"I heard Kitagawa's here. I'm looking for him."
Around 9 p.m., a knock came at Izaki's door. The man standing outside wore a well-tailored suit and had a notably robust build. Despite his size, Izaki quickly determined that he was no older than a high school student.
That was because his eyes were brimming—overflowing, even—with the untempered arrogance of youth, untouched by hardship or failure. He looked at everyone with pride and an unabashed, condescending gaze, utterly convinced he was chosen by fate, capable of achieving anything—even pulling down the moon.
"From the Kouenji family, are you? Come in."
Izaki's eyes paused for a few seconds on the gold-stitched emblem on the boy's suit collar. Then he opened the door wider. Kouenji Rokusuke swept a hand through his flowing blond hair and strode into the room.
Kitagawa Ryo was lounging on the living room sofa, flipping through a script under the dim light with his head resting on one hand and his legs casually crossed. His whole body was sunk into the soft cushions. When he heard the door open, he merely lifted his head slightly.
"You're well-informed."
"Just a bit more attentive than most."
Kouenji sat down across from Ryo. With his broad back and imposing frame, he resembled a bear—or perhaps some other wild beast. This version of Kouenji, far removed from the flamboyant student seen at Tokyo Metropolitan Advanced Nurturing High School, more accurately reflected his identity as the sole heir to a powerful conglomerate.
"I'm actually someone with a strong desire to win. So lately, I've often wondered: what if I hadn't withdrawn? Might've been fun, you know?"
He poured himself a cup of tea and downed it in one gulp, despite the bitterness of its now-cold flavor. Leaning slightly forward, he gave off an overwhelming aura.
"That school can't afford your desire to win. After all, to someone like you, Kouenji, both class points and personal points are meaningless, aren't they?"
"Sometimes, I really can't understand why you chose to waste three of the most valuable years of your life pretending to play house with kids your age."
"Did you think you'd learn something useful for your future in that place?"
"If it were anyone else talking to me in that tone, I would've left already."
Kouenji tapped the coffee table lightly with his thick fingers, studying Ryo for a moment before suddenly letting out a laugh.
"Honestly, I don't want to get involved in your business with the White Room."
"Even if I hadn't chosen to withdraw, you and Ayanokouji would eventually find a way to push me out anyway, right?"
"Who knows?"
Ryo uncrossed his legs and leaned forward as well, closing the distance between them.
In a low voice, he said:
"But if you feel like this wasn't enough for you, then wait three years."
"I'll be looking forward to the day I see your personal asset count listed on the Kouenji Conglomerate's official website."
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Around 10 p.m., it began to rain.
At first, it was a light drizzle, like threads of mist, then gradually intensified, pattering against the windows. The neon signs and car headlights on the road outside blurred into kaleidoscopic smears against the wet glass.
After a brief downpour, the rain began to ease again. Though summer hadn't officially arrived, the sudden storm brought with it the unmistakable breath of the season.
Kitagawa Ryo pushed open the door to his room and took the elevator down to the first floor. After borrowing an umbrella from the front desk, he slowly stepped out of the hotel.
The courtyard was lined with lush greenery, now glistening after the rain. The soaked grass blades seemed to have grown taller. The air was thick with the scent of rain—a mixture of damp earth and verdant foliage. The drizzle was denser than expected; even with the umbrella, Ryo's cheeks were soon speckled with cool droplets carried by the breeze.
He wandered along the path circling the courtyard and suddenly remembered something Ryuuen Kakeru had said during Karuizawa Kei's second simulation.
Back then, they were discussing the possibility of raising Class C to Class A. Ryuuen had proposed a strategy to accumulate 800 million points. Since transferring to another class cost 20 million personal points per student, transferring all 40 students would require 800 million.
It was a plan that sounded absurd and was, in truth, impossible.
Yet Ryuuen had seriously treated it as a backup option, even mapping out specific steps in the notebook he carried.
Though the plan was eventually scrapped, Ryo had still thought carefully about the feasibility—or benefits—of spending 20 million points to transfer classes.
No matter what form it took, Tokyo Metropolitan Advanced Nurturing High School was, at its core, still a high school—an ideal platform and launchpad.
