POV: Sakura Aoyama
The silence didn't break when the bell rang.
It stretched.
Students stood slowly, chairs scraping against the floor with exaggerated care, eyes darting between Ren, Miho, and Sakura like they were trying to memorize the scene before it dissolved. No one spoke. No one laughed.
Phones were already out—no longer hidden.
Whatever had just happened was going to live far beyond this classroom.
Ren moved first.
He stepped back, hands sliding casually into his pockets, posture relaxed as if he'd simply finished a conversation rather than rewritten the social order of the room.
His violet eyes swept the class once more, sharp and amused.
"Go," he said lightly.
They didn't hesitate.
The room emptied in seconds.
Miho remained frozen near her desk, face pale, lips parted as if she wanted to speak but didn't know which words would keep her alive in the hierarchy she'd ruled just days ago.
Sakura gathered her scattered papers quietly.
Her hands were steady. That surprised her.
She should have been shaking. She should have felt triumphant, or scared, or angry. Instead, there was only a strange, hollow clarity.
This is what protection costs.
Ren turned toward her. "You can leave."
Sakura looked up. "And her?"
Miho flinched.
Ren followed Sakura's gaze, then smiled faintly. "She's already done."
Miho shook her head. "You can't—Ren, I didn't mean—"
Ren's smile vanished.
Not slowly.
Instantly.
"You meant to remind her of her place," he said calmly. "So I'm reminding you of yours."
Miho swallowed hard. "Please."
Ren didn't respond.
He looked back at Sakura. "Don't stay," he said. "This part isn't for you."
Sakura hesitated.
Miho's eyes locked onto hers—wide, terrified, furious.
"You think this makes you safe?" Miho spat suddenly. "You think you've won?"
Sakura met her gaze.
"I think," Sakura said quietly, "that you mistook me for someone who needed permission."
Miho recoiled like she'd been struck.
Ren's eyes flickered with something close to approval.
"Go," he repeated.
Sakura did.
The hallway outside felt wrong.
Too loud.
Too alive.
Students clustered in corners, whispering urgently, eyes lighting up as Sakura passed. Phones were no longer discreet. Screens were angled openly now, cameras flashing once or twice without shame.
"She walked out first."
"Did you hear what he said?"
"She didn't even cry."
Sakura moved through them like water through stone, posture straight, expression neutral. Her long black hair slid over her shoulders with each step, a curtain she didn't bother to hide behind.
She reached her locker and found it already surrounded by three girls she didn't recognize.
All beautiful.
All cautious.
One of them stepped forward. "You okay?"
Sakura paused. "Why?"
The girl hesitated. "Just… asking."
Sakura closed her locker slowly. "Then don't."
She walked away.
Her phone vibrated.
Unknown number.
You should have let me handle it.
She didn't reply.
By the time she reached the courtyard, the story had already mutated.
Students weren't whispering anymore. They were speculating.
"She challenged Miho."
"No, Ren stepped in."
"I heard the teacher left."
"Do you think she's his girlfriend?"
The word clung to her skin like something dirty.
Sakura sat on a stone bench beneath the bare cherry trees, the cold seeping through her uniform.
She stared at the campus—the clean lines, the immaculate order, the way everything looked untouched despite what she knew had just happened.
This place ate people quietly.
Her phone buzzed again.
This isn't how it was supposed to happen.
She typed back before she could stop herself.
Then why did you let it?
Three dots appeared.
Disappeared.
Then:
Because you didn't break.
She locked her phone and slipped it into her pocket.
That night, the academy burned without flames.
By morning, Miho was gone.
Not officially.
Not publicly.
Her seat was empty.
Her name was still on the attendance list, but no one said it out loud when the teacher paused. A few students glanced at the door, then quickly away.
The message was clear.
Absence was louder than punishment.
Sakura took her seat by the window, back row, alone.
The room felt different now—less hostile, more wary. Students watched her openly, curiosity overtaking resentment.
Fear had replaced jealousy.
The teacher began the lecture without acknowledging the change.
Ten minutes in, a note slid onto Sakura's desk.
She unfolded it cautiously.
Was it worth it?
She didn't answer.
Another note followed.
Do you feel protected?
She clenched her jaw.
The third note came from the front row, folded more carefully than the others.
Be careful what you accept.
Sakura exhaled slowly and slipped all three into her bag.
The door opened.
Ren entered.
This time, no one pretended not to notice.
The teacher stopped speaking entirely.
Ren took the seat in front of Sakura again, as if it had always belonged to him. He didn't turn around. He didn't need to.
The class resumed in a fragile, unnatural quiet.
Sakura stared at the back of his head, the dark hair falling just slightly out of place, the relaxed tension in his shoulders.
She felt caged.
Not physically.
Socially.
Her phone vibrated.
You're being watched differently now.
She typed back.
You wanted that.
His reply came instantly.
I wanted to see what you'd do with it.
She didn't answer.
The teacher called on Ren.
"Kurotsuki," she said carefully. "Your thoughts?"
Ren leaned back in his chair, posture loose. "On what?"
"Authority," the teacher replied. "Since it seems to be a popular topic."
A few students swallowed.
Ren smiled faintly. "Authority is easiest when people believe it's deserved."
"And when it isn't?" the teacher pressed.
Ren glanced back at Sakura.
"Then it's enforced."
Silence.
The teacher nodded stiffly and moved on.
Sakura felt the weight of those words settle somewhere deep in her chest.
Lunch was worse.
Students didn't avoid her now.
They circled.
A girl sat down across from her without asking. Another joined moments later. Conversations began cautiously, like people testing water with their toes.
"You're… brave," one said.
Sakura took a bite of her food. "No."
"Then what are you?"
She swallowed. "Uninterested."
That ended the conversation.
Ren didn't sit with her.
That was intentional.
Instead, he passed by once, eyes flicking over her briefly, expression unreadable.
The message was clear.
She was associated.
Not claimed.
That was somehow worse.
By the end of the day, Sakura understood the new rule.
No one would touch her.
No one would help her either.
Protection came with isolation.
She stood at the gates as evening fell, watching students leave in clusters. Her phone vibrated one last time.
Meet me.
She typed back.
No.
A pause.
Then:
Then listen carefully.
She did.
POV: Ren Kurotsuki
The academy adjusted quickly.
It always did.
Miho's removal sent ripples through every social layer—fear rising, alliances shifting, silence becoming currency. Ren watched it all from a distance, violet eyes sharp with satisfaction.
The system corrected itself.
Sakura Aoyama was the anomaly.
She didn't cling to him.
She didn't flee.
She didn't exploit the protection offered.
She endured it.
That was inconvenient.
Ren leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled loosely. He hadn't intended to move so soon, but Miho had forced his hand.
Fine.
The cost would be higher now.
He typed one final message.
If you stand where you stood yesterday, you don't get to pretend you're uninvolved.
He sent it.
Ren smiled faintly.
Tomorrow, Sakura would have to choose.