hana-no-seiiki

[hana-no-seiiki]

This is it. This is the fic of all time. IM SCREAMING

Almost Mine: Chapter 1

In Diamond Hill, power comes dressed in silk and secrets. And for the chosen few? Survival isn't about grades— It's about who burns, and who learns how to set the fire. A new student, an exiled princes returns, unspoken confessions, old flames coming face to face. All this before the school has even begun. One might wonder what lies ahead for the elites of the Diamond hill.

Pairing: Gojo x y/n, Nanami x y/n

Theme: Drama

Taglist: Open

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The soft hum of the car engine was the only sound Ayaka could focus on as Tokyo’s skyline came into view. The sprawling rice fields and sleepy villages of her hometown had long vanished in the rearview mirror, replaced by glittering skyscrapers, intricate overpasses, and buzzing streets teeming with life. She pressed her forehead gently against the window, eyes wide as the city unfolded around her like a scene from a futuristic novel.

Utahime’s invitation had come like a ripple across the surface of Ayaka’s otherwise quiet life. A cousin she’d only seen twice at distant family gatherings, now offering her a place to stay—and more than that, a new path entirely. “Come to Tokyo. Finish your schooling here,” Utahime had said. But what she hadn’t mentioned was the sheer scale of the life she was stepping into.

Ayaka's phone buzzed with a message—another update from the school registrar—but she barely glanced at it. Her hands tightened around the edge of her seat as the car veered off the city’s main roads and began its ascent toward a quieter, greener realm. The contrast was stark: the neon chaos of Tokyo fading behind, replaced by manicured hedges, stone-lined paths, and trees that looked too perfect to be natural.

“Diamond Hill,” the driver murmured, as if naming a myth.

Ayaka’s breath caught in her throat. She remembered reading about it during her research before the move. The stories seemed ridiculous at first—urban legends, surely. A billionaire once purchased the land here, paying entirely in raw diamonds. The tabloids had nicknamed it "Diamond Hill," and the name stuck, partly because it felt too outrageous not to.

Now, as they looped around the hill, Ayaka could believe every word. Each turn of the road revealed sprawling mansions tucked behind wrought-iron gates, their facades dripping in old money—columns, balconies, water fountains, and drives large enough to host a wedding.

The car finally slowed and turned into a wide driveway paved with slate-gray stones. A discreet gold plaque read: No. 20. 

Ayaka and her mother exchanged a glance before the driver opened their door. As they stepped out, the full scale of the mansion loomed before them—an elegant structure of white stone and pale wood, with tall arched windows and soft ivy trailing down one wing like lace. The scent of jasmine lingered in the air.

The front doors opened with perfect timing.

Utahime stood at the top of the steps in a flowing pastel blouse, her long black hair neatly tied back, and beside her was her mother, graceful and poised, the kind of woman whose presence filled a room even without saying a word.

“Ayaka! Oba-san! Welcome to Diamond Hill,” Utahime called out, descending the stairs with a warm smile.

Ayaka bowed politely, as did her mother. There was a brief exchange of greetings, hugs, and comments about how much Ayaka had grown, followed by Utahime’s mother ushering them inside with a hand placed lightly on Ayaka’s mother’s back.

Utahime turned to Ayaka and gestured with a playful tilt of her head. “Come on. Let me show you around.”

The moment they stepped inside, Ayaka’s senses were flooded. The entrance hall alone was larger than her entire living room back home. Marble floors glistened beneath a massive chandelier, and the walls were lined with art she could only guess was real. A grand staircase swept up in a spiral, and sunlight filtered in through ceiling-high windows, scattering rainbows across the floor.

As they walked, Ayaka tried not to gape, but every corner of the mansion felt like a museum or a dream—or both. Glass-paneled doors opened into rooms with velvet armchairs and hand-carved bookcases, while hallways seemed to stretch forever, each turn revealing something more ornate: an indoor koi pond, a private music room, a library with an actual ladder.

Finally, Utahime stopped in front of a double door and pushed it open.

“This is your room,” she said simply.

Ayaka stepped in and froze.

It was bigger than her entire house back home. A queen-sized bed sat in the center, framed by sheer curtains and soft gold linens. A writing desk faced the windows that looked out over the hill, and a walk-in wardrobe took up one whole wall. There were soft rugs underfoot, paintings on the walls, and a small balcony with potted plants swaying gently in the breeze.

“Is this... really mine?” Ayaka asked softly.

Utahime grinned. “Every bit of it. Welcome to your new life, Ayaka.”

Ayaka walked toward the window, fingers brushing the velvet curtain. The city shimmered far below like a sea of stars. She felt as though she’d stepped into a different universe—one of privilege, mystery, and unknown rules.

Ayaka sat gingerly on the edge of the plush bed, her fingers trailing along the soft gold stitching of the comforter. She still couldn’t believe this was her room—her life now. The quiet hum of city sounds far below was oddly calming, unlike the thick silence of the countryside. Utahime plopped down beside her with practiced ease, folding one leg beneath her and tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

“It’s a lot, isn’t it?” Utahime said, smiling gently.

Ayaka gave a small nod, still looking around the room like she was trying to memorize it. “I don’t even know how to act in a house like this,” she said with a half-laugh. “Back home, if I dropped something on the floor, it rolled into the next room.”

Utahime laughed, a warm, melodic sound. “Well, here it might roll into a chandelier.”

They sat in a comfortable pause, letting the last traces of the long journey settle. Then Utahime’s smile faded slightly, replaced by something softer.

“I’m really glad you’re here, Ayaka,” she said. “After… everything, I mean.”

Ayaka glanced down at her hands. “Yeah. Me too.”

Her father’s absence had followed her like a shadow ever since the funeral. Even now, six months later, there were moments when the grief hit like a wave she didn’t see coming. Her mother had done her best, but things had been tight—emotionally, financially, everything. When Utahime’s family offered to bring her to Tokyo, it was the only option that made sense, even if it felt like stepping into someone else’s life.

“Thank you… for this. I don’t think I ever really said it properly,” Ayaka said quietly. “Your family didn’t have to help. But you did.”

Utahime shook her head. “You’re family. That’s all that matters.”

She stood up suddenly and reached for her phone. “Okay, now—let me show you where we’re going to be spending most of our time. Elysian Hall.”

She tapped through her gallery and handed the phone to Ayaka.

Ayaka blinked. “It looks like a luxury resort.”

The photos showed sleek modern buildings with reflective glass panels, an Olympic-sized pool, gardens with cherry blossoms in full bloom, a multi-level library with glass floors, and a theatre hall that rivaled any professional stage she’d seen on TV.

“It’s one of the top private academies in the country,” Utahime said with a hint of pride. “Most of the students are… well, kids of the one-percenters. Politicians, tech billionaires, foreign diplomats. The uniforms have designers. The cafeteria has a sushi chef. And don’t even get me started on the robotics lab.”

Ayaka’s eyes widened. “Do we… do we need to like, pay the chef to make lunch?”

Utahime burst into laughter. “No, no! But don’t be surprised if your lunch comes with a side of caviar.”

“Great,” Ayaka grinned. “Sound like a lot”.

“You’ll be fine. Besides,” Utahime added, nudging her lightly, “you’re one of us now.”

“How far is… our school?” she asked, still getting used to the way our sounded.

“Just on the other side of the hill,” Utahime replied, standing and walking toward the balcony. “It’s a ten-minute drive. Fifteen if there’s traffic—though traffic doesn’t really exist on Diamond Hill. Everyone’s too rich to be late.”

“Does it ever get… too perfect?” Ayaka asked after a beat.

Utahime tilted her head. “Sometimes. There’s a lot of pressure here. Image. Reputation. Some of the kids— they’re brilliant but always performing.”

She turned to Ayaka. “That’s why I’m glad you’re here. You’re real. This place needs more of that.”

Ayaka smiled. She felt a little less like an outsider then. The mansion, the school, the unfamiliar glitter of wealth—it still felt like a dream. But here, sitting beside Utahime with the cool breeze brushing her face and the city l far below, it also felt like maybe… just maybe, she could belong.

The setting sun filtered through sheer curtains, casting golden shadows across Ayaka’s new room. Half-unpacked suitcases lay open on the floor, her hands neatly folding her favorite sweater when there was a soft knock on the door.

As she tucked away her sweaters in a wardrobe that felt too nice for her clothes she went over Utahime’s words. A deep feeling pooled in her stomach but she didn’t know what to call it yet. Sure it was quite generous of her family to take her in after everything, but she wondered why now? Her family had struggled in the past. She remembered hearing her parents talk in hushed tones when her father lost his lucrative job at the law firm. Utahime’s family didn’t help them then. Why now? 

Ayaka sighed as she sat cross legged on the floor. She wasn’t exactly poor. She had seen money before and had lost everything. All this felt like a slap of a reminder of things she had lost. Her pity party was broken by a soft knock on the door,

“Come in,” Ayaka called.

Utahime strolled in, holding two glasses of iced tea, her ponytail bouncing slightly with every step. “Figured you could use a break,” she said, handing one to Ayaka. She flopped onto the velvet armchair near the window. “So, how’s the unpacking going?”

Ayaka laughed. “Slower than expected. I think your closet is bigger than my entire old bedroom.”

Utahime smirked. “It probably is.”

There was a pause as they sipped their tea, then Utahime tilted her head curiously. “So… what was your old school like? You know, before all this?”

Ayaka sat cross-legged on the bed. “Pretty normal, I guess. Public school. Uniforms that never fit right, a courtyard that turned into a swamp during monsoon season. Nothing remotely like Elysian Hall.”

“Ever have a boyfriend?” Utahime asked casually, but there was a glint in her eye that didn’t quite match her tone.

Ayaka raised an eyebrow and smiled. “No, not really. I mean, I had a crush on a guy in third year who played guitar, but he barely knew my name.”

Utahime laughed softly. “Classic.”

Ayaka shot her a curious glance. “And what about you? What’s your school life been like? Are the students… nice?”

“Nice?” Utahime echoed, grinning. “Some are. Most are… complicated.”

She pulled out her phone. “Here, let me show you some of the people you’ll be seeing every day.”

She scrolled for a moment, then turned the screen to Ayaka. “This is Hana, and that’s Rika. We’ve been in the same class since year seven.”

Ayaka took the phone. Both girls were stunning, their feeds curated with magazine-worthy selfies, designer handbags, vacation shots, and gym mirror pics. The kind of girls who looked like they belonged on billboards.

“Wow,” Ayaka muttered. “They look like influencers.”

“They kind of are,” Utahime said. “But don’t worry, not everyone is all filters and Fendi.”

Ayaka handed the phone back. “Are there cliques? Like… mean girl groups?”

Utahime gave a dry laugh. “Oh, absolutely. Elysian Hall thrives on cliques. They don’t officially exist, but everyone knows where the lines are.”

She scrolled again. “Speaking of lines… here.”

She flipped the screen around, showing a boy with messy white hair, striking blue eyes, and a smile that looked like it had broken more than a few hearts.

Ayaka blinked. “Who is that?”

“Gojo Satoru,” Utahime said with a soft sight. “He’s… well, he’s like the king of Elysian Hall.”

Ayaka stared at the screen. Gojo was posing in front of a private jet, grinning with sunglasses pushed up into his hair. In another post, he leaned back casually on the deck of a yacht, looking like he belonged on the cover of a luxury lifestyle magazine.

“His great-great-grandfather bought Diamond Hill,” Utahime added. “With diamonds. Literally.”

Ayaka’s mouth hung open. “So that’s real.”

“Oh, it’s very real.” Utahime nodded with a smile. She continued, “His best friend is Geto Suguru. His entire family are lawyers—they own Takashima & Partners. Biggest law firm in the country.”

Ayaka nodded slowly, her father’s law firm ,taking it all in. “They sound… intense.”

“They are. But also charming, rich, and terrifyingly well-connected.”

Ayaka stared at the screen, wondering how she’d ever fit into a place like this. “How is he …so …”, Ayaka trailed off as she scrolled further.

“Rich?”utahime asked, sipping her ice tea. “Well his family owns almost..everything. Retail stores, real estate, banks..you name it and they probably own it”.

“So Gojo is the king,” she said, trying to keep her tone light. “Who’s the queen, then?”, She asked jokingly

Utahime’s smile faltered. Her grip on the phone tightened before she finally tapped a name and handed it to Ayaka again, her voice sharp. “There is no ‘official’ queen but this…. this is Y/N.”

The screen loaded a profile with thousands of followers. Y/N’s posts were polished and glossy—designer fashion, weekend getaways, luxury galas, rooftop dinners. Ayaka scrolled slowly, her eyes wide. “She’s gorgeous,” she murmured. “And her life…”

“She’s untouchable,” Utahime said flatly. “Her family owns more than half of the telecom network in the country. Towers, satellites, everything.”

Ayaka flipped through more posts—photos on yachts, candlelit dinners, and a snapshot from Monaco. Gojo and Geto were beside Y/N, both in linen shirts and sunglasses, drinks in hand. “She seems…nice”.

“It’s all pretend”.

“Really?”, Ayaka's eyes widened.

“Of course! No one is that nice when they are that rich! She probably doesn’t even know anyone outside her own group. She is… she is just.. Not nice okay?”.

“Wow. You really seem to dislike her”.

“We have had our differences in the past but it’s irrelevant to you”. Utahime flashes a tight lip smile.

“Who’s the other girl in this photo?” Ayaka asked, pointing at a girl with warm eyes and long brown hair, leaning back against the railing.

“Shoko Ieiri,” Utahime replied. “Her family owns Sakura Health Group—they run the biggest hospital chain in the country.”

Ayaka’s jaw dropped. “Sakura General? That’s where I was born!”

