Kuroha Akira, bombarded by the Class Monitor's unrelenting sales pitch of 'benefits,' didn't light up with excitement. Instead, he let out a long, weary sigh.
He had to admit, the 'perks' were enticing. If he were truly a fifteen-year-old boy, his head would be nodding like a bobblehead by now, utterly and completely hooked.
Unfortunately, his mental age was a multiplier of that. His innocence had been tax-filed away long ago. Even with the sweetest words, his first instinct was to scan for the fine print.
"Is the Literary Club really that important? Important enough for you to invest… all this?" He gestured vaguely, encompassing the skirt-lifting, the harem implications, the strategic flattery.
"The Literary Club is very important," she affirmed, her smile unwavering. "But it's precisely because it's you, Kuroha-kun, that I'm going all out to secure your membership."
"Ha…"
Another sigh escaped him. Her words were heavy with emphasis on him, but they only elicited a wry, internal smirk. Because he knew the golden rule: behind honeyed phrases lay only self-interest.
Most students might be simple, but Asato Hitomi was operating on a different level. Her words were calculated, her smiles strategic. Talking with her was intellectually stimulating—she probably meant no real harm—but she was a master of reading people and tailoring her responses for maximum effect.
This style of conversation, laced with emotional manipulation, rubbed Kuroha Akira the wrong way. It was a haunting echo of his black-hearted boss from his past life—a man who could sing praises more beautifully than a nightingale, only to stab you in the back without blinking.
"Class Monitor," he said, his voice dropping its playful edge. "You can drop the flattery. It might work on others, but on me? It has the opposite effect."
...
Instantly, the atmosphere shifted.
Despite the blistering summer heat, a distinct chill seemed to radiate from the vending machine. Kuroha Akira tilted his head, confused.
The Class Monitor, standing before the machine, had lowered her head. The shadow of her perfectly styled bangs fell across her eyes, rendering her expression unreadable.
"Class Monitor?"
"It really is hot today."
She looked up. The smile was still there, plastered on her face. But Kuroha Akira noticed the difference instantly. This smile was no longer warm or playful; it was a flat, professional curve—the kind worn by convenience store clerks at the end of a double shift. Utterly devoid of emotion.
Asato Hitomi reached into her pocket, pulled out a sleek black-and-white striped coin purse, and extracted a crisply folded 1000-yen note. She fed it into the machine. The payment light glowed, but her finger hovered, making no selection.
"Kuroha-san," she began, the honorific shift from the friendly '-kun' to the formal '-san' hitting like a drop in temperature. "The Literary Club is my only place to breathe. I don't want it to disappear."
The pretense was gone. The strategic charm offensive had ceased. In its place was a stark, simple statement.
So, while 'Academic Ability: A' meant no academic pressure, other weights clearly bore down on her. Kuroha Akira's adult mind swiftly pieced it together: family pressure. The classic teenage crucible.
A girl more mature than her peers, likely clashing with parental expectations, feeling like a stranger in her own home. If she were a delinquent type, she might have run away. But Asato Hitomi, the honor student, channeled that friction into preserving a sanctuary—the Literary Club.
Typical teenage girl troubles. Kuroha Akira had the outline figured out but had zero interest in coloring it in. Every family had its locked rooms; it was best not to pick the locks.
"All the current members are girls. They're all good kids who get along with me naturally. I don't want them exposed to any… danger."
"Oh, right, right…" Kuroha Akira nodded absently, the heat fogging his higher brain functions. Frankly, he had no stake in the delicate ecosystem of student social circles. He'd seen this movie before: even the closest schoolyard bonds often faded to sepia tones after graduation, victims of busy lives and diverging paths. That was precisely why he'd embraced his solitary status—it was efficient, painless.
Whoosh.
A sudden, firm grip on his collar yanked him forward. He stumbled out of the vending machine's narrow shade, staggering several steps before catching his balance.
It was the Class Monitor. She had seized him and pulled him face-to-face, their noses almost brushing.
In the extreme close-up, Kuroha Akira's first, absurdly detached observation was: Her eyelashes are incredibly long.
Her exhale brushed against his skin, a warm, tickling breeze. A faint, floral scent reached him—the legendary 'high school girl scent'? No, that was too virginal a thought. Probably just expensive shampoo.
"Huuuu—!"
"Gah! My eyes!"
Asato Hitomi puffed her cheeks and blew a direct, forceful stream of air into his face. The floral scent intensified, flooding his senses, but the physical impact was on his eyeballs. They stung fiercely. He squeezed them shut, tears welling at the corners from the assault.
"Listen to me. Carefully."
"I'm listening! No need for chemical warfare!"
"Then hear this." Her voice was low, each word precision-cut and ice-cold. "I do not want any disgusting, hormone-brained scum, or any vile, opportunistic sluts, approaching my precious club members with their filthy fantasies. Do I make myself abundantly clear?"
...
When Kuroha Akira reluctantly pried his eyes open, blinking away tears, he was met with Asato Hitomi's utterly ruthless expression. The smile was gone. Vanished. Completely.
Whoa. That's a terrifying gaze. Even the usual gentle curve of her lips had been ironed flat into a severe line.
If the Class Monitor until moments ago was a gentle, storybook princess, the woman before him now was a venom-tongued, sadistic queen.
"If you heard me, you will answer. You said you weren't mute, Kuroha-san."
"Y-Yes! Crystal clear, Class Monitor!" The response was automatic, a survival reflex.
"Excellent."
Asato Hitomi released his collar. Her hands then moved with eerie gentleness—she smoothed the wrinkled fabric of his shirt, her thumb brushing away the tear-tracks from the corners of his eyes. Her palm then wiped the sweat from his brow, a strangely intimate gesture.
Having performed this unsettlingly tender cleanup, she took a graceful step back. Her demeanor shifted again, smooth as a stage transition.
"Now then, shall we continue our discussion, Kuroha-kun?"
The address had softened back to '-kun.' The smile had returned to her lips. But the searing, queenly impression was now permanently branded into Kuroha Akira's psyche.
Do not cross the Class Monitor. Becoming her enemy would be a fate worse than a bad ending.
He wasn't truly afraid of a high school girl, but the sheer whiplash of her transformation demanded his utmost seriousness.
"Class Monitor… you don't want boys with 'impure motives' joining. So all that earlier… was a test?"
"The testing phase concluded earlier," she stated airily. "The moment Kuroha-kun declined my 'special preview,' I understood you were a pervert with… reasonable boundaries."
A pervert with reasonable boundaries. What a spectacularly backhanded compliment. In essence, he'd passed her trust assessment.
And since this trust was the foundation of her recruitment… this was no longer a casual invitation. It was a proposed deal. A transaction.
And if it's a transaction…
A glint returned to Kuroha Akira's eyes, the earlier lethargy burned away by clarified intent. He met her renewed smile with one of his own—sharper, more businesslike.
"Then let's talk about my compensation."