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Ryuju Momo.
Alongside Osaragi Kobachi, Koromo Shiranui, and Koyasu Tsubame, she held the distinction of being one of Shuchiin Academy's legendary "Four Unconquerable Beauties"—girls whose allure rivaled even the untouchable student council princesses.
Word around campus whispered that her parents were active players in yakuza circles. Whenever the topic surfaced, her expression would sour like she'd bitten into an unripe umeboshi. Still, whether she acknowledged it or not, the underworld's influence had seeped into her very bones—carved itself into her posture, her speech, the dangerous edge in her half-lidded eyes.
Case in point: her current position on the worn leather couch.
Utterly unladylike. Brazenly so.
One leg crossed over the other, her pleated JK skirt riding dangerously high. The fabric had shifted, bunched, offering an unrestricted view of creamy thigh flesh—smooth and pale as fresh mochi, catching the amber afternoon light. The dark band of her thigh-high stockings bit softly into supple skin, creating that coveted Absolute Zone that would make any red-blooded teenager's brain short-circuit.
Oi, oi, oi—your panties are practically saying hello, miss. A little awareness of your surroundings, maybe?
Kazama Haru desperately wanted to voice this concern. His eyes, however, had already betrayed him—drawn inexorably to that forbidden territory like moths to an open flame.
"Tch."
The sharp click of her tongue sliced through the dusty classroom air. Ryuju Momo's gaze had caught his wandering attention, and her lips curled into something between a smirk and a snarl.
"YOU~" The word rolled from her throat—that distinctive yakuza drawl, vowels stretched long and threatening. "You got some nerve, you little shit. Keep those perverted eyes to yourself, or I'll scoop 'em out with a melon baller. Capische?"
"My bad!" Kazama Haru's bow was immediate, mechanical. His eyes had been disobedient. No point arguing with facts. "I apologize for my rudeness!"
Grip.
Behind him, slender fingers suddenly tightened around his wrist—tight enough that he felt the pressure through his uniform sleeve. Takamatsu Tomori's small hand, which usually held him with such gentle hesitance, now clamped down with surprising force. Her nails pressed crescents into his skin through the fabric.
For someone with a Physical stat of 7—practically mini-superman territory—to register actual discomfort from a girl who looked like she'd blow away in a strong breeze?
What the hell? Since when does Tomorin have grip strength like a hydraulic press?
He didn't dare look back at her expression.
"A-anyway!" His voice cracked. Pathetic. "This student—if you're interested in joining the Astronomy Club, perhaps you could start with an introduction?"
Caught between Ryuju Momo's predatory amusement ahead and Tomori's inexplicably iron grip behind, Kazama Haru felt distinctly like prey. He guided Tomori—whose aura had gone strangely dark—further into the room, pulled out a chair, and attempted to wrestle this interview back onto professional rails.
"Ryuju Momo. Second year, same as you. Class D."
Clipped. Efficient. Already bored.
She turned her face toward the window, afternoon light catching the blue sheen of her hair. The teddy bear beside her had been shoved aside, and her phone lay forgotten on the sleeping mat—evidence of the peaceful solitude he'd interrupted.
This is such a waste of time. Just give me the damn key and let me nap.
Even knowing this interview was basically theater, Kazama Haru pressed forward—if only to protect Tomori from any future awkwardness with their new "clubmate."
"And your reason for wanting to join?"
In the original anime timeline, this blue-haired beauty had also served as Astronomy Club president—just like Tomori. Both had been generals without armies, ruling empty kingdoms of dusty telescopes and forgotten star charts.
But Ryuju Momo had never once attended an actual club activity.
The whole thing had been a scheme to legitimately obtain the rooftop key under the pretense of galaxy observation—when really, she just wanted to sprawl on a mat with her teddy bear and grind gacha games in peace.
Solitude. That's all she'd ever wanted.
"Reason?"
Her brow furrowed, irritation flickering across delicate features.
"What are you, a census taker? Why's a grown-ass man being so annoying about this?" She threw her hands up, exasperated. "I wanna join, so I'm joining! There's no philosophical reason behind it, you weirdo!"
The sudden outburst made Takamatsu Tomori flinch violently behind him. A soft, startled sound escaped her throat—"Pya!"—that adorable penguin squeak she made when frightened. Her fingers released his wrist only to clutch desperately at his blazer's hem, and he felt her press closer, hiding herself against his back.
"Tch. I see."