Utahime nodded. “Of course you were. That’s where everyone’s born—if they can afford it.”

Ayaka put the phone down slowly, her thoughts spinning. These people weren’t just rich—they were legacy-rich. Their names meant something. Their last names opened doors.

She leaned back on the bed, exhaling softly. “This is going to be… a whole different world.”

Utahime looked at her thoughtfully. “Yeah. But you don’t have to change who you are. Just… learn to play the game.”

Ayaka met her cousin’s eyes. “And who taught you how to play it?”

Utahime smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “I might not be as old money but I am smart and I pay attention. You have a month until school starts so start prepping”. Utahime winked.

She continued to scroll through Y/N’s Instagram feed, each photo more extravagant than the last—high-fashion photoshoots in Paris, summer yacht parties in the Amalfi Coast, a New Year’s Eve gala in what looked like an actual castle. The captions were minimal, the comments flooded with emojis and hearts. It was the kind of life Ayaka had only ever seen on glossy magazine covers.

“She looks like she belongs on the front of Vogue,” Ayaka murmured, entranced. “And she travels so much…”

Utahime, standing beside her, folded her arms and watched quietly. “Her family has their own jet. She probably wakes up and decides whether she wants to do brunch in Tokyo or Milan.”

As Ayaka continued scrolling, she landed on a photo from a year ago—Y/N in a backless emerald dress, laughing mid-spin on a balcony overlooking Monaco’s coastline. Gojo and Geto were in the background, caught in a candid moment, drinks in hand.

The image was perfect. Ayaka’s finger hovered just a second too long.

Double tap.

A soft heart bloomed beneath the photo.

A beat of silence.

Then—Ayaka screamed.

“OH NO NO NO—”

Utahime lunged forward. “WHAT DID YOU DO?!”

“I liked it—I liked a photo from A YEAR AGO!!”

“GIVE ME THAT!” Utahime snatched the phone and furiously tapped at the screen. “Oh my god. Did she see? Did it register? Please—ugh—unliked it—there. Okay. Crisis… maybe avoided.”

Ayaka covered her face with both hands, mortified. “I was just scrolling! I didn’t mean to!”

Utahime exhaled sharply, pacing the floor once before sitting down with a thud in the armchair. “You cannot afford to make mistakes like that here, Ayaka.”

Ayaka peeked through her fingers. “It was just a like—”

“Not in this world, it’s not,” Utahime cut in, voice calmer now, but edged with seriousness. “These people notice everything. A wrong glance, a bad repost, a stray comment—hell, even the way you tie your hair can get dissected in someone’s group chat.”

Ayaka sat up straighter, the weight of her cousin’s words slowly settling in.

Utahime continued, “You’ve got one shot here, Ayaka. One. People like us? We don’t come from family empires or private islands. But if you play your cards right… if you pay attention… you can rise. You can make a life that’s untouchable.”

The air grew still.

Utahime stood, smoothing out her skirt and avoiding Ayaka’s eyes. “I’m not trying to scare you,” she added, her tone softer. “But this place—Elysian Hall, Diamond Hill—it’s not just school or home. It’s… the first rung of a very, very tall ladder.”

Ayaka didn’t say anything.

Utahime gave a faint smile. “Dinner’s at seven. I’ll send someone to show you around the house before that.”

She turned and walked toward the door, pausing just briefly before exiting. “Oh, and Ayaka?”

“Yeah?”

“You’re smart. Just… be smart quietly. At least for now.”

Then she was gone.

Ayaka was left sitting in silence, still holding the phone like it might burn her. She glanced down at the screen again. The photo was still there—Y/N, radiant in emerald, surrounded by the untouchable.

Ayaka leaned back slowly, her thoughts churning.

Was this how it started?

Notebooks replaced by designer bags. Popularity measured by engagement rates. Success was based on who you knew rather than what you could do.

She had come here with a suitcase and hope. They had come with surnames that carried weight like currency.

Ayaka stared up at the ceiling, her heart beating a little faster than before.

What does it take to belong here? she wondered.

And more importantly—

What would it cost?

She stared at herself in the full length mirror in the corner, her straight black hair formed a perfect line right below her shoulder, there was nothing impressive about them. Even her slender frame was average. Everything about her was just…average. How can she ever get noticed in the world of perfection?

Nanami groaned as he dropped heavily onto the bed, the mattress giving way beneath him with a soft creak. He stared blankly at the ceiling — the same ceiling he’d memorized on countless sleepless nights, tracing the faint cracks like constellations. And now, here he was again. Back in this house. Back in this room. Back against his will.

A gentle knock tapped at the door.

“Master Kento,” came a soft, familiar voice from just beyond the frame.

“Come in, Albert,” Nanami replied, sitting up with a tired grunt. He rubbed his face, trying to wipe away the weight of the flight and the years in one motion.

The door opened quietly, and Albert stepped in, as proper as ever, carrying a silver tray with a single glass of orange juice resting at its center. The butler’s expression was warm, almost apologetic.

“Welcome back, young master.” Albert approached the bedside table and set the tray down with practiced grace. “How is your jet lag?”

“Not too bad,” Nanami said, more out of politeness than truth. He reached for the glass and drained it in one long gulp. The cold citrus bit at his throat, but it helped. A little. “Where’s Father?”

“He mentioned he would join you for dinner this evening.”

Nanami’s jaw clenched. “Mother?”

“She’s at the charity event” Albert said gently, folding his hands in front of him. “She plans to return after lunch.”

A bitter laugh escaped Nanami’s lips before he could stop it. Of course. He had returned after seven years — seven years without so much as a proper visit — and they couldn’t even be bothered to be home.

“I’d like to sleep,” he said flatly, placing the empty glass back on the tray. “Wake me before dinner.”

Albert gave a small, respectful bow. “As you wish, Master Kento.” Then he quietly turned and left, closing the door behind him with a soft click.

Nanami let out a long breath and stretched his arms over his head, feeling the stiffness in his shoulders. He glanced around the room — untouched, preserved like a museum exhibit. The same books on the shelves. The same posters on the wall. The same trophies. A snapshot of a boy who’d never been allowed to grow roots.

He remembered the last time he stood in this room. His father had barged in without warning, handed him a sleek envelope containing a one-way business-class ticket to Switzerland, and left without a word of explanation. That night, he lay awake, staring at the same ceiling, wondering what he’d done wrong.

Seven years. Seven Christmases spent in a boarding school nestled in the Swiss Alps. Every year he asked if he could come home, and every year, his father denied him. They traveled, sure — the Maldives, Monaco, Marrakech — but those weren’t home. Resorts were not home. He wanted this room. This house. His family.

By the third  Christmas, he stopped asking.

And just when life in Switzerland had finally begun to feel stable — friends, routines, a version of belonging — the email came. Another one-way ticket, this time to Tokyo. No discussion. No warning. Just a command.

He remembered sitting in his dorm room, staring at the screen as reality sank in. His chest felt hollow. Once again, he had no choice.

Now he was here. Transferred to Elysian Hall, a place filled with polished students who had grown up together, who shared secrets and summer memories he couldn’t access. He was a stranger again. A transplant with no soil.

Nanami lay back on the bed and closed his eyes, exhaustion pressing down like gravity. But sleep wouldn’t come easy. It never did,not in this house.

The air was thick with humidity as Nanami laced up his sneakers and stepped outside. The morning sun was veiled behind drifting clouds, casting soft, dappled shadows over the stone path that curved away from House No. 15, Diamond Hill — his family’s estate. The mansion stood tall and immaculate, untouched by time, but it felt as foreign to him as a stranger’s house.

He didn’t really have a plan — just the restless weight in his chest and the urgent need to move. To breathe something that wasn’t filtered air and expectation.

He jogged through the private gates and onto the wide, tree-lined boulevard. The trail that looped around Diamond Hill was surrounded by manicured greenery and old oaks that whispered in the breeze. It was beautiful — pristine, even — but sterile in the way all expensive things tend to be.

As his feet fell into rhythm on the pavement, his thoughts slipped back into the same old spiral.

Starting over. Again.Another school. Another cafeteria full of polished students with shared inside jokes. Another stretch of hallways where he’d be just a name on a class roster. They'd know of him, sure — the only heir to the Reiji industry. But they wouldn’t know him.

He didn’t remember much but he remembered you.

You weren’t best friends but you were close. You'd share space — not just physical space in classrooms or school corridors, but emotional space. The quiet, comfortable kind. You had once lent him a book when no one else noticed he hadn’t brought one. You never asked questions, and he never explained. But it stayed with him. He wondered if you’d remember him. After everything.

Now, jogging through this polished world that had never felt like his, Nanami wondered how you were. If you still went to Elysian Hall. If you even remembered him at all.

He had cut everyone off on purpose before he left. Deleted every contact. It felt easier — cleaner. Like erasing a version of himself that didn’t belong anywhere. But now… maybe that had been a mistake.

Just then, the sharp purr of an engine snapped him from his thoughts. A Bugatti Chiron Super Sport coasted past him with effortless arrogance — sleek, matte graphite, and gleaming in the sun. It turned down a side road toward another mansion, another fortress of glass and marble.

Nanami slowed to a walk and scoffed under his breath.

This was his new world. Where the cars cost more than people made in a year. Where the houses had names, not addresses. And yet, even though he had been born here — in House No. 15, no less — he had never really fit.

He wiped his brow with the sleeve of his hoodie, taking in a long, steadying breath as the clouds above began to shift, parting just enough to let the light break through.

Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out his phone. The screen lit up, cold and empty.

Maybe… maybe it was time to look into people he would be studying with.

Geto Suguru stepped out of his Bugatti Chiron Super Sport, the low hum of the engine fading as he tossed the keys to the valet with the easy confidence of someone who’d been chauffeured in Bentleys before he could walk. The Gojo mansion loomed before him in all its brutalist-meets-neoclassical glory—white stone, steel accents, and glass panels catching the soft blush of the setting sun.

He adjusted the sleeves of his Berluti double-breasted jacket, the fine wool framing his lean silhouette. Beneath it, a charcoal cashmere turtleneck and slim-cut black trousers finished the look. His black leather Chelsea boots clicked neatly against the stone steps. Everything about him—his walk, his clothes, even the way he tilted his head at the butler—spoke of old money, new edge.

The staff greeted him by name. Of course they did. He'd been a permanent fixture here since he was three. He and Satoru Gojo had been raised in the same circles—ski parties in Switzerland, summer in South of France, polite smirks passed across crowded charity galas.

“Satoru!” he called out, walking into the expansive sitting room like it was his own. He dropped onto the cloud-like linen sofa, one leg draped lazily over the other as he scrolled through his phone.

“You’re late,” Gojo announced, hurrying down the grand staircase two steps at a time, a trace of exasperation in his voice. “Y/N’s going to kill me if I show up late again.”

Gojo was dressed immaculately in a blue Ralph Lauren sweater with sleeves rolled to his elbows and navy pants . His platinum-white hair was neatly styled.

Geto smirked. “Why are you so terrified of her?”

“She’s scary,” Gojo muttered, pausing to glance at his reflection in the hallway mirror, subtly fixing a flyaway strand of hair. “Scarier than my mother.”

“Who’s scarier than me?” came a cool, poised voice.

Mrs. Gojo entered with the grace of a woman who sat on six philanthropic boards and had turned down an ambassadorship for being “too public.” Her cream Prada suit hugged her tall frame, the sharp pleats offset by the softness of her classic Mikimoto pearls. Her heels—Manolo Blahniks, clicked elegantly across the polished marble.

Geto gave her a respectful nod, barely hiding his amusement. “Satoru says Y/N’s more intimidating than you.”

She narrowed her eyes and walked up to her son, giving his ear a small but pointed tug. “You should be afraid of her. A lady’s time is valuable. Don’t keep her waiting.”

“Ow—okay, okay, Mom!” Gojo pulled away with a sheepish grin.

She smoothed the lapel of his blazer. “And don’t forget the Orientation Gala is in three days. I expect both of you to have your suits pressed and ready. I’m not calling another designer at the last minute because you suddenly ‘don’t vibe’ with charcoal grey again.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Geto replied with a practiced bow, linking arms with Gojo as he steered him toward the exit. “We’ll behave. Promise.”

“Bye boys!” Mrs. Gojo called after them, watching with a small smile as the pair vanished through the front door, already bickering like brothers. “They grow up so quickly,” she sighed, “and not nearly enough.”

Outside, Geto veered toward his Bugatti but stopped when he noticed Gojo striding confidently toward a gleaming new Ferrari 296 GTB, painted in a rich Rosso Corsa red, the finish gleaming under the twilight.

“What now?” Geto asked.

“I want to take the new car,” Gojo said simply, running a hand over the smooth curve of the hood.

“I’m not coming back here to get mine,” Geto groaned, arms crossed.

“I’ll send a driver,” Gojo said smugly, sliding into the driver’s seat. “Y/N said my mom would never let me get this car. I have to prove her wrong.”

Geto raised a brow as he circled to the passenger side. “And did she?”

Gojo buckled his seatbelt, then paused. “…No. My dad did.”

“So she was right.”

Gojo gave him a side glance. “You own a law firm, Suguru. You're not a lawyer. Stop cross-examining me.”

The engine roared to life, and the Ferrari peeled out of the estate gates—opulent, fast-paced, and just chaotic enough to be fun.

The Ferrari purred smoothly as it glided through the private road out of the Gojo estate, the city skyline beginning to flicker to life in the distance.

Geto leaned back in the passenger seat, long legs stretched out, scrolling lazily through his phone. After a beat, he said, “Pretty sure I saw Nanami Kento on the way here.”

