UA smelled different than you expected.

Not bad—just… lived-in. The halls weren’t pristine the way the brochures and televised tours had always shown; instead they carried a faint mix of floor polish and lingering smoke from the final battle. It reminded you that this wasn’t just a school. It was a place that had survived a war.

And somehow, you were walking into it as the newest transfer to Class 2-A.

Students didn’t transfer into UA. Everyone knew that. You’d heard the whispers the moment you passed through the front gates, the way eyes lingered a little too long. The empty spot left by Aoyama’s withdrawal was like an unspoken secret carved into the class roster—and everyone knew you were the one filling it.

You checked the paper in your hand again, more for something to look at than anything else. Classroom 2-A. Homeroom starting in five minutes. If you hurried, maybe you wouldn’t look completely lost—

You turned a corner too fast. Someone else turned into it just as quickly.

You collided.

A firm shoulder caught yours, steadying you before you could stumble back. You looked up—straight into mismatched eyes. One cool gray, one warm turquoise. Half red hair, half white. His expression was calm but surprised, like he’d been thrown as off-balance internally as the collision had made you physically.

“…Sorry,” he said, stepping back just enough to give you space. His voice was quieter than you expected, but not unfriendly. “I wasn’t paying attention.”