The alarm buzzed at 7:18 a.m., just early enough to panic, just late enough to not care.
I groaned and shifted on the bean bag, every vertebra in my back popping like bubble wrap. I'd dragged it close to the kotatsu last night, pulled the blanket down from the table and wrapped it around myself like a makeshift bedroll, letting the heat lull me to sleep. Worked like a charm… until the heater cut out after midnight, leaving the blanket cold and my body mildly betrayed.
Across the room, my futon was folded neatly by the wall, blanket stacked on top, corners perfectly aligned. Senna must've done it before she left. That was her way of saying thanks, a little domestic gesture in exchange for stealing my bed again.
A few of her hair ties were still scattered across the kotatsu, abandoned like sleeping familiars she forgot to summon back. One of her socks was still there, draped over the chair like a flag of victory, a quiet reminder she probably treats my apartment like a second closet.
It looked like she'd tried to tidy more. A tea cup had been rinsed and left to dry, and someone had at least stacked the plates from dinner, but the effort stopped halfway. The cushion she sat on was still lopsided, and a curry-smeared spoon had rolled under the kotatsu like it was hiding from responsibility.
She probably ran out of time and had to bolt.
I could picture it now, brushing her hair with one hand, stuffing her books into her tote with the other, muttering curses at her alarm as she yanked her hoodie over her head and sprinted out the door with toast in her mouth.
The apartment was still. Quiet. Winter light filtered in through the curtains, painting the floor in muted gold. I could still smell her shampoo, that lemony brand she always overused, clinging faintly to the air outside the bathroom.
She was already gone. Probably halfway to campus by now.
I dragged myself upright and shuffled into the bathroom, toothbrush already in hand, because autopilot is a beautiful thing. A splash of water to the face, half a squeeze of mint paste, and just like that, I was one step closer to pretending I had my life together.
When I stepped back into the main room, the note on the fridge caught my eye.
"I took your umbrella. Don't be dramatic.
Clean the dishes. — Senpai"
Of course she did.
I sighed around the toothbrush still wedged in my mouth and turned toward the sink, where last night's dishes sat untouched: quiet remnants of a dinner that ended too late and a cleanup that never came. One plate had soy sauce crusted like dried blood on a shield. A bowl balanced precariously on top like a discarded helmet. Chopsticks leaned against the edge like spears left behind after a skirmish.
I considered walking away. Just... not dealing with it.
But then the guilt settled in, slow and heavy, and I shuffled over with another sigh, toothbrush bobbing with every half-hearted grumble.
I grabbed the sponge.
Or no, not a sponge. A rag, coarse and worn, smelling faintly of citrus and old ale, its frayed edges soaked with lukewarm water from the copper basin I leaned over. Steam curled around my wrists as I scrubbed, foam bubbling between my fingers.
Outside the window, mist clung to the treetops, pale and silent.
A dirt path wound its way past the cabin, where morning light filtered through towering cedars, their branches swaying in rhythm with a wind that hummed like an old tune. My breath fogged faintly against the warped glass pane, framed by iron hinges, and for a moment I forgot what I'd even been doing.
"So how do you start a club…?"
"You'd need someone in charge to approve it. A teacher? Nah, too slow. Principal? Please, that guy's already halfway retired. The Student Council President then…"
"What was her name again…?"
"Right. Iroha."
The name echoed softly.
Outside, two kids darted past the window, wooden swords clashing as they yelled out spell names that didn't exist. A woman hung linens on a line, humming something soft. Chickens strutted past her boots like feathered nobles on parade.
I rinsed the basin, dried my hands on the linen towel beside the door, and pulled my traveler's cloak from the hook. My satchel was already slung over one shoulder: worn leather, scuffed buckles, faint runes scratched into its strap from years of imaginary use.
I pulled up my hood and stepped out.
The village was alive.
A few stalls were already set up along the road, their canvas roofs flapping gently in the breeze. The herbalist's table held bundles of lavender and drying moss. The air was thick with the scent of roasted chestnuts, a hunched old man tending to them over a brazier, flicking them with tongs like they might bite back.
