Yūto Shō mashed his face into the back of Sato Ruri's skirt, arms locked around her thighs like a drowning man clinging to driftwood. The mission demanded ten seconds minimum. Ten seconds was nothing — ten seconds was a Naruto handsign sequence, a microwave beep, a JoJo pose held for the camera. If she squirmed loose now, every shred of social capital he'd burned today would evaporate.
Sato Ruri clawed at his wrist, fingernails scraping uselessly against his knuckles. She wasn't weak, exactly — she just wasn't him. The mortifying contact had drained the fight out of her legs, turning her knees into wet paper.
In the middle of the struggle, Yūto Shō caught a breath he hadn't meant to take.
Warm. Faintly floral. The kind of detergent ad scent that didn't belong anywhere near a hostage situation.
Sato Ruri froze. Her whole body locked up mid-flail, rigid as a save-state glitch. Pressed this close, Yūto Shō felt the soft give of her through that one cruel layer of fabric — a small tremor running through her, and that quiet fragrance again, closer now, the kind of detail his brain was absolutely not equipped to file away properly.
Ten seconds bled past. Then twelve. Sato Ruri let out a strangled little "Mnh—!" and finally wrenched free, stumbling forward three steps before catching herself on the railing. She spun around, eyes wet and shining like a heroine in the last episode of a tragedy arc.
Yūto Shō opened his mouth. Some half-formed apology, some weak deflection — gone before he could shape it.
Her eyes went red at the rims. Her lip trembled. And then, with the venom of someone who'd just had her entire dignity speedrun into the ground:
"Pervert!"
She turned and ran, and Yūto Shō watched a single tear catch the late sun as it fell, the kind of frame an anime director would freeze and pan across for emotional damage.
He stood there. Bitter smile creeping in at the corners of his mouth. He'd genuinely thought a slap would be the worst part of this — maybe a public callout, maybe getting clocked by some white-knight stranger. But this? Being looked at like that? Like he was a roach she'd found in her cereal? Yeah. This was worse.
After a long minute, he straightened up, dusted off his pants, and walked out of the park with his hands jammed deep in his pockets.
---
[Sato Ruri's apartment / modern day / early evening]
Sato Ruri slipped through the front door with her head down, the click of the lock louder than she meant it to be. Her mother's voice floated from the kitchen, half-muffled by a sizzling pan.
"Ruri-chan, dinner's ready."
"I'm not hungry. I'll eat later."
She didn't trust her voice for more than that. The second her bedroom door shut behind her, she slid down it, knees pulled to her chest, hugging them tight enough to bruise. She wanted to cry. She really, really wanted to cry. But her mother had ears like a bat and a worry-radar that would not survive a sniffle.
She just sat there, breathing through her nose, staring at the strip of light under the door.
Then she remembered.
She stood up too fast, head swimming, and tugged her skirt down her hips. Then, with shaking fingers, hooked her thumbs into the waistband of her panties and pulled those down too.
She looked.
Her stomach dropped through the floor.
A wet spot. Small. Damp. Unmistakable. Bloomed dark against the pale cotton like ink on rice paper.
What— what? He'd bullied her. He'd humiliated her. He'd pressed his stupid face into her like some kind of feral animal. So why—
She slammed the door on that thought before it could finish forming. Squeezed the panties into a tight little wad, shoved them into the deepest corner of her closet behind a shoebox, and threw herself face-down on the bed like she was trying to suffocate the entire day out of existence.
She did not move for a long time.
---
[Yūto Shō's apartment hallway / modern day / evening]
Yūto Shō fished his keys out of his pocket at the front door, and the click of another lock turning behind him made him glance over his shoulder.
A couple stepped out of the unit across the hall.
The man was tall — easily six feet — slim through the shoulders, wearing a charcoal suit with the tie still knotted neat at his throat. His face was the kind that magazines liked: sharp jaw, defined cheekbones, dark hair swept back with just enough product to look effortless. Late twenties, maybe thirty. Handsome in that polished, finance-bro way that made Yūto Shō feel like a gremlin in his hoodie and jeans.
The woman beside him was something else entirely. Mid-twenties, slender, dressed in a deep violet wrap dress that hugged her waist and flared at the knee. Her shoulders were narrow, her collarbones delicate, her chest modest but unmistakably present beneath the silky fabric. Her hair fell in soft black waves to her shoulder blades. Eyes large and clear, the kind of pale brown that caught the hallway light. Brows arched like willow leaves. She smiled — small, polite, warm — and a tiny pearl earring caught the light when she tilted her head.
Yūto Shō recognized them. The new tenants. Newlyweds, he was pretty sure.
"Hey — I live across the hall. I'm Yūto Shō." He took the initiative. Neighbors didn't need to be friends, but the hallway was small and the walls were thinner than anyone wanted to admit.
The couple exchanged a glance — quick, the kind married people did without thinking. The man recovered first, smiling with the easy confidence of someone who'd shaken a lot of hands.
"Hello. I'm Kudō Ren. This is my wife, Kudō Rin. We just moved in — sorry in advance for any noise."
Kudō Ren thought: kid lives across from us. Skinny. Doesn't look like trouble. Hope he doesn't play music at 2 a.m.
