I said I didn’t mind not knowing what would happen next. I take it back.

“Next” is apparently me, standing in my crush’s apartment, dripping all over his perfect floor.

One second we were running from the rain, then somehow we’re in an elevator—and now, boom. I’m in his apartment. No tutorial. No loading screen. Straight to the endgame setting..

Louis’s place looks less like an apartment and more like a castle in the sky—with a Japanese twist. Wood and glass everywhere, clean lines, soft light, a full wall of windows framing Sakurajima across the bay. Even the air smells expensive—cedar, rain, and calm perfection.

I’m too busy calculating how many centuries I’d have to work at Mandarake just to afford a closet in this place when he says, calm as ever, “Go ahead and take a bath. You’ll catch a cold if you stay like that.”

“B-bath?” I repeat, as if it’s a foreign word.

He nods, completely unfazed. “There’s a spot by the door—just leave your clothes there. I’ll grab them for the dryer and leave the clean ones outside, okay?”

He says it like it’s the most casual thing in the world and disappears before I can short-circuit out loud.

Right. Take a bath. Totally normal. People do that all the time… in their crush’s apartment. After a rain event. Perfectly normal.

The bathroom looks like something out of a luxury spa commercial—warm lighting, marble tile, a tub deep enough to hide from my social anxiety forever. There’s a sliding door separating the bath from the little changing space—modern, fancy, and way too intimate for my blood pressure.

I turn the tap, steam rising almost instantly, and step into the water before my courage can evaporate.

The warmth seeps into me, soft and steady. Totally normal. Not overthinking. Definitely not imagining him using this same bath.

My reflection in the water looks smug. Traitor.

Just as the warmth starts to seep into my bones, there’s a light knock on the door.

“Sorry,” his voice comes through, polite as ever. “I already put your clothes in the dryer and left some clean ones outside.”

My heart still skips like it didn’t get the memo. “O-Okay! Thanks!”

His footsteps fade away, leaving only the sound of water and my brain melting from secondhand embarrassment.

I exhale and let myself float for a moment, half-dazed. Why is something as normal as doing laundry suddenly the most intimate thing in human history?

The water is perfect—warm, soft, the kind that makes your brain go fuzzy in all the right ways.

I slide down into the water, finally letting myself relax—until my brain decides to ruin it.

…Wait. My underwear’s in the dryer.

I jolt upright, splashing water everywhere. “No way,” I whisper.

“Okay. Totally fine,” I tell myself. “I can survive this.”

Spoiler : I cannot.

Eventually, I drag myself out, dripping and resigned. I towel off and reach for the clothes he left—

—and freeze.

A white shirt. Black shorts. And underneath, folded neatly … a brand-new pair of men’s boxers.

He really did think of everything. that's so embarrassing.

I pull the shirt over my head and immediately regret existing.

It’s long enough to technically count as clothing, but definitely not designed for anyone with… volume. The fabric stretches across my chest like it’s holding on for dear life—figures, his shirts are probably custom-made by angels who’ve never seen a D-cup. If this had buttons, they’d have unionized by now.

I tug the hem down, hoping gravity will do me a favor. It doesn’t.

The shirt hangs past my knees. No pants. No dignity. Just me, half-dry and half-naked.

How did this shōjo story turn into Josei?

When I finally open the bathroom door, the apartment feels bigger than before—quiet, echoing, almost too calm. Louis steps out of his room at the same moment, now holding a towel and a change of clothes.

He pauses when he sees me—me, drowning in his oversized shirt, hair still damp, clutching the hem like it’s a security blanket.

“Oh,” he says softly, blinking once. “It fits better than I expected.”

Fits? I'm one wardrobe malfunction away from a scandal.

Before I can combust entirely, he gestures toward the hallway. “I’ll take my turn, then. Make yourself comfortable.”

I nod—probably more like a panicked bobblehead than an actual person. “R-right. Sure. Take your… turn. The bath. Water. Yes.”

He smiles—gentle, amused—and disappears into the bathroom.

My heart is a war crime.

I shuffle into the living room, clutching the hem tighter and trying very hard to look like a respectable human being and not an NPC from a forbidden dating sim.

I sink into the sofa, still clutching the hem of his shirt like it’s a lifeline. The cushions are so soft they threaten to swallow me whole.

