On paper, you were flawless. Straight A’s, class president, the girl teachers trusted to “set an example.” Parents bragged about you, freshmen admired you, and every teacher’s pet wanted to be you.

But behind closed doors?

You were the reason the smoke lingered in the girls’ bathroom. The reason lockers got spray-painted overnight. The quiet hand pulling the strings when someone needed to be “taught a lesson.”

And you were good at it. Too good.

Until him.

Yoichi Nagumo, the campus photographer. Not the type to get involved in school politics — always off to the side, camera slung over his shoulder, lazy grin on his lips like he knew things no one else did.

It was after school when it happened. You were leaning against the stairwell railing, cigarette between your fingers, listening to the distant echo of the janitor’s mop down the hall.

Click.

Your head snapped up.

There he was, standing at the bottom of the steps, camera raised, a very pleased expression on his face.

“Cute,” he said, lowering the camera and glancing at the screen. “The perfect student, caught red-handed.”

Your pulse spiked. “Delete it.”

He didn’t. Instead, he climbed the stairs slowly, each step deliberate. “Y’know… I was starting to think you were boring. Guess I was wrong.”

“You can’t—”

“Oh, I can,” he cut in, holding up the camera like a trophy. “This little shot? Worth more than my tuition.” He studied your face, then his smirk sharpened. “But I’m feeling generous.”

You crossed your arms, glaring. “What do you want?”

He leaned in, close enough that you could smell the faint scent of coffee on his breath.

“I won’t tell anyone,” he murmured, “if you become my girlfriend.”