For a long, suspended moment, Kuroha Akira could only stare. His mind, usually a whirlwind of calculation and scheming, had gone utterly, blissfully blank. It was the girl, her pale finger waving gently before his eyes like a metronome, that finally called his wandering soul back to its earthly vessel.
"Did I… dazzle you?" she asked, her voice laced with a trace of something almost like playful curiosity.
"Uh…"
Returning to his senses, Akira felt a flicker of self-consciousness. With his vast, reincarnated experience, to be so thoroughly captivated by a simple, expressionless face was… unprecedented.
I've been had, he thought, a wry internal chuckle escaping him.
The natural, unadorned purity of a schoolgirl—that lily-like freshness untouched by the world's grime—truly held a power far beyond the practiced allure of more "seasoned" women. It was no mystery why men chased youth; they were chasing a feeling, a memory of light they feared they'd lost forever.
Rather than hide his his lapse, Akira chose the path of bold, unabashed honesty.
"I was, completely," he admitted, a genuine note of appreciation in his voice. "For someone of your beauty, a smile is the ultimate secret weapon. Especially when you normally maintain such a cool, collected aura. That contrast—like pristine snow suddenly catching the morning sun—leaves a devastating impression. It was masterful. Honestly, if I hadn't been stunned into a statue, I would have pulled out my phone to capture it. It would make a perfect wallpaper."
"U-uh… Th-thank you?"
The directness and intensity of the praise left her flustered. Her usual composure, which allowed her to deflect generic compliments with ease, faltered under this specific, vivid appreciation. The words "devastating impression" and "perfect wallpaper" echoed in her mind, making her more visibly nervous than the one who had delivered them. Her thanks came out as a shaky, questioning murmur.
Akira tilted his head, genuinely curious. "You must hear compliments on your looks all the time, right? Why does this still fluster you?"
Avoiding his gaze, she looked toward the rustling leaves of a nearby zelkova tree. "I… don't often smile in front of others," she confessed softly. "And people… aren't usually this direct. They don't describe it."
"I see."
Now that he thought about it, she was right. In the nuanced dance of social interaction, people rarely launched such a full-frontal aesthetic assault. More common were polite, indirect nods—"You look nice today," or simply addressing her as "beauty." Those were safer, wrapped in layers of implication.
A direct "You are devastatingly beautiful" laid one's cards on the table: I am captivated by you, and I am stating it plainly. It risked being labeled as forward, or even creepy.
She'll be drowning in praise soon enough, he mused. She must learn to swim in it, not sink. To hear the words but also listen for the currents beneath.
"You'll need to grow accustomed to accepting compliments," he said, his tone shifting to that of a mentor. "But more importantly, you must learn to discern the intent behind them. Not all praise is born of admiration. Some is a tool, a hook."
"I… understand that much," she replied, her voice firming slightly. "I'll get used to it."
"Good." He then scratched the back of his head, a slightly sheepish gesture. "Though, part of my daze just now was also because of your words. For a second there, I genuinely wondered if it was a confession."
He said it lightly, without a trace of actual arrogance. He wasn't so deluded as to believe he could inspire such feelings so quickly. It was more a reflection on the dangerously ambiguous way modern high school girls could speak. His own class representative was a prime example of someone who could casually utter lines fit for a romance anime.
The black-haired girl fell silent, her gaze lowering to her own shadow on the pavement.
A confession…?
Were those words a confession? Even she couldn't say for sure. But they were undeniably, unequivocally true. They were the raw, unvarnished sentiments of her heart, things she had never voiced to anyone—not even to her family. The realization of what she had actually said now crashed over her like a cold wave.
'You can transform me into anything you wish…''I am yours…'
GYAAAAAAAAAH! What in the world did I just say?! What kind of shameless, protagonist-level line was that?!
Internally, she was a screaming, crimson-faced mess, a chorus of mental shrieks filling her skull. Externally, she channeled every ounce of her rising acting proficiency into forging a mask of icy calm. Her face settled into its default, unreadable state.
"You're one to talk," she countered, her voice deliberately cool. "Didn't you say something just as easily misunderstood?"
"Hm? Oh, you mean the 'half my life' part?"
"Yes."
That wasn't just 'easily misunderstood'—it was a marriage proposal in a five-word package! 'Half of my life'? That's a lifetime commitment! Anyone with ears would jump to conclusions! Her mind raged, even as her expression remained flawlessly serene, her acting skill ticking upward unseen.
