Ah, Haruki Shinomura. A name so divine, the angels probably weep every time it echoes through the wind. If the heavens ever decided to play gacha with humanity, Haruki would be the ultra-mega-hyper-legendary pull. God's very own cheat code.
It's like someone played Create-a-Character on life, maxed out every single stat—Intelligence: 999. Looks: 999. Charisma: 999. Luck: glitched beyond comprehension. They didn't just break the game. They redesigned it. And then they gave up and let Haruki write the patch notes.
From the moment we stepped into middle school, it was as if the world turned into a romcom anime where he was the protagonist, the love interest, and the ending theme all at once. Girls would lose their minds just walking past him. I'm not even exaggerating—one girl tripped, hit her head on the doorknob, saw him smile, and claimed she achieved enlightenment. Boys? They tried. They failed. Then they started a fan club. He's not just admired. He's worshipped.
Teachers? You'd think they'd be immune. Nope. I once saw our math teacher get so lost in watching Haruki solve an equation that she forgot how to breathe. We had to call the nurse. When she came to, her first words were, "Is he... single?"
And yet, no one hates him. Not even a sliver of envy. It's unnatural. Like trying to hate a golden retriever that pays taxes and helps old ladies cross the street. Name one person who doesn't like him. Just one. I dare you. No—forget that. I double-dog dare you. Find that person, and I swear I'll dedicate my entire existence to folding your laundry and peeling your grapes for eternity.
He's the star of the school. The embodiment of perfection. The Mona Lisa in motion. If the school had the budget, I'm sure they'd build a shrine for him right between the cafeteria and the faculty lounge. Every time he breathes, I feel like there should be background music and sparkles. You know what I mean? Like a studio audience gasping in awe. Haaa~
Academics? Don't even get me started. I was out here trying to figure out if 3/4 is bigger than 2/3 (spoiler: I still don't know). Meanwhile, Haruki was casually solving something like this:
"Let , prove the Riemann hypothesis using your non-dominant hand while juggling flaming swords."
And he just... did it. Like he was solving a Sudoku puzzle on the back of a cereal box.
He could've graduated college at ten, but guess what? He chose not to. Why? Because apparently, "I like being around my friends." Hah. Friends. As if the mere mortals around him deserved that title.
Sports? Don't even bother. He's the ace of the baseball team. THE ace. Capital T. Capital A. They call him their "Final Weapon," which honestly sounds more like something from an apocalyptic anime arc. Since he joined, the team hasn't lost a single championship. Not one. Opposing teams just sigh when they see him. Some even consider forfeiting to save themselves the humiliation.
Grades? Psh. If intelligence were measured by GPA, he'd break the grading system. The school's computer once tried to calculate his average and exploded. No joke. We had a fire drill that day. Coincidence? I think not.
He runs for student council every year. And every year, it's a landslide victory. I'm talking zero competition. One time, someone dared to run against him. Let's just say... we never saw that kid again. Rumor says he transferred schools. Others claim he now works as Haruki's assistant voluntarily.
But here's the kicker—he's my childhood friend. Yeah. You heard me.
Long before the world started kissing the ground he walks on, I met Haruki at a park. I was a kid back then. A sad, gloomy ball of existential dread. Most kids cry when their ice cream falls. Me? I was crying because I questioned the purpose of human existence. Existential crisis at age five. How adorably tragic.
I wasn't blessed with Haruki's sparkly aura. No. I inherited something else entirely—a gene so rare and misunderstood it made me look like a brooding antihero in a soap opera. The Misunderstood Bad Guy Look. Trademark pending. Kids avoided me like I was a cursed relic. Even pigeons wouldn't eat near me.
And there I was, sobbing alone under the monkey bars, when a light descended from the heavens. No, not the sun. Haruki Shinomura.
He sat next to me. Smiled like the universe hadn't already given him everything. Then—he played with my toys. MY toys. That was the first miracle.
To me, that moment was life-changing. Divine. And no, this isn't some boys-love romcom. Please. Cut me some slack. My heart has limits.
But from that day forward, we became inseparable. At least, outside school. In school, he was in the top-tier elite genius section. I was... not. I was in the section they put kids who still think Pluto's a planet and who ask if cats have belly buttons.
But now... now, we're finally in the same class. A reunion, destiny's sequel, the arc I've been waiting for. Maybe the gods remembered me. Maybe they pitied me. Or maybe they thought, "Let's give this pitiful protagonist a supporting role."
So here we are.
Haruki Shinomura. The golden boy. And me.
