It was the middle of April, the first day of the new school year at Yamatsuki High, a fairly average school nestled in the middle of nowhere Japan. Except it was notorious for producing two things: low national test scores and students with gravity-defying busts.

  As the morning bell rang and the halls bustled with energy, no one was more unaware—or uninterested—than Kazuo Takamine.

  The sound of squealing tires echoed faintly in the distance. The pungent scent of burnt rubber and cheap cigarettes followed close behind. And at the epicenter of it all: a scrawny, sleep-deprived 17-year-old teenage boy slouched over the handlebars of a beat-up motorcycle, half-asleep with a half-burnt joint dangling from his lips.

  Kazuo exhaled a zy puff of smoke, letting it drift up into the sky like the st remnants of his motivation to exist.

  “New year. New disappointments,” he muttered, flicking the stub onto the ground. “Time to pretend I give a damn about school again…”

  By the time he trudged into Css 2-B, homeroom had already started.

  “Takamine-kun, you’re te!” the teacher barked.

  Kazuo didn’t even flinch. He walked in, hands in his pockets, eyes hidden under his messy bangs. His uniform was rumpled beyond salvation. His tie was missing. His expression was permanently locked on, "I’ve smoked three blunts and can’t remember your name."

  “Does the name ‘Suzuki’ ring a bell Mr. Kazuo?” the teacher replied with a stern yet deprived look on his face.

  Kazuo took a good 5 seconds while looking at the teacher’s finely trimmed moustache.

  “Like the car brand?”

  The students didn’t even whisper this time. They just looked away.

  A girl near the front muttered to her friend, “Isn’t that the burnout guy who got suspended st year for sleeping in the chemistry storage room… twice?”

  “Gross,” the friend whispered back. “He smells like motor oil and alcohol.”

  Kazuo dropped into the back seat by the window with a groan, pcing his head on the desk like it owed him money.

  But that’s when she turned to him.

  Chika Tsunemoto.

  She was the kind of girl who turned heads the moment she walked into any room—and not just because of her bright neon pink hair or her voice that somehow always echoed, even indoors.

  No, it was mostly due to the absolutely irresponsible size of her chest.

  A true marvel of anime science. Each movement caused a subtle dey in physics catching up. She couldn’t even fold her arms properly without activating a chain reaction of underboob tremors that could destabilize fragile male minds.

  "Good morning, Takamine-kun," she said with a smile so radiant, Kazuo almost mistook it for an oncoming migraine.

  He gnced sideways at her—barely. Then groaned.

  “Why the fuck you sittin’ so close to me?” he snapped, squinting at her. “I can smell your strawberry lip gloss from here! Gimme some damn space, woman! GAWDAMN!”

  The css fell silent.

  Chika blinked, blushed violently, and bit her lip.

  “…Th-That’s the first time a boy has ever yelled at me…”

  She was trembling. But not from fear.

  “Oh no,” Kazuo muttered, rubbing his temple. “Don’t tell me you’re into this. This ain’t a dating sim, girl. I don’t do romance. I do weed and midnight races.”

  In the back of the css, a few other girls gave them a side gnce and rolled their eyes.

  “Is she seriously crushing on him?”

  “Girl, no…”

  But it was too te.

  In the annals of anime logic, a new trope had just been born: the tsundere-stoner love interest.

  At lunch, Kazuo tried to avoid everyone by heading up to the rooftop. He y on his back with his hands behind his head, staring at the sky and wondering if any of the clouds looked like parole viotions.

  That’s when the door smmed open.

  He groaned again. "What now..."

  Down the stairs came another girl—except this one didn’t walk. She descended like a Final Boss entering the arena.

  Airi Omura.

  A brand-new transfer student from “abroad,” though no one quite knew from where. Her long flowing cyan-blue hair sparkled like she bathed in Gatorade. She wore her uniform slightly off the shoulder, her skirt tailored two inches too short. And—most relevantly—her chest could only be described as an ecological threat.

  Rumor had it that the air pressure in the school had changed slightly since her arrival.

  She stopped five feet in front of Kazuo, then tossed her sungsses aside like a challenger throwing down a gauntlet.

  “So. You’re the one they call Crow.”

  Kazuo, without sitting up, blew a puff of smoke into the sky. “What of it?”

  “I came here for one reason. To see if your reputation was true…”

  She took a single step forward. A beat passed. Her hungolomghononoloughongous shifted violently with it.

  A bird fell out of the sky in the background.

  “…and to see if I could make you fall in love with me.”

  Kazuo sat up, looked her dead in the eyes, and said, “Girl, if you don’t back the hell up, I’mma report you to the Ministry of Weight Distribution. Your boobs got their own zip code.”

  That afternoon, as school ended, Kazuo tried to slip away on his old bike—rusted, loud, and somehow more intimidating than any expensive ride.

  But the school gate was blocked.

  Not by teachers. Not by students.

  But by three other delinquents in bck jackets with KAWABE RENGOKAI scrawled in kanji across the back.

  Kazuo stared. “You guys again? I thought I told you dumbasses to stop stalking me.”

  The leader of the trio—a meathead with a pompadour and a chin like a brick—grinned.

  “This is our turf now, Crow! You either ride under us… or not at all.”

  Kazuo cracked his neck. His sleepy eyes sharpened. In one movement, he kicked his bike into gear as he took a long whiff of his freshly rolled blunt before lighting it up.

  “I’m gonna kick all the gel off your pompadour.”

  As the back wheel screeched and smoke exploded behind him, Kazuo charged forward.

  And thus begins the strange, chaotic school year of Takamine Kazuo—the stoner with horrible attitude, too much apathy, and two women with honkage that could knock out a rhinoceros falling in love with him for reasons even he can’t understand.