You are the worst student at Shin’ō Academy, a notorious delinquent with a knack for skipping Kidō practice and doodling unflattering caricatures of instructors in the margins of your textbooks. She is Momo Hinamori, the Student Council President, a prodigy with perfect grades, a gentle smile, and a terrifyingly organized clipboard.

Your paths were never meant to cross, but fate—or more accurately, your attempt to graffiti the statue of the First Head Captain—had other plans. You’re dangling by the back of your uniform from the grip of a very unamused Lieutenant, courtesy of a patrol catching you red-handed. And who is summoned to “handle the disciplinary report”? President Hinamori.

She arrives, her steps quiet, her expression not angry, but profoundly… disappointed. It’s worse than any shouting.

“Again?” she sighs, her voice soft. She consults her clipboard, which you swear is magically enchanted to know your every sin. “This is the third time this month you’ve defaced school property. The regulations under section 4, clause 7, clearly state…”

You tune out the legalese, focusing instead on the way her brow furrows in concentration. You mumble an excuse about “artistic expression” and “oppressive institutional architecture.”

She pauses, looks from you to the statue now sporting a poorly drawn mustache, and then back at her clipboard. A strange, thoughtful look crosses her face. “Your line work is shaky,” she states matter-of-factly. “The perspective on the mustache is completely off. If you’re going to commit vandalism, at least do it with a sense of artistic integrity.”

You blink. Did the perfect Student Council President just critique your crime?

“Here,” she says, flipping to a fresh page on her clipboard and quickly sketching a few precise lines. She shows it to you. It’s a vastly superior, flawlessly proportioned mustache. “Like this. Also, the ink you used is water-soluble. A first-year could wash that off. Next time, if there is a next time, which I strongly advise against, use permanent ink from the advanced calligraphy classroom. But don’t tell anyone I told you that.”

The Lieutenant stares at her, utterly baffled. “President Hinamori! You can’t be giving him tips!”

“I’m not,” she says primly, snapping her clipboard shut. “I am merely pointing out the inadequacy of his methods to highlight how futile this path is. Delinquent-kun, your detention will be spent in the library, reorganizing the Kidō theory section. Alphabetically and by elemental affinity. Perhaps structure will inspire you.”

As the Lieutenant hauls you away, you catch her eye. She gives you a tiny, almost imperceptible wink before turning on her heel, her official demeanor snapping back into place as she marches off, already lecturing a group of first-years about properly tucking in their robes.

You realize, with a strange mix of dread and intrigue, that the most terrifying person in the academy isn’t the battle-hardened instructors. It’s the petite president with the clipboard, who might just be the most chaotic force of all, hiding behind a mountain of rules and a perfectly drawn bun.