"I know just enough to consider the vastness of my ignorance."
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The humidity in the boys' locker room felt even more suffocating than the school itself.
Amidst tossed towels, pointless chatter, and spray deodorant being used like chemical weapons, Akira Takashima was already regretting getting out of bed.
"Swimming…" he muttered under his breath, staring at the mirror like he could dive into it and disappear for a few hours. "I just got into this school and they already want to see me wet. What kind of fetish is that?"
While the other students undressed with a childlike enthusiasm, Akira simply pulled his shirt over his head, revealing a body that looked like it had come straight from a war zone.
Long, deep scars — and smaller ones in all sorts of shapes — crisscrossed his chest, abdomen, and legs like a twisted map of survival.
The locker room fell into a heavy silence.
One of the guys — the delinquent-looking one — froze halfway through taking off his pants, eyes wide as if he were seeing a mythological monster.
Another one turned around, pretending to tie the laces of soccer cleats he wasn't even wearing. And then there was the one who let out a whisper that echoed like a gunshot.
"Holy shit…"
Akira just raised an eyebrow.
"Never seen a scar before? You wanna count them or just stand there drooling?"
Silence.
The jock gave a nervous smile and tried to force out some kind of comment.
"Just… curious, man. Did you, like, fight MMA or something?"
Akira stepped closer, slowly, making the air feel even colder. He placed a hand on the guy's shoulder with all the gentleness of a deranged cop about to give a lecture.
"Something like that. But in my octagon, if you missed a strike, you died. No audience. No referee."
The guy swallowed hard. Literally. The sound echoed all the way to the last shower stall.
Then Akira laughed. A dry, joyless laugh.
"Just kidding." — He gave the guy two light pats on the shoulder, like he'd just told a dad joke. — "Or maybe not. The fun part is you never really knowing, right?"
🔷🔷🔷
The indoor pool at the Tokyo Metropolitan Advanced Nurturing School reeked of chlorine and pretension.
Between stifled yawns and forced smiles, the place felt more like a social theater than a physical education class.
The girls were already in the water, laughing loudly, competing to see who looked more relaxed while casually watching the boys arrive at the pool area.
Hirata, the class darling, looked like he'd walked out of a toothpaste commercial: always smiling, perfect posture, and that prince charming aura straight out of a school anime.
The class delinquent, with muscles that seemed freshly inflated by ego and protein shakes, strutted around like the final boss of an RPG... too bad it was still the tutorial.
Koenji, on the other hand, was a performative freak in human form. His shiny blond hair looked like it had been sculpted by Greek gods on acid, and his posture was that of someone convinced he was the reincarnation of some Renaissance emperor.
Showing off with random push-ups by the edge of the pool, he was the kind of lunatic so authentic he became unpredictable. A muscular peacock with the ego of a global superstar.
And of course... Ayanokōji.
With that gray aura of existential protagonist, he seemed like the kind of guy who read Dostoevsky for fun and practiced assassination techniques during recess. Too quiet to be normal, too cold to be ignored.
Then came the visual climax.
Akira Takashima entered last, alongside a few other boys.
Wearing the school's standard swim trunks, his shoulders relaxed, and with an expression like he'd rather be licking a toilet than joining that aquatic farce.
And that's when the mood sank faster than a brick.
Silence.
The laughter faded, like someone had hit the mute button on the remote of social discomfort. All eyes shifted to his body — and not out of vanity.
The scars were there, screaming in silence. Long, twisted marks crossed his chest, ribs, and abdomen.
Some old, almost white. Others still reddish, resembling burns or deep cuts. Even his legs showed fragments of a story no one wanted to ask about.
Behind him, a boy whispered to another:
"What the hell happened to that guy?""Looks like he fought a tiger and won…""Or lost. Who knows."
Ayanokōji threw a single glance in Akira's direction. One of those looks that said "I understood more than you meant to show" — then went back to staring into the void, as always.