The misunderstood background character with a tragic haircut and suspiciously permanent eye bags.
Let the chaos begin.
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Ummm. Where was I… Did I… Am I forgetting something…?
Did I just mention chaos…?
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Narrator: Ryuji Takahashi. A misunderstood bad guy who, despite his astounding lack of brain cells, somehow slithered his way into the top elite class of 1-A. How? Even I don't know. Maybe divine comedy. Hey dear readers, miss me? Yeah, sorry I haven't appeared since the previous chapter. My bad. Been dealing with a stomach situation so catastrophic it might as well have had its own disaster movie title: "Wrath of the Cursed Taco, Part II: Diarrhea Awakens."
Anyway, here we are, watching the famous Ryuji Takahashi in a moment of such exquisite confusion that even a goldfish would pity his memory span. He doesn't know what's going on. But allow me to remind you all...
He ran.
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Back to Ryuji:
Okay. Did I forget something?
Something I was supposed to do?
Something urgent?
Like, I don't know… SAVE MY LIFE?
Save… my life…?
My life's in danger…?
Hmmmmm.
Akira…?
Akira Suzuki…?
Ah shit.
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Narrator: And THAT, dear readers, was the exact moment our beloved Ryuji Takahashi realized… he really, REALLY messed up.
Let us proceed.
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Sweat poured down my face faster than the Niagra Falls in hurricane season. Rivers. Oceans. Biblical-level floods. My shirt was drenched. My boxers? They waved the white flag ages ago.
My legs burned. Not like leg day at the gym. No. Like "Welcome to Hell" kind of burn. Every step stabbed deeper than the betrayal of a childhood friend who eats your fries without asking.
I couldn't breathe. It was like drowning, except the water was made of panic and regret.
I ran so fast. Usain Bolt would've offered me a sponsorship deal right there. I'd outrun my ancestors, the ancestors of my ancestors, and possibly my past mistakes.
Why am I running?
I ask myself.
But then… I dared to look back.
There it was.
Wait—correction.
There she was.
The reason I should never have opened my dumb mouth in the first place.
Death incarnate.
My own personal apocalypse.
A demon wrapped in high school uniform and pigtails.
Akira Suzuki.
The Doom Bringer.
She was not standing still.
No.
She was running.
No.
Sprinting.
No.
GLIDING ACROSS EARTH LIKE AN ANGRY WIND SPIRIT FROM ANCESTRAL FOLKLORE.
You see, I'm tall. I have longer legs. By logic, physics, and the holy textbooks of biology, I should've had the advantage.
But this… this wasn't a normal chase.
This wasn't a track meet.
This was divine punishment, and I was Job.
If light travels faster than sound, then Akira was light, and I was the fading dial-up tone of 2005 internet. I was the sound. Static. Glitchy. Hopeless.
Gods. Science. Physics. Everything betrayed me that day.
I turned corners like my life depended on it—because it literally did. Left turn. Right turn. Fence hop. Alleyway vault.
I leapt over trash bins. Parkour'd over mailboxes. A cat hissed at me. A dog looked at me like, "Bro, whatever you did, you're on your own."
I begged my legs not to fail me. They were like, "No promises, champ."
I was panting. Gasping. A human windbag wheezing through the streets.
I needed shelter. I needed a hole in the ground. A wormhole. A spaceship. A divine intervention. ANYTHING.
Then, by some miracle, it appeared.
A spot. The perfect place. My safe haven. My Batcave.
I dove in like a soldier dodging enemy fire.
Darkness. Solitude. Shelter.
I collapsed onto the floor like a sack of regrets.
My lungs gasped like they'd just been released from prison. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Nearly vomit. Exhale. Repeat.
Sweat drenched every inch of me. I was soaked like a sad anime protagonist walking home in the rain after getting rejected by their crush and hit by a truck.
My knees gave up. I couldn't even remember how legs worked anymore. Numb. Jelly. Useless.
My heart was beating faster than a K-pop concert's light show. I could hear it echoing. Thudding. THUD THUD THUD. As if even it wanted to escape my body.
I sat there.
Breathing.
Blinking.
Thinking.
For a moment, silence.
Was I safe?
Did I lose her…?
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Narrator:Now, readers… we shall not yet reveal where our genius protagonist decided to hide. Nor shall we spoil whether our little tiger, Akira, is still hunting him. For that's a tale best reserved for the next chapter.
For now, let us leave our boy Ryuji gasping, broken, drenched, and possibly having an out-of-body experience somewhere in the outskirts of sanity.
See you next time.
Maybe.
If he survives.