CHAPTER 16
The lecture hall was filling slowly, the low hum of students chatting and shuffling papers drifting through the air. Most had their heads down, focused on assignments or scrolling on their phones, only half-aware of the movement near the entrance.
A few students glanced up as someone slipped in—a girl in a simple but neat outfit, carrying a tote bag almost too big for her frame. Her pink hair caught the sunlight streaming through the windows, shimmering faintly.
"Hey… isn't that…?" one student whispered, elbowing their friend.
"Shh! Don't stare," another hissed back.
The first nodded, lowering their voice even further.
"Yeah… maybe that's one of them?"
Most students didn't even look. It was just another person walking into class—nothing worth stopping for. Only that small cluster kept stealing glances, curiosity pricking at their eyes, careful not to draw attention.
The girl—Sakura—moved quietly down the aisle, choosing a seat near the back. Her steps were deliberate yet unobtrusive, as though she knew exactly how to blend in. A few heads turned ever so slightly—just enough to notice, not enough to be certain.
Somewhere in the back row, pens scratched against paper, and a faint whisper of excitement passed between two friends. Not loud, not urgent—just a small ripple in an otherwise ordinary morning.
She lowered herself into the chair, setting her bag neatly on the floor, and exhaled softly. A familiar mix of nerves and anticipation tightened in her chest, but outside, the classroom remained calm and indifferent.
Sitting beside her was Izumi.
He looked amused as he watched Sakura—Kiyomi—and the way a few people stared.
"Sakura-chan really is a flower among dirt," Izumi teased.
"No… I'm not…" Kiyomi replied softly.
Izumi flicked his fingers lightly across Kiyomi's face, brushing aside a strand of pink hair to reveal more of his features.
Kiyomi turned toward him just as Izumi pressed his thumb against his lips, slowly rubbing it.
A few students nearby whispered among themselves. Most of them weren't into idols, so they had no idea who this girl actually was.
"Did Izumi already get a new girl?"
"That fast?"
"I envy him…"
Their comments were directed at Izumi, swirling around his reputation and his perceived luck. Barely any of them talked about Kiyomi—or, in this case, Sakura. To the rest of the room, Kiyomi was just a silent, pretty detail in Izumi's life.
"They're talking about you," Kiyomi whispered, his voice small beneath the weight of the wig.
"Me? No…" Izumi chuckled softly, a dark glint in his eyes. "Us," he corrected.
Not long after, another person entered the lecture hall—Hotaru. The girl who had once been loved by Kiyomi and was now a jagged memory for both him and Izumi. She paused at the entrance, her eyes scanning the rows with sharp, restless energy.
When she spotted them, she didn't hesitate.
She walked toward the back row and sat down directly beside Izumi, effectively sandwiching him between herself and Sakura.
"What a coincidence, Izumi," she said, her voice tight.
Izumi didn't respond. He simply froze, his expression turning to stone as if she didn't even exist in his space.
"I didn't know you were here," she continued, turning her attention to Kiyomi. Her tone dripped with sarcasm, her eyes raking over the pink hair and delicate makeup.
Kiyomi offered a small, hesitant nod.
"Umm… hi…"
Immediately, she extended her hand toward him in a formal, almost aggressive gesture.
"My name is Hotaru…"
Kiyomi took her hand, forcing a polite smile that felt as though it might crack his foundation.
"Nice to meet you too. I'm Sakura."
(Good thing she doesn't recognize me.)
As the professor began the lecture, Hotaru started talking about herself. Her voice remained low, a relentless hum that stayed just beneath the radar of the other students.
(Not this again…)
Hotaru spoke almost exclusively about her love life—a tangled web of grievances and desires. Izumi leaned back in his chair, frozen in forced indifference, while Kiyomi pretended to listen. Neither of them said a single word in response.
They were simply a silent audience to her monologue.
(Professor Waseda always scratches his left ear after finishing a long sentence.)
The lecture dragged on.
Hotaru shifted topics to her ambitions, explaining how she planned to climb the political ladder using her economics degree as a stepping stone.
(Twelve scratches so far…)
Then, without warning, the ambition vanished.
Hotaru's face crumpled, and she began to tear up right in the middle of the lecture.
"Pochi died…" she choked out. Her eyes were suddenly swollen, a heavy tear cutting through her makeup.
Panic flashed across Izumi's face. He moved quickly, pulling off his jacket and draping it over her head to hide her face from the rest of the class.
