𝐒𝐔𝐆𝐀𝐑𝐂𝐎𝐀𝐓 | 𝙨𝙖𝙩𝙤𝙧𝙪 𝙜𝙤𝙟𝙤 𝙭 𝙛𝙚𝙢! 𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙙𝙚𝙧

𝐑𝐎𝐎𝐊𝐈𝐄 | ☆☆

.⋆ ˚｡⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡⋆

SHIBUYA, TOKYO 2004

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡⋆

hieeee—! it's mikiko ! thank you so much for reading this fic—so to take a breather, before we get into the bulk of it, this is a short chapter from [name]'s life before tokyo tech during her second year of junior high, as we go forward her friends will become reoccurring characters—as well near the end to this chapter,  there will be some facts about [name]!

FINGERS RUMMAGE through the box, the sound of folded paper rustling like leaves in a gentle breeze. he draws out a slip, the texture of the paper slightly rough against the pads of his fingers. it's a number nine, or so he believes, and he can't help the smirk that curls the edge of his lips.

"lucky," he breathes out.

he walks over to the seat, the paper waving in his hand, a silent fanfare for his small victory.

but the moment is fleeting, interrupted by a sudden, firm knock on his shoulder.

he turns, a frown creasing his brow, to face a taller male whose presence casts a shadow over him. the sunlight glints off the metal in his ears, a stark contrast to the soft light that fills the room.

"move over dumbass," the taller male says, his voice a low rumble, disrupting the excited murmurs of the classroom.

he holds up his own slip of paper, the number nine boldly marked, an arrow meticulously indicating the correct orientation of the tails, accompanied by an extra 九, leaving no room for argument.

"ah, really?" the words fall from his lips, a mix of surprise and a tinge of embarrassment coloring his tone.

the classroom settles into a rhythm of movement as everyone finds their place, the soft shuffle of feet and the scrape of chairs against the floor marking the passage of time.

with every seat filled, the energy in the room shifts, the collective breath of anticipation released in a quiet sigh.

it's official—the first day to their second year has begun, each student's fate for the semester sealed with a number from the box.

˚˖𓍢ִ໋˚˚୨🦢୧⋆｡⊹˚. ♡ྀི

the chiptune melody of the game boy fills the air, a tinny soundtrack to their clandestine gathering. thumbs move with practiced precision, navigating pixelated worlds on the small, bright screen. the other boys lean in, their faces lit by the reflected glow of digital adventure.

one boy's hand hovers over his walkman, the headphones now resting around his neck. the silver disc inside gleams, the bold letters of '呼吸' emblazoned across its surface.

the air is heavy with the scent of youth and rebellion, the musky fragrance of afterschool freedom. the boys' uniforms, once crisp and orderly, now hang in comfortable disarray; ties loosened like the day's fading discipline, shirts untucked in silent protest.

"don't you think [surname]-chan is the hottest girl in our grade?" one of them throws out.

"right!" comes the enthusiastic echo, the memory of the morning's ceremony bringing a collective sigh.

"loose socks are really the cutest." heads bob in agreement, each lost in their own vision of idealized feminine charm that you encapsulate.

"i bet she—" the words are abruptly stifled, a hand thrown up in alarm.

"your voice is too loud!" another hisses, an attempt to salvage the secrecy of their conversation.

but it's too late. the honey-blond girl catches the tail end of their exchange. her approach is confident, her skirt rolled a little too high sways as she makes her way towards them—her loose socks scrunching against itself as she moves forward.