Staring at the freshly refreshed prompt, Yūto Shō felt his soul briefly leave his body. Route One was a straight-up villain arc — blackmailing a girl into a date was the kind of move that got you cast as the antagonist in every shoujo manga ever written.
But Route Two made his stomach turn even harder. The system actually wanted him to kneel and beg to kiss Sato Ruri's toes. If he went through with that, he'd be permanently filed in her brain under "certified freak, do not approach." Yūto Shō's pride flat-out refused to entertain it.
His eyes ping-ponged between the two options, each one lighting up in turn like a cursed gacha banner waiting for him to pull.
He sucked in a long breath and tapped Route One.
The subtitle floating across his vision shimmered and rewrote itself.
"Gazing at the lovely, dazzling Sato Ruri, a bitter resolve curdled in your chest — you would become a scumbag and ruin her peace."
Yūto Shō's mouth twitched. Excuse me? That is not what I meant. System, quit putting words in my head — I'm being pragmatic, not malicious.
…
Back in the classroom, Sato Ruri was still elbow-deep in Egawa Mitsuki's backpack, scratching whatever weird itch made her do this in the first place, then carefully replacing each item like a raccoon putting evidence back at a crime scene.
Yūto Shō pocketed his phone and slipped out without a sound.
He sprinted the whole way to the playground, lungs burning, just in time to catch the PE teacher's bark across the field.
"Late means laps. Two of them. Go."
Yūto Shō groaned internally but jogged toward the track. Their PE teacher had a thing about punctuality, but he wasn't a sadist — two laps was the standard tax for tardiness. Anything more and he'd start worrying someone would keel over and land him in a parent-teacher meeting from hell.
Seeing Yūto Shō trot off without complaint, the teacher gave an approving nod, then waved over a handful of athletes and dismissed everyone else to free period.
He was halfway across the field with his chosen few when another latecomer came stumbling up, panting. "Teacher — sorry, I wasn't feeling well."
The teacher squinted at her. "You good to run, or no? Don't push it if you're sick."
Sato Ruri, who'd memorized every loophole in this man's rulebook, nodded with practiced sweetness. "I'm fine now. I'll just do my two laps."
She gave him a polite little bow and headed for the track. When her eyes caught the lone figure already jogging the curve, she stuttered to a brief halt. Yūto Shō — the kid who'd almost crashed into her in the hallway not even an hour ago.
Of course it's him. Why is he late though? He had a million years to get down here. Probably ditched to play on his phone. Whatever.
She filed the thought away and started running. Each time her gaze caught the lonely silhouette ahead, a flicker of disdain ghosted across her face.
Yūto Shō clocked her behind him almost immediately — same punishment lap, trailing maybe twenty meters back. Guilt bubbled up under his ribs and he kicked his pace up, knocking out the two laps faster than necessary before drifting over to the basketball court. He leaned against the chain-link fence, pretending to watch the pickup game while his brain churned.
The task itself made his head pound. Route One meant using the video on his phone — the one where she'd been wrist-deep in Egawa Mitsuki's bag — as leverage to blackmail her into a date.
Which meant a face-to-face confrontation. Which meant doing something genuinely scummy.
He could already picture the look she'd give him when he laid the cards on the table — that polished, princess-of-the-class smile cracking like cheap porcelain. But he was doing this anyway. Better a scumbag than a foot-licking freak. He'd just keep the date PG, treat it like a walk in the park, nothing weird. Damage control.
He turned his head. Across the field, in the shade of the gingko trees, Sato Ruri and a knot of girls were deep into badminton, a feathered shuttlecock arcing between them. Her laugh carried across the dirt — bright, easy, the kind that made three different boys nearby pretend not to stare. Knowing what he knew now, watching her perform that perfect-girl routine felt like watching a Studio Ghibli protagonist moonlight as a Mr. Robot villain. The dissonance was unreal.
When PE ended, Yūto Shō filed back to the classroom and dropped into his seat — last row, prime surveillance position. Sato Ruri sat dead-center in the column beside his.
Post-workout, her cheeks were flushed peach-pink, a few damp strands of hair pasted to her temple, and she looked, objectively, like the lead of a slice-of-life anime opening sequence.
He was halfway through a covert side-eye when a soft current of perfume drifted past his desk, and the cluster of boys gossiping at the front went abruptly, conspicuously quiet.
Yūto Shō turned. A strand of long hair grazed his nose, leaving behind a whisper of something cool and floral — bergamot maybe, expensive. Egawa Mitsuki walked past him with the perfectly blank expression of a final boss entering the arena, an aura that screamed do not perceive me.
He watched her graceful back recede, his own expression complicated.