Ryuju Momo clicked her tongue again—seemed to be a verbal tic—and her sharp eyes tracked the way these two moved in unconscious synchronization. The protective curve of his shoulders. The way the small president burrowed against him like he was a safety blanket.
Oh. OH. So that's how it is.
A knowing smirk curved her glossy lips.
"I get it now. You're pissy because I'm third-wheeling your little love nest, right?" She waved a dismissive hand, bangles jingling. "Relax, Romeo. Just hand over the rooftop key when I ask, and I'll make myself scarce. You two can lock the classroom door and do whatever ecchi things you want—just remember protection. Wouldn't want any scandals~"
"D-DON'T SAY SUCH RIDICULOUS THINGS!"
The denial exploded from both of them simultaneously—faces flushing identical shades of crimson.
Takamatsu Tomori—whose heart had recently begun harboring something terrifyingly sweet whenever she looked at this boy—felt her pulse skyrocket into dangerous territory. Her fingers twisted tighter into his blazer, knuckles white.
Even Kazama Haru, who prided himself on maintaining composure, couldn't stop the heat climbing his neck, his ears, burning across his cheekbones.
Neither noticed how their violently synchronized denial only made them look more suspicious.
Ryuju Momo snorted, clearly entertained. "Yeah, yeah. Just kidding." She held up her hands in mock surrender. "You want a reason? Fine. Lemme think... Hmm..." She tapped a finger against her chin dramatically. "I like looking at stars. My heart yearns for the cosmos. Because I love stars."
She flashed a cheeky V-sign. "Good enough, senpai?"
"...You pass."
Anything to stop her from dropping more verbal grenades.
After those few exchanges, Kazama Haru had gotten a decent read on Ryuju Momo's character. Blunt, occasionally abrasive, allergic to social niceties—but fundamentally not malicious. She valued her peace, same as Tomori. If these two ended up sharing the clubroom, they'd probably coexist through mutual avoidance.
Parallel play. Like cats in the same sunbeam.
"Oh, wait—"
A thought surfaced. "Didn't club selection end last week? Why are you only—"
"Ugh." Ryuju Momo's expression curdled. "Don't remind me. That airheaded homeroom teacher started blowing up my phone yesterday, nagging about club participation. Even called my parents." She shuddered. "So I wandered around looking for the least annoying option. Congrats—your sad little club won by default."
Fair enough.
Kazama Haru rose from his chair, pulled open a desk drawer, and retrieved a club application form. The paper was slightly yellowed—hadn't been touched in who knows how long.
"Fill this out, and you're officially a member."
He slung his bag over one shoulder, already calculating travel time. Togawa Sakiko was waiting. The negotiation with Nyamu—critical details he couldn't afford to miss.
"I've got somewhere to be. You two play nice—See ya."
"Wait."
The word came soft. Desperate.
Resistance tugged at his back—Tomori's fingers hooked into his blazer, anchoring him in place. When he turned, her wide violet eyes shimmered with barely concealed anxiety. She shook her head slowly, silently pleading.
Don't leave me alone with her.
This child. Still frightened. Still so easily rattled by anyone new.
God, it made his chest ache.
But he'd made a promise. And that promise—Togawa Sakiko's help, his life, his future—
"Tomori."
He softened his voice to honey. Warm. Patient. The tone you'd use with a skittish kitten.
"Look at me."
She did. Those enormous eyes, glossy and vulnerable, locked onto his.
He didn't consciously decide to reach for her—his palm simply moved, settling atop her head. Fingers threading through silk-soft lavender strands. He stroked gently, rubbing slow circles against her scalp, and felt the tension in her small frame begin to melt.
"Ryuju Momo isn't a bad person." His thumb traced along her hairline, brushing feather-light near her temple. "Don't you trust my judgment?"
They were close.
Too close.
He could count her lashes—dark crescents against flushed cheeks. Could see the tiny beauty mark near the corner of her eye. Could feel the warmth radiating from her skin, smell the faint sweetness of her shampoo—something floral, jasmine maybe, underlaid with the clean cotton scent of her uniform.
Their breaths mingled in the narrow space between them. His exhale became her inhale.
Takamatsu Tomori's heart hammered so violently she was certain he could hear it. Her face burned—tomato-red, strawberry-red, the kind of red that meant her brain was actively short-circuiting.
"Pya..."
That helpless penguin sound again, barely a whisper.
"I-I trust you, Haru-kun." Her voice came out embarrassingly breathy. "Of course I trust you..."
