The sleek black car cruised smoothly along the city road, sunlight glinting off its polished surface.
Inside, two figures sat—one behind the wheel, the other slouched in the back seat.
"Is school fun, young master?" asked the cheerful voice of the driver, a brown-haired maid with a bright tone that contrasted her sharp focus on the road ahead.
From the back seat, the boy with equally brown hair didn't answer immediately. He leaned back, arms crossed, his gaze fixed out the window.
"…Ayaka, when can I drive by myself?" he asked flatly, ignoring her question altogether.
Ayaka raised an eyebrow and chuckled softly, clearly amused.
"Young master, you're still too young," she replied teasingly, a playful smirk tugging at her lips.
"Besides, I'm the only one here who can drive properly. You'd probably crash into the neighbor's mailbox."
She let out a light laugh, one hand casually tapping the steering wheel.
Ryoma clicked his tongue.
"How much money would it take to bribe them?" he asked suddenly, eyes still watching the world pass by outside the window.
Ayaka sighed, though her smile never faded. "It's not that simple, young master," she said, her tone half amused, half serious.
"Sure, money can grease some wheels, but it can't buy everything."
She paused briefly, the traffic light casting a red hue over her face.
"…And besides," she added with a glance at the rearview mirror, "you know your parents would never approve of that kind of shortcut."
Ryoma let out a quiet sigh, a flicker of annoyance crossing his face.
Moments later, the car slowed to a stop in front of a grand school gate.
He stared at it for a moment before reaching for the door.
As soon as the car rolled to a stop, Ryoma stepped out without a word. The morning air was crisp, brushing against his hair.
Behind him, the car window rolled down with a soft hum.
Ayaka leaned slightly toward the open window, her warm smile greeting him like sunlight through clouds.
"Young master, remember to be on your best behavior at school," she said, her tone gentle yet deliberate.
She knew Ryoma—knew exactly how sharp his tongue could be and how deep his silence ran. A reminder was always necessary.
Ryoma clicked his tongue and turned slightly to face her, irritation flickering in his eyes.
"…Do you think I'm a child?"
Ayaka giggled, not missing a beat. "You're still a kid in my eyes," she replied playfully, her eyes soft with a strange mix of affection and amusement.
"Yeah, yeah. See you later," Ryoma muttered with a small nod before turning on his heel and walking toward the school gate.
Ayaka watched him in silence, her expression unreadable for a fleeting moment.
Then, with a faint smile, she rolled the window back up and drove off into the city's flow.
Ryoma walked alone down the school pathway, surrounded by groups of students chattering and laughing together as they made their way inside.
But him? He walked in silence.
They were all around him, yet none beside him.
He believed that anyone who tried to get close only saw the name.
The heir of the Murakami family.
Not Ryoma.
Just the name, the legacy, the weight of it all.
Despite his quiet demeanor, Ryoma had quickly become the school's unofficial idol.
Handsome, rich, and wrapped in that mysterious aura of privilege—he already had a fan club, and this was only his first year.
The moment he stepped into the classroom, dozens of eyes latched onto him like moths to a flame.
But Ryoma didn't flinch; he ignored the stares and made his way straight to his seat.
Almost immediately, a cluster of girls approached. "Murakami! Morning!" one chirped brightly.
Ryoma gave a curt nod, eyes fixed on the novel in his hands.
"Don't be so cold. It's just morning," another teased, sidling up to lean casually against his desk.
"You're looking especially handsome today," a third purred, her voice dripping with the same compliment she'd given him every single time.
Ryoma barely looked up. "You really like reading, huh? What's it this time?" one girl asked, peering at the book's cover.
Without a word, Ryoma held out the novel and let one of the girls take it.
Annoyed by the early distraction, he stood abruptly and headed toward the door. It was too early to be swarmed like this.
The girls giggled as they skimmed the synopsis—a story about clueless girls chasing a guy who would never be theirs.
Ryoma knew the truth. None of them cared about him. Not the real him.
They were drawn only by his name, his status, and the handsome face that came with it.
The girls exchanged glances, flipping through the book with a mix of annoyance and disbelief.
Hmph! He's so mean, they all thought.
"He really hates us," one whispered, pouting. "But… do you think we can ever melt that cold exterior of his?"
Meanwhile, down the hallway, Ryoma's eyes narrowed as a group of upperclassmen strode toward him.
"Hey, you're Ryoma Murakami, right?!" one barked, face twisted in anger.
Without missing a beat, Ryoma coolly lied, "Sorry, you must be mistaken. My name's Ryuji Takashima."
The upperclassman scowled, unconvinced. "No, you're definitely Ryoma Murakami."
Crossing his arms, he added, "You think we don't know who you are? We've been looking for you."
Ryoma clicked his tongue, clearly unimpressed. "Make it quick."
