Three Days Before the Midterm Exam
Our male protagonist lay sprawled on the soft dorm bed like a dying fish at low tide, one hand draped dramatically over his forehead, murmuring like a tragic poet.
"Why… why is my life so cruel? First, those demonic teachers with voices smoother than lies, manipulating us with their PowerPoint spells. Then those cursed books—why do they explode with sheer knowledge the moment I open them!? And Hirata… that guy stares at me like I ran over his dog and ate it. He's definitely holding a grudge. And the cherry on top?"
He groaned and rolled over, eyes wide and despairing.
"This entire school is a government experiment to turn students into fried noodles. Why else would they teach psychology and history? The only people who care about those subjects are ancient fossils who still think fax machines are cutting-edge!"
Then, he shuddered, eyes twitching.
"And that black-eyed girl… always staring at me with the glint of a bounty hunter. I swear she's after my soft, delicate body. Lustful creature… I'm a man, not a marshmallow!"
Suddenly, his eyes gleamed with mischief.
"But today…" he whispered with a villainous grin, "I will make that timid guy regret using his freedom of expression. He dared call my haiku 'emotionally unstable and structurally weak.' He shall pay."
With an evil laugh worthy of a low-budget villain, he tiptoed out of the room, sneaking like a cartoon raccoon. As he reached the hallway, whispers echoed:
"He's out again…"
"Get the hockey sticks. We finish this madness today."
The protagonist turned around slowly, expecting admiration, only to see half the dorm holding sticks like an Olympic hockey team out for blood.
Eyes wide, he activated Hussain Bolt Mode, sprinting faster than the speed of plot. But fate, cruel as always, decided this was a good time for his shoelaces to betray him.
He tripped—in slow motion—with a whispered "I'm dead…" before rolling behind a bush.
Unfortunately, the bush was wet. And smelly. And sticky.
"What the—" he muttered. "Is this… petroleum?"
Just then, the black-eyed girl walked past, swirling a lighter like a Bond villain.
"Hm… I need to buy more of this liquid," she said casually, inspecting her now-empty bottle. "Where did my pillow go though?"
And with the grace of doom, she dropped the lighter… directly onto the petroleum puddle.
The protagonist's pupils dilated. He looked at the sky.
"Oh merciful god, if I ever survive this… I will never skip PE again."
FWOOOSH!
Fire danced like it was Coachella. He bolted out of hiding, pants slightly singed, hair resembling overcooked ramen.
"WHICH PSYCHOPATH SPILLED THIS FLAMMABLE NIGHTMARE!?"
After barely surviving the spontaneous barbecue, our hero slipped into an alley and pulled out his secret-agent voice.
"The pigeons are in the coop. Repeat. Pigeons. In. The. Coop."
Two shady figures emerged from the shadows—his accomplices. The same guys who'd stopped the timid boy last time.
"All set?" he asked, donning sunglasses with no lenses.
"All set," they replied.
"Good. The operation begins."
"Where's our payment?" one whispered.
"Delivered after the mission, not before. What am I, Santa?"
Then, like a man on a divine mission, he swaggered in front of the girls' bathroom, where the timid boy nervously stood, clearly regretting being born.
The protagonist muttered, "As the glorious elder of the Violence Association, I shall now educate you on why you respect your seniors."
With the speed of a caffeine-fueled squirrel, he launched a flying kick that sent the timid boy crashing into the bathroom, where fate (and comedy) awaited.
BOOM!
BAM!
CRASH!
Inside, the boy collided with none other than the girl with electric powers, who had just charged her phone and, apparently, her soul.
ZAAAAP!
Electric sparks filled the air as the girl screamed, "Pervert!"
Then she paused, recognized him, and gave him The Disappointed Wife Look™.
"I didn't expect this from you…" she said, tears shimmering in the air like anime betrayal.
The timid boy stood frozen, more shocked than electrocuted, blinking as if trying to reboot his soul.
Meanwhile, watching this divine chaos from the bushes, our male protagonist chomped on popcorn he found in his pocket and whispered to himself:
"Now that's what I call hunting two victims with one kick. Mwahahaha."
Then he ran to the nearest tree and climbed it like a squirrel dodging karma, giggling all the way.
Our male protagonist sat beneath the tree, hair frizzed from earlier flames, body covered in a mix of soot, sweat, and what he could only hope was tree sap.
He pulled out his digital point tracker, and with the dread of a man checking his bank account after impulse shopping, he tapped the screen.
-1000 points.
A single tear rolled down his cheek.
"M-My pool… my beautiful glass-walled pool… that one kick sent him through a reinforced luxury window… Was that guy made of tungsten?"
He collapsed dramatically onto the grass, face toward the stars.
"And the work… just for that work… the planning, the oil spill, the distraction pillow, the Operation Bathroom Blitz—was it all for nothing…?"
His hand trembled as he scrolled further.
Balance: 82,000 points.
"I lost 18,000 points… from my glorious 100,000… all because of a glass wall and a girl who thinks petroleum is perfume…"
He clenched his fists, eyes glinting.
"This won't be forgotten. That work was only the beginning. Next time... the world shall remember me."
A gust of wind blew past. Leaves danced dramatically, as if nature itself agreed.
Day of exam
The classroom buzzed with tension. The air was so thick you could butter toast with it.
