My name is Souta Renjiro.
I live in a quiet residential neighborhood, the kind where the air feels heavy with the smell of detergent and nostalgia. The loudest thing you'll hear around here is probably the neighbor's ancient washing machine, rumbling like a dying beast every morning. Sometimes it rattles so violently that even the sparrows on the power lines fly off in protest.
Every day follows the same script.
Wake up late, stumble to the sink, brush my teeth while staring blankly at my own reflection and wondering how it's possible to look so exhausted before the day even starts.
Then I scrounge around the fridge like a scavenger hunting for a trace of civilization—half a boiled egg, maybe a piece of bread that's pretending not to be stale and call it breakfast.
If life were a game, I wouldn't even be the side character. I would the guy sitting at the convenience store counter who sells you onigiri for 120 yen. No special abilities, no character arc. Just a human placeholder in the background of someone else's story.
Some people dream of adventures, of doing something that matters.
Me? I dream of finding an empty seat on the train. That's the extent to which my ambition goes.
Friends? I've got a couple—if you can call people who constantly roast you "friends."
Goals? None worth mentioning.
Excitement? Occasionally, when I heat up instant ramen without the noodles overflowing like a volcano. That's a win in my book.
If you asked me to sum up my entire existence in one word, it'd be mediocre.
Perfectly, painfully, frustratingly mediocre.
And yet… that morning, something about the air felt different.
The kind of subtle change you don't notice until much later, when it's already too late.
The cherry blossoms hadn't bloomed yet, but a few early petals drifted down the street like hesitant snowflakes. The air carried that faint scent of spring—wet pavement, new uniforms, and something almost like promise.
By the time I reached the school gates, the morning sunlight was sharp enough to make me squint. The cracked concrete beneath my shoes, the chipped blue railings, the same sound of someone yelling about forgotten homework—it was all the same. But my chest had that weird, restless thrum. Like the kind of premonition you get before a storm or a confession.
"Hey, Souta! Late again?"
The voice hit me before I even turned.
Kenta, of course—loud, grinning, and built like he's never lost a fight but always looking for one. Behind him, Hiro, adjusting his glasses for the thousandth time, was scrolling through something on his phone with that deadpan focus of a man perpetually disappointed in humanity.
"Morning…" I muttered, yawning as I swapped my shoes.
"Morning? It's already noon," Kenta snorted. "You planning to sleep through the rest of your youth?"
I shrugged. Just another normal day. Same teasing, same back-and-forth banter. I let their voices fill the empty space in my head as we drifted toward class, half-listening, half-drifting.
At least, until homeroom.
When I walked into the classroom, it was louder than usual. Not the regular chaos of desks scraping or chairs squeaking—this was sharper, buzzing, like static electricity running through gossip.
"Hey, did you hear?"
"There's a transfer student coming today."
"Transfer student? Now?"
"Apparently the mayor's daughter."
That got everyone's attention. The room went from mild curiosity to pure pandemonium in three seconds. Desks creaked as people leaned in to whisper. Even Hiro stopped scrolling.
"The mayor's daughter…? What's she doing here?"
I sat down, half-listening, resting my chin on my hand.
*The mayor's daughter… huh.*
Another person from a different world, dropping into our dull one for reasons I'd never understand.
Then the door slid open. The sound was small, but the effect was instant. Silence fell like a curtain.
"Everyone, quiet down," our teacher said, stepping in with a clipboard tucked under his arm. "We have a new student joining us today. Please treat her kindly."
The air thickened. Even the sunlight through the windows seemed to pause.
And then she walked in.
The room collectively forgot how to breathe. Her uniform was perfectly pressed, her posture straight but not stiff. There was a calmness about her, like she'd already seen through everything and decided it wasn't worth reacting to. Her eyes were this quiet shade of gray, not dull, but deep, like storm clouds holding back rain. I could practically hear the guys falling in love in real-time.
She bowed slightly. "I am Kae Asamiya. I just moved here. Please take care of me."
Simple, polite, nothing out of place. But her voice had that tone—soft, composed, and completely unshaken by the flood of whispers already spreading through the room.
"She's gorgeous."
"Her dad's the mayor, right?"
"Think she's single?"
"I'm gonna talk to her after class."
"Please don't embarrass us, Yamada."
I slouched further in my seat, pulling my jacket over my face.
*Another celebrity type in a crumbling public school. Great.*
As for me? When life gives you lemons, eat 'em raw. When it gives you garbage, make it lunch. That's my motto.
Meanwhile, everyone around me was practically brawling for a decent seat — shoving, calling dibs, some guy even pretending his bag was a person. The energy was desperate, like the start of a reality show where everyone's competing for screen time.
Me? I was just there, eyes half-closed from an all-nighter gaming. My head felt like a loading bar stuck at 99%, and I yawned wide enough to swallow the morning sunlight pouring in through the window.
"Souta, are you trying to swallow the class whole?"