"My girlfriend's been pulling away from me," the guy said, voice tense. "And it looks like she's trying to get close to you."
Ryoma arched an eyebrow. "Oh? So you mean, I'm more attractive than you?"
The upperclassman's face flushed red, anger bubbling over. "That's not what I mean, you idiot! It means she's trying to cheat on me with you!"
Ryoma shrugged, expression deadpan. "Sounds like she thinks I'm a better catch."
Fury boiling over, the upperclassman spat, "What could possibly be better about you than me? Don't get cocky, Murakami!"
"Money talks. So, what's your bank account saying?" Ryoma asked bluntly, his voice flat.
The upperclassman's face twisted in frustration. "What does that have to do with anything?!"
Despite the anger, a flicker of surprise crossed his eyes. Ryoma's fearless calm was unexpected.
Even at this elite school, there were still some ordinary kids like this one—unshaken and unafraid.
"Can't answer, huh? Good. Then shut up," Ryoma snapped back.
The upperclassman lunged, aiming a punch at Ryoma's face—only to be stopped cold by a stern voice from behind.
"What do you think you're doing?!" The teacher's shout cut through the tension like a whip.
The senior froze, immediately receiving a sharp scolding.
Ryoma stood silently beside him, listening to the teacher's reprimand before the gaze shifted toward him.
"You okay, Murakami?" the teacher asked, concern evident.
Ryoma smirked slightly. "Do I look like someone who breaks that easily?"
With that, he turned and walked away.
Time slipped by until break. Wanting to avoid any more distractions, Ryoma took his lunch to the rooftop.
He sat down quietly, unpacking the meal Ayaka had prepared. The food was decorated with cute little shapes and colors.
"Ugh… what is this? Am I still an elementary school kid or something?" he muttered.
But despite the protest, he ate it all. Ayaka had made it with care, and that meant something to him.
Ryoma ate alone.
Not because he wanted to.
It wasn't like he was some romcom protagonist—the kind of cool, aloof guy who secretly had one loyal friend to banter with.
No, Ryoma didn't have anyone like that. Not a single person he could call a friend.
He simply existed in the same space as everyone else.
Finishing his lunch, he rose from the rooftop bench, brushed the crumbs off his uniform, and made his way back to class.
As he slid the door open, a thought hit him. "Ah," he muttered to himself.
I forgot I give that book to those girls.
Scanning the room, he spotted them gathered in the corner, whispering and giggling amongst themselves. His eyes narrowed slightly.
One of them noticed his gaze and called out cheerfully, "Hey! Murakami!"
He responded flatly, "What?"
A blonde-haired girl with glasses detached from the group and approached him, a confident little smile on her lips.
"I read your book," she said, holding it up.
Ryoma raised an eyebrow, unconvinced. "Oh? Really?"
"You don't believe me?" she teased, tilting her head.
"Then tell me—what happened to the main girl halfway through the story?" he asked, testing her.
"She almost drowned," the girl answered calmly, "because she was too lost in thought, thinking about the main character."
Ryoma blinked, mildly impressed. "...Huh. Right."
She smiled, seemingly proud of catching him off guard, and casually pulled out the chair next to him, sitting down without asking.
"Of course I read it to the end," she said, placing the book gently on his desk. "I wouldn't give half-baked opinions on something I didn't finish."
Ryoma looked at the book, then at her.
For the first time that day… he wasn't entirely alone.
The two of them chatted for a while, their conversation drawing curious glances from the rest of the class.
"Turns out chatting with you is fun!" the blonde girl said with a bright smile, her glasses slipping slightly down her nose.
Ryoma blinked, genuinely caught off guard by her cheerfulness. "Uh… you think so?"
"Yup!" she nodded enthusiastically. "You're way more interesting than I thought."
Then, as if remembering something important, she leaned forward. "Ah, right! Just call me Himari."
Another girl, the one with shoulder-length hair, let out a playful chuckle from the side.
"You totally didn't remember her name, did you?"
Ryoma awkwardly scratched the back of his neck, not denying it.
"Well, let's talk again later!" Himari said with a grin before skipping back to her seat.
Just like that, she was gone—and Ryoma found himself alone again.
But it was… different now.
"Himari, huh?" He stared at the book on his desk. "She wasn't as bad as I thought."
A faint smile tugged at his lips. Maybe—just maybe—she could become his first real friend.
When the final bell rang and school ended, Ryoma gathered his things. On his way out, he caught sight of Himari at the front gate.
"Murakami! I'm heading home now, okay? Bye-bye!" she called out, waving energetically.
Ryoma lifted a hand in return. "Goodbye."
As she disappeared into the crowd, he lingered for a moment, watching.
Then, slinging his bag over his shoulder, he headed for the elevator. It hummed quietly as it descended to the first floor.
Stepping out, he walked through the front gates.
