The classroom door slid open.
A tall silhouette stepped inside, backlit by the hallway lights, entering a room buzzing with youthful chatter. Conversations died mid-sentence.
He wore a strange black hat that seemed to merge with his hair, the brim pulled low, shadowing his eyes.
On the podium, Mr. Harrington adjusted his glasses and cleared his throat.
"This is our new transfer student. Everyone, welcome him. Now… please introduce yourself."
The boy stepped forward.
"My name is Joren Joestar."
A pause.
"Seventeen years old. Aquarius."
Another pause.
"I hate violence."
The class blinked.
"I currently live on Ingram Street in Queens, New York. I'm home before midnight every day."
A few students exchanged glances.
"I smoke and drink."
More heads turned.
"I can be extremely hard-hitting in a fight. Some people are still in the hospital."
Silence deepened.
"If I encounter a teacher with mediocre ability but a mastery of pretentiousness, I'd be happy to help them retire early."
Mr. Harrington twitched.
"It's common for me to refuse payment if the cafeteria food isn't worth the price."
Someone choked on a laugh.
"I also make sure to get a full eight hours of sleep every day."
"…What?"
"A glass of warm milk before bed. Twenty minutes of relaxing exercises. I fall asleep quickly and sleep soundly until morning."
He spoke with absolute sincerity.
"Like a baby, I never carry fatigue or stress into the next day."
A beat.
"The doctor says I'm perfectly normal."
The classroom fell into dead silence.
Someone screamed internally:
How is this normal, you psycho?!
"Ahem!"
On the podium, Mr. Harrington jerked as if struck by lightning. He could swear his hairline retreated another millimeter.
Was this a self-introduction… or a threat assessment?
"Very… very good, Joe… Loren," he forced out, his smile closer to a grimace. "Your introduction is… unique."
He waved hurriedly.
"Find a seat. We—we need to begin class."
Air returned to the room.
Whispers surged like a rising tide.
"That guy's insane…"
"Was that an introduction or a declaration of war?"
"Mafia kid? Yakuza exchange student?"
"Milk and bedtime exercises… what is wrong with him?"
Joren ignored it all.
He only wanted a quiet place.
His gaze swept the classroom before settling on the last row by the window — far from the podium, far from the noise.
Perfect.
As he walked down the aisle, a blond boy shot him an openly malicious glance.
Lightning Thompson.
Quarterback of Midtown High's football team.
A notorious bully.
He exchanged knowing smirks with his friends.
Mr. Harrington was buried in his notes, trying to recover from the introduction.
Thompson seized the moment.
As Joren passed his desk, Thompson's leg slid outward with casual precision.
The classic school ritual: the trip.
In his mind, the scene was already complete.
The weird transfer student would tumble forward like a broken puppet.
Face meeting the cold tile floor.
Hat flying.
Laughter erupting.
One of Thompson's cronies already held a snide remark on the tip of his tongue.
Joren's step faltered.
At the instant he registered the movement—
A purple figure manifested behind him.
Star Platinum.
Silent. Precise. Invisible to all but its user.
Its hands moved faster than perception, fingers striking the chair beneath Thompson with surgical accuracy.
Screws loosened.
Bolts unwound.
Joints reversed.
All within a fraction of a heartbeat.
The chair remained upright for one final instant—
Click.
Thompson felt his world collapse.
The legs of his chair splayed outward as the frame disintegrated beneath him.
"O—FUCK?!"
The 6'1" quarterback crashed face-first onto the hard floor, limbs sprawling in humiliating symmetry.
A dull, bone-jarring thud echoed through the room.
Every boy in the class instinctively clenched.
Thompson's face shifted from pale to liver-colored to a deep, agonized purple.
Silence held the room hostage for three full seconds.
Students stared at Thompson twitching on the floor… and the corpse of the chair beneath him.
The smirks on his friends' faces froze in place.
Then someone laughed.
It spread like wildfire.
"Hahahaha!"
"Lightning! Is that a new wrestling move?!"
"That chair couldn't handle your gravitational field!"
"Maybe try losing a few tons first!"
The laughter nearly blew the roof off.
Mr. Harrington rushed forward, panic rising.
"Quiet! QUIET DOWN!"
He stared at Thompson writhing on the floor, desperately trying to restore order.
It was useless.
The epicenter of the chaos had already reached his destination.
To everyone else, Joren simply stepped past Thompson's sprawled legs without a glance.
He hung his backpack on the desk hook.
Sat down.
Leaned back.
Tested the chair's stability.
"…Good. This chair is loyal."
He lowered his hat.
Sunlight poured through the window.
The temperature was perfect.
Leaves rustled gently outside.
"Finally… some peace and quiet."
He unzipped his backpack and removed a thick hardcover book — heavy enough to stop a bullet.
An Introduction to Marine Biology.
Ignoring the teacher's shouting and Thompson's pig-like groans behind him, he opened to a bookmarked page.
Dugongs.
Gentle.
Harmless.
Their calm eyes softened the agitation in his heart.
Peace, at last.