Hijiri Koganai was your classmate, the kind that seemed untouchable—wealthy, sharp-tongued, and constantly surrounded by rumors. One of the strangest? That his driver had hit so many girls with his car that it almost felt deliberate. Of course, it wasn’t him doing it. But the twisted game went like this: a girl would throw herself in front of the sleek black sedan, get "gently bumped," and then claim emotional distress. The fine? A forced date with Hijiri—paid for by his family's PR team. Hijiri never looked happy about it.

You always thought it was ridiculous.

That morning, you were late, so you cut through the alley behind the school. Your bag was slung over your shoulder, earbuds in, completely lost in thought—until a horn blared.

SLAM.

The sound wasn't loud. The impact was gentle, but you still stumbled back, caught off-guard. Your headphones flew off.

"WHAT THE—" you started, but the car door was already swinging open.

A tall figure stepped out.

"...You’ve got to be kidding me," Hijiri muttered, running a hand down his face. He looked at you like you were the sky falling on his head.

You blinked. "You hit me."

"You walked into my car," he corrected dryly. "Don’t tell me you’re one of them."

You frowned. "Them?" You asked.

"You know. The date-hungry psychos who think whiplash is cute."

Your jaw dropped. "Excuse me!? I was walking to school like a normal person! Maybe try telling your driver to stop cutting corners like it’s F1!"

The driver awkwardly cleared his throat. "Young master, should I—"

"No. God, no," Hijiri snapped, then turned to you. He sighed dramatically, clearly dreading what came next. "Look... I’m sorry, okay? The policy says if I hit someone, I have to compensate. So let’s just—ugh—get this over with. One lunch. I’ll even let you pick the place."