The afternoon light filtered through the curtains, casting soft shadows across the room as Kuroha Akira moved to her side and crouched down. His hand came to rest gently atop her head—not in condescension, but in something closer to understanding.
Shirai Shiori felt the warmth of his palm through her hair. Even without raising her eyes, she could tell from the angle of his arm that he wasn't standing before her, accepting her prostration like some kind of tribute. No—he had positioned himself beside her.
He was refusing to stand in judgment.
"Hey, Shirai," his voice came, calm and measured. "Do you want to become a professional author?"
"Yes…!" The word tore from her throat before she could stop it. Then, quieter but no less fierce: "No—I absolutely must become an author."
There had never been another path. Not really.
She'd started reading because her parents were always away—long business trips, late nights at the office, the kind of absence that left a young girl rattling around an empty house like a forgotten marble. She wasn't the type to run outside and play with the neighborhood kids. So she'd wandered into her father's study, pulled a random book from the shelf, and used it to fill the silence.
That first novel opened a door she'd never known existed. A whole universe unfolded before her eyes, and she fell into it completely—one fascinating world after another, each one a refuge from the loneliness.
Looking back now, that book was nothing special. Just some third-rate science fiction her father had bought to make the shelf look less bare. But to the girl she'd been? It was pure magic.
That same book now sat at the very front of the first row on her personal bookshelf—her origin point. The place where everything began.
The first time she'd wanted to write came later. It happened when her best friend, Aizono Moe, announced she was going to learn how to draw.
Before that, Moe had been quiet—just like Shiori herself. She loved reading too, though she preferred manga over novels. She was painfully shy; back in kindergarten, she'd turn crimson if a teacher so much as complimented her drawings, and she'd never show her art to the other kids.
But after she started learning to draw? Something changed. She began showing people her work. And when someone praised her, she'd smile—a genuine, radiant smile that lit up her whole face.
Watching that transformation made Shiori wonder: Is creation really so joyful? Can it actually change who someone is?
So she tried her hand at writing. And once she started, she couldn't stop. Ideas sprouted like mushrooms after rain, each one demanding to be written.
But when she finished her first story and read it back as a reader instead of the author? She wanted to tear that garbage apart with her bare hands.
That was the cruel irony—because she'd read so many brilliant works, she could see exactly how far she was from reaching their level. Despair hit her like a wave. She thought maybe she should just give up. That no matter how many words she wrote, she'd never measure up.
But in the end… she picked up her pen again.
Because she already knew the truth: she couldn't stop. She'd tasted the joy of creation, and that joy was like giving birth to something new—painful, exhausting, and utterly intoxicating. She couldn't forget it. Wouldn't forget it.
Kuroha Akira's voice cut through her memories, holding up a mirror to her soul. "Since that's the case, Shirai… do you think writing novels is a happy thing?"
"Mm…" She nodded slowly. "It's very happy. But… it's also very painful."
"I know." His voice was soft, almost gentle. "Trust me—I know."
Oh, he understood. Better than most. He'd lost count of how many nights he'd spent pulling his hair out, staring at a blank page, wrestling with words that refused to cooperate. The struggle was real, and it was brutal.
But what kept him going—what always kept him going—was that pure, burning passion.
"Then never forget this feeling of happiness," he said. "That 'origin' of yours? It'll let you endure endless pain. And when your heart feels like it's being crushed, it'll show you the way out."
"Mm… I know. I won't forget."
"And don't forget this feeling of wanting to beat me, either. That unwillingness to lose? It'll make you grow—greedily, relentlessly. You'll keep reaching for heights you never thought possible."
"I will never forget that!" Her voice rang with conviction. "I'll remember you! For the rest of my life—I won't forget a single moment of this!"
"Good… Shirai Shiori."
Kuroha Akira shifted, positioning himself directly in front of her. Then he extended his hand toward the girl still kneeling on the floor.
"Welcome to the creator's hell."
Shirai Shiori lifted her gaze—and there it was.
That smirk.
Wicked, knowing, almost demonic. The kind of smile that said, Congratulations. You're an accomplice now.
Her mind flashed to Akutagawa Ryunosuke's "Hell Screen." The story of an artist so consumed by his craft that he'd sacrifice anything—anyone—for his art.
Akira was inviting her into that same inferno.
Shirai Shiori didn't hesitate for a single heartbeat. She grabbed his hand with all her strength—like clutching the single thread of a spider hanging from the heavens.
Hmph. You think I'm scared?
I've been in hell all along.
....
"Well then, Shirai. Since you've held up your end of the bet, I should probably head back now—"
"Wait! Don't go yet!"
Just as Kuroha Akira was about to make his exit, Shirai Shiori's voice stopped him cold. She was half-dressed—which is to say, she'd managed to put on her bra but hadn't even fastened the clasp in the back.
Which meant Kuroha Akira had absolutely no idea where to look.
During their serious conversation, he'd barely registered her nudity. His focus had been on her hands, her posture, the weight of her words. And when she'd been in dogeza, only her back and neck were visible—no risk of accidental exposure.
But now? The serious atmosphere had shattered like cheap glass. And watching Shirai Shiori fumble with her clothes, he felt an awkward, strangely intimate tension settle over the room.
Seriously—put your skirt on first! Cover up down there! Do you really not care about being completely naked in front of me?!
For the record, Shirai Shiori did have some shame left. Her rational mind knew that exposing her lower body to a male classmate was wildly indecent. Perverted, even.
But right now, that didn't matter. What mattered was not letting him leave!
And maybe—just maybe—she was getting used to this. Used to being "uncovered" around him. For some inexplicable reason, she found she didn't mind as much as she should.
(Though she did suddenly feel the urge to pee. But she could hold it!)
So instead of covering herself, Shirai Shiori grabbed the hem of his clothes and shouted, "Teach me how to write novels!"
"Uh… Shirai, if you want to write popular works, you should ask an editor. Not me—"
"It has to be you!"
"…Huh?"
Shirai Shiori realized how that sounded. Her face flushed crimson as she coughed and corrected herself. "Ahem—I mean, your opinion is more valuable. Editors take my feelings into account. They won't be harsh. Even a responsible editor won't point out real flaws—just subtle suggestions. But what I need right now is incisive criticism. The kind that cuts deep."
"Hoh…" Kuroha Akira rubbed his chin thoughtfully.
She wasn't wrong. Smart editors didn't fight their authors—they coaxed them, tricked them, gently steered them toward marketable works. No need to call someone useless; that just caused trouble. If a manuscript was truly hopeless, they'd just ghost it.
"I accept everything you said earlier," she continued. "Especially that bit about putting yourself and the reader on opposite ends of the scale. It makes perfect sense. But I can't correct that tilted scale on my own."
"So you want me to help correct it?"
"Yes. Kuroha-san… no—Akira-kun! Please teach me! Teach me how to write light novels!"
And down she went again. A perfect dogeza—not as punishment this time, but as a formal request to become his student.
At least she wasn't completely naked this time. One piece of clothing. Well… half a piece.
Kuroha Akira looked at her pale, smooth back—at the unfastened bra clasp—and let out a long sigh.
Looks like I lost that bet with the class president after all.