Even as the sky above began to shift to soft evening hues, his mind stayed on one thing.
"Himari…"
Outside the school gates, Ryoma spotted a familiar figure leaning casually against a sleek black car.
Ayaka.
She waved the moment she saw him, her smile radiant. "Young master! Did you have a fun day at school?"
Ryoma raised an eyebrow, slightly amused. "Oh? You're the one picking me up today? Where's my personal driver?"
Ayaka let out a soft chuckle, the kind only someone who had known him for years could pull off.
"Your personal driver is unavailable today," she said, smirking.
"So I figured I'd give you a change of scenery." She gracefully opened the door for him, her movements practiced yet gentle.
Ryoma slid into the back seat, stretching slightly. "Ah, so that's why you were the one who dropped me off this morning."
Ayaka nodded, stepping into the driver's seat and starting the engine. "Bingo," she replied with a smile.
But just as the engine began to hum—
"Ah. Wait, Ayaka." Ryoma opened the door again, stepping out in a hurry. "I left my lunch box in class."
Ayaka blinked, then sighed lightly, resting her hands on the steering wheel.
"Oh! Turns out he's still a careless teenager! How cute..."
She watched as Ryoma briskly walked back toward the school building, his uniform catching the light breeze.
Inside, he stepped into the elevator, tapping his foot against the floor with faint impatience.
"Honestly… how did I even forget something like that?" he thought to himself, his mind wandering ever so slightly—perhaps still replaying a certain conversation with a certain blonde girl from earlier.
When the elevator doors slid open with a ding, Ryoma stepped out and rushed toward his classroom.
The school had five floors, and unlike most schools, the first floor here wasn't for classrooms—it was reserved for facilities like the canteen, library, and faculty rooms.
First-year students, like him, had their classes on the second floor.
He turned the corner and reached for the classroom door, pushing it open casually—
And froze.
His entire body stiffened. Time itself seemed to stutter.
Right there, in the middle of the empty classroom, two figures were entangled—arms wrapped, lips locked.
A full-on makeout session.
It took him a second to fully register what he was seeing.
What the hell...?
Then his eyes shifted—recognizing them. The girl's familiar glasses. Her tied-up blonde hair. That bright, easy smile from earlier.
Himari.
And the guy she was clinging to, kissing so shamelessly, was none other than the upperclassman who tried to pick a fight with him during break.
Ryoma's heart dropped like a stone.
His gaze instinctively flicked up to the corner of the room—where the security camera was.
"Still broken," he noted distantly. "Of course."
The two culprits finally noticed him.
The senior jerked back in panic, his face pale. "Murakami?!"
Himari gasped, her lips still slightly parted. "S-Since when were you…?"
Ryoma didn't answer. He simply lowered his head, casting his gaze to the floor. A quiet bitterness twisted inside him.
"So that's the kind of person she is…"
He walked calmly across the room, ignoring the thick silence.
His hand reached under his desk, pulling out the lunch box he'd come back for. He slid it into his bag with mechanical grace.
Then he turned, walked to the door—
"Murakami!"
Her voice stopped him. He paused, one foot already outside the classroom.
Without turning around completely, he tilted his head slightly. His voice was cold, detached.
"Sorry for interrupting."
And with that, he closed the door behind him. Back in the elevator, descending slowly, he leaned against the wall and stared at the ceiling.
No thoughts formed clearly in his mind—just static, and a strange hollowness.
So that's what she was.
And here he thought… maybe she could be his first real friend.
He thought Himari was different.
Pure. Bright. A little clumsy, but charming in a way that reminded him of Ayaka—energetic, open, and full of warmth.
That familiarity had drawn him in without him realizing.
But now, the image he'd built shattered like glass.
Even with his limited interactions, Ryoma knew well enough—that senior wasn't her boyfriend. She had lied with her actions, if not her words.
"She's just…"
Just an easy girl anyone could have… like fast food.
Cheap. Disposable.
The bitterness clung to his chest like ash.
When he stepped outside the school gate again, Ayaka was already there waiting, her usual radiant smile ready to greet him.
But the moment she saw his face, her expression faltered.
"Young master?" she called out, tilting her head slightly. "Is everything alright?"
Her voice brought him out of the swirling storm in his head.
He blinked, then slipped on a lazy smirk as if nothing had happened.
"Hm? Ah… no. I'm just too lazy to take chess lessons after this."
Ayaka let out a small chuckle at his deflection, but her eyes remained sharp, studying him carefully.
"Young master, you know laziness won't get you anywhere," she teased, though her tone was gentle.
Then, more softly—almost like a whisper carried by instinct, she asked, "Is there something else bothering you?"
Ryoma paused for a beat, then shook his head. "Yeah… have I told you to stock up on chips?"