Horikita, meanwhile, held her gaze for a few seconds, something between curiosity and discomfort.
More whispers. More stares. More silence.
Akira didn't even blink.
He rolled his neck, bored like someone waiting for the end of the world with a cup of coffee.
He walked to the poolside, crossed his arms, and ignored the tension in the air like it was just an annoying mosquito.
'Seriously? A swimming class?' — he thought, glancing around with restrained contempt.
He looked at the classmates around him.
Some cast quick glances, pretending they were just zoning out. Others didn't even try to hide it — staring like he was some museum freak.
'People love scars… as long as they're not their own.'
Only a few seemed unaffected. Well… actually, just two.
Koenji, of course, was too busy admiring his reflection in the water, as if the liquid mirror were an offering to his divine existence.
And Ayanokōji… that son of apathy, with his usual blank expression, not even blinking. As if scars were just skin texture.
If anyone understood what was behind it all, it was him.
The class "delinquent" was already stretching like he was about to compete in the Olympics.
And of course, there they were: Ayanokōji and Horikita.
Ayanokōji, the functional zombie with empty eyes, seemed more interested in counting the tiles on the wall than participating in class.
The kind of guy who did everything right but never made an effort. A machine wearing human skin.
Horikita looked ready to drown someone with just her stare. Arms crossed, chin up, and that eternal air of "I'm smarter than all of you combined."
She probably saw the pool as another chessboard, where she needed to move the right pieces to prove her worth to the school…
It was almost comical how they were always together — like one didn't quite function without the other. They complained, argued, disagreed... but never separated.
"Well, at least there'll be a show," — Akira thought, rolling his neck again. — "Maybe one of them slips and hits their head. That'd be the most interesting part of the morning."
The PE teacher, one of those adults with more muscles than neurons, walked along the poolside with a whistle around his neck and an ego about to burst.
"Today we'll test your physical agility!" — he boomed, as pumped as if he were giving away a brand-new car by the pool. "We're doing a race! Boys with boys, girls with girls! Whoever has the best time wins!"
He gestured dramatically to sell the game show vibe, then gave that half-teacher, half-reality-show-host look.
"If anyone doesn't know how to swim…" — dramatic pause, like he was about to call someone out — "…don't panic. You won't race, but you'll get guidance. I'll be here to teach."
The last part came with a forced fatherly smile, as if he were some savior of souls instead of a frustrated elite coach.
Akira just rolled his eyes.
'Physical agility, huh? Translation: let's see who doesn't drown first and pretend that says something about ability. Brilliant, teacher.'
He watched the other students getting into position by the poolside, some buzzing with adrenaline, others just trying not to look too out of place.
First, it was the girls' turn.
Suzune Horikita, with that ever-judging look.
Kikyō Kushida, smiling as always, like each stroke was sponsored by a reality show.
Kei Karuizawa, confident, making a show of fixing her hair.
Haruka Hasebe, a bit quirky but playful in how she moved.
Maya Satō, laughing loudly with friends like they were on a beach in Okinawa.
Chiaki Matsushita…
And so on.
Akira hadn't paid much attention to it until now, but… damn. Each of them was attractive in their own way.
He shook his head, as if trying to toss the thoughts out of his skull.
"Focus, Akira. You're not here to build a harem or admire a summer fashion show."
Moments after chasing the impure thoughts away, the whistle blew — sharp and authoritarian.
The girls dove in like the pool's bottom was the finish line of life.
Unsurprisingly, Horikita surged ahead.
She sliced through the water like a knife and finished in exactly 26.40 seconds.
Honestly? Not bad.
Akira raised an eyebrow.
"Not bad, Horikita. Keep it up and maybe one day you'll break the world record…"
She didn't bother with friendliness.
"That would only be useful if the school rewarded irrelevant talents. But thanks… for trying to sound relevant."
Akira let out a chuckle.
"Okay, okay… got it."
As she walked back to the poolside like a war general, he shook his head, half amused, half tired.
