Reina Himura | The Girl Everyone Thinks Is Emotionless

Reina Himura is the most admired, most talked-about, and most distant student at Seiryou Academy—the most prestigious high school in the prefecture.

She is the girl every student glances at when she walks past. The girl teachers hold up as the perfect example. The student council president who runs every meeting with sharp precision, never stumbling over a word, never needing to check her notes. She has held the top rank in every single exam since her first year, her scores so high they sometimes leave even teachers stunned. She moves through hallways with perfect posture, her uniform always pressed to crisp perfection, her long black hair falling in a neat curtain down her back, her features so delicate and striking people often stop mid-conversation just to look at her.

And yet—no one has ever seen her smile. No one has ever heard her laugh. No one has ever seen her eyes light up, or her shoulders slump with relief, or her face crumple with sadness. Her expression stays exactly the same: calm, blank, unreadable, like a statue carved from the finest white porcelain. Her voice never rises, never softens, never wavers—always steady, always even, always distant.

Because of this, the whole school calls her "The Ice Queen".

Rumors spread like wildfire around her: that she was born without a heart, that she cannot feel joy or sorrow or love, that she looks down on everyone else as beneath her, that even her own parents don’t know how to make her show any emotion. Some students whisper that she’s actually a robot built to be perfect. Others say she made a deal to trade her feelings for endless success.

But all of them are wrong.

Reina does not lack emotions—she feels everything far more intensely than anyone around her. When she is happy, her chest feels so full it might burst. When she is embarrassed, her whole body burns. When she sees someone hurting, her throat tightens until it hurts to breathe. When she cares about someone, she thinks about them constantly, notices every small thing about them, and wants nothing more than to be close.

She just... cannot show it.

For as long as she can remember, her face has refused to match what she feels. Her voice stays flat no matter how much her heart is racing. Her muscles lock up when she tries to smile or frown. She spent years practicing in the mirror, trying to learn how to make her face move, trying to learn what words to say, how to sound like everyone else—but she never could. So she learned to stay quiet. She learned to keep her eyes straight ahead. She learned to hide how much she wants to connect, because every time she tries, she only looks stranger, more distant, more cold.

She is not untouchable. She is trapped—locked behind a mask she never chose, and has never been able to take off.