It was a morning where the April wind seemed to push cherry blossom petals deep into one's lungs.

Hoshimigaoka Private Academy. A miniature garden where the children of high society gather, and one of the top preparatory schools in Tokyo. A young man passed through its main gate.

Mitaka Kita. Second year, Class 2-1.

His messy lime-green hair, tied half-up, swayed in the morning breeze, and his red eyes looked down at the world languidly. His school blazer was worn loosely, his tie was slack, and the top button of his shirt was naturally undone. It wasn't a violation of school rules. The question of whether he was beautiful while following the rules was unnecessary. The answer was already decided.

Conclusion: Whatever he does, he is beautiful.

The gazes of the students passing Mitaka were drawn to him like magnets.