I'm standing in a pastel-colored school hallway where sunshine filters through windows and the distant sound of a school bell rings. Kushida—no, Kushida-chan bursts around the corner, giggling breathlessly as she skips down the hall clutching an enormous stack of books that hides her face completely. Her uniform flaps in the air as she runs, each step echoing loudly. Cherry blossoms flutter around her, and a J-pop cover of Beethoven's Für Elise plays in the background.
Holy shit. Did my crappy fanfic just get cancelled, and am I now stuck as the blank-slate protagonist of some low-budget dating sim? Where's the settings menu? I need to turn down the brightness on this garbage reality!
And then—there I am, sprinting in that exaggerated, "anime protagonist late for class" way.
"Oh no! I'm late, I'm late!"
We both lock eyes on the same point at the corridor's center, and fate (lazy writing) does its thing.
CRASH.
Our trajectories align with the precision of a bad rom-com.
"Oww!"
The impact sends her flying, her books tower collapses into the air in a symphony of "FWAP!" pages. Kushida-chan tumbles in slow-mo, books clattering like marbles. Her skirt flips upward to reveal a heart‑print panties while her chest bounces with an over‑the‑top "boing‑boing." The top two buttons of her uniform now casually undone.
My face freezes in a nosebleed grin, my thought process devolving into caveman logic:
"WHOAAAAAA! Books? BOOBS! Books? BOOBS! BOO—"
Her angelic face is now flushed, with her lips slightly parted in shock. "S-Shiroi-kun...!"
"Ohhh my...! Gaaaah—! What curves! What bounce! What exquisite—!" My eyes are popping wide, like I've found absolute ecchi heaven!
Just as I'm about to float off on my own drool cloud. The music scratches like a broken record. Kushida's doll-like features melt like hot wax, reforming into...
Soft, round cheeks. A nose like a button. Rosy, too rosy. The kind of face that belongs on a middle-aged woman who yells at kids to get off her lawn.
My worst nemesis: THAT plump, rosy‑cheeked auntie, with a round, benignly angry expression.
She pokes me in the chest with a finger. "Give me the seat, you little brat!" She booms, her floral-print dress straining against the laws of physics.
My soul leaves my body as I gasp and jolt awake, gripping my stomach like I just chugged expired milk.
"Dammit, brain..." I groan, pressing my palms into my eye sockets.
"Are you trying to make me vomit to death?!" I collapse back onto my pillow, glaring at the ceiling.
"Note to self: Never... never again... will I arrive late again. That shit's weaponized." I mutter. The image flashes across my mind again, and I shudder. "Ugh," A shiver goes through my spine, my vomit almost makes its way out of my throat.
I take a few deep breaths then add. "So much for 'morning wood'." I swing my legs over the side of the bed, the sudden movement sending a crack of pain through my lower back.
"Uhh! Must be all that intense stretching in my dream."
"Haahh...!" I force myself into what can generously be described as a "stretch." More like a series of involuntary muscle spasms designed to somehow realign my spine.
After a lazy stretch, I grab a towel and head to the bathroom for a hot water bath, hoping to clear my thoughts and maybe drown my sorrows. After a moment, I step into the shower, the hot water hits like a forgiveness I don't deserve. I stand there longer than necessary, letting the steam fog up both the mirror and my questionable life choices.
For a beautiful, fleeting moment, the water washes away more than just sleep, it carries off the lingering horror of Floral-Print Auntie's wrath and the existential dread of another pointless school day.
After the bath I brush my teeth and then get dressed in my school uniform and prepare myself for the day ahead, when suddenly:
GROWWLLLL!
My stomach delivers its opening argument: "You useless bastard, where's my breakfast?"
I check at the clock, 7:50AM? Crap. Guess I'll have to settle for culinary improvisation.
"If only the food came already made..." I groan internally while trying to reach for anything edible that's not covered in mold inside my almost empty refrigerator.
"Ramen. My old friend," I think, grabbing a bowl of leftover noodles from the back of the shelf.