Gojo’s eyes stayed on the road, but his brows furrowed behind his sunglasses. “Who the hell is Nanami Kento?”

Geto smirked. “You don’t remember? Formal dance.”

Gojo tilted his head slightly, trying to place the name. “Still nothing.”

“He asked y/n to the dance and she agreed then you got mad,” Geto continued, clearly enjoying the buildup. “Stormed out of third period maths and punched him square in the face. Gave him a black eye. His dad was called. He moved away soon after that”

There was a pause. Then Gojo’s lips twitched.

“Ohh—that fat kid?” he said with a low chuckle. “Little buzz cut, khaki pants pulled up to his chest? Always smelled like chalk?”

Geto gave him a sidelong glance, grinning. “Yeah. Except he doesn’t look fat anymore.”

Gojo’s head whipped slightly in his direction, sunglasses sliding just a hair down the bridge of his nose.

“Come again?”

Geto kept his face neutral, but his tone was loaded. “I’m telling you. Dude looked… decent. Clean cut. Still serious as hell, probably still does math in his head for fun—but not the same kid.”

Gojo scoffed. “Well, good for him. I guess puberty finally RSVP’d.”

“Mm,” Geto hummed, fingers tapping idly against the center console. “Or maybe he heard you were still around and started working out of sheer trauma.”

Gojo snorted, turning a corner with one hand on the wheel, the other adjusting the volume of whatever soft jazz remix was playing through the speakers.

“Well, as long as he knows better than to ask Y/N out again,” he muttered.

Geto raised a brow, amused. “Still holding a grudge?”

“I don’t hold grudges,” Gojo said casually. “I bury them in expensive silk and make sure they never resurface.”

“That sounds like a threat.”

“It is,” Gojo replied with a grin. “But only if Nanami still has the audacity to think he can talk to her.”

Geto laughed, shaking his head. “God, you’re insufferable.”

“Rich, hot, and insufferable,” Gojo corrected,. “And not remotely sorry about it.”

Nanami Kento kept a steady pace, earbuds in, sweat darkening the collar of his faded athletic tee. His usual route circled around the quieter back streets of Diamond Hill, far from the weekend brunch chaos.

He was mid-stride near the gated entrance of the Diamond Hill Club when the low purr of a luxury car eased to a stop beside him. Nanami slowed, brows knitting slightly as he tugged out an earbud.

The tinted window on the passenger side rolled down smoothly.

“Nanami Kento?” a familiar voice called.

He turned to face it, expression calm but puzzled. A woman sat behind the wheel, chic sunglasses perched atop her head, her expression open and bright.

“Yes,” he said, voice low but polite. “That’s me.”

The woman beamed. “Oh wow! You’re back!”

Nanami offered a small, polite smile—one he often used when someone remembered him but he didn’t quite return the favor.

She seemed to catch the hesitation in his eyes and gestured behind her. “This is my cousin, Ayaka.”

She leaned back slightly, and from the passenger side in the back seat, a girl with glossy black hair and soft features leaned forward and waved with a small smile. “Hi,” she said.

Nanami nodded. “Nice to meet you.”

“We’re heading to the club for coffee,” Utahime said breezily. “Want to join us?”

Nanami glanced down at himself—grey joggers, running shoes, and a moisture-wicking tee that clung to his chest. “I’m not remotely dressed for the club.”

Utahime laughed. “You live on Diamond Hill. It doesn’t matter how you're dressed. You could walk in wearing a towel and no one would blink.”

Nanami hesitated, about to politely decline, until a thought crossed his mind. It was Saturday… and if memory served, you tended to spend late mornings at the Diamond Hill Club café, reading or sketching or sipping those outrageously overpriced lattes.

He opened the door and got in. “Alright. Why not.”

Utahime smiled, pulling away smoothly from the curb.

“Ayaka just moved here last week,” she said as the car climbed the hill toward the club. “She’ll be joining us at Elysian Hall.”

“That’s nice,” Nanami replied, glancing into the rearview mirror to offer Ayaka a quick smile. “Welcome to the chaos.”

Ayaka laughed softly. “Thank you. Everyone keeps saying that.”

Utahime looked over. “So are you back for good? Or just visiting your parents?”

“I’m back,” Nanami said, settling into the leather seat. “Returning to Elysian Hall.”

Utahime looked pleasantly surprised. “Oh…Wow. After all these years?”

Nanami nodded. “It felt… unfinished.”

She didn’t press, just hummed thoughtfully as the car wound up the hill. Ayaka glanced between them, sensing there was more to that sentence than Nanami was willing to say out loud.

The terrace of the Diamond Hill Club was washed in soft morning light overlooking the entrance on one side and the sprawling lawn on the other, the air tinged with the scent of citrus trees and freshly baked croissants. A few tables away, someone’s golden retriever lounged under a shaded bench, its owner reading The Financial Times.

Nanami sat across from Utahime and Ayaka at a small marble table tucked into a corner of the terrace. He cradled a plain black coffee between his palms—no sugar, no milk, just strong and clean. In contrast, Utahime and Ayaka each sipped vibrant matcha lattes, the kind topped with delicate foam art and garnished with dried rose petals.

Utahime had removed her sunglasses now, her eyes animated as she talked about changes at Elysian Hall—the new faculty, the expanded music wing, the sudden disappearance of uniforms on Fridays. Ayaka mostly listened, chiming in here and there, curious but clearly still adjusting to the social choreography of the place.

Nanami nodded occasionally, his responses thoughtful but brief. He wasn’t one for small talk, but he didn’t mind listening. Somewhere between Ayaka's story about her awkward first day at the hill and Utahime laughing about how the old library still smelled like varnished guilt, something clicked.

He looked at Utahime again. The cadence of her voice. That dry, slightly sarcastic edge. The way she gestured with her fingers, like she was sketching mid-air. He remembered her.

A quiet girl. Friendly, but overlooked. Not loud enough to be popular. Smart enough to be underestimated. He recalled her sitting near the window in history class, always with a pencil behind her ear and doodles in the margins of her notebook.

She had once offered him a pen when his’ broke during a test. He never forgot things like that. Nanami didn’t mention any of it. He just gave a small nod to himself and sipped his coffee.

Just then, from the corner of his eye, he saw movement near the entrance. A Ferrari glided to a smooth halt, and seconds later, Gojo Satoru and Geto Suguru stepped onto the patio like they owned the damn place.

A fleet of staff—host, manager, two waiters—appeared almost instantly. One took the keys, another whisked away imaginary dust from the table reserved under the shaded pergola. Their drink orders were probably already in. Someone brought a cold towel. The whole thing looked choreographed. Nanami scoffed quietly and took another sip of his coffee.

Utahime followed his gaze. “Ah,” she said, her tone neutral but knowing. “The elites of Elysian Hall.”

Ayaka looked curious. Finally the man whose instagram she stalked religiously over the past week was in front of her in flesh and blood. He was even more handsome in real life and photos didn’t do any justice to his sharp features and towering frame. “Should we go say hi?”.

Utahime shot her a sharp look, “No. We can’t”.

“Why not?”. Ayaka asked. “We are going to be in the same class”. An innocent comment made by the lack of knowledge about social ladder.

“We can’t”. Utahime didn’t expand further. She didn’t have the heart to tell Ayaka yet that she wasn’t in the elite circle. For Ayaka Utahime was a princess with a perfect life  of popularity and opulence and Utahime didn’t want to pop that bubble just yet.

Nanami didn’t say anything. He watched Gojo remove his sunglasses with an unnecessary flourish, while Geto—dressed like he’d walked out of a Milan runway show—grinned at something he whispered to a passing waitress.

Nanami leaned back in his chair, expression unreadable.

“Pretentious,” he muttered, barely loud enough to register.

Utahime raised an eyebrow, amused. “You knew them, right?”

“Knew of them,” Nanami replied coolly. “You don’t exactly know people like that. You just... observe them from a safe distance and make sure they don’t get in your way.”

Utahime smirked into her cup. “Spoken like someone who’s seen them get in a few.”

Nanami didn’t answer. He just looked out over the club’s sun-drenched lawn—and wondered, not for the first time since returning, what the hell he’d walked back into.

“They’re late,” Gojo smirked as he removed his sunglasses and placed them on the table with a soft clink. He glanced out over the trimmed lawn, then leaned back in his chair, arms stretching above his head like a cat in the sun.

“Yeah, well,” Geto replied, sipping his water, “they can be late. We can’t.”

Gojo let out a low chuckle. “See? You’re also scared.”

“I am not scared of anyone!” Geto shot back, placing his glass down a little too hard.

“Then what’s the rush?” Gojo grinned, arms now folded across his chest. “You sound like you’re reporting to your parole officer.”

Geto rolled his eyes. “I just don’t want to deal with the hassle.”

“Hassle of what?” Gojo tilted his head, smug.

“You know...” Geto waved a hand vaguely. “Having to explain why we were late. Again. Especially to Y/N. She has that look.”

Gojo snorted. “The one where she doesn’t yell, but you still feel like you’ve disappointed all of humanity?”

“Exactly.” Geto pointed a finger at Gojo, eyes narrowed, then paused like he was weighing a secret on his tongue. “I—uh—I have something to tell you. But you cannot tell Y/n. I’m serious. Sho will actually murder me.”

Gojo’s brows furrowed, suspicious but intrigued. “What is it?”

Geto glanced around, even though they were alone in the common room. He leaned in. “Y/n had a little… situation while she was on vacation. A fling. With some guy. Son of a hotelier or something.”

Gojo sat up straighter. “The fuck? When did this happen?”

“A couple weeks ago. Italy. Or was it Nice? I don’t know, somewhere coastal”

Gojo already had his phone out. “Name.”

Geto exhaled. “Louis Marchand.”

Gojo typed fast, and within seconds, he was on Louis’s profile. “This him?” he asked, turning the screen to Geto.

Geto glanced. “Yeah, that’s the guy.”

Gojo stared. There was Louis, all tanned skin and champagne smiles, shirt unbuttoned too far, lounging on decks that cost more than most people's annual salaries.

“This guy?” Gojo scoffed. “You’re kidding me. He looks like a cologne ad no one asked for. Why’s his shirt open in every photo like he’s allergic to buttons?”

Geto shrugged, already amused. “French, rich, probably overcompensating.”

“He’s not even hot,” Gojo muttered. “He’s like… budget Timothée Chalamet with daddy’s credit card.”

“Jealousy doesn’t look good on you, Satoru.”. Ghetto smirked

“I’m not jealous,” Gojo snapped, still scrolling. “I’m insulted.”

Then he froze. One of Louis’s latest posts: a scenic shot of some coastal view—captioned “Wish you were here.” You liked it.

Gojo’s thumb hovered. He switched to your account and then he scrolled further. A solo post of you on a balcony overlooking the sea. A familiar name in the comment section caught his eye. “Miss the view… and maybe you ;)” Gojo stared at it like it was a personal attack. “This motherfucker is still commenting on her stuff?”

“Oh,” Geto blinked, leaning in. “That’s recent.”

Gojo’s jaw flexed. “I’ll break his phone.”

“Dude—”

“I’m serious. He knows exactly what he’s doing. Flirting in her comments like it’s his goddamn runway. It’s embarrassing.”

Geto bit back a grin. “Why does it bother you this much? You two are just friends, right?”

Gojo didn’t answer.

Instead, he clicked on Louis’s story. Y/n was tagged—just once, at a beach bar. The tag was small. Almost hidden. In the corner a small text read, Miss the view, miss the company more.

Gojo muttered, “I’ll kill him.”

“Wow. Okay. Let’s not commit homicide over an Instagram story—”

“He tagged her,” Gojo growled. “Low. As. Fuck.”

“You’re really spiraling.”

Gojo turned to him, voice low and sharp. “He had his hands on her, Suguru. You get that? She was alone with him. He probably thought he had a chance. And now he’s still hovering like he’s waiting for her to circle back.”

Geto watched him carefully, tone sobering. “But she didn’t. She backed out. She came home.”

Gojo said nothing.

“Maybe you should stop pretending you don’t care,” Geto added.

Gojo’s grip on his phone tightened. His eyes flicked back to your most recent photo—your smile, your hair caught in the wind.

And right beneath it, Louis Marchand: “Still the prettiest view.”

Gojo’s thumb hovered over the comment.

Report. Block. Message.

He didn’t tap anything.

But his next words were low and lethal.

“If he ever touches her again,” he said, “he won’t be able to post with that hand.”

Outside the Diamond Hill Club, a sleek sakura pink Porsche 911 Carrera rolled to a stop in front of the grand stone entrance. The afternoon sun glinted off its polished surface, turning heads even in a place where wealth was the baseline. The valet straightened instinctively, smoothing his jacket as you opened the driver’s door yourself — a small, confident gesture — and stepped out with effortless grace.

Your cream Zimmermann sundress was the picture of soft luxury — linen and lace, tailored to slim the waist and flare just slightly above the knee. A single string of tiny seed pearls circled your neck, and your pale pink Lady Dior bag was slung lightly over your wrist like an afterthought. Even your heels — black patent Mary Janes — had that demure, expensive glint that didn’t scream wealth, but whispered it.

Shoko exited the passenger side with a yawn, dressed in her usual blend of quiet rebellion and subtle affluence — an oversized ivory cashmere cardigan from The Row, Ralph Lauren navy pleated skirt, and Prada loafers. Her dark hair was pulled into a messy bun, and her sunglasses slid slightly down her nose as she scrolled idly through her phone. She didn’t even glance at the valet as she tossed him the keys.

You nodded warmly at the staff, greeting the doorman by name. “Good afternoon, Bernard,” you said with a small smile, and he gave you a respectful bow in return.

