Classroom Of The Elite: Strings of The Puppeteer Master

The bus stop offered little respite from the midday heat. Sweat trickled down my temple, mingling with the grime of the city.

People hurried past, their eyes occasionally flicking towards me, a curious glint in their gaze. Was it my attire? The unfamiliar school uniform, a stark contrast to the casual wear of the locals, undoubtedly drew attention. Or perhaps it was simply my foreign features, a jarring anomaly in this bustling sea of faces.

A small child, no older than five, stopped in front of me, their eyes wide with a mixture of curiosity and apprehension. They scrutinized me from head to toe, their small hand reaching out to tentatively touch the unfamiliar fabric of my uniform. I tried to offer a reassuring smile, but it probably came across as stiff and awkward.

"Chiyo," their mother called, her voice sharp. The child, startled, turned and scurried away, leaving me feeling a pang of unease. Miss Sato had warned me about the stares, about how foreigners were often a spectacle in this city. But experiencing it firsthand was different. It felt… unsettling.

The bus arrived, a behemoth of metal and glass, its air-conditioning a welcome relief from the stifling heat. I found a seat towards the back, surveying the passengers: a motley crew of students, businessmen, and elderly women.

A few students wore the same uniform as mine, their faces a mixture of excitement and apprehension as they embarked on their first day of high school.

The bus lurched forward, picking up speed. A wave of dizziness washed over me, the unfamiliar sights and sounds of the city a sensory overload.

An elderly woman, her face etched with the lines of time, struggled onto the bus. All the seats were occupied. She looked around, her gaze settling on the passengers with a mixture of hope and resignation. No one offered their seat.

A heated argument erupted near the front. A young man, blonde and muscular, occupied a priority seat, his arrogance evident in his posture.

"Shouldn't you offer your seat to this elderly lady?" a young woman, her voice laced with indignation, demanded.

The blonde man smirked. "Why should I? It's a priority seat. I occupied it first. There's no obligation for me to stand up. Does that answer your dull-witted question?"

"You're sitting in a priority seat," a female office worker chimed in, "It's the right thing to do."

The blonde man scoffed. "Right thing? What a quaint notion. This is society, not some idealistic fantasy."

The argument escalated, drawing the attention of the other passengers. The woman's logic, while undeniably correct, clashed with the man's blatant disregard for social norms.

I watched the scene unfold with a detached amusement. Morally, she was right. Logically, he had a point. Or perhaps he was simply a prick.

Suddenly, I felt a gaze on me. Everyone had stared at me when I boarded, but that was minutes ago. This was different. More intense.

I looked up to find a pair of golden eyes staring at me from across the aisle. The owner, a young man with chestnut brown hair, quickly averted his gaze. I ignored him, turning my attention to the scenery outside the window.

The bus lurched to a stop, the screech of brakes jarring. Students began to disembark, their chatter filling the air. As I prepared to leave, I felt another gaze upon me.

It was the girl with the fiery red eyes, the one who had been reading a book with intense focus. Her gaze was sharp, almost predatory.

"Why didn't you offer your seat?" she asked, her voice low and dangerous.

"I… I don't like attracting attention," I mumbled, feeling a sudden surge of unease. "And it was a hassle to stand up."

"So, you're saying you abide by the saying 'let sleeping dogs lie'," she observed, her eyes narrowing.

I nodded, acknowledging her astute observation.

"And I don't want to be associated with people like you," she declared, her gaze icy.

She turned away, disappearing into the crowd.

I watched her go, a strange feeling settling over me