To Rinko, Tanaka's proposal was both an unbearable humiliation and a poisoned candy. More than anyone else, she knew she was standing before the greatest bottleneck of her creative career.
Every word Tanaka had said earlier had jabbed into her most painful spot like a needle.
But who was she? She was Kurosawa Rinko, the famous cold-genius of the industry, the "Rinko-sama" worshiped by countless otaku.
Her pride would never allow her to bow her head to some newcomer who looked completely useless at first glance, let alone accept such a ridiculous method of "gathering reference".
"Enough." Rinko finally spoke, her voice as cold as crushed ice. "I admit that part of what you said was right. But there are many ways to solve a problem. I do not need to resort to something this... vulgar."
She stood up, looking down at Tanaka from above, her eyes carrying both pity and contempt. "As for you... Tanaka, I take back what I said earlier. You are not trash." She paused, then her red lips spat out something even crueler. "You are just a pitiable slave to your own lust, a brain driven only by sperm. I have absolutely no interest in your body."
With that, she turned, ready to walk out of this meeting room that now thoroughly disgusted her.
The threat of everyone splitting up seemed to be looming once more.
...
However, Tanaka laughed.
He did not get angry, did not try to defend himself, only let out a soft chuckle.
The sound was not loud, but it had a strange pull to it, enough to halt Rinko's footsteps mid-stride.
"Pitiable? A brain ruled by sperm?" Tanaka rose slowly to his feet. He was a full head taller than Rinko and, as he straightened his back, a faint sense of pressure naturally rolled off him. "Kurosawa-san, has it ever occurred to you that the fact you think this way proves that you are the unprofessional one?"
"What did you say?" Rinko spun around, her gaze sharp as a blade.
"When I say 'professional', I am not talking about drawing skill. I am talking about your professionalism as a creator of H-games." Tanaka walked toward her at an easy pace, eyes calm as he met her glare. "You, and Miki-san as well, despise the act of sex deep down in your hearts. You see it as filthy, vulgar, something shameful that cannot be shown in daylight. So you will always be standing safely on the shore, trying to imagine what the water looks like. Your works are full of distance and falseness."
"As for me," Tanaka tapped a finger against his own chest, a near-fanatical confidence on his face, "I love it. I revere it. I believe it is the great force that drives human reproduction, the ultimate art of flesh and spirit joined together. I can see beauty where you see only filth. That is why I am more professional than you."
"You..." Rinko was shaking with anger at his twisted logic. "That is nothing but shameless sophistry!"
"Is it?" Tanaka closed in on her step by step, forcing her back toward the wall, until they were close enough to feel each other's breath. "Then let us talk about professionalism using the thing you take most pride in, your art."
He extended a single finger and gently tapped her shoulder, which was trembling ever so slightly with rage.
"Kurosawa-san, let me ask you this. When a man is right on the verge of release, what state are the muscles on his back in? Do they bulge like a bodybuilder's, every line etched in sharp relief, or do they twist into an irregular flow because of the sudden spasm?"
Rinko froze. She had never once considered that question.
Tanaka's fingertip slid from her shoulder along her collarbone, tracing downward until it stopped just above the button of her shirt. He did not actually touch anything he should not, yet the heat radiating from that proximity made her skin burn.
"Second question. When a woman is seized by the tremor of climax, how does her chest move? Is it quick, shallow expansions, a rapid flutter, or a long, drowning inhale that seems like it will never end, or does she arch her back, creating an almost impossibly proud curve?"
Rinko's cheeks flared like they had been lit on fire. She instinctively tried to step back, only to find she had already run out of room; her back was firmly pressed against the cold wall.
Tanaka's gaze dropped to her long, straight legs, perfectly outlined by the dark blue pleated skirt.
"Last question. When pleasure rushes from the soles of the feet straight up to the crown of the head, what do the toes do? Do they curl tight and stiff because of tension, or do they point forward, taut and elegant, like a ballerina's, yet completely out of her control?"
The barrage of questions crashed down like an artillery strike, shattering the last of Rinko's mental defenses.
She could not answer a single one of them.
These details would never appear in reference books, never be explained in any tutorial video.
They were the most subtle, most genuine, and most erotic secrets of the human body.
In front of these questions, her proud drawing skills suddenly felt weak and hollow.
...
Watching her dazed, shaken expression, Tanaka knew the timing was just right.
He withdrew his hand and stepped back, opening the distance between them again. The aggressive edge in his expression faded, replaced by the calm he had worn at the beginning.
"Do you understand now, Kurosawa-san? You do not even understand the most basic stress reactions of the human body. On what basis do you call yourself a top-tier illustrator? You are not even qualified to depict the most beautiful art in this world. Right now, the most precious 'art reference' you could ask for, a living, breathing 'human reaction database' that can show you every detail at any time, is standing right here."
Tanaka's eyes sharpened, cutting straight into Rinko's heart.