-Tokyo, Kita-ward- Kyufurukawa Gardens
Eriri was holding a copy of Shūkan Bunshun, the gossip magazine her family subscribed to religiously.
Even though none of them were particularly into gossip, her mom and friends always had sothing to say about the latest scandal.
"Five hundred thousand copies, huh..." She murmured under her breath, eyes lingering on the bright red headline before she shut the magazine.
The cover, ironically, looked more like a children's picture book than a scandal rag soft pink background with a cartoon pig.
'Were they trying to lure in unsuspecting readers with this innocent-looking cover?' Eriri rolled her eyes at the thought.
She set the magazine aside and picked up the manga she'd placed front and center on her bookshelf the day before.
Standing up, her delicate feet sank slightly into the plush carpet as she walked to the balcony, slipped on her yellow slippers, and stepped outside to the railing.
Leaning back against the rail, she reopened the manga.
Although it had only been unwrapped yesterday, the creases along the spine already told the story of multiple re-reads.
A cool night breeze rustled the maple trees in the garden, sweeping away the clouds to reveal the full moon.
Its silver glow spilled over Eriri like soft spotlighting.
Unlike her usual cozy tracksuit, Eriri was still dressed in the outfit she'd worn to a formal dinner with her parents earlier, so banquet hosted by who-knows-who.
She'd rushed ho afterward, too excited to change out of her clothes before grabbing the magazine to read about Kyousuke's latest appearance in the news.
She wore a crimson satin dress, the hem brushing just below her knees.
The silk clung to her figure, accentuating her slowly maturing curves and slender waist with just a few delicate folds.
Her legs, wrapped in sheer white stockings, peeked out from under the skirt, creating a striking contrast with the red fabric, the perfect "absolute territory."
Another gust of wind ca, and slightly lift her skirt.
"Tch, seriously. This is why I hate skirts," she muttered, pressing the fabric back down without ever taking her eyes off the manga.
Still, the grin on her face didn't falter not even a bit.
Her skirts may be a hassle, but they looked good.
And if even royals from her father's holand couldn't escape a gust of wind now and then, what hope did she have?
Luckily, the only people ho in the manor tonight were her parents and herself, so she couldn't be bothered to go change.
Even the wind seed eager to see what happened next in the story, but Eriri still hadn't turned the page.
Her eyes, glowing a brilliant blue even in the dark, remained fixed on the very first line:
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"To the greatest illustratorin the world, Eriri Spencer Sawamura."
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"You idiot... I told you to stop calling that all the ti!" Still holding the book in her left hand, Eriri reached up and gently brushed the dedication with her right, fingers tracing the neat, inky letters.
"What kind of guy writes this nicely, anyway? It looks printed... Is he even a human? Maybe he really is a robot..."
After one last lingering glance at the ssage, she finally flipped to the rest of the manga.
There it was: the familiar vaccine monster, the mont they first t, the heated argunts that led to their first co-created manga... the doujin circle at Comiket, their magazine debut...
No matter how unreasonable she was, he never got angry. Even when she was being difficult, he always understood her.
Even when she drew a doujinshi based on him as the main character, he still took the plot seriously...
Sohow, bit by bit, he'd left so many marks on her mories.
She'd played through countless oto gas and drew with a beautifully delicate hand.
A girl who knew all too well her own personality... even if she hated to admit it.
She knew exactly what she was, just like one of those "tsundere" characters everyone loves in ani.
As a creator, she had to understand those traits and what made them work. Otherwise, the character would fall apart.
All personalities stem from experience and emotional needs.
Just like princes are always polite and princesses are always sweet and innocent, it's all shaped by identity and upbringing.
Even in a school full of elite girls, Eriri stood at the very top.
Her manners outshone those of hereditary politicians' daughters; her fashion sense and looks outclassed the heiresses of billion-dollar conglorates.
In class, in clubs—wherever she went, she was the center of attention.
A gentle upperclassman, an adorable underclassman, a curvy half-Japanese girl, a diplomat's daughter, a blonde British aristocrat...
Wearing her "perfect lady" mask, she received endless praise.
In that persona, she could answer anything effortlessly, with just a quick ntal flip through her "1,000 Phrases of a Proper Lady" playbook.
Nothing ever flustered her, unless it was Kyousuke.
