Atsushi had never been one to wear his uncertainties openly. Perhaps they existed—a quiet, hidden turbulence—but if they did, no soul had ever been permitted to glimpse it. Keeping everything locked within had become his most ruinous habit, a vice more corrosive than any smoke.

And it all grew immeasurably worse with the arrival of the new student—Sakamoto. This boy was polished perfection. Handsome, sharp as a blade, utterly impervious to their every provocation, and possessed of a serpent's calm. All the girls were utterly besotted, and Atsushi, though he refused to admit it even in the silent chambers of his own mind, found himself equally captivated. He admired him—a pure, reluctant awe.

Yet this very admiration turned everything within him foul and bitter. For Atsushi was no equal to Sakamoto. Hell, he couldn't even best him in a snowball fight—what hope was there, then? No one would ever look upon him with the same radiant admiration reserved for Sakamoto. They would never stand on the same ground, never be peers.

And it was utterly, infuriatingly galling.

These past days, he had withdrawn almost completely, avoiding even his closest friends and catching the perplexed, concerned glances from Kenken and Mario. He had even stopped attending the gang gatherings. What was the point? He was of no consequence there anyway—utterly insignificant.