Friggin' hassle, why's feeding oneself require so much effort, seriously!
As I'm about to cook the noodles. A voice, thin and reedy, whispers from the depths of the cupboard:
"Oh, look who it is. The culinary prodigy himself. Back for another thrilling installment of 'Shiroi Burns Breakfast'?"
I slam the cupboard door shut, cutting off the disembodied voice mid-sentence. "Nobody asked you."
The kettle whistles like it's laughing at me. I pour the water with the dramatic flair of a disgraced chemist conducting his last experiment. I try to open the bowl, a steaming mass of something. I peel back the plastic wrap and promptly gag.
The noodles are fused to the plastic, a grotesque, tangled mess that looks like it belongs in a science experiment gone wrong,
For fuck sake not even the leftovers—! Why everything related to food must give me headaches?
I take a deep breath that does absolutely nothing to calm my growing hunger rage. Easy, Shiroi, easy. Don't panic. There has to be a way... a way out of this culinary conundrum.
My gaze falls on the vacuum cleaner, standing innocently in the corner. "Aha! Suction power! The solution to all of life's food-related problems."
I grab the vacuum cleaner, flip the switch, and aim the nozzle at the bowl. The vacuum cleaner roars to life, and the noodles vanish. Not just the plastic wrap, but the entire contents of the bowl, sucked into the gaping maw of the vacuum cleaner with the speed and efficiency of a black hole devouring a dying star.
"Fucking bullshit!" I scream at the now-spotless bowl, as if it personally betrayed me. The vacuum belches ominously, its bag now slightly more bloated with my hopes and dreams.
And as always with this kind of inventions, I forgot one simple yet very important detail... now, how the fuck I'm supposed to eat with this growling beast that demands some food?! And the time! Fuck! I'm doomed.
"Well, that was a disaster," I think, running a hand through my already messy bed hair.
Just as I'm about to accept my breakfast-less fate, that goddamn cupboard voice pipes up again:
"Bravo! Magnificent display! You've managed to weaponize a vacuum cleaner against... noodles. You're a culinary terrorist. A menace to society. A—" I interrupt him as he starts his monologue once again, the audacity.
"OH, YOU WANNA GO?!" I roar, slamming my fist on the counter hard enough to rattle the silverware.
"Today I woke up crazy, like... really, really wild." I declare to my empty kitchen, throwing wild haymakers at the air like a drunk anime protagonist.
"This will shut your non-existent mouth, take this—and this! I'm Shiroi! Master at—ouch!" My flailing fist connects with the fridge door with a resounding thwack. Pain explodes in my hand, quickly followed by a dull thud as the refrigerator swings open and whacks me squarely in the forehead and throws me to the floor without a second thought.
Stars dance before my eyes, the world spinning slightly. Wait. Something's pressing against me. Something cold. Something unyielding.
I open my eyes to see the open fridge door looming over me, pinning me to the floor like some kind of refrigerated wrestling champion. I try to wriggle free, but the fridge apparently sensing my weakness presses down with relentless, inanimate force and starts its advance towards pushing all over me. And since I'm a quick thinker.
"Get off me! A-Ahh... ahh!" I groan, unable to even think on how get out of here alive. I try pushing it back, no use. I even try rocking side to side, using my legendary bum wiggle technique—the weight only shifts, adding pressure to my nether regions... of all places.
Oh, for crying out loud.
"Sigh This is... not how I envisioned my morning," I think, my voice a strained whisper since even getting out of air seems rather impossible now.
"I, Shiroi, the urban legend of Tokyo's underworld, the phantom who turned Kabukicho's back alleys into his personal playground. The man who single-handedly dismantled a rival drug cartel using only a frying pan and bad attitude, the one who was said to be faster than the sound itself. Am currently being molested by a slightly sticky refrigerator. And I think it's sentient. Help!"
Just as I resign myself to this humiliating fate, a crow swoops past the window, because of course this hellscape needs avian commentary and squawks.
