The gentle rocking of the bus was a poor substitute for a lullaby. It did little to soothe the frayed nerves of one Hikigaya Hachiman, who sat with his eyes closed, feigning sleep to avoid the most dreadful of all social interactions: small talk with strangers.
Three years, he thought, a familiar ache settling in his chest. Three whole years without seeing Komachi. The thought was a physical blow. His dear, perfect little sister, the sole source of light in his gloomy world, would be separated from him by the ridiculously high-tech walls of the Advanced Nurturing High School. His parents, in a rare moment of unified ambition for their listless son, had practically shoved the application into his hands. "It's the best school in the country, Hachi! A 100% employment rate! Think of your future!"
Hachiman scoffed internally. My future. His future was already planned, a meticulously crafted blueprint for peak efficiency and minimal effort: become a house husband. It was the perfect career path. No stressful corporate ladder, no forced company socials, just the quiet dignity of domestic work. For that, however, he needed a partner. A successful, career-driven woman who would appreciate a man who could cook, clean, and manage a household with cynical precision.
And that brought him to this school. The "elite" of the nation. His scores were painfully average, his interview a masterclass in monosyllabic responses and dead-eyed stares. How did he even get in? And that 100% employment promise... it reeked of a scam. For 480 students in total, guaranteeing perfect futures for every single one? Impossible. There had to be a catch. There was always a catch. Still, if this place was truly a factory for Japan's future leaders, it was also a hunting ground. Somewhere within these walls was a girl with the potential to be his future meal ticket. He just had to find her.
"Excuse me."
The voice, polite but firm, cut through his thoughts. Hachiman cracked an eye open. A young office lady was addressing a flamboyant blond boy in the same school uniform, who was lounging comfortably in a priority seat.
"Would you mind giving your seat to this elderly woman?" she asked, gesturing to an old lady who was swaying unsteadily with the bus's motion.
The blond boy, Koenji Rokusuke, adjusted his perfectly coiffed hair. "A rather crazy question, my dear lady. Why on earth should I give up my seat? I have no legal obligation to do so. I am feeling perfectly comfortable right here."
The office lady sputtered, her face flushing with indignation. "It's a matter of basic decency!"
As they began to argue, a part of Hachiman's cold, logical brain had to agree with the blond idiot. Stripped of all social niceties and moral grandstanding, Koenji was correct. He wasn't breaking any laws. The priority seat was a suggestion, not a mandate. It was a testament to the fundamental cruelty of society that we had to rely on the unreliable goodwill of others rather than concrete systems.
Suddenly, a new player entered the stage. A girl with short, fluffy, honey-blonde hair and an aura of manufactured kindness stepped forward. Hachiman's internal alarm bells screamed. He'd seen girls like her before. The type who thrived in the center of the group, who wielded popularity like a weapon. She was dangerous.
"So, my next opponent is a beautiful young lady," Koenji preened, completely unfazed. "It must be my lucky day."
The girl, Kushida Kikyo, ignored his flirtation. "While it's true you're not legally obligated," she said, her voice a perfect blend of sweetness and reason, "think of it as a contribution to society. A small act of kindness."
"A valid argument," Koenji conceded with a theatrical sigh. "However, I have absolutely no interest in contributing to society. My existence is a contribution in itself. Besides, why single me out? There are many other young people on this bus."
His gaze swept across the passengers, and for a horrifying second, Hachiman thought it might land on him. He instinctively slouched lower. Koenji was right again. Kushida had zeroed in on the commotion, not the problem. She was after social points, not a solution. When she turned her pleading eyes to the rest of the bus, a wave of collective discomfort washed over the passengers. People looked away, fiddled with their phones, or stared intently out the window. They all agreed with Koenji, even if they wouldn't admit it.
Hachiman watched the old woman's legs, which were now visibly trembling. She looked like she could collapse at any moment.
What a rotten world we live in, he thought, a familiar wave of disgust washing over him. It was inefficient. It was illogical. It was annoying. And most of all, the escalating argument was disturbing his precious peace.
With a deep, world-weary sigh that seemed to carry the weight of all teenage cynicism, he stood up. Before speaking, his gaze inadvertently swept across the aisle. He saw a girl sitting alone, her posture perfect, her expression impassive. She had long, beautiful black hair and was engrossed in a paperback. Hachiman squinted. Dostoevsky's Crime and Punishment. His eyes widened for a fraction of a second. A girl his age, on a bus to a new school, was reading a dense Russian novel about morality and nihilism. Interesting. Their eyes met for a fleeting moment—hers cold and analytical, his dead and fish-like—before he quickly looked away.
He turned to the old woman. "You can take my seat."
