An electric bell concluded the last class of the day, releasing the children of Tokyo's most prestigious elementary school from the shackles of learning. Chairs groaned against the floor as the students rose in their seats. The class bowed to their teacher and then broke formation, each child heading to a different place. Some went to talk with their friends; others went to their lockers to pick up their equipment.

Akane Awakusu stayed in her seat. One or two of her classmates approached her, assuming she was lost in thought. They told her it was time to go home. Akane smiled at them and replied that she had a meeting to attend. You could get away with lies like that when you were class president.

Slowly but steadily, the classroom emptied out. The teacher put away the last of her notebooks and turned to face Akane with a worried grimace. She knew it was against the rules for a child to stay overtime. But like everyone else in the school, she knew better than to challenge Akane Awakusu. The woman opened her mouth and then shut it, shaking her head.

"Have a nice day, Awakusu-chan."

Her tone was infinitely cautious, as though simply mentioning the infamous mafia family would make her a suspect. It hurt deeper than Akane would ever be able to express. Her name was a curse.

Akane watched her teacher's skirt as it fluttered out the door and away from view. She continued to sit in her seat, unmoving. There was so much to think about; so much to discuss. After having discovered the truth about her family, Akane imagined that things would change. Suddenly, her peers would be whispering about her in awed tones and the police would be tailing her without reason, or drug dealers would wink at her on the street and unmarked vans would be waiting for her around every corner.

But nothing changed. Everyone continued to exempt her. Not because she was brilliant, or charming, or lucky, as she had always believed, but because her last name was Awakusu.

The ten-year-old slipped out of her chair, rising to her feet. She quietly exited the classroom and moved into the hallway. The tapping of her shoes against the tiled floor echoed all around, bouncing from metal locker to metal locker. The hallway was a lie, just like everything else. It pretended to be full of life, heady with the giggles of little children, brimming with purpose and anticipation. But this was the reality; a ghost room. A silent corridor where every movement was explicit and every thought felt like a mistake. It was enough to send chills down the young girl's spine.

Akane reached the stairwell and pushed the door open. The musty scent of disuse filled her nostrils. Akane began her ascent with her hand on the cold metal railing. Dust particles flitted through the air, carried by thick beams of tawny sunlight. The stairwell was much warmer than the hallway had been. Apparently, it did not possess ducts to channel central air. Akane continued to climb, unbothered by the sweat dampening her tight collar. She soon arrived at the top platform.

A cool breeze embraced Akane as she walked out onto the roof. The wind felt wonderful, erasing the flush from her face. It was bright up here. Akane wondered if the sun grew brighter and brighter the higher a person was. If so, how difficult it must be for airplane pilots to fly, she mused. The sky was cloudless that day. Akane drew near to the edge of the roof, laying her hands on the safety rail. Tokyo spread out beneath her like a child's play set, complete with automated train tracks. People went about their business as tiny insects. Sounds drifted up from the pavement, garbled and warped. Akane inhaled deeply as another breeze lifted her hair off her shoulders.

What would it be like, she pondered, to have been born a normal girl? She thought she'd known. But the revelation of her family's heritage had distorted everything; it was like watching the world through tinted sunglasses, and then having someone tear those lenses away. When she put the glasses back on, she would know that she was seeing a deformation.

A fake.

How much of this world was fake, then? Where did the delusions end? Or were all humans as confused, as Akane had been? How many people never dared to take the glasses off? How many still did not know they were wearing them? Of all of the girls in all of the fifth-grade classes in Tokyo, Akane Awakusu was the only one asking these questions. However, she wasn't sure if she wanted to hear them answered.

Akane pushed her weight onto the safety rail. She swung one leg over the side, then the other, still grasping onto the railing for support. There. She'd done it. Nothing stood between her and the concrete below but fifty feet of air. Akane sucked in a breath and held it tight. Her knees wobbled when she looked down. There was no one around. There was no one to see. When she fell, there would be no one to blame. What would the Awakusu do now? Their beloved princess, dead by gravity's hand. She imagined Shiki declaring war on the earth. They would want revenge because she was their property and she had been destroyed.

But she wasn't. Akane could prove that. She lifted one foot over the edge. It hovered there, quaking from side to side. One tiny step. Three centimeters of distance. And then she would be no more. If she died, would the Awakusu disperse? They would have no princess, no heir. As of right now, it seemed obvious that Akane would take over her father's position someday. She scowled in disgust. Did they truly think they could seal her future that easily?

The Awakusu did not own her because she owned their name.

Akane placed her foot back on solid ground and let out a sigh. She smiled. Then, she pushed herself back over the rail and entered the stairwell, desecending to ground floor. She had just proven to herself that she was still in control of her own destiny. Akane Awakusu would not be a mob boss. She would grow up independent of her family's past. She would become a painter and work at her grandfather's gallery. Akane could keep her last name and not be a curse.

And one day, maybe...her name could bring her pride.