The teacher's voice snapped like a whip, cutting through the chatter. The room burst into laughter, the kind that's more about surviving school than finding things funny.
I rubbed my eyes and blinked. "Huh? Oh. Sorry."
He sighed, muttering something about "hopeless cases" as he turned back to the board. I leaned back, trying to look alive. Then—something changed in the air.
It wasn't dramatic. Just… subtle. Like the light itself decided to focus on one spot in the room.
A faint scent drifted by — faint perfume, fresh paper, something clean and sharp. And then, a strand of black hair brushed against my arm. The class went dead silent.
It looked like they were glaring at me but I honestly wished it were the case. I turned my head and there she was, sitting right next to me, calmly unpacking her books like she owned the place.
Kae Asamiya.
The mayor's daughter. The name that everyone in school said with either admiration or envy, depending on where you stood. Her hair was pitch-black, falling smoothly over her shoulders, catching the light in these soft, silken streaks. Her posture was straight, deliberate — not stiff, just composed. Even the way she flipped open her notebook had rhythm.
My brain tried to process what it was seeing, and somewhere in the distance, I could hear the collective thoughts of every guy in class syncing up:
"No way…"
"She's sitting next to him?"
"That's not fair!"
I didn't even have time to think before the realization hit me — this wasn't about me anymore. In that single, cursed moment, I'd accidentally become Public Enemy No. 1.
The lecture began, but I couldn't tell you a single word the teacher said. His voice became background noise like static on a bad radio channel. My eyelids kept drooping.
Then… there was a sudden light touch on my shoulder.
"You're… good at sleeping, huh?"
The voice was cool and calm. Like she'd said it a thousand times before, but never to someone who'd made her waste her breath.
I froze then slowly turned. Kae was leaning slightly toward me, her hair shifting like ink spilling across her desk. Her eyes met mine — sharp, precise, almost too composed for someone her age. There was no smile, no irritation, just an assessment. Like she was reading me.
"S-Sorry…"
She tilted her head, studying me for a second. "Souta, right?"
"Uh, yeah. And you're… Asamiya?"
That earned me a tiny, knowing smile. "Obviously."
Her tone wasn't harsh — just detached. Effortless authority wrapped in calmness. She didn't need to assert anything. The air did that for her.
"Sleeping through class isn't impressive," she said, flipping a page in her notebook. "It's just careless. Not that I expected better from you."
Wonderful, even a transfer student too.
I raised an eyebrow, half amused, half mortified. "Got it ma'am… I'll, uh, try to stay awake next time."
She finally looked up again. Her eyes were… intense. The kind that made you feel seen, even when you didn't want to be.
"See that you do," she said evenly. "I don't like laziness."
There was no malice in it — just this cold, commanding tone that made my chest tighten.
Still, my pride kicked in.
"Don't worry," I said with a lazy grin. "I'm full of surprises. You might even like it."
That made her pause. Not long — just enough to catch.
Then a faint, almost imperceptible smirk curved her lips.
She turned back to her notes, pen gliding across the paper in perfect lines. And me? I just sat there, wide awake now, realizing something weird — it felt like I'd just passed a test.
Like she'd looked straight into my soul and stamped: "Potential."
My heart was still racing a little, but my brain was too tired to admit it.
Instead, I just stared at the board, pretending to listen to the teacher hoping the lecture would finally end.
The bell finally rang, echoing down the hallways like a sigh of freedom. The teacher barely finished scribbling on the board before the classroom erupted. Everyone suddenly remembered they had somewhere to be — a battle for the "next to Kae" seat had begun. Desks squeaked, elbows collided, books toppled over. It was like the Hunger Games, but with uniforms and calculators.
I leaned back in my chair, arms crossed, yawning like it was some kind of performance art. Every boy in the class was either standing on a chair, trying to peek at her notes, or glaring daggers at anyone else daring to breathe near her.
One guy whispered loudly, "She's… right there. NEXT TO SOUTA!"
"Don't even think about it," another hissed. "It's mine."
I rolled my eyes.
*Oh, so now I'm suddenly the gatekeeper of the world's most precious commodity: Asamiya Kae's attention. Lucky me.*
I stretched, resting my head on my arm, and muttered to myself, "What? Did everyone forget I'm part of this classroom, too?"
Then it hit me — a brilliant idea, twisted in the way only desperation, sleep deprivation, and years of watching anime could create. I straightened, flashing the kind of grin that could sell sand in the desert. "Okay, everyone… calm down. We can do this properly."
The entire room froze. Well, most of the boys. The girls were either giggling or pretending not to watch — clearly enjoying the chaos they had no part in creating.
"Step one," I announced loudly, "is understanding the value of this seat. It's not just a chair. No, no… this is a premium package, complete with front-row access to the most exclusive content in the school: the mayor's daughter herself."
"Eh?" one of the braver guys whispered.
"Exactly," I said, spinning in my chair, hands gesturing like some auctioneer possessed by a caffeine overdose. "This isn't charity. This isn't first-come, first-served. This is capitalism in action! If you want the seat, you pay… in whatever form you can muster."