"Shh… I'm sure Pochi is in a better place…"
"No… she's not…" Hotaru insisted, her voice muffled beneath the fabric.
"Is Pochi your pet, Hotaru-san?" Kiyomi asked carefully, trying to understand the sudden grief.
"She's my goldfish… my brother cooked her. Then he made me eat her without telling me…"
Izumi reached out and awkwardly patted her back through the jacket.
"That's tough…"
"I shat her out this morning…"
(She wasn't like this when I dated her…)
The moment the bell rang and the class ended, Hotaru bolted. She ran out of the hall at full speed, leaving the jacket behind and disappearing into the corridor.
Kiyomi and Izumi were left in the sudden quiet of the back row.
Izumi reached over and took Kiyomi's hand, his grip firm and undeniable, as they stepped out together and began walking toward the cafeteria.
Surprisingly, the sea of students didn't part. Most were too buried in their own lunch-break dramas to care about a girl with pink hair. The only eyes that lingered belonged to those who knew Izumi or Hotaru personally. They approached with practiced ease, greeting Izumi with nods of approval or curious grins before moving on, treating "Sakura" like a silent trophy.
(More whispers…)
A student with thick glasses and a messy aesthetic—someone who looked like he spent more time in idol forums than in classrooms—stopped in his tracks. He didn't even look at Kiyomi; his eyes were fixed on Izumi with a strange sort of reverence.
"She's cute," he muttered to Izumi.
Before either of them could respond, he raised his phone. The shutter clicked as he captured a picture of the two sitting together.
The day dragged on in a blur of forced proximity. They moved through campus like a staged production. But as the hours bled into the late afternoon, the novelty faded. By the time the final bell echoed across the buildings, the crowd had thinned, and no one approached them anymore.
At the university gate, the setting sun cast long amber shadows across the pavement.
Kiyomi took a tentative breath and looked at the boy who had controlled his every move for the last eight hours.
"Is that all?" Kiyomi asked, his voice hopeful yet cautious.
Izumi didn't answer immediately. Instead, he pulled out his phone and opened his gallery. He tapped the screen, showing Kiyomi his picture. The picture of Cerb-3ros during their debut.
Then, with a casual flick of his thumb—
He deleted it.
(For real?)
The relief was so sudden it was almost dizzying.
"Thank you so much, Izumi-kun~," Kiyomi said, a genuine, radiant smile breaking across his face.
"No…" Izumi replied, his smile widening into something unreadable. "Thank you~."
Izumi turned and began walking away, his silhouette shrinking against the sunset. But before he disappeared around the corner, he stopped and glanced back one last time.
"I'll see you again soon…"
(Finally! I'm free!)
Kiyomi couldn't stop grinning on his way home. The air felt lighter, the city brighter, and even the rhythmic clatter of the train seemed to celebrate with him. It felt as though the crushing weight on his back had been lifted, replaced by a sweet, intoxicating sense of freedom.
(I can focus on my midterms…)
The following week arrived faster than Kiyomi expected.
Midterms swept across the campus like a seasonal storm. The hallways grew quieter, students trading gossip for textbooks and cups of convenience-store coffee. Conversations shrank to whispers about formulas, deadlines, and the questions that might appear on the exam sheets.
Kiyomi spent most of his days buried in the library. Between pages of economic theory and balance sheets, his mind occasionally drifted to pink wigs, stage lights, and choreography he had practiced only days before. The contrast felt surreal.
In one world, he was Sakura of Cerb-3ros.
In this one, he was just another exhausted university student counting the hours until the next test.
The exams came and went in a blur of scratchy pencils and rustling paper. When the final bell of the last test echoed through the lecture hall, the tension that had gripped the campus for days finally loosened.
For a moment, life felt normal again.
Then Saturday came.
After the rehearsal, Producer Daichi stood at the head of the table, his expression uncharacteristically warm.
"Bau bau~," Cerb-3ros greeted him playfully.
He gestured toward the door, and a young man stepped into the room—polished, professional, and terrifyingly familiar.
"Before we continue, I'd like you to meet my nephew," Daichi announced with pride.
The boy stepped forward, his eyes sweeping across the idols until they landed squarely on Kiyomi.
Kiyomi's heart didn't just race—it slammed into a wall.
The boy bowed politely, but the smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth was meant for Kiyomi alone.
"Hello, everyone. My name is Izumi."