Hiyori tugged on her tracksuit quietly, the cyan material sticking a bit tighter than normal. She hadn't really grown taller recently, but her body was changing—hurting, getting all messy and dirty, and not by choice. She swallowed the painkillers without glancing down, followed by water that seemed to be drowning her internally. Her legs hurt. Her lower back hurt. But none of that shocked her anymore.
She zippered up her coat, laced up her shoes, and slipped on the accessories that made jogging a ritual instead of a punishment: step counter, smartwatch, and water bottle. Out of her window, she could see the bend of the mountain road that reached the Toyotaro Miracle High. It was that close; it was as if it were about to breathe over their estate.
She went downstairs to the home gym, anticipating quiet.
Rather, the air pulsed with force. Her mother had beaten her there, fists crashing into a thick boxing bag. Clad in a sports bra and short shorts, Sakura appeared to be a woman in her prime—honed from mania and discipline. The bag wobbled fiercely with each strike, and when it rotated, Hiyori saw the taped-on face of Mugyiwara Shotaro glowering back, half-squinted by a dent.
"Hell with you, you son of a bitch! Die twice, then, if once won't kill you!" Sakura bellowed, a punch cracking the chain at its joints. "Pervert freak, no-manners demon son of a—"
"Morning," Hiyori said dully.
Sakura didn't look around. "He's going to destroy the school." I know he is. I can feel it in my back.
Hiyori didn't even ask who "he" was. Her mom had been paranoid since the day Shotaro arrived—nearly as if her blood pressure skyrocketed just saying his name. And truthfully? Hiyori couldn't blame her. He'd heat-beamed her into the infirmary on his very first day back. Okay, she'd been bullying someone at the time, but still. Her torso still bore red marks. Her pride bore deeper ones.
And yet. She couldn't despise him. Not completely. Not more than she despised herself.
Not more than she despised Hana.
She tugged her earbuds in, pressed play on some hard, angry music, and began her stretches. If she didn't run, she'd explode. If she didn't get moving, her skin would crawl. She eyed the photo stuck to the punching bag, now flying a little from impact.
"One of these days," she grumbled, "I am going to discover what you are, Mugyiwara, demon or god, and then I am going to destroy that."
Then she walked out into the morning air.
.....
Og. Jog. Jog. Her feet pounded pavement like pistons, slamming out the rhythm that overwhelmed the ache wracking her lower half. The cramps, the queasiness, the churning cyclone of mood and hormones and fury—it all receded the farther she ran, the more the wind shredded through her hair and the chill of the morning air pricked her cheeks. Hiyori sprinted through the city as if she was attempting to run away from her own blood. Through gates, through cars, through morning striders stumbling at her pace. Her water bottle sloshed with a caffeine-laced boost shot that she gulped while running, gagging but forcing it down. She didn't pause. She wouldn't pause. Across the bridge upon which the river divided the city like a cut, she sprinted with the elegance of a runner from something unseen and seething within her. The skyscrapers thinned, the streets emptying. And then she noticed it—a flash of purple and black slicing across her edge like the stroke of a silver moon. Amaya Wagakure.
The goth girl was hard to miss even at a distance, even in flight. Her locks appeared to have been dagger-carved, long black tresses piled like jagged glass, the tips dyed in a rich, hellish purple that shone in the morning sun. She had eyeliner as thick as war paint, her lips were matte black like funeral stationery, and her tracksuit was no simple school-standard issue attire—it was fitted, it was textured, it was ribbed black with the faint straps, violet piping, and metal studs down the sleeves as if she was going for a jog through a riot. She resembled someone doing laps at a graveyard.
Blimey." Hiyori grumbled half-breath, running to keep up in shock. "Why is she jogging with full makeup like she's going to a vampire fashion show—" She picked up speed, gasping, "And who makes a goth-themed tracksuit?"
But Amaya turned, eyes acutely keen even as she sprinted. "Principal's daughter," she stated in a detached, icy voice that somehow cut through the breeze. "I recognize you. Badminton club. You spiked the birdie a bit too hard."
