The smell of roasted coffee beans clung to Sakura Sato’s clothes like a second skin as she wiped down the counter of Hana’s Café, her fingers moving in smooth, practiced motions. The morning rush had died down, leaving the small shop in a rare moment of quiet. Her mother, Hana, was in the back kneading dough for tomorrow’s pastries, humming an old folk song under her breath.
Sakura’s eyes flickered to the newspaper left behind by a customer. The headline screamed in bold letters:
"Eikō Academy Opens Prestigious Scholarship Program for Exceptional Students."
Her heart skipped.
Eikō Academy wasn’t just any school—it was the elite institution where Tokyo’s future leaders were molded. The same school where Yumi Kuroda flaunted her designer uniforms and where Akira Kobayashi, with his effortless charm and sharp mind, held court like a prince.
And now, for the first time, they were offering a full scholarship to students outside the usual pedigrees.
Sakura’s fingers trembled as she traced the application deadline.
This is my chance.
The Exam
The scholarship test was held in a towering lecture hall that smelled of polished wood and expensive ink. Sakura sat among dozens of other hopefuls—some nervous, some arrogant, all brilliant in their own right.
The proctor, a stern-faced professor, adjusted his glasses. "You have three hours. Begin."
The questions were brutal. Advanced calculus. Classical literature analysis. A logic puzzle that made her temples throb. But Sakura didn’t panic. She had spent nights hunched over borrowed textbooks after closing the café, her fingers stained with ink instead of coffee grounds.
She wrote. And wrote. And wrote.
When time was called, her hand ached, but her mind was clear.
The Results
Two weeks later, an embossed envelope arrived at the café.
Sakura’s name was written in elegant calligraphy.
Her mother held her breath as she tore it open.
"Congratulations, Miss Sato. You have been awarded the Eikō Excellence Scholarship."
Hana burst into tears, pulling her daughter into a crushing hug. "I knew it! I knew my girl was destined for more than just this shop!"
Sakura laughed, her vision blurring. For the first time in her life, the future didn’t feel like a closed door.
First Day at Eikō
The gates of Eikō Academy loomed like something out of a dream. Students in pristine uniforms glided across manicured lawns, their laughter crisp and carefree. Sakura adjusted her secondhand blazer (bought after a month of extra shifts) and stepped forward.
Then she collided with someone.
"Watch where you’re—" Yumi Kuroda’s sneer died as she took in Sakura’s face. "You."
Sakura stiffened. She had seen Yumi before—on magazine covers, in gossip columns, once screaming at a waiter across the street. But up close, her presence was suffocating.
Yumi’s eyes raked over Sakura’s uniform, her lip curling. "Let me guess. Charity case?"
Before Sakura could reply, a smooth voice cut in.
"Yumi-chan, play nice."
Akira Kobayashi stood there, his smile easy, his eyes unreadable.
Yumi huffed. "Whatever. Enjoy slumming it, Kobayashi." She stalked off, her entourage trailing behind.
Akira turned to Sakura. "Don’t mind her. She thinks the sun rises just to hear her scream." He extended a hand. "Akira Kobayashi. And you are?"
"Sakura Sato," she said, wary.
His grip was warm. "Well, Sakura, welcome to the lion’s den."
Something in his tone made her pause.
Was that... amusement? Or a challenge?
The Wolf’s Interest
Akira wasn’t supposed to care about some scholarship student.
But as he watched Sakura navigate her first day—answering questions even the teachers struggled with, disarming bullies with quiet wit—he found himself intrigued.
She was different.
Not just smart. Dangerously smart.
And in his world, intelligence was either a weapon... or a threat.
That night, in the Kobayashi penthouse, his father frowned over scotch. "Why are you wasting time on some café girl?"
Akira swirled his glass. "Because Toji Kuroda’s empire is built on secrets. And secrets?" He smirked. "They love to spill."
Sakura’s Secret
Alone in her tiny bedroom, Sakura unfolded a faded hospital document she’d found years ago—one that listed a birthdate that didn’t match hers.
A name, scribbled and crossed out.
Kuroda.
She tucked it away, her heart pounding.
Some doors, once opened, couldn’t be closed.
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