Ayaka blinked in surprise, clearly caught off guard. "Ah—yes, young master," she replied, quickly composing herself.
"You did mention wanting to restock last time."
Without another word, Ryoma got into the car, his posture relaxed but his eyes distant.
"Buy it right after you drop me off at chess club," he said.
Ayaka nodded as she slipped into the driver's seat, starting the engine. "Of course, young master," she said with a soft smile.
But in her peripheral vision, she could still see his reflection in the rearview mirror—silent, still, and lost in thought.
As the car glided along the road, Ryoma turned his gaze toward the passing scenery outside the window.
The buildings blurred into a tapestry of gray and green, but his thoughts weren't on any of it.
"…Say, Ayaka," he muttered, his voice quieter than usual.
Ayaka, noticing the rare vulnerability in his tone, briefly glanced at the rearview mirror.
"Yes, young master?" she asked gently, her voice adjusting to match his.
"I might sound stupid, but… how do you know who to trust?"
The question hung in the air like the weight of an unseen storm.
Ayaka's eyes widened slightly—she hadn't expected that kind of question.
She fell silent for a few seconds, then smiled softly as she refocused on the road.
"Well… trust isn't something that comes with a name tag," she said quietly.
"It's earned… little by little, through time and actions. You can't rush it."
Her voice was calm, but carried the warmth of someone who'd seen the world through more than just textbooks and polite smiles.
"Sometimes," she continued, "even people who seem perfect at first glance end up disappointing you."
"And sometimes, the ones you least expect… turn out to be the most loyal."
Ryoma's eyes drifted downward.
"So… feeling interested in someone you just met… that's stupid, right?"
Ayaka chuckled softly, the sound light and sincere.
"Not at all," she replied. "It's normal. We're all drawn to brightness… especially when we've been in the dark too long."
She glanced back at him, her expression almost motherly.
"But interest and trust—they're not the same. One is a spark… the other takes time to build into a flame."
"…Ah, I see." Ryoma leaned back into his seat, his voice quieter now.
Ayaka's smile was gentle, but her eyes were thoughtful—like she was reading far more than the question Ryoma had voiced.
"It takes time," she said softly, her hands steady on the wheel. "Time, and careful observation, to truly understand someone's heart."
Her voice, though calm, carried weight—like someone who had learned through experience.
"Don't be so quick to judge or dismiss someone just because they're new," she continued, her tone dipping slightly.
Then she paused, and her gaze darkened just a touch, a rare glimpse of seriousness flashing through her usual warmth.
"And remember… not everyone who seems kind or charming at first is worth trusting."
The silence that followed wasn't uncomfortable—it was reflective, like the quiet after a good book's final page.
After a long, calm drive through the city's fading afternoon light, the car pulled to a stop in front of a tall, refined-looking building—the private chess academy Ryoma had attended for years.
"Here we are," Ayaka said, her voice quiet but steady, like she didn't want to disturb the thoughts still circling in Ryoma's mind.
Ryoma stepped out, slinging a small black bag over his shoulder—just his phone and some money inside, nothing else. He didn't like carrying much.
As he turned toward the entrance, Ayaka called out behind him, her tone light again, like sunshine peeking through the clouds.
"Good luck at your chess lesson."
Ryoma raised a hand and gave a lazy wave without turning around.
"Don't forget to stock up on chips," he said, as if trying to steer the conversation back to something casual.
Ayaka's lips curved into a soft smile, the kind only someone who'd watched over him for years could make. "Of course, young master. I won't forget."
And with that, Ryoma disappeared through the doors,
Inside the quiet building, the familiar sound of chess pieces being placed and clocks ticking greeted Ryoma like a soft hum of ritual.
Several players were already immersed in their matches, focused and silent, as though the world beyond the board didn't exist.
"Oh? Murakami." A warm voice called out, pulling Ryoma from his thoughts.
It was Tadashi—one of the coaches at the academy. His presence was relaxed, but the glint in his eyes showed the sharpness of someone who knew the game far too well.
"Is today just free play?" Ryoma asked, scanning the room and not seeing any usual opponents.
"Yes. You all have been studying intensely lately. A little freedom won't hurt," Tadashi replied with a chuckle.
Ryoma gave a small nod, but his gaze swept across the room again. No one caught his interest.
"How about a match with me, then?" Tadashi offered, his smile widening. "It's been a while since we played, hasn't it?"
Ryoma's eyes narrowed with a flicker of challenge. "Alright."
They shook hands in silence, both understanding the unspoken tension between players who respected each other's skills.
The timer began with a sharp click.
Ryoma opened confidently—king's pawn to e4, classic and aggressive.
Tadashi responded in kind, mirroring with a queen's pawn defense.
The game flowed like a dance of tension, pieces sliding across the board, each move laced with intent. Neither of them spoke. They didn't need to.
