train station! The one that had a 0.5% drop rate!

I spent 2,000 yen trying to get that one and only got the stupid common plastic variants. Is this guy an elite collector?! Should I ask him where he got it? No, don't say that, that's weird. Focus, Ren. Look cool.

"I didn't ambush him," Ren muttered out loud, trying to defend his honor. "He swung first."

"Right, right! Of course!" Daiki squeaked, nodding furiously, completely misinterpreting Ren's defense as a cold statement of absolute ruthless pragmatism. *

He doesn't even view them as threats,

Daiki noted frantically to himself.

He views them as minor inconveniences!

Before Ren could ask Daiki about his impressive gachapon collection, the heavy wooden sliding door of the classroom clicked open.

The entire atmosphere in Class 3-C didn't just shift, it dropped. The casual posture of the students in the middle rows instantly vanished, their spines straightening as they collectively stared down at their notebooks. Even Takahashi-sensei slowly lowered his book, his knuckles whitening against the pages.

A tall, lean figure stepped into the room.

Unlike the rest of the students at Kurogane, this guy didn't wear a battered, modified uniform. He wore a crisp, tailored black school blazer over a pristine white shirt, the collar perfectly pressed. His dark hair was parted neatly, and his expression was one of absolute, terrifying serenity. He carried no backpack, just an aura of uncontested authority.

"Ah, Kyo-kun," Takahashi-sensei said, his voice a tad bit nervous. "Glad you could join us."

The boy, Kyo, didn't answer. He walked down the center aisle with a slow, measured stride that carried the weight of a king inspecting his court. His eyes were locked entirely on the back corner of the room.

On Ren.

The classroom held its collective breath as Kyo stopped right in front of Ren’s desk.

The silence was deafening. Kyo stood there for a long moment, towering over Ren, casting a long shadow across the carved wooden desk. Then, slowly, Kyo placed his palms flat on the surface of Ren’s desk, leaning forward until they were nearly eye-to-eye. A faint, cold smile touched the corners of Kyo's mouth, his eyes dead and menacing.

"You're in my seat" Kyo whispered.

The words were quiet, a distinct, unmistakable threat of immediate violence.

Ren didn't flinch. He didn't pull back. Instead, he slowly let his hand drop from his chin, squaring his face directly with Kyo's, unleashing that same heavy, unbothered, lethal stare.

To Kyo, to Daiki, and to every terrified student in Class 3-C, Ren Atami looked like an absolute madman, a fearless predator looking directly into the eyes of the school's undisputed tyrant without a single shred of fear, silently declaring an all-out turf war.

Daiki’s heart hammered against his ribs as he slowly slid his chair an inch away.The standoff!

he thought, his eyes darting between the two.

Kyo, the king of Kurogane, and Ren Atami, the terrifying ghost transfer. If they clash here, the entire back row is going to get obliterated!

But inside Ren’s brain, absolute, unadulterated chaos had broken out.

SYSTEM SHUTDOWN, Ren’s internal voice screamed in a high-pitched panic.

HE’S SO CLOSE. WHY IS HE SO CLOSE? Is he going to punch me?! If he punches me right now, my jaw is going to break, and my dad explicitly said our insurance doesn't cover dental structural damage from school brawls! Wait, did he say this is his seat? But there wasn't a name tag! Is there a secret seating chart for delinquents that I skipped in the transfer orientation?! Oh no, my face is frozen. I can't move my facial muscles. If I look down now, I look like a coward, but if I keep looking at him, he’s going to murder me! Why does his hair smell like green apples? What brand of shampoo does a gang leader even use?! Don't blink, Ren. If you blink right now, a tear might come out from the stress, and you can't cry on day one! Just stare at his nose. Just stare at his nose and pray that the teacher saves us! And oh please, please don't let him look down and see the neon orange clearance sticker under my shoe!

The new kid and the king of Kurogane High locked eyes.

Outwardly, it was a terrifying clash of titans.

Lethal seniors.

Inwardly, Ren was just a kid desperately trying not to cry, completely unaware that his utterly panicked gaze had just officially started a high-stakes school war.