'Seriously, this girl's way too serious. She's gonna get an ulcer before she hits 18. She urgently needs to learn how to relax… or at least pretend to know how to smile.'
Now it was the boys' turn.
Akira walked calmly to the pool's edge, positioning himself between Koenji — still striking dramatic poses like he was filming a cologne commercial — and Ayanokōji, whose neutral expression was as exciting as a white wall.
Further down were Sudou, brimming with energy and zero filter, and the rest of the guys in varying levels of testosterone and insecurity.
Akira didn't bother stretching. He just cracked his neck, rolled his shoulders, and took his position like someone about to cross the street, not race.
'Should I go all out? Nah, no need. It's not like there's a prize or anything… But I'm also not gonna act "normal." And definitely not be discreet.'
Akira's style wasn't to overdo it, but he wasn't about to be "less than" anyone.
He cracked his shoulders slowly, like waking up from a bored nap, and stared at the water with the look of someone facing a laughably easy obstacle.
The teacher, with the energy of a kids' party host, shouted: "Ready! Get set!"
The tension hung in the air, and before the whistle blew, all eyes were fixed on the pool's edge.
The whistle rang out, again.
Koenji leapt into action with theatrical grace, swimming more like a performer than an athlete. He seemed more interested in showing off than actually competing.
But, surprisingly, when he cared, Koenji's technique was flawless — and to no one's shock, he was the first to reach the pool wall.
With an impressive 21.00 seconds.
"See? Easy," said Koenji, smiling like he'd just won a Nobel Prize.
He emerged from the water glowing with satisfaction, completely unaware that the race had little to do with real skill for him.
Right behind was Akira, slicing through the water with a predator's calm.
Exactly 21.25 seconds.
He wasn't showing off, but his technique was precise and efficient, every stroke propelling him forward effortlessly.
There was no rush in his swim, but no doubt he knew exactly what he was doing.
His body moved smoothly and swiftly, and he soon passed Koenji, who was still basking in his own performance.
Akira finished second, but with a faint smile of someone who knew he could've done better — if he'd wanted to.
"Not bad, Koenji," Akira said, his tone casual with a hint of sarcasm. "You were more about the show than the race."
Koenji blinked, confused, but didn't care. "True beauty lies in the performance, not in speed."
Akira just shook his head, not bothering to reply. He wasn't there to philosophize about winning or losing.
Right after Akira came Sudou, giving his all, his massive muscles working like a diesel engine.
He was determined to come first, but with all that intensity, his technique was far from efficient. He placed third, panting heavily.
"Damn, that was harder than I thought," Sudou said, throwing his arms up, trying to catch his breath.
Ayanokōji, on the other hand, did the bare minimum.
He finished in 6th place, with 27.00 seconds, a time that wasn't great, but wasn't a failure either.
He wasn't there to compete, but his swimming was meticulously calculated to keep pace without standing out. Not among the best, but far from the worst.
His strategy of staying low-profile had worked.
He calmly exited the pool, eyes blank and expressionless, with not even a hint of pride or frustration.
And finally, Akira watched.
'Who'd have thought?' Akira mused, a faint smile on his lips. 'In a race, you learn way more about people than about swimming itself.'
The rest of the class was left to the students to enjoy themselves.
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(Uh, I know this chapter was kind of drawn out, but the idea was to show a bit of what Akira is capable of and how his past left real scars. On his body and in his mind.
But changing the subject… Did you know I love my college? For real. They just dump an entire building's worth of assignments on our heads and say "figure it out." Like, I have to make a website for a company — that's fine, I know how to do that — but I also have to submit a report, a schedule, a development plan, technical documentation, a signed contract with everyone involved… And guess what? No one explains how to do any of it. It's basically an engineering escape room.
Oh, and I'm developing a game too! Look at that — in the middle of the chaos, I still find time to create something of my own. Fun, right?
And my dog died of cancer. Yeah. Life has a pretty weird sense of humor sometimes.)