There were nine desks in the classroom. One for each student in detention.
There was only one boy.
Kota Sakamoto slumped over his cracked desk, pencil scratching lewd skill stats—thrust velocity, stamina regen—in the margins of his notebook, pretending to care about algebra.
Overflowing with girls—eight of them, each a vision of curves and contempt, not one sparing him a glance.
The guys who were supposed to be here?
Skipped without a text, a laugh, or a middle finger.
They'd left him alone with the girls who despised him most, their presence a cocktail of perfume and scorn that made his skin prickle.
Reina Takanashi, the class rep, sat with arms folded under her chest, her blouse straining against her full breasts, posture so rigid it screamed untouchable.
Her violet eyes burned holes into the chalkboard, as if it had dared to challenge her lineage.
Beside her, Miki Hoshizora sucked on a lollipop with obscene enthusiasm, lips smacking, the wet pops louder than the ticking wall clock.
Her skirt rode up her tanned thighs, oblivious or intentional.
Tomoe, Kanae, Saki, Rina, Yuri, and even stoic Hina filled the other desks—each lost in their own world of phone screens or glossy nails, their uniforms clinging in ways that made Kota's pencil pause.
Minor infractions had landed them here, a too-short skirt, a missed cleanup shift, a phone buzzing during class.
Their detention felt like a casual catwalk.
Kota's felt like a public execution.
He tugged at his faded anime hoodie, the fabric worn thin over his lanky frame, trying to vanish into its folds.
Even Aika Kurosawa—their English teacher, a walking wet dream in a tight pencil skirt and sheer blouse that hugged her curves like a lover—hadn't spared him a glance when he shuffled in.
She lounged at her desk, one leg crossed over the other, pantyhose glinting under the fluorescent lights, tapping her pen against a folder with a rhythm that felt... suggestive.
No attendance call. No eye contact.
Just her, ignoring him, checking her watch like she craved something hotter than this room.
"Should've bailed like the rest," Kota muttered, sketching a throbbing HP bar in his notebook, its pulse matching the heat creeping up his neck.
"This isn't detention. It's a damn tease show."
"You say something?" Miki's voice rang out, too loud, her lips glistening from the candy, eyes glinting with mischief.
"No," Kota said, eyes dropping to his paper, cheeks burning.
"Thought so," Reina snapped, not looking up, her voice sharp enough to cut through his hoodie.
Her skirt shifted, flashing a hint of thigh-high stockings.
He caught Kanae's soft laugh, her cruel smirk practically audible.
She never missed a chance to twist the knife.
He didn't need their approval.
He had his notebook, his stats, his—
The lights flickered.
The air thickened, heavy with a humid, musky sweetness that clung to the skin like sweat.
"What the hell?" Aika-sensei stood, her blouse pulling taut across her chest, revealing the faint outline of lace beneath.
She glared at the ceiling. "Stay seated."
The girls rose, skirts swishing, murmurs rising like a chorus of soft gasps.
Phones dropped. Eyes darted.
That's when Kota saw it.
Under Aika's desk—in the center of a chalk circle from some pointless group project—a symbol pulsed to life.
Deep violet, carved into the floor like a lover's mark.
Its curves and spirals glowed, each throb wet and rhythmic, like a heartbeat in heat.
The air around it shimmered with a faint, sticky warmth.
"Um," Kota said, raising a shaky hand, his voice barely a whisper.
A wet scream tore through the room, purple light flooding every corner, bathing the girls in a glow that made their uniforms cling tighter, outlines sharper.
The air snapped, reality peeling like damp silk.
Kota barely stood before the room shattered like glass—and the world melted into white.