“Welcome back, Miss,” he replied, stepping aside as you and Shoko made your entrance.

The inside of the Diamond Hill Club smelled faintly of polished oak and citrus blossoms. Golden afternoon light streamed through the tall French windows, catching the gleam of glassware and the hush of clinking cutlery. A soft classical piano tune drifted through the space from a live quartet set up near the rear conservatory.

Shoko, true to habit, walked ahead toward your usual table near the arched windows. But you paused.

You had noticed someone.

Nanami Kento.

He was seated at a nearby table, clean-cut as always in a pressed navy athletic tee and shorts, sipping his black coffee like it was part of a quiet ritual. With him were Utahime — visibly startled by your presence — and a girl you didn’t recognize.

You hesitated for only a moment before turning toward their table. Your steps were light but sure, your poise untouched by the weight of so many eyes that now subtly turned to watch. A few murmurs followed your wake — not gossip, but the kind of admiration reserved for someone who always managed to appear just a little more refined than everyone else in the room.

At the table, Utahime’s back stiffened as she noticed you approaching. She turned quickly to the girl beside her. “Fix your posture,” she muttered under her breath.

Nanami looked up just as your shadow stretched across their table.

“Kento?…Nanami Kento?” you said, your voice a soft lilt, your head tilted with pleasant surprise.

He stood immediately, placing his coffee down with quiet precision. “Yes,” he replied, his expression flickering with recognition. “It’s… good to see you again.”

“I can’t believe it’s you..”,You offered a smile that made hearts skip a beat — the kind reserved for old acquaintances. “You’re here…wow…Are you back at the school?”

Nanami smiled and nodded, “Yes. I am”.

Your first instinct was to hug him like an old friend but you held yourself back. “That’s amazing! Oh wow I can’t believe it. You just…disappeared”.

“I had to go,” he answered simply.

You didn’t push. You never did. “We should get coffee sometime,” you said instead, brushing a wisp of hair behind your ear. “Catch up.”

Nanami nodded. “I’d like that.”

You turned to Utahime next and smiled. “Utahime. It’s been a while.”

She stood quickly, half-bowing. “Yes. It’s… good to see you.”

“How was your vacation?”. You asked in a sweet polished voice.

Utahime chuckled, “It was good. Not too bad”.

“And you are?” you asked politely, glancing toward the girl who had been silently observing you like she’d seen a goddess walk out of a dream.

“I’m Ayaka,” she stammered, standing clumsily and extending her hand. “I’ll be joining Elysian hall coming term”.

You took it gently, smiling. “Welcome to Elysian Hall, Ayaka. I hope you have a good time here. Where did you move from?.”

“Hakone”. Ayala spoke gingerly. Overtaken by your presence. “It’s..”.

“Oh I know. It has some of the best host springs resorts”.

“Yes!”. Ayaka smiled. “It does”.

“That explains your beautiful skin”. You smiled.

Nanami realized he couldn’t stop smiling. He looked down to hide the flush in his cheeks. 

Ayaka opened her mouth to reply, but all she could manage was a quiet “Thank you.” Her cheeks were slightly flushed, her mind racing to absorb everything — your voice, your scent, the subtle way your fingers moved when you tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

“Well Ayaka, I am sure Utahime is taking good care of you but if you need anything then please let me know. First day at a new school can be scary”.

“Yes..”. Ayaka stammered. “Yeah I will”.

You turned to Nanami and tilted your head playfully, “I am sure you wouldn’t need any help Kento”.

Nanami laughed. “I am good y/n”.

You shook your head with a smile, “I’ll let you guys enjoy your coffee. See you around”. You smiled. As you turned to leave, you paused, and turned once again. “Are you all coming to the orientation gala?”

Utahime and Ayaka exchanged a glance, slightly panicked.

“I didn’t know there was one,” Nanami admitted, stepping in.

You smiled again — a little softer this time. “Tuesday night. Formal. I’ll send the invite… to all of you”

“Thank you”. Utahime gleamed. 

“And..Utahime, if you’re free tomorrow, do you want to have a coffee? Ayaka you too. I would love to get to know you more”

Ayaka looked at Utahime for instructions but Utahime clasped her hands in front of her and nodded, “Absolutely. We would love that!”.

“Great then. See you tomorrow” And with that, you turned, your heels clicking softly against the marble floor as you made your way toward the other end of the patio.

Ayaka watched you go, her eyes fixed on the delicate sway of your skirt, the quiet confidence of your walk. She couldn’t believe you were real. You were kind. Soft. Warm. Yet unreachable.

Out on the patio, Gojo stood when he saw you approaching. He pulled out your chair without a word, and you let your fingers graze his briefly in thanks as you sat. He leaned in to murmur something only you could hear, his lips brushing the shell of your ear as you laughed — quiet and genuine.

Back at the table, Ayaka’s heart pinched watching the exchange.

A breeze teased the white linen table-cloth as your little circle settled back into a fragile equilibrium. The piano inside drifted into a Cole Porter standard; glasses were refreshed without anyone having to ask.

“Who were you talking to?” Gojo asked, glancing back at the other table—only to lock eyes with a stranger, unfamiliar and unreadable.

You smiled behind your coffee cup. “Nanami Kento.”

Gojo froze mid-turn, his gaze still lingering on the now-empty seat. Geto raised a brow, a small smirk tugging at his lips as he followed Gojo’s line of sight.

“So he’s back, huh?” Gojo said, tone unreadable.

“Yeah. Looks like it. Utahime and her cousin were with him. I invited them to the Tuesday formal.”

Shoko choked on her drink, coughing into her sleeve before whipping her head toward you. “You what? Your dad is going to lose his mind.”

You shrugged casually, reaching over to pat Gojo on the back. “Don’t worry. I’ve got a scapegoat ready.”

“What?! No way,” Gojo snapped. “I would never invite them.”

“Then it’s good that I did,” you said with a grin.

Geto leaned forward, resting his chin on his hand. “So why’d you really invite them?”

You hesitated, swirling your coffee absentmindedly. “I just... don’t think it’s fair for the orientation gala to be so exclusive. We all go to the same school, right? Everyone should be invited.”

“But you didn’t invite everyone, did you?” Geto pressed, eyes sharp with amusement. “You invited Nanami Kento.”

“And Utahime!” you shot back.

Shoko raised an eyebrow. “Utahime has lived here for years. You’ve barely said two words to her.”

You sighed, fingers tightening around the coffee cup. “Fine. I wanted to invite Kento.”

“Why?” Gojo asked, his voice quieter now, but no less intense.

You looked around at your friends—too perceptive, too smug—and exhaled.

“Because he left,” you said softly. “We were friends, and he didn’t even say goodbye. One day he was there, and the next... he wasn’t. And no one even talked about it. So yeah, I wanted to see him again. I wanted to ask why. Not that it matters now.”

Your shoulders sagged slightly, the bravado slipping.

Shoko sipped her drink with a smirk. “Sounds like someone still has a little crush.”

“Oh, stop it, Sho,” you groaned.

“Crush?!” Gojo repeated, incredulous. “You had a crush on him?”

“No!”

“She totally did,” Shoko added with a grin. “Back in second year. Remember the library?”

“I was a kid,” you muttered.

Geto chuckled. “You had a crush on khaki pants? Seriously?”

“He was smart! And kind!” you snapped. “Not that you'd understand.”

Gojo didn’t respond. His jaw tightened as he looked away, biting the inside of his cheek. “I don’t want to waste this morning talking about Nanami Kento.”

“Thank you,” you huffed, leaning back in your chair, drained from the interrogation.

But out of the corner of your eye, you caught Gojo’s hand curling into a fist beneath the table.

Geto cleared his throat, seizing the lull. “Shoko, did the Sports Committee confirm our slot on the main field next week?” he asked, tapping a knuckle against his sparkling-water glass.

Shoko pushed a strand of hair behind her ear, phone finally forgotten. “Mostly. The junior boys wouldn’t budge on Saturday morning, so women’s soccer has the pitch at 1 p.m. Men’s at 3. That work?”

Geto frowned, thinking it through. “It’s tight, but I’ll take it. I still need to run try-outs for the first-years. You’re set with a full roster already, right?”

Shoko’s lips curved in a half-smirk. “Please. I lost four seniors and still have a deeper bench than you. Maybe ask your midfield to stop treating tactics like an optional philosophy course.”

Geto threw a mock-wounded hand to his heart. “Ouch. Just remember who signed off on your new travel kit.”

“You signed the form,” Shoko countered, “because I drafted the budget. Don’t get delusional, Suguru.”

Your laugh slipped out before you could stop it, soft but unmistakably pleased. The banter felt…normal, welcoming after a month of attending formal galas in the guise of vacation.

Gojo lifted an eyebrow, joining the fray while still watching you from the corner of his eye. “Enough domestic squabbling. As incoming school captain, I’d rather not preside over a civil war between my two soccer captains.”

He said it lightly, but you could hear the pride tucked beneath the words. Everyone on campus already knew the results; the formal announcement would drop soon. Gojo Satoru and—you—would share the school-captain duties for the year. Legacy and diplomacy in tandem, the Board had called it.

Geto arched a brow. “Right, Captain. Are you planning to attend any of our morning practices, or will you be too busy shaking hands and cutting ribbons?”

Gojo leaned back, crossing one ankle over a knee. “Delegation is a skill, Suguru. I expect my brilliant vice-captains to run a tight ship while I focus on…vision.”

Shoko snorted. “Vision. Translation: he’ll show up for the team photo and any match with a photographer present.”

You sipped your coffee, amusement playing at the corner of your mouth. “Play nice. Remember, half my new captaincy remit is student well-being. I can start mandatory mindfulness circles if you’d like.”

Geto groaned theatrically. “Please don’t. We’ll be coloring gratitude mandalas before kick-off.”

Gojo finally smiled—genuine, if a touch rueful—and let his gaze settle on you. “If you’re leading it, I doubt anyone will complain.” His fingertips drummed the table again, slower this time, the earlier edge fading but not gone.

A waiter appeared with a silver tray of petits fours you hadn’t ordered. Perks of being who you were. You selected a lemon macaron, breaking it neatly in two. Without thinking, you offered one half to Gojo. He accepted, brushing your fingers for the briefest instant. The touch felt like the smallest treaty ever signed.

Across the table, Shoko clocked the exchange, then turned to Geto with a pointed look that said see? Geto only shrugged, the ghost of a grin on his lips.

Conversation shifted to committee minutiae—funding for new turf lights, a charity scrimmage you’d proposed, logistics for the Orientation Formal’s after-party—but the real current ran quieter beneath it all: Gojo’s simmering jealousy, your quiet resolve to bend the gilded rules, and everyone else’s calculations about what those tensions might mean for the year ahead.

The double doors burst open with a dramatic gust of wind as Utahime all but sprints through the marble foyer of her family's estate. Her heels click frantically on the polished floor, the hem of her pleated skirt swishing as she bypasses a confused housekeeper and yells over her shoulder:

“I need to see Mother—now!”

She doesn't wait for a response. Her manicured fingers push open the tall doors of her mother’s home office, a study wrapped in dark oak, modern art, and ancestral portraits. The scent of peonies and sandalwood diffuses through the air.

Utahime's mother, elegant in a navy Roland Mouret dress, looked up from a stack of papers and removed her reading glasses. “Utahime? What on earth—”

“I have news,” Utahime breathed finally, trying not to sound too breathless. “We’ve been invited to the Orientation Formal.”

Her mother froze then slowly set her pen down. “The Orientation Formal… Elysian Hall’s gala?”

Utahime noded rapidly, trying to contain her excitement. “Yes. She invited us. Y/N. She came over to our table at the Diamond Hill Club and personally asked if we were attending. When we said we hadn’t heard of it, she said she’d send the invite.”

A long pause followed. Then she asked with a heavy sigh, “Are you sure it’s not like the last-”.

“No! It’s not! Please! I need a dress!”. Utahime exclaimed. 

Ayaka silently watched the frantic exchange but mentally took a note to find out what happened last time.

“Get me your father. Now.”

Utahime doesn’t hesitate. She grabbed the ivory phone on the sideboard and dials, tapping her foot impatiently as it rings.

“Darling,” Mrs. Iujiri says calmly once the line connects, “We’ve just received an invitation to Elysian Hall’s Orientation Formal. From Y/N herself. Yes. Her. I don’t know how. Utahime says they spoke at the club.”

There’s silence as she listens, eyes narrowing with sudden clarity.

Ayaka finally asked, voice unsure, “I’m sorry… what’s the big deal?”

Utahime turned to her cousin, face lit up like a chandelier. “Ayaka, you don’t understand. That gala—it’s not just some school event. That’s where next year’s board interns are decided. Heirs get pre-picked for succession. Designers line up to dress the guest list for free. Last year, two hedge fund acquisitions were confirmed at the afterparty.”

She clasped her cousin’s shoulders with intensity. “This… this means we’re being seen. We have to look the part. We have—what—two days? We need to find something vintage but not cliché, bold but still heritage-aligned. I can wear Dior. Shit. Valentino? Khaite? No, Khaite’s too casual—”

Mrs. Iujiri hung up the phone and spoke with steel in her voice. “Call Etsuko. Tell her we need fittings tonight. No ready-to-wear, custom only. If Utahime and Ayaka are entering that ballroom, they will look like they’ve always belonged there.”

“Oh and y/n invited us over for coffee tomorrow.” Utahime added.

Her mother hummed and stared blankly at her. “Well this is a good opportunity. You girls need to go shopping. I doubt Ayaka has anything suitable to wear”.

“Yes! We will go right away”.

