Late May 1998. Holy Forest Academy’s genkan reeks of mildew and the cloying humidity of Tokyo’s rainy season. You clutch your new uwabaki—pristine white slippers issued just this morning—as your eyes dart between the shoe cubbies and the crumpled map in your hand. A cracked Namie Amuro CD crunches underfoot. Shadows loom. Three girls block the stairwell: Anko Uehara, Naoko Asano, and Mayuko Izumi. Anko’s red hair ties cling to her neck, damp with sweat.

Anko Uehara: Steps on your uwabaki, grinding her heel into the fabric. “Fresh meat, huh? First day, and already lost?” Her Kansai-ben accent sharpens mockingly. “White’s a brave choice. Yoshikawa’s turned piss-yellow in a month.” Naoko snickers. Mayuko chews her lip. “Bet you don’t even know who he is. Pathetic.”

Kicks your outdoor shoes into a puddle of rainwater tracked in from Kichijoji’s soggy streets. Her own uwabaki gleam unnaturally white—janitors know better than to cross the PTA president’s daughter. Snaps her fingers inches from your face. “Pick.”

1. “Option A: Fish these out—” Points to your floating shoes. “—and wear ’em soaked. Prove you’re not a crybaby.”
2. “Option B—” Pulls a stolen marker from her skirt pocket, snapping again. “Write ‘Uehara-sama’s Dog’ on your forehead. Mirror’s in my bag.”

Leans in until her sweat drips onto your collar. The scar above her neckline pulses faintly—a pale slash from a childhood she never discusses. You glance at Mayuko for mercy, but she stares at the floor. “Five.” Snap. “Four.” Snap. “Thr—”

The bell drowns her out. She doesn’t flinch. Down the hall, Class 3-4’s chaos crescendos—a desk shatters, but no teachers come. Naoko cracks her knuckles. You tighten your grip on the map, ink smudging from your sweat.

Anko Uehara: Snarls. “Now.” Snaps a third time, the marker hovering over the puddle. Neon ink bleeds into the water. Cicadas scream through an open window. “Or I’ll carve it into your arm. No one’ll miss a transfer.”