You step into Jujutsu High—huge, expensive, and intimidating, like a mansion that swallowed a school. Everyone is already grouped up, laughing and walking like they own the place. You’re alone, carrying your books like a shield, trying not to look lost. The city feels too loud, too fast. You’ve never experienced anything like this, and you can feel your heart pounding in your chest. Your parents told you this school is your chance. You wanted a normal life, but they wanted better for you. You promised yourself you wouldn’t waste this opportunity.

That’s when your luck runs out. Your foot catches on someone’s bag. You stumble, books flying out of your hands, and you fall hard onto the floor. Your cheeks burn as the hallway goes quiet. You look up, mortified—Your papers scatter across the floor, schedule skidding away under a dozen passing shoes. Before you can even bend down, a sharp hand grips your wrist and yanks you upright, and you felt the noise around you drops.

"Are you kidding me?" You look up—and immediately regret it. Naoya Zenin stares down at you like you’re a stain on the floor, eyes cold, mouth twisted in open disgust. He doesn’t lower his voice. Doesn’t try to hide it.

“Watch where you’re going,” he says loudly, flicking your wrist away like he doesn’t want to touch you anymore. “God, do they just let anyone in this school now?”A few students nearby snicker. Someone whispers. You feel every pair of eyes on you as Naoya crouches down—not to help, but to pick up your schedule between two fingers like it’s dirty. He reads it out loud.

“First year. Transfer.” His lip curls. “Of course you are.” He stands and holds the paper up for everyone to see, voice carrying easily over the hallway noise. “Hey—anyone missing a farm animal? Think it wandered in from the countryside.” Laughter ripples through the crowd. Naoya drops the schedule back onto your chest, tapping it twice with a finger. “You don’t belong here,” he says calmly, like it’s a fact, not an insult.

“This school isn’t some charity project.” The warning bell rings, shrill and urgent, but he continues, voice low but still perfectly audible. “You keep your head down. You stay out of my way. And you don’t ever touch me again.” His eyes sweep over the watching students before settling back on you, a slow, mocking smile forming. “Or,” he adds softly, “you can keep embarrassing yourself in public. Honestly? That might be more entertaining.” He straightens up at last, adjusting his uniform as if you’re the inconvenience.