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Eriri didn't doubt the resume Leo had just laid out. In the age of the internet, claiming to be a Grade 10 musician or an early admit to the Tokyo University of the Arts was a lie with a five-minute expiration date. If she Googled him right now, his name would probably pop up on a dozen award lists. His confidence wasn't the bluster of a liar; it was the bored certainty of someone who knew exactly what they were worth.
"Okay, let's say I believe you," Eriri said, setting her chopsticks down on the edge of her bento box. The wind whipped a strand of blonde hair across her face, and she brushed it away with an annoyed flick of her wrist. "If you're basically a one-man studio—art, code, music, script—why the hell are you dragging Tomoya along? He's dead weight."
Leo laughed, a relaxed sound that seemed to annoy her even more. "I guess you could say I was moved by his enthusiasm. Tomoya's passion for anime is... religious. He's like a martyr for the cause. I'm giving him a stage to see if he can actually perform, or if he's just going to preach to the choir."
Eriri turned her head, looking out over the safety railing at the sprawling campus below. Her expression darkened, the 'perfect princess' mask slipping to reveal something bitter.
"Then prepare to lose your money," she muttered, her voice low. "That guy's creative output is zero. He's a consumer, not a creator. He's a giant baby who needs someone to hold his hand just to cross the street. You're going to get tired of babysitting him in a week."
Leo raised an eyebrow, genuinely surprised.
Internal Monologue: Whoa. Shots fired.
He had expected the Eriri from the original story—the "loyal dog," the childhood friend who would grumble and complain but ultimately crawl over broken glass if Tomoya asked her to. But this? This was cynicism. This was resentment.
It seemed that Eriri Spencer Sawamura, raised in high society and trained in the cutthroat world of elite art, possessed a maturity that the anime often glossed over. She saw Tomoya clearly. She knew he was a man-child.
"I'm betting on the long shot," Leo said, leaning back against the chain-link fence. "He has an agency that most people lack. Nobody is born a CEO. He's raw, sure, but he has room to grow. And frankly? I enjoy the chaos."
Eriri looked back at him, her blue eyes narrowing. "Fine. Whatever. But here's the other thing: If you're already handling the art direction, why do you need me? Our styles clash. You're a realist; I'm... well, I'm not."
"Because I'm a perfectionist," Leo said, offering a small, challenging smile. "I don't do things halfway. Yes, I can draw. But my style is heavy. It's oil and grit. Your style? It's vibrant, it's 'moe,' it's commercially viable in a way mine isn't. I want to see what happens when we collide. A team of talented amateurs creating friction... that's where the sparks come from."
"Sparks, huh?" Eriri scoffed, picking at the edge of her skirt. "It sounds interesting, I'll give you that. But I'm not working with him. Tomoya... he still owes me a debt. And I'm not in the mood to forgive it just because some rich American waves a checkbook around."
She gritted her teeth, her face flushing slightly before she composed herself.
Leo watched her, his mind racing. He knew the history. The childhood promise, the social suicide Tomoya committed by being an open otaku, and Eriri's choice to hide her hobby to protect her social standing. It was a classic failure of communication. Two people who drifted apart because one was too stubborn and the other was too cowardly.
Honestly? Leo hated it.
He wasn't a fan of the "Tsundere" archetype in real life. In anime, it was cute—the girl who acts mean because she secretly loves you. In reality? It was emotional terrorism. It was high-maintenance, exhausting, and inefficient.
Internal Monologue: God, save me from the drama. Otaku claim they love tsunderes, but that's because they've never had to date one. It's like trying to defuse a bomb that rewires itself every five minutes. If you say the wrong thing, they explode. If you say the right thing, they explode because they're embarrassed. Who has the energy for that?
Leo looked at Eriri—beautiful, talented, and radiating enough prickly, defensive energy to power a small city—and decided he wasn't going to play her game. He wasn't Tomoya. He wasn't going to beg. He wasn't going to endure her insults hoping for a scrap of affection.
Strategy: The Takeaway.
"I'm not interested in your personal feud with Tomoya," Leo said, his voice cooling considerably. He pushed off the fence and stood up, dusting off his trousers. "I don't force people to make choices they don't want to make. I respect your 'no.'"
He looked down at her, his expression polite but distant. "It's a shame, though. I really thought a talent like yours would have thrived in a professional environment. But if you can't get past the high school drama to do the work, then you're not the right fit for the team anyway."
Eriri froze. She had expected him to push. She had expected him to plead, or to try and mediate. Instead, he was accepting her rejection and moving on.
"I'm sorry to disturb your lunch, Eriri-san," Leo said with a flawless, gentlemanly nod. "I've rambled enough. Please, pretend this conversation never happened. Enjoy your bento."
He turned on his heel and walked toward the heavy metal door of the rooftop entrance. His stride was confident, unhurried. He didn't look back.
He was counting steps in his head. One. Two. Three. Four.
He reached for the door handle.
"Wait!"
The voice was sharp, laced with panic and frustration.
Leo paused, his hand hovering over the cold steel bar. He suppressed a smirk. Hooked.
He turned around slowly, keeping his expression perfectly neutral. Eriri had stood up, her bento box forgotten on the bench. Her hands were clenched into fists at her sides, and her face was a mix of anger and something else—fear of missing out.
"Is there something else, Eriri-san?" Leo asked, raising an eyebrow. "I thought we were done."