For a few seconds, I just… sit there. Trying not to think about the fact that I’m in Louis Devereux’s apartment. In nothing but his oversized shirt and a pair of men’s boxers. This look doesn’t say “after-school romance.” It screams “18+ side story.”

My brain short-circuits again. “Oh my god,” I whisper into the throw pillow. “I’m in his house.”

It’s quiet — too quiet. The kind of quiet that makes you start noticing everything. The faint hum of the fridge. The ticking of a fancy wall clock. The faint smell of citrus soap drifting from the hall.

The place is spotless. No clutter, no dust, no stray socks of chaos anywhere. It’s like a furniture catalog came to life. Not even a manga volume in sight.

Which is weird. Because if Louis really is who I think he is — the rumored Prince of Trash Manga — then somewhere in this palace of taste should be the ultimate nerd hoard.

I narrow my eyes at the perfectly arranged bookshelf. “Where are you hiding it, Devereux?”

My inner gremlin wakes up. Operation: Find the Forbidden Collection — initiated.

I tiptoe around the room like a detective in a bad drama, peeking behind perfectly aligned books and under decorative boxes that probably cost more than my monthly allowance. Nothing.

Then I notice a slightly ajar door down the hall. Curiosity pings like a notification.

I nudge the door open and peek inside.

It’s his bedroom. And, of course, it’s perfect. Minimalist, spacious, sunlight spilling through wide glass windows that open to an insane view of Sakurajima across the bay. I just stand there for a moment, staring. The kind of view you’d only see in travel commercials or heartbreak endings. Even his bed looks like it was made by a team of perfectionist butlers. No sign of manga anywhere. Not a single volume, not even a stray bookmark.

But something feels… off.

There’s another door—half-hidden along the wall. Curiosity wins again.

I slide it open and blink.

It’s not a closet. It’s a study.

Floor-to-ceiling shelves filled with books—and not just literature. Dozens of manga volumes stacked in perfect order. Limited editions. Collector’s sets. The kind of collection that could bankrupt a normal human being.

But what really catches my eye is the wall in front of the desk.

It’s covered in notes, maps, and string—like a detective’s conspiracy board. Panels clipped from manga, handwritten comments, and what looks like character analysis.

My pulse skips. This isn’t just reading… this is research.

There are notes pinned to corkboards, maps of Kagoshima marked with colored string, and sticky notes that read things like: “Common Japanese high school phrases — practice daily.” “Cultural references to memorize.” “Trash Manga list — analyze tone + tropes.”

My heart skips. Every memory from today replays at once — the perfect timing, the charming lines, the dramatic rain.

My throat tightens. The room suddenly feels colder.

It wasn’t coincidence. He’d been studying—training to be one.

I take a shaky step closer, staring at one note in particular: “How to act natural.”

It finally clicks — the weirdly refined way he spoke, the picture-perfect gestures, the almost too-clean smile.

He’s been performing this whole time.

The air shifts. The easy warmth from before vanishes—like someone flipped a switch.

Then—

“You couldn’t just enjoy the protagonist role, could you? You had to go snooping around and turn yourself into the victim instead.”

The tone isn’t teasing. It’s flat. Precise. Like all the warmth in his voice has been switched off.

I freeze mid-step.

Slowly, I turn.

He’s standing in the doorway, hair still damp from the bath, towel loose around his neck—but his posture is wrong. Straighter. Sharper. His shoulders squared, chin tilted just slightly down, eyes unreadable.

The smile he’d worn all day is gone. This isn’t the humble, charming transfer student who waited for me at the gate. This is the version I knew from the shop—the cold, distant Prince of Trash Manga.

He looks bored. Detached. Like I’ve just broken something he was curious about.

My pulse pounds in my ears. The room suddenly feels smaller. The light harsher. I can’t tell if it’s the steam or my own panic fogging the air.

He takes one quiet step forward. Just one. It’s enough to make every cell in my body scream danger flag raised.

I open my mouth—and my brain short-circuits.

“I—uh— I was just… looking for the… Wi-Fi?”

My voice cracks like a bad connection.

Of course. Leave it to me to turn a shōjo fantasy into a psychological thriller.

And I think… I just unlocked the bad ending.

Next Episode: Victim Route-Unlocked