Hiyori blinked, startled that she was remembered. "I was at your concert last month. Rock club showcase. You were…you had something. True stage presence."
Amaya didn't smile and didn't thank her. She simply nodded, as if compliments were reality. "I know," she said. Then, as if nothing counted, she continued, "But even I need cardio."
She picked up her pace to catch up to her, every step a little louder, a little more frantic. "Hey, hey, hey—wait up!" she shouted, breath hanging at the fringe of control, not out of exhaustion but out of nervousness. Hiyori Toyotaro had learned one thing thoroughly in her own brief but politically violent existence at Toyotaro Miracle High: if you can't be the strongest, fastest, or most feared, then damn well ensure that the strongest, the fastest, and the most feared are on your side. And Amaya Wagakure wasn't merely strong—she was a legend. The type of myth that rattled teachers, confused guys with whether they feared or fantasized, and made girls either worship her or plan her demise. The goth queen who punched so hard at a desk once, splitting it like firewood, during a school dress code debate gone too far. If there was even a 0.1% chance of getting her to her side—into her war—then Hiyori wasn't losing her to the foggy dawn like some melodramatic crow demon.
"Yeah, you want to, don't you?" Amaya blurted out without looking away, her voice parched and acidic like cold sake.
Hiyori blinked, taken aback by the enigmatic reply. "Wait—what?"
"You believe just because I don't push you away, I'm on your side?" Amaya said while rolling her head just enough to show a smirk that wasn't warm but questioning. Then, suddenly, she pushed her stride more forcefully, knees lifting, breathing flowing, black tracksuit flowing like ink on fire. "Not happening, princess."
"WHAT—?" Hiyori barely choked out before taking off after her, instincts clicking into place. It wasn't about diplomacy anymore. This was about survival. "You're making it weird! Wait!"
The two of them raced—not like joggers, not like classmates, but like competing hyenas through the urban plains. Every step slammed home more forcefully than the last, bouncing off fences, down the mist-frosted walkway, and into the orange-dyed haze of the rising sun. It wasn't elegant. It was a desperate, wild, teeth-grinned sort of running. One attempting to enlist, the other attempting to flee, both acting like they weren't sort of loving the craziness of the chase.
A dog barked from someone's balcony as they bolted past. A delivery truck halted for them like it was afraid of getting involved. Some early commuters watched in disbelief, unsure if it was a race, a mugging, or an exorcism in progress.
"I'm not trying to hit on you, Wagakure!!" Hiyori screamed.
"That's exactly what someone hitting on me would say," Amaya called back without slowing, her tone perfectly bored.
Oh my god," Hiyori grumbled, straining her lungs for more, this time not from cramps but raw, unadulterated fury. "This is why you people have no friends!!!"
"Just exactly," Amaya agreed. "It's calm that way."
And then—out of nowhere—Amaya veered off the main jogging path. She didn't look back. Just slipped into a narrow street like a phantom folding back into the pages of her own legend. The lamplight caught the shimmer of her dark violet tips before she vanished into a corridor of morning fog and looming walls.
Hiyori came to a messy halt, hands gripping her hips like she'd just finished a triathlon, her body sweating out everything—rage, pain, whatever hormonal rollercoaster was tearing through her from last night. Her hair clung in wet arcs against her jawline, and her chest rose and fell like she'd swallowed a speaker turned to max bass. "That was so annoying," she spat under her breath, half-laughing, half-seething, watching the empty alleyway like it was a crime scene. Then, with a breath sharp enough to slice, she whispered, "But she's perfect."
Because in that moment she knew—Amaya wasn't "cool." Cool was a status. This girl was beyond that. Amaya was sovereign. Unpredictable like the moon. Unbothered like someone who'd already died and come back worse. Untouchable in that way only people who had already decided not to care could ever be. The kind of person you either feared or followed—and right now, Hiyori needed someone exactly that out of reach. Because if anyone had the sheer force of spite and strangeness to help her take down that boy—Mugyiwara Shotaro—it was going to be her.
