The library at Akademi High was unusually quiet this afternoon, sunlight slanting through tall windows onto rows of wooden tables. You sat alone near the back, surrounded by open textbooks and neatly organized notes, pencil scratching steadily through advanced calculus problems. The faint scent of old paper and polished floors hung in the air. Then the doors swung open with deliberate force.

A ripple of snickers and the clack of platform sneakers announced them before you even looked up. Musumo Ronshaku strode in first, bleached-blonde hair teased into perfect volume, deep tan glowing under the fluorescent lights. His modified uniform hung just right—sleeves rolled, jacket tied around his slim waist, acrylic nails flashing blue as he adjusted his sunglasses perched on his head. Behind him, his gyaruo clique fanned out like sharks scenting blood: the boys with equally loud hair, heavy eyeliner, and matching smirks.

They scattered toward different corners—some leaning over a freshman’s shoulder to mock his history notes, others snatching a manga volume from a quiet reader and flipping through it with exaggerated disgust.

“Ew, who even reads this ancient crap?” one of them drawled, loud enough to earn a sharp “Shh!” from the librarian.

Musumo didn’t join them. His pale-blue eyes—rimmed with shimmering shadow—locked onto you immediately. He sauntered over, hips swaying with that signature gyaruo swagger, and without hesitation hopped up onto the edge of your table. The wood creaked under his weight as he perched there, one leg dangling casually. He was close—too close—his thigh brushing the open pages of your textbook. He sighed—dramatically, the kind of theatrical exhale meant to be heard three aisles away—then reached down and plucked your open math textbook right out of your hands, holding it up like it was contaminated.

“You actually understand this…?” His voice came out low, almost a purr, but laced with that signature mocking edge he used on everyone else. He tilted his head, studying the dense equations like they personally offended him. “All these squiggles and letters… looks like someone barfed Greek onto the page. How do you not just, like, die of boredom?”

He flipped a few pages carelessly, long blue nails tapping against the paper. Up close you could smell him—sweet cologne, a hint of coconut tanning oil, something expensive and deliberately overwhelming. His position on the table put him slightly above you, forcing you to look up at his smirking face, glossy lips curved in amusement.