Further ahead, the market square unfurled before me.
Trinkets glittered across velvet cloth: vials that shimmered with swirling color, rings that hummed softly when held, feathers that refused to fall no matter how far they were dropped. A baker pulled steaming loaves from a clay oven, dusting each one with sugar and herbs. I could smell honey and citrus in the air. A young bard sat at the edge of the fountain, tuning a stringed lute and humming a song that felt like it belonged in every story I'd never told.
I walked the cobblestone street in silence, boots light, thoughts heavy.
People passed. I nodded. They smiled. It all felt familiar, like I'd been here before in another dream, another timeline, another draft.
"Every guild needs a master. Suppose that's me."
But even in fantasy, one player doesn't make a party.
I pictured the table in my mind: quest map laid out, dice in the center, chairs waiting. All of them empty.
Even if I did manage to start this club… who's going to sit there?
My build isn't exactly geared for social encounters. Whatever charm I have, it's not the kind that rallies a whole guild. But maybe, just maybe, I've got enough in me to convince one person to join.
But whoever they were, they'd have to do the heavy lifting. Someone with presence. With pull. The kind of person who walks into a room and makes people want to stay.
I don't need a fighter. Not yet. Nor a wizard.
A bard, maybe. Someone whose voice alone could turn strangers into allies. The kind of charisma that builds a party before the quest even begins.
I was still lost in it, picturing the guild growing, new voices, new paths, a party slowly taking shape—
HONK!
The world snapped in half.
I flinched, nearly stumbling into the middle of the crosswalk as the small delivery truck screeched to a stop just meters from my knees. The driver slammed the horn again and cursed something I didn't quite catch.
The village dissolved.
Cobblestone turned to concrete, mist into exhaust, and the scent of hearth bread was ripped away by rain-soaked metal and cigarette ash. The enchanted trinkets were just plastic phone charms spinning in a cracked display rack. The bard was a kid with wireless earbuds and a bent umbrella.
I was back.
In a hoodie that clung damply to my shoulders. With a backpack that dug into my spine. And a toothbrush still in my mouth.
I bowed stiffly to the truck driver and retreated to the safety of the sidewalk.
"Mental note," I muttered, yanking the toothbrush free, "don't daydream in traffic."
The rain picked up. The street lights flickered overhead.
Up ahead, the gates of Kitagawa High waited.
And through those glass doors... the next phase of my quest.
I glanced once more at the truck driving off and smirked.
"I've watched enough anime to know that if I did get hit, I'd wake up in that village for real... probably as a slime."
But this wasn't an anime.
It was just Monday.
And I had homeroom.
Rain clung to my sleeves as I stepped into the main building, just minutes before the real downpour started. Warm air curled around the collar of my hoodie, but the fabric was already half-soaked, courtesy of Senna, who'd "borrowed" my umbrella again without asking. I tugged it off with a sigh, shaking out the damp sleeves before slinging it over my arm. Every step let out a soft squeak against the polished floor.
Third floor. Room 3-B. Twenty minutes, four staircases, and just enough hallway traffic to make it feel like a side quest before homeroom.
The hallway buzzed with that early morning energy: half-awake conversations, the soft slam of locker doors, the rustle of uniforms. I kept my head low and pace steady, navigating the chatter like a rogue slipping past a tavern brawl. No one really looked twice. They never did.
I slid open the classroom door just before the bell.
Twenty-six students. I was number twenty-five.
My desk was in the back, third row from the window, second to last. The perfect spot for a daydreamer. Close enough to the light, far enough from responsibility.
Homeroom hadn't started yet, but the usual characters had already taken their positions.
The two gacha addicts were arguing over whose roll luck was better. Again.
The guy who always smelled faintly like coffee was asleep at his desk, already snoring.
A couple of girls near the front were comparing notes with the urgency of an upcoming quiz.
And then... her.
The girl that didn't move much. One row ahead of mine. Same side. Just far enough that we'd never exchanged a word.
She was quiet. The kind of quiet that didn't come from shyness, but from distance. Like her thoughts were in another place entirely, and you weren't invited.
