The new transfer student arrived like a thunderclap sudden, loud in silence, and impossible to ignore.
He didn't knock. He didn't bow. He just opened the door and walked in, as if the room had always belonged to him and he was simply reclaiming it.
He strolled into Class 2-B with a cinematic swagger, the kind that looked choreographed but was clearly second nature. His uniform blazer hung off one shoulder with calculated carelessness, collar half-popped like he couldn't be bothered to fix it. Hands buried deep in his pockets, his posture loose but alert, he carried himself like someone who'd fought through something you didn't ask about and wouldn't answer even if you did.
There was a stillness to him that contrasted with his movement, a tension in his limbs like a blade half-sheathed. The air shifted around him as he walked, like the room itself had taken a breath and forgotten to let it out.
A faint scar curved under his left eye barely visible unless you were looking. But people were looking. It caught the light like a secret. A single silver hoop dangled from one ear, swaying slightly as he moved with a quiet grace that didn't quite belong to a high school student.
His eyes, sharp and unreadable, scanned the room slowly. They flicked from face to face, calculating, measuring, filing students into mental categories. Not friends. Not enemies. Just data. There was no curiosity in his gaze just cold, practiced observation.
When he finally spoke, his voice was low, smooth, and almost lazy, like the words cost him very little.
"I'm Kurosawa Ren," he said. "Don't need anything. Don't ask for anything. Just ignore me and we'll get along fine."
Naturally, no one ignored him.
Miyako leaned over to Haruki, who was quietly taking notes like nothing interesting had happened.
"Wow," she whispered. "This dude radiates plot."
Haruki didn't even glance up. "Don't get ideas."
She grinned, mischief dancing in her eyes. "Too late."
It didn't matter that Kurosawa took the seat in the back corner and didn't say another word for the rest of the period. His silence spoke volumes. By the time the bell rang, everyone in Class 2-B had already formed a theory about him: delinquent? undercover cop? mafia heir? time traveler?
Every rumor felt possible.
By lunchtime, Kurosawa Ren had triggered a small gravitational shift in the school's social orbit.
Girls peeked out from behind lockers and textbook stacks, whispering like a storm was coming. Even some of the guys typically too proud to admire anyone openly were watching him with subtle nods of respect. He didn't talk much, didn't smile often, but he had that aura like he'd lived through something darker than exams and entrance scores. Like hallway gossip couldn't touch him.
He moved like a person used to being followed, not because he wanted attention, but because it came whether he liked it or not.
At the cafeteria, he didn't eat with anyone. Just grabbed a drink from a vending machine and leaned against a wall near the windows, sipping silently as he watched the school courtyard like a battlefield strategist.
So it wasn't surprising when he ended up standing beside Miyako's desk during lunch, casting a long shadow over her bento.
"You're the loud one," he said, tone unreadable but not unkind.
Miyako looked up mid-bite, chopsticks paused. A piece of tamagoyaki hovered between her fingers. "Depends who you ask."
Ren studied her for a beat, something flickering behind his eyes. "I heard you're fake-married to someone."
She chewed, swallowed, then smiled. "Not fake anymore."
Haruki, who had been eating beside her with practiced calm, went still. His hand, holding a rice ball, froze midair.
Ren tilted his head. "This guy?"
Miyako nodded brightly. "Yup. Haruki. Boring, emotionally stable, and my current boyfriend. Say hi, Haruki."
Haruki didn't blink. "Hi."
Ren's lips quirked, a breath of a chuckle slipping through. Dry, knowing. "Interesting."
And then, just like that, he walked off. No further comment. No lingering look. As if some invisible checklist had been satisfied, at least for now.
Later, when the bell rang and the classroom emptied, Haruki and Miyako gathered their bags in silence. The day had felt unusually long.
Haruki finally broke the quiet.
"Did that feel like a challenge to you?"
Miyako glanced sideways, tying up her hair with a lazy twist. "Felt more like a test."
He raised a brow. "Think we passed?"
She shrugged. "I think I passed. You might need extra credit."
Haruki gave her a look, amused and exasperated all at once. "You didn't look impressed."
Miyako snorted. "Please. He's cool, yeah, but he talks like a shounen anime side villain. I already have the main character."
He turned toward her. "You think I'm the main character?"
She tapped his chest lightly with the tip of her pen. "You've got tragic backstory energy. Plus, you're good with umbrellas."
That made him laugh quiet and warm, the kind of laugh that doesn't demand attention but holds it anyway. Miyako didn't say anything, but the faint flush that touched her ears didn't go unnoticed.
They fell into step as they walked home together, their arms brushing every few strides, comfortable and familiar. The streets were soaked in golden hour light, turning ordinary sidewalks into something almost cinematic. Children played in the distance. A cicada buzzed lazily somewhere overhead. Tokyo felt slower in those moments suspended between the end of school and the start of something else.
Still, Haruki found himself glancing back once, just for a second.
Because Kurosawa Ren wasn't just cool.
He was calculated.
Sharp-eyed.
Deliberate.
And for reasons Haruki couldn't quite name, he looked at peoplen looked at him like he was flipping through a story he'd already read, just checking to see if it ended the same this time.
That night, as rain whispered against the windows of his room, Haruki lay awake staring at the ceiling.
He replayed the moment again the way Ren had said "interesting." The way he'd glanced at him like a puzzle piece in the wrong box.
Haruki didn't believe in gut feelings. He liked logic, cause and effect, predictable patterns. But something about Ren made him uneasy, like watching a shadow move when the light hadn't changed.
He picked up his phone, thumb hovering over Miyako's name in his messages.
Instead, he put it down and turned over, willing sleep to come.
Across the city, in a small one-room apartment filled with books, dried flowers, and unopened letters, Ren stood at the window, watching the rain.
His phone buzzed. A new message.
Target confirmed.
Timing up to you.
He didn't reply. Not yet.
Instead, he pulled out a wrinkled photograph from the back pocket of his notebook. Two boys. One girl. Blurry smiles. A festival in the background.
He traced a finger over the edges.
"Let's see if you're still the same," he murmured.
Then he turned away from the window, the photo tucked safely back between notebook pages, and flicked off the light.