The relief on the old woman's face was immediate. "Oh, thank you, young man! Thank you so much!" she said, gratefully sinking into the now-vacant spot. The office lady gave him an appreciative nod, and Kushida beamed at him with a smile so bright it felt artificial. Hachiman just gave a noncommittal grunt and grabbed onto a nearby handrail, closing his eyes once more. The problem was solved. He could now return to his regularly scheduled brooding.
The bus finally pulled up to an imposing gate. Advanced Nurturing High School.
As Hachiman stepped off, a voice called out from behind him. "You."
He turned. It was the girl from the bus, the Dostoevsky reader. She stood there, her arms crossed, her gaze sharp and accusatory.
"Why were you looking at me?" she asked, her tone devoid of any warmth.
Hachiman blinked. Of all the things she could have said, that was it? "I wasn't looking at you," he replied, his voice flat. "I was curious about the book you were reading. I've read it." It was the truth, mostly. It was a more socially acceptable truth than 'I was assessing you as a potential non-annoying human being.'
Her expression didn't change, but a flicker of something unreadable passed through her eyes. "I see. Then let me ask you another question. Why did you give up your seat?"
"The old lady was about to fall over," he said, shrugging. "It was the most obvious thing to do. The argument was getting loud and was a waste of energy for everyone involved. My solution was the most logical and efficient way to end it."
She stared at him, her head tilted slightly. "You don't look like the type of person who would act out of simple kindness."
"I didn't," he confirmed without hesitation. "It was pragmatism."
A small, almost imperceptible smirk touched her lips. "I see." She then asked, "Why do you think I didn't give up my seat?"
"How should I know? Maybe you have a medical condition. Maybe you believe in survival of the fittest. Or maybe," he said, his dead-fish eyes meeting hers, "you simply didn't want to. And you don't feel the need to justify that to anyone."
Her smirk widened slightly. "I was under no obligation to sacrifice my own comfort for someone else's. It was a matter of principle." She called him a fool for his troubles, but her tone lacked any real bite. It was more of a statement of fact. She turned and began walking towards the school gate. "What a fool."
Hachiman watched her go. Horikita Suzune, he thought, having glimpsed the name on her student ID. Cold, intelligent, and principled to a fault. She wasn't annoying. That was a very, very good start.
The entrance ceremony was as mind-numbingly boring as he'd predicted. However, Hachiman's observational skills, honed by years of sitting in the corner of classrooms, kicked in. Class A was a portrait of discipline; silent, attentive, radiating competence. Class B had a few whispers but was largely composed. Class C was a mixed bag, a clear divide between the attentive and the utterly bored.
And then there was his class. Class D. It was a disaster. Students were openly yawning, whispering, a few were even subtly checking their phones. A sinking feeling settled in Hachiman's stomach. There's a ranking system, isn't there? And we're at the bottom.
He found his assigned seat in the classroom, 1-D. And, in a twist of fate that was either cosmic irony or a cruel joke, the seat next to him was soon occupied by the Dostoevsky reader herself, Horikita Suzune.
"An unpleasant coincidence," she stated, not even bothering to look at him as she placed her bag down.
"Tell me about it," Hachiman muttered back.
There was no need for further words. He saw her name on the plastic plate on her desk; she saw his. The exchange was complete. They both turned to face forward, a silent, mutual agreement to ignore each other's existence.
Soon, the classroom door slid open and a woman who looked to be in her early thirties walked in. She was beautiful, but carried an air of detached professionalism that bordered on icy.
"Good morning, students. I am your homeroom teacher, Chabashira Sae. I will be teaching Japanese history and will be your homeroom teacher for the next three years. This school does not change classes or homeroom teachers. I hope we can get along."
Her speech was curt. She explained the school's rules: no contact with the outside world, everything you could possibly need was available on campus using a special currency.
"On that note," she continued, "take out the phones that were provided to you."
Everyone complied. As they did, a notification pinged on every device simultaneously. Hachiman opened his.
[Balance: 100,000 p.points]
A hush fell over the classroom, followed by an explosion of noise.
"A hundred thousand?!"
"Seriously? That's a hundred thousand yen!"
"We're rich!"
Chabashira watched the chaos with a deadpan expression. "The school provides you with points to purchase goods and services. One point is equivalent to one yen. These points will be transferred to your account on the first of every month."
The class erupted in cheers. But Hachiman's mind was racing. 100,000 yen a month? For high schoolers? For doing nothing? It didn't add up. The cost of living here, plus tuition, plus this allowance... it was astronomical. There was no such thing as a free lunch. This was bait.
He glanced at his neighbor. Horikita was staring at her phone, her brow furrowed. She then muttered, so quietly he almost didn't hear it, "This is too lenient. To the point it's threatening."
Finally, Hachiman thought, a sliver of relief cutting through his cynicism. Someone with a brain.
Chabashira continued, a faint, almost predatory smile on her lips. "Surprised by the amount you've been given? The school evaluates its students based on merit. You have all been judged to be worth this amount. This is the fruit of your potential." She paused. "Are there any questions?"
