The roof of Sakuragi High School had three advantages: no teachers, no crowds, and a perfect vantage point for avoiding both.
Jiro Nakamura sat with his back against the chain-link fence, convenience store sandwich balanced on his knee, watching the courtyard three stories below like a scientist observing bacteria through a microscope. Predictable. Avoidable. Safe.
Third period had just ended. The usual chaos:
Cluster A—Student council members setting up tables for the volunteer drive. Desperate energy. Clipboards like weapons. He'd walked past them twice this morning. Both times, he'd perfected the art of looking extremely busy while doing absolutely nothing.
Cluster B—The theater kids arguing about their spring production. Someone was crying. Someone was always crying. Not his problem.
Cluster C—
He paused mid-bite.
Lyra Hayashi was running.
Not unusual. Lyra was always running—between classes, between people, between versions of herself that everyone else needed her to be. Right now she was juggling three conversations: nodding at the theater girl, writing something in a notebook for the council president, and simultaneously texting while walking backward.
She's going to trip, Jiro thought.
She didn't trip. She never did. Instead, she spun gracefully, handed off the notebook, patted the crying girl's shoulder, and jogged toward the library without breaking stride.
Impressive. Exhausting to watch.
His phone buzzed.
CLASSROOM 2-C GROUP PROJECT ASSIGNMENTS POSTED
Jiro stared at the notification. Then he took another bite of his sandwich, deliberately slow, and deleted it.
Group projects operated on a simple principle: there was always someone who cared too much. That person would do ninety percent of the work while everyone else coasted. The ecosystem required exactly one overachiever per group to function.
He'd be the plankton. Invisible. Efficient.
The bell rang.
Jiro didn't move. Third period had a substitute teacher who never took attendance. Fourth period was English—his best subject by default, which meant he could skip the homework and still pass the tests. Fifth period—
His phone buzzed again.
NAKAMURA JIRO - REPORT TO CLASSROOM 2-C IMMEDIATELY
He sighed, crumpled his sandwich wrapper, and stood.
Invisibility, like all good things, was temporary.
Classroom 2-C smelled like whiteboard markers and teenage anxiety. Jiro slipped in through the back door, scanning for the nearest exit route (window, two desks, hallway) before the teacher, Yamada-sensei, spotted him.
"Ah, Nakamura. Wonderful. You're partnered with Hayashi."
Of course he was.
Lyra sat in the front row, surrounded by three other students who were definitely not her partners but were definitely asking her for help with something. She was smiling. She was always smiling.
Jiro calculated his options:
Option A: Ask for a different partner. (High effort. Would draw attention. Yamada-sensei would say no anyway.)
Option B: Accept the assignment. Do minimal work. Let Lyra carry them to a passing grade.
Option B it was.
He walked to the front, dropped into the seat next to her, and said nothing.
"—and then you just divide the polynomial, and it should work out," Lyra was saying to one of the hovering students. "Oh! Sorry, give me one second—" She turned to Jiro, and her smile somehow got brighter. "Hi! We're partners!"
"Yeah."
"I'm Lyra. Well, you probably knew that. Everyone knows everyone, right?" She laughed. It sounded genuine. He didn't trust it. "I was thinking we could split the research and then meet up to combine notes? I have some free time Thursday after school—wait, no, I have tutoring. Friday?"
"Friday's fine."
"Great! Oh, also, I have a template we can use. I made one last semester for a different project, but it should work for this too. I'll send it to you. What's your number?"
Jiro recited it automatically. Lyra typed it into her phone with alarming speed, fingers moving like a pianist's.
"Perfect! Okay, so the topic is 'Post-War Economic Development,' which is kind of broad, but I think if we narrow it to—"
"Whatever you want."
Lyra paused. Her smile didn't falter, but something flickered behind her eyes. Confusion, maybe. Or recognition.
"You really don't care, do you?" she said.
It wasn't an accusation. Just an observation. Jiro appreciated that.
"I care about passing," he said. "You'll make sure we pass."
"How do you know?"
"Because you're Lyra Hayashi."
For half a second, her smile looked like a mask. Then it snapped back into place, seamless as ever.
"Okay then," she said. "I'll send you the outline tonight."
"Sounds good."
Jiro stood, walked back to his seat, and spent the rest of the period staring out the window.
In the reflection of the glass, he could see Lyra's shoulders. They were tense.
Good, he thought. Maybe she'll learn to say no.
She wouldn't. But it wasn't his problem.