Chapter 12
The dead silence in the club room was broken by a soft knock on the door.
Eriri and Tomoya Aki turned their heads at the same time.
At the door, Utaha Kasumigaoka leaned against the doorframe. Her black hair spilled over her shoulders, and her crimson eyes were openly mocking. She had returned at some point, holding the hardcover book she had just taken with her in one hand and her school bag in the other.
"Oh," Utaha's lips curved into an elegant, cold arc. "It seems I came at just the right time. I just heard a 'thrilling' statement in the hallway."
She walked into the club room, her heeled shoes clicking sharply against the floor. Her gaze swept over the crumpled A4 paper on the table, then slid over Tomoya's red face, and finally stopped on Eriri.
"So," Utaha said slowly, each word like a needle wrapped in icing, "this is the 'great project' that Aki stayed up all night for and made me wait forty minutes?"
She walked over to the table and picked up the paper with two fingers, her movements light, as if she were pinching something dirty. Her eyes behind her glasses quickly scanned the lines of scribbled handwriting, followed by a short, mocking laugh.
"Pfft."
Just one syllable, but more deadly than any lengthy criticism.
Tomoya's face instantly changed from red to white.
"K-Kasumigaoka-senpai…" He stammered, trying to explain. "This is just a first draft. We can fill in the details—"
"'Fill in the details' with dreams?" Utaha interrupted, her voice still soft but with the sharpness of a knife's blade. "Aki, do you know the difference between a business proposal and a grade school essay?"
She put down the paper, folded her arms across her chest, and looked down at Tomoya—although they were roughly the same height, the difference in their auras at that moment made Utaha seem as if she were looking down from above.
"It's all about planning," Utaha said, enunciating each word. "A light novel—from concept to detailed outline, from character settings to chapter distribution, from submission timing to promotional plans—every step requires careful planning. I have to write 100,000 words a month, coordinate with my editor on promotions, attend autograph sessions, and respond to reader letters. Every minute of my life is accounted for."
She took a step forward, her crimson eyes staring directly at Tomoya. "And you, holding a piece of scrap paper that isn't even as good as an elementary school student's weekly diary, dare to waste forty minutes of my time? And you're not even ashamed to say 'we can fill in the details'?"
Tomoya opened his mouth, but this time, nothing came out. Utaha's aura was so strong that even he—an otaku who was always hot-headed—felt pressured.
"I'm not the type of person who does things without a plan," Utaha continued, her tone returning to its usual laziness, but the coldness in it had not diminished. "On the contrary, I prefer to have a thorough plan before taking action. It reduces unnecessary losses—like time wasted on unprepared 'dreamers.'"
She picked up her school bag, turned, and walked toward the door. When she reached the doorway, she stopped, tilted her head, and finally gave Tomoya one last glance.
"Come to me when you can come up with a decent proposal—a real plan, not this kind of scrap paper—and then we'll talk. Of course, whether I'll have time then is another matter."
With that, she opened the door and left. The sound of her heels faded down the hallway and finally disappeared at the staircase.
Dead silence fell over the club room again.
This time, even the sound of the wind outside the window felt particularly harsh.
Eriri looked at Tomoya. This childhood friend of hers, always so full of energy, seemed to have been drained at that moment. His shoulders slumped. The light behind his glasses had dimmed. He stared at the crumpled paper on the table, his fingers unconsciously clenching and unclenching.
Suddenly, she remembered.
In elementary school, she had been isolated and ridiculed by her classmates for liking otaku culture. To avoid being ostracized, Eriri had started hiding her interests and distancing herself from Tomoya, who also loved otaku culture. They had stopped talking at school.
Eriri took a deep breath and walked over to the table. She didn't look at the paper. Instead, she looked directly into Tomoya's eyes.
"Listen," her voice was very calm—so calm that even she was surprised. "Do you know what Kasumigaoka-senpai just said? I want to say the same thing."
Tomoya looked up, his lips moving, but no sound came out.
"I know you're passionate and enthusiastic. You act on impulse every time you get an idea," Eriri continued. "It was the same in elementary school, in middle school, and still now. I appreciate that about you. Really. If it weren't for you, I might never have dared to tell anyone who Eiri Kashiwagi is."
She paused, gently tracing the edge of her sketchbook with her fingers.
"But, Tomoya, people can't live forever on the impulse of 'act now, think later.' I'm not the little girl who cried in the bathroom in sixth grade anymore. And Eiri Kashiwagi isn't the novice who only sold fifty copies of her doujinshi. I take three or four commercial manuscripts a month, attend conventions, manage social media accounts—my time is valuable."
Tomoya opened his mouth and finally managed to make a sound. "I know… so I'm the reason—"
"So you need to take this more seriously," Eriri interrupted, a hint of tiredness in her voice. "If you really want to make a game, and you really want me and Utaha-senpai to help, then show us the corresponding sincerity and preparation. Instead of showing up with a piece of scrap paper and the excuse 'I met destiny on the way,' expecting us to invest our precious time."
She looked into Tomoya's eyes—those eyes that were always shining with enthusiasm, but were now clouded over.
"Because of the past, I've always felt guilty toward you," Eriri's voice lowered. "You helped me so much when we were kids, but I pretended not to know you at school to maintain my 'perfect young lady' image… I've always remembered that. So every time you ask me for help, I almost always say yes."
She lifted her gaze, her blue eyes flickering with a complex light.
"But guilt doesn't mean my patience is unlimited. Tomoya, if you come to me without thinking through all the issues—the game genre, the platform, the budget, the timeline, the division of responsibilities—if you haven't even figured out these most basic things clearly and just rush in with enthusiasm, then I'm going to run out of patience too."
The club room was very quiet. The sky outside the window had completely darkened. The motion sensor lights in the hallway had automatically turned on, casting rectangular patches of light onto the wooden floor.
Eriri picked up her school bag and slung it over her shoulder. She walked to the door, put her hand on the handle, hesitated for a moment, and didn't turn around.
"I'll give you one week," she said, her voice soft but especially clear in the quiet club room. "If within one week you can come up with a qualified proposal—a genuinely qualified one, not this kind of scrap paper—then I'll seriously consider joining your little club."
She opened the door and finally added:
"But if you're still like this after a week… then don't bother bringing it up again."
The door slammed shut behind her.