And so she chased.
"Mug… Mugyiwara Shotaro," she called, stumbling back into rhythm, steps loud and uneven now with intent. "He's a problem nowadays, don't you think? He's everywhere—his dumb gang's flags, his goddamn face, even the weaklings are starting to worship him. People are going towards him like—like sheep." She wasn't even sure if she was talking to Amaya or to herself. But the sound of her own voice filled the space, trying to drown out the pounding of her own panic.
But then Amaya slowed. Not stopped—just slowed, like a predator changing its approach.
"And by 'problem,'" she said, eyes half-lidded, "you mean those you can't control. Am I right?"
Hiyori flinched, and it wasn't just physical—it was cellular. Her breath caught like she'd swallowed something sharp. Because it was the truth. That was always the truth. Power meant control, and control meant comfort. Mugyiwara Shotaro was powerful—but not hers.
"I've been watching you," Amaya continued, not coldly, not warmly—just like someone who didn't have time for masks. "You used to run things. Torment the weak. Make people cry in hallways while your mother looked the other way. Her love made her blind, and you used that blindness like a whip. But then he came. He broke your rhythm. Took what you thought was yours. Rearranged your kingdom like it was his toy, Changing your life."
Her tone didn't change. It didn't need to.
"Maybe that's why they call him The Child Who Changes Lives."
Hiyori's fists clenched. "The Child who—ugh, leave it!!" Her voice cracked at the edge, louder than it should've been, full of that particular pitch that only comes from losing ground fast. "You don't know! That guy is dangerous! He walks into people's lives and he—he warps things! He ruins what he touches. He destroys."
But Amaya only glanced back, face unreadable.
"Yet he doesn't," she said softly. "Yet you did."
And then she turned—and ran.
Ran faster.
Like her point had been made and now the conversation was over.
Hiyori's blood was boiling with something she didn't know how to name—humiliation, maybe. Or exposure. Or that bruised, festering kind of yearning that twisted in her gut harder than any cramp ever could. She lunged forward, reckless, loud, desperate to be heard—or maybe just desperate not to be left behind. Not again. Not after everything.
"Listen to me, hey!" she growled, hurrying to catch up.
Because perhaps it was never about persuading Amaya in the first place.
Perhaps it was about enduring her silence.
"I know he assists people, bu—"
"But what?" Amaya interrupted, ridiculing her tone with vicious accuracy. "But he doesn't assist those beneath me, oh boo-hoo tragedy." Her voice curled into a sneer. "You sound just like your mother. A dictator. TMH is screwed if you ever take over it—if you're that much like her."
"Actually, my big brother is the heir, so—whatever." Hiyori slumped, breath catching. "Just. join me. In my crusade. Against Mugyiwara. We'll form a gang. You, me, Le Chua—you know, that Chinese kung fu girl. We'll bring in more. Build something huge. Bigger than the Ronnins."
Amaya blinked, unmoved. "Huh. There is a little something the Ronnins have that we don't…"
She gazed around dramatically, eyes cast heavenward as if plucking the name from the gods.
"Oh right. Shotaro motherfucking Mugyiwara," she intoned mockingly, voice laden with venom.
"He screwed his mom?" Hiyori inquired deadpan. "Didn't know he was Oedipus."
Amaya scowled. "Who the hell is Oedipus?
"Greek dude who—never mind." Hiyori shook her head like a broken compass, attempting to turn her mouth back on track. "Listen, I'll give you anything. Girls' nights out. Clubs. Fast cars. Goth trinkets. I'll even get you the blackest lipstick on the planet—"
Amaya hesitated. Not for theatrics—just because the quiet was hers. She sipped from her bottle, wiped her lips languidly, then said, "It's a tattoo. My lips are tattooed. Not lipstick."
Hiyori blinked twice, as though the notion had dropped from out of orbit. "Oh. I just figured it was strange you jog in full makeup."