Then, it was all blushing and emotional chaos. Completely undignified.
She wouldn't deny that the perfect, polished version of herself was real.
But on the other side the girl who loved gas, who found joy in drawing manga, who just wanted to let her otaku side run wild had never once been recognized by anyone.
And as a teenage girl, of course she wanted to share that part of herself.
To talk about the gas she loved, the stories that made her laugh or cry.
When a novel was amazing, she wanted soone to feel that joy with her.
When one was awful, she wanted soone to rant with her about it.
But thanks to things that happened when she was younger, she'd always kept that part hidden.
Naturally, she never found soone she could share it with.
Those feelings kept building up, this yearning for support, for warmth, for understanding.
But when she finally did find soone like that, the pride from her elite upbringing held her back from expressing any of it.
Even when she was happy, she refused to admit it.
Because if that guy found out how happy his words made her... he'd absolutely let it go to his head!
And just like that, those weirdly prideful thoughts would take over again and she'd act all haughty and deny everything.
Since eting Kyousuke, Eriri had gone from always speaking politely starting every sentence with a "please"—to now casually snapping, "Hey!" She sotis felt embarrassed by her awkward behavior.
To et soone who had the sa pristine public persona and love otaku culture like she did made her so happy she'd bury her face in her pillow at night, grinning until her cheeks hurt, replaying every mont they spent together until she couldn't sleep.
But still... a small part of her worried.
Would he get annoyed by how difficult she acted? Would he distance himself?
After all, who'd want a friend who clearly craved cola but still scoffed, "Hmph, peasant drink," like it was beneath her?
She'd thought about changing. But life wasn't a ga, there wasn't a nu where you could just pick "Personality: Not Tsundere."
Then again... maybe she didn't have to change at all. Over ti, Eriri realized sothing amazing, he got her. Like, really understand her.
He saw through all her bluster and prickly words. He never got mad at her tsundere snipes.
He rembered every little caring thing she tried to hide behind sarcasm.
She'd mock him for being useless, and he'd nod with a smile and keep helping without complaint.
She'd call him a pervert for looking at her legs, and he'd gaze at them even more intently, like they were art.
She'd brag that her art didn't need anyone's approval, and he'd complint her in every possible way, even with his limited drawing knowledge.
She'd shyly smack him when flustered, and he'd always relax his muscles so she wouldn't hurt her hand.
What kind of person was this guy?! It was like he was built specifically to handle her!
Maybe her mom was right.
If even a hardcore fujoshi like her could marry a great guy like her dad, then surely a gorgeous, tsundere, ani-loving girl like herself would find soone who truly understood her, too.
Maybe... maybe he actually liked her because she was tsundere. I an, look at her—blonde, beautiful, bursting with personality!
Eriri glanced back at the manga in her hands.
Saitama's blank face sohow morphed into Kyousuke's.
The text bubble beside him seed to say, "Eriri is the best illustrator in the world."
Tch. As if sweet-talking her would make her feel bad about accepting his money!
She shook her head.
The panel returned to normal. Saitama's expression was as blank as ever—just like that idiot Kyousuke.
Eriri closed the manga and walked to the balcony door.
She kicked off her crocs, shut the glass door, and drew the curtains.
Then, skipping like Little Red Riding Hood through a forest, she made her way across the room in five little hops even though it was only four ters to her wardrobe.
She crouched down, slowly peeled off her white stockings, and muttered proudly,
"Hmph. I am developing. Soon I won't need 'illustratoric enhancent' at all."
As she stripped off her red silk dress, she stood in front of the full-length mirror, wearing only a white lace bra and panties.
She admired her lithe, feminine form, imagining the dumb look Kyousuke would get if he saw her now, probably drooling.
Her tiny fangs peeked out in a smug grin, but her face was flushed pink from embarrassnt at her own imagination.
"If he falls for soone like ... well, that just ans he has great taste!"
Snapping out of her daydream, she quickly grabbed a green tracksuit from the closet—her usual comfy attire.
Her wardrobe was simple: green tracksuits, overalls, solid color tees, and otaku rch she'd bought at conventions.
Despite drawing the most gorgeous girls in manga, Eriri was a ss when it ca to fashion.
Every ti she needed an outfit, she'd beg her mom for help.
Her mom, a fashion queen with four giant closets and weekly tea party styling lectures, loved dressing her up.
