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Leo didn't look back, but he could feel the weight of Utaha's gaze on the back of his neck like a physical touch.
Lately, he'd been deep-diving into psychology—not the dry, academic stuff, but the grit and grime of human behavioral patterns. Between the NZT-48 and his status as a "traveler," his perspective on women, especially the "unattainable" ones, had shifted drastically. Back in Seattle, a girl like Utaha would have made his pulse skyrocket and his palms sweat. Now? He felt a strange, cold detachment.
He had a "god-complex" in the making, and honestly, it was working for him. He looked at these legendary anime heroines and didn't see goddesses; he saw characters. He saw variables in a script he was currently rewriting. This psychological edge allowed him to remain perfectly composed, his heartbeat steady as a ticking clock even with one of the most beautiful girls in the world breathing down his neck.
She's a masterpiece, sure, Leo thought, his eyes tracking the scrolling white text on his dark screen. The wine-red eyes, the raven hair that looks like it belongs in a high-end commercial, the legs that seem to go on forever... in the 'real' world, she'd be an untouchable icon. But here? She's just a writer who's hit a wall, looking at a guy who's already cleared the horizon.
Utaha had been reading over his shoulder for a while now. He could tell she was struggling to keep up with his output. His typing speed was bordering on the supernatural.
The story he was weaving was a dark, epic reimagining of a "world-conquest" scenario. While most light novels in this world focused on a soft-hearted hero slowly gaining power, Leo's work felt more like The Lord of the Rings—if the story were told entirely from Sauron's perspective. It was grim, it was grand, and it was shot through with a vein of cynical, dark humor that felt almost alien to the Japanese market. It was a realistic absurdity; a world where the "villain" didn't monologue—he just optimized.
Leo's fingers suddenly went still. The silence that followed the frantic clacking of his mechanical keyboard was deafening.
In just over two hours, he'd hammered out nearly 20,000 words. Most light novel authors took a month to do that. He'd just outpaced "The Human Typewriter" Kamachi Kazuma without even breaking a sweat.
"It's... interesting," Utaha's voice finally broke the silence. Her voice was like velvet, but there was an edge of hesitation in it. "Incredibly dark, bordering on the morbid, but I can't deny the pull. From a reader's perspective, it's a page-turner."
As a professional, Utaha rarely gave out compliments. Most writers were fueled by a healthy dose of ego and a secret disdain for everyone else's work. To her, most light novels were "junk food"—salty, cheap, and forgettable. But Leo's prose? It had weight. It had soul.
"The ethics committee would have a field day with this, though," she added, her wine-red eyes narrowing as she looked at a particularly brutal paragraph about the protagonist's lack of mercy. "They'd probably reject it on sight for 'disturbing content.'"
Leo turned his chair slowly, meeting her gaze. Up close, she was even more striking—the kind of beauty that felt "sharp," like a finely honed blade.
"Isn't 'interesting' the only metric that matters?" Leo asked, a faint, lopsided grin crossing his face. "People watch horror movies and true crime because they want to feel something other than the beige boredom of daily life. If it's extreme, it just means it's honest."
He looked at her, and for a second, he allowed himself to appreciate the view. She was stunning—easily more beautiful than any celebrity he'd seen back home. But he didn't let that appreciation turn into subservience.
"I'm Leo Vance," he said, offering a casual nod. "I'm the new guy in the club. Just a transfer student trying to find a quiet place to work."
"A newcomer..." Utaha mused, her gaze lingering on his face a second too long. "The Literature Club hasn't had anyone new in months. But I get it now. Judging by what you just wrote, you're not here for the social hour. You're a writer with a very... specific voice."
Leo didn't linger. He knew the "Sycophant Trap." Most guys, when faced with a girl like Utaha, would try to extend the conversation as long as possible. They'd become "yes-men," hoping that by being helpful and present, they'd eventually earn a scrap of affection.
Strategy over instinct, Leo reminded himself.
He reached out and shut down his laptop, the screen flickering to black. He began packing his gear into his bag with deliberate, efficient movements. He had made his impression. He'd shown her the talent, the speed, and the "Alpha" indifference. If he stayed now, he'd just be another guy orbiting her. By leaving, he became a mystery.
"That's a bit too much praise for a first draft, Senior," Leo said, swinging his bag over his shoulder. He stood up, his height once again casting a shadow over the desk. "I'll see you around."
He turned toward the front of the room, raising a hand in a wave to Rin. "Later, President. Thanks for the desk."
He walked out the door, his footsteps echoing in the hallway, leaving a vacuum of silence behind him.
Utaha stood there for a long moment, staring at the empty seat. She tilted her head, a strand of black hair falling over her shoulder. She felt... frustrated? No, that wasn't it. She felt curious. This junior didn't look at her with the usual mix of lust and fear. He looked at her like a colleague—or maybe even a rival.
Rin stepped up beside her, a mischievous glint in her eyes. "Well, well. What's wrong, Utaha-chan? Did our new 'Global Talent' finally find a way to stun the Ice Queen into silence?"
"Don't start, Rin-senpai," Utaha said, though she didn't look away from the doorway. "Jokes like that are for private. As for the junior... I'm just interested in his prose. Nothing more."
"Oh? 'Interested,' she says," Rin laughed, nudging Utaha with her elbow. "You never say you're interested in anyone's work unless you're planning on dissecting it—or them."
Utaha let out a long, weary sigh. Rin was one of the few people she actually respected. Rin might not have the "genius" spark for writing that Utaha possessed, but her knowledge of the industry and her sheer volume of reading made her a formidable critic. She was also the only person Utaha called a "friend" in this building.
"He's just... different," Utaha muttered, her mind replaying the way Leo had looked when he was typing. He hadn't been a boy at a computer. He'd been a force of nature. "He's got a maturity that doesn't fit his age. And that story... it's going to cause a problem."
"A good problem or a bad one?" Rin asked.
Utaha finally looked back at her friend, a strange, small smile playing on her lips. "The kind of problem that changes the industry. I want to see if he can actually finish it."
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