On the final day of October, it seemed as though the heavens themselves had fallen victim to one of Saori's particularly enthusiastic training sessions—as if God's own bladder had been cleanly pierced by her bamboo sword. Rain cascaded from the swollen clouds in an endless, relentless torrent, transforming the world into a watercolor painting of gray and silver.
Shiratori Seiya stood atop the school's back mountain, a thin plastic raincoat draped over his shoulders, listening to the rain drum its ceaseless rhythm against the synthetic fabric. The air carried a biting chill—the kind of cold that seeped through layers and settled deep in the bones. His exposed cheeks had flushed a faint, wind-bitten red.
But then, cutting through the monotonous percussion of the rain, a familiar electronic chime resonated directly in his ear.
[Love Check-in — 30 Days Complete. ¥1,000,000 Deposited.]
[Current Love Check-in Duration: 30 Days. Next Milestone: 60 Days. Reward: ¥2,000,000.]
Shiratori Seiya pulled out his phone, thumbing open his banking app. His gaze landed on the freshly deposited figure glowing on the screen, and immediately, a soothing warmth spread through his chest—a sensation far more effective against the cold than any raincoat. An unconscious smile tugged at the corners of his lips.
A few stray raindrops, carried by a wayward gust, landed on his slightly parted lips. He licked them away on pure instinct—
And in that single, fleeting motion, his mind betrayed him. The memory of Takahashi Mio's kiss from that night surged up from the depths of his subconscious with the force of a tidal wave. The warmth. The pressure. The faint, sweet taste.
Once bitten by a snake, one fears even a coiled rope for ten years.
That was the saying, wasn't it? The lingering psychological scar.
But if he was being brutally honest with himself—stripping away the layers of guilt and complication and sheer inconvenient timing—that kiss had been... soft. A little sweet. Surprisingly gentle, given the desperate, defiant energy behind it.
Probably because Mio had just finished a drink before launching her ambush, his analytical mind supplied. But compared to Shione...
Stop.
His thoughts had already begun the treacherous slide into comparison. The way Shione used to kiss him—confident, practiced, with the polished technique of someone who'd shared countless such moments with him in recording studio breaks and late-night lyric sessions. And now, even more dangerously, his mind was starting to drift in Saori's direction. How would she...
'How are you so SKILLED at this?!'
Takahashi Mio's indignant, tearful accusation echoed through his memory with such vivid clarity that for a moment he genuinely wondered if it was an auditory hallucination. As if her ghost had followed him up this mountain just to haunt his thoughts.
Shiratori Seiya scowled, shaking his head sharply as if physically dislodging the intrusive spiral.
Enough. Focus.
When he'd gone home that night—after the confession, after the kiss, after the tearful accusations and the defiant declarations and the complicated negotiations about apartment leases—a single, cold thought had surfaced unbidden in his exhausted mind: Maybe I should just break up with her.
The concern had been practical. Clinical, even. He was genuinely worried that Takahashi Mio might become as hopelessly, self-destructively love-struck as Hojo Shione had been. That all this careful planning, all this strategic investment of time and resources, would eventually prove wasted effort. After all, one of his fundamental principles was that sunk costs do not participate in major decisions. The past was the past. The future had to be evaluated with ruthless clarity.
But after a night of restless sleep, he had flushed that thought away—quite literally—along with his morning excretions, watching it spiral down the toilet bowl into oblivion.
Takahashi Mio was not Hojo Shione.
As things currently stood, the factors driving Mio forward were not solely—or even primarily—centered on him. She had her pride. Her ambition. Her desperate, burning desire to prove herself, to become someone worthy of standing on a stage. Over the past month, her diligence had been nothing short of remarkable.
Setting Hojo Shione aside entirely for a moment, the sheer, grinding level of effort Mio had been sustaining even subtly rivaled what Saori had demonstrated back in her most intense training periods. And Saori was practically the living embodiment of "relentless effort."
