Amane and Tsukasa headcanons❦

Pyramid game

You escaped with your mother to a new house with her new, rich husband. A new school, Kamome Academy, awaits. You are a normal girl there, or so you think. You are about to discover the dark mysteries and secrets lurking in the shadows of your surroundings. You sense something is wrong with the school. Will you be able to stop it?

"So," Mr. Tsuchigumori tapped a finger on the crisp white paper in front of him, his brow furrowed as he deciphered the English words, "You're originally from America?"

You hesitated, a familiar wave of uncertainty washing over you. It was strange, how this simple question, asked countless times before, still held the power to make you feel like an outsider.  Before you could answer, Mr. Tanaka rose from his chair, gathering the papers with a brisk efficiency that left no room for argument.

"Come," he said, gesturing towards the door. "We'll speak more later.  First, I must show you around."

He led you through a maze of hallways, the unfamiliar scent of tatami mats and echoing laughter in Japanese creating a strange dissonance with the sterile, modern architecture of the school building.  Finally, he stopped in front of a set of imposing double doors, sunlight glinting off the polished brass plaque that read "Kamome Academy" in both Japanese and English.

"This," Mr. Tsuchigumori announced, pushing open the doors with a flourish, "is your new school. Welcome."

He turned to leave, but before he could take a step, you reached out, your fingers closing around his arm.  He stopped, his gaze questioning.

"This might not matter," you said, the words tumbling out in a rush, "But... yes. I am originally from America."

Mr. Tsuchigumori's expression softened, a hint of understanding flickering in his eyes.  He nodded slowly, then gently extricated his arm from your grasp.

"Come," he said, his voice softer now. "Let me show you where everything is."

As you followed him into the bustling hallway, the weight of your unspoken words settled in the space between you.  You were here, in this new place, carrying the weight of your past, your identity.  But maybe, just maybe, this time would be different.
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You are sitting down, not paying attention to the lecture. Beside you, a girl rests her head on top of her hands; it looks like she's sleeping.

"Wake her up," you hear a voice. Looking in the direction of the sudden demand, you find yourself making eye contact with the teacher. Once again, the same demand. "Wake her up," she says, more forcefully this time.

Your attention turns to the girl beside you. You shake her shoulder gently, but she responds fiercely. "Don't touch me!" She jumps up from her seat and leaves the room. You look back at the teacher with confusion. Why would she react that way?
_______________________________

"I would hate to sit next to her," a girl muttered. It was the same girl you'd become hesitant "friends" with, along with a few others, after the accident.

Volleyball practice had ended, and people were starting to trickle out. The teacher called out, reminding you to put the volleyballs away. You sighed, trudging towards the back room. Laughter spilled out from the half-open door. Peeking inside, you saw a girl with a cone precariously balanced on her head, three other girls lobbing basketballs at her, aiming mostly for her head and chest.

Throw after throw, hit after hit, she had fallen down, the cone falling off to reveal the same girl from this morning. Her face bruised up like a punching bag, her lip bleeding as well with her fingernails.
Thinking you made eye contact with one of the bullie's you hide behind the door, as you saw the girls come out, you entered the room, picking up the thrown balls into the basket.