Tadashi's king began to retreat under pressure, step by step, forced back as Ryoma tightened his grip on the board's center. His attacks weren't flashy—they were cold, calculated, inevitable.
Ryoma's rook advanced. A pawn was snatched. Check. Tadashi fled with his king again, eyes narrowing behind his glasses.
But Ryoma was already there.
With a soft clack, he slid his queen to the top-left corner of the board. The final pawn was taken.
"Checkmate."
A pause.
Tadashi stared at the board, then let out a long breath. "I lost again, huh...?"
He scratched the back of his head and smiled in defeat.
There was no anger in his voice—only admiration and a hint of frustration that came from genuine respect.
Ryoma didn't gloat. He just leaned back in his chair, eyes still on the board.
Another victory.
But today, even that didn't feel quite as satisfying.
"You're truly a genius," Tadashi said, his voice filled with admiration.
Ryoma had heard those words more times than he could count.
And frankly, he was getting tired of them.
Genius. That was what they called him. Always the genius. Never Ryoma.
With a faint sigh, he stood up, the legs of his chair scraping softly against the floor. His knee bumped the edge of the table.
"Excuse me," he said flatly. "I'm going out to grab a drink."
Tadashi blinked. "Ah, sure thing."
Ryoma didn't look back as he left. He didn't need to.
He already knew the look Tadashi was giving him—like he was something extraordinary, something distant.
Outside, the familiar chill of the evening air greeted him. He walked toward the vending machine near the entrance.
He always came here. The drinks weren't special, but they were consistent—something he could rely on.
He inserted a coin, pressed the button for soda, and waited. A metallic clunk. The can dropped into the slot, and he grabbed it without hesitation.
Pshh—The sound of the can opening echoed softly. He took a long sip.
"Huff... What is this?" he muttered, tongue curling at the taste. "Disappointment?"
The soda was bitterer than he remembered. Or maybe his mood had soured the flavor.
He thought about her again—the girl who had caught his interest for the first time.
The one who turned out to be... shallow. Ordinary.
The realization still felt unreal. Still left a bad taste in his mouth, worse than the soda.
With one final gulp, he drained the can and let out a long exhale. "Hahhh..."
No point dwelling on it. Garbage memories belong in the trash.
Just as he turned back toward the chess club building, a black car rolled up to the curb—sleek, unfamiliar, out of place.
Ryoma narrowed his eyes.
"That's suspicious."
The door swung open.
A man stepped out, tall and imposing, his eyes cold and piercing. "Are you Ryoma Murakami?"
Ryoma's mind shifted gears instantly. His expression didn't change.
"Sorry," he replied coolly, slipping his hand toward his bag. "You've got the wrong guy. Name's Rento Mizuhara."
He never got the chance to touch his phone.
The man's hand shot out and clamped around his wrist with terrifying strength.
"I know who you are," the man growled, tightening his grip.
Another figure emerged from the passenger side of the car—another man, equally menacing, his expression cold and unyielding.
"Just get in the damn car," he barked, voice like steel.
Ryoma's gaze flicked around, alert. Then, from behind the shadow of a nearby building, a girl appeared.
Their eyes locked—his piercing blue met her fierce red.
"Help!" Ryoma's shout cut through the air, sharp and desperate.
The man's head snapped toward the girl, momentarily distracted.
But when he turned back, Ryoma was already gone.
Shock flickered across the man's face. Without hesitation, he climbed into the car and slammed on the accelerator, tires screeching as they gave chase.
Meanwhile, the girl who had heard Ryoma's cry didn't hesitate.
Without a second thought, she dashed toward where he had vanished, determination blazing in her eyes.
Ryoma ran, his breath sharp in his throat, heart pounding like a war drum.
Behind him, the roar of the engine grew louder—the black car was gaining.
Without thinking, he hurled the empty soda can at the windshield. It clanged uselessly off the glass.
He fumbled into his bag, fingers trembling as he snatched his phone.
This wasn't the first time someone had tried to abduct him. It had started back in his third year of middle school.
But no matter how often it happened, he could never get used to the terror.
Just as he managed to unlock the screen, the car screeched up beside him.
The door flung open. A hand shot out, yanking him violently inside.
Inside the car, chaos reigned. Ryoma barely had time to register the interior before he heard a dull thud—something had hit the car from the outside, like a gunshot or an explosion.
Before he could scream, a cloth drenched in a pungent chemical was slammed over his mouth and nose.
He thrashed, eyes wide, but the world quickly darkened, his limbs losing strength.
And then—nothing.
He slowly regained consciousness, the world around him hazy and indistinct.
Through the fog, he saw them—the kidnappers—collapsing, struck down by gunfire from a girl.
Her movements were swift and precise, almost like a dancer weaving through danger.
"Who…" Ryoma tried to ask, but the exhaustion overwhelmed him again, and darkness claimed him once more.
