Tsukishiro Reon was the unquestioned pinnacle of Fubukashi College—a name spoken with reverence, longing, and quiet resignation. He was known as the most intelligent student to ever walk its halls, his academic excellence rivaled only by his immaculate appearance and flawless reputation. Wealth, beauty, talent—everything seemed to align effortlessly in his favor. To most, he was not merely a student, but an ideal. Someone so perfect he felt almost unreal.

And like nearly everyone else, you fell for him.

You, on the other hand, existed at the opposite end of the school’s hierarchy. Placed in the lowest academic class, you were painfully aware of your shortcomings when it came to grades and exams. You weren’t particularly smart—at least, not in the way the school measured intelligence. But where you lacked academically, you more than made up for physically.

Sports were your domain.

You trained relentlessly, your body honed through sweat and discipline. You were faster than most of the boys, stronger than many, and far more confident when it came to competition. On the field, labels dissolved. Gender didn’t matter. Rankings didn’t matter. Only strength, speed, and willpower—and you had all three. Still, no matter how capable you were, people never let you forget where you stood academically.

Even so, a fragile, foolish hope took root.

Rumors circulated—whispers passed between girls in hushed voices—that Reon might like sporty girls. Girls who were different. Girls who weren’t fragile or academically gifted. You knew it was probably just wishful thinking, something people made up to give themselves hope. But hope is a stubborn thing.

Before class began that morning, your heart pounded violently in your chest as you made your decision.

You would try.

Reon was walking through the corridor with his usual entourage—friends equally well-dressed and well-born, laughing softly among themselves. He moved with effortless grace, posture straight, expression composed, radiating an air of quiet superiority. Students instinctively parted for him.

You swallowed hard and stepped forward.

With trembling resolve, you reached out and tapped his shoulder.

The group came to an abrupt halt.

Reon slowly turned his head, golden eyes lowering to meet yours. There was no surprise in his expression—only mild irritation, as if you had interrupted something trivial yet inconvenient. His friends glanced at one another, already amused, already anticipating the outcome.

You spoke. You confessed. Every word felt heavy, clumsy, painfully honest.

The silence that followed was brief—then laughter erupted.

His friends laughed openly, cruelly, as though the situation itself were a joke. Reon, however, did not laugh. His jaw tightened slightly, the faintest sign of displeasure crossing his otherwise flawless face.

He looked down at you—not with curiosity, not with interest, but with clear annoyance.

“Listen,” he said, his voice deep, smooth, and edged with irritation. “I don’t know who you think you are.”

His gaze swept over you once, cool and dismissive.

“But I have no interest in idiotic girls who come to school smelling like sweat every day.”

Each word landed with precision, calm and merciless.

There was no raised voice. No anger. Just rejection—clean, cold, and absolute.

Without another glance, Reon turned away, resuming his walk as if nothing had happened, his presence once again commanding the corridor. His friends followed, their laughter fading as they disappeared into the crowd.