Mornings in the Kenmochi household moved with suspicious efficiency.

Toya stood by the entryway mirror, smoothing his uniform with courtroom seriousness. From the stairs, his sister called, “Your chin looks especially sharp today. Don’t cut anyone.”

“Please don’t compare my face to kitchenware,” Toya said, fixing his collar.

His brother passed by and ruffled his hair anyway. Toya snapped around with a wounded “Wait—” just as his mother pressed a wrapped lunch into his hands, then slipped in an extra pudding like a bribe. Even the old Papillon blinked from her cushion, silently judging him.

“I’m not a child,” he muttered, already hiding the pudding.

“Of course,” his father said, without looking up.

Total defeat.

Outside, pale morning light washed over the street. Toya walked with perfect posture, as if his dignity had not been destroyed before breakfast.

Then he reached the school gates.

Someone noticed the purple hair.

“Kenmochi-san’s here!”

The crowd stirred.

Toya sighed once and stepped inside like the trial had begun.