When his eyes fluttered open again, he found himself lying in a narrow alley, the faint scent of damp stone filling his nose.
"What… where am I?" he muttered, blinking to clear his blurry vision.
A calm voice answered softly from beside him. "Don't worry. You're safe now."
"Huh? Who are you?" Ryoma asked, still struggling to focus.
The girl paused thoughtfully before grinning. "Just think of me as your guardian angel!"
"Guardian angel?" Ryoma scoffed, his tone blunt. "I don't believe in things like that. It doesn't make sense."
She chuckled, a spark of amusement in her eyes. "Ah, how dull! Can't you just go with the flow?"
"Being saved by a mysterious stranger is kind of fun, don't you think?"
His vision cleared further as he looked beyond the alley's shadows. "What happened to the group who kidnapped me?"
"Oh, them?" The girl glanced casually over her shoulder. "They're gone. I took care of it."
Her nonchalance about the whole situation unsettled him—like this was just another ordinary day for her.
Feeling the tension, she softened her voice. "Are you okay?"
Ryoma gave a slight nod, his gaze falling on the girl beside him—those striking crimson eyes meeting his for a brief moment.
The girl stood, brushing the dust off her skirt with casual grace.
"If you're alright, I'll be going now, okay? I'm kind of in a hurry!"
"Ah… yeah," Ryoma replied, still a little dazed, the shock of everything that happened lingering in his system.
She stepped out of the alley, her silhouette briefly caught in the fading light—light, graceful, and fleeting, like a dream vanishing before he could grasp it.
Ryoma remained where he was, letting silence fill the space she had just left.
Who was she? Why would someone like her go out of her way to save me?
And the kidnappers… they were just gone. No trace, no bodies, nothing.
Eventually, he stood up. To his surprise, there wasn't a scratch on him.
"That girl…" he murmured, eyes drifting to the exit of the alley. "I never even asked her name…"
Flashes of the girl's movements replayed in his mind—the way she weaved through danger, effortlessly disarming armed men. It was like watching an action scene from a movie—only it had been real.
"…Who is she, really?"
He pulled out his phone and dialed a number.
Back at the Murakami estate, Ayaka was in the middle of vacuuming the main hallway when her phone buzzed.
She glanced at the screen and immediately picked up.
"Hello, young master?" she greeted, cheerful as always.
"Pick me up. Now," Ryoma said calmly, his tone firm but quiet.
"…Eh? But isn't it still too early to be done with the chess club?" she asked, surprised.
"Yeah, but pick me up right now. And bring a piece of paper and a pencil," Ryoma instructed, his tone calm but firm.
There was a pause on the other end of the line.
Ayaka blinked, confused. "Um… alright. I'll be there soon," she replied, choosing not to question it. She ended the call with a soft sigh.
Putting away her cleaning supplies, she grabbed a clean sheet of paper and a sharpened pencil, then hurried out the front door.
A moment later, the Murakami estate's sleek black car roared to life, speeding off toward the chess club.
Meanwhile, Ryoma made his way back to the vending machine—the same one he had visited earlier.
He leaned against it, arms crossed, gaze distant, waiting.
It didn't take long.
Ayaka's car pulled up, and she stepped out quickly, her long ponytail swaying behind her as she approached him.
"Young master, why did you ask me to pick you up so suddenly?" she asked, a touch of concern in her voice.
"I'll explain in the car," Ryoma said curtly, brushing past her and slipping into the passenger seat.
Ayaka blinked, then followed, sliding behind the wheel.
As she started the engine, she threw him a sidelong glance. "Alright. I'm listening."
Ryoma picked up the paper and pencil she'd left for him on the seat. His expression was unreadable.
"I was just kidnapped," he said flatly.
The words hit like a gunshot.
Ayaka's hands clenched the steering wheel so hard her knuckles turned white.
Her usual cheerful demeanor evaporated in an instant.
"Y-You what?!" she gasped, slamming the brakes harder than necessary, the car jerking slightly.
"Young master?! are you serious?! When—where—how?!" Her voice trembled, halfway between panic and disbelief.
She turned to face him fully, eyes wide.
"Calm down. I'm fine, aren't I?" Ryoma said, unfazed, though his tone held an edge of seriousness that wasn't usually there.
Her voice spiked with urgency. "How many were there? Are they still nearby?"
Without waiting for an answer, she twisted in her seat, hands flying to Ryoma's shoulders.
Her green eyes scanned the windows, her body radiating protective instinct.
The gentle warmth she usually carried had vanished—replaced by a sharp, unwavering focus.
Ryoma let out a tired sigh. "Relax. I'm fine," he muttered, already putting pencil to paper.
He began sketching on the sheet she brought—quick, practiced strokes bringing to life the memory still fresh in his mind.
