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Leo leaned forward, his eyes scanning the digital manuscript on the screen. The room was silent save for the hum of the cooling fan and the soft, rhythmic tapping of Utaha's foot against the leg of her chair.
He was reading fast—his NZT-enhanced brain absorbing paragraphs in seconds—but he wasn't skimming. He was analyzing.
Love Metronome was... intense.
If Leo's writing was architectural—focused on structure, pacing, and the "engine" of the plot—Utaha's writing was like drowning in a sea of silk and perfume. It was dense, emotional, and incredibly atmospheric. She didn't just describe a scene; she described how the light hitting a coffee cup made the protagonist feel about her unrequited love.
It was "purple prose," sure, but it was the high-end kind. The kind that won awards.
"Wow," Leo murmured, scrolling to the end of a particularly heart-wrenching chapter. "I could never write like this. It's delicate. It's like surgery with a feather."
He made a point to comment aloud every few pages, offering sharp, specific critiques. "The dialogue here is snappy, but the internal monologue drags the pacing. It works for the mood, though." Or, "This metaphor is brilliant, but you use it twice in three pages."
Utaha sat beside him, her posture rigid. She had expected polite praise or amateurish confusion. Instead, she was getting a masterclass autopsy of her work. Leo's feedback was precise, cutting through the fluff and hitting the core mechanics of her writing. It was more insightful than anything her actual editor had told her in months.
It took Leo about an hour to finish the first volume. He leaned back, stretching his neck until it cracked.
"Verdict?" Utaha whispered, her voice tight.
"It's a golden opener," Leo said honestly. "The quality is undeniable. I'm actually going to buy a physical copy for my shelf when I get the chance. This is the kind of story that justifies the cover price."
He turned to face her. "But I can see the cracks, Senpai. You front-load the emotion. It's exhausting to read—in a good way—but keeping that energy up for five volumes? That's a nightmare."
Utaha let out a long breath, her shoulders sagging. "You noticed. I put my soul into volume one. I researched everything. But because I started at such a high peak, everything that followed was just... a slide downhill. The structure collapsed."
"The Sophomore Slump," Leo nodded. "It happens to the best of us."
"It was more than a slump," Utaha said, a bitter smile twisting her lips. "Total sales were around 500,000 copies. Sounds great, right? But the breakdown is a horror story. Volume 1 sold 170,000. Volume 2 sold 120,000. By the time we hit Volume 5? We were moving 40,000 copies."
Leo winced. "Ouch. That's not a decline; that's a stock market crash."
"Exactly," Utaha said, staring at the floor. "By the second volume, the plot had wandered off into the woods because I let the characters do whatever they wanted. The reviews turned toxic. People said I'd run out of talent—that I was a one-hit wonder."
"Jiang Lang's talent running dry," Leo quoted the old idiom, nodding. "It's a brutal industry."
"It was supposed to be canceled after Volume 2," Utaha admitted, her voice barely audible. "But... a certain junior from this school stepped in. He made a huge fuss online, rallied a fanbase, and convinced the publisher to give me another shot. That's the only reason I got to finish it at all."
Leo smirked. "Aki Tomoya?"
Utaha looked up, surprised. "You know Aki-kun?"
"I know of him," Leo corrected, closing the document window. "And I know he's currently running around like a headless chicken trying to build a 'dream team' for a dating sim."
Utaha rolled her eyes, the 'Ice Queen' mask sliding back into place. "His 'dream.' It's a joke. He has passion, I'll give him that, but he has zero planning skills. He thinks enthusiasm is a currency. You can't build a game on hype alone."
"I know," Leo said, leaning back and lacing his fingers behind his head. "That's why I just invested ten million yen in his company."
The silence that followed was absolute.
Utaha stared at him. She blinked once, twice. She looked at his relaxed posture, his expensive watch, his calm smile.
"Excuse me?" she said, her voice flat. "Did you say... ten million?"
"Yep. Sent the wire transfer over lunch," Leo said casually. "I'm the angel investor. Official partner."
Utaha looked at him like he had just grown a second head. She couldn't decide if he was the stupidest person she had ever met or simply insane. Ten million yen was a life-changing amount of money for a high schooler. It was a down payment on a house. And he had thrown it at Aki Tomoya?
"Why?" she finally managed to choke out. "Whatever potential you see in him... it's not worth that kind of risk. You're lighting money on fire."
"Maybe," Leo shrugged, his blue eyes twinkling with amusement. "But I'm not exactly hurting for cash. Think of it as... buying a front-row ticket to the show. I want to make games, too, but my real dream is way too big for a solo dev. Sponsoring Tomoya lets me play in the sandbox without getting dirty."
He leaned in, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Besides, Senior... making games is romantic, isn't it? Even if it crashes and burns, at least it'll be an interesting disaster."
Utaha stared at him, unable to process the sheer, casual arrogance of his wealth. To her, ten million yen was a terrifying responsibility. To Leo, it was the price of admission for a hobby.
He's crazy, she thought, a strange thrill running through her. He's absolutely out of his mind. And he writes like a demon.
She realized then that Leo Vance wasn't just a talented writer. He was a chaotic variable. And for a girl who was bored with her own predictable decline, chaos was incredibly attractive.