Zevion sat on the weathered park bench for a solid thirty minutes, his brow furrowed in such deep concentration that a passerby might have thought he was calculating the orbital trajectory of a satellite or solving a complex differential equation.
In reality, he was conducting a high-level strategic analysis of something far more volatile: a "pseudo-date."
"…Alright."
He opened his eyes slowly, the amber light of the late morning reflecting in his pupils with a sharp, renewed glint of resolve.
"I've got it."
The blueprint was elegant in its simplicity, drafted with the meticulous care of a general planning a blitzkrieg.
Phase one: Infiltration.
He would head to a high-density social zone—a mall, a bustling café district, or any trendy hub where the youth of the city naturally congregated like schools of fish.
Phase two: Reconnaissance.
He would observe the social dynamics from the shadows, identifying the ebb and flow of conversation.
Phase three: Execution.
He would identify a target and engage with surgical precision.
"I'll just do what those trashy Playboy NPCs do," he muttered, his lip curling in a mix of disdain and cold necessity.
In every romance anime he had consumed in his previous life, there were always those background characters.
The flashy guys with spiked hair, loud shirts, and an aura of unearned confidence who approached girls in broad daylight with effortless, albeit cringe-worthy, ease.
To Zevion, they were annoying.
They were tasteless.
They were completely lacking in the quiet dignity a true protagonist should possess.
They were the bottom-feeders of the narrative world, usually destined to be punched out by the hero or ignored by the heroine.
"…But they are statistically effective," Zevion admitted to the rustling oak trees.
Unlike the actual protagonists, who required five seasons, a childhood promise, and a series of cosmic coincidences just to hold hands, these NPCs actually spoke to random girls.
If they were a recurring trope in the universe, their methods had to yield results.
He had no better option; none of his "expert" knowledge of anime tropes applied here because he lacked a fated encounter, a shared backstory, or a convenient "accident" involving a piece of toast and a street corner.
"This is just practice anyway," he said, crossing his arms and nodding firmly to himself.
"This isn't a real date. It's a practice date. A pseudo-date. A stress test for my social hardware to see if the gears are still rusted."
He began to mentally draft the rules of engagement, his inner voice sounding like a technical manual.
Rule one: No weird thoughts.
Rule two: Maintain strict boundaries.
Rule three: No crossing lines.
He paused, his mind wandering into the treacherous "What If" territory.
"At most… maybe hand-holding?"
A sudden, aggressive flush of heat hit his cheeks.
He stared into the distance for a long, silent minute, the concept of skin-to-skin contact feeling as daunting as a final boss battle.
"…Maybe a cheek kiss if things escalate?"
The silence stretched even longer, broken only by the distant chime of a clock tower.
Zevion shook his head violently, nearly giving himself whiplash.
"No! Let's not get ahead of ourselves. Focus on the mission, Zev. One step at a time."
The morning sun was climbing toward its zenith, its rays filtering through the city smog to signal the start of the prime "hanging out" window.
Zevion rushed home, his heart thumping with a frantic mix of dread and adrenaline.
If he was going into battle, he needed the right armor—something that shouted "I'm cool" without screaming "I tried too hard."
He spent an agonizing amount of time in front of his wardrobe.
He meticulously curated his look: dark indigo denim jeans that fit with just the right amount of ruggedness, a crisp white tee that sat flat against his chest, and a black designer jacket over it.
He left the jacket unbuttoned, folding the sleeves back to reveal his forearms—a classic "cool but casual" silhouette he'd seen in countless fashion magazines.
For the finishing touch, he donned a golden crescent moon pendant, the faux-gold paint catching the light.
After a quick application of men's facial cream to hide the fatigue of training and a strategic spritz of a woody, masculine perfume, he checked himself in the mirror.
He looked sharp.
He looked ready.
He looked like a man who had a plan, which was a dangerous lie, but a convincing one.
With the "cursed" Apeiron Sof safely tucked into his jacket pocket, he marched toward the city's largest shopping mall.
"Operation: Pseudo-Date... starts now!"
The mall was a sprawling labyrinth of glass, steel, and neon, teeming with a dizzying amount of life.
Thanks to the "Comet Phenomenon" that had gripped the world's attention, most schools had declared a legal holiday, flooding the halls with students looking to burn off nervous energy.
Zevion's eyes narrowed, scanning the crowd like a predator—or perhaps more accurately, like a newborn deer trying to understand a freeway.
Status Report: The landscape was far more treacherous than he had anticipated.
Half the girls were moving in large, impenetrable "Girl Groups"—a fortress of high-pitched giggles, inside jokes, and collective judgment that Zevion wasn't nearly leveled up enough to breach.
To approach one was to face a firing squad of "Who is this guy?" stares.
