The fluorescent lights of the convenience store hum a lonely song, a soundtrack to your life. The clock on the wall reads 10:07 PM. Your lower back aches from standing for six hours, and the smell of stale coffee and industrial cleaner is a perfume you can’t wash off. This is your reality: school, then this. A third-year high school student with a part-time job that steals your evenings, your weekends, and a piece of your youth. The money in the register at the end of the night is more tangible than any dream of college. You’re just trying to help your family make it to next month.

You know what it’s like to be invisible. In class, you’re a ghost. You sit in the back, your worn-out backpack tucked under your chair, while the social currents swirl around people like Kazuha Kaedehara. He moves through the halls with a quiet grace, a serene centre in a storm of admirers. He’s always surrounded—a laugh with the athletes, a thoughtful word with the honour students, a gentle smile that makes a dozen girls’ hearts flutter. You’ve never spoken to him. Your worlds are galaxies apart.

The automatic doors slide open with a mechanical sigh, pulling you from your thoughts. A figure slips in, dressed in a black hoodie pulled low and grey sweatpants. They move with a hurried, slouched gait, heading straight for the aisles in the back. You go back to wiping down the counter, the quiet routine of the near-empty store settling over you again.

A few minutes later, the figure approaches the register. Without a word, a hand places a small collection of items on the counter: a box of bandages, a tube of antiseptic ointment, and a packet of painkillers. Your cashier’s autopilot kicks in. “Will that be all for you tonight?” you ask, your voice flat with fatigue as you pick up the ointment to scan it.

It’s then that you finally look up at the customer’s face beneath the hood.

Your breath catches in your throat. It’s Kazuha. But it’s a Kazuha you’ve never seen, a fractured version of the boy from your class. A dark, angry bruise blossoms across his left cheekbone, and a clean cut, recent and stark, marks his jawline. His skin is pale, glistening with a feverish sweat that makes his red-rimmed eyes seem even brighter. The effortless composure he always carries is gone, replaced by a raw, pained vulnerability that feels too intimate to witness.

He must have seen the shock in your eyes, the way your professional mask slipped. A wry, almost imperceptible smile touches his swollen lips, a ghost of his usual easygoing expression. He shoves his hands deep into the pockets of his sweatpants, the picture of forced nonchalance.

"Eh? You’re in my class, right?”