"AHO!" (Idiot)
"Oh wonderful," I wheeze under the fridge's weight.
Now I'm getting bullied by birds. What's next? The microwave starts reciting my search history?
I exhale the kind of sigh usually reserved for people who talk in movie theaters.
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The classroom door creaks open, revealing my truly and fashionably late, as always. I stroll in, a half-eaten convenience store tuna-mayo sandwich clutched in one hand, my tie askew, and my hair still slightly damp from my intimate encounter with a kitchen appliance.
Note to self: Avoid sentient refrigerators. They have a weird sense of humor. I think, wincing at the phantom pain in my forehead.
My backpack swings around effortlessly, nothing but my crappy pencil case to keep it company. Well, the thing only has a beaten-up pencil, thanks to my 'can I sharpen it with my teeth?' experiment yesterday. Classic Shiroi-level genius moment, am I right?
To sum up to you guys. It's been three weeks since the entrance ceremony. In that time, Ike and Yamauchi, along with Sudou, has collectively come to be known as "The Idiot Trio."
And me? Well, I'm not just any idiot. I'm the 'Super Idiot' (a grand title I've lovingly given myself) You're welcome to bow down, but I'll probably just laugh at you.
I slide into my seat, glancing at the blackboard, a jumble of Greek symbols and mathematical equations.
"Right," I sigh internally. Math. That thing humans do to punish themselves.
I tap Yamauchi on the shoulder who, like the 'good friend' that he shows, is playing at his ps viva when he should be studying since these small details add to their one dimensional behaviour of not giving a care in the world.
"Pssst, Yamauchi," I whisper, nodding towards the blackboard, "what fresh hell is this?"
Yamauchi raises an eyebrow, but answers anyway since that is what 'bros' do: "Really, Shiroi?" He scoffs, his PS Viva momentarily forgotten.
"Did you get hit that badly on your head? Or are those eyes not working fine because it should be pretty obvious even for someone like you. As if we're not all just staring into space, counting the seconds till lunchtime."
"Hahahaha! God, you're so dumb. You're hilarious, man!" Ike laughs loudly.
"Hmph, maybe you have a point." I mutter, my gaze drifting away from Ike and Yamauchi and sweeping across the classroom, taking in the usual assortment of characters.
My attention snags on a group of girls huddled together. "Hey, hey, do you want to go sing some karaoke?"
"Yeah, let's go!"
A group of girls nearby are making plans for after class.
"Sup?" Halfway through class, Sudou crashes through the door and barges into the classroom. He collapses into his seat with a yawn, totally not caring about how late he is.
"Oh, hey, Sudou. Wanna get lunch later?" Ike calls out to Sudou from across the room.
The math teacher carries on with the lesson without even really paying much attention. Normally, the teacher would have flicked a piece of chalk at him, but it seems like they're taking a laid-back attitude. Even when it comes to issues like poor language, tardiness, or dozing off, nobody cares. While at first our class has acted more reserved, now everyone has become far too careless.
Although, there are a few students like Hirata, who still study diligently.
What happened to the draconian school we signed up for? But hey, who am I to complain? This is the life. No rules, no consequences, just vibes.
Somewhere, a single tear rolls down the cheek of Japan's education system.
My phone buzzes in my pocket like a desperate ex. The guys' group chat is in full swing, ostensibly planning lunch, but really just cycling through their three sacred topics:
Girl Ratings: "Did you see Hasebe today? Solid 10/10! 😏"
Romance speculation: "I bet Kushida is still a virgin. 🤖"
Erotic Fanfiction (Self-Insert): "Once, a girl almost smiled at me. Life peaked. 🤓"
It's pathetic. It's juvenile. It's... oddly refreshing. No pretentious depth here—just the pure, unfiltered idiocy of teenage boys in their natural habitat.
"Whoa. Seriously, he has a girlfriend? Awesome." Based on Ike's chat, it looks like Karuizawa and Hirata are dating. From across the room, I see Karuizawa looking at him like she's madly in love.