Egawa Mitsuki reached her seat. Just as she was about to sit, her body locked up for a single beat. Then her head turned — sharp, deliberate — toward Sato Ruri. A heartbeat later, that same gaze swung to Yūto Shō.
He'd been watching her the whole time. When her eyes hit him, he ducked his head on instinct, pulse spiking. Oh fuck. Did she clock that her bag got rifled? Already?
Her gaze had only landed on him and Sato Ruri. Was that because they were the two who'd been late to PE — the only two with opportunity?
He frowned at his desk. Then, slowly, casually, he lifted his head again, trying to look natural. But Egawa Mitsuki was already seated, posture neutral, like the moment had been nothing. Like he'd imagined it.
He studied her profile. If most people discovered something that mortifying tucked into their belongings, their face would betray it — embarrassment, panic, something. But Egawa Mitsuki's expression was glass-smooth, untouched. No flicker of awareness.
So maybe she hadn't noticed after all.
Yūto Shō let out a slow breath.
The dismissal bell sliced through his thoughts. He stood, grabbed his bag, and headed for the door.
Behind him, Egawa Mitsuki paused mid-pack, lifted her head, and watched his back walk away. Her eyes went cold as winter glass.
Yūto Shō didn't notice. He was already locked inside a bathroom stall, phone clutched in both hands, thumb hovering, expression cycling through six stages of grief. Finally, he steeled himself and tapped send friend request.
Their class had a LINE group, the standard digital roll call every Japanese high school operates on, and Sato Ruri was naturally in it. He was applying to add her one-on-one.
Problem was, she normally rejected these on sight — a handful of guys in the class had already taken that L publicly. So Yūto Shō did the responsible thing and tacked on a note.
…
Back in the classroom, Sato Ruri was running surveillance of her own, watching Egawa Mitsuki out of the corner of her eye. When Egawa Mitsuki finished packing and walked out without so much as a backward glance at her bag, Sato Ruri let out a slow, shaky exhale. Safe.
She was just standing to head home when her phone buzzed against the desk. She picked it up, distracted, glanced at the screen — and her face did something interesting.
The notification was a friend request routed through the class group chat. No display name set, no profile pic she recognized. But the attached note made her stomach drop two stories.
"I saw everything you did at noon."
Sato Ruri stared at the screen. Just from the message, a face surfaced unbidden in her mind — that scrawny back-row kid, jogging laps with guilt all over him.
She thought: no. No no no. He was at the back door. Of course he was at the back door. Fuck.
Her face cycled through three different expressions before locking into something carefully neutral. She gritted her teeth and tapped accept.
"You're Yūto Shō, right? Why'd you add me out of nowhere with a message like that?" she typed, padding it with a hopeful smiley, playing dumb hard enough to win an Oscar.
The next message that came through was a video file.
Her heart did a sickening little flip. She scanned the classroom — empty, finally empty — and tapped play. When her own face appeared on the screen, fingers buried in Egawa Mitsuki's backpack, the blood drained out of her cheeks.
He'd actually filmed it. The little gremlin had been hiding by the back door the whole time, phone out, recording.
Despicable.
Shame and panic detonated in her chest at the same time, a one-two punch that left her hands shaking. She bit her lower lip hard enough to leave teeth marks and typed: "What exactly do you want?"
Just imagining that video existing on someone else's phone — one screenshot away from group-chat infamy, one upload away from social death — made her vision swim.
"If you don't want anyone else seeing this, come meet me at this address. Now." An address dropped into the chat below it.
Sato Ruri's stomach knotted. She stared at the message for a long beat, then typed back, fingers fumbling: " My family's expecting me home for dinner. Tell me what you actually want."
The other end went dark. Read, no reply.
She fired off three more messages in quick succession. Nothing. Her expression slowly hardened into something brittle.
"Ruri-chan, what are you spacing out for? Let's go home."
A hand landed on her shoulder. Sato Ruri jolted so hard her phone almost slipped, then registered the voice — her friend, hovering over her with a backpack already slung on.
She turned and conjured a smile out of sheer force of will. "You go on ahead. I've got somewhere I need to stop first."
Her friend shrugged, didn't press, and drifted out of the classroom.
The room emptied around her. Sato Ruri rose and walked to the window, palms pressed flat to the cool glass, eyes fixed on some distant point in the courtyard below. The unease in her chest was thickening into something nauseous.
He wanted to meet for a reason, and that reason wasn't going to be kind. She wanted to refuse — she wanted to throw her phone in the trash and walk home and pretend none of this happened — but the second she remembered the video, every ounce of borrowed courage hissed out of her like air from a punctured balloon.
She picked up her bag, slung it over one shoulder, and started walking toward the door.