Shiro's stubborn cowlick and lifeless, dead-fish eyes stared blankly as he sat in a chair, under the scrutiny of two piercing gazes.
Hey, hey, hey… what kind of torture is this?
The girl must be… Yukino Yukinoshita, right? Top of the class, the so-called "ice queen beauty."
The boy should be Shiro, second in the year? Apparently the eccentric transfer student, rumored to have done theater before…
And why, of all people, am I, some bottom-tier nobody in the school hierarchy, getting examined by these two Brahmins?
Shouldn't you two be out there singing praises to foolish youth or crowding some other strange corner?
If I had known, I wouldn't have written in my natural science assignment that I wanted to be a bear.
I underestimated that violent female teacher's mobility and predatory instincts.
Next time, I'll write that I want to be a shark—able to survive alone, and not afraid of tigers.
Shiro let her thoughts drift freely, mind wandering like a suspect in a police station who refuses to admit guilt, determined to argue and slack off at every opportunity.
"Do you know where you are?"
The boy clasped his hands under his chin, his voice unnaturally mature and heavy, his gaze like a spotlight shining directly into his face. To his left, "confess and go easy," to his right, "resist and suffer," almost as if someone were about to slide a bowl of pickled pork over to him.
Shiro glanced at the strange door signs outside the classroom: "Service/Assistance Club?"
Honestly, that name is beyond suspicious. Calling the police wouldn't even be strange.
"Please do not confuse the Service Club with those suspiciously named clubs."
Yukino Yukinoshita sat in another chair, three meters away from Shiro. She swept her hand between them, coolly stating, "That side is the Assistance Club, this side is the Service Club."
Sitting in the middle, Shiro looked left and right and decided to stay put. "Is there a difference?"
"We are both clubs built on helping others. Due to disagreements, we operate independently." Shiro rubbed his chin, sizing up the situation. "For this first assignment, I will wholeheartedly attempt to complete Shizuka-sensei's task."
Yukino smiled angelically. "Yes. Either join the Service Club, and I'll 'treat' your twisted personality… or join the Assistance Club, and he'll execute you on the spot."
Honestly, neither sounded all that different.
Shiro quickly shook his head. "I don't think I have a twisted personality. No need for correction!"
"Some traits, like appearances, are innate and beyond repair." Yukino considered for a moment. "Then, tell me—what foolish thing did you do to be dragged here by the teacher?"
"Ahahaha, I just wrote some opinions in my homework, and the tiger grabbed me by the neck."
Shiro muttered in amazement, "Hard to imagine a teacher like that exists in high school."
Being noticed by Shizuka-sensei could only mean he's a problem student. He fidgeted while talking, eyes wandering, hands shifting between legs and back, feet tapping, sliding slightly on the chair, as if spikes had grown out of it… clearly unaccustomed to normal conversation, yet somehow weirdly expressive…
The unpopular class type?
Shiro had a rough idea of the situation. Yukino's determination rose, but she wondered why Shiro remained motionless. She glanced sideways. "Conceding early might be the wiser choice."
Shiro replied with interest, "Those who pop champagne at halftime don't always get to celebrate in the end."
"Shiro hasn't moved. Doesn't it look like he's out of options?"
Exactly! Start a fight!
Shiro exhaled, gathered his presence, and planned to quietly slip away in the gap between these Brahmin-level forces.
"Shiro-san."
"Yes!"
Shiro instinctively replied, inwardly cursing. Damn it! Did I subconsciously use that obedient tone because I felt their status was higher than mine? My training isn't strong enough—
"The hero thinks you need correction; the demon king thinks you don't."
Yukino: "?"
Shiro: "Ahahaha, that's perfect."
Like a psychologist gaining consent to then smoothly administer therapy? Shiro wasn't falling for it!
Shiro declared firmly: "Think the people around you are fools? Then do so! Think your personality is great? Then stick to it! Think those singing the praises of youth are liars? That's fine too!"
Yukino: "??"
Shiro cautiously said, "Ah… I, uh… I wasn't thinking that self-consciously!"
Damn it! My mind wavered! This guy is scary! I didn't say those things just now, did I?! Did he read the little essay I wrote on a whim?!
"Look! Don't you think those who conform and form groups are like spiders?"
Shiro stood and walked beside Shiro. "They spin a web, binding others and themselves. That web is so fragile, no one dares stretch out, fearing they might break it and fall."
"Lies become the glue, repression the premise of coexistence! Fools happily drug themselves, believing the web is the entire truth!"
