For typical high schoolers, Monday was the beginning of the week-long descent into hell. Most people would groan just thinking about the tedious grind ahead, lamenting how quickly the luxury of Sunday had slipped away.
I, Kurogane Yoru, was no exception.
Though in my case, things were a little… different.
Just as the bell rang, I slammed open the classroom door and let out a huge yawn that echoed across the room. My eyes were bloodshot, my uniform barely ironed, and my steps sluggish as I dragged my body toward my seat. When I finally slumped into my chair, I could already feel the stares digging into me from every direction. My attendance record was abysmal, and every single one of my classmates—boys and girls alike—seemed eager to remind me of that fact.
"Yo, Kurogane! Did you stay up all night playing erotic games again?"
"Ew… gross."
"Seriously, all night for some dumb game? He's so disgusting."
The usual voices chimed in. Sakamoto Daiki and his gang snickered as they approached my desk. To them, tormenting me was practically part of their morning routine. Sakamoto, with his neatly trimmed hair and clean uniform, looked like the poster boy for a model student—if you ignored his personality. His image was spotless, his grin confident, his appearance a trophy he polished every day. Too bad his behavior was the complete opposite.
"Hey, punk! Did you not hear what I said?!" Sakamoto grabbed me by the collar and lifted me up, shaking me as if it would somehow be funny. By now, I'd gotten used to it; this sort of thing was practically a ritual for him.
"Sorry…" I muttered, doing my best to sound sincere.
Before he could say anything else, a sweet yet dangerously low voice called out, "Sakamoto-kun, do you mind putting Kurogane-kun down?"
The air froze.
Both of us turned to see Shirosaki Arisa, smiling brightly—and horribly. She stood with perfect posture, her long, silky black hair flowing down to her waist like a dark waterfall. Her gentle, drooping eyes radiated warmth, her soft lips curved in a faint smile that somehow made Sakamoto instantly back off.
Arisa Shirosaki—one of our school's two goddesses, and by far the more popular one. Regardless of gender, she was admired by everyone for her breathtaking beauty. She had that rare, effortless grace that made every movement look refined. A delicate nose, soft pink lips, and an aura so pure that even the sunlight seemed to soften when it hit her.
And for some absurd reason, she talked to me.
Sakamoto grimaced, muttering under his breath as he dropped me back onto my chair. "This isn't over." He stomped off with his lackeys, their laughter fading down the corridor.
Arisa turned to me with a smile that could've melted ice. "Good morning, Yoru-kun. Late as usual, huh? You really should come earlier. Do you know how long I had to wait for you to come to school?"
"...You were waiting for me?" I blinked, completely thrown off.
"Mhm," she said cheerfully, her eyes curved into crescents. "Of course. We're classmates, after all."
"Ah, right… good morning, Arisa-san."
"Good," she replied, looking oddly pleased with my response.
A wave of murderous stares hit me instantly. I could practically feel the collective killing intent of every male in class. My body stiffened, and I forced a wry smile. Seriously, why me?
Truth be told, there was a small minority in this school who were actually on good terms with me. But Shirosaki? She went beyond that. She talked to me often, helped me with classwork, and even dragged me along to events. Why? Because she was kind-hearted… or maybe because she pitied me. Or maybe—no, better not think about that.
Due to the influence of pulling all-nighters—and the nature of my real job—I constantly dozed off during class. To someone like her, I probably looked like an irresponsible, lazy student. She couldn't possibly know that if not for my undercover work, I'd be getting straight As.
As I pondered this, a group of students approached. And not just any students. The elite circle—Arisa's childhood friends.
"Kurogane-kun, you must have it hard every day," said a calm, composed voice.
It belonged to Shinazawa Akari, the other goddess of our school and Arisa's best friend. Her medium-length black hair was tied neatly into a low ponytail with a white ribbon, and her sharp grey-blue eyes held a quiet authority. Taller than most girls, with a dignified air that commanded respect, she was elegance personified—graceful yet strong, composed yet intimidating.
Her family owned the Shinazawa Fencing Dojo, and she was hailed as a once-in-a-century sword prodigy. From the moment she first held a blade, she'd never lost a match. Her name appeared in magazines, and juniors adored her, calling her "Onee-sama" with stars in their eyes.