Amaya did not respond. Her gaze was an alley with no way out.
So Hiyori took a shot.
"Why are you so opposed to opposing Mugyiwara Shotaro?" she asked, stammering over her own words as she stretched out, grabbing Amaya's wrist—not tightly, but not lightly either. A hold, a whine, a admission in contact.
And Amaya let out a breath, long and flat, like she'd just heard a mosquito recite "philosophy."
"You actually used the word 'against' twice."
She turned then, releasing her hand, but didn't leave.
"Shotaro Mugyiwara is why I stopped being myself," she stated at last, her voice soft but pure—like a scar. "He said once. that suffering is immortal. That every living thing is haunted by its own individual concept of suffering. That to try and outpace it, abolish it, or think it makes sense—that's the joke. The true revolution isn't to escape it. It's to endure it. To walk forward anyway.". To discover meaning within meaninglessness. That's the rebellion.
She gazed at Hiyori finally, correctly, now. No irony. No armor. Simply bone-deep honesty honed out of weariness.
"I loathed hearing that. I loathed him for it. But it stuck."
She looked out towards the horizon, where clouds were beginning to burn gold at the edges.
"I despise men. I still do. But I do know one day, if I'm dying, it could be a man who's saving me. A cop, a medic, a stranger with a band-aid. Despising the whole side because parts of it are bad. that's not much different from being imbalanced. Another way of remaining broken."
Her voice did not tremble. It did not need to.
If all men in the world disappeared tomorrow, we would still hurt. That is life. That is the burden of being alive. There is not a good world. There is only one option."
She inhaled for the last time as if she was closing all the doors.
"So we just get to make a choice. And keep going."
She opened her arms like she wasn't inviting a hug—just indicating that she was present still. Still functioning. Still here despite everything.
"And here I am."
"Damn," Hiyori grumbled, the ache in her lower abdomen shooting again like a dull thorn turning just to remind her that she was human. "Damn."
And then—such as a sugar cube falling into bitter tea—a chirpy and sweet voice that made the morning whistle close by.
"Heeyyyyyy~~~~~~!"
Both girls spun, and what they saw did not seem to be part of the same universe as cramps or resentments or proclamations of philosophical defiance. She was small—short of 5'4", possibly shorter still if you measured her skipping stance—and radiant in a manner that seemed less that she was glowing than the world just brightened around her.
Red hair cascaded to her shoulder blades in soft waves, the hairs flashing light like burnished silk. A periwinkle-blue ribbon rested securely on top of her head with a large, playful bow—its bright color against her deep red hair caused her to resemble having been painted with a watercolor brush at a Shinto celebration. She had on a demure pink tracksuit, nice and plain in style but perfectly fitted, suggesting the attention she brought to everything—even to jogging outfits. Her shoes were clean. Her cheeks were rosy from running and her eyes were wide, open, and full of that special sort of kindness that people didn't know how to handle.
"Riona Ryumon," Amaya muttered like she was reading off a security threat level. "First year. Class I-B."
Hiyori's eyes narrowed and she went into auto-mode, reciting as if parsing an internal mental web of alliances and betrayals.
"Okay—Shotaro Mugyiwara, Hiroki Mazino, and Zenkichi 'Bird' Gojo…" Her voice faltered slightly on that last name, tightening like a bruise under pressure. Bird had left her crew for Shotaro, and that sting still hummed. "…they're in 1-C with Amaya Wagakure."
She tapped her temple.
"I'm in I-A. Che Hua's from I-D. And she's from I-B."
"Got it."
Riona, seemingly unaware of all the mental politics flying over her head, smiled with open innocence and held out her hand in a wide wave.
"Good morning!" she chirped. Her voice was music box-soft but confident, the type of tone that didn't beg attention—it attracted it like sunlight on lake water.
"You're unusually awake," Amaya noted, still catching her breath, hair sticking to the sides of her neck.
"I wake up, I run, and I—ta-dah!" Riona produced a tightly rolled stack of morning papers from her bag as if she were a magician producing a deck of cards. "Delivery of newspapers!"