Her hair was long, platinum blonde, and somehow managed to look both wild and brushed at the same time. It spilled down her back, ending just past the curve of her waist, with a few loose strands curling near her collar. I could never tell if it was dyed. The color was too clean. Too… unreal.
She didn't fidget. Didn't slouch. Just sat there with her hands folded neatly on her desk, eyes fixed on the front board as if class had already begun.
If the classroom was a battlefield, she was the mage perched on the high ground: untouched, unbothered, and definitely not taking requests.
I tried not to stare, but something about her made it hard to look away.
Not just because she was beautiful (she was, in that strange, effortless way), but because she felt out of place. Like she belonged in a fantasy novel more than a science test.
A flicker of movement.
She bent forward, reaching into her school bag beside her desk.
And that's when I saw just a bit more than I meant to — the way her blouse pressed as she leaned, the soft, fair line of skin barely visible as her collar shifted. Nothing scandalous, just enough to catch my attention in that way I hated myself for. I immediately looked away, guilt rising like a cursed debuff.
Then, the sound of something clattering.
A mechanical pencil hit the floor, bounced once off her shoe, and curved across the tile.
I was just passing her desk, on my way to mine, when it slid to a stop, perfectly aligned with the toe of my shoe.
I bent down to grab it, just as she turned in her seat to retrieve it herself.
Our fingers brushed.
Her hand was cold. Not sickly. Just cold, like moonlight pressed against skin.
She looked up, and our eyes met.
Silver-gray. Still and deep. The kind of color you didn't just look at, you fell into. Like the sky just before it breaks, or a dream you're not ready to wake up from.
She didn't blink. Didn't look away.
And for a moment, neither did I.
Everything else, the classroom, the noise, the day, blurred at the edges.
I forgot to breathe.
"You have a toothbrush in your pocket."
I blinked, looked down... and wanted to die.
There it was. Peeking out of my shirt pocket like some tragic accessory. I grabbed it quickly, clenching it in my palm like I could erase its existence by holding it tight enough.
A pause.
"You still have my pencil," she added.
"Oh. Right," I muttered, heat rushing to my face. Still flustered, I stretched out my hand... the wrong hand. The toothbrush hand.
Silence.
I froze. Then, panicked, switched hands and offered the actual pencil.
She took it wordlessly, the gesture so clean and unceremonious it somehow made it worse.
And I slipped into my seat behind her, toothbrush still in hand, dignity left somewhere near the floor tiles between us.
"Definitely a high INT stat. Possibly multiclassed into something dangerous."
"Ice Mage. Or cursed princess sealed in her human form."
I flipped open my notebook and tried to look busy. Not that I was going to write anything. But idle hands invite eye contact. And I wasn't ready for round two.
The bell rang.
Hazumi-sensei shuffled in, tie already off-center, holding a stack of ungraded tests like they personally offended him.
Yamada... Hoshino... Morisaki…"
The voice came soft and even from the desk ahead, smooth and steady, like it had never once stumbled over a word.
"Present."
I didn't say anything. Just listened.
The day had barely begun.
I sat hunched over my desk, trying to make the handwriting on my proposal sheet look like it belonged to someone who had their life together.
I'd spent the last twenty minutes erasing and rewriting the same sentence over and over:
"To create a community built on shared narrative experience, tactical collaboration, and—"
I sighed and scratched it out again.
Too much. Too formal. Too weird. Too... me.
Eventually, I gave up and scrawled out a rough draft of the club name at the top:
Tabletop Roleplaying Club
(Still pending. Probably a terrible idea.)
After the final bell rang, I waited for the room to clear, then tucked the sheet into my bag and headed to the faculty office.
I wasn't expecting much, just a "maybe." A "we'll think about it." Anything short of outright rejection.
Instead, I got one of the admin staff: older, expression unreadable.
"You'll need three members and a teacher willing to act as advisor. That's the rule."
She slid the form back across the counter like it had never really mattered.
