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"Alright, Tomoya. Let's talk roster," Leo said, leaning back in his chair, his blue pencil tapping a rhythmic beat against the desk. "If I'm dropping ten million yen on this, I need to know who we're hiring. You said you had candidates?"
Aki Tomoya hesitated, his hands gripping his knees. The weight of the investment was a physical pressure in the room. He had planned to ease into this, maybe trick Eriri into joining first, but money talked. And ten million yen screamed.
"I've... I've got two names," Tomoya admitted, his voice gaining strength as he realized he didn't have to lie anymore. "They're both students here, but they're exceptional."
"Students?" Leo raised an eyebrow, feigning skepticism. "I thought we were building a professional studio, not a high school club."
"Hear me out!" Tomoya leaned in, desperate to sell his vision. "First is Eriri Spencer Sawamura, Class 2-G. She's the ace of the Art Club and basically a prodigy. She's already secured a spot at the Tokyo University of the Arts, but more importantly... she's the artist behind Egoistic-Lily, a famous doujin circle. Her line work is incredible, and she understands the market."
Leo nodded slowly, keeping his face neutral. "Okay. And the writer?"
"Kasumigaoka Utaha. Class 3-C," Tomoya said the name with a mix of reverence and fear. "She's the top student in the school, maybe in the district. But she's also the author of Koisuru Metronome, a light novel that sold over half a million copies. Her prose is... it's intoxicating. She's perfect for the scenario."
Leo let out a low whistle. "A prodigy artist and a bestselling author. You aim high, Tomoya. I respect that."
He leaned forward, his expression sharpening into the cold, calculating look of a venture capitalist. "But here's the deal. I trust your taste, but I don't trust reputations. I need to vet them personally. If they're going to be on my payroll—and yes, if they're good, I will pay them actual salaries—I need to know they can handle the workload. I'm not running a charity for talented flakes."
Tomoya's face flushed. The mention of salaries hit him hard. He had been planning to exploit their feelings to get free labor, a strategy that now felt grimy and amateurish compared to Leo's professional approach. With Leo's backing, he didn't have to be a scam artist; he could be a producer.
"You... you'd pay them?" Tomoya stammered.
"Standard industry rates," Leo said with a shrug. "Talent costs money. If you pay peanuts, you get monkeys. I don't want monkeys building my game."
Leo watched the relief wash over Tomoya. Hook set deeper, he thought. Now for the lock.
"Do you have a bank account, Tomoya?"
"Uh, yeah. My parents set one up for my part-time jobs."
"Good." Leo pulled out his smartphone, tapping the screen with his thumb. "I'm transferring the seed money during lunch. Ten million yen. I'll have a contract drawn up by tomorrow for the formal partnership, but I want the capital available immediately so we don't stall."
Tomoya looked at him, wide-eyed and trembling. "Leo-kun... are you serious? You trust me that much? What if I... what if I just took the money and ran?"
Leo paused, his thumb hovering over the 'Send' button. He looked up, and for a second, the warm, sunny "American exchange student" mask slipped. His eyes were cold, hard chips of ice.
"Tomoya," Leo said, his voice dropping to a terrifyingly calm whisper. "You can run. But in this digital age? You can't hide. And trust me... I have friends who are very good at finding lost things."
He smiled, and the warmth returned instantly, leaving Tomoya wondering if he'd imagined the threat. "But I know you're a man of honor. Besides, why steal ten million when you can help me make a hundred million?"
Ding.
Tomoya's phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out, staring at the notification from his banking app. The number was so long it didn't fit on one line.
+10,000,000 JPY.
Tomoya slumped back in his chair, a giddy, terrified smile plastered on his face. He looked like a man who had just won the lottery and sold his soul in the same transaction.
Leo turned back to the window, watching the clouds drift over the Tokyo skyline.
Checkmate, he thought.
The power dynamic had shifted permanently. Tomoya thought he had just found a benefactor, but in reality, he had just been demoted. He wasn't the leader anymore; he was the project manager. The "glue" that held the circle together was no longer Tomoya's passion—it was Leo's money and Leo's will.
After School: The Literature Club
Leo didn't rush to find Eriri. The "Tsundere Princess" required a different kind of siege warfare. Instead, he headed straight for the Literature Club.
The room was bathed in the same golden afternoon light as before. The smell of old paper and floor wax was comforting. Leo walked in, offering a casual nod to Takashiro Rin, the club president, who beamed at him from her desk.
He deliberately didn't look at the corner.
Kasumigaoka Utaha was sitting there, her posture rigid. She had stopped typing the moment he walked in. For the last twenty-four hours, she had been stewing in a mix of frustration and curiosity, waiting for him to return.
Leo walked to his spot near the door, sat down, and pulled out his heavy laptop. He plugged in his mechanical keyboard with a definitive click.
He could feel Utaha's gaze boring into the side of his head. She was nervous. The "Ice Queen," who usually treated men like furniture, was actually anxious about whether he would talk to her.
Let her wait, Leo decided. Anticipation is the best spice.
He opened his "Little Black Room" software and dove back into his manuscript. He was halfway through the first volume, but he was stuck on the title.
The protagonist was a monster—a true villain with a twisted moral compass that made Overlord's Ainz Ooal Gown look like a guidance counselor. Yet, the tone was laced with a dark, biting humor, a sort of nihilistic stand-up routine performed over the graves of heroes.
"It needs to be catchy," Leo muttered to himself, his fingers hovering over the keys. "Something that sounds like a light novel but hints at the rot underneath."
He thought about the tone—absurdist, cruel, but undeniably funny in a Deadpool meets American Psycho kind of way.
The Demon King is Speaking Rakugo Today Too? No, too Japanese. Too traditional.
The Villain's Stand-Up Comedy? Closer.
He typed out a new working title: "The Demon King delivers the Punchline (And It's Fatal)."
It fit. The protagonist treated the world's resistance like a heckler at a comedy club—something to be roasted and destroyed for the audience's amusement.
He started typing, the clack-clack-clack of his keyboard filling the silence of the room. He was conscious of every keystroke, knowing that Utaha was listening to the rhythm, trying to decipher the chaotic genius behind the noise.
He had the money. He had the team (technically). And now, he had the undivided attention of the school's greatest writer. Everything was proceeding exactly according to the script.
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