Furthermore, Mio's attitude toward money—pragmatic, grounded, almost refreshingly transactional—offered a strange sort of reassurance. Take the situation after that fateful night, for example. She had continued her training regimen without missing a single session. According to the latest report from Araki-sensei, her progress had been exceptional. Tangible. Measurable.
Could kissing me actually have... improved her acting skills?
The absurd question surfaced before he could stop it. He almost laughed. Almost.
But then, a far more complex and troubling question rose to take its place: How exactly am I supposed to handle the relationship between Mio and Saori?
He had originally believed—truly, genuinely believed—that by telling Mio directly, bluntly, about his intention to marry Saori, she would retreat. Reassess. Protect her own heart by creating distance. That was the logical response. The self-preserving response.
Instead, she had pressed forward. Harder. More determined than ever.
And Saori... Saori was exactly the same. Despite knowing full well that he was currently in a relationship with Takahashi Mio—despite having witnessed their dynamic with her own eyes—she had still agreed to his three-year promise. Still looked at him with those impossibly trusting eyes. Still smiled as if the outcome was already decided in her favor.
If things continue down this path... am I going to end up with an actual harem situation?
The thought was equal parts absurd and terrifying.
Everyone harbored selfish desires. Shiratori Seiya was certainly no enlightened sage immune to such temptations. The cold, pragmatic corner of his mind couldn't help but calculate: if he were to rely on the money Mio earned through the System to support Saori's future... wasn't that, technically speaking, a viable arrangement? A symbiotic ecosystem? Mio achieves her dream of stardom. Saori gets the comfortable, secure life she deserves. He manages both trajectories from the center.
It didn't seem entirely... unfeasible?
As this treacherous thought took root, Shiratori Seiya felt an entirely new path—one he had never seriously considered before—unfurl before his mind's eye like a scroll painting.
But then, almost instantly, his subconscious conjured Hojo Shione's face. Her knowing smile. Her sharp, perceptive eyes.
Wouldn't it be a bit unfair... to leave her out of this equation entirely?
Yet, the moment he recalled Hojo Shione's particular personality—the way she had been jealous even of her own sister, Suzune, the way she guarded what she considered hers with a ferocity that bordered on obsession—a cold shiver ran down his spine that had nothing to do with the autumn rain.
If Shione ever met Mio face to face... the explosion would be catastrophic. Thermonuclear. The kind of dramatic confrontation that would trend on social media for weeks.
Feasible or not... even if some impossible arrangement did happen, living under the same roof would likely involve daily power struggles that would literally tear the roof off its foundations. I'd come home to find the apartment in ruins and three women standing in the wreckage, each blaming the other two.
He dismissed the harem fantasy with a weary shake of his head. Ridiculous. Completely unsustainable.
Speaking of living arrangements, he had spent the past two days helping Takahashi Mio search for a new apartment. Although her stated reason—"I'm terrified of being pierced through the heart with a sword every time I walk home alone"—was transparently flimsy and at least sixty percent theatrical exaggeration, a promise was a promise. He'd said he would help her find a safer living situation, and he would follow through.
Fortunately, his own apartment complex had several vacant units available. The location was convenient, the security was decent, and it would make supervising her training and script study sessions far more efficient.
Today was Sunday, though. Mio was still at the training institute, running through exercises under Araki-sensei's eagle-eyed supervision. He could bring up the apartment situation tonight when he picked her up. They could choose a day next week—perhaps Wednesday, when her schedule was lighter—to tour the available units.
As he was mentally arranging the logistics, his phone suddenly buzzed in his hand. Sharp. Insistent.
Shiratori Seiya jolted back to full awareness. He glanced down at the screen. The caller ID displayed a single name:
[Saori]
He stared at the screen, momentarily thrown. Ever since the chaotic Kendo Club incident, Saori had exclusively communicated through LINE messages. Her preferred content was... consistent, to say the least. Photos of her breakfast. Photos of her lunch. Photos of her dinner. Occasionally a snapshot of a stray cat she'd befriended. Nutritious, wholesome, low-drama content that required minimal response beyond a quick emoji reaction.
