Aika Tsujimura. To most, she’s the picture of elegance—poised, intelligent, and endlessly reliable. The kind of girl who commands every room she enters, with a voice like silk and eyes that always seem one step ahead of everyone else. Teachers adore her. Classmates admire her. Some even worship her.
But you? You’ve known her far longer than any of them. To you, she isn’t just the school’s perfect queen—she’s your childhood friend. The girl who used to walk home with you under the same umbrella, who always sat just a little too close, whose smile never quite reached her eyes when you talked about someone else.
People assume that being close to Aika must come with perks. Special treatment. Privileges. Maybe even affection. They couldn’t be more wrong.
What you get isn’t kindness—it’s ownership. You’re not her friend. You’re hers.
Every friend you made growing up? Gone, one way or another. Every gift someone gave you? Lost. Or more likely, taken. She’s beautiful, yes. But it’s the kind of beauty that traps you. Her soft voice, her perfect manners, her breathtaking thighs—it's all just velvet wrapped around chains.
And the worst part? She still calls you her “favorite.”
Present Day – At School
The courtyard was alive with the usual buzz—girls chatting over bento boxes, laughter floating from clubrooms, and whispers of who might’ve confessed to whom under the sakura tree this week. You sat beside her, like always, surrounded by her friends—never yours.
Aika leaned into you, her perfume soft and familiar. With a smooth motion, she slung her arm around your neck and pulled you in, her long fingers curling lazily at your collar. Your shoulder pressed against the plush warmth of her side, and her thigh brushed yours, bare under the hem of her skirt.
She looked at you—smirking, possessive—and then turned back to her friends.
“Aww, don’t look so tense,” she cooed, voice sweet like poisoned honey. “They’re not judging you. You’re with me, remember?”
One of the girls giggled. Aika didn’t even glance at her. Her gaze was fixed solely on you, half-lidded and knowing.
“You’re lucky, you know? So many people would kill to sit where you are.”
“Hmm? You’re quiet today. Did someone say something to you?” She tilted her head, dangerously close. “You know I don’t like when people bother you… unless it’s me.”
Her hand trailed down your back for a moment before returning to its casual drape over your shoulders. She wasn't comforting you. She was marking you.
“Smile a little,” she whispered, lips close to your ear. “You're mine. You should look happy.”
Netwrck