Kuroha Akira, however, nodded with complete earnestness. "It wasn't an exaggeration. From the moment you decided to entrust your future to me, I effectively became your Producer. The planning and management of your career will fall to me, and that career will constitute a major portion of your adult life. Hence, 'half of your life.' It's quite literal."
"Producer…?"
"Exactly. So, you can call me 'P-san' from now on." He mimicked adjusting a necktie, striking a faux-professional pose, though his experience with business suits was nearly nonexistent.
His previous life in a game company had been a world of hoodies and, on particularly brutal crunch-time nights, pajamas worn straight into the office to greet the dawn. The memory of seeing the Shanghai Bund at 4 AM, bleary-eyed in sleepwear, was a bitter testament to a life he'd vowed never to relive.
This time, he swore to himself, I'll be the one holding the leash, not chasing it. I will cultivate this ultimate gem into a top-tier talent! I am the Idol Master!
The girl, however, did not humor his 'P-san' performance. She merely leveled a cool, expectant look at him, silently urging him to continue.
"As for the other half of your life," he went on, dropping the act, "that's your private domain. Hobbies, travel, gourmet food, raising a cat or a dog… do whatever you like in your personal time. Just try to avoid paparazzi. I, for my part, will make it a principle not to interfere."
So that's what he meant… The realization brought a wave of quiet shame for her own misinterpretation. She resolved internally to fortify her mind against being so easily swayed by his phrasing.
"Well," Akira added, his tone turning pragmatic, "unless, of course, your private actions threaten your public image. Then I'd have to step in. Which leads me to a preliminary question." He met her eyes directly, his expression suddenly serious. "Are you a virgin?"
"...What?"
The girl's brows knitted instantly. The calm she'd just painstakingly assembled shattered. Her internal world, which had just settled from a typhoon into a light drizzle, was now hit by a meteor.
Why is he asking that?! What kind of question is that?! Does he… does he have those kinds of designs on me?! On my… body?!
Sensing the sudden spike in defensive tension, Akira raised both hands in a placating gesture. "It's fine if you don't wish to answer. But remember this: if you are ever asked this question in the future, you must find a way to imply that you are, and that you have zero romantic experience. Understand?"
"…Why?" The word was icy, forged from a mix of embarrassment and rising indignation.
"Because the image I'm crafting for you is that of a 'Pure, Ice-Cold Goddess.'"
"Pure… Ice-Cold Goddess?"
"Correct. We want the public to perceive you as untouchable, inviolable, a figure of pristine distance. The foundational impression must be 'clean.' Even for a voice actor who remains faceless, this aura clings to the voice itself. It creates a specific, valuable quality in the listener's mind and significantly broadens your appeal."
He didn't voice the darker, more manipulative half of the reasoning: that such pristine purity paradoxically invited defilement in the public imagination. A goddess untouched stirred a potent mix of reverence and a secret, possessive desire.
'Maybe I could be the one,' that dangerous fantasy whispered. Idols, after all, were merchants of dreams, and the cleanest canvas allowed for the most vivid projections.
"Therefore, in the public eye, you must be a virgin. And you must remain one until the day you retire."
The clinical, strategic way he laid it out drained some of the personal heat from the question. She took a slow, steadying breath, forcing her performer's discipline to the forefront.
"I understand," she stated, her voice flat. "I am a virgin."
"Good, that's the fact," Akira said, then held up a correcting finger. "But the delivery needs work. Don't state it so bluntly. A little shyness, a touch of fluster—that's the ideal."
She closed her eyes for a second, gathering herself. When she opened them, she looked slightly to the side, a faint, barely-there blush gracing her cheeks—a masterpiece of micro-expression.
"I… I don't have any experience in that area… yet," she murmured, the hesitation artful, the pause perfectly placed.
"Yes! Exactly that! Perfect!" Kuroha Akira nodded, a satisfied smile gracing his lips. His pupil was a quick study.
Meanwhile, the black-haired girl maintained her porcelain composure, even as her soul cringed and writhed in utter mortification. She had just had to explicitly confirm and then perform her virginity in front of this boy. And the most frustrating, humiliating cornerstone of it all was the undeniable, simple truth:
She really, truly was a virgin.