The standoff in Class 3-C hadn't ended in an immediate brawl, at least, not under the watchful, terrified eyes of Takahashi-sensei.

Instead, the dark-haired guy had simply drifted closer, the scent of green apples trailing in his wake, and murmured a quiet directive that sealed Ren’s fate for the rest of the morning:

“Behind the gym. Lunch.”

Now, the midday sun was swallowed by a heavy blanket of gray industrial smog. Ren stood in the desolate, dirt-packed alley behind the old school gym, the wind whipping his silver-blonde hair across his face.

Outwardly, he was a picture of terrifying, cinematic stillness. He stood with his hands shoved deep into his jacket pockets, his hooded eyes fixed on the rusted drainpipe across from him with a look of profound, cold execution.

In reality, Ren’s internal monologue was a high-pitched, echoing scream of pure, unadulterated terror.

I want to go home. I want to transfer back. I’ll apologize to the principal, I’ll clean the floors, just please let me leave," he wept silently behind his frozen mask.

Ren wasn't a weakling, his father had violently dragged him to a martial arts dojo every single day since he was five years old, hammering flawless, lethal muscle memory into his limbs. He knew exactly how to dismantle a human body. He just hated it. He was a pacifist coward who detested pain, blood, and confrontation.

To make matters worse, his right shoe was still a ticking time bomb. The bright neon-orange, circular "50% OFF - FINAL CLEARANCE SALE" price sticker was still stuck firmly to his right sole. If he lifted his foot too high during a scuffle, his reputation would be executed before his body even was.

A faint rustle of gravel cut through the quiet.

Ren didn't hear approach footsteps; the guy just suddenly appeared around the corner of the concrete building. He didn't have a menacing swagger, nor did he roll up his sleeves like a typical loud-mouthed delinquent. He just stood there, hands casually tucked into his trousers, looking entirely nonchalant and detached from the world around him. His dark eyes held a quiet, unreadable mystery.

Ren slowly turned his head, unleashing the full, unbridled force of his lethal, unblinking Gaze.

To the stranger, that look was a chilling, silent dare. It held no anger or bravado, just the eerie, unsettling emptiness of someone completely confident in their ability to survive.

Inside Ren’s brain:

Why is he so calm?! Is he a psycho? Is he going to pull a switchblade?! Don't look at his eyes, look at his nose. Keep the right foot flat. Do NOT show fear!

"You took my seat," the dark-haired guy said softly. His voice wasn't loud, but it carried an effortless, cool authority that seemed to quiet the distant city noise. "Usually, people who do that don't last a week here."

Without a single shift in his casual demeanor, the guy moved.

It wasn't a wild, telegraphed high school punch. It was a blindingly fast, precise straight jab aimed directly at Ren's chin. It was a professional entry, executed with total indifference.

Ren’s internal cowardice screamed, but his trained body moved on pure, unadulterated reflex. Because his brain was fiercely ordering him not to lift his right heel to hide an orange sticker, his lower body remained perfectly, immovably rooted to the earth. He simply slipped his head to the left, his torso fluidly dodging the fist by a mere millimeter.

The guy’s eyes flickered with a brief flash of intrigue. He immediately pivoted, throwing a heavy, sweeping low kick meant to shatter Ren’s lead leg.

Holy crap, my thigh! Ren’s brain panicked. Automatically, his left leg snapped upward, checking the kick perfectly with the hard bone of his shin.

CRACK.

The collision of shins echoed sharply against the concrete walls. It hurt like absolute hell, but Ren’s face remained entirely frozen in his trademark dead-eyed scowl, his jaw clenched tightly from the sheer shock of the pain. He didn't even blink.

To his opponent, Ren’s completely unbothered expression after absorbing a heavy, bone-crushing low kick was deeply unsettling.

Pressing the advantage, the dark-haired boy unleashed a rapid, elegant combination of hooks and open-palm strikes. Ren, entirely blind with panic as hands flew at his face, let his dojo training take complete control. His forearms moved in crisp, lightning-fast deflections, sharply parrying every single blow with robotic precision.

On the final exchange, Ren’s right shoe stuck firmly to a patch of damp clay on the ground. The sudden resistance threw off his balance. Panicking that he was going to trip and reveal his sole, Ren aggressively drove his weight forward to anchor himself.

