The first thing that struck him was white.
From head to toe, she was dazzlingly, impossibly white. Her skin seemed to glow with a soft radiance, like a freshly peeled egg—smooth, warm, utterly captivating. The kind of flawless surface that made a man instinctively want to reach out and touch.
He couldn't touch her. That would be sexual harassment. He was very clear on this point.
The whiteness, of course, was partially a trick of the light. The curtains were drawn, the overhead LED white light blazed at full power, and the combination made her skin take on an almost translucent quality. But good lighting also meant Kuroha Akira's vision was excellent at this moment.
The scene before him reminded him of something from his previous life: street performers who painted themselves white from head to toe, standing motionless like statues, startling passersby who wandered too close. If he'd seen one back then, he'd have tossed a coin. Same principle applied now—after all, he was currently getting a clear view of half a one-yen coin.
Back in his previous life, Kuroha had been from the north. His winter memories were long stretches of bone-deep cold, but the most vivid was always the first snow. That pristine white blanket, cool and pure, each breath sending a chill through his lungs like a cleansing ritual.
Truth be told, he hadn't particularly liked snow back then. It looked beautiful when it first fell, sure, but after pedestrians and vehicles trampled through it, the pristine white turned to grey slush. Melt and refreeze, and the ground became a sheet of ice—dangerous, slippery, a broken wrist waiting to happen.
But after transmigrating, he found himself missing his hometown's climate for the first time. The summers here were brutal. By comparison, he wished winter would hurry up and arrive.
Though if he wanted to see proper snow, Tokyo probably wouldn't cut it. He'd need to go to Hokkaido. Maybe someday, if he had the money.
Kuroha let his mind wander down these tangents deliberately—partly to distract himself, partly because the snow associations felt fitting. August's lingering heat kept the room warm, and Shirai Shiori's room had no air conditioning. Windows sealed, curtains drawn, no airflow whatsoever. It was anything but cool.
Yet this "snow scene" was so vivid that even Kuroha felt cold. Though Shirai Shiori's trembling probably wasn't from the temperature.
Beyond snow, his mind drifted to plaster statues. Blank canvases. White paper.
He suddenly felt like practicing calligraphy. The character for "straight," perhaps. Or something else equally fitting. Fill in the blanks yourself.
If it was just that, even Kuroha—who couldn't draw to save his life—could probably manage.
...
Shirai Shiori stood frozen, wishing the floor would open up and swallow her whole.
She kept her head slightly lowered, eyes darting sideways, lower lip caught between her teeth. Her left arm crossed her chest, hand gripping her right elbow—a defensive posture that mixed shame with indignation. Her cheeks were flushed, a hot crimson that only made her more striking.
You're making people want to bully you even more, Shirai-san. Seeing her former pride reduced to this—standing like a mannequin, forced into stillness—Kuroha felt a dark flicker of satisfaction.
He deliberately pointed at her hands. "Why are you still wearing those? I didn't notice before, but your gloves are pretty long."
"Ugh…!"
She was still wearing her white silk gloves—the ones she never took off. They weren't a fashion statement; she wore them to keep her books clean. She only removed them at night before washing up, putting them back on again in the morning. She spent her days with a book in hand, so they'd become like a second skin.
She'd never encountered a situation where she needed to remove them at such an inconvenient time.
"Will you take them off yourself? Or should I help?"
"…"
Something about his casual tone—the complete lack of leering or urgency—slowly eased her tension. She couldn't figure this man out. In the clubroom, he'd let his eyes wander like some lecherous old man. But here, in a closed room with her completely exposed, he was perfectly calm.
It should have been mortifying. Instead, she found herself thinking that maybe, with him, she didn't need to be so shy. She even felt less resistance to the idea of him touching her.
Her mind drifted back to that day—the day he'd held her good friend's hand. She'd refused his palm reading invitation, dismissing it as an excuse for groping. But perhaps she'd misjudged him.
Looking back, it was only after looking at Aizono's hand that he'd become eager—excited enough to invite her to draw illustrations for his novel. Even if he could tell from her hand that Aizono could draw, that alone shouldn't have convinced him she could do illustrations.
Drawing had different styles, different fields. An oil painter and a manga artist might have less in common than traditional novels and light novels.
And even Asato admitted he could read palms. Maybe Asato wasn't blindly believing him out of love—maybe Kuroha Akira actually had skill in that area.
After nearly a month of observation, Shirai had also noticed that Asato Hitomi and Kuroha weren't dating. He never said sweet things to her, never showed off their relationship, never asked her out. He always called her "class monitor," treated her casually—nothing like how someone would treat a girlfriend.
And Asato hadn't changed much either. Her intelligence and emotional intelligence were intact. She just seemed more playful when talking to him, a bit livelier.
The truth was simpler than she'd imagined: Asato Hitomi regarded Kuroha Akira as an important friend. Not a boyfriend. Shirai had simply never seen Asato interact with a genuine male friend before, so she'd mistaken cheerfulness for romantic feelings.
She hadn't even understood her own good friend properly. The realization stung.
Kuroha noticed her hesitation. She took off her underwear without that much delay, but the gloves are giving her trouble? He raised an eyebrow.
"Look, Shirai-san, if you really don't want to, we can stop here."
That snapped her back. Her stomach ignited.
He's seen everything already! How can I stop now?!
"Continue…!"
She thrust her trembling hands toward him.
Looking at those hands, Kuroha felt something shift. For all her fierce talk, she was still afraid. Alone with a boy in a closed room, completely exposed—if he chose to be violent, she'd be defenseless.
But he'd learned his lesson with her before. This time, reason was firmly in control. He wasn't a hot-headed youth anymore. Actions had consequences, and committing a crime was absolutely off the table.
He pinched the fingertips of her gloves, one by one, and pulled gently. The white silk slid away.
Finally, he could see her palms. Both of them.
Now he understood.
Shirai Shiori definitely had talent.
Just not for writing.
「Memory B」
She simply saw more than others. Remembered more.
Her left hand's proficiency recorded her efforts.
「Writing Lv3」
Despite having no innate talent for writing, she'd pushed herself to Level 3 through sheer force of will. The progress bar was already over halfway to the next rank.
She hadn't won that award because she was gifted. She'd earned it through volume—through obsessive reading, meticulous observation, endless imitation, relentless practice. She'd built herself into an author from the ground up, brick by painstaking brick.
That's right. He should have realized earlier. Creation didn't come with a talent category.
Shirai Shiori was just like him.
A pure girl, passionate about stories. Nothing more, nothing less.