"You already have that restaurant job where Shotaro is employed, don't you?" Amaya questioned.
The instant she mentioned his name, Hiyori's ears twitched like those of a stalking cat. "Part-time works?" she repeated with air of casual interest, poorly concealing an underlying calculation. "Part-time… maybe."
"Yup!" Riona grinned, hefting her bag onto her shoulder as if effort was never burdensome. "But I still have spare time. And we should always be doing something useful!"
"Don't you ever… I don't know, have fun?" Hiyori asked, cocking her head as if examining some rare relic.
"Fun?" Riona paused, as if viewing the word as a dialect from a previous century. Then smiled once more, nose wrinchled. "Of course I do! I might not look it, but I'm a table tennis champion!" She puffed out her cheeks, crossed her arms, and shook her hair in exaggerated indignation, too proud for her small physique.
Hiyori stared at her for a long beat and finally muttered, almost reverently, "Damn… that's one pure maiden. Like the one in that book… what was it called?"
Amaya leaned in again, her voice barely a thread of breath against Hiyori's ear, the kind of whisper that felt like passing a cigarette under the table in a school for saints. "They say she's been close with Mugyiwara since middle school."
"Close?" Hiyori blinked, the word igniting something primal and old in her mind. Her eyes at once grew sharp. What did a girl require more urgently on a day like this? Gossip. Stranger romance. Forbidden relationships. The untouchable boy. The unassuming girl. Oh, this was crack.
Amaya cocked her head and smiled, half-lidded eyes glinting with cruel amusement. "Oh, so you do have girl instincts. Shocking. Anyway, they say when they work the restaurant shift together, he's the cook, and she's the server. The ultimate duo."
And that's when Hiyori's mind switched into calculation mode, like a hungry dog crunching numbers.
"Mugyiwara Shotaro… Height: 7 feet 11 inches. Mesomorphic build. Arms like marble. Back like a myth."
Her gaze drifted over to Riona, who was bobbing lightly on the balls of her feet as she fiddled with her ribbon. "Riona Ryumon… Height: five foot four. Petite. Baby-faced."
Hiyori swallowed, almost involuntarily, and carefully put a hand on Riona's shoulder, the way one would comfort a widow or a survivor.
"Must be so difficult in you," she said gravely. "I mean… for you."
Riona blinked and ducked her head, a look of puzzlement on her face. "Huh? What do you mean?"
Amaya folded arms and watched in silence, with a look that communicated, "I am not the cause of this."
"I mean," Hiyori leaned forward, eyes sweeping over her as if a detective reading clues from an adorable plushie, "how are you still, like… able to walk?"
"With my legs?" Riona answered, stone-cold serious and with wide eyes, as if that was the solution to all things.
"Shit!" Hiyori exclaimed, truly perplexed now. She took a step back and eyed her up and down as if surveying hallowed ground. "These legs still function?!?"
Riona, her face shining with intelligence, grinned. "They're actually very flexible, see!" And before she could be stopped, she nonchalantly lifted her leg to a good ninety-degree angle—like it was nothing. Like she'd done it a thousand times at dance recitals or table tennis warm-up sessions or, heaven forbid, something else.
"DAMN!!!" Hiyori echoed, loudly enough that a bird-feeding old man somewhere likely felt it in his joints. "How'd you even… He must've trained you—flexibility for endurance, right? Right?"
"Endure what?"
Hiyori stood stock-still, embarrassed. "Uh—nothing. Just your… athleticism. Your Mugy—uh, your yoga skills."
"Mugyoga?" Riona cocked her head like a parakeet attempting to grasp algebra. "Is that some new fitness app?"
"Y-Yeah. Totally."
And for one moment, the resulting silence was as deafening as a firework. Riona radiated, thrilled at being seen. Hiyori sweated out the confusion like spiritual cleansing. And Amaya, still arms crossed, rolled an eye and turned away, grumbling under her breath.
This generation was doomed.