As he spoke, he recounted the kidnapping: the sudden approach, the men, the desperate escape—and finally, the girl.
"And then… I was saved. By her."
He turned the sketch toward Ayaka. The drawing was lifelike, despite a few uncertain lines—understandable, considering the chaos.
Still, her most distinct features were all there: the intense crimson eyes, flowing hair, a cheerful yet dangerous aura captured in pencil.
Ayaka's eyes widened as she leaned closer, studying the portrait intently.
Her earlier panic cooled into sharp concentration. She scanned the girl's image, tracing the lines with her gaze as though memorizing each detail.
"She saved you?" she repeated, slower this time, her voice softer, filled with wonder—and something else. Caution.
"This girl… do you know her name? Anything at all about her?"
Ryoma looked down, almost frustrated with himself. "No… I didn't ask."
Ayaka was quiet for a long moment, her expression unreadable.
Then she straightened her posture, hands returning to the wheel.
Ayaka gave a gentle nod. "That's alright," she said quietly. "We'll try to find her later."
She restarted the engine and eased the car onto the road again, the soft hum of the vehicle filling the silence.
For a while, neither of them spoke.
Then Ayaka broke the stillness, her voice laced with calm concern. "But first, we should make sure you're not hurt. Anywhere."
As the city blurred past the window, Ryoma stared down at the sketch resting in his lap.
His eyes were fixed on the girl's face he had drawn—each stroke of graphite bringing back fragments of the moment she'd appeared before him.
Ayaka cast a glance at him from the corner of her eye. She could see how focused he was, how quiet he'd become.
"Is something on your mind, young master?" she asked gently.
Ryoma blinked, breaking out of his thoughts. "No... it's just that—" He hesitated, fingers tightening slightly around the edges of the paper.
"...She caught my interest," he finished, voice quiet.
Ayaka's eyes widened for a fraction of a second. She schooled her features into neutrality, though her hands briefly tensed on the wheel.
"I see," she said softly, a faint smile playing at her lips. "She did save you, after all."
Ryoma leaned back against the seat, his gaze still lingering on the drawing.
"...I want to see her again," he muttered under his breath, almost as if unsure he'd said it aloud. "And thank her."
Ayaka inhaled slowly, the edges of her lips curving into a warm smile.
"I'm sure you will," she said, her voice gentle. "And when that time comes… make sure you thank her properly."
As soon as they arrived at the mansion, Ryoma stepped out of the car without a word and swiftly made his way down the grand hallway.
His steps were quick and purposeful, his mind elsewhere. He stopped in front of a large abstract painting—an odd splash of color and chaos on canvas—then reached behind it and triggered the hidden mechanism.
The painting slid aside silently, revealing a narrow passageway.
Inside, in the dim, secluded space he called his "workshop," Ryoma moved with practiced ease.
He grabbed a roll of blank blueprint paper, a mechanical pencil, and a specialized pair of glasses with a sleek black frame—tools of focus, invention, and obsession.
"Ayaka," he called out, not even turning around.
Ayaka, who had just entered the hallway, snapped out of her thoughts at the sound of his voice.
"Yes, young master?" she responded, steadying her tone.
"Tomorrow morning, call my homeroom teacher and inform her that I won't be going to school," he said firmly. "For at least a week. Maybe more."
She paused just outside the entrance, taken aback by the sudden decision.
"A week or more...?" Ayaka echoed, her brow furrowing slightly. "May I ask why, young master?"
Ryoma finally turned, his expression calm yet resolute.
"When I was being kidnapped, I tried calling you. But it took too long."
He set the paper on the desk and began sketching. His hands moved with precision, drawing shapes, wiring, interface modules—his mind unfolding with brilliant clarity.
"So I'm going to build glasses," he continued.
"Ones that can function like a phone. I'll be able to contact you instantly—no fumbling, no delay. Voice, video, everything."
Ayaka stood in silence for a moment, watching him work, watching that fire behind his eyes.
"I see..." she finally murmured. "So this is your way of making sure it never happens again."
Ryoma didn't respond, but the determined scratch of pencil against paper spoke louder than words.
Ayaka smiled faintly. "Understood, young master. I'll handle the call."
He didn't look up, too deep in thought.
He had already seen the future—in fine lines and circuits—and now, he was going to build it.
Ryoma nodded without looking up from his sketch. "I'll be staying here for a while. Please bring food and drinks later."
Ayaka, still standing respectfully at the entrance of his workshop, nodded with gentle understanding. "Of course, young master."
He paused, then glanced over his shoulder with a faint smirk. "And… did you stock up on chips like I asked?"
Ayaka let out a small laugh, her voice warm. "Naturally. I made sure your favorite flavors are fully stocked."
She stepped to the side and opened a nearby cabinet, revealing a neatly arranged stack of chip bags. Ryoma's eyes lit up.