Whether it was for a party or a date with Kyousuke, she always had the perfect look ready.
Back at her desk, Eriri removed her contacts, blinked a few tis to rest her eyes, and slipped on her black-rimd glasses.
She opened the manga again, propping it so that the dedication page faced her.
———————————————————————
"To the greatest illustrator in the world."
———————————————————————
"Tch... That idiot. So that's how important I am to him, huh? Then just say it out loud already! What a tsundere!"
Even as she felt giddy about how highly Kyousuke thought of her, she knew the truth.
She wasn't nearly good enough to earn such high praise, at least not yet.
No matter how many tis he said One Punch Man was a success because of her, she knew he would've made it even without her help.
Just at the last indie convention, she'd spotted dozens of illustrators who could've worked with him.
Sure, they weren't as cute or naturally gifted as her, and their skills were mostly built from years of practice but manga wasn't just about pretty art.
Still... if in his heart, she was the best illustrator in the world, then she was going to fight to keep that spot!
Eriri grabbed a copy of Love trono from her shelf.
After their last event, the biggest critique she got was that her stories were weak.
Tch. If only Kyousuke had let her draw from real life—everyone would've died of envy!
She flipped open the book.
Even though she'd heard about it from that now-ex-friend, it was this novel that brought her and Kyousuke together.
It was the reason they t. And she'd read it not once, not twice but four tis, bawling like a baby each ti.
Now, she was diving into it for the fifth ti.
Not out of nostalgia, but to prepare for sothing special: her own Love trono doujinshi.
Every creator has sothing they believe in.
For Eriri, it was this: if her love story with Kyousuke was powerful enough to make people jealous.
Then this story the one that made her cry and laugh and feel everything in between could inspire sothing just as emotional, sothing that would make readers cry too.
She knew her storytelling still had room for improvent, but that just ant it was ti to start with fanworks.
As long as she kept moving forward, she'd definitely beco the one and only illustrator truly worthy of Kyousuke.
"Up, down, left, right—"
A sudden voice rang out. Eriri rushed to the bed and pulled her phone out of her bag.
On the screen, a chibi character was doing stretches, repeating those words out loud.
At first glance, it looked like an ordinary exercise reminder alarm.
But on closer inspection, the character's oversized head wasn't drawn it was a photo of Kyousuke's face, badly cut and pasted on top.
"This idiot... I just sat down! I haven't even picked up my pen yet and you're already nagging to exercise?."
Looking at the goofy expression she'd deliberately chosen from one of his videos, and listening to the voice clip she'd recorded herself, Eriri couldn't help but giggle.
She stretched out her delicate index finger and gave the image of his forehead a little flick.
"'Knock knock'—Lily, it's ti for a break!"
A knock on the door interrupted her fun.
She quickly tapped Kyousuke's head to silence the alarm.
"Okay, I was just about to stretch," she called out to her mother on the other side of the door.
"How about we do so push-ups and squats together today?" Sayuri's cheerful voice floated in.
"Moooom!" Eriri groaned, blushing a little from embarrassnt.
She was already feeling shy after being caught zoning out while staring at Kyousuke's face.
Geez, all she did was complint Kyousuke's weird little exercise routine after receiving the published volu, and now her mom wouldn't stop bringing it up!
"Hehehe~"
She didn't need to see her mother's face to picture that teasing expression.
Eriri wrinkled her tiny nose in frustration, placed the phone on her desk, and stepped onto the carpet.
Dressed in her green tracksuit, she awkwardly began stretching her body with determined focus.
After a while, a thin sheen of sweat appeared on her forehead.
Breathing slightly heavily, she finished her eye exercises.
She thought about calling for her dad to bring her a cold Coke but instead, she slowly lowered herself to the floor and forced out one push-up.
She'd heard push-ups were good for bust developnt too.
Not that she was trying to be like those internet weirdos copying Saitama's routine, she her hair to stay, thank you very much!
After a short break, she cleaned up in the room and returned to her desk.
Eriri opened the novel again and began carefully marking down every emotional mont that moved her, slowly piecing together her concept for the fan comic.
Under the soft glow of the desk lamp, her delicate features were bathed in light.
With full focus, she jotted down notes and sketches, the pen flowing across the paper with purpose and excitent.