Even if all the school's promises were conditional on graduating from Class A, the simple truth remained: just graduate from Class A.
Ryo remembered Ichinose Honami's mother vividly. She had charted out Honami's entire life path: elementary school → middle school → high school → college → job. Every step was a springboard to the next, ultimately leading to employment. This mindset was so deeply ingrained that when Honami was at her lowest, she wanted to collapse every stage into three days and leap straight to the end.
Modern society's obsession with education stems from countless parents like Honami's mother—desperate to elevate their children to a higher social tier through schooling.
And Tokyo Metropolitan Advanced Nurturing High School operated on that same philosophy.
Classes B, C, and D aimed to reach Class A—that was the leap.
Then, with the school's support, Class A students would leap again—the promised 100% university acceptance and employment rate.
Back when Ryuuen first mentioned the "800 million point operation," Ryo began pondering why the school had established the rule allowing transfers between classes for 20 million points.
He understood better only after learning who Kouenji Rokusuke really was.
No matter how the school tried to disguise it under the term "points," at the end of the day, points were money.
Graduating from Class A meant access to the school's resources and recommendations. With the right platform, that one leap could change a student's life.
And 20 million points could buy you a spot in Class A.
Taken together, this boiled down to a brutally honest rule:
If you had 20 million points and poured it all into Tokyo Metropolitan Advanced Nurturing High School, into education, you could achieve a guaranteed social leap.
Simultaneously, 20 million was also the amount required to cancel an expulsion.
So it functioned both as a ladder to climb up and as a safety net to prevent falling.
Yet since the school's founding, no one had ever reached the goal of personally saving up 20 million points. Rumor had it the most anyone had ever gathered—through questionable means—was 12 million.
But Ryo knew: Kouenji Rokusuke could do it. He had been purchasing points from upperclassmen at premium prices. If he wanted to, he would be the first to reach 20 million.
In fact, his personal asset figure listed on the Kouenji Conglomerate's official site had long surpassed that number.
Ryo tilted his umbrella slightly. His pitch-black eyes looked even deeper and darker beneath the rainy night.
Back when he persuaded Ryuuen to drop the "800 million point operation," he only said one thing:
"Are you sure you can earn 800 million yen in just three years?"
At Tokyo Metropolitan Advanced Nurturing High School, there were only two types of students who even considered using the "20 million point transfer" rule.
Or perhaps, just one type:
Those who had no real concept of what 20 million—or even 800 million—truly meant.
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Ichinose Honami walked through the rain toward the hotel, holding a large black umbrella. She had just returned from the rehearsal venue. Compared to the other three members of the drama club, she considered herself the weakest link. That's why she had gone ahead to familiarize herself with the stage and facilities in advance, hoping not to waste anyone's time during tomorrow's rehearsal.
Yawning from fatigue while reviewing small details in her mind, she watched her shadow stretch long under the streetlights. The rain tapped steadily on the umbrella, a rhythmic patter. Yet the umbrella's broad and sturdy canopy shielded her completely, offering a quiet sense of security.
Her slender fingers traced the carved letters on the umbrella handle.
Perhaps out of sentiment, she had always engraved "I & K" onto her umbrella handles since childhood. Every time her fingers brushed those two letters, a wave of nostalgia would ripple through her heart, as if plucking a delicate string deep within her memory.
It was a private memory she believed she had hidden well.
As she stepped into the hotel courtyard, Honami spotted a familiar figure in the distance. Her heart suddenly clenched. She hurried toward him.
"...Honami."
Feeling the rain stop trickling down from his head to his heels, Kitagawa Ryo wiped his face—perhaps clearing away a mix of rain, sweat, and tears. He turned his head slightly and spoke in a low voice.
"If I said I was rehearsing King Lear, would you believe me?"
His soaked bangs clung to his forehead, but his grin still showed those bright white teeth.
King Lear — one of Shakespeare's four great tragedies, the story of an aging king who divides his kingdom based on declarations of love from his daughters. Deceived by his elder daughters and betrayed, he is cast out into the wilderness. His youngest, who spoke the truth, dies trying to rescue him. Lear dies heartbroken by her side.
