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Kasumigaoka Utaha let out a sigh that seemed to deflate her entire posture. She stared at the back of the boy sitting in front of her—this Leo Vance, who radiated sunshine and confidence like a localized nuclear reactor.
He was willful. Incredibly, frustratingly willful.
Utaha had her own streak of stubbornness, sure. She had fought her editors tooth and nail over plot points in Love Metronome. But Leo? He was in a different league. She would never dream of throwing ten million yen—a literal fortune—at a chaotic, unskilled dreamer like Aki Tomoya just to see what would happen.
"You think I'm crazy, don't you, Senpai?"
Leo didn't even turn around. He reached down, plugged his laptop charger into the floor outlet, and booted up his "Little Black Room" software. The darkness of the interface swallowed the screen.
"Crazy isn't the word I'd use," Utaha muttered, crossing her arms. "Reckless, maybe. Arrogant, definitely. Tomoya has drive, I'll give him that. He dragged my first series back from the brink of cancellation. But drive isn't talent, Leo-kun. This world is cruel. Without skill, enthusiasm is just a fast way to hit a wall."
Leo started typing. Clack-clack-clack. "I know," he said, his voice calm, cutting through the rhythmic noise of the keys. "To most people, burning cash on a guy like Tomoya looks like madness. But hey, if you don't do something stupid while you're young, you turn into a boring adult who regrets everything."
Utaha watched his fingers fly. He wasn't just typing; he was multitasking. He was holding a philosophical debate with her while simultaneously churning out prose at a speed that made her dizzy.
"Tomoya isn't a creator," Utaha pressed, stepping closer. "He's a consumer. A fanboy. Entrusting a project this size to him... you're not planning on seeing a single yen of that investment back, are you?"
She was speaking from experience. Tomoya was a great cheerleader, but he couldn't write, draw, or code. He was a consumer of content, not a producer.
"You never know until you roll the dice," Leo said, his eyes scanning the lines of text forming on the screen. "Besides, I'm not just the money man. I'm the safety net. The game won't fail because I won't let it."
"You?" Utaha raised an eyebrow. "Are you planning to write the script too? The 'proposal' Tomoya showed me was a joke. It was barely a napkin scribble. Turning that into a narrative is going to take a professional."
Leo stopped typing. He swiveled his chair around to face her, a small, confident smirk playing on his lips.
"I haven't properly introduced myself, have I?"
He held up three fingers.
"I'm a jack-of-all-trades, Senpai. A triple threat." He ticked off the first finger. "One: You've seen my writing. I can churn out professional-grade scenario scripts in my sleep."
He ticked the second finger. "Two: I'm a commercial illustrator. I've done commission work that pays better than most salarymen make in a month. My art style is already market-proven."
He ticked the third finger. "Three: Music. I'm classically trained. Grade 10 piano and violin certification from the Royal Schools of Music back in the States. I can compose, arrange, and perform the entire soundtrack. Even if I'm not a concert soloist, I'm miles ahead of any amateur you'll find in a high school band."
Utaha stared at him, her mouth slightly open.
Writing. Art. Music.
It wasn't fair. It simply wasn't fair. One person shouldn't have all that. He was a one-man studio. A human cheat code.
"If... if that's true," Utaha stammered, her composure cracking, "then I don't understand. Why do you need Tomoya? Why do you need us? You could make this game by yourself. Why drag a deadweight like him along?"
Leo turned back to the screen, his fingers resuming their dance across the keys.
"Ever heard the saying, 'Crossing the river by feeling the stones'?" Leo asked. "Tomoya is my stone."
"He's a stone, alright," Utaha muttered. "A sinking one."
"He's a tastemaker," Leo corrected. "I admit, his creative output is zero. But his eye? His eye is professional grade. He consumes so much media that he knows exactly what the hardcore otaku audience wants. He's the perfect critic. The perfect whetstone to sharpen my blade against. If I can make something that shuts him up and makes him cry, I know it'll sell."
"So he's a guinea pig," Utaha summarized.
"He's a partner," Leo said with a shrug. "It's a win-win. He gets his dream game; I get practical experience managing a project without having to do the grunt work of networking."
Utaha shook her head, leaning against the desk. "You really are just a bored rich kid, aren't you? Ten million yen... just to buy a 'critic' and play producer."
Leo laughed, a warm, genuine sound. "Maybe. But here's the difference between me and Tomoya. He tries to scam people into working for 'passion' and 'exposure.' I pay for talent."
He stopped typing again and looked her dead in the eye. The air in the room seemed to shift, becoming heavier, more serious.
"So, Kasumigaoka Utaha... or should I say, Kasumi Utako-sensei... I'm formally inviting you to join the team. Come play games with us."
"Are you serious?" Utaha asked, feeling a strange flutter in her chest. "You want me to join this circus?"
"With me as the ringmaster, it won't be a circus," Leo promised. "And unlike Tomoya, I don't expect you to work for free. We can talk about revenue sharing later, but for now? I'm offering a monthly retainer."
He held up seven fingers.
"Seven hundred thousand yen a month," Leo said calmly. "Just to be the lead scenario writer. That's your base pay. Bonuses are separate."
Utaha froze.
Seven hundred thousand yen. That was roughly five thousand U.S. dollars. A month.
That wasn't a stipend. That was a salary. It was more than what senior editors at major publishing houses made. It was absurd money for a high school student writing a dating sim script.
"Leo-kun..." Utaha's voice trembled slightly. "That's... that's insane. That's higher than a corporate executive's starting salary. You can't just throw that kind of money at me before I've even written a word."
"I believe in you, Senpai," Leo said, his voice smooth and unwavering. "And honestly? I'm buying your loyalty. I have other games I want to make after this one—bigger, darker, more complex projects. I need a writer who can handle deep psychological narratives. The descriptive skill I lack? You have it in spades. I'm paying a premium to lock you down early."
Utaha felt a flush rise to her cheeks. It wasn't just the money—though the money was staggering—it was the validation. He wasn't just paying for a script; he was investing in her. He saw the value in her "purple prose" that others called tedious.
She took a deep breath, trying to regain her dignity as the school's aloof beauty.
"While I'm... flattered that you value me so highly," Utaha said, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear, "seven hundred thousand is ridiculous. It's unprofessional to take that much without delivering a masterpiece."
She looked away, her pride warring with her logic.
"Five hundred thousand," she countered softly. "And even that feels like robbery."
Leo grinned. She's negotiating herself down. God, I love this girl.
"Deal," Leo said. "Five hundred thousand yen a month. Welcome to the team, Utaha."