His hand. His warmth. His scent.
Standing this close, his masculine presence enveloped her completely—warm cedar, clean soap, something uniquely him that made her head swim. A shameful, greedy thought crystallized in her fogged mind:
If I could just... collapse against his chest right now. Let him hold me. Fall asleep surrounded by this smell...
I'd probably sleep better than I have in months.
Her fingers curled tighter into his blazer fabric. Not wanting to let go. Not yet.
"Oi."
Ryuju Momo's flat voice shattered the moment like a hammer through glass.
"You two gonna start making out, or what? 'Cause I can leave if you need the room."
"COUGH—HACK—GHHK—"
Kazama Haru choked on his own saliva so violently he nearly aspirated. His hand flew from Tomori's hair to pound his own chest, face cycling through three shades of mortified scarlet.
"W-what—that's—this is just—normal comforting—"
"Kiss..."
The whispered word stopped his sputtering cold.
Takamatsu Tomori hadn't ducked her head in shy denial like he'd expected. Instead, she was staring up at him—violet eyes slightly unfocused, dreamy, lips parted around that single syllable like she was tasting it.
"Kiss," she repeated softly. Wonderingly. Hopefully?
If I keep pretending to be scared... will he stay longer? Will he hold me again? Will he...
That look in her eyes.
Kazama Haru's danger instincts screamed CODE RED.
"RIGHT, WELL—"
His hand retreated from her hair like he'd touched a hot stove. He stumbled backward toward the door, movements jerky and graceless.
"That's—that's all for today! Ryuju Momo, welcome to the club! Be nice to Takamatsu-san! Gotta go bye!"
"Hmm."
Ryuju Momo didn't look up from the application form she'd begun filling out. Her pen scratched against paper—but just as his hand touched the door handle, her voice cut through the room again.
"Oi. Since we're clubmates now..."
Casual. Almost bored.
"...I'll give you a freebie warning."
The pen paused.
"Watch your back on the way home. These next few days especially."
Kazama Haru's blood ran cold.
"The Ryujin-kai's got eyes on you. Stalker-level surveillance."
His footsteps froze mid-stride. Ice crawled up his spine, vertebra by vertebra, until his whole body locked rigid. Slowly—mechanically—he turned to face her.
Ryuju Momo still lounged on that couch, pen in hand, expression utterly relaxed. Like she'd just commented on the weather.
"Surprised?" A smirk tugged at her lips. "What, you thought because you beat them up once, it was over?"
She snorted.
"Hmm mm Don't underestimate the yakuza, bocchan."
SLAM.
Her pen hit the table. In one fluid motion, she swung her leg up and planted her foot on the low table before her—thud—the impact rattling the wood.
Her skirt shifted obscenely high. The pale expanse of inner thigh, the dark band of stocking cutting into soft flesh, that sacred Absolute Zone laid bare for all to see—
But Kazama Haru registered none of it.
His attention fixed entirely on her words.
"These guys live and die by reputation." Ryuju Momo's voice had gone cold. Hard. Yakuza. "You think they can take an L and just walk away? Let some random high schooler punk them out?"
She clicked her tongue.
"Idiots. Baka."
She leaned forward, elbows on knees, eyes sharp as broken glass.
"They're wild dogs, you get me? Rabid. Fearless. You beat them down once—fine. But they'll come back. Again and again. With knives, with bats, with numbers. They'll keep coming until they tear a chunk out of you so big you'll feel their pain a hundred times over."
Wild dogs.
Yeah. That tracked.
"Haaah..."
Kazama Haru released a long, heavy breath—felt it drag out of him like his lungs were deflating.
He'd thought this was finished. Closed chapter. Move on.
How naive.
His mind raced, recalculating. Physical strength alone wouldn't cut it—not against an organization. Even if he could benchpress a truck, bullets didn't care about muscle mass. And fists couldn't fight an army.
He needed influence. Connections. Resources.
The Band. Togawa Sakiko. That path to the highest stages—to networks that could actually matter.
Only then could he dig out this tumor at the root.
His gaze returned to Ryuju Momo.
This woman... she'd just handed him intel that might save his life. First meeting, no obligation, no expectation of return.
"Arigatou gozaimasu."
He bowed—deep, formal, sincere.
"For telling me something so crucial... I won't forget this, Ryuju Momo."
"Che."
She waved him off without looking up, already lost in her phone screen.
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