"Seriously, Arisa, you're helping him again?" The second voice belonged to Amagawa Ren, the golden boy of our school. Short golden-brown hair that gleamed under the light, deep blue eyes filled with conviction, and that flawless smile—he was the very definition of a "prince." He had good looks, top grades, and a kind personality that made him the subject of countless confessions every week. But of course, he never accepted any of them. He was too busy spending time with his childhood friends, especially Arisa and—
"There's no point talking to this unmotivated guy," grumbled Kiritani Ryutaro, Amagawa's best friend. With his short, messy black hair and sharp brown eyes, he was the textbook definition of hot-blooded. Muscular and hardworking, Ryutaro was the type who believed effort could overcome anything. Which is probably why he couldn't stand me.
And finally, Minazuki Akane. Her short, wavy chestnut hair, tied into two high ponytails with natural golden highlights, gave her a lively, mischievous look. Her amber eyes sparkled with energy, and she loved accessorizing—ribbons, pins, scarves—you name it. Bright, chaotic, and endlessly cheerful, she was like a walking burst of color.
I sighed and greeted them all politely, "Good morning, Shinazawa-san, Amagawa-kun, Ryutaro-kun, Minazuki-san."
Ren crossed his arms, his voice calm but firm. "Since you already know your own poor conduct, why not try improving yourself and stop relying on Arisa's kindness? She can't take care of you forever."
From his perspective, Arisa's kindness was wasted on me—a lazy toad who didn't deserve her attention.
"I'll definitely try to do better," I replied, my voice quiet but steady. Really, I'd appreciate it if she stopped helping me altogether.
But before I could say more, Arisa turned to him with that same radiant smile and said, "Ren-kun, what are you saying? I'm talking to Yoru because I want to."
The atmosphere froze again.
A few chairs squeaked. A pen dropped somewhere in the back. The sound of teeth grinding was almost audible.
More piercing gazes cut through the air, thick with malice. I could swear Sakamoto was trembling in rage just a few seats away.
"Seriously, Arisa-san, you're too kind," Ren muttered, clearly displeased.
He had completely misread her intention. Perfect grades, perfect looks, perfect composure—Ren Amagawa never once doubted himself. To him, the world revolved on logic and merit. Which was why her kindness toward someone like me made absolutely no sense.
"Seriously… how troublesome," I sighed inwardly, turning my gaze toward the blue sky beyond the window.
Arisa leaned closer and whispered apologetically, "...Sorry about that. They can be a handful, but they don't mean any harm."
I forced a small smile. "Yeah. Don't worry about it."
As if on cue, the bell signaling the start of first period rang, and our teacher entered the classroom. Amane Mizuki, our 25-year-old homeroom teacher—calm, composed, and far too patient for this group.
Class began. As usual, the hum of the lesson faded into the background, and I began my familiar journey to dreamland.
Arisa glanced at me with a soft smile, while Akari sighed helplessly.
By lunchtime, I'd already polished off my meal in ten seconds and was ready to nap again—but of course, the goddess of light herself had other plans.
"Yoru-kun, don't sleep yet~" Arisa poked my cheek with her chopsticks, giggling.
"Oi, don't you have your own lunch to eat?"
"I already finished."
"So fast?!"
"I wanted to talk to you."
"Please don't."
She laughed again, the kind of laugh that made hearts flutter. Everyone else probably saw her as a blessing from the heavens. Me? I just saw a harbinger of chaos.
And that was my daily life. The life of Kurogane Yoru, the perpetually tired student, and part-time assassin who couldn't even take a nap in peace.
~~~~~~~~~~
The last bell scraped the day away like a blade along glass. Classrooms emptied into the city's hum: chatter about cram tests, weekend plans, the ordinary detritus of teenage life. I gathered my things with the same calm practiced gestures I used for everything—tying a tie, buttoning a blazer, folding movements that said nothing and revealed less. To anyone watching, I was exactly what I needed to be: an unremarkable student slipping into the evening.
Once outside the school gates, the world rearranged itself. Neon bled into twilight, traffic sighed, and alleys rearranged themselves into routes in my head. I walked with purpose, not haste, one step folding into the next. My reflection in a shop window looked back at me—sleep-dark circles, expression neutral, eyes like two indifferent moons. In the darker parts of the city those moons were my only honest things. The rest was performance.
