Chapter 2

He put his hands behind his back, interlocking his fingers.

His previously idle legs kicked back to life.

He wore blue pants, with two black stripes running down the inseam, bloused into black boots, both begin to continually crease and reform themselves.

His black ribbon tucked into the collar of his white button-up and tied around his neck dangled and bobbed with his movement now.

Walking past her, he spoke.

"Would it be cool if I came to check out the clubroom during lunch today…"

She was previously petrified in place, but his question softened her.

She pulled her cap away from her eyes, then turned around to answer him.

Surprised, she saw that he was looking back too, with a cheeky smile.

"President Yasashii Umisugi?"

His grin seemed to instantly disappear from his face after he finished talking.

Swiveling on his feet, the boy turned around and continued walking away.

Speechless, she watched him slowly disappear around a corner.

Umisugi saw that he multiple scars spanning across both of his hands.

They were all from very deep cuts.

And now the big question was:

"How did he get those?"

Another big one was:

"Did he ever say what his name was?"

Pouting and sighing, she fixed her cap, before moving on with her "mandatory" patrol of the school.

It was about to be third period, so they had around 10 minutes to get to their next class.

Both slowly trodded to their next destinations.

He had pulled a scrunched up piece of paper out of his pocket.

The map of the school.

Next period was Japanese Classic Literature.

Usually the teacher would come to the rooms to teach the class, but the instructor for Classic Literature had to have his own specialized room to teach his class.

He was clueless as to why this was.

Scrunching his eyebrows, he wondered what was in store for him.

Walking down the hallways, he felt that it was as if everything was a tint of grey.

Light beige and grey tiles laid on the floor, seemingly at random.

Gray brick walls, decorated with bright yellow hand rails on the walls.

The placards next to the doors were grey too, with bright yellow letters.

Maybe it was just a matter of practicality.

Noting everything about the school, he found the Classic Literature room.

Standing in front of it, he immediately understood why it was its own room.

…Why is there a sliding door?

He thought this style of architecture was phased out with the turn of the 21st century, and the sudden existence of the Basilisks.

With a blank expression, he slid the door open, taking a step in.

As if it was preconditioned into his brain, his head immediately snapped to the left to look around the room.

His head stayed still as his ever-observant eyes saw everything.

The students at their seats were unsettled by his body language and rapidly shifting gaze.

Looking around, he chose what he though was the most convenient seat.

Very front row, right next to the door.

Sitting down, he crossed his legs and placed his hands in his lap.

His school bag, which was previously over his shoulder, was now on the floor next to his chair.

Judging by the old analog clock at the front of the room, it would be a good couple of minutes before the instructor would be in.