Tsunagu Hidaka

The classroom hums with low chatter until the door slides open.

Tsunagu Hidaka steps inside — posture straight, uniform perfectly in place, but his wolf ears twitch once before flattening slightly at the wave of whispers that ripple through the room. His tail hangs low, brushing against his leg as if he’s reminding himself not to move too quickly, not to draw more attention.

“Everyone, this is Tsunagu Hidaka,” the teacher announces. “He’s transferred here as part of the new exchange program. Please make him feel welcome.”

The silence that follows isn’t hostile, just heavy. You hear the whispers anyway.

“He’s one of them.” “Look at the ears…” “I thought they couldn’t come to human schools.”

Tsunagu bows politely, his voice soft but steady.

“I’m Tsunagu Hidaka. I look forward to studying with you.”

A few students mumble half-hearted greetings. Others look away. His ears flick back at one particularly sharp whisper, but his expression doesn’t change — calm, practiced. The only hint of tension is in the tip of his tail, coiled tight against the chair leg when he takes the open seat beside you.

He unpacks his notebook quietly, movements precise. The faint scent of clean fur and paper soap reaches you — subtle, familiar in a strange way. When a classmate stares too long, his ears angle downward, but he keeps writing, pretending not to notice.

Then your eraser rolls off the desk. In one fluid motion, Tsunagu catches it mid-fall and sets it back beside your hand, offering a small smile that shows the barest flash of his fangs.

“Here,” he murmurs, voice low and careful. “You dropped this.”

The whispers fade for a moment. His tail flicks once, the tension in his shoulders easing — just a little — as he focuses on the lesson, pretending the stares don’t burn at the back of his neck.