There was a short message waiting for me behind an ordinary trash bin: a folded flyer, a wink of paper taped under a bench, no sender beyond the mark. CLASS: S — ELIMINATION. LOCATION: DISTRICT SEVEN — HIGH-RISE, UNIT 210. DEADLINE: 23:59. PAYMENT: STANDARD. No fuss. No poetry. The tradecraft smiled back at me—efficient, unromantic. They had a name for people like me. They called me Starlight.
I checked my kit like a man checking his heartbeat—methodical, necessary. The rifle came first: compact, suppressor attached and whispering to the night; a cold, glassy optic I cleaned with fingertip care. Ammunition stacked in the pouch, one manual click to verify the chamber. A small blade rested against my calf, barely noticeable beneath the pant seam. Gloves, a thin scarf to break the silhouette, shoes that swallowed sound. Every tool was chosen to leave nothing behind but a blank page.
Recon took twenty minutes. The building's security looped predictably—cameras drifted left to right, guards paused too long at the base of the stairs, the target favored a drink at nine-thirty and a cigarette on the balcony at eleven. I watched, noting idiosyncrasies: the way he tapped the ash twice before discarding, how he locked his office door after midnight, how he never moved without his phone in his hand. Information was the quietest kind of power; it softened the edges of violence into a clean line.
At 23:47 I positioned myself on a neighboring rooftop. The alley between the buildings was a river of faint light; a streetlamp flickered like a second heartbeat. Below, the city's noise thinned to a distant, indifferent wash. I settled the rifle on the concrete ledge, settled my breath with it. Training made the breaths shallow, synchronized; the heart slowed if you let it, until it was a metronome clicking in the ribs rather than a drum in the throat.
The target stepped onto his balcony at 23:54. He didn't see me—of course he didn't. People who live by power rarely look up. He leaned on the railing, shoulders stooped, cigarette a brief star against the dark. The crosshair found the gap between collar and jaw, that clean point where everything beyond ends and nothing gory begins. One shot, the math of angles and air pressure, a muted sound swallowed by the suppressor and the night.
When he crumpled, there was no operatic scream. The cigarette fell and smoldered against the concrete like an afterthought. I watched for a full minute, because the job isn't done until the silence is vetted. No stray movement. No irregular lights. The optics fogged a little in the cold; I wiped them and counted three slow, deliberate exhalations. Professionalism looked like patience.
I left as if I owned the shadows. Roof to fire escape, fire escape to alley, crossing the street in measured strides that blended into the flow of late-night taxis and solitary commuters. The rifle was disassembled and zipped into a case that could pass for a music bag. My shoes made the same quiet sound they always made—less a step than the soft closing of a hand on a book. In under seven minutes I was two blocks away, a teenager with the weight of exams and part-time shifts written on his absent expression.
The city had a rhythm. I followed it out of habit, through the orange halo of a convenience store and past a laundromat whose television muttered late-night reruns. The kill was already a cold fact in my bones, a small stone dropped into the pond of my life. I felt the ripples but they did not touch me; I had learned to leave the surface undisturbed.
Then I heard the steps.
They were close at first — a set of footsteps that did not belong to the city's random walk. Too hurried for a stranger, too deliberate for an accidental passerby. Someone was running. The sound carried that quick, almost tremulous cadence of fear or excitement. Familiar, like a melody you only half remember until the chorus hits, and then it becomes everything.
My body turned before my brain finished the calculation. A silhouette came into the halo of a streetlamp. Small. Quick. Breath fogging in the cold. A shape I had not expected to see here, not tonight, not after the sort of work I did. For a suspended beat the world narrowed to that approach—the scuff of shoes, the hitch in breath, the impossible speed of something sweet and human crossing the distance.
She called out. Her voice—half cry, half laugh—broke the neat surface of the night.
"Starlight!"
For a second the name tasted foreign on her tongue, as if she'd borrowed it from the wrong world. My heart stilled in that precise, terrible way a clock does when a hand is removed. The neat geometry of the rooftop, the clean arithmetic of a well-executed job, dissolved into a single, jagged question.
I should have walked away. I should have melted into the crowd and become nothing again. Instead, I watched her run toward me, every step a punctuation mark, and for the first time in a long time, silence felt like the most dangerous thing of all.
She was after me, wasn't she?
At that moment, I knew, I could stay no longer, I needed to go.