The usual chatter of Class 10-B spilled out into the hallway like spilled light, mingling with the golden stretch of the morning sun. Laughter danced off the whitewashed walls, echoing with carefree abandon. Outside, cherry blossoms drifted gently through the air, the trees in full bloom—a soft, defiant beauty against the dull rhythm of routine.
It was a perfect spring morning. On the surface.
Haruki Sakamoto sat by the window, chin resting in his palm, elbow perched on the desk as he stared outside. The swaying branches held his gaze for a second—no longer. His eyes flicked sideways, involuntarily, pulled by a familiar gravity.
Rika Amamiya.
She moved like light itself. Surrounded by friends, laughter spilling from her lips like music, her crimson ribbon fluttered against her pristine uniform as she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear with a casual grace that seemed too precise to be natural. It never was.
Every detail about her seemed deliberate. Curated. Controlled.
Perfect.
Haruki's fingers twitched against his cheek, then slowly curled into a tight fist. He didn't notice the pressure in his knuckles until—
"Still daydreaming about the idol?"
The voice snapped him back. Renji leaned in from the seat beside him, lips curled into a knowing smirk. His black hair was messy in the way that only looked good on people who didn't try. Mischief flickered in his dark eyes.
"You're hopeless," Renji added.
A thud landed on Haruki's desk as a melon bread bounced and rolled to a stop. Suhyeok grinned, slinging his backpack off with a groan. "Fuel for broken hearts, buddy," he said, stretching out with the energy of someone who slept through every alarm and still made it on time.
Haruki gave a noncommittal grunt, pushing the bread aside. Renji and Suhyeok laughed—not cruelly. Not mockingly. Just… comfortably. Like boys who had grown up together. Like they didn't know the storm that brewed quietly behind Haruki's eyes.
It was all normal. Easy. Safe.
But safety, as it always is, was a lie dressed in morning sun.
A few desks away, a girl let out a sharp breath, Mikako Tachibana scowling at her phone. "Only twelve thousand likes?" she muttered, thumb scrolling with disdain. "What the hell is wrong with the algorithm today?"
Her two satellites, Chika and Hana, leaned in as if the numbers were sacred text.
"Are you serious? You look amazing," Chika whispered, eyes wide.
"Seriously, your skin? Goddess-tier," Hana added, adjusting her own bangs self-consciously.
Mikako gave a small, satisfied smile and flipped her hair. "Obviously."
Their laughter floated up, high-pitched and glinting, like glass—beautiful, but easy to shatter into knives. As they laughed, their eyes drifted. They always did.
Toward the girl who didn't belong.
Nana Odagiri sat in the back corner, hunched low as though trying to fold herself into the desk. Her sweater sleeves were too long. Her bangs too uneven. She looked like a scribble in a world of calligraphy.
"God," Mikako whispered, hand cupped over her lips. "How does she still show her face in public?"
Chika snorted, suppressing a giggle. Hana bit her lip and looked away.
Nana flinched. Her fingers tightened around her pen, shoulders drawn tight like a bowstring. She didn't look up.
The petals outside kept falling.
Behind the school, where the sun never quite reached and no teachers ever bothered to follow, the laughter had a different pitch—meaner. Hollow.
Kenta Mori hit the wall with a dull thud, breath knocked out of his lungs. He slid down, crumpling on the rough concrete, arms instinctively rising to shield his face.
Tatsuya Kamon loomed over him, one hand still extended from the shove, knuckles white.
"Did I say you could talk back, trash?" he hissed.
"I… I'm sorry," Kenta gasped.
Tatsuya's mouth curled into a sneer. "Don't talk when you're not allowed to."
His foot twitched like it might rise again, but he didn't need to. The message was already written in bruises.
A few meters away, Reina Kanzaki leaned against the rusted fence, arms folded, eyes cold and amused. Before her stood a trembling first-year girl, barely holding back sobs.
"Strip," Reina said smoothly, as though asking her to tie her shoes. "Come on. Don't be shy. You've been begging for attention, haven't you?"
The girl's lips trembled. "Please… don't…"
"Aw, she's crying already?" Tatsuya laughed. "Weak."
Reina didn't even flinch. She just kept watching, eyes gleaming like a predator's in the dark.
And above them, unnoticed, Sayaka watched from the stairwell.
She didn't speak. Didn't blink. Just stood like a statue, arms tucked behind her back, her expression unreadable.
She'd seen this scene before.
And she was waiting.
Back in Class 10-B, the chaos was corralled by a single, precise clap.
"Settle down," Reiji Miyanagi announced, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. The class president's voice was clear and practiced, cutting through the murmur without force. "Sensei's coming."
Chairs scraped. Laughter dimmed. Uniforms were adjusted. Masks were fastened.
The door clicked open.
Mr. Asakura entered with the same soft smile he wore every morning, briefcase in hand. His tie was slightly crooked, as always, and his hair a touch too neat to be natural.
He set his bag down with a soft thump. "Alright, everyone. Let's begin."
The moment froze in place—eerily normal.
But then the bell didn't ring.
Instead, something else did.
A low vibration hummed through the classroom like a distant growl, deep and simultaneous. Every phone in the room lit up at once.
Heads turned. Hands moved. Confusion rippled through the class like the first tremor before an earthquake.
"What the—?" muttered Renji, pulling out his phone.
"Is this some kind of joke?" Mikako asked, staring at her screen, perfectly still.
Kenta blinked, still rubbing his shoulder, frozen mid-breath.
Even Rika Amamiya's practiced smile faltered.
Sayaka, for the first time that morning, smiled.
On every screen, the same message:
[Kurohana Class 10-B Group Chat]
Welcome to the Death Room.
The curtain rises. Your roles have been assigned. The Game has begun.
The classroom stilled.
Chika looked at Hana. Hana looked at Reiji. No one said anything. Even Mr. Asakura paused, his smile dimming, uncertain.
Haruki stared at the message, unmoving.
"What is this…?" whispered Nana, voice barely audible.
"Some viral prank?" Reiji said sharply, but his voice lacked its usual confidence.
And then—
From nowhere, yet everywhere, came the unmistakable sound of a curtain rising. Slow. Heavy. Unseen.
The kind of sound that doesn't belong in the real world.
A single cherry blossom petal floated in through the open window and landed on Haruki's desk.
He didn't move.
Outside, the sun still shone. The blossoms still fell.
But inside Class 10-B, spring was over.
And the play had begun.