No one, too busy dreaming of their new-found wealth, raised a hand.
"Very well," she said, and with a final, sweeping glance over the room full of idiots, she left.
The moment the door closed, the class became a marketplace of dreams. But Hachiman and Horikita remained still. They didn't speak. They didn't need to. A silent, unspoken understanding had just been forged in the fires of their mutual suspicion. This school was not a paradise. It was a battlefield, and the first shot had just been fired.
Chapter 2: The Unspoken Alliance and the S-System
A week passed. To call Class D's behavior a "disaster" was now an understatement. It was a full-blown societal collapse in miniature. Students slept openly, ate snacks during lectures, and chatted as if they were in a café. Chabashira-sensei did nothing. She would walk in, teach her lesson to the two or three students actually paying attention, and leave. This complete lack of discipline only emboldened the rest of the class. They were living in a fool's paradise, burning through their 100,000 points with reckless abandon.
Hikigaya Hachiman, meanwhile, was a monk of frugality. He ate the free, bland vegetable meals from the cafeteria and bought only the absolute necessities. His point balance hovered around 94,000. Beside him, Horikita Suzune was doing the same, her lifestyle just as spartan. They still hadn't spoken more than a handful of words to each other, but a strange camaraderie was forming. They were like two soldiers in a trench, silently acknowledging that they were the only ones who saw the enemy gathering on the horizon.
But saving points wasn't enough for Hachiman. His house husband dream required a stable income, and a stable income at this school clearly meant performing well. He needed to understand the system. And for that, he needed the only other person in the room who wasn't a complete moron.
One afternoon, after another "lesson" that resembled a zoo's feeding time, Hachiman turned to Horikita as she was packing her bag.
"Horikita."
She looked up, a hint of surprise in her eyes. It was the first time he had initiated a conversation. "What is it, Hikigaya-kun?"
"My room. After this. We need to talk." He said it not as a request, but as a statement of fact.
She studied his face for a long moment, her expression unreadable. "...Fine."
An hour later, a knock came at his door. When Hachiman opened it, Horikita was standing there, looking as if she'd rather be anywhere else.
"Come in," he said, stepping aside.
The aroma of ginger and soy sauce filled the air. On the small kitchen counter of his dorm room, a simple but delicious-looking meal of stir-fried pork and vegetables was being prepared. This was phase one of his plan: showcasing his domestic skills. A future house husband must be able to provide excellent home-cooked meals.
Horikita's nose twitched. "You're cooking?"
"I have to eat," he said flatly, turning back to the stove. "Might as well make something decent. It's cheaper than buying prepared food." He gestured to a chair. "Sit. This won't take long."
As he finished cooking and plated the food, they sat in a tense silence. He placed a plate in front of her. She looked at it, then at him.
"I didn't come here for a meal."
"And I didn't cook for you out of the kindness of my heart," he retorted, sitting down with his own plate. "This is a strategic demonstration of my value. Now eat. It's rude to refuse food someone's made for you."
She picked up her chopsticks, a flicker of irritation in her eyes. "You are a very strange person."
"I get that a lot," he said, taking a bite. They ate in silence for a few moments before she spoke again.
"So? Why did you call me here?"
"The S-System," Hachiman said, getting straight to the point. "The points. It's obviously tied to the class's performance. Chabashira's words were a hint. 'The school evaluates students based on merit.' 'This is your worth.' She never explicitly said we'd get 100,000 points again."
"I had reached the same conclusion," Horikita said, her expression unchanged, though she seemed to be enjoying the food. "The behavior of our classmates is atrocious. Lateness, talking in class, sleeping. Each of these actions is likely subtracting from a collective pool of 'Class Points,' which then determines our monthly allowance. It's highly probable that on May 1st, we will receive zero points."
"Exactly," Hachiman said, relieved he didn't have to explain the basics. "But knowing this is useless if it's just the two of us. We need to confirm it and then figure out what to do about it."
"And how do you propose we do that? Our classmates would not listen to two friendless loners," she stated, the words sharp but accurate.
To her surprise, Hachiman found himself smirking. "Who said anything about being friends? This isn't friendship. This is a mutually beneficial partnership. An alliance of necessity." He leaned forward slightly. "And as for our classmates... I have a plan for that. But first, we need more evidence."
The bickering continued throughout the meal. He criticized her lack of social awareness; she criticized his pessimistic worldview. Yet, for two people who supposedly despised pointless interactions, they found it... tolerable. For Hachiman, her blunt honesty was refreshing. For Horikita, his cynical but sharp logic was a welcome change from the vapid conversations of her peers. It was a new, and strangely not unpleasant, experience for both.