From calm narration to passionate rhetoric, from subtle observation to extreme expression.
Shiro widened his eyes. He couldn't detect deceit. These words… struck straight to his heart. No, no—that's just my own overthinking! Don't resonate with someone else's words. It's probably just my self-consciousness! I won't fall for past mistakes!
Yukino lost a bit of composure. "Shiro, you look like you need treatment too?"
Yet…
Yukino sensed a slight emotional agreement with Shiro's view, but also a rational rejection. Her feelings were complicated.
"Hah!"
Shiro circled the seated Shiro, placing a hand on his shoulder. Turning his back to Yukino, he asked, "Yukino-san, why did Don Quixote charge at the windmill?!"
If this were a textbook question… no, it's directed at Yukino.
The hand pressing on the shoulder gently gripped, conveying understanding—he was asking her, actually asking himself.
Shiro hesitated. Confused. Is he really asking me?
Memories surfaced: in middle school, friendless, unable to fit in, often approached by a gentle girl—surely she liked me! That illusion brought painful memories.
Gentleness was just a social mask, filled with lies and traps!
An over-self-conscious person only gets cut down by the hidden truth in gentleness, left alone to cry under the covers!
But… Shiro is a boy? And the hand on my shoulder is firm; even without looking back, I can feel his gaze.
Yes. He's asking me for an answer only I know. Only a comrade, a fellow, a battle partner would know it.
Yukino spoke.
"Don Quixote's spirit embodies justice. To him, he wasn't charging a windmill, but a wicked giant…"
Shallow! Formulaic! Rigid! A laughable answer aimed at scoring points!
"Hah!"
Shiro felt the heat in the hand on his shoulder, felt empowered, and audibly scoffed at the Brahmin's long-winded speech, slowly standing, dead-fish eyes shining with brilliance, declaring firmly:
"Because he wanted to!"
No illusions, no reality, no justice or knightly spirit, no educational or practical meaning—Don Quixote did it because he wanted to!
Shiro stepped in front of Shiro, smiling, extending a hand, voice deep and commanding:
"Loneliness didn't choose me—"
Snap!
"I chose loneliness!"
Shiro gripped Shiro's hand, warmth seeping into his chest—a recognition that moved him to tears. It was real, undeniable, no need to explain, an understanding confirmed silently between them.
The figure seemed angelic, wings spreading, light radiating warmth, even the annoyingly handsome face felt incredibly friendly.
"You… you guys…"
Yukino leaned back, stunned, mind scrambled. What are these two saying? Are they even speaking Japanese? Can't comprehend—are they even the same species as me?
The conversation between Shiro and Shiro flowed naturally, question and answer, while Shiro made even the difficult Shiro speak honestly. It was frustrating—no, not simple loss, but a helpless, weary feeling.
Their hands clasped tightly, radiating an untouchable aura.
Shiro calmly invited: "Join the Assistance Club, Hachiman! Even the solitary can find a home!"
Shiro nodded firmly. "Alright! Shiro!"
"Call me Shiro! Don't force etiquette. After all, so-called etiquette is just hypocrisy!"
"You're right!"
Shiro unconsciously smiled. Yes! This is it, this feeling… Despite different nations, different societies, such drastic objective differences, understanding was possible—without over-explaining, without repeated confirmation, without worrying about self-consciousness or misunderstanding!
Shiro smiled, returning to his usual clear, boyish voice.
"Since you joined my Assistance Club, don't worry. I'll treat your flaws—your condition resembles early-stage second-year delusions, twisted by ability, personality, and experience…"
Shiro, like an experienced doctor, clearly listed symptoms, causes, treatment, and occasionally soothed the patient gently.
Ah… what's happening?
Shiro shivered, words trapped in his throat—soulmate, resonance, loneliness, comrades, battle partners, truth… yet blocked, unable to escape his throat.
The angelic feathers vanished, replaced by demonic bat wings; warm light disappeared, replaced by sharp horns. Every word pierced like a blade. Shiro's attitude became proper, no longer warm, calling out: "Second-year delusions—" Shiro shivered, realizing a thick, tragic barrier existed between them.
…
"Ah—!"
A wriggling scream came from his bedroom.
Komachi Hachiman, unfazed, ate chips while watching TV.
"Ahhh—!!"
Hachiman wriggled under the covers, flailing, hitting the walls, water splashing, screaming, wailing.
"Whoa, big brother took a serious hit, record high notes!"
Komachi silently analyzed.