Kiryuin really didn't know how to face this junior now. He had tried to catch her out of kindness, and she'd accepted the favor, loosening her grip on the vine. Yet by some bizarre twist of fate an accident had still occurred, and Yukio had caught her—only barely. The mishap left Kiryuin's heart fluttering in a way she couldn't describe; even a strong‑willed girl like her found it hard to settle down quickly.
It wasn't merely the accident that rattled her. What truly unsettled her was how she felt—just like when she'd once raced a motorcycle through roaring wind. The same rush of heightened emotion, the same exhilaration of breaking shackles. Could this be a safe, harmless kind of thrill too?
While pondering that question, she tried to steer Yukio's attention, hoping he'd say something; most of her brainpower was now devoted to thinking it over. And the boy—good grief!—thanked her with a casual, "Thanks for the treat," something she never could have predicted. This junior really is interesting.
Wasn't that why she watched him? Because he was different—able to liven up the increasingly dull routine of AN High School.
Kiryuin smiled. Unlike an average girl, she didn't blush or stammer. Her crimson eyes shimmered like stars fading at dawn. "Tsk‑tsk. You'd say that? My treats don't come at a discount, you know."
"That's perfect—we'll just call it even," Yukio laughed. "All that sprinting around to rescue you wasn't cheap either."
"Pfft." Kiryuin chuckled again. She closed the distance with graceful steps and pinched his cheek. "Doesn't look it at first glance, but now that I've tested it—your face is really thick, Junior."
Yukio wasn't the sort to stay silent when someone pinched him. His gaze dropped—deliberately. "You flatter me, Senpai. Your black stockings are pretty thick too."
"!" That single comment made her let go. The faint pink on her cheeks deepened toward crimson. Yukio had struck the bull's‑eye: she least wanted to recall what had just happened. With the naked eye you couldn't tell how thick a pair of stockings were; but if you'd made intimate contact, you could judge easily. And Yukio hadn't made just ordinary contact—he'd even sniffed.
It was as if something dormant in her spine suddenly awoke, racing from her lower back up the vertebrae straight to her brain. So—is that the answer?
Kiryuin finally saw it clearly: this was the very experience she'd been longing for—safe, harmless pleasure with zero real risk! Such things had existed since humanity's dawn. If it were unsafe, how had humans become Earth's apex species? As long as one avoided unhealthy partners, safety was nearly guaranteed. And the thrill? She realized it far surpassed motorcycling; just a few seconds of contact had etched itself into memory, something she could recall her entire life.
Thinking it through, she offered a line that could split the heavens. "Junior, if you're interested, shall I visit your room tonight so we can play a little?"
"Of course, I can pay. At the moment, you're really the only junior worth my time."
"?" Yukio's forehead filled with question marks. If his mind were a vast prairie, Kiryuin's words had sent a thousand alpacas galloping across it. Did my easy‑to‑talk‑to senpai just break her brain? This proposal was wild—way off any reasonable chart.
His expression turned solemn. "Senpai, did you hit your head when you fell? Let me take you to the infirmary."
Kiryuin shot him an exasperated look. Is what I said really that undesirable? Weren't boys supposed to love this sort of thing? In the novels she'd read, guys got hot‑blooded and threw caution to the wind. Yet this junior suggested the infirmary?
She sighed. "Junior, don't you find life unbearably dull?"
Yukio remembered her brief confession on that rented Kawasaki: life bored her. But he, honestly, was satisfied with his. "Not really. Mine's pretty colorful…"
"True." Her gaze softened, as if he were the moon stirring waves in her lifeless sea. "I can't judge your life. But with mine, I can see the end at a glance. Every step is scripted by my elders—completely devoid of fun. So I chase thrills, but only ones completely safe."
Yukio nodded. His past self might've scoffed, but in this life he understood. When your level was high enough and you'd tasted everything a hundred times, ordinary thrills grew bland; you needed something new or life became dull.
"So," he said slowly, "this new, better thrill you found is… that?"
"Mhm." She admitted it openly and explained: "You know about Tokyo's host clubs, right? Some hosts earn tens of millions of yen in a single night because upper‑class ladies pay for excitement."
"Isn't that just rich madams backing them?" Yukio honestly had little clue—he only knew host clubs were famous, especially a place called Takamagahara.
"But you're not some wealthy lady, Senpai."
That made him even more uncomfortable; it felt like she'd suddenly turned that kind of woman. Normally he welcomed benefits and dodged drawbacks, so by rights he should be happy—but the easygoing rapport he had with her made him hesitate.
"Exactly—I'm not," Kiryuin said, crimson eyes seeming to pierce the thoughts on his face. A playful glint flashed there. "Which is why other men hold no appeal. In over ten years, you're the only boy I've admired this much."
"Sure, the world's huge—there must be other outstanding men. But if I let you go and wait ten more years for the next one, I'll be in my thirties—maybe pushing forty, almost at menopause! Why delay a thrill I can have now? Besides, there's no guarantee I'd ever meet the next one."
She folded her arms, gaze frank and earnest. Yukio could only stare—caught between astonishment and a dawning, reluctant curiosity about what nightfall might bring.