Their investigation began the next day. Their first clue came from observing the upperclassmen. In the cafeteria, they noticed a pattern. While most students bought lavish meals, a small, downtrodden-looking group from the second and third years were always getting the same free vegetable set Hachiman had been eating. They all wore uniforms with 'D' or 'C' class insignias.
Next, they discreetly observed the upperclassmen's buildings. Hachiman noticed something Horikita had missed. "Count the nameplates outside the dorm rooms for 2-D and 3-D," he told her.
They did. The numbers were off. Class 2-D had 32 students. Class 3-D had only 28. But every class was supposed to start with 40.
"They're being expelled," Horikita concluded, her voice low. "The school isn't a paradise. It's a meritocracy in its purest, most brutal form. Fail to meet the standard, and you're cut."
The pieces clicked into place. The points system wasn't just an allowance; it was a survival tool. And Class D was on a fast track to self-destruction.
"They won't listen to us," Horikita repeated that evening, back in Hachiman's room. "They'll call us crazy."
"That's why we aren't going to tell them," Hachiman said, pulling out his school-issued phone. He began typing a message. "The 'kings' of our class are Hirata Yosuke, the soccer-playing social messiah, and Kushida Kikyo, the class angel. Everyone likes and trusts them. If the information comes from them, they'll listen."
He crafted an anonymous message, laying out all their findings in a clear, logical, and alarming way, and sent it to Hirata.
The next day, the bomb dropped. A panicked Hirata and a "deeply concerned" Kushida called a class meeting, presenting the information from the "anonymous source" as a grave warning. The reaction was immediate. Panic. Denial. Fear. Students checked their dwindling point balances, the reality of their situation crashing down on them. The life of luxury was over.
Overnight, Class D transformed. Students arrived on time. The chatter stopped. Phones were put away. It was a forced, resentful discipline, but it was discipline nonetheless. Hachiman and Horikita watched from their seats, their expressions neutral. Their plan had worked.
A few days later, an announcement was made for the school's club fair. Satisfied with their success, Hachiman found himself being dragged along by Horikita, who claimed she wanted to "observe the school's structure."
They stood at the back of the gymnasium as representatives from various clubs gave their spiels. Then, the final presentation began.
"And now, a word from our Student Council President."
A tall, imposing figure with sharp features and an air of absolute authority walked onto the stage. He had the same straight black hair and the same intense eyes as the girl standing beside Hachiman.
"I am the Student Council President, Horikita Manabu."
At the sound of the name, Hachiman saw Horikita Suzune freeze. Her body went rigid, her face paled, and her eyes were locked on the stage with a mixture of awe, fear, and resentment.
So that's it, Hachiman thought, connecting the dots in an instant. They're siblings. And from the looks of it, the relationship is a complete train wreck.
Her breathing became shallow. Without thinking, Hachiman gently grabbed her arm. "Let's go."
He pulled her out of the gymnasium, away from the crowd and the suffocating presence of her brother. She didn't resist, following him numbly. He led her to a quiet, deserted hallway.
"You okay?" he asked, his tone uncharacteristically soft.
She pulled her arm away, crossing them over her chest defensively. "I'm fine. It's none of your business."
"Right," Hachiman said, leaning against the wall. As a big brother himself, he recognized the signs. The desperate need for approval, the crushing weight of a successful older sibling. He wasn't going to offer cheap comfort. That wasn't his style. Instead, he offered a dose of Hachiman-brand insight.
"Older siblings are a pain," he said, looking at the ceiling. "They set a bar you're always expected to clear. They either expect too much from you or nothing at all. Either way, it's a losing game. Trying to chase their shadow is the most inefficient use of energy I can think of."
Horikita stared at him, her usual icy composure cracking for just a moment. He hadn't pitied her. He had simply... understood. She didn't reply, but the tension in her shoulders seemed to lessen, just a fraction.
Two days before the end of April, with the first of the month looming, Chabashira-sensei walked into the now-silent classroom.
"We will now have a short test," she announced, passing out papers.
A wave of groans went through the class. "Sensei, will this affect our grades?" one student asked.
Chabashira gave a rare, reassuring smile. "No. Think of this as a simple pop quiz. The results will not be reflected on your report card. It's just for my reference."
A collective sigh of relief filled the room. The students, now behaving but still lazy, filled out the test with minimal effort.
All except two.
Hachiman stared at the paper. The questions were simple, covering the exact material they had learned over the past month. Just for reference? he thought. There's no such thing as a "just for reference" test in a place like this. Everything has a purpose. A test that doesn't affect your report card... what could it be for?
His eyes met Horikita's across the aisle. She was looking at her own paper with the same intense, analytical stare. The answer was obvious. Terrifyingly so.
This wasn't just a pop quiz. It was a dress rehearsal. And the real performance—the midterm exams—was just around the corner. On May 1st, they wouldn't just be getting their point allocation; they would be getting a preview of the very test that could get half their classmates expelled.
....END....