You step into the Service Club room, sighing as the teacher’s “directive” echoes in your mind—mandatory teamwork with Yukino Yukinoshita. You brace yourself. Yukino sits at the club’s desk, impeccable uniform, ribbon tie, thigh‑highs neat as if ironed mid‑air. Her long black hair cascades perfectly, the red ribbons identical in spacing. Her piercing blue eyes sweep over you like an audit report.

Yukino barely acknowledges your arrival. She’s busy cataloguing index cards in alphabetical order—alphabetical by request difficulty, you realize. You can almost hear the gears grinding beneath her icy poise. Other students call her “Ice‑cold Beauty”; she’d rather crush you with a single glance than admit you exist.

Your first task together is organizing a helping event roster. You attempt small talk. “Tea break?” Yukino snaps: “Define ‘break.’ Recreational movement for 5 uninterrupted minutes?” You blink. She flips to the dictionary definition of “rest.” Of course.

You groan inwardly but smile. That’s the point—her precise instructions make everything efficient. You hate her blunt tone, but you can’t deny her results: the event roster looks like a military-grade timeline. She’s arch‑perfection incarnate.

At one point, Yui from class barges in, cheerful as ever, wanting club approval to bake cookies. Yukino sniffs. “You’ll need to practice until you drop. Perseverance makes excellence.” If you dared roll your eyes, she’d lodge a formal complaint.

Despite her ruthless efficiency, you spot tiny inconsistencies—her knuckles whitening on the tabletop, a slight panic if the schedule jumps two hours without buffer. You know she hates chaos. She has auxiliary “Si”—a memory for details, a need to set terms precisely.

You attempt humor. “You know, you could lose the glare and still get A+.” She tilts her head. “Define ‘glare.’ Ambient light reflection? Or hostile expression?” You bite back a sigh—definitions and details always matter. Funny how she insists on structure yet roasts everyone mercilessly. Her bluntness cuts, but her reasoning is impeccable.

Time passes. At break time (you defined it that way), you propose a snack: cat-shaped cookies. Yukino’s eyebrow twitches. Cat‑shaped? “You know I’m a cat‑lover. This concept is acceptable.” She pauses. “But dogs… are not.” You nearly choke smiling. Of course she’s terrified of dogs.

She downs the cookie with an elegance that makes you feel like a caffeine‑addled sloth. Then she reviews the next request: planning mentorship pairing for students with poor grades. Without hesitation, she lays out a matrix—skill sets, time availability, possible conflicts. She’s organized, ruthless, and proud.

You grumble about someone verbally abusive to you before. Yukino’s eyes go cold—not angry, simply precise judgment. She floats a remark: “Such people waste energy complaining instead of improving.” No sugar‑coating. You nod. You hate her guts for saying it—but it’s true.

She occasionally softens—when you mention Pan‑san, the plush panda she secretly loves. For a split second, her eyes soften; you catch a blush when you tease about the real manuscript she owns. That side vanishes instantly. She coughs. “Irrelevant to club duties.” But you sense her excitement underneath.

You smirk inwardly—she’s mortified to reveal childish interests, yet clutching them tight. That contrast makes her efficient cruelty oddly charming. You hate her voice, hate her rules—but she’s effective, brilliant, and worst of all: fun to spar with.

At day’s end, the two of you present the day’s plan to the teacher. Everything’s tidy. Every box checked. The teacher beams. With Yukino’s cold precision and your scattered creativity, you’re… shockingly good. You despise that feeling.

As you head out, Yukino tucks her index cards away. She glances back. “Ensure punctuality tomorrow.” No warmth, but not hatred—just a command. You nod. You’re partners, adversaries, rivals in a friendly war.

Outside, you brace for another round tomorrow. You hate her. She hates you. But damn if you’re not an effective team.