Yeah. He cheated.
And like all secrets kept in darkness, it eventually came to light.
His girlfriend found out. Of course she did. Girls like her always did, eventually.
The confrontation had been quiet, controlled—no screaming, no tears in public.
Just that look in her eyes, the one that said she knew everything and understood everything, and had already made her peace with walking away.
They broke up.
No drama. No scandal.
Just the quiet, inevitable end of something that had been doomed from the start.
That's why he could stand here now, talking to Sudo with that same flat, unbothered expression, sipping his vending machine drink like nothing had happened.
Because he'd seen it coming. Because he'd already mourned it while it was still happening.
Because some part of him had known, from the very first time he pressed his cock against her through her panties and felt her heart flutter like a trapped bird, that this couldn't end any other way.
Sudo didn't know any of that, of course.
He just saw a guy who'd lost the most beautiful woman in the school and didn't seem to care.
But was that really the case?
Was he genuinely as apathetic as he appeared on the surface, or had Arisu really walked away in peace?
No. Ayanokouji knew better. He knew exactly how vindictive Arisu could be when crossed—the cold, calculated patience of someone who never forgot a slight and never forgave an injury.
She was the type to wait months, years even, for the perfect moment to strike back with surgical precision.
But this time, she simply didn't have the luxury of time to dwell on his shit or bother taking revenge on Airi Sakura.
Her father, the former chairman, was suddenly under investigation for corruption—or something along those lines, the details were murky even to him.
The new chairman, a puppet sent by the White Room to sabotage both him and Arisu, was circling like a shark scenting blood.
So despite their breakup, Ayanokouji had still helped her.
He'd recorded the new chairman's behavior—specifically the moment the man had cruelly taken the cane from Arisu's hand, leaving her to struggle and stumble in front of witnesses.
Ayanokouji spread the video across forums, and the response was immediate and devastating.
Students and staff alike were outraged by the footage.
The sight of an able-bodied man in a position of power deliberately disarming a crippled girl ignited a firestorm of indignation.
He made sure the video reached YouTube too.
Within hours, it was trending.
The scandal of an elite school chairman cruelly sabotaging a disabled student gained traction so fast the institution had no choice but to expel him to save face.
Arisu's father was reinstalled shortly after.
They made peace because of it—if you could call their arrangement peace.
Despite the official breakup, despite the pretense that they were no longer together, Ayanokouji still found himself in her bed occasionally.
Still held her carefully, reverently, as they undressed each other with familiar hands.
Still pressed inside her—gently, always gently, mindful of every flutter of her pulse—and moved with a tenderness that had nothing to do with passion and everything to do with love.
He still sucked her petite breasts, still massaged them until she squirmed and gasped.
Still rubbed his fingers through her slick folds until she came apart in his arms, her soft cries muffled against his chest.
Still fell asleep holding her, his cock still half-hard and nestled against her thigh, content in a way he rarely felt anywhere else.
They just didn't talk about Airi anymore.
Didn't discuss the future, didn't make promises, didn't pretend they were anything more than two people who couldn't quite let go.
They pretended, in those quiet night hours, that nothing had changed. That they were still boyfriend and girlfriend.
Still each other's.
So yeah. This was their life now. A delicate, precarious balance between three people who wanted different things and settled for what they could get.
Maybe it was even good. Peaceful, in its own complicated way. Content.
A gorgeous ex-girlfriend who still let him inside her, still moaned his name in the dark.
A gravure model and idol who waited patiently for whatever scraps of his time and attention he could spare.
Two women. One man. A web of secrets and unspoken agreements.
That was their life now. A fragile, carefully constructed fantasy.
It was sustainable. It was, for all intents and purposes, ideal.
Then the scream shattered everything.
It ripped through the distance, high and terrified, and suddenly the delicate fantasy Ayanokouji had built came crashing down around him.
All of it—the careful equilibrium, the unspoken agreements, the comfortable lies—scattered like ash in a windstorm.
Ayanokouji and Sudō locked eyes.
Neither spoke. They simply moved, instincts taking over as they sprinted toward the source of the sound.
What they found made their stomachs twist in visceral discomfort.
A girl—a freshman, by the look of her—had her teeth sunk deep into a boy's hand.
The boy was screaming, a raw, agonized sound that echoed off the hallway walls.
His face was contorted in shock and pain as blood welled from the bite marks.
A staff member lunged forward, trying to pry the girl away.
He grabbed her shoulder, yanked—and immediately yelped as she whipped around and sank her teeth into his arm instead.
Then the violence spread.
Sudō's eyes snapped to Ayanokouji, wide and searching for an explanation. "What the fuck is happening?!"
"I don't know, man." Ayanokouji's voice was calm, but his eyes were already calculating, already cataloging. "But one thing's for sure—this is going to be bad."
He watched the girl, still latched onto the staff member's arm, her eyes wild and unfocused.
He watched other students in the distance beginning to twitch, to snarl, to turn on each other.
"We need to run," he said abruptly. "Now. I don't have time to explain."
Sudō didn't hesitate.
He wasn't the smartest person in any room—he knew that—but he also knew exactly who was.
And when Ayanokouji Kiyotaka told you to run, you fucking ran.
They ran.
They sprinted through hallways that were rapidly descending into chaos.
Screams erupted behind them, around them, ahead of them.
The elite institution, the carefully curated environment of excellence and control, was suddenly a breeding ground for mindless violence.
Students attacked students.
Teachers attacked teachers.
Everyone was biting, clawing, tearing into each other like animals.
And still they ran.
They didn't look back.
Not once.
Because looking back meant slowing down, and slowing down meant dying—or worse, becoming one of them.
So they ran.
And ran.
And ran.