"The principal introduced new policies this year to help the school qualify for a prestigious designation. Approval criterias been tightened to ensure accepted clubs are legitimate."
"Ah… right. Thanks."
I turned to leave, a quiet weight settling in my chest. Not anger, just that dull sting of being dismissed before you even had a chance.
Then a voice chimed in behind me, smooth, confident, and entirely unwelcome in that moment.
"That bad, huh?"
I turned.
Standing by the doorway, perfectly poised in the dim office light, was Iroha Minazuki. Student Council President. Her navy blazer looked freshly pressed, her ribbon tied in a perfect bow, and her hair pinned back with a golden barrette that gleamed like a medal. Arms crossed. One brow slightly raised.
She didn't look surprised. Just mildly entertained.
"I… yeah," I muttered, awkwardly adjusting my grip on the proposal sheet. "Didn't have any members. Or an advisor."
"Of course not," she said plainly, stepping inside. "Three names. One advisor. Minimum requirements. Honestly, I'm surprised they didn't stamp REJECTED in red just for the handwriting."
I blinked. "It's not that bad."
She stepped beside me and casually glanced at the top of the sheet.
"'Tabletop Roleplaying Club'?" she read aloud. "Wow. Really?"
I scratched the back of my head. "I haven't settled on the name yet…"
"Yeah, well, no wonder it got rejected. It sounds like a club where people take turns getting railed over a desk."
I almost dropped the paper. "W-What?! No! It's not... That's not what it means!"
"Mhm," she nodded sagely. "This is why clubs get banned: too many perverts turning school classrooms into love hotels with weird fetishes and zero shame."
"I'm not…!" I held up my hands. "It's for a game! Like, a fantasy game!"
"A sex game."
"No!"
"With dice?"
"NO... well, yes, there are dice, but not for that! I swear it's not weird!"
She raised a brow, folding her arms again. "Go on then. Explain."
I took a breath. "It's like… you create a character. A knight. A mage. Whatever you want. Then you and your party go on an adventure together. You fight monsters, explore dungeons, save kingdoms."
Iroha stared at me blankly.
"You know there are literal video games that do that on your phone, right? For free."
I floundered. "Yes, but... it's different! In this kind of game, there's no set path. No scripted endings. You make the story. Right there at the table. The rules exist, yeah, but the world is whatever we build together."
She gave a slow blink.
"That's literally just improv theatre."
"Kind of," I admitted. "But also game mechanics. You choose how the story unfolds. You're not just playing it, you're building it. No scripts. No rails. Just your choices, your world."
Something in her expression flickered.
She didn't reply immediately. Her gaze drifted slightly, thoughtful now.
"So it's not like a video game club," she said finally. "Or a book club. You don't consume something already made."
"No. You make it yourself."
She stared at me a second longer. Not judging. Not teasing. Just... thinking.
Then her eyes drifted past me.
I followed her gaze to the bulletin board just outside the faculty office, a fresh printout of the latest test rankings, pinned with brutal indifference.
#1: Rika Morisaki
#2: Iroha Minazuki
Her face didn't shift. No frustration. No jealousy. Just calm, sharp and quiet, like she was already planning her next move.
If anything, she looked focused.
Then, calmly, she said, "Alright. I'll help you make your club."
"…Huh?"
"I said I'll help you."
I stared at her like she'd just offered to do all my homework for the rest of the year. "Why?"
She stepped past me, adjusting the sleeve of her blazer like we were discussing something as casual as tomorrow's lunch menu.
"I'm Student Council President," she said, as if that explained everything. "I've reviewed enough club applications to know what gets rejected in ten seconds flat."
I blinked. "That still doesn't explain why you'd help."
She stopped, turned slightly, and gestured toward the ranking sheet behind the glass.
"My name's second," she said simply. "Which means Morisaki's ahead of me. Again."
I didn't say anything. Just watched her eyes trace the list.
"Perfect grades. Spotless behavior. And she doesn't even need a club to stay on top. But for the rest of us…" She gave a faint shrug. "Participation, contribution, behavior scores. They all feed into the honor student rankings."