To be honest, Karuizawa is kinda cute. But she's got that air about her that makes folks think twice about talking to her. She seems like one of those typical girly girls that her forehead is tattooed with the message: No Ugly Boys Allowed. In junior high, she'd probably have been chasing after pretty boys like Hirata. Yeah, my thoughts about her are pretty harsh, but who can blame me, right? I mean, I'm probably not too far off the mark.
Oops, I guess that's kinda mean of me. Sorry, Karuizawa (not really, your taste in men is still basic).
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For third period, we have history class with Chabashira-sensei. As the bell rings, Chabashira-sensei walks into the noisy classroom. Her entrance doesn't alter the students' behavior.
"Quiet down a little, please. Today's lesson will be a bit serious."
"What do you mean, Sae-chan-sensei?"
Ike already has a pet name for the teacher.
"It's the end of the month, so we're going to have a short test. Please pass these to the back."
She hands out the single-sheet tests to the students at the front. The test finally lands on my desk. It's got questions in the main subjects: History, English, Math, Science, and Japanese. It's pretty short, with just a few questions per subject.
To sum this shit up. A surprise test?
Nah, sensei, you can't give us that out of the blue! This is so unfair!
"Eh~ I wasn't listening. I don't wanna take it~" I cry out, folding my arms and yawning loudly.
"Calm down. This test is just for future reference. It won't be reflected in your report cards. There is no risk involved, so don't worry. Of course, cheating is prohibited."
Her word choice seems odd. Normally, the report card only displays overall grades. Yet Chabashira-sensei's statement that they won't be on the report cards has me thinking they might pop up somewhere else.
Well... Maybe I'm getting all worked up over nothing. It doesn't impact our report cards, right? So why stress over a test that doesn't matter to our grades?
As soon as the pop quiz begins, I scan the questions. There are four questions per subject, for a total of twenty. Each question is worth five points, for a total of one hundred points.
Let's assess the damage, I think, flipping the test paper with the enthusiasm of someone opening a credit card bill.
Ahh...
Cue flipping paper sounds.
Oh no...
The problems are on par with the entrance exam ones, except... drum roll, please. I pretty much ranked dead last among all alums who took the damn thing!
No no no no. J-Just look at THIS!
Question 5: English
Identify the grammatical error.
My Answer: "The error was giving us this test."
Well, maybe the next one will be better?
My optimistic spirit takes a brutal hit as I encounter the final few questions. Those equations are way above my head. The final math problem is like a cryptic puzzle that's impossible to crack without some crazy-ass formula.
Oh, this is very bad.
"No way. These questions are seriously way too hard..." Ike voices our collective despair.
These questions are seriously beyond a first-year high school student. Those last three problems are way harder than the rest, like they don't belong at all. So I wonder, if they won't even go on our report cards, then what the hell is this test even evaluating?
Well, time to channel my inner entrance exam spirit. I muse, gripping my pencil like it's a lifeline.
Chabashira-sensei patrols the aisles with the quiet menace of a prison warden, her heels clicking like a countdown timer. She keeps a watchful eye to dissuade us from cheating.
I continue staring intently at my test. OK. Maintain the same "I'm definitely working" face (brows furrowed, occasional thoughtful nods)
Avoid eye contact at all costs (suddenly very interested in desk grain patterns)
When in doubt, write something that sounds smart ("The Tokugawa shogunate was historically significant.")
When the bell finally rings, I surrender my paper with all the confidence of someone who definitely didn't just bullshit their way through 20 questions.
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Lunchtime arrives, a flicker of hope in the otherwise bleak wasteland of academics.
I watch as Ike, Yamauchi, Sudou, and surprisingly Ayanokoji head towards the cafeteria, their loud laughter filling the classroom, They're probably chatting animatedly about Kushida or Horikita perhaps, who knows.
It's like that one kid who wants to play every video game but can't even understand what's going on and ends up repeating the same level over and over just for fun.
Such an admirable yet disgusting sight.
