**MC POV**
The midday sun cast long shadows across Kuoh Academy's courtyard as I wandered aimlessly during lunch period. My stomach growled in protest—thanks to my usual habit of sprinting to school at the last minute, I'd forgotten to pack food again. The cafeteria's mystery meatloaf? No thanks. I'd rather starve. Instead, I traced a familiar path toward the back of the ORC building, where a cluster of overgrown shrubs hid my favorite secret spot. Well, *one* of them, at least.
As I rounded the corner, the sound of snickering froze me in my tracks. There they were: the infamous perverted trio—Motosu, Katase, and some new third wheel whose name I couldn't be bothered to learn—crouched like gargoyles outside the kendo team's changing room. Their noses practically pressed against the fogged window.
*Typical.*
I smirked, pocketing my hands until my fingers brushed three smooth pebbles I'd collected earlier. Perfect. With practiced precision, I flicked the first stone. It arced silently through the air and struck the base of Motosu's skull—right at the occipital pressure point. His yowl of pain was drowned out by the second and third shots hitting his companions. Chaos erupted as they stumbled into each other, clutching their heads.
"Serves you right," I muttered, already slipping into the shadows. A blink of focus, a twist of energy in my gut—and the world dissolved around me. When it reformed, I stood behind the rusted gate of the old storage shed, my so-called "secret spot."
*Idiots. If they're gonna perv, they should at least learn to check their six.*
I paused, glancing around. The coast seemed clear… or so I thought. Across the courtyard, unbeknownst to me, a pair of sharp eyes watched from a second-floor window. Sona Sitri, ever the diligent student council president, adjusted her glasses as the afterimage of my teleportation flickered. Her brow furrowed.
*No magical signature?* she mused, fingers tapping against the windowpane. *How… intriguing.*
---
The storage shed was a relic—a two-story time capsule stuffed with broken arcade cabinets, a dusty Commodore 64, and boxes of VHS tapes labeled *"1998 Festival Recital."* Sunlight filtered through grimy windows as I rolled up my sleeves. Three hours and one frantic Amazon order later (same-day delivery was a godsend), the place started resembling a retro hacker den. Wires snaked across refurbished consoles; a vintage CRT monitor hummed to life.
Beneath a moth-eaten curtain, I discovered a hidden compartment in the wall—empty, save for a sticky note reading *"Yūji's Stash, 2003."* Grinning, I tossed my spare phone and a pack of game cartridges inside. *My turn to leave a legacy.*
By the final bell, the shed gleamed. Too bad I'd missed all afternoon classes. Not that it mattered—I'd devoured the syllabus weeks ago. Still, as I admired my handiwork, a nagging thought surfaced: *Since when is Kiba a girl?* Genderbent timelines were weird, man.
---
The walk home should've been uneventful. Key word: *should've.*
Sona materialized at the gate like a specter, her posture rigid. Students parted around her, sensing the storm in her stare.
"Zenith-san," she said, voice sweet as poisoned honey. "Care to explain your absence?"
I shrugged, slinging my bag higher. "Lost track of time."
Her eyelid twitched. "Detention. Tomorrow. 3 PM."
"But prez, you said I could skip—"
"Not. On. The. First. Day."
*Touché.*
---
**Next Morning**
Detention smelled like lemon polish and repressed tension.
Sona sat across the student council's polished mahogany table, gaze locked on mine. Sunlight glinted off her glasses, transforming her eyes into unreadable silver pools.
*Stare-down, huh? Bring it.*
Minutes ticked by. A fly buzzed. Someone's stomach growled (hers, not mine). Finally, she glanced away—just a flicker—to adjust her ribbon.
"I win," I sing-songed, kicking my feet onto the table.
Bad move.
In one fluid motion, she was inches from me, hand brushing my cheek. Her breath smelled like jasmine tea.
"We both know you don't want this," he whispered.
For a heartbeat, the world narrowed to the space between our lips. Then I laughed—sharp, humorless—and vanished from my seat.
"Play with someone else's feelings, *Sitri-san*."
The door slammed.
---
**Sona Sitri POV**
*Idiot. Idiot!*
Rias' advice echoed mockingly: *"Boys like confidence, Sona!"*
But he'd… he'd…
*San.* He used *-san.*
Cold dread pooled in my stomach. Formality was a weapon in Kuoh, and he'd just fired a nuke. I lunged for the door, heels clattering down empty hallways. Too late. The courtyard stretched silent, save for cawing crows.
---
**Author POV**
Zane's house loomed at the edge of town—a three-story monstrosity of glass and steel that clashed with Kuoh's rustic charm. Sona arrived breathless, uniform disheveled, to find him sprawled in the grass. Above, clouds drifted like torn cotton.
"You rebuilt the old storage room," she blurted.
He didn't look up. "And you used Rias' shampoo. Strawberry, right?"
A beat. Then, laughter—his raspy, hers nervous—mingled with the cicadas' song.