It resulted in a flawless, devastating counter-blitz.

Ren’s shoulder slammed directly into the guy's chest with the full, heavy momentum of his trained frame. The breath left the guy's lungs in a sharp gasp. He was forced to slide backward across the dirt, his soles tearing up the gravel before he smoothly reset his footing, dipping into a low, elegant stance.

Silence descended on the alleyway.

The dark-haired guy lowered his guard. He wasn't panting heavily, nor was he angry. Instead, a faint, cryptic smile touched his lips. He straightened his tailored school blazer, looking at Ren as if he had just solved a fascinating puzzle.

Ren, meanwhile, remained standing exactly where he was, his arms lowered, his face a flawless mask of cold, terrifying boredom.

Ren’s mind was short-circuiting.

I ALMOST FELL OVER. My shin is broken, I know it is. I'm going to have a massive bruise. If he strikes again, I’m going to burst into tears and beg for mercy. Please go away. Please just walk away.

"Fascinating," the guy murmured, his tone entirely nonchalant, yet deeply curious. "Your center of gravity is completely unshakeable. You didn't even bother to take a standard combat stance against me. You treat a fight like it's a chore."

Ren didn't move a muscle, his facial expression locked tight from sheer stress. "I didn't come to this school to fight you."

The boy watched him for a long moment, the mysterious, unreadable depth returning to his eyes. He let out a low, quiet chuckle. "I suppose you didn't. I won't have my third-year block descending into a chaotic civil war over a transfer student who just wants to sit in the corner and look miserable. You've earned the right to that desk."

He stepped forward, extending a perfectly clean, unblemished hand toward Ren. "I'm Kyo. Kyo Kamishiro. What's your name, transfer?"

Ren looked down at the extended hand, his internal panic finally throwing him a lifeline. Oh he's stopping! He's introducing himself. The violence is over!

Ren slowly reached out, keeping his right foot firmly planted, and gave Kyo’s hand a single, firm, intensely stoic shake. His heavy, unblinking eyes locked onto Kyo's one last time, projecting the aura of an absolute titan settling a treaty.

"Ren Atami," he said softly.

Kyo smiled, a cool, mysterious expression and turned on his heel, walking back toward the main building with his hands casually pocketed, entirely unbothered by the bruise forming on his chest. "See you in class, Atami."

The moment Kyo disappeared around the corner of the gym, the absolute rigidity in Ren’s spine collapsed. He let out a massive, pathetic wheeze of a sigh, his shoulders slumping so hard he practically bent double.

"Oh thank goodness," Ren whispered to the empty alleyway.

He hobbled over to a rusted, overturned metal bucket near the gym wall and collapsed onto it, letting out a sharp groan as his left shin throbbed in protest. But the physical pain was nothing compared to the psychological weight he had been carrying all morning.

He crossed his right leg over his left knee, exposing the underside of his boot. There it was. The bane of his existence. The neon-orange "50% OFF - FINAL CLEARANCE SALE" sticker was thoroughly scuffed, caked in gray dirt and clay, but the cheap adhesive was still holding on for dear life.

Ren reached down, dug his fingernail under the edge of the orange paper, and pulled.

Riiiiiiiiiip.

The sticker peeled away in one satisfying, glorious piece, leaving behind a slightly sticky, dark circle of residue that would easily blend into the black rubber sole. Ren stared at the crumpled piece of orange trash in his hand like it was a defused explosive device.

"Never again," he muttered, dropping the sticker into a rusted oil drum nearby.

He let out a genuine, exhausted breath of relief, leaning back against the corrugated metal wall of the gym. For the first time since he had stepped onto Kurogane High property, he could actually lift his feet when he walked. No more flat-footed gliding. No more shuffling like a broken robot.

Adjusting his heavy jacket and pulling his silver-blonde hair tighter into its messy half-bun, Ren stood up and took a tentative, completely normal step forward. His shin still burned, and he had absolutely no idea how he was going to survive sharing a classroom with a nonchalant psycho like Kyo Kamishiro, but as he walked back toward the school building, totally sticker-free. Ren counted it as a massive victory.