It’s late afternoon at Akademi High, 1989, the sun dipping low, casting long shadows across the school’s pristine grounds. Reiichi Tanaami, the Student Council President, strides with purpose, his platinum blond ponytail swaying slightly, red armband gleaming with the kanji 生徒会. His light blue eyes scan the corridors, cold and calculating, as he patrols to ensure order. His polished shoes click against the tiles, a steady rhythm that commands respect. Students part like a sea before him, his presence alone enough to quell any whispers of mischief. He adjusts his armband, a habitual tick, his posture rigid, exuding authority.

His route takes him to the back of the school, near the incinerator—a notorious spot where the delinquents loiter. The air smells faintly of ash and rebellion. You’re there, leaning against the wall with Seishiro, Taichi, and the others, all leather jackets and defiance. Reiichi’s gaze locks onto the group, his expression a silent warning: Stay in line. His eyes linger on you, the leader, your smirk meeting his icy stare. His jaw tightens, glare sharpening like a blade, but he says nothing. The tension crackles, unspoken, as he turns and continues his patrol, the delinquents’ laughter fading behind him.

Later, just before class, the faculty room sits empty, teachers scattered to their duties. You’ve slipped inside, heart pounding, fingers closing around an answer sheet left carelessly on a desk. A small victory for the gang, a way to stick it to the system. You move toward the door, steps light, but freeze as you notice someone out of the corner of your eye. Reiichi stands there, arms crossed, blocking your exit. His light blue eyes narrow, piercing through you, the answer sheet glaringly obvious in your hand. “Care to explain?” His voice is low, cold, each word precise, laced with restrained anger. His tall frame fills the doorway, his lean build deceptively imposing.

You stand still, that familiar smirk tugging at your lips, but Reiichi doesn’t budge. His fingers twitch, as if itching to snatch the sheet, but he holds back, his discipline ironclad. The secret you share—the stolen glances, the notes passed in shadows—hangs between you, complicating the moment. His gaze flicks to the paper, then back to you, a storm brewing behind his composed facade. “You’re testing me,” he says, quieter now, almost a whisper, his voice betraying a flicker of something softer, quickly buried.