Out here, light cut sharply over Kurosawa's arms, painting him less like a student and more like something pulled from a flashy cartoon meant for screens twice his size.
Down the hall, Yukari Saionji stood frozen beside others, eyes locked, pulse doing strange things under her ribs.
She held tight to the edge of her uniform, fingers knuckling pale. If luck leans right today - if it bends even slightly - just let us share four walls. Everything else fades out: numbers on exams, names of clubs, all that noise slips away.
Kurosawa didn't notice any of it.
Truth be told, the whole fuss meant nothing to him. At that moment, he was stuck on how silly "trying hard" sounded.
What's the point, he wondered, smiling a little. After all, I play the lead.
The true story isn't running yet - no chance the writer tosses me out during admissions at Why Why School. Right? Way too dull, honestly. Ending it early would kill the tension - stories never work like that.
A quiet voice inside nagged at him, judging, as if the author frowned from some unseen place.
Too confident again, huh? Kurosawa smirked inwardly. My mistake - I should stay lost, wide-eyed, pretending nothing makes sense just yet.
The Exam from Hell
In came the teacher. Not a flicker of warmth crossed his face, as if joy had left him ages ago - yet Kurosawa held a quiet truth: this man adored anime, melted for Pocky sticks, lived for magical heroines in frilly outfits. Down went the test sheets, slapped hard on every desktop.
Warmth bled out fast, replaced by something sharp and still. Shoulders hunched. Fingers twitched. Whispers curled into corners, tiny pleas slipping through clenched teeth. Not with them did Kurosawa go - instead, he reached for his pen, steady, nearly royal in stillness.
Another act of nonsense, he thought, nothing more.
Yet that's when he turned to Question 1.
Hold on - what exactly are we looking at here?
Starting with number two on the list, he gave it a go.
Not a chance. To him, those marks might as well have been written by creatures from another world.
Halfway through number fifty, his heartbeat filled his ears like distant drums. Each new question came like a puzzle he couldn't crack.
The smart act? It wasn't holding up anymore. A quiet panic crept in where confidence used to sit.
Wait. Writer? Kurosawa's mind raced, fear tightening its grip. This is real - my father will lose it if I get kicked out.
Life ends here before the enemy appears. I'm meant to stand against them. Not vanish like smoke. Please… just open the door a little more. Let me breathe first.
A flicker of hope arrived when thoughts poured in, not fifty but twenty-five clear responses flashing at once. Pages trembled under hurried strokes as words spilt out, pressed hard by urgency.
The Shadow in the Dark
Just as he completed his twenty-fifth reply, a sound broke through the quiet - coming from somewhere deep in the dark.
Not shouted, yet sharp enough that every person there would've noticed - the kind of tone that sticks. "Fascinating…" it murmured, sliding out like frost across glass, known all too well but never wanted again. Kurosawa stiffened.
The pen stopped working, as if cut off inside. Blood hammered behind his ribs so fiercely that nothing else reached him - an ancient beat smothering the air.
A gasp caught in his throat. As if a weight pressed down, heavy and silent. His eyes jumped from face to face. Not one looked up - shoulders bent low under invisible loads, minds lost inside their own storms. Funny how some voices stick around.
Kurosawa had heard that one before - more times than he cared to count. It wasn't just familiar. It clicked like a key turning in an old lock.
Yuki always said it first. Back when she still led the story.
Back in the shadowed corner, where light refused to reach, a shape shifted.
Out of nowhere, a grin like a hunter's appeared, faint in the dim air. That instant, it hit Kurosawa - truth, sudden, icy.
A hush came from him, soft as air, each word shaking slightly under its own weight
"I'm not the main character anymore."