He blinked once, expression unreadable. “Really? That’s what you’re going with?”

A pause. His mouth twitched—just slightly. “Wi-Fi password?”

He leaned his shoulder against the door frame, eyes steady on me. The silence stretched until it hurt.

My heart thudded loud enough to echo.

He didn’t move. Didn’t even blink.

And my brain did what it always does—started screaming in subtitles.

He came to my shop. He showed up in my class. He asked me out. He made sure we’d be near his place when it rained. Of course. Of course he planned this.

I could actually hear my pulse. I’m standing in a stranger’s apartment, in nothing but an oversized shirt that’s about to pop any minute.

I’m about to die.

This is how the true-crime podcasts start.

Why would the hottest guy I’ve ever met want to hang out with me? Because I’m the victim. I’m the cold open before the theme music.

My throat tightened. “I spent my whole life begging the universe for something interesting to happen to me,” I whispered. “I thought maybe isekai, shōjo, even yuri—but no. I get to be the heroine of a Psycho Ren’ai.”

He still didn’t move.

Then—finally—he sighed. “Haa...”

The sound rolled through the air like exhaustion itself.

He pushed off the frame and started walking toward me, slow and deliberate. I couldn’t move.

When he reached me, he didn’t stop. The towel brushed my face as he dropped it over my head—light, careless, almost polite. It knocked my glasses crooked, and the fabric dimmed the room. I stayed still, like a chosen NPC.

And just like that, he was past me.

I heard the quiet scrape of a chair. A soft thud. Papers shifting. Then his voice—flat, matter-of-fact, like a villain narrating to himself right before the credits roll.

“I can’t even blame you for this. It wasn’t working anyway,” he said, calm and detached. “Nothing I tried connected. Every setup, every flag—wrong timing, wrong reaction. Maybe it’s just politeness here. Everyone smiles, nods, moves on. No spark, no feedback. I hate it.”

I froze under the towel. It didn’t work? What didn’t? My brain supplied too many options, none of them safe.

He kept talking. Not bragging—bored. No spark. No feedback. Every word landing like a postmortem.

Setups. Event flags.

My pulse stumbled. Wait… setups, event flags… is he seriously talking like he’s in a dating sim?

I couldn’t see him, but I could picture the board I’d glimpsed earlier—the one covered in notes and string. Lunch under a tree. Getting shown around after class. Sharing crepes. The bath. Every “coincidence” stacked like checkpoints.

Each one a trigger. Each one deliberate.

No way.

He’s been running scenarios.

My stomach flipped. Not experiments. Not stalking. Routes.

“The only question is…” His voice softened, almost amused. “What do I do with you?”

At this point I was visibly shaking.

I turned, hooked a finger under the towel, and flicked it free. My eyes were huge. My heart was sprinting—not from fear. From joy. Raw, ridiculous joy.

Never in my life had I heard such beautiful trash delivered with that much conviction.

Before I knew it, I’d moved. One step. Two. Then I was right in front of him, close enough to see the faint water still clinging to his hair.

“So tell me—are you a secret light-novel author undercover as a high schooler?” I leaned in, eyes wide, hands practically gesturing in his face.

“Or a French spy sent to steal our shōjo trade secrets?!” Another step closer, voice rising. “Or maybe—maybe—you’re a reverse-isekai traveler, and the only way home is finding true love! Which is it, huh?!”

He blinked. Once. Slowly.

I couldn’t stop the words. They kept tripping out of me, sparkling and stupid and perfect. It felt like Gojo unlocking Reverse Cursed Technique—pure serotonin and the delusion that I alone am the honored one.

His chair gave a tiny scrape. He angled back like my enthusiasm had mass. One hand came up between us—not defensive, exactly, just… measuring distance.

His gaze flicked to the door, then to my face again. He took a small step back.

“Why are you—” He stopped, recalibrated. “Why are you so excited over… this?” A beat. His mouth flattened. “You really are… nothing but a hopeless otaku.”

Before he could finish, I was already knee-deep in his notes—pages flying, brain on overdrive. “Classic tropes,” I said. “Good taste. Terrible execution. None of this would work in real life—especially not by you.”

He stood up, curious. “Why do you say that?”

“Well, obviously! Most protagonists start as losers—unloved, misunderstood. That’s the whole point! People don’t root for perfection; they root for the underdog who messes up and still keeps going. You?” I jab a finger at him. “You’re the deluxe edition. You’d clear the route just by existing. No tension, no payoff.”

He tilted his head, genuinely considering it—like we were dissecting philosophy, not trash-manga theory. “That’s… interesting,” he said slowly. “But I always thought the protagonist was just whoever the writer decided to put through those situations—the tropes, the events. It could’ve been anyone, really. The only difference between a main character and a background extra is that the writer’s on their side.”

I frowned. “That’s the surface layer, sure. But readers don’t feel for someone just because the story tells them to.”

I stepped closer, tapping the manga cover with my finger. “People care because the protagonist fails first. Trash-manga heroes are built from humiliation, not spotlight. They make mistakes we recognize—miss the flag, lose the match, get rejected—and keep trying anyway. That gap between who they are and who they want to be? That’s empathy fuel. It’s the part that makes you root for them because we’ve all been there—we’ve all failed at something and kept going.”

I looked up at him. “You, on the other hand, start at the top. There’s no climb, no ache, no reason for anyone to project themselves onto you. You’re already what they wish they could be.”

He looked confused. “We’ve all failed at something?”

The words hung between us.

Wait… maybe he hasn’t. Is it even possible for someone to have never tasted failure? No way.

He moved back to the chair and sat down, thinking. I stood there, equally confused.

Then he looked up at me again. “I know what I’m going to do with you.”

I gulped. Oh right—I’d kind of forgotten the situation I was in.

“You, Tanaka Shizuka,” he said, “are going to become my accomplice.”

“I’m gonna become what? An accomplice to what? Wait—do I have a choice?” I blurted out.

He stood with that effortless calm again, walking toward me. I leaned back against the desk as he came closer—too close. His voice dropped to a whisper.

“Well, you can refuse,” he murmured.

Then, softer: “But you won’t, will you?”

He bent closer, his breath brushing the side of my neck. “Aren’t you tired of just reading about life? Don’t you want to experience it for yourself?”

I froze.

“Follow me,” he said, voice low, dangerous, magnetic, “and you’ll have excitement beyond your wildest dreams.”

He straightened, meeting my eyes with a smirk. He knew. He’d already won.

I was in.

Next Episode: The Accomplice Flag