Ayaka swallowed harshly. Her heart beat strangely. She didn’t know a fifteen-minute brunch could change everything. And she definitely didn’t know one girl could cause so much movement with just a smile and a handshake.

Somewhere in the back of her mind, she replayed the image of you walking toward Gojo, laughing, the pearls at your throat catching the sun. How he stood up without even thinking, pulled out your chair, and looked at you like the rest of the world was a fog.

“Why is she so important?” Ayaka whispered to herself.

Utahime, already on her second phone call, looked up sharply. “She’s the reason half the continent watches what Elysian Hall does. And we just got a seat at her table.”

A little ahead of house No.20 on the Diamond hill the scene was much different….

The Nanami dining room was steeped in quiet opulence—clean lines, warm walnut panels, a Murano glass chandelier above the long table. Everything was precise, much like his father himself, who sat at the head of the table slicing into his duck breast like he was dissecting a business proposition.

Across from him, Nanami Kento, still slightly jet-lagged, sat straight-backed in a crisp button-down, chewing slowly and politely. His mother, graceful and soft-spoken, sat beside his father, delicately sipping from a thin crystal glass.

“How was your flight?” his father asked, not looking up from his plate.

“On time. Comfortable,” Nanami replied with formality, folding his napkin neatly on his lap. “Thank you for arranging the car.”

Mr. Nanami nodded, finally glancing up. “Good. We need to start grounding you here. You’ll be working in Tokyo, after all. International exposure is fine—but it’s useless if it doesn’t translate to Tokyo business etiquette.”

Nanami’s jaw tightened. He kept his gaze down as he cut into his fish. “Maybe I don’t want to work in Tokyo,” he muttered under his breath, almost too quiet to be heard.

But his father heard it. He slammed his palm on the table making the vase rattle. The table jumped. Nanami’s water glass rattled in place. “You will take over this company, Kento. That’s not a negotiation,” his father said sharply. “You were born into this. You will honor it.”

Nanami said nothing. The silence that followed was heavy. His knuckles whitened as he gripped his fork, but he didn’t speak. Years of practice taught him how to hold his tongue in a room like this.

His mother cleared her throat softly, cutting the tension like lace. “What did you do today, Kento?”

Nanami finally looked up. His tone was even, measured. “I went to the Diamond Hill Brunch Club. With Utahime and her cousin.”

His mother raised a brow, delicately dabbing the corner of her mouth with a napkin. “Utahime Iujiri?”

He nodded. 

“Be mindful of who you spend time with,” she said gently. “You’re back now. That comes with expectations.”

Nanami only nodded once. Then spoke with disregard, “I’ll need to be fitted for a suit.”

His father paused, knife in mid-air. “Why?”

Nanami looked directly at him. “I was invited to the Orientation Formal.”

The silence was immediate.

His mother turned her head. His father put his utensils down altogether. “The Orientation Formal?” his father repeated, incredulous. “You were invited?”

Nanami nodded. “I bumped into Y/N today. She personally invited me.”

A long pause. Then Mr. Nanami leaned back in his chair, eyebrows raised with sudden delight. The tension from earlier melted into something startlingly close to pride. “Well. Well. My son—first day back and already moving in the right circles.”

He looked at his wife, smiling for the first time that evening. “You see? I told you he had it in him. Making connections already. With her, no less.”

Nanami remained quiet, staring at the remains of his food. He hadn’t done it for his father. He didn’t even know why he said yes. Maybe it was curiosity. Maybe it was you.

But he didn’t correct his father. “I’ll arrange for the tailor to come first thing tomorrow,” he said, taking a sip of wine like a deal had just been struck. “We’ll have something custom made. Proper. You need to represent the family well.”

Nanami nodded, quietly. Then excused himself before dessert. He shut the door behind him, loosened his collar, and sat on the edge of the bed. His gaze drifted to the city skyline, glittering beyond the tall glass windows. Tokyo.

He leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees, fingers laced. “What am I doing here…”

But even as he whispered it, he could still see your smile in his mind—bright and warm and effortless—as you said his name like you remembered exactly who he was.

He took his phone out and searched for your name on instagram, he found it sooner than expected. He scrolled through your page looking at places you’ve been. To his surprise, you were at the same place he was around the same time on more than one occasion. Yet you never crossed paths. He wondered had he stayed, would he have joined you on your vacation. Then his eyes drifted to the blue eyed man in the background. No chance.

The iron gates groaned open with a slow elegance, revealing a sprawling estate that looked more like a palace than a home. As the car glided up the curved driveway lined with trimmed cypress trees and marble statues, Ayaka’s breath caught in her throat.

“This is… her house?” she whispered, clutching the soft fabric of her new Elie Saab dress—something Utahime had insisted was “middle-tier luxury and appropriate for the visit.” But now, looking out at the sweeping fountain and the grand château beyond, Ayaka felt like she was playing dress-up in someone else’s fairytale.

Utahime, seated beside her, adjusted her sunglasses coolly. “It’s a house. Just big,” she said with a tight smile, clearly suppressing her own awe. She smoothed the lapels of her Max Mara blazer and added quickly, “Don’t stare. And don’t talk about the dress unless she brings it up.”

The car pulled to a halt in front of the arched entryway. A uniformed butler was already waiting. He bowed slightly as he opened the door for them. “Welcome, Ms. Iori. Ms. Ayaka. Miss Y/N is expecting you.”

They stepped out, and Ayaka immediately felt the weight of a hundred invisible eyes—of portraits from the windows, of silent standards of grace and pedigree. The façade of the house was carved with classical reliefs, crowned with ornate balconies and tall, slate-blue roofs. Ivy curled along the white stone walls like time itself had chosen to adorn the estate.

Inside, the atmosphere was no less staggering. High ceilings held antique crystal chandeliers, and the parquet floors beneath their feet gleamed. The scent of lilies and polished wood filled the air. Gold-framed paintings lined the hallway walls, and somewhere faintly, classical music played.

The butler led them past a formal drawing room and through French doors that opened into a vast garden. On one side, a perfectly manicured tennis court lay empty under the afternoon sun. On the other, a modern glasshouse sparkled—inside, the azure shimmer of a full-length swimming pool refracted light onto the marble tiles.

“I didn’t even know private indoor pools were a thing,” Ayaka whispered to Utahime.

“They are, if you don’t want tan lines,” Utahime said crisply, though she herself was glancing at the structure with quiet envy.

They turned a corner, and the butler gestured to a grand side entrance framed by climbing roses. “Miss Y/N’s wing,” he announced. “She will host you here today.”

Wing? She has a whole wing? Ayaka blinked rapidly.

The room they entered was brighter, more intimate—but no less regal. Tall windows lined the far wall, opening onto a marble balcony that overlooked an intricate maze garden below. The room was soft with pastels and creamy textures, antique furnishings balanced with fresh flowers and rare books. It was the kind of beauty that didn’t beg to be noticed—it simply existed, unquestioned.

You were already waiting there, poised like something from a painting. A soft floral Zimmerman dress flowed around your frame, subtle and perfect. A thin diamond bracelet shimmered as you reached for your teacup, and the matching diamond studs on your ears caught the late light.

“Welcome,” you said with a warm smile, rising. “It’s so lovely to have you here.”

Ayaka forgot to respond. She was still trying to understand how someone her age could look so effortless in a place like this—like you were born to command rooms like this, as naturally as she had learned to blend into them.

Utahime stepped forward, her tone suddenly sweeter. “Thank you for having us, Y/N”

Ayaka tried to curtsy—why had she curtsied?!—and ended up mumbling something about the garden being “so green.”

You laughed gently, and the tension in the room loosened just slightly. Still, Ayaka couldn’t shake the chill in her spine.

This wasn’t just a different lifestyle. This was a different world.

“Please, have a seat.” Your voice was gentle but practiced, like the clink of fine china—polished, unwavering. You gestured toward the two cream-upholstered chairs across from you, already seated on a high-back Louis XVI settee, legs crossed elegantly beneath your floral dress.

Both Utahime and Ayaka sat down with polite smiles, the delicate rustle of fabric barely audible in the stillness of the room.

“Your house is beautiful,” Ayaka said after a beat, eyes drifting once more to the ornate ceiling molding and the way the sunlight spilled through the tall French windows.

“Thank you,” you replied with a soft nod. “How are you finding everything here? I know the hill can be… a daunting place.”

“Not too bad,” Ayaka said, leaning into her chair with an unconscious slouch. The words had barely left her mouth before Utahime cleared her throat sharply. Ayaka straightened so quickly it almost looked rehearsed. “Utahime has been showing me around and everything seems… lovely.”

At that moment, three butlers entered in perfect sync, each carrying a silver tray adorned with delicate pastries: rosewater madeleines, gold-dusted croissants, and miniature eclairs topped with sugared violets. They placed the trays neatly onto a rolling tea cart and bowed in unison before exiting.

Ayaka’s eyes followed their every movement, stunned by the quiet precision of it all. But you, untouched by the spectacle, reached casually for a cup of chamomile tea, as if pastries appearing out of thin air was simply the rhythm of life.

“Are you excited for the new term?” you asked, turning your gaze to Utahime with genuine warmth.

“Yes,” she replied quickly, sitting up taller. “I’m sure you’re excited too… especially with the school captainship.”

You gave a light, polished laugh—effortless and practiced. “Yes. But it’s not without pressure. I’ll be relying on your support.”

“Of course!” Utahime’s voice was bright, almost too eager. She shot a side glance at Ayaka, reminding her to keep up.

You turned toward the quieter cousin. “So Ayaka, what extracurricular activities interest you?”

Ayaka reached for her napkin and dabbed at her mouth, her fingers brushing against the soft silk. “Umm… back in my old school, I was the captain for the food drive.”

“Food drive?” Your brow arched slightly.

“We… cooked and packed meals for the… homeless people.” Her voice grew quieter with each word, like a secret she hadn’t meant to share.

Utahime’s smile froze. She nudged Ayaka under the table—a sharp, silent correction.

You tilted your head, intrigued but not unkind. “That sounds interesting. Are you drawn to social impact work?”

Ayaka hesitated. Words scattered like leaves in her head, every one weighed down by the rules she’d been given. “Yeah… I guess you can say that.”

“That’s so fascinating!” you said brightly, leaning forward slightly. “Utahime, do you remember when we did the beach cleanup? About two years ago?”

“Oh, yes! I do. It was… quite fun,” Utahime said, voice strained but smiling.

“I’ve actually been thinking,” you continued, eyes sparkling, “we should start a Social Impact Club at school. Ayaka, would you be willing to help me?” You reached out and gently placed your hand over hers.

Ayaka blinked at your hand. The bracelet around your wrist—an elegant stream of diamonds—glinted in the sun. It felt like another reminder of the world she’d stumbled into.

“Yeah… I’d love to help,” she said, her voice soft but sincere.

“Wonderful! It’s decided then.” You pulled your hand back with a graceful smile. “So, what else do you like?”

Ayaka opened her mouth to speak, but Utahime cut in first, “She loves horses.”

Ayaka turned to her cousin, confused, her brow slightly furrowed. “I do?”

But you lit up at the mention. “That’s perfect! We have a fantastic equestrian club. You’ll adore it. Do you miss your horse?”

Ayaka hesitated for only a moment, then let out a small, awkward laugh. “Yeah. I miss my horse. Her name is… Silver.”

“I completely understand. When I went on exchange to France, I missed Princess, my horse, terribly.” You paused, then added generously, “Let me know if you'd like me to arrange for Silver to be brought here.”

Before Ayaka could say anything, Utahime spoke up quickly. “No need. Silver was old. She needed to retire anyway.”

“I see,” you said with a measured smile. But your gaze lingered just a second longer on Ayaka—thoughtful, perhaps aware of the quiet unraveling beneath the surface.

“How was your vacation?”. Utahime asked, gracefully picking up her cup. 

“It was quite good. Satoru, sho, Suguru and I just hung out on an island for the first few weeks and then vacationed with our parents. So it was quite relaxing”.

“An island? Like Jeju?”. Ayaka asked.

You chuckled, “Ummm yes and no. It was more of a private island”.

“I see”. Ayaka smiled. “Are you part of any school clubs?”.

“I used to be but this year I am hoping to be school captain so it would be unfair of me to be part of any school clubs. I am actively on the lookout for new club presidents. Speaking of which, Utahime, would you be interested in taking over as the chair for school paper? We will need to find a co-chair but I have someone in mind already”.

Utahime smiled ear to ear, “I would love that!”.

“Great, then I will nominate you”. You smiled.

“We’ve been working on some curriculum changes this term,” you said, sipping your tea. “They’re planning to restructure how leadership points are tracked. Honestly, it’s a mess.”

“Really?” Utahime leaned in, her brows drawing together. “That’s going to affect a lot of people aiming for council next year.”

You nodded. “Exactly. It’s why I’ve been thinking—maybe it’s time we push for a few more student-led initiatives. Things that are actually meaningful.”

“That makes sense,” Ayaka added, though her voice was quieter, her fingers still fidgeting with the napkin in her lap.

Just then, the large double doors at the far end of the room swung open. Ayaka’s heart skipped a beat so hard it nearly jolted her out of her chair.

Gojo Satoru stepped in—tall, broad-shouldered, his dark navy blazer hanging open over a crisp white shirt, silver cufflinks glinting at his wrists. His sunglasses stayed firmly in place as he walked in like he owned the air, but his expression wasn’t playful—it was… agitated.

“You haven’t been picking up my calls,” he said without preamble, eyes locked on you like no one else existed.

Both Utahime and Ayaka stood instinctively, Utahime with near-military precision and Ayaka a beat late, scrambling to follow. But Gojo didn’t even glance at them. His attention was pinned solely to you.