"Good," he muttered, a small, satisfied smile curving his lips. "Then... let's get to work."
With that, he turned back to his desk. His hands moved swiftly—designing, planning, calculating.
He scribbled system diagrams, outlined the interface structure, and theorized wireless transmission connections.
Lines of data flowed across the blueprint paper like veins of a living machine.
Days passed.
The sun rose and fell beyond the hidden walls of the mansion, but Ryoma remained in his workshop, lost in the rhythm of creation.
Sleep was rare, and time blurred—but his focus never wavered.
At last, with the final stroke of his pen and a deep breath of completion, Ryoma rolled up the blueprint. The concept was done.
He left the mansion and headed straight to the research wing of Murakami Tech—his family's colossal technology empire.
Engineers and developers straightened up the moment they saw him, their expressions shifting with quiet reverence.
Ryoma, though young, was no ordinary heir. He was their prodigy.
"This is the design," he said, unrolling the blueprint on the main table.
"We're building these glasses—exactly as I've drawn them. No compromises."
His voice was firm, commanding, yet calm. Everyone in the room leaned in, their eyes scanning the paper, feeling the weight of his vision.
And under Ryoma's guidance, step by step, the once-impossible device began to take form—refined, sharp, and utterly ahead of its time.
His near-death experience had sparked something.
And now, he was forging his response with his own hands.
After several days of absence, Ryoma finally returned to school.
With his hands in his pockets and his expression as unreadable as ever, he walked through the school gates and made his way toward the classroom building.
A sleek pair of futuristic glasses sat firmly on his face—sleek, minimalistic, and nothing like anything on the market.
As soon as he entered the classroom, the atmosphere shifted.
Students stopped mid-conversation. Some whispered. Others stared.
But all eyes inevitably focused on the strange, high-tech glasses Ryoma Murakami wore.
Among them was Himari, who quickly stood and rushed over.
"M-Morning, Murakami!" she greeted, forcing a cheerful smile. "You've been gone for a week! Were you... seriously sick?"
Ryoma met her gaze for a second, nodded slightly, and looked away again—his face blank, his interest nonexistent.
Himari hesitated, then leaned in close, lowering her voice to a whisper near his ear.
"Uhm... about that day... could you keep it a secret?"
Ryoma paused, the memory flashing briefly in his mind.
"That? Yeah. There's no point in me telling anyone."
Her face lit up instantly. "Ah! Really? Thank you, Ryoma! You're so kind—"
"You don't have the right to call me that," Ryoma cut in sharply, his tone as cold as steel.
Himari flinched, caught off guard. "Ah! S-sorry! I didn't mean to—!"
She caught herself, then perked up again, desperately trying to salvage the mood.
"But! I want to be closer to you, Murakami! I mean, you even called me by my first name—!"
"I never did," Ryoma interrupted, not even glancing at her. "You just imagined it."
The words hit her like a slap. Her eyes widened as she searched her memory—and realized he was right.
"R-Right..." she murmured, defeated.
Ryoma turned away, pulled a book from his bag, and settled into his chair.
"Now, if you'd be so kind, I'd like to read. Alone."
Trying to keep her smile intact, Himari peeked at the cover. "Ah! What book? Can I read it too—?"
"I doubt a cheater's brain like yours would understand it," he said plainly.
The words stabbed deep. Himari froze.
She had no comeback—because it was true.
"Now go," Ryoma said without even raising his voice. "Unless you want me to tell the entire class what you did."
"...Alright..." Himari whispered, heart sinking. She backed away, her smile gone, and quietly returned to her seat.
Ryoma didn't spare her another glance.
He had more important things to focus on.
With Himari finally gone, Ryoma turned his attention back to his book.
His eyes scanned the page briefly before they slid toward the author's name printed neatly at the bottom.
"Search," he muttered.
The glasses picked up his voice command, the smart lenses flickering softly as they locked onto the author's name—guided by his pupils.
"Who," he added.
In response, the MTG01 activated its data retrieval protocol, silently gathering information in a near-instant.
Within seconds, a window of information floated into his field of vision.
Ryoma smirked.
Even after days of testing, it still amazed him. "You're great, MTG01," he said quietly, pride simmering in his voice.
MTG01—Murakami Tech Glasses Zero-One.
His creation. His pride.
From that day forward, Ryoma focused more intensely on his studies and the development of personal technology—gadget after gadget born from his vision and hands.
After all, in this school… there was no one left who could hold his attention anymore.
No one except her.
The red-eyed girl who saved him.
"I'll keep searching for you," he whispered, his voice barely audible.
"…Red-eyed girl."
He didn't know her name.
He didn't know where she came from.
But he knew one thing—he had to find her.
What he didn't know… was that it would take him three years to meet her again.
Her name… was Chisato Nishikigi.