The next morning, the sunlight was very bright and somewhat blinding.
Logically, the sun shouldn’t be this bright at the end of April.
Hachiman Hikigaya pushed open the classroom door and slowly walked in, but before he could sit down, he felt that something was wrong.
Hachiman quickly scanned the classroom with a sidelong glance, then sat down and pulled out his phone to check the time — 7:45 AM.
At this time, the classroom should have been very noisy.
Hachiman had experienced countless Mondays after weekends.
Logically, people should be gathering to talk about yesterday’s baseball game or catching up on homework at their desks, studying with friends.
The classroom should have echoed with the occasional noise of teams chatting, as well as the lively girls’ conversations and irritating discussions.
But today, Hachiman didn’t hear any of those elements, which instinctively made him feel very uncomfortable.
It was as if a fixed ecosystem had suddenly been disrupted by a hunter with a rifle, shattering the established order.
Hachiman pretended to sleep on his desk, slightly lifting his head to observe everyone in the class.
No one was joking or laughing, and no one was speaking loudly; most sat quietly in their seats or whispered with their heads down.
And even when they did talk, their voices were very soft, as if they were afraid their conversations would be overheard.
The air in the classroom was filled with an indescribable, eerie oppression, as if an invisible hand was gripping everyone’s throat.
Moreover, Hachiman noticed one very specific spot: the small group of the current popular clique at the back of the class, where the atmosphere seemed especially heavy.
“It’s just one weekend — why do I feel like I’ve missed an entire era?”
Hachiman couldn’t help but think, having simply spent an ordinary weekend.
He felt like a boarding student who had lived at school for several weeks, suddenly hearing a day student talk about a major online event — completely lost.
Logically, for something big enough to affect the class atmosphere, no matter how isolated he was from the others, he should have at least heard some rumors.
Hachiman continued to quietly observe everyone’s reactions in the class, and among them, the one that concerned him most was that small group of popular kids.
Several guys who usually joked around and laughed were now serious and silent.
Just as Hachiman continued to act as a surveillance camera, scanning everyone’s reactions, he suddenly felt something hard poke him in the back twice.
Hachiman turned his head and looked at Renji Hayakawa, the guy in the back seat — one of the few people in class who could actually strike up a conversation with him.
At this moment, the other person was holding a pen, probably having just used it to poke him.
The relationship between Hachiman and Renji wasn’t particularly close; it was just a simple front-to-back desk relationship.
Hachiman had probably transferred in only a few days ago, and most of the small cliques in class had already formed, so he occasionally chatted with his desk neighbor.
“Do you feel like something’s off in class today? The atmosphere is eerie and oppressive.”
Renji whispered to Hachiman.
Hachiman nodded — he didn’t even need Renji’s words; the moment he had stepped halfway through the door, he had already felt it.
“Did something serious happen?”
“Or did Ms. Shizuka Hiratsuka come in and say something before I arrived?”
Hachiman asked quietly as well.
Renji leaned forward slightly, lowering his voice so that only the two of them could hear.
“You probably haven’t checked the campus forum or read the news, have you?”
Hachiman listened to Renji and nodded.
Over the weekend, he had stayed home playing games and reading novels.
He hadn’t read the news, and the campus forums had even less to do with him.
“Look over there.”
Renji secretly pointed his pen toward the popular clique, and Hachiman looked in the direction Renji had indicated.
There was only an empty seat.
Hachiman guessed that the guy hadn’t come to school yet, and couldn’t figure out what had happened.
And Hachiman wasn’t the type to specifically memorize where everyone’s seat was in the class.
At best, he just noted the people around him and a few of the more noticeable ones in the class.
“See that empty seat?”
“Shō Tobe is dead.”
Renji’s voice was very calm, not like someone had died, but rather as if he were simply saying that the weather was nice today.
When Hachiman heard the news, his pupils suddenly contracted, and even his expression toward the empty seat changed.
His mind instantly pieced together the fragments of information gathered since entering the classroom, and he involuntarily swallowed.
The bright morning sunlight streamed through the window and fell onto the desks.
Everything looked exactly the same as usual — except for the person who should have been sitting in that seat and would never sit there again.
“How did he die?”
Hachiman asked instinctively.
“Shō Tobe was killed at home on Saturday night.”
“They say the scene was extremely brutal — multiple stab wounds and vicious techniques. Tobe had many bruises from resisting the attack.”
Killed at home.
Hachiman listened to Renji’s words and felt a strange sense of unease.
This feeling wasn’t from sadness — he wasn’t hypocritical enough to say he felt too much attachment to someone he’d barely exchanged a few words with.
Every morning, it was like a tree passing by on the street that he casually observed, and one day it suddenly fell to the ground.
Although he had almost no connection to that tree, the way it fell was so shocking that he couldn’t just walk by and pretend nothing had happened.
Not to mention that he was a living, breathing person.
Even though Hachiman still somewhat disliked that guy.
The guy who was always throwing his arm around Hayato Hayama’s shoulder in the hallway, laughing loudly, buying sneakers and wanting to show them off to everyone in class.
The guy who wore his emotions right on his face had died so suddenly.