Why the sudden phone call?
A flicker of unease stirred in his gut. He pressed the answer button and raised the phone to his ear.
"Hello?"
The moment the call connected—before he could even finish the single word—he heard it. A faint, unmistakable splashing sound. Water. Running water. And quite a lot of it.
Then, Hasegawa Saori's voice reached his ear, calm and matter-of-fact, as if reporting the weather:
"Seiya... Saori might drown."
"Huh?!"
His brain short-circuited for a full second. She had just announced her potential impending death by drowning, but her tone carried absolutely zero urgency. No panic. No fear. The same gentle, slightly dreamy cadence she always used when speaking to him. As if "drowning" was a mildly inconvenient errand, like missing the last train or burning her toast.
Shiratori Seiya's brow furrowed deeply. "Did you fall into a river?! Where are you?!"
"Saori is at home."
"At home? How exactly are you going to drown at home?! Did a water pipe burst? Is your ceiling collapsing?"
"Hmm..."
What came through the receiver was the girl's thoughtful, contemplative hum—the same hum she used when deciding between melon bread and curry bread at the convenience store—accompanied by the continuous background symphony of splashing water.
"Switch to video call. Right now."
"Oh. Okay."
The screen went dark for a moment, then flickered to life. What filled the display was Hasegawa Saori's face—close enough that he could count the individual water droplets clinging to her long, dark lashes. Her cheeks were damp. Her hair was plastered to her forehead in wet, ropy strands. But her eyes... her eyes sparkled with pure, undiluted joy at seeing his face on her screen.
She broke into a wide, foolishly happy grin, waving enthusiastically at the camera like a child greeting a beloved character at a theme park.
"Can Seiya see Saori? Can you see me clearly?"
Shiratori Seiya felt his heart perform a complicated acrobatic maneuver somewhere between relief that she was apparently unharmed and sheer, dumbfounded confusion. The background of the video did indeed appear to be the interior of a house—he could make out walls, a window, what looked like a modest kitchen area. But her appearance was that of someone who had just been subjected to a water-based punishment game.
"What happened to you? Why are you completely soaked? Is your roof leaking?!"
Hearing the urgency in his voice, Saori pursed her rosy lips—the expression more thoughtful than distressed—and flipped the phone's camera around. The view shifted to the ceiling above her.
"It's... like this."
In the video feed, rainwater cascaded from the ceiling in a steady, miserable curtain. The dripping was not a gentle, occasional plink-plink but a relentless, rapid-fire assault. A shimmering sheet of water the approximate size of a full-length dressing mirror descended from what appeared to be a significant structural crack. And in one corner—the darkest, most ominous corner—a stream of water as thick as a human thumb poured down in a continuous, unbroken column.
...Saori. Are you living in the Water Curtain Cave from Journey to the West?! Did the Dragon King personally take up residence in your ceiling?! Is God seriously so rude that he's just... directly urinating into your house?!
The string of absurd, pop-culture-laced thoughts cascaded through Shiratori Seiya's mind before his practical instincts seized control. His voice sharpened with command.
"What's going on?! First things first—turn off all the electricity in the house immediately! The main breaker! Don't touch any switches or outlets! Then grab every container you have—buckets, pots, basins—and start catching as much water as you can!"
"Saori isn't stupid, you know."
The girl's voice drifted back through the speaker with just a whisper of wounded pride. The camera angle wobbled, tilting downward to reveal the floor. Two large plastic washbasins sat positioned beneath the worst of the indoor waterfall. They were, however, already full to the brim. Water overflowed in silent, continuous rivulets, spreading dark puddles across the tatami mats.
"..."
Shiratori Seiya's mouth opened. Closed. He pinched the bridge of his nose.
"Send me your address. Right now. I'm coming over."
"Oh. Okay!"
The response was immediate. Cheerful, even. As if he'd just offered to bring her ice cream.