Its most iconic scene: Lear's monologue in the storm.
"Still... you shouldn't be here. And... you're lying to me."
Honami wasn't fooled by Ryo's excuse. She didn't know why he was out in the rain this late, but the moment she saw him drenched, she couldn't stop herself from instinctively covering him with her umbrella.
It was large enough to shelter them both completely.
"I really am rehearsing King Lear," Ryo said earnestly, gazing into her eyes. Her sapphire-blue pupils sparkled under the dim glow of the streetlight.
To make his case, he bowed his head and recited a famous line from the play:
"Oh, I have ta'en too little care of this! Take physic, pomp; expose thyself to feel what wretches feel..."
Even though he hadn't acted for two years, his delivery was flawless. His tone, the emotion—it was so compelling that Honami nearly believed him.
"We're not performing King Lear tomorrow."
She quickly snapped out of it, gently pushing Ryo toward the hotel entrance.
"Come on, go shower and change. You'll catch a cold."
"I don't want to."
Perhaps it was her overly gentle tone—like coaxing a child—that made Ryo stubbornly shake his head.
If Honami hadn't been watching him all night, she would have suspected he had secretly had a drink at the banquet.
"Poor naked wretches, whereso'er you are... that bide the pelting of this pitiless storm..."
Ryo continued muttering the lines.
As she watched his smile gradually fade, Honami noticed his eyes redden. From the corners of his eyes, tears slowly welled up.
It was the first time Ryo had shown such an expression in front of her.
Her body reacted faster than her thoughts. Before she realized it, Honami had already pulled him into a hug.
The umbrella handle pressed awkwardly between them, but they still held each other tightly.
"I feel... so sad," Ryo whispered beside her ear.
"I worked so hard for two years to earn all the surgery money for Hotaru. But some people are just born with far more than that."
"And now that I've become one of them, I don't feel happy at all."
Ryo knew exactly why Kouenji Rokusuke had listened to him—because of the power behind Ryo, bestowed by his golden talent: [Heir to a Prestigious Family]. That powerful conglomerate had finally come looking for him half a year ago.
But Ryo also knew he was nothing like Kouenji. He couldn't be that kind of person.
"There was a time... I lived in a basement for a long stretch. One of those tiny places where the living room, kitchen, and bathroom are all in one room."
Honami didn't interrupt. She realized this was the past Izaki-san had hinted at—a story Ryo had never shared with them.
"Rainy days like this were the worst. Everything would get moldy."
"No windows. No sunlight."
"The walls leaked. I could never sleep well."
"Hotaru would cramp up from the cold and stay in pain all night."
In Honami's third simulation, Ryo had seen her entire future in a dream.
In the timeline where he didn't exist, Ichinose Honami would, during the third term of her first year, accept Vice President Nagumo's proposal in exchange for 4 million points to avoid expulsion.
Four million points — about the average annual income of a Japanese citizen.
Her mother, who spent over a decade educating her, would never imagine her daughter agreeing to date someone for that amount.
But Ryo understood.
If someone had offered him 4 million back then, he would've sold himself without hesitation.
At the time, he treated Honami's simulation as just a story.
But the Honami before him now was real—her warmth and heartbeat flowed into him through their contact. He could feel her soft body and the faint citrus scent that surrounded her.
In that sense, their shame was the same.
The only difference: Honami had a mother who tried to shield her from it. Ryo had no such protection and had to expose it all, willingly or not.
The large umbrella shielded them from the rain. Under its cover, the two of them held each other like children—reckless, hurting, yet strangely relieved.
Or perhaps, they were simply licking each other's wounds.
When Honami reached out to wipe away Ryo's tears, he lowered his head and kissed her.
[I & K]
Two people who had endured the same suffering, who had cried over family fights, despaired over broken homes, now shared this fleeting moment. Just like when they once smiled and shared a popsicle as children.
Maybe, just maybe, they'd find a lucky stick that said: "Have another."
One more chance.
As their lips parted, Ichinose Honami rose up on her toes once more.
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