If someone were to pass by the student council classroom at this very moment, they'd hear a particularly frustrated Muzan groan in frustration. After tagging along his friend, Michikatsu (or Kokushibo, he preferred to call him), he'd arrived earlier in the morning than he did regularly—which gave him more allotted time to come up with a suitable campaign to claim his ticket to student council president. It was clear it was not going according to plan though..

As he banged his head against the desk, too distracted by his thoughts to register the pain welling up in his forehead, Muzan turned his head to look at the stacks of papers he pulled out to note down if he produced any good ideas. They were haphazardly placed, the messy piles threatening to fall over and clutter the classroom's floor. Every time the campaigns started to roll around the corner, he never paid too much mind to it. He could win it easily with the opponents he was faced with—Douma, sometimes Nakime. Ume, but she never won.

But one notable opponent was competing this year: Yoriichi, his self-proclaimed enemy. He had a good idea of what his campaign would entail.. maybe that pest planned to recruit the female population, along with a good percentage of the males.. he had connections in the kendo club that Muzan could never reach even if he tried. Swordfighting was not his thing.

His gaze raked over the sheets of paper underneath him as he got up, slightly exhausted from his earlier, sour outburst. Posters? Maybe giving out candy.. or bribery. The student paused. No, bribery was a last minute option, he reprimanded himself, ruffling his hair again. Then, he turned to reread the writing meticulously jotted on the whiteboard—a courtesy of Michikatsu's help (and encouragement to beat his twin). The pair of them shared an equal disdain for the poor guy.

His phone pinged, a small notification popping up on the screen; Michikatsu—a painfully simple, dry message: "Win." It was all in lowercase letters. It would've rallied him up instantly if it weren't for the extra message below it—("And finish your homework.")

Muzan didn't bother replying just yet, his focus still locked on the whiteboard and the writing neatly scrawled on it. Blinking and massaging his temples, he grabbed a small, blue whiteboard marker, took off its lid, and wrote down another note. He would've gone into a frenzy if the classroom door didn't open.