Twenty minutes later. The outskirts of Tokyo.
As Shiratori Seiya stepped out of his car, the first thing that assaulted his senses was not the rain—which had, mercifully, lightened to a fine drizzle—but the smell. An unpleasant, acrid stench that clung to the back of the throat. Rotting garbage. Stagnant water. The general decay of neglect.
He turned his head, surveying the surroundings. Near the roadside, a haphazard pile of trash bags lay heaped against a sagging chain-link fence. Beyond it, clustered together like mushrooms after a rainstorm, stood a dozen or so makeshift dwellings constructed from blue tarpaulins, corrugated iron sheets, and salvaged plywood.
Calling them 'houses' would have been an act of extraordinary charity. They looked more like coffins. Horizontal boxes barely tall enough to sit up in, let alone stand.
Even in Tokyo—the glittering jewel of Japan, the city of neon and ambition and impossible dreams—there were places like this. Beggars on the outskirts. Lost souls sheltering under bridges and in forgotten alleyways. The invisible population that polite society trained itself not to see.
Shiratori Seiya had long since grown accustomed to this harsh reality. He'd seen worse, in truth. But as his gaze swept across the bleak landscape—the garbage, the makeshift shelters, the oppressive gray of a sky that promised no mercy—he felt his fists clench involuntarily at his sides. An uncomfortable, twisting sensation coiled in his gut.
This was where she lived. This was where Saori had been living all this time.
He pulled out his phone, checked the location pin Saori had shared, and turned around. There. A cluster of several detached, single-story bungalows huddled together as if seeking warmth. The structures were old—weathered wooden frames, corrugated roofs stained with rust and moss. And standing before one of them, a familiar figure materialized out of the gray drizzle.
Hasegawa Saori had spotted him from dozens of meters away. As if afraid he might miss her in the rain-blurred landscape, she began waving her arm in wide, enthusiastic arcs—an over-the-head flag signal—while simultaneously bouncing up and down on the balls of her feet. Her soaked hair flapped wetly against her shoulders with each jump.
Shiratori Seiya stared at the girl smiling and waving in the rain—soaked to the bone, standing before what looked like a condemned structure, grinning as if he were a returning war hero—and felt something sharp and hot stab directly behind his eyes.
"You absolute idiot," he muttered under his breath. And then he ran.
His shoes splashed through shallow puddles, kicking up spray. The cold rain stung his face. His raincoat billowed behind him.
Seeing him break into a sprint toward her, Saori abruptly stopped waving. A look of pure, radiant delight illuminated her rain-drenched features. She, too, began to run—directly toward him, her feet splashing carelessly through the mud and puddles.
This idiot! THIS ABSOLUTE IDIOT!
Shiratori Seiya waved frantically, a wild gesture meant to convey 'Go back inside! Stay out of the rain! You're already drenched!' But she seemed to misinterpret the signal entirely. Her face brightened further—somehow—and she accelerated her headlong rush toward him.
In mere seconds, the distance between them collapsed to nothing. They stood face to face on the cracked, rain-slicked asphalt of the roadside.
The girl's long, raven-black hair—her pride, the feature she'd once shyly hoped he still admired—was completely saturated. It clung to her scalp and cheeks like dark seaweed, framing her pale face in wet, ropy tendrils. Her clothes—a simple long-sleeved shirt and worn cotton pants—were equally drenched, the fabric wrinkled and plastered against her skin, revealing the delicate, wiry frame beneath. Water dripped steadily from her chin, from her fingertips, from the hem of her shirt.
Despite her disheveled, bedraggled, half-drowned appearance... the smile that bloomed across her face could have outshone the sun—had the sun possessed the courage to show itself.
She tilted her head back, her clear, luminous eyes finding his. A single droplet of rain trembled on the tip of her nose. When she spoke, her voice was soft. Hopeful. Tinged with a childlike, utterly disarming charm.
"Seiya... have you come to save Saori?"
"..."