There was a pretty long and awkward pause after that. The class blinked at me, unsure whether to laugh or call the authorities.
"Cash, homework answers, a favor… heck, a haiku about my magnificent skills. All bids welcome. Starting price? 500 yen!"
Everyone seemed to think I'm crazy and hesitated, but no one could resist the offer.
Finally, a brave soul stood up. "500… okay, fine, I'll do it. Seriously, you're insane, but… whatever."
I waved a hand like a game show host. "Excellent! Opening bid accepted. Any takers for… 700?"
A flurry of chaos. One guy shouted, another waved a notebook, and someone else looked genuinely panicked that he might lose.
"700!" someone yelled.
"Sold!" I declared, slamming my palm on the desk with flair. "Congratulations! You are now the temporary, provisional, highly exclusive holder of the next-to-Kae seat. Terms and conditions apply, obviously, but… details are boring."
The boys groaned, muttering under their breath, some clearly regretting life choices. The girls snickered, hiding their faces behind books or hair, probably judging the entire negotiation like it was some kind of absurd reality TV.
By the time the "deal" was officially sealed, one of the boys had taken his place proudly next to Kae. He sat there like he'd just scored the golden ticket to Willy Wonka's factory, grinning so wide it looked like his face might crack. His chest puffed out slightly, a victorious little nod here and there, and I could practically hear the imaginary trumpet fanfare playing over his head.
I leaned against the wall, counting the few coins jingling in my pocket like I was some kind of financial genius. It was a strange mixture of pride and absurdity—pride that I had somehow turned sheer chaos into profit, and absurdity that my "business plan" involved selling a seat in a high school classroom. Somehow, I had actually pulled it off.
Kae glanced sideways at the boy beside her, then slowly, deliberately, fixed her sharp, calculating eyes on me. Her lips curved into that haughty, slightly mocking smile—the kind that made you feel simultaneously challenged and like a fool.
"…You sold your own seat?" she said, voice calm, but with just the right tilt of incredulity.
I shrugged, trying to look casual, like this was all totally normal. "Well… don't overthink it. You're… still safe."
Her eyebrow twitched in perfect, unimpeachable disbelief. One little arch, and I knew I was completely caught.
"Safe? Do you even realize what you just did?"
I flailed a little with my hands, trying to justify the chaos. "Hey… everybody wins, right? Everyone's happy, isn't that the point?"
I nodded toward the boy next to her, who was now beaming like he'd just unlocked some secret achievement in life. "He got the seat, I got the cash… and you… well, you get the front-row view of the action. It's a win-win."
Kae's smirk deepened, just a fraction, and she let out a small, almost amused sigh, like I had provided her a brief moment of entertainment before class descended into chaos again.
"You are completely hopeless, you know that?"
I smiled and gave her a small, exaggerated bow, tipping an imaginary hat. "Why, thank you, madam."
The boy beside her shifted in his seat, looking like he was experiencing mild buyer's remorse. He tried to settle in, but the nervous twitch in his shoulder and the way he kept glancing at me made it painfully obvious he wasn't sure what he'd signed up for.
Meanwhile, the rest of the classroom had either stopped paying attention entirely or were quietly whispering about the "VIP auction" happening right in front of them. A few girls rolled their eyes; a couple of boys muttered to each other, clearly regretting they hadn't thought to bid higher. One kid tried to scribble down "auction tactics" in his notebook, like I was secretly some financial guru teaching a masterclass.
I stuffed the cash into my pocket, feeling a bizarre sense of accomplishment. Somehow, I had turned a slice of mundane classroom life into profit and chaos at the same time. I felt like I could walk out of that school as a full-fledged tycoon, even if my business model was based entirely on absurdity.
Kae leaned back slightly, watching the boy next to her fidget, and gave me a sideways glance. Her expression said it all: amusement, disbelief, and perhaps the tiniest flicker of respect—or at least acknowledgment of sheer audacity.
"You really have no sense of responsibility, do you?" she said, voice low and smooth.
I shrugged again, flashing what I hoped was a charming grin. "Responsibility are for adults, and I'm just a teenager."
Her lips twitched, almost forming a smile, and I swear the air around her seemed to sparkle just a little—though it could have been my imagination. The boy next to her sat there, sweating like he'd just agreed to a prank that might have been staged for the entire school.
I leaned back against the wall, pretending to be casual, but inside, I was silently patting myself on the back. In one fell swoop, I had profited, amused Kae, and made the entire classroom slightly insane—all without even touching my notebook.
Somewhere, in the corner of my vision, Kenta and Hiro were smirking, clearly entertained by my antics, and probably plotting to never let me live this down. That only made me grin wider. Chaos was an art form, and I, apparently, was a master.
And Kae… well, she was still sitting there, just calm enough to make me wonder whether she found me ridiculous, clever, or both. That tiny smirk, that perfectly arched eyebrow—it seemed mysterious what her thoughts were.