In the darkness of Tokyo, Eriri wasn't the only one working hard to reach her dreams.
Sowhere else, a girl with jet-black hair and crimson eyes was fiercely standing up for her pride.
"No, Shi-chan! Don't do it!"
Machida Sonoko clung tightly to the author's wrist.
But the usually dainty hand, so elegant when gliding across a keyboard, was now full of surprising strength and unwavering conviction as it slamd down on the keyboard Delete button.
"...I'm finished. The editor-in-chief is totally gonna fire tomorrow," Sonoko muttered as she collapsed onto the carpet, utterly defeated.
"You need to understand, Machida-san humans are ant to pursue sothing greater. We don't chase after 'things.' We chase the very act of chasing."
"What I just deleted was a failure of my forr self. What cos next will be far more perfect."
Sitting at the desk, the girl calmly took off her white headband.
As she gently ran her fingers through her disheveled hair, those red eyes sparkled with a determined light as she looked at her editor.
Her voice was cold, but carried an unshakable confidence.
"But yesterday was the deadline..." Ignoring the proud glint in Kasumigaoka Utaha's eyes and her philosophical nonsense, Sonoko couldn't believe what had just happened.
She'd been waiting for her author outside school every day for two weeks, dragging her back to this locked-down apartnt to force her to write.
Finally, after days of effort, Utako-sensei had finished the draft for Love trono Vol. 2.
After Sonoko's editing and revisions, they'd spent two more sleepless nights polishing it into a final manuscript.
Now, both their eyes were bloodshot.
Forget "sparkling red eyes"—Shi-chan's whites had practically lted into the wine-colored irises.
She might look graceful brushing back her hair, but if that chair didn't have a backrest, she'd probably topple over right there.
"Wait! The recycle bin! The history! Auto-backup!" Sonoko suddenly shouted, lunging for the mouse and desperately searching for the lost file.
"Machida-san, don't waste your energy," Utaha said flatly, not even glancing her way.
"Do you think I'd let a failure exist on my computer? In my world, there's no such thing as regret. When I delete sothing, it's permanently obliterated."
Without acknowledging her panicking editor, Utaha calmly reattached her headband.
Just as Sonoko had guessed, she had no strength left to fuss over anything else.
After the brutal two-day final push, even having her generous chest squished by her editor didn't faze her anymore.
"How... how could this happen..." Sonoko muttered in despair, her hand frozen on the mouse above the recycle bin.
She sank back onto the carpet.
Utaha adjusted her slightly disheveled bra, then straightened up and calmly took the mouse.
She opened the recycle bin and clicked "Empty."
Of course, everything she'd just said had been a lie, ant to fool the naive Machida-san.
'How had it co to this?' Sonoko's frazzled brain struggled to find the answer.
Right... it all started with that issue of Weekly Bunshun.
A gossip magazine she'd picked up on a whim to kill ti and stay awake.
Just earlier, when Shi-chan typed the final word of her novel and they were about to grab sothing to eat and finally catch up on sleep.
That's when she had spotted the magazine lying on the floor—
———————————————————————
EGOIST, the strongest high school student.
———————————————————————
It was all because of that damn article.
When Utaha saw it, she forgot to even take a bath.
She had been complaining about how her stockings were starting to sll, but instead of doing anything, she just sat there motionless, reading the article.
And then, after she finished reading it, the scene that had unfolded earlier happened.
"Is it because of Hojou-kun's results?" After hesitating for a mont, Machida Sonoko asked.
Utaha had told her about Kyousuke's work with manga before. Even when they weren't discussing work, the two of them were close friends.
"Mm."
Already opening a blank docunt, Utaha clenched her hands and muttered a single word.
To her, Machida wasn't just an editor with whom she had a professional relationship, she was more like a caring older sister, so she didn't mind sharing a bit of her inner thoughts.
"But the draft you just deleted was already perfect. If you keep going like this, the next book will definitely reach Kyousuke-kun's level," Sonoko said sincerely.
She believed deeply in her author's imnse writing talent.
As long as she continued developing it, soday, she would shock the entire literary world.
That was sothing Sonoko firmly believed.
"No, if I want to catch up to Kyousuke-kun, this isn't nearly enough!" Utaha's small feet, wrapped in black stockings, pressed firmly into the carpet, and her thigh muscles tensed up.
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