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The conveyor belt hummed softly as Leo savored the smoky richness of the seared beef. He ate leisurely, letting the conversation flow around him, only inserting a comment when necessary. But every time he spoke, it was precise—a scalpel cut of insight that made Eriri and Utaha nod in agreement.
Eriri, sitting two seats down, wiped her mouth with a napkin and turned to him. Her expression had shifted from wariness to professional curiosity.
"Leo," she began, her tone serious. "You mentioned you secured early admission to Tokyo University of the Arts. As someone aiming for the same path... what's your take on contemporary art?"
It was a test. She wanted to know if he was just technically skilled or if he understood the philosophy.
Leo swirled the ice in his glass. "Honest answer? Or the polite one?"
"There's no one here but us," Eriri challenged. "Give me the real one."
"I think it's lost its mind," Leo said, his voice calm but cutting. "Art is communication. It's meant to be seen, to evoke beauty or horror. But modern 'conceptual' painting? It's become a closed loop. It's an echo chamber for snobs who produce vague splashes of color and demand a thesis to explain why it's profound. If ordinary people can't understand the beauty without a manual, the art has failed."
To put it bluntly: It's pretentious fraud.
Eriri let out a long breath, her shoulders dropping. "I... I actually agree. Every time I go to a modern exhibit, I feel like I'm missing the joke. I study classical techniques—anatomy, lighting, structure. And then I see a canvas painted blue with a single red dot selling for millions, and the critics call me uncultured for not 'getting it.'"
"They're the ones who don't get it," Leo assured her. "Do you know the Chinese poet Bai Juyi?"
The group nodded.
"Bai Juyi was a genius," Leo explained. "But his process was simple. Every time he wrote a poem, he read it to an illiterate old lady in his village. If she didn't understand it, he rewrote it. He revised until the meaning was universal."
He looked Eriri in the eye. "My philosophy is the same. Whether it's a novel or a painting, I want the 'illiterate old lady' to feel something. I'm not interested in impressing a circle of critics. I want to move the human heart."
Eriri looked at him with something bordering on reverence. It was the look of someone who had finally found a member of their own tribe.
"That's... exactly how I feel," she whispered. "It's nice to know I'm not crazy."
"You're not crazy, Eriri," Leo smiled warmly. "You're just a classicist in a modernist world. Later, I'll show you some of my portfolio. But in exchange, you have to show me yours. We can critique each other."
"Deal," she nodded vigorously.
The atmosphere at the table was harmonious. Utaha was listening with a pleased smile, Megumi was observing quietly, and Eriri was engaged.
But at the end of the table, Aki Tomoya had gone silent.
He sat there, clutching a piece of tamago sushi he hadn't bitten into for five minutes. He was shrinking. While Leo and Eriri discussed art theory and Utaha added literary context, Tomoya realized he had nothing to contribute. He was a consumer among creators. A duck among swans.
Leo noticed the slump in his shoulders immediately.
Internal Monologue: The Golden Retriever is realizing he's the only one without a pedigree. Perfect. Let's twist the knife—for 'motivation', of course.
"By the way, Tomoya-kun," Leo said, his voice cutting through the art discussion like a bell. He kept his tone light, friendly. "How's the proposal coming along? I know you've been busy with the club room application, but the team is assembled now. We're all just waiting for your signal to start."
Tomoya flinched. The sushi in his hand trembled.
"Ah... well..." Tomoya stammered, looking up with a forced smile. "I'm... working on it. The concept is there, I just need to..."
"Just need to what?"
The voice didn't come from Leo. It came from Eriri.
She turned to Tomoya, her expression shifting from artistic camaraderie to familiar annoyance. She didn't realize she was delivering the finishing blow; she thought she was just being practical.
"Leo is right, Tomoya," Eriri said, crossing her arms. "You dragged us all here. You secured the funding. But remember the 'proposal' you showed me last week? It was a napkin scribble. It's been days. You should have a Version 2.0 by now, right? You can't just rely on enthusiasm forever."
Tomoya felt the blood drain from his face.
"I... I know!" Tomoya said, his voice cracking. "It's just... the new version is still a bit short! I've been running around for the club application, so I only wrote half the plan! I'll finish it tonight! I swear!"
He looked frantic. He looked like a man drowning in shallow water.
Leo took a sip of his cola, watching him calmly.
Tomoya was realizing the harsh reality of his "Dream Team." He had gathered geniuses around him, but now he had to lead them. And looking up at the swans soaring above him, he was painfully aware that he was still on the ground.
It was humiliating. It was painful.
And for Leo, it was exactly what was needed to keep Tomoya desperate, obedient, and eager to prove himself.
"Don't panic, Tomoya," Leo said, offering a lifeline just before the boy drowned completely. "We trust you. Just... don't make us wait too long. The train is leaving the station."
Tomoya nodded rapidly, shoving the sushi into his mouth to hide his grimace. "I won't! I promise!"
Internal Monologue: Keep running, Tomoya. The whip hurts, doesn't it?