Our protagonist sat hunched at his desk, twitching like a squirrel on espresso. Sweat dripped like leaky plumbing. His eyes darted around like he was searching for a fire exit.
"K-Kushida…" he whispered, turning with the smile of a man about to beg for food.
Kushida blinked, confused. "Yes?"
"Can I… borrow last year's exam paper… just to… admire the formatting?"
She smiled sweetly and handed it over.
He clutched it like it was a life-saving artifact from the Library of Cheat Codes. His hands trembled.
"I swear if I survive this, I'll build a shrine for this paper…"
Result day
The classroom was silent. The teacher stood at the board with the calmness of a tax collector.
She began writing the top scorer.
H-I-R-A-T-A: 100%
Our male protagonist blinked. Then blinked again. Then started slow clapping in his mind.
"Oh? So we're just lying today?"
He murmured under his breath, "I know I got the highest. I even circled the multiple-choice options with artistic flair. And what's this? That Hirata smug aura? He's smiling like he just dunked on me in 4K."
He turned to look at Hirata—who, indeed, was smiling faintly while glancing back. The glint in Hirata's eyes said it all:
"I have taken my revenge… peasant."
Then came the cruelest words from the teacher's mouth:
"We will now calculate the average. The red-haired student has failed."
Gasps.
Red-haired student stood in shock, hands trembling, soul departing.
The teacher walked out silently, followed by Ayanokoji, expression unreadable, and then Horikita, whose eyes looked like they could calculate your future.
Our protagonist sat with slumped shoulders, watching the others leave, and whispered with narrowed eyes:
"Someone's buying experts… definitely. There's no way that guy got 100% unless he traded his soul for it."
He looked at his own paper with circles and doodles of flying cats and muttered, "Art is not appreciated in this school."
Ayanokoji stared blankly at the group dancing in his room. His fingers tightened around the edge of the desk as he whispered to himself:
"Why a party in my dorm…?"
Laughter echoed as students raised cans of juice and soda. The center of attention was Horikita—her cold demeanor softening ever so slightly as she accepted their thanks.
One boy clapped. "She's so reliable…"
Another girl giggled. "And actually… kinda cute?"
The praise lingered in the air like sweet perfume.
Kushida's face twitched. A faint crack appeared in her smile. Her eyes glinted like a broken mirror.
Ayanokoji, ever expressionless, noticed.
"Distorted," he thought. "She can't stand it… the light shining on someone else."
After the party ended. Everyone had gone.
Only Kushida and Ayanokoji remained.
She leaned on the desk, her eyes sharp now.
"Are you and Horikita… very close?"
Ayanokoji blinked once. "No. Just neighbors."
Kushida's mask reappeared. "I see. Good night then."
She walked out, heels echoing in the hallway.
Ayanokoji waited, then followed silently, curiosity a whisper in his mind.
As he neared the elevator, he noticed:
"Her room is upstairs. Why… is the lift going down?"
He took the stairs, slipping into the shadows, trailing her from a distance. She exited the building and disappeared near the edge of a tree-lined path.
Meanwhile, beneath a different tree—
A figure walked slowly, a long coat trailing behind him. His shoes barely made a sound on the grass.
The male protagonist.
In his hand were crumpled papers.
He looked up at the moonless sky. Then—
He flung them into the air.
Pages spiraled like dying birds.
[Flashback Begins]
We see the boy who borrowed points for last year's paper—smiling, handing the sheet to another.
Then, a group emerged, placing devices into the soil, setting up a network.
From the shadows, a figure exchanged points using a hidden system.
Points were stolen.
[Flashback Ends]
The male protagonist stood alone, watching the papers fall.
He murmured a song as a low metallic noise echoed in the distance—like someone trying to break steel.
"Two faces hide inside one skin,
A smile to charm, a lie to win.
One sees light, one lives in flame,
They wear the same mask, but not the same name.
Mirror cracked, soul divided—
Truth behind eyes long derided.
One walks free, the other hides,
Until the world turns… and justice decides."
Kushida turned suddenly, trapping Ayanokoji against a tree.
Her smile was cold.
"You followed me."
Ayanokoji stayed calm. "Your mask is slipping."
She leaned in close, whispering like poison, "If you tell anyone… I'll scream. Say you tried to… touch me."
Ayanokoji tilted his head.
"This is a free society. You don't have proof."
Her expression snapped into something inhuman. Without hesitation, she grabbed his wrist—and forced his hand against her chest.
"Now I do," she said, voice venomous.
Ayanokoji's eyes narrowed.
"This… is your real face."
He had known. From the beginning.
From the top of the tree, the male protagonist watched all of it.
His eyes weren't just dull—they were ancient, cracked, burning faintly crimson.
A glimmer of blood red swirled in his iris.
"Double face… One for the world, one for themselves…"
He leaned back, singing again, softer now.
"One walks free… the other hides… until the world turns… and justice decides…"
He closed his eyes.
A young boy, the male protagonist—stood in a room painted in blood.
Shattered glass. A broken syringe. A woman's laughter on a loop from a nearby speaker.
The boy stood motionless. Not crying. Not screaming. Just… observing.
His eyes were the same as now—dead red with a shine of something inhuman.
Ayanokoji's dull eyes watched Kushida fade into the shadows.
The male protagonist's red-stained eyes stared at the moonless sky.
Two faces in one world.
One manipulates from shadows.
The other? Waits. For the first to open first.
And then—
He will begin.