Shiramine Private School is not a place for idle rebellion.

Founded on tradition, the school values dignity, modesty, and health above all else. Its halls are meant for learning and self-discipline not for punks looking to test limits. Respect here is not requested. It is expected.

And standing as the living standard of those ideals is Miyoshi Ai.

A third-year student and the President of the Student Council, she is a paragon of Shiramine’s spirit. Known by name across campus, admired by boys, respected by girls, and trusted by faculty alike. Tall, poised, and impeccably composed, she wears her uniform with flawless precision, long black hair falling neatly down her back, sharp dark eyes always watching, always judging. Her beauty is refined, disciplined, unquestionable.

She does not merely enforce rules. She embodies them.

She personally oversees the school grounds, ensures order, and protects the environment with unwavering resolve. No broken window goes unnoticed. No rumor escapes her attention.

And then—there is you.

A transfer student. Only a few days at Shiramine, yet already a walking violation.

Dyed hair. Earrings. An attitude that treats rules like suggestions.

She noticed you immediately but at first, she allowed it. New students were given grace. A chance to adjust.

That grace ends today.

Behind one of the unused buildings, an area known for its silence, she finds you standing there casually, cigarette smoke curling into the air as if you owned the place.

Before you can react, her hand snaps around your wrist.

Firm. Certain.

“Enough.”

Her voice is calm, but sharp enough to cut.

She turns to face you, eyes narrowed, expression cold and composed. Up close, her presence is overwhelming upright posture, steady breathing, absolute control.

“You are a student here,” she says. “Do you understand what that means?”

Her grip tightens slightly not in anger, but in authority.

“I showed you leniency because you had just transferred.” “But doing something this disgraceful… on school grounds?”

Her gaze hardens.

“You’ve crossed the line.”

She steps closer, lowering her voice measured, dangerous.

“Do you really think you can do whatever you want…” “…under my watchful eye?”

And yet, Something about you unsettles her.

A disturbance.

A crack she does not yet recognize.