You gestured lightly toward your guests. “I have company.”

Only then did he turn, slowly removing his sunglasses with a lazy flick of his fingers. Pale blue eyes flicked to Utahime, then Ayaka, pausing on her just long enough for her breath to catch—but not long enough for her to tell whether he recognized her or not.

“Oh,” he said flatly, before turning back to you.

You smiled with that effortless poise again. “Sit. You might as well join us.”

Gojo dropped down beside you without protest, stretching one long arm across the backrest of your chair, fingers brushing lightly against your shoulder. Ayaka wasn’t sure if it was intentional. She was too focused on the fact that he was sitting directly across from her—the same boy whose photos she’d zoomed in on more times than she would ever admit, the boy who’d once casually posted a story from Milan Fashion Week with the caption: “bored but dressed well.”

“Gojo,” you said, casually tilting your head toward Ayaka, “we were just discussing the idea of starting a Social Impact Club. Ayaka here might lead it.”

Gojo blinked slowly, then turned his gaze toward Ayaka as if seeing her properly for the first time. “Social Impact Club?”

Ayaka swallowed hard. “Um… it’s about giving back to the community. Maybe food drives, or volunteering, things like that.”

Gojo looked genuinely confused. “Wait. Where would we even find homeless people here?”

Utahime’s eyes went wide, and she opened her mouth to step in, but you gently waved her off with a little laugh.

“It’s not just about that,” you said calmly. “It’s about awareness. Doing something outside ourselves for once. I think it could be good for the school.”

Gojo studied you for a long second, then leaned back, his expression softening. “You think so?” He shrugged.

“We will need to workout the budget but that shouldn’t be a problem”. You smiled.

Ayala opened her mouth and thought for a second, “How are the clubs funded?”.

You looked at Utahime for a brief second and then at Ayaka, “Families voluntarily donate money to the student foundation and we use that to run club activities. However we need to draft a budget approval to the chair of the foundation committee for approval”.

“Who is the chair of the foundation?”. Ayaka asked.

“My mother and my future mother-in-law”. Gojo grinned.

You rolled your eyes and shook your head at the casual remark but Ayaka’s heart sank. Were these things decided already?

“But are you sure it aligns with our goal?”. Gojo asked, looking at Ayaka. “All our clubs are designed to suit the needs and interests of students”.

“Umm– yes–I don’t-”. Ayaka struggled to get the words out now that he was talking directly with her.

“I think it’s a great idea”. You added. “It can bring a good cultural change and maybe some humility into people”

Gojo hummed, “Alright. If you think it’s a good idea then sure”.

Ayaka felt her knees go a little weak beneath the table. He had agreed just like that. And all because you had said so.

Gojo leaned forward slightly, resting his forearms on his knees as he turned his full attention to Ayaka. “So, Ayaka... where are you from?”

Ayaka straightened a bit, trying not to fidget under his gaze. “I’m from Hakone. Moved here about a week ago to join Elysian Hall.”

“Hakone?” Gojo echoed, brows lifting slightly. “Nice. That's an onsen country, right?” He flashed a lazy grin. “Do you miss it?”

Before Ayaka could respond, Utahime interjected quickly, her tone breezy. “Her family’s from Hakone, yes. But Ayaka actually did most of her schooling in the U.S.”

Gojo hummed, gaze sharpening ever so subtly as he scanned Ayaka again—though it wasn’t unkind. “Interesting. Yet you don’t have the accent”

Ayaka gave a small, nervous smile and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, then shifted her attention away from his piercing blue stare. “Your bracelet is beautiful,” she said suddenly, turning to you. “Where’s it from?”

You were about to answer when Gojo let out a soft laugh, low and amused, clearly anticipating what was coming. You rolled your eyes and reached out to swat his knee lightly with the back of your hand.

“Satoru gave it to me last year,” you said with a fond smile. “He asked me to the Orientation Ball with it.”

Ayaka’s eyes widened slightly, and Utahime blinked. “Wait—you got that as a way of asking someone to a dance?”.

You shook your head gently, still smiling. “It’s not required, obviously. Satoru just likes to be... extra.”

“Overkill is the baseline,” Gojo chimed in with a smirk.

“Do we need to have a date for the ball?”. Utahime asked.

“No. It’s not required”. You shook you head. “Satoru just like the.. Formality of it all”.

“Speaking of formality”, Gojo straightened up and pointed with his brows to your bracelet, “It looks old. Maybe I should get you a new one”.

You scoffed, “Who said I will be going with you? Maybe I will ask Ayaka to be my date”. You winked mischievously at Ayaka. “Besides I have too many bracelets anyway”.

Gojo smiled and stared at you for a second and then turned to Utahime, “You should ask Nanami to be your date. I saw you at the club yesterday with him”.

You didn’t say anything, but your posture shifted—just slightly. Barely perceptible, but to someone like Gojo, it said everything. You stiffened. And that was all it took for something to twist in his chest. Jealousy flared hot and fast.

“Oh no. We are not that close”.

You kept your cup down decisively and looked at Utahime, your smile gone, “How did you end up with Kento in the club then?”.

“I just.. Ran into him on the way. He was on a run and I recognized him”.

“I see”.

Utahime glanced at the antique grandfather clock in the corner, the soft chime of the quarter-hour catching her attention. She stood, smoothing the front of her dress with practiced grace. “We should get going,” she said with a polite smile. “We don’t want to take up more of your afternoon.”

You stood as well, offering a graceful nod. “Of course. It was lovely having you both here.”

Ayaka followed suit, pushing back her chair, but hesitated for a second before speaking. “Um… would it be alright if we took a photo together?”

Utahime’s eyes widened just slightly. “Ayaka—”

But you were already smiling gently. “Of course.”

Ayaka beamed, quickly walking over to stand on your right side. Utahime, clearly trying to maintain composure, stepped to your left. You felt her posture shift ever so slightly—rigid, almost protective. 

“Satoru?” you asked, turning to him without needing to look.

He was already reaching for your phone from the side table. “On it,” he said, sounding far too pleased with himself. He took the phone from Ayaka and walked in front.

He held up the phone, angling it just right to capture the stately backdrop of your private wing’s drawing room—the cream-paneled walls, the sheer drapes fluttering in the breeze from the balcony, the polished parquet floors gleaming under the filtered afternoon light.

“Say, cheese,” he teased.

Ayaka laughed nervously. Utahime didn’t.

The shutter clicked.

“One more, just in case,” Gojo said, clearly taking his time with the second shot. Then a third, just because he could.

“Got it,” he finally said, handing the phone back to Ayaka. “Though I think this lighting flatters me more than any of you.”

You rolled your eyes, tucking the phone away. “Thank you.”

Utahime gave a quick bow. “Thank you for having us. The pastries were delicious.”

Ayaka, still glowing from the photo, gave a grateful nod. “And thank you for the social impact club. It was… really cool to know that you care.”

You smiled warmly, and with a final wave, you watched the two girls disappear down the corridor, trailed discreetly by the butler.

Gojo, still seated, leaned back with his arms stretched again, eyes trained on the door. “You’re collecting new admirers now?”

You turned to him, a small smirk tugging at your lips. “I am allowed to have friends, am I not?”

He looked at you sideways, the tension still lingering in his jaw. “Of course. Is Nanami a friend?”

“He was always a friend”. You remarked passing by him.

“Just a friend?”. Gojo asked, trying his best to not come off too strong. Your silence was all the answer he needed.

The black sedan glided down the hill, its polished frame reflecting the golden afternoon light. Inside, the silence between Utahime and Ayaka was thick, broken only by the soft hum of the engine and the occasional crunch of gravel under the tires.

Ayaka clutched her phone, still looking at the photo Gojo had taken. A small smile played on her lips, but it vanished the second she glanced over and caught the tight line of Utahime’s jaw.

“...What?” she asked quietly.

Utahime didn’t respond right away. She inhaled slowly, then turned her head sharply. “What were you thinking?”

Ayaka blinked, caught off guard. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” Utahime said, voice clipped, “asking to take a photo with her like she’s some kind of celebrity. In front of Gojo. You put me in such an awkward position.”

“I— I just wanted to have a memory, that’s all.”

“It’s not about that,” Utahime snapped, then lowered her voice, remembering the driver. “It’s about perception. About how you carry yourself. You don’t ask her for a photo. She’s not your favorite pop star, Ayaka. She’s our peer. Technically.”

Ayaka’s shoulders slumped. “Sorry…”

“And don’t even get me started on that food drive nonsense.”

“What was wrong with that?”

Utahime shot her a look. “Everything. The way you brought it up, the way you explained it… Do you know how naïve it sounded? ‘Meals for the homeless’? You made it sound like some charity pamphlet. I had to rescue the conversation.”

“I didn’t mean it like that…”

“I told you to be careful about what you share. You’re not back in Hakone. These people grew up differently. Their idea of ‘giving back’ is sponsoring a wing at a hospital, not handing out soup in Tupperware.”

Ayaka looked down at her lap, her fingers tightening around the hem of her dress. “I was just trying to be myself…”

Utahime sighed, rubbing her temples. “And that’s fine. But being yourself doesn't mean being careless. You complimented her bracelet, Ayaka. At that moment? In front of Gojo? Do you know how transparent that looked?”

Ayaka’s cheeks flushed. “It was beautiful…”

“It was a winston. I’m guessing you didn’t even recognize it,” Utahime muttered, shaking her head. “You can’t keep acting like a tourist in their world. Not if you want to survive Elysian Hall. Geez! You looked like a girl desperate to know the brand, to calculate the price, to make a social climb. That world? They sense that kind of thing. You looked gauche, Ayaka. I told you to observe quietly, not start taking notes like it was a field trip.”

Ayaka turned to the window, watching the trees blur past, her throat tight. “Maybe I don’t belong in their world.”

“Then start acting like you do,” Utahime said sharply. “Because I didn’t pull strings to get you into Elysian Hall just so you could embarrass me on day one.”

“Why do you care so much?”. An innocent question.

Utahime sighed, “because– it’s the only way to make it. Do you think I was born into this? No. I saw my father work his way to the top and my mom supported him. You wanna know how we ended up at Diamond hill?”.

“How?”.

Utahime scoffed, “My mother befriended someone who used to live in our current house. An old couple. We had to rent clothes and attend parties as friends of guests. But speaking with the right kind of people gave us the opportunity to be here. When the Woman died she left the estate to my mother and her Husband moved to Osaka handing his company over to my father. Without their help it would have taken us generations to get here”.

“I– I didn’t know that”.

Utahime turned to her, “Remember when you went to private school in Hakone? When- you know your father still had his job?”.

“Yes. But that was a long time ago”.

“Regardless, do you remember the social pressure to do good in school?”.

Ayaka nodded.

“Multiply it by thousands, that’s how serious it is here. You have a good opportunity. Don’t waste it”.

“But y/n was kind. I think she liked me”.

Utahime scoffed, “Ayaka why do you think she invited us?”.

“Because…you’re friends?”.

“No! Because she knew that we didn’t belong to the upper echelon. She knew I had never been to the formal. This was the first time she invited me and she was giving us talking points so we don’t embarrass ourselves at the gala”.

“What?”. Ayaka chuckled.

“Yes. All the talk about clubs and leadership were talking points. This is what I meant when I told you to be observant”

The car lapsed into silence again. Outside, the iron gates of the estate faded into the distance, but the weight of everything Ayaka had just learned clung to her like a second skin.

While the families in the middle echelon busied themselves with preparations—polishing shoes, rehearsing lines, and dressing their children like prized possessions for the spectacle ahead—life at the top operated on an entirely different frequency. There, no one needed to prove anything.

Ironically, the house numbers stopped at five. Not because the street ended, but because beyond that point, numbers were irrelevant. Everyone knew who lived beyond the curve—the top four families existed in a category of their own, beyond labels and beyond needing directions.

Two palatial estates stood side by side on the hill's crest, their grand silhouettes crowned by sweeping terraces, private tennis courts, and twin pools that shimmered like mirrors in the sun. “Mansion” was too modest a word—these were compounds, sanctuaries of old power that gazed down over the valley and the city below like watchful sovereigns.

The L/N, Gojo, Geto, and Sho families had been entwined for generations, their histories braided together like the strands of an unbreakable cord. Every deal was shared, every major investment discussed at long oak tables or during slow walks through private gardens. Transparency wasn’t just a value—it was a necessity. In that elevated world, secrets were too dangerous to keep. And so, none existed.

The informal dining room in your house was still more refined than most hotel ballrooms—chandeliers dimmed to a warm glow, French porcelain plates resting on fine bone-colored placemats, and the faint scent of bergamot wafting from the centerpiece of freshly trimmed flowers. The long walnut table seated just three tonight—your father at the head, your mother at the side closest to the glass doors, and you at your usual seat to the left.

Your father set his wine glass down, glancing at the slim portfolio to his right.

“The Takanashi merger looks promising. If we get them on board at the orientation formal, it might unlock Kyoto’s northern district. Seijuro is interested in it as well” His voice was clipped, businesslike.

Your mother nodded, dabbing her mouth delicately with her napkin. “I already arranged for their executive assistant to be seated next to the Keigo heiress. With any luck, a conversation starts.”

You stabbed your asparagus slowly, listening but not contributing. You were too tired for this—another dinner about power plays dressed in foie gras and etiquette.

“I’ve invited some friends to the ball,” you said abruptly, breaking the rhythm of silver on porcelain.

The conversation halted. Your mother glanced up first, then your father.

“Which friends?” he asked, voice deceptively neutral.

You swallowed.

“Nanami Kento. Utahime. And her cousin.”

There was a beat of silence. Then your father set his fork down with a sharp clink and looked at you directly, expression cool.