Kudō Rin smiled at Yūto Shō too, and Yūto Shō caught himself looking a beat too long. Her smile did something. He yanked his eyes away before it became a problem.
A few pleasantries traded. Then Kudō Ren tilted his head, curious.
"Shō-kun — you're still in school, right? Are your folks home? We haven't even said hi yet."
Yūto Shō scratched the back of his neck. "Ah — I live alone, mostly."
Kudō Ren's expression flickered. Something passed behind his eyes — a beat of consideration, mouth opening to ask a follow-up — and then Kudō Rin's purple heel nudged his shoe. Subtle. Married-people morse code.
Kudō Rin thought: d on't pry. He's a kid. You're being weird.
Kudō Ren caught himself and offered Yūto Shō a slightly sheepish smile. But Yūto Shō — paranoid maybe, or just attuned after the day he'd had — could've sworn the man's gaze warmed up a degree. Lingered a little longer than a stranger's should.
A few more exchanges. Yūto Shō used the universal escape hatch — "I should grab some food" — and ducked into his apartment.
He shut the door. Stood there. Then, on impulse, leaned in and pressed his eye to the peephole.
The couple hadn't left.
Kudō Ren was saying something to Kudō Rin in a low voice. Whatever it was, she didn't like it — her brow pinched, lips pressed thin. Kudō Ren raised his hands in a small placating gesture, mouth shaping what looked like sorry, sorry .
The hell are they talking about?
A student living alone in this neighborhood didn't get to be careless. Yūto Shō watched until they finally turned and walked down the hall, then peeled himself away from the door and dropped onto the couch.
The unease evaporated fast — his aunt called to ask if he'd eaten. He said yes. She was busy, told him to take care, hung up.
---
[Yūto Shō's bedroom / modern day / late night, just before midnight]
He lay on his back, staring at the ceiling fan ticking slow circles overhead. The popcorn texture above looked like static frozen mid-frame.
Then his vision rippled.
Like someone had dropped a stone into a still pond directly over his eyeballs. Images bloomed and dissolved in rapid succession — a highlight reel set to no music: Yūto Shō crouched behind the classroom's back door filming through a gap. Yūto Shō leaning in close, voice low, watching Sato Ruri's face go pale. Yūto Shō's arms locked around her hips, his face buried in the back of her skirt.
The reel slowed. Held.
A bedroom — soft pinks, plush rabbit on the pillow, schoolbooks scattered. Sato Ruri, cheeks burning red, panties hooked around her thumbs, staring down at the small dark spot with eyes like she'd just seen a ghost.
The image dissolved.
Text bloomed in its place.
[Today's Scumbag Rating: Average.]
[Reward: 100 Scumbag Points.]
[Comment: A rookie scumbag. Try harder, champ.]
…
Is the system… is the system roasting me?
Beep.
[Exchange Interface Now Open.]
A pale blue screen unfolded in his vision, neat little menu tabs along the top, EXCHANGE glowing in the corner like a JRPG shop. Yūto Shō actually sat up. Despite everything — the social suicide, the crying, the cursed comment — this part felt like the moment the game finally let him save.
He swiped through.
His face fell by degrees.
Only three items per day. Refresh at midnight. And the catalog was… not what he'd been hoping for. No fireballs. No telekinesis. No "summon a clone to do your homework." He scrolled, jaw tightening.
[Bare-Handed Blade Catch: 200 Scumbag Points. Once learned, success rate of catching a blade barehanded is 60%. Increases to 100% with practice.]
Yūto Shō's mouth twitched. He kept scrolling.
[Tough Skin: 50 Scumbag Points. Your face becomes leather. Slaps register no pain.]
[Heightened Sense of Smell: 50 Scumbag Points. You'll remember the scent of every girl you've wronged. The moment they come within ten meters, you'll know — never get sucker-punched from behind again.]
Yūto Shō: "...."
Why is everything in the survival package for guys who got harem-ending'd?
Each skill read like a prophecy. Like the system had peeked at his future and was politely handing him a survival kit. Truly — being a scumbag was a full-time occupation with hazard pay.
Still, two of the three were genuinely useful. The blade catch, obviously. The smell one, less glamorous but functionally a panic button.
But he had 100 points. The blade catch was 200. And paying 50 for a glorified perfume-tracking app didn't sit right.
He hesitated, finger hovering, then closed the menu.
He glanced at the clock. 12:03 a.m. The system reset at midnight. So most of his day was free — system only chimed in when a route presented itself, like some unhinged dating-sim narrator.
It was already tomorrow.
Yūto Shō's eyes flicked to his phone. A slow grin pulled at one corner of his mouth — the kind of grin he was starting to suspect wasn't entirely his own anymore.
He thumbed open the messaging app and tapped Sato Ruri's name.
[Yūto Shō]: Don't tell anyone about yesterday. You know what'll happen if you do.
He locked his phone, set it face-down on the nightstand, and rolled onto his side. Sleep came easy.
---
[Sato Ruri's bedroom / modern day / 12:04 a.m.]
Sato Ruri's phone buzzed against her pillow.
She'd been staring at the ceiling for two hours. She picked it up. Read it. Read it again.
Her face did something complicated — anger, humiliation, exhaustion, something underneath all of that she absolutely refused to name — and her grip on the phone tightened until her knuckles paled against the dark glass.