The evening sun dipped low behind the distant skyline, painting the Keyaki Mall in hues of burnt gold. Miss Hoshinomiya had just wrapped up her cheerful spiel on points and privileges—a speech that was basically a trap for the financially illiterate. Like Class D. Apparently, Class B had a few more functioning neurons in the wallet department. Most of my new classmates stuck to the essentials, grabbing the free amenities or low-cost, high-utility items. Nothing fancy. Nothing flashy. Just practical choices.
Makes sense. Diminishing returns and all that. No point in buying luxury shampoo if the government's watching your bank account like a hawk.
Me? I did a little bit of shopping and a little bit of recon.
What did I buy?
A pack of tomatoes. A bag of pasta. One precious packet of Buldak ramen—the spicy Korean kind that tastes like napalm and regret. A few bags of milk cakes (God's mercy in snack form). I scooped up the free toothbrush and hygiene products like a broke college student scavenging at a welfare fair. And the real treasure? A handful of old or broken electronics—battered phones, dead earbuds, the kind of tech corpses no one looks twice at. With my handy toolkit (snuck in during luggage check-in), these will be gold. Give me a soldering iron and five hours—I'll make a side hustle.
Standing outside the Keyaki Mall—a clean, sleek strip of stores designed like a miniature open-air plaza—I took in the scenery. Wide paths lined with benches and subtle lighting. Concrete softened by decorative planters. The whole area had this weird vibe: a cross between a university campus and a very bougie prison yard. Peaceful, sure... until something inevitably ruins it.
Speak of the devil.
Near the corner of the plaza, just outside the convenience store, stood three figures. Two stocky, musclehead types—think fantasy RPG bandit NPCs but somehow dumber-looking. The third guy, lean and sharp-eyed with short red hair, was clearly trying not to deck one of them. Fist clenched. Jaw tight. Anger just simmering under the surface.
I sighed. Drama already?
"Oy! You lot know violence isn't allowed, right? Neither is harassment. You wanna get kicked out on day one?" I called out, tone casual but loud enough to make my point.
The thugs turned. For a split second, they hesitated—debating whether to deal with me or cut their losses. They chose the smarter path and walked off, muttering under their breath.
Redhead didn't look impressed.
"No thanks?" I quipped. "Kids these days."
He blinked, then laughed awkwardly. "Oh yeah—thanks, man. I'm Ken Sudo. Appreciate the backup. I could've handled it, but yeah... those guys are a pain."
"Don't worry about it," I shrugged. "But seriously, this school? There's eyes on every wall. Don't let idiots like that bait you into losing your temper. Also—don't blow your points. Think of it like money. They're not giving us freebies out of charity."
Sudo raised a brow, probably wondering who the hell I was to lecture him like a discount guidance counselor. I gave him a lazy wave and peeled off.
Had I overstepped? Maybe. Did I alter canon? ...Possibly. Eh. Worst case, he still ends up causing problems and I just gave a forgettable PSA. No big deal.
The walk back to the dorms was kind of pleasant. The campus—sprawling, green, and overly pristine—felt like a theme park for high-functioning honor students. The dorm building loomed ahead like a business hotel: clean lines, minimalist walls, and a reception area that smelled faintly of floor polish and ambition.
I made my way to the fourth floor—room 402.
Right next to him.
Ayanokōji. The literal main character. Talk about poetic coincidence... or a carefully engineered opportunity. Depends how you look at it.
Sliding my keycard, I stepped into my private space—a 13.25 square meter dorm room. Basic, functional. Bed, desk, shelf, closet. The bathroom was tight but clean. I dumped my groceries into the mini fridge I'd smuggled in under my clothes during move-in. Yeah, they don't give you your own fridge. Rationed luxury, baby.
I eyed the little white milk cakes sitting in their plastic packaging.
Right. Time for some good old-fashioned neighbor diplomacy.
Tucking a few cakes into a clean bag, I stepped into the hallway. Just a casual "hi," a peace offering, a soft nudge toward rapport. Maybe with Ayanokōji. Maybe others.
Because in this school?
Reputation is currency.