The classroom is quiet, save for the dull squeak of the whiteboard marker.
Ms. Kitagawa writes in blocky, elegant strokes:YUMEGAWA HIGH: CLASS STRUCTURE & EXPECTATIONS
I already know what she's going to say. I read the brochure, scoured the school forums, even broke into the internal handbook from a cracked staff site. Still, I pretend to take notes like everyone else. Bland penmanship. Loose wrist. Sloppy stroke endings. The trick is to seem like I'm trying — without being any good at it.
"All of you," Ms. Kitagawa says, turning to face us, "are beginning a three-year journey at Yumegawa High. This school may not have a prestigious reputation, but we maintain a strict and performance-based academic system. That system begins… with classification."
She underlines the word on the board.
CLASS A – B – C – D
A few students shift in their seats. I catch someone in the front row straightening up. Riku scratches his cheek with his pen, visibly bored.
"The incoming first-year class is divided into four sections: A, B, C, and D," Ms. Kitagawa continues. "These designations are not random. They reflect your academic scores, entry evaluations, and in some cases, potential risk factors."
There's a subtle emphasis on that last phrase. I notice Rei Hoshino sit a little straighter in her chair.
"Class A," she says, "is reserved for top performers. The best of the best. Students who consistently score above 90% across all core subjects. They receive priority access to advanced courses, mentorship programs, and outside opportunities. Some may even graduate early."
A few heads nod, probably already fantasizing about being in Class A next year. I keep my expression blank. Inwardly, I'm mapping the words.
Advanced courses = exposure. Mentorship = monitoring. Outside opportunities = data extraction.
You don't get chosen for Class A without being watched.
"Class B students," she continues, "are strong and consistent. They tend to make up the bulk of club leadership and public-facing representatives. They're held to high standards, but not under as much pressure as Class A."
Translation: reliable pawns. Visible, but not threatening.
"Class C — that's you —" she taps the board with her marker, "— is our baseline. Median scores. Stable, inconsistent, or unremarkable. This class often contains students who show potential, but haven't demonstrated it yet. You'll have to work harder to prove yourselves."
I fake a small shrug, like the label doesn't bother me.It doesn't.
This is exactly where I want to be.
Class C is the murky middle. Not excellent enough to be paraded around, not low enough to be micromanaged. Just… average. Forgotten.
And that's how you survive.
"Class D," Ms. Kitagawa says, her tone tightening, "is a remediation group. Students who need disciplinary oversight or foundational academic support. Their course load is limited, and opportunities for advancement are rare — but not impossible."
She says that last part like she doesn't believe it.
The room is silent.
Then a girl with orange clips in her hair raises her hand. "So, like… if we do well in Class C, we can move up to B or A?"
Ms. Kitagawa nods. "Correct. Rank assessments occur at the end of each semester. Your GPA, club participation, and behavioral compliance scores all contribute to your standing."
That last term perks my attention.
Behavioral compliance scores. Most students won't catch it. But I've read about this before. An internal system Yumegawa implemented three years ago. Supposedly anonymized. Measures attitude, attention, and "adaptability" via classroom cameras and smart tablet usage. On paper, it's for "support planning."
In practice? It's surveillance with a soft face.
Someone in Class A probably helped build it.
I write down nothing. Just keep tapping my pen gently against the desk, keeping time with my breath.
Tap-tap. Pause. Tap.
Rei hasn't taken her eyes off the board once. She writes with her left hand, steady and deliberate. Her notebook is organized into two columns — direct quotes on the left, interpretations on the right. I can only see it for a second, but it's enough.
She's not here to learn. She's here to understand.
And understanding things is dangerous.
"Any questions?" Ms. Kitagawa asks.
Someone mumbles something about lunch schedules. Someone else asks about clubs.
Then a boy near the window asks, "If Class A gets special treatment, won't that just make everyone fake their way up?"
Kitagawa smiles thinly. "This system rewards consistency. Not just effort, but character. You may rise quickly — but if you crumble under pressure, you'll fall just as fast. And everyone will see it."
Harsh. Direct. Calculated.
I file that tone away.
The bell rings five minutes later, signaling the start of the self-introduction period. Kitagawa hands out pre-filled seating charts with names, birthdays, and hometowns — mine is conveniently marked with a "C" in bold.
"Please take a few minutes to review your classmates' names," she says. "And get comfortable. You'll be seeing each other a lot this year."
I glance down at the sheet.
Kaito Iwakura. Age 15. Hometown: Chiba.Boring. Expected. Engineered.
I let my fingers curl slightly around the paper's edge. I can already see the outlines of future alliances, rivalries, and target groups forming in the room around me. Most of these students don't know what they're in for. They think high school is about freedom.
But this school isn't a playground.
It's a system.
A maze.
And I plan to walk through it completely unnoticed.