Power didn't announce itself loudly at Yokosaki.
It whispered.
Akira noticed it in the way conversations stopped when he passed. In how footsteps slowed, how lockers shut just a little more carefully, how eyes tracked him without ever quite meeting his own. Respect and fear lived close together here, and Yokosaki didn't bother separating them.
Graffiti had appeared overnight on the stairwell wall near the east wing.
THE FOUR.
Kenji leaned against a locker beneath it, arms crossed, staring up like he was admiring street art.
"Could be worse," he said. "They could've called us something stupid."
Nikki glanced at it once and looked away. "Shorter names fall faster."
Akira didn't comment. He adjusted the strap of his duffel bag and kept walking, the same way he always did—head level, pace steady, no acknowledgement. He'd learned a long time ago that reacting gave people permission.
It started with one fight, he thought.
Now every fight somehow belongs to us.
Classrooms felt tighter lately.
Not louder—just more crowded with unspoken things.
Akira sat near the front, eyes on the board, but he could feel the room shifting behind him. Vincent was in the back, hunched slightly over his notebook, pen moving in sharp lines that weren't notes so much as patterns—names, arrows, boxes. He wasn't drawing for fun. He was mapping people.
A senior leaned close to his friend two rows over, voice low but careless.
"They really think they run this place now."
Vincent didn't look up. He simply added another name to the page.
Every room has a pecking order, he thought.
And everyone wants to know where you fit before they decide what to do with you.
After school, the courtyard buzzed with leftover energy.
Two first-years argued near the benches, voices sharp with borrowed confidence.
"They'll back me up," one of them said, nodding vaguely in Akira's direction. "Just watch."
"You don't even know them," the other snapped.
Akira walked past at that exact moment, eyes forward, hands in his pockets. The argument died instantly. Both kids froze like they'd been caught lying to someone who mattered.
He didn't stop. Didn't slow down.
Kenji laughed once they were out of earshot. "Man, they're already using your name like a brand."
Akira's jaw tightened. "Then they better be ready to pay for it."
The garage lights hummed softly that evening.
Akira wiped grease from his hands as a small group of boys lingered near the open door—new faces, eager posture, smiles that didn't quite reach their eyes.
"You're Akira, right?" one of them said. "Everyone says Yokosaki's changing. We wanna roll with you."
Akira set the rag down slowly.
"This isn't a side," he said. "It's four people who don't like being pushed."
The kid pressed on anyway. "Yeah, but with you? We could own this school."
That did it.
Akira met his eyes, calm but hard. "That's the problem. You think we want to own it."
They left soon after, disappointment hanging in their wake. One of them glanced back before turning the corner.
Akira noticed.
People who wanted power rarely walked away quietly.
Nikki lay on her bed that night, phone balanced loosely in her hand.
An old video played—her and her mom in the kitchen, laughing over burnt food and bad music. The sound crackled, distorted by time and a cracked speaker.
A knock came at the door.
"You okay in there?" her mom asked.
"Yeah," Nikki said. "Just tired."
She paused the video and stared at the ceiling instead.
Every time you start to belong somewhere, she thought, you remember why you stopped trying.
Kenji sat astride his motorcycle in the back lot, screen lighting up his face.
Messages stacked one after another.
Join our crew.
We're setting something up.
Need you on our side.
He laughed quietly and slipped the phone into his pocket.
"Sides, sides, sides," he muttered. "Everyone wants to play war."
The engine roared to life beneath him, and he rode off—not running, not chasing anything. Just thinking.
Lunch on the rooftop felt different now.
The four of them sat together as usual, but the silence had weight to it this time. No easy jokes. No shared laughter. Just the sound of wind and distant voices below.
"You notice how quiet it's gotten?" Vincent said.
Kenji nodded. "Yeah. Too quiet."
"Means they're planning something," Nikki added.
Akira looked down at the schoolyard—students clustered in groups, glancing up when they thought no one noticed.
"Let 'em," he said. "We didn't start this to be liked."
Vincent exhaled slowly. "Didn't start it to be leaders either."
No one argued.
The wind brushed across the table, holding them together for now.
We weren't chasing power, Akira thought.
But power was chasing us.
And Yokosaki never missed its target.