“On whose authority did you invite them?”

Your posture didn’t shift, though your stomach turned. You didn’t have the heart to tell him that you did it so you used your scapegoat, “Satoru suggested,” you replied calmly. “Since he and I are going to be school captains, he thought we should… seem more relatable. Grounded.”

Your father’s frown softened slightly at the mention of Gojo’s name. A flicker of approval passed over his face, the rare kind he only ever reserved for people he respected.

“Hm. Fine. If it was Satoru’s idea.” He picked up his fork again. “But don’t forget your place, Y/N. We are not here to appease. We lead. Your brother was a school captain, won the business case competition and the EH scholarship. Don’t lose sight of your goal”

“Yes, Father.” You sucked in a sharp breath. “May I be excused? I don’t feel too well”.

“Yes darling”. Your mother smiled before returning to her conversation

You slipped through your bedroom doors, closing them softly behind you like you were sealing away the world.

The room was a symphony of soft neutrals and delicate textures. Cream-paneled walls framed antique paintings. A four-poster bed draped in layers of silk and embroidered linen stood like a crown jewel in the center. Pale golden light from the bedside sconces made the room feel like a still moment inside a snow globe.

You walked through the French doors to your balcony, stepping barefoot on the marble-tiled terrace that overlooked the estate gardens below.

You sat back on the love seat, your arms wrapped loosely around your knees, chin resting on your arms. The night air was cool but still carried the faint scent of the lemon trees that lined the edge of the estate. Somewhere far below, one of the gardeners must have left a light on in the tool shed. A soft yellow glow blinked against the trimmed hedges.

A message lit your phone screen: Gojo – “Look down.”

You blinked, then stood slowly, the silk hem of your dress brushing against your ankles. You leaned over the cool marble of the balcony rail, the moonlight casting soft reflections on your skin like scattered pearls.

There he was.

Grinning up at you like a delinquent prince sneaking into a royal estate, completely out of place yet utterly at home. Satoru Gojo. Dressed in an open-collar navy shirt that caught the wind like sails on a summer yacht, and crisp blue trousers that should’ve made him look formal—if not for the messily rolled cuffs and that impossibly smug expression.

His silver hair was tousled by the breeze, the strands catching moonlight like frost under glass.

You felt your lips lift before you even meant to. “Come up,” you whispered, voice barely louder than the wind.

But he didn’t move toward the stairs.

Of course not.

Instead, he strode over to the ivy-covered column that clung to the side of the house like time itself. Without hesitation—without even looking around—he gripped the stone ledge and began scaling it. Just like he had when you were thirteen, and he’d forgotten his speech notes but still climbed up to your room like a reckless knight who didn’t believe in front doors.

You stepped back instinctively, hands hovering near the railing as he climbed higher, muscles moving with ridiculous ease. He grunted once—not from effort, but to be dramatic—before hoisting himself over the balustrade.

With a soft thud, he landed beside you, brushing non-existent dust from his shirt with a flourish.

You crossed your arms. “Why can’t you just take the stairs like a normal person?”

“This is faster,” he replied, like it was the most logical answer in the world. A crooked smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, but it didn’t stay.

The city was quieter at night, the usual hum softened by distance. Your balcony, dimly lit by the glow from your room and the moonlight overhead, felt like a little escape from the polished chaos of your lives.

You were curled up on the love seat with a blanket wrapped around your legs, a mug of something warm in your hands. Gojo sat next to you, white hair catching the silver of the moon like a halo. He looked like he belonged in a dream—too casually beautiful to be real.

But he was real. And he was unusually quiet.

"You good?" you asked gently, tilting your head.

He glanced over his shoulder at you, a slow, crooked smile tugging at his lips. "Yeah. Just… haven’t been here in a while. Feels different without you."

You blinked. "I have only been gone two weeks."

"Exactly," he said, turning fully now. He came over and dropped into the seat beside you, knee brushing yours. “You were gone forever.”

You laughed into your mug. “You’re so dramatic.”

He leaned back, gaze flicking up to the sky before he said, “I missed you.”

You looked at him. Really looked.

Gojo Satoru didn’t say things like that often—not seriously, anyway.

“Like… more than usual,” he added, quieter this time. “I know you were just off doing your own thing, but this place felt kind of... flat without you.”

You smiled faintly, heart warming. “You mean no one was here to mock your cereal choices and steal your hoodies.”

“That too,” he said, chuckling. “But mostly—” he hesitated, then looked at you, voice softening. “I missed talking to you at night. This. Right here. You always know how to take the edge off the day. No one else does that.”

You felt your chest tighten, surprised by the sincerity in his voice. "I missed you too, Satoru."

He turned to face you more fully, one arm resting along the back of the seat, close enough for your shoulders to touch if you shifted just an inch.

“I tried to act cool about it,” he said. “Kept busy, trained a bit, annoyed Geto for sport. But I kept wondering where you were, what you were doing. If you were thinking about me even half as much as I was thinking about you.”

You opened your mouth, but the words caught.

He smiled, a little sheepishly. “See? Told you I’d get soft one day.”

You laughed, leaning your head on his shoulder. “It suits you.”

The breeze curled gently around the two of you, warm against your skin despite the late hour. You stayed like that for a while—your head on his shoulder, his resting against yours, breathing in sync.

Then Gojo shifted slightly, like he was debating something.

You leaned back a little to look at him. “What?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just reached into the pocket of his jacket.

“You know how I said I missed you?” he asked, voice a little too casual now.

You narrowed your eyes. “Yeah?”

“Well,” he said, pulling out a small, velvet box, “I had time to think while you were away.”

You blinked. “Satoru—”

He opened the box slowly. Inside was a necklace—delicate white gold with a teardrop-cut diamond in the center, nestled like it had been waiting for you.

Your breath caught.

“I figured,” he said, watching you carefully, “if I was going to ask you to the orientation formal, I might as well do it properly. Our way”

You stared at him. Then at the necklace. Then back at him.

“Satoru—this is... insane.”

“It’s our ritual”, He reached out and gently pulled the necklace from the box, holding it between his fingers. “Come with me,” he said, softer now. “To the formal. Not as co-captains, not as the girl I always annoy before econ class. As you and me.”

Your heart thudded hard against your ribs.

“And the necklace?” you whispered.

He leaned in, so close you could feel the warmth of his breath. “That’s just because you said you had too many bracelets.”

You didn’t move, not for a beat. Then you turned, swept your hair aside. “Put it on me, then.”

Gojo’s hands moved gently, his usual playfulness gone, replaced by something more reverent. When the clasp clicked shut at the nape of your neck, his fingertips brushed your skin.

You turned back to face him.

“So... is that a yes?” he asked, voice lower now.

You smiled. “It’s a yes.”

His grin widened. “Good. Because I already bought the tie to match your dress.”

You were still smiling down at the necklace when Gojo suddenly stepped back and extended his hand with exaggerated elegance, like he was on stage at an opera.

“Now that you’ve agreed,” he said, bowing low, “may I have this dance, m’lady?”

You snorted. “You are so dramatic.”

“Only for you.” He wiggled his fingers, hand still outstretched. “Come on. You need to practice. The last thing I want is for us to be the hot mess couple spinning in circles.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Says the man who once tripped walking onto a stage.”

“That curtain was an ambush,” he said flatly. “And I was distracted. Anyway—” He pulled out his phone, tapped a few times, and suddenly soft piano music filtered out, the notes slow and glowing like candlelight. “No more stalling.”

You laughed again but stood. “Fine. One dance.”

As you took his hand, his grin softened into something far more sincere. He pulled you gently toward him, one hand slipping to your waist, the other holding yours with surprising delicacy. 

You glanced up at him. “You’re getting too tall.”

Gojo shrugged. “What can I say? Girls dig it.”

You chuckled, but then he shifted just slightly closer, and the sound caught in your throat. The air between you changed.

There was no ballroom here—just your little balcony, the quiet hum of the city below, and the two of you swaying slowly beneath the stars.

Gojo’s hand at your waist was firm but warm. He wasn’t leading with flair like you expected. No spins, no dips. Just a slow, intimate rhythm. The kind that made it hard to tell whether time was passing at all.

You felt his eyes on you—soft, unreadable. You looked up, and he didn’t look away.

“I thought I was going to be fine while you were gone,” he murmured. “I wasn’t.”

You blinked, caught off guard by the honesty in his tone.

“I kept checking my phone like an idiot,” he went on, voice lower now. “Waiting for your name to light up. Even when I knew you were out of range or busy or just… choosing not to think about ..I don’t know.”

You swallowed. “I did think about you”

His grip on your hand tightened just slightly. “Yeah?”

You nodded. “Almost every night. The time difference really killed me”

A pause. Just long enough to make your pulse spike. Then Gojo smiled—not the teasing grin, not the smug smirk. This one was small. Gentle. Like it was just for you. “Why didn’t you call?”.

“I got busy”

You stayed close, your bodies moving slowly to the soft rhythm playing from his phone. There wasn’t much space between you now—just the thinnest sliver of restraint. Gojo’s hand rested warm and steady at the small of your back, and your fingers were still curled lightly against his chest, feeling the rise and fall of each breath like it mattered.

And it did. He hadn’t taken his eyes off you.

“I didn’t like it,” he said suddenly, voice low and rough like it had been waiting at the back of his throat for too long.

You looked up. “Didn’t like what?”

He exhaled once through his nose, like he didn’t want to say it—but he said it anyway. “Seeing other men post stories with you while you were away.”

Your lips parted, caught off guard not by the words, but by the fact that he said them out loud. “You mean… Louis?”

“I mean anyone,” he muttered. “Louis, the guy from the boat, that bar scene in Amalfi—don’t act like I didn’t see it. I saw all of it.”

You blinked. “Were you… watching his stories?”

“I watched everything,” he admitted, gaze locked on yours. “Every post. Every photo. Every comment that didn’t have my name under it.”

Your breath caught. He wasn’t even trying to play it cool anymore.

“I told myself I was being stupid,” he continued. “That you were just living your life. That you didn’t owe me anything. But it didn’t stop the way it felt.”

“Which was?” you asked quietly.

“Like I couldn’t breathe.”

The music kept playing, but it was just background now—an echo to the tension humming between your bodies. You weren’t dancing anymore, not really. You were just holding each other. Moving because stillness might’ve made the truth come out too fast.

“You could’ve said something,” you whispered.

“And said what?” he replied, his voice softer now. “That I wanted to crawl through my phone and rip some French guy off your feed? That I hated seeing you smile at a table that didn’t have me at it?”

You were quiet. Wondering where this was coming from.

“It was just a kiss,” you said. 

His jaw tightened. “Just a kiss?”.

“Ugh fine. We made out but that’s it”.

His grip on your hand tightened and you felt your breath hitched. You pressed your hand flat against his chest. “That night, I left early. I went back to the hotel alone”.

“Was he any good?”. He asked in a tone that made you feel he wanted a specific answer.

“I guess. Yeah”.

“The best?”.

“Oh my god. It was just a kiss.But yeah it was pretty good”.

Gojo hummed. 

“If you missed me just say it”. You smiled.

Gojo swallowed hard. His voice was barely above a whisper now. “I didn’t just miss you.”He tilted his head just slightly, enough that your foreheads almost touched. “I wanted you here,” he breathed, “With me. Not with some french douche holding your waist like he owns you”.

“I’m going to kill Sho for ratting me out”. 

“Why? Why can’t I know?”. Gojo asked with a teasing smile.

“Ugh because I knew you’d react this way”. 

You tried to move away but Gojo pulled you into him. “And you never questioned why?”.

“If it makes you feel any better, I am going to call things off with him”.

Gojo stopped moving, his expressions changed to something so dark that even the moon hid behind the clouds, “You’re still seeing him?”.

“Against my will. He is just hard to break up with. Every time I’ve tried he just refuses to accept. On top of it all my dad has invited his family as guests to the ball.”.

Gojo smirked, “And yet you’re going with me?”.

You looked at him, a teasing smile on your face, “Would you rather I go with him?”.

“Over my dead body”

You smirked, your voice light but teasing. “You had your fair share of flings too, didn’t you?”

Gojo chuckled, leaning back slightly but not letting go of your waist. “If you can call women hitting on me against my will a ‘fling,’ then sure.”

“Oh, please.” You rolled your eyes. “I know everything. Sylvia? Ring a bell?”

He groaned dramatically. “You mean the girl who tried to force-feed me strawberries dipped in champagne while calling me mon amour in a fake French accent?”

You raised a brow. “And yet you didn’t leave.”

“I was trapped, thank you very much. She blocked the exit and threatened to cry.”

You snorted. “Oh, the horror. Gojo Satoru, helpless in the face of a crying girl.”

“I didn’t even kiss her,” he said, a little too quickly. “If anything, I should get a medal for resisting that level of aggressive flirting.I blocked her before I reached my hotel”

You gave him a knowing look. “Mmm. But you didn’t block her fast enough to stop her from licking your neck at that gallery opening.”

Gojo’s mouth dropped open. “Okay, wow. Who’s feeding you this intel?”

“I have spies,” you said proudly. “You forget I’m very well-connected.”

He narrowed his eyes. “You’re dangerously smug right now.”

“I’m just saying,” you added playfully, stepping back with a grin, “you’ve had options, Satoru.”

He moved with you, closing the distance in two lazy strides. “And yet…” His voice dropped just slightly, teasing but not unserious. “…I’m here.”. He pulled you closer until your bodies were flush against each other, like it was the most natural thing to do.

You laughed, and his mouth twitched with it—like he couldn’t help but be a little enchanted by the way you sounded when you were teasing him.

