The morning sun spilled over the rooftops of Sakuragi High School, one of Tokyo's most prestigious high schools. To outsiders, it was a symbol of elite education—polished uniforms, towering gates, and a student body made up of politicians' children, and the best of Japan's youth.
But today, something unusual disrupted its perfect order.
The school gates creaked open again—not for a diplomat's son or a prodigy—but for a transfer student.
Ryuji.
The classroom buzzed with the usual morning noise—gossip, laughter, the clatter of desks being dragged an inch too far. The teacher's voice cut through it all, sharp but lazy.
"Alright, quiet down. We've got a new student."
The door slide open slowly and slowly . And just like that, the room fell silent.
He stepped in.
Tall. Pale skin. Jet-black long hair , not a strand out of place. His school uniform was worn perfectly—but it looked more like a suit on him. Cold eyes scanned the class like he wasn't looking at students, but pawns.
"My name is Ryuji Tatsugami," he said, voice flat. "Don't bother remembering it."
He didn't bow. He didn't smile. He just stood there.
Aika Kurohane, sitting by the window, blinked. There was something about him—like a blade hidden beneath silk. The girls whispered. The boys sized him up. No one spoke to him when he took the empty seat in the back.
---
Lunch Break.
No one dared approach him. Even the usual bullies skipped their routine—something about his presence was suffocating.
Aika kurohane the daughter of the most powerful and influenced yakuza family. Aika found herself watching him again.
Who was he?
He hadn't spoken a word since his introduction. Just sat there, eyes closed, as if he was bored of everything.
But she noticed it—the slight twitch in his fingers. Not nervous. Coiled. Like a weapon waiting to strike.
---
After School.
Two students were dragged into an alley by some guys. Debt collection, they said. But actually these guys are bullies.
No one would've helped. No one dared.
But someone was already in that alley smoking cigarettes.
A flurry of motion. A scream. Then silence.
Five men lay crumpled on the ground, groaning in pain.
Ryuji stood in the middle, sleeves rolled up, knuckles red.
"I hate trash who pick on the weak," he muttered, turning away.
Aika had seen it all—from the rooftop.
And for the first time in her life, the daughter of the most powerful Yakuza family felt her heart race.
Not in fear.
But fascination.