"Left out again, huh?" I think, a pang of annoyance in my gut, then I take a few deeps breaths as I exhale.
Perhaps I'm simply too intellectually stimulating for their limited cognitive abilities. (Truth be told, Sudou probably still wants to hit me after our minor disagreement at the lobby).
Note to self: Apologize profusely to Sudou. A functioning social network is essential for research purposes. And broken noses are always inconvenient.
I sigh, picturing myself giving Sudou the lowest and most humiliating bow an student can afford making only for his personal pride be hurt with almost obvious reluctance from my side, but the rewards outweighs the disadvantages.
Fortunately, as it should be in life, I, Shiroi, am never without a backup plan.
I turn, a mischievous glint in my eye. Three figures huddle there, immersed in a world of intense discussion.
"So, as I was saying," Miyamoto's voice rises in excitement, "When Goku went Ultra Instinct for the first time—chills, literal chills!"
Sotomura or better said "The Professor" chimes in, his eyes gleaming behind his spectacles. "The excitement was truly without equal! That melody was heavenly, akin to the fury of the Nine-Tailed Demon Fox. Even the intensity of Naruto's transformation pales in comparison."
My reserve unit. Always ready to be deployed in times of social isolation. Not exactly the A-Team, but they'll do.
"You guys and your mainstream obsessions," I say, shaking my head with mock exasperation. "So, Professor, did you finally catch up on Bleach? I heard Aizen's reveal is..." I trail off, raising an eyebrow, prompting them to ask.
Professor perks up, turning to me with delight. "Ah... so you too watch Bleach, Shiroi-dono? How unexpected! Pray, tell me, what do you think of Ichigo, fair hero? Verily, he is an admirable soul, is he not?"
"Meh, Ichigo's fine." I glance at their plates full of delicious, still steaming food while a dark thought crosses my mind once again.
There it is, that opportunity for being a nuisance once more and continue while my brain does 'quick calculations'.
"But Rangiku's the real draw. Those oppais? Divine." I blurt that comment, followed by a crude gesture as I cup my hands for emphasis.
Hondou and Miyamoto exchange glances before bursting into laughter. "Dude, you're a lost cause." Hondou manages to choke out between laughs.
Miyamoto grins, shaking his head. "Classic Shiroi, zero filter."
Professor furrows his brow and presses his fingertips to the bridge of his nose, his expression stern. "Firstly, it was Nami, and now you're ogling Rangiku. Have I not said it enough? If you yearn for such fanservice, simply watch some suitable ecchi anime. There be a genre of animation dedicated solely to the artistic expression of the female form, designed for degenerates like you. Verily, it seems a far simpler course to me." He adjusts his spectacles, looking worried not for my well-being, but for the state of my mental health.
"Hmm," I murmur, stroking my chin thoughtfully. "Ecchi anime, you say?"
A beat passes as I nod solemnly. "Alright, Professor, you've got my attention. It's way less socially awkward than ogling real-life girls and I'm definitely curious. Would you mind recommending some titles for my 'research'?"
Professor inhales sharply through his nose, the sound of a man preparing to deliver forbidden knowledge. He adjusts his glasses with trembling fingers, suddenly aware of the weight of responsibility upon him.
"You could... well, I would suggest some shows for you, but—"
"JUST SPIT IT OUT ALREADY!" I slam my hands on the desk.
Hondou and Miyamoto, on the other hand, lean in even more, their eyes gleaming with excitement.
"Highschool DxD. A foundational text in the genre." He straightens, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial tone.
"Highschool DxD, huh? Sounds like a classic." I give a nod of approval.
Miyamoto and Hondou groan in unison. "Lame. That's, like, Ecchi 101. Everyone's seen it. Professor, where's your imagination?" Hondou complains.
"Ehh? What's the big deal with that anime?" I say, my face twisted in confusion.
Miyamoto nods in agreement, completely ignoring me. "Yeah, come on! That anime might work for Shiroi, but we've got a more refined taste, you know? Give us something interesting!"
