"Huh, aren't you depressed, Ayanokouji? I thought for sure when I heard you two broke up, you'd be moping around in some corner, maybe even thinking about offing yourself."
The red-haired man clapped a hand on Kiyotaka's shoulder, a wide, teasing grin splitting his face.
His tone was pure mockery, the kind of jab only a real friend could get away with.
"Seriously though, she's not just gorgeous—she's the goddamn Queen of Class A. I still don't know what kind of cosmic luck you stumbled into to land a girlfriend like her in the first place."
He paused, scratching his chin thoughtfully, then laughed. "Maybe you just ran out of that luck, yeah? That's why she finally wised up and dumped your ass."
Ayanokouji Kiyotaka didn't even flinch at the words. He simply rolled his eyes—a rare, almost human gesture from him—as he bent down to retrieve the cold can of juice that clunked into the vending machine's tray.
"Depression is for people who have no other options, Sudo," he replied, his voice flat and utterly unconcerned. "Do I look like someone without options? Do I look like a man that women wouldn't bother to choose?"
"You insufferable bastard," Sudo Ken cursed, but there was no real heat in it—only the bitter, envious frustration of someone who'd been burned too many times.
His eyes flickered with something dark and unwilling, the kind of look that spoke of a history too painful to voice aloud. "If I'd known you'd just brush it off like that, I wouldn't have asked. Waste of my damn sympathy."
Without bothering to hide his irritation, Sudo slammed his foot against the vending machine—a solid, disrespectful kick that rattled the glass and made the whole thing shudder.
He snatched his own drink from the tray as if he were wrestling it from an enemy, popping the tab with a sharp hiss and gulping half of it down in one go, desperate to drown whatever frustration was chewing at him.
Ayanokouji observed the display with passive, clinical detachment. "That will cost the class points, you know. They'll deduct it for vandalism."
"Fuck the class points," Sudo spat, his voice dripping with disdain.
He gestured vaguely in the direction of the school building, contempt curling his lip. "No one saw it. And even if they did, you saw it. And I know you're not going to waste your breath explaining anything to those mongrels."
The bitterness in his voice wasn't just about the drink machine.
It ran deeper, etched into his bones by experience.
In another timeline, Sudo Ken had eventually been tamed, integrated into the class, made to play nice thanks to the meddling of Horikita Suzune. He'd been grateful, cooperative, a team player.
Not this version.
This Sudo remembered too clearly how Class D had turned their backs on him when Ryuuen of Class C set him up, framing him, dangling expulsion over his head like a sword. They'd watched, apathetic and silent, content to let him drown if it meant their own safety. No one lifted a finger. No one spoke for him.
That memory had calcified into something hard and cold in his chest. Now, he owed them nothing. He gave them nothing. Not his effort, not his loyalty, not even the pretense of civility.
Ayanokouji watched him with those flat, evaluating eyes. He'd made sure of this outcome, after all.
He'd carefully cultivated Suzune's isolation, ensuring she never developed the instinct to reach out, never bothered to lift a finger for the dregs of Class D. Instead, he'd nurtured a cold, ruthless individualism in her—a single-minded focus on personal points, on clawing her way to Class A alone, abandoning the rest to rot in the gutter where they belonged.
Without his manipulation, without Suzune's sudden, uncharacteristic kindness, Class D remained exactly what it had always been labeled: the dregs.
The dumping ground for the school's rejects. Trash like Yamauchi and his ilk still festered there, unchanged, unchallenged, unloved.
It wasn't that Ayanokouji was being mean for the sake of it. It wasn't some inherent cruelty or cold-blooded indifference that made him wash his hands of Class D.
The truth was simpler, uglier, and far more damning for them.
He had tried.
Once.
Genuinely.
Because Ayanokouji Kiyotaka wasn't the original anymore. He was a transmigrator—a man who had awoken in this body with full knowledge of the plot, the characters, and the destiny that awaited them all.
And in the beginning, fresh into this world, he'd actually wanted to help. He'd wanted to unite them, to forge Class D into something better than the canon had allowed. To give them a fighting chance.
So he did what any competent person would do. He shared his observations.
He pointed out, casually and without fanfare, that the private points they received each month were probably conditional.
That maybe—just maybe—there was a reason the school handed out what amounted to free money to a bunch of teenagers.
He hinted, nudged, and let the smarter ones connect the dots.
And when their homeroom teacher, Chabashira Sae, confirmed that yes, the price to buy that information outright was a substantial amount of private points—Hirata Yousuke, ever the earnest class representative, saw the opportunity.
He became vocal, passionate even, about pooling their resources. About buying that information together, as a class. For the good of everyone.
Because Hirata took the lead, the rest of Class D fell in line. For once, they acted like a cohesive unit.
They pooled their points, bought the information, and gained a critical early advantage over the other classes.
It should have been the foundation of a bright future. A turning point. Proof that even the dregs could rise if they worked together.
But trash is trash. That's the immutable law of garbage—it doesn't stop being garbage just because you pile it neatly.
The very next day, every other class had the information too. Without paying a single point. Without effort, without sacrifice, without earning it.
Ayanokouji investigated. He traced the leak.
The answer made something dark and permanent settle in his chest.