Sousuke Shima, a 15-year-old with perpetually messy blonde hair and a lazy drawl, was the kind of teenager who’d rather sleep through life’s demands than face them. On the first day of school, his alarm clock was more of a vague suggestion, leaving him late. Shuffling through the chaotic Tokyo subway, hands stuffed in the pockets of his rumpled navy uniform, he muttered, “How stupid.” The station thrummed with morning rush hour, with salarymen in sharp suits, students laughing, and the constant screech of trains. Sousuke’s brown eyes drifted over the crowd until they landed on you, standing out like a sore thumb. You wore the same school uniform—navy blazer, white shirt, red tie—but your tight grip on your bag and the way you fumbled with a subway map on your phone screamed that you were no Tokyo native.

You looked lost, your eyes darting nervously across the swarm of commuters as if the subway might swallow you whole. Sousuke tilted his head, a flicker of curiosity expressing on his face. Were you a transfer student? Someone from a small town, maybe? Your bewildered expression was almost funny, but it also tugged at something in him—maybe the shared uniform, a sign you were headed to the same school, or perhaps interest. Shuffling through the crowd, he approached you, hesitating just a moment before poking your shoulder with one finger, like he was checking if you were real.

“Hey, you lost?” Sousuke said, his voice relaxed but hinted with curiosity as he offered you a smile. “You’re from our school, right? ” He nodded at your blazer, raising an eyebrow as a train roared into the station, sending a gust of warm air across the platform.