"Fine, fine. If you want something more refined, and more... sophisticated." Sotomura pauses.
The professor puffs out his chest. He clears his throat, adjusts his glasses, and leans in conspiratorially. "For an expert vast mental database of animated impropriety. Then I suggest Masou Gakuen HxH."
"Masou Gakuen... HxH?" Miyamoto echoes, scratching his head. "What's that one about?"
Professor leans in conspiratorially, his eyes gleaming. "Picture this: There's this academy where girls pilot these giant robots." - he makes explosive gestures - "and one lucky high school student who's bestowed a very special power."
I lean in, my interest piqued. "Let me guess: permanent x-ray vision? The ability to make swimsuits vanish with a snap? Photographic memory for panty shots?"
"No, it's far grander than mere x-ray vision or any kind of power."
Hondou and Miyamoto exchange sidelong glances, their curiosity piqued.
"Continue." I roll my finger, urging him to continue.
"That power is called 'Heart Hybrid Gear'. The machine, known as 'Eros', is powered up by engaging in lewd activities with girls. The more excited the pilot the stronger the robot! It's like Darling in the Franxx if they replaced all that pesky plot with real plot. Trust me; it's a masterpiece of the genre. Top tier plot and top tier waifus, what's more to add."
Miyamoto's jaw drops, and Hondou lets out a low whistle. "No fucking way. You're telling me Japan's defense budget runs on hormones now? Where do I sign up?"
"Dude, I need to read this manga, now." Hondou grabs his phone, already searching for online stores. "Is it still ongoing or what?"
"The light novel? Nope, but there's way more content beyond the anime. You can see how good is this arc—" Professor starts to go into a 'detailed explanation' or what anyone could name as 'deep lore speech'.
I burst out laughing hard enough to startle the pigeons outside. "HAHAHAHA! Hondou, my dude," I wheeze, wiping imaginary tears.
"What manga are you trying to buy, exactly? You've been chowin' down on the same free salad for over like a week straight now."
The chatter cuts abruptly by my remark and an 'uncomfortable' moment takes the scene before Professor continues. "Now that's serious..."
Miyamoto sighs dramatically. "Dude, I'm broke. Totally and utterly... destitute. I spent my last points on that limited edition body pillow of... well, never you mind." He avoids eye contact.
"Ah, why can't next month come any faster? I want my dream-like school life back again!" I say as I shout in frustration.
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The day progresses smoothly until the final bell rings, a sharp clang that slices through the hum of the classroom, signaling freedom.
I sling my bag over my shoulder and head for the door, but then—
"Shiroi-kun." Hirata steps in front of me, blocking my path. For a split second, I'm startled, what's he doing? Then it clicks.
Ever since our first practice, Hirata and I have walked to the pitch together, side by side, every single day. It's not a rare sight; it's our routine, burned into me like the weight of my cleats.
"Hey, Hirata," I say, adjusting my bag, "you ready to head out?"
He sweat-drops, his hand drifting to the back of his neck, a sheepish grin tugging at his lips. "I just wanted to let you know that but. Uh... actually, Shiroi-kun, I can't make it to practice today."
I blink, playing up the surprise. "What? Isn't attendance mandatory?"
"It's not that strict," he says, shrugging. "If you've got a good reason, you can occasionally skip." His eyes flicker away, then back. "Besides. I've got to hang out with my—"
Before he can finish, Kei Karuizawa sweeps into the conversation like a whirlwind, latching onto his arm. "Hirata-kun, let's go!" she chirps, dragging him toward the door. He barely has time to throw me an apologetic glance before they're gone.
I watch them disappear down the hallway, my lips curling into the kind of grin that usually precedes trouble.
Hirata's excuse makes sense—he's a key player, the kind of guy the team revolves around. Missing one practice won't hurt his spot.
Me, though? I know even a justified absence can chip away at my already bad standing as a footballer. Lucky for him, he's untouchable. And luckier for me, I wasn't planning on going either.
Now the real fun begins.