"Wait, seriously? Joining a club improves your chances?"
She nodded, voice even. "Everything's tallied. And if I happen to be the founder of a new club, that looks very good."
I glanced over. "Then why aren't you in one?"
She exhaled, not annoyed, just matter-of-fact. "Because every club here expects a full workload. Build a robot. Win a trophy. Take twenty photos of the same tree. And being Student Council President already drains most of my brain."
Her tone softened just slightly.
"But if your club just sits around a table telling stories? That, I can manage."
I hesitated. "…You'd actually participate?"
She gave a slight tilt of her head, the gold hair clip catching the light. "Let's just say… I'll be present."
That could've meant anything.
But even if she wasn't diving into it for the same reason I was, it didn't really matter.
This was the first time anyone had offered real help. Not a teacher. Not a friend. But her.
The Student Council President.
And if she could help bring this club idea of mine to life, even if her reasons were layered in ambition, then maybe this club had a chance of existing outside my imagination.
Just maybe.
"Okay," I said. "Yeah. Let's do it."
She smiled. "Good."
Then, without warning, she reached out and grabbed my wrist.
I yelped. "Wh-Where are we going?!"
"To the library."
I stumbled as she tugged me down the hallway.
"Why the library?!"
The library was quieter than usual, the kind of quiet that pressed against your ears, like the books themselves were listening. Rows of neatly shelved volumes stretched in every direction, soaking up the faint hum of the printer near the back wall. I could smell the old paper and plastic binding glue, the scent of cramming, boredom, and forgotten field trip permission slips.
Iroha stood in front of the printer, arms folded as the first flyer rolled out with a soft mechanical whir.
I peeked over her shoulder, read the headline, and frowned.
"INTERESTED IN FANTASY ADVENTURE?"
TOMORROW. AFTER SCHOOL. ROOFTOP.
"…Iroha-san," I said slowly, "this doesn't even say it's for a club. At all. It literally just sounds like a vague fantasy recruitment ad."
She didn't turn around. "Yeah. Duh."
"Don't you think we should at least mention that it's a club?"
"We don't have a club yet," she replied casually. "So what's the point?"
"We could say 'pending' or something."
"That's exactly why we don't put it," she said, plucking the first flyer from the printer tray. "The moment people see the word 'club,' they tune out."
I blinked. "What do you mean?"
She turned toward me, one eyebrow raised like I'd just asked her why the sky was blue.
"The school's saturated with clubs. You can't walk ten meters without someone pushing a drama script, asking if you like photography, or begging for another member so their flower arrangement group doesn't get disbanded. The word's lost all meaning. It's background noise."
I watched her fan out the flyers with precise fingers, every edge aligned like she was dealing cards at a high-stakes table.
It struck me then, how sharp she was. How effortlessly she read the battlefield of social dynamics like it was second nature. No wonder she made it to the top of the school's food chain. It wasn't just her grades. It was the way she moved: confident, deliberate, and always ten steps ahead.
"Actually… why are we printing these flyers, anyway? You're the Student Council President. Shouldn't your underlings be following you around like loyal party members? I figured half the council would've joined by default."
"They're busy," she replied breezily, not even looking up. "And right now, they're doing exactly that: being council members."
I frowned. "Then doesn't that mean you should be just as busy? I'm not really convinced you'll even have time to show up for this club."
"Oh, I'll be there," she said smoothly. "The council works hard, I give them full credit. But I'm the president, not a foot soldier. I direct the strategy. Set priorities. Because I lead well, they work well. Simple as that."
It was hard not to be impressed. She had the kind of presence that didn't just manage people, it inspired them to manage themselves. She could lead a council with just her presence. Honestly… maybe she should be the club leader instead.
"Maybe you should be the club leader."
"Nope. Not gonna happen." She finally looked at me, eyes amused. "Sure, the council mostly runs itself, but that doesn't mean I'm free. It just means my workload's lighter because they do their jobs. Doesn't mean I don't have mine."
"That doesn't sound fair."
"Welcome to leadership. Trust me, once you're in charge of something, you'll get it."
