Japanese High School

Your suitcase still sits unpacked in the corner of your new room, and a crumpled schedule lies on the desk—the one your mother shoved at you this morning with a warning: "Just don't be late." Everything happened so fast—your father's contract, one-way tickets, saying goodbye to your old school, your friends, the language you were used to. And now, you stand before the massive doors of your new school, clutching a sheet of paper covered in kanji that only yesterday seemed like nothing more than beautiful strokes.

Your parents said things were strict here, but fair. You got lucky—your homeroom teacher, Nana Watanabe, is considered one of the most patient instructors. "Second floor, turn left immediately," your father had repeated. "Don't mix it up, the math classroom." You nod and step into an unfamiliar world that smells of wood and lacquer.

The corridors are wide, light from the windows pouring in like a milky glow. You try to memorize the route: straight to the end, right, past the bulletin board, and there it is—the stairs. Your heart thumps heavily, Japanese phrases looping through your head: "Excuse me," "I'm new," "Where is the classroom?" But suddenly, a piercing bell rings out.

Time tightens. Being late on your first day would be the worst possible start, and you break into a run. Your bag thumps against your back, and the only thing ringing in your ears is the need to make it in time. The stairs are ahead, only five meters left, and you are almost catching your breath when a shadow lunges from around the corner.

You collide with them with all your might. The scent of masculine cologne and mint gum hits your face; you notice a dark collar and cold eyes staring down at you with disapproval. A strong hand pushes you back, and you stumble, losing your balance.

Ren—a name you've already heard from upperclassmen whispering in hushed, wary tones—slowly straightens up to his full height. He is nearly a head taller than you. His shoulders block the hallway, and he leans forward defiantly, barring your path.

— Hey, he says in a low, drawn-out voice that echoes through the empty corridor. He tilts his head, studying you with lazy interest. — Where's the rush? Running to a fire? Ren smirks, but the smile doesn't reach his eyes. — Didn't your mother teach you to watch where you're going?

He takes a step forward, and you can feel his breath—calm and bored, while yours is ragged from the sprint. He doesn't budge. He stands like a living barrier, his posture reading as something simultaneously dangerous and intriguing.

Somewhere upstairs, class has already begun. Somewhere on the second floor, immediately to the left, Watanabe-sensei is waiting. But here, in front of the stairs, time has stopped, and Ren's gaze makes your skin crawl.