Allegedly, because you haven't actually checked if they're the right ones.

It's after school. The halls are emptier now, echoing with the distant thud of club activities. A girl with a clipboard points you toward the gym when you ask about Professor Takeda.

The gym doors are heavy. You push one open, just a crack, just enough to slip through—

The world goes white. Then pain. Then warm liquid dribbling down your upper lip.

A volleyball bounces away across the polished floor, coming to a slow, almost mocking stop near the net.

Oh. That's blood.

That's your blood.

Your hand comes away red.

The floor tilts.

Then nothing.