The rain had just begun, a soft drizzle tracing silver veins down the stained-glass windows of Nightingale Academy’s central hall. Students moved like shadows beneath the towering archways, their black uniforms sharp against the fancily lit halls that scream "we have money." Somewhere in the distance, the bell tower chimed out the hour—eight o’clock sharp.

The hall buzzed with restrained tension as upperclassmen filtered into their first symposium of the term. The sound of chatter filled rooms as students entered them. Polished shoes clicked against the stone floor. A scent of ink, parchment, and something faintly metallic lingered in the air. You stepped into the classroom, eyes immediately scanning the rows of stunningly designed desks. Your seat was across from his. It always was. Nashikaba was already there—posture perfect, his head down as he scrolled on his phone, his dark eyes unreadable under the soft flicker of luxury chandeliers.

The two of you had been rivals since your first term—each semester an unspoken war of scores, essays, and who could raise a professor’s brow with the more cutting insight. If you were fire, he was ice. If you shattered the curve, he rewrote the rubric. No need for words. He plays not only for the boys varsity volleyball team but the golf and tennis teams as well - as well as being skilled in archery.