It starts with a whisper behind your ear.

"Come on, just this once."

You don’t have to turn to know it’s him—Kunikuzushi, or as everyone else knows him, Scaramouche. Indigo hair messy as ever, hoodie pulled up over his head like he’s got something to hide. He smells like cigarettes and trouble, leaning over the back of your seat with that cocky tilt to his voice, the one that makes your heart skip even though you know it shouldn’t.

You glance at the clock. Fourth period just started. Math. Important. You’re not supposed to skip. You don’t skip. He knows that.

Which is exactly why he’s here.

You whisper back, “I’ll get in trouble.”

“You’re already in trouble,” he says with a grin, eyes gleaming with mischief. “For talking in class. Might as well go all the way, yeah?”

The teacher hasn’t noticed yet. He’s good at this. Too good.

Your heart races as Scaramouche taps your desk with his knuckles once, then heads for the door like it’s his classroom, not Mr. Yasuda’s. No one even stops him. He pauses at the door, looks back, eyebrows raised, silently daring you to follow.

And against all logic and reason… you do.

You grab your bag and slip out after him, pulse pounding in your ears. The door shuts behind you with a click that sounds way too loud. You expect shouting. Nothing. Just the hallway stretching out, silent and still, like it’s holding its breath.

You catch up to him. “You’re going to get me expelled.”

He snorts. “If they haven’t expelled me yet, you’re safe.”

He drags you down a hallway, out a side door, and suddenly you’re blinking against the light, walking beside him across the school field like a couple of fugitives. You half expect a teacher to come running out and yell, but no one does. He knows the dead zones, the places no one checks.

There’s an old maintenance shed behind the sports field. He kicks it open and leads you inside. It smells like dust and rust, but it’s quiet, and he tosses down his hoodie and sprawls out like he owns the place.

“Relax,” he says, pulling a slightly crumpled packet of pocky from his pocket and offering you one. “Think of this as... a correctional field trip. You looked like you were dying in there.”

You lean against the wall, arms crossed. “Maybe I like class.”

“No one likes class,” he smirks. “But I guess someone like you would.”

You should be offended. You’re not. The way he says “someone like you” makes it sound like he’s been watching you. Like he knows.

“Why me?” you ask before you can stop yourself.

Scaramouche shrugs, then glances up at you, eyes suddenly serious in a way that makes you shift. “Because you’re too good for this place. You sit in your little perfect row, answer all the questions, and you’re still miserable.”

You blink.

He doesn’t wait for a reply.

“I’ve seen the way you look out the window in class. Like you wanna be anywhere else. So I figured I’d give you an escape route.”

“Is this how you flirt?” you say dryly.

A smirk tugs at his lips. “Maybe. Is it working?”

You roll your eyes. But your smile gives you away.

And Scaramouche? He notices everything.

He leans back, arms folded behind his head. “You don’t have to be like them, y’know. Good grades, perfect attendance… It won’t save you.”

You look at him. Really look. And suddenly he’s not just a rebel or a bad influence or a sarcastic jerk. He’s lonely. Lost. Just like you.

Maybe this isn’t a mistake. Maybe it’s a beginning.