The printer whirred as another flyer slid out. Her words stuck to me like a pin tacked to a corkboard: bold, obvious, and double underlined.
"So," I said, still trying to catch up, "we're just printing… mystery invitations?"
"Exactly," she said, tone clipped but satisfied. "We ask for interest. Let curiosity do the rest."
"…And the roof? Why the rooftop?"
"It's scenic," she said matter-of-factly. "Private. Dramatic."
Then she glanced over her shoulder with a smirk.
"And that's where you'll do what you did to me earlier."
I froze. "D-Do what?!"
She sighed. "Convince me, obviously. You idiot."
I exhaled in relief, already mentally reviewing everything I said to her in front of the faculty office and double-checking that none of it was jail-worthy.
She stepped back to the printer, watching another sheet slide out. "You made your case. I listened. That's how people get interested in things. Not from a flyer. From someone who believes in what they're doing."
She plucked the page out, held it up, and glanced sideways at me.
"Honestly? When I first saw the name Tabletop Roleplaying Club on your form, I thought you were trying to start a sex club. Something about school furniture and... roleplay?"
I opened my mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. "It's not— I wasn't—!"
She waved me off.
"Exactly my point. A flyer with a name like that? Same reaction. Instant misunderstanding. That's why mystery works better. You talk to people first. Explain it yourself. Control the narrative."
"Well, I wasn't able to convince you with words alone," I said defensively. "You joined for your own reasons."
She turned to me, grinning. "True. But maybe you'll get me next time, Dungeon Boy."
She stuck her tongue out and winked, anime-style. Full power.
The kind of teasing confidence that could melt hearts and crush souls simultaneously.
I froze like every male protagonist in every anime I'd ever seen.
Just for a second.
Just long enough that I really hoped it wasn't noticeable.
I nodded, unsure whether my brain or my dignity had rebooted first.
"…You might actually enjoy the game, you know," I muttered, quieter than I meant to.
"We'll see," she said lightly, plucking the final flyer from the tray.
"Anyway," I said, clearing my throat, "what about a faculty advisor? I still need one of those."
She glanced at me, as if I'd asked her how to tie her shoes. "Leave that to me."
"I mean, do you know someone who'd—"
"Most teachers have to be advisors for something," she said smoothly. "But none of them want to actually do anything. If we tell them they won't have to lift a finger, they'll sign faster than—"
She paused for effect.
"—than a teacher spotting a free coffee voucher in the staff room."
I blinked. "...That fast?"
"Faster."
She tucked the flyers into a neat folder, then glanced toward the exit.
"Or," she added with a devilish grin, "I could just hand it to a random teacher and ask them to sign. Most of them don't even read what I give them. I am the Student Council President, after all."
I stared at her, a bit stunned.
It wasn't just power she had.
It was finesse. Strategy.
A natural talent for bending the world until it lined up exactly the way she wanted it.
If she wasn't already ruling the school, she'd be conquering a nation somewhere.
She turned back to me and raised a brow. "You coming?"
I jolted. "Y-Yeah."
And with that, we stepped out into the hallway, flyers in hand, our alliance sealed by ambition, mystery, and just enough chaos to make it feel real.
Time to post the bait and wait for adventurers to bite.
I stared down at the bowl. "Didn't even add a boiled egg?"
Chopsticks paused mid-air, then pointed at me like a lazy accusation. "Be grateful I boiled water."
"Be grateful? Did you even use the seasoning packets? I deserve flavour, not just hot sadness."
A foot nudged mine under the table, playful, but just barely.
We ate quietly after that. Not awkward. Just the kind of silence where the day speaks louder than either of us.
"So. Club?"
I exhaled. "Didn't make one. Need more people. And a teacher."
"Figures."
I leaned back. "Got a girl's number, though."
Mid-bite, noodles slipped back into broth with a soft splash.
"…You?"
"Mm."
"…Was she conscious?"
I nodded. "Pretty sure."
A pause. "Who?"
I kept my eyes on the bowl. "Student Council President."
Silence.
"You're so full of shit."