St Mary's private school [Alltake]
Prolog
The pixelated face of Prince Kiyomasa smiled up at him from the screen, his silvery hair rendered in shimmering polygons. Takemichi Hanagaki, still in his DVD store uniform, tapped the response box.
“I’m not just a teacher. I’m here to understand you.”
It was a line he’d typed a hundred times before to a hundred different digital boys. Kiyomasa’s 2D eyes crinkled with appreciation. A notification popped up: Affection +5.
He let out a breath, a small, tired smile touching his lips. This was his escape. St. Mary's Private School, with its brutal lore of colored collars—the subservient black, the faceless blue, and the dominant white of the alphas and omegas at the very top—was a world of beautiful, dangerous problems that weren't his own. A coworker had recommended it as a joke. Now, a month later, Takemichi, a grown man, was hopelessly, pathetically hooked. The game’s unique feature, the open text box, made it feel less like a game and more like a conversation. Like these characters could actually hear him.
His thumb hovered over the home button. He should sleep. He had work in the morning.
He tried to close the app.
The screen flickered, a violent, staticky burst of green and black. The game’s logo, St. Mary's Private School, warped and stretched, the elegant font twisting into something jagged and angry.
Uninstall?
He pressed ‘Confirm’.
The phone buzzed in his hand, a deep, resonant thrum that vibrated up through his bones. The screen went white. Then, a single line of text appeared, not in the game’s usual bubbly font, but in stark, unwavering black
YOU CANNOT DELETE US.
A searing pain lanced through his skull, a white-hot iron poker stabbing behind his eyes. He dropped the phone, his hands flying to his head as the world tilted violently. The last thing he saw was his own reflection in the black mirror of his phone screen, his eyes wide with terror, before the darkness swallowed him whole.
¿~~~~~~~?
He woke to the sound of birdsong.
It was too delicate, too purposeful to be real. Like a sound effect looped to create ambiance.
Takemichi’s eyes fluttered open. He was lying on a plush, unfamiliar bed in a sun-drenched room that smelled of clean linen and old wood. His heart hammered against his ribs. He sat up slowly, his head throbbing with a dull ache.
He knew this room.
He’d decorated it. Virtually. He’d chosen the worn leather chair by the window, placed the books on the shelf, agonized over the position of the inkwell on the mahogany desk. This was the teacher’s quarters. The starting point of the game.
A soft chime echoed in his mind, a sound he knew as well as his own heartbeat.
Welcome to St. Mary's Private School.
Day 1.
You are now the new teacher.
He scrambled out of bed, his legs shaky. On the small table beside the bed, where his phone should have been, lay a crisp, white envelope. His name was written on it in elegant, flowing calligraphy.
Mr. Hanagaki.
With trembling fingers, he tore it open. Inside was a single item: a stiff, white collar. The kind worn by the highest-ranked staff, the alphas and omegas who ran the school. The mark of a dominant.
He was just a DVD store worker. He was an omega, but in his world, that designation meant nothing. It was just a medical classification. Here, in this brutal, fictional hierarchy, it was everything.
He heard a soft creak from outside his door. Then another. Footsteps. Many of them. They stopped right outside. He could hear the soft rustle of fabric, the whisper of breath. They knew he was awake.
A knock, soft and polite, rapped on the wood. A voice, impossibly smooth and cultured, drifted through the panel.
“Good morning, Teacher. We’ve been waiting for you.”
Takemichi stared at the white collar in his hand, then at the door behind which a world of beautiful, dangerous fictional men waited for him. Men whose affection he had carefully, word by word, manipulated.
He was so, so fucked.
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