The song faded into silence, but neither of you moved. The stillness stretched between you, humming with the weight of everything unsaid. Gojo’s hand remained at your waist, the heat of his palm seeping through the fabric like a brand. His breath, shallow and steady, was the only thing that told you time hadn’t stopped entirely.

He looked at you—really looked. And whatever line existed between memory and now, he stepped over it without hesitation. You have changed.

No more pigtails, no awkward grins, no childish laughter echoing across a playground. That girl was gone. In her place stood a woman with fire behind her eyes and softness he wanted to touch just to see if it burned.

His gaze drifted, slow and deliberate—your eyes, your nose, your lips.

So delicate. Like a glass petal. Something he wanted to cradle in his palm... and crush between his fingers just to see if you'd come back together again.

The curve of your body pressed against him, and his fingers curled just slightly at your side—whether it was to hold you tighter or stop himself from doing something reckless, even he didn’t know.

And you? You weren’t doing any better.

You stared up at him, drinking him in like you hadn’t seen him in years—not really. His shoulder was broader now, more solid beneath your touch. His frame, tall and commanding, wrapped around you like a promise he wasn’t ready to make but couldn’t stop hinting at.

He held you like a man who didn’t ask permission. And some part of you—treacherous, breathless—didn’t want him to let go. Your hand slid up to rest against his chest, the steady thrum of his heartbeat betraying the calm on his face.

“You know,” you said, a teasing smile playing on your lips, “you’ve got everyone fooled with your whole ‘too dangerous to love’ routine…”

You took a slow step forward, letting your fingers ghost just barely along the hem of his shirt, like a challenge.

“…but I see through it.”

Gojo’s expression didn’t flicker. Not right away. He just stared at you, head tilted slightly, lips parted in something between a smirk and something much more dangerous.

“You think so?” he asked, voice like velvet stretched over something sharp.

You nodded, eyes glinting. “I know so. You deflect when you feel too much. You joke. You disappear. But you watch people too closely to be detached. You care more than you’ll admit—”

He cut you off with a soft laugh, low and bitter. “You talk like you’ve figured me out.”

Your breath hitched as his hand circled your waist—slowly, firmly, like he was daring you to stop him.

“I’ve watched you,” he said, eyes burning into yours now. “Walk into rooms like you don’t know what you do to people. Touch someone like it means nothing. Smile like it doesn’t drive me insane.”

His grip tightened. “You think I play aloof because I don’t care?” he whispered, brushing his lips near your cheek, not quite touching. “No. I stay away because I don’t want to ruin this.”

Your heart pounded in your chest. You couldn’t move. You didn’t want to.

“Say something,” he breathed. “Tell me I’m wrong. Tell me I don’t see the way you look at me when you think I’m not watching.”

You swallowed hard. “Satoru—”

“I’m right here,” he cut in, eyes locked on your mouth now. “So stop pretending you want anyone else.”

He paused. Just for a breath. “Because I won’t share. Not you. Not ever.”

[hana-no-seiiki]

EEEEEK YOU GUYS ITS SO BAREBONES BUT IM STILL SO AMAZED BY IT

Getting into the Game Dev Groove~

@hana-no-seiiki

@sophiethewitch1

[hana-no-seiiki]

more progress!!

ngl im kinda digging lian’s disgusted/judgey face

YANDERE VN GAME IN THE WORKS?!

aka some more tethered hearts stuff from yours truly.

don with rendering lian! this might not be used for the actual game since im personally not satisfied with it. but i’ll be use these for more concepts of tethered hearts.

like “fake screenshots” of what the game would look like

but so far

UWU LOOK AT HIM THAT’S MY SON YA’LL

working now on more closeups of his face/expressions, again to get used to drawing him.

thank csp for their 3d models. it’s been speeding up my process by quite a lot.

[hana-no-seiiki]

YANDERE VN GAME IN THE WORKS?!

aka some more tethered hearts stuff from yours truly.

don with rendering lian! this might not be used for the actual game since im personally not satisfied with it. but i’ll be use these for more concepts of tethered hearts.

like “fake screenshots” of what the game would look like

but so far

UWU LOOK AT HIM THAT’S MY SON YA’LL

working now on more closeups of his face/expressions, again to get used to drawing him.

thank csp for their 3d models. it’s been speeding up my process by quite a lot.

[hana-no-seiiki]

i just lost a lot of progress from csp not saving properly

this helps a lot *sobs*

sometimes you just need to sit back and take a deep breath

this is your reminder to sit back and take a deep breath. stretch, get up from your chair if you've been seated for a while and walk around. drink some water, munch on something. take care of yourself. i love you

[hana-no-seiiki]

base color dun uwu

yandere fashion designer (lian) x reader (another tethered hearts blurb)

check out the other blurbs for th posted in my blog ! lian and xue my beloveds mmm

“You were never just a muse. You were the canvas.”

At first, it was flattering—how Lian always asked to measure you himself, how he insisted no mannequin could ever capture your proportions. You thought it was just part of his genius, his eccentricity. He was a rising star in the fashion world, after all. Cold to everyone but you. Precise. Visionary. A little strange.

But the dresses started coming faster. Custom silks in your favorite shades. Coats lined with phrases only you had ever said to him. A gown stitched with red thread that never came undone, no matter how hard you pulled.

Lian doesn’t just design for you. He designs around you.

His cold dead black eyes track every movement, memorizing how fabric folds over your skin, how seams touch your waist. There’s no distance between you and his work—no boundaries.

And one day, when you try to wear something that isn’t his,

he rips it from your body with a smile.

“Don’t you understand?” he whispers, breath warm against your ear.

“No one else is allowed to shape you. Only me.”

working on a reference sheet/doodle sheet(?) for lian so i can draw him more consistently. although since he’s a fashionista he’ll be having multiple outfits in the official game

need me a man who’ll do couture for me istg

[hana-no-seiiki]

yandere fashion designer (lian) x reader (another tethered hearts blurb)

check out the other blurbs for th posted in my blog ! lian and xue my beloveds mmm

“You were never just a muse. You were the canvas.”

At first, it was flattering—how Lian always asked to measure you himself, how he insisted no mannequin could ever capture your proportions. You thought it was just part of his genius, his eccentricity. He was a rising star in the fashion world, after all. Cold to everyone but you. Precise. Visionary. A little strange.

But the dresses started coming faster. Custom silks in your favorite shades. Coats lined with phrases only you had ever said to him. A gown stitched with red thread that never came undone, no matter how hard you pulled.

Lian doesn’t just design for you. He designs around you.

His cold dead black eyes track every movement, memorizing how fabric folds over your skin, how seams touch your waist. There’s no distance between you and his work—no boundaries.

And one day, when you try to wear something that isn’t his,

he rips it from your body with a smile.

“Don’t you understand?” he whispers, breath warm against your ear.

“No one else is allowed to shape you. Only me.”

working on a reference sheet/doodle sheet(?) for lian so i can draw him more consistently. although since he’s a fashionista he’ll be having multiple outfits in the official game

need me a man who’ll do couture for me istg

[hana-no-seiiki]

So... Are the games gender and genital selectable with dom/sub and top/bottom preferences?

Thank you for the questions~!!

In @teratoquest, you will be able to select gender and genitals for yourself, and possibly also for the NPCs~! As for dom/sub and top/bottom preferences, we are working on a wide variety of love interests with their own personalities, so hopefully everybody will find that scary monster of their dreams, whose preferences align with theirs~! Of course, this is something we’ll discuss more and may come back to.

Tethered Hearts will be gender and genital selectable! Also not sure if we will implement top/bottom and dom/sub selectors outright, but the choices you make in the story could lead one way or the other~

@hana-no-seiiki @sophiethewitch1

[hana-no-seiiki]

YANDERE SOULMATE GAME IN THE WORKS??

some concepts i worked on for TETHERED HEARTS !

if you haven’t seen my blurbs/scenarios on it, it’s a game I’m working on with a couple of writer friends @sophiethewitch1 and @carnivorousyandeere / @deer-fic-fics

the pictures for the “main menu” are temporary!

and the PHYSICAL section will be filled with more drawings of our bois

im not satisfied with how i drew them lol so expect some changes in the future lol

we were inspired by minimalist fashion magazine aesthetics and vogue

[hana-no-seiiki]

I guess I never did make an announcement post, but I’m part of a dev team with @hana-no-seiiki / @yoru-no-seiiki and @sophiethewitch1 !

We are in the early stages of working on a VN called Tethered Hearts, and a game called @teratoquest 💕

[hana-no-seiiki]

TETHERED HEARTS: XUE

tw.yandere

You were always his favorite subject.

Even when you were kids, Xue kept a camera around his neck like a second skin. He didn’t care about landscapes or still-life. He only wanted to capture people—you most of all.

At first, it was harmless. You’d pose, you’d laugh, you’d tease him when he made you do it again because “the lighting wasn’t right.” He said he wanted to become a photographer, to tell stories through images. And you? You were the story he always returned to.

But as you got older, something shifted. Xue stopped asking before taking your picture.

Stopped deleting the ones you hated. Started keeping rolls of film you never saw again.

Then, one day, he was gone. No goodbye. No letter. Just vanished—like a photo that overexposed and burned itself out.

Years passed. You tried to move on.

And then— An envelope arrived at your desk.

No return address. Just your name.Inside: a single photograph. Blurry. Dark. You, sleeping.

The postmark? Dated last week.

That’s how he returns to your life—not with words, but with images. Polaroids tucked into your mailbox. Pictures of you from angles no one else could’ve taken. Smiling. Walking. Breathing.

Watched.

And when you finally confront him—when you find the studio he’s hidden himself away in—you’re met with a gallery of yourself. Wall to wall. Every year. Every emotion. Frozen in time.

He stands behind the lens, calm, hands steady as ever.

“You always moved too much,” he murmurs, adjusting the focus without looking away. “But I’m patient. I’ve waited this long to get it right. Just stay still for me… just a little longer.”

You reach for the door. It’s already locked.

“I only need one more shot,” he says, smiling softly—like this is all love has ever meant. “And then you’ll be mine forever. Framed. Perfect.”

And the shutter clicks.

still on base colors but here’s how Xue looks like!

[hana-no-seiiki]

TETHERED HEARTS : PROMOTIONAL BLURB

You were just another editor.

Another face in the front row. Another name on a list. Until his eyes found you.

They said he never designed for anyone twice.

That each piece was a once-in-a-lifetime creation—too personal, too perfect to replicate.

So why does he keep sending you things?

A dress that hugs like a second skin.

A coat stitched with your initials on the lining.

A scarf that matches the color of your eyes—down to the exact shade.

You try to be polite. Professional.

But then come the handwritten notes. The invitations with no RSVP. The locked door behind you when you visit his studio and the way he says your name like it’s already part of his next collection.

“Don’t worry,” he murmurs, brushing fabric against your throat.

“I’ve waited so long to find the one the thread chose for me. I won’t let anyone—especially you—pull away now.”

You were supposed to be covering his new line.

You didn’t know you were the line.

ARTWORK UNFINISHED. THIS WHOLE THING IS SO RUSHED NGL LOL-

So if you hadn’t seen the other blurb, @sophiethewitch1 , @deer-fic-fics and i (collectively called Coven of the Weave) are working on a yandere game called Tethered Hearts!

I’m so excited to tell you guys more about it! Will post more on our dear Lian soon. Hope you look forward to his appearance along with another special character im just aAAAAA about.

okay signing out

©️ hana.no.seiiki - yun | 2025

[hana-no-seiiki]

TETHERED HEARTS

tw: yandere.

You weren’t supposed to meet him—not like this.

He was a ghost in the fashion world. A legend whispered about in ateliers and behind closed velvet curtains. No one knew his real name, only the signature he left on every creation: flawless, divine, unforgettable. The kind of work only a soulmate could inspire.

And then he saw you. Not at a gala. Not on a runway. Just… in the street.

“Perfect,” he whispered. Not to you. To himself. As if your existence confirmed something he’d been designing in his mind for years.

You were supposed to interview him for a one-time exclusive. That’s all.

But now you find yourself wrapped in silk and secrets, your measurements memorized, your life tailored to his liking.

He knows your favorite colors before you speak.

He sews your name into collars you never asked for.

And behind his smile is a need that cuts deeper than any needle.

“You’re my muse,” he says.

“My masterpiece.

“The thread I’ve been waiting to pull.”

But what happens when the design is done?

When the final stitch is placed, and you’re not allowed to leave the frame?

After all — he doesn’t create things he’s willing to lose.

so I’ve been working on a yandere game with @sophiethewitch1 and @deer-fic-fics called TETHERED HEARTS! please look forward to it! will be posting more information on it when i finish art for it!

THIS IS NOT CANON TO THE GAME ONLY PROMOTIONAL MATERIAL.

reblogging helps a lot! thanks for reading!

[hana-no-seiiki]

i got the lc in 20 pulls

the first ten pulls i lost to bronya lc and suddenly the next ten pulls was also golden so i just SCREAMED

@sophiethewitch1 suffer 🥰

[hana-no-seiiki]

dick and tim teasing damian my beloved

[hana-no-seiiki]

the three acts

i got him on alt.

@sophiethewitch1 failed to get him on her acc and got cps instead

i was like, might as well pull since anniversary is coming soon anyways

late pity, not guaranteed, and i didnt really want his ass so I BURSTED OUT LAUGHING

anyways here are soph’s reactions too cause why not

[hana-no-seiiki]

i got him on alt.

@sophiethewitch1 failed to get him on her acc and got cps instead

i was like, might as well pull since anniversary is coming soon anyways

late pity, not guaranteed, and i didnt really want his ass so I BURSTED OUT LAUGHING

anyways here are soph’s reactions too cause why not