The other half?
Couples.
Everywhere he looked, there were pairs of teenagers holding hands, sharing oversized milkshakes with two straws, or leaning into each other while window shopping.
"Wait… why are there so many couples?"
Zevion hissed under his breath, his eyes twitching as he watched a boy his age adjust a girl's scarf.
"At this age? Since when does romance start this early? Is there something in the water?"
He felt his composure slipping, his breathing becoming shallow.
He clapped a hand over his heart, feeling the frantic, uneven rhythm.
"Be calm, Zev. Be calm."
He took a deep, shuddering breath.
"Be a sea clam."
He nodded firmly, clutching the mantra like a lifeline.
"Yes. Emotionless. Stable. Unmoving. Like a mollusk at the bottom of the Mariana Trench. A clam has no anxiety. A clam has no awkwardness."
He paused, his face going blank as the logic caught up to him.
"…Why did I say sea clam? That is a terrible metaphor. Focus!"
This wasn't about love.
This wasn't about finding a soulmate.
This was—he searched his brain for a safer, more clinical term—a "casual social interaction."
Just two human beings, exchanging linguistic data in a shared space.
Nothing more.
Nothing less.
Then, he spotted her.
Standing near a vibrant display of oversized, fluffy stuffed toys was a girl.
She looked to be exactly his age, dressed in a simple but stylish outfit that didn't scream for attention.
Most importantly, she was alone.
She was currently staring at a giant stuffed penguin with a look of mild contemplation.
"…Chance."
Zevion's pulse spiked into the red zone.
This was a solo target.
Low risk.
Manageable difficulty.
He took a deep breath.
Then another.
Then a third, mostly just to delay the moment of impact.
Confidence. Smile. Smooth delivery. Be the NPC.
He began to walk.
Each step felt like he was dragging a ball and chain through thick molasses.
Step.
Step.
Step.
The distance closed.
He reached her side and came to a halt.
She turned, her eyes widening in surprise as she noticed a tall, jacketed boy looming in her peripheral vision.
There was no turning back now.
The bridge was blown.
Zevion channeled every trashy, one-line-wonder NPC he had ever seen in a late-night anime.
He leaned in slightly, a smirk that felt more like a facial cramp plastered onto his lips.
"Hey cutie~" he drawled, his voice cracking slightly on the 'y'.
"You look like the brightest flower in this garden. Wanna hang out with me for a bit?"
Silence.
Absolute, crushing, heavy silence.
The ambient noise of the mall—the pop music, the chatter, the fountain—seemed to fade into a dull hum.
The girl stared at him, her expression a mask of unreadable stillness.
Zevion stared back, his internal monologue screaming at a pitch only he could hear.
After three seconds that felt like three centuries, his gaze dropped.
First to her shoes, then to the grout between the floor tiles, and finally into the infinite, cold void of the universe.
Kill me, he thought, his soul practically leaving his body.
Delete my save file.
Reset the world.
I want to be a sea clam now.
A real one.
Deep underwater, where no one can see my shame.
He began a frantic, silent prayer to every god he could name, from ancient Vedic deities to the fictional goddesses of light novels, begging for a localized black hole to manifest right beneath his designer sneakers and swallow him whole.
While he was wallowing in his self-induced misery, the girl tilted her head.
She scrutinized him—taking in the folded sleeves of his jacket, the golden crescent pendant that was slightly crooked, and the obvious, visible tremor in his hands.
"...He will do for now," she murmured, her voice so quiet it was almost swallowed by the mall's ventilation system.
Zevion blinked, snapping out of his funeral march.
"Did… did you say something?"
The girl's face transformed instantly.
The stillness vanished, replaced by a sweet, practiced smile that reached her eyes.
"No! Nothing! By the way, I'm Kaneshiro Tomiko. You can just call me Tomiko. And you are? What's the name of the guy who calls random girls flowers?"
"I'm Zevion," he managed to stammer, his brain frantically trying to reboot its social operating system.
"Zev. Most people call me Zev. So… uh… You want to hang out? I'm alone too, and the mall is kind of boring when you're just staring at penguins. Could we do a movie? Or a cafe? Games?"
He pointedly excluded "shopping."
He didn't have a protagonist's infinite bank account, and he wasn't about to spend his hard-earned hardware fund on a "pseudo-date."
Tomiko tapped her chin thoughtfully, looking at him with a mischievous glint.
"How about a movie, then? It's a good way to kill a few hours."
Zevion was stunned.
It worked?
The trashy NPC dialogue actually worked?
He suppressed the urge to pump his fist or do a victory lap around the fountain.
He had to be cool.
He had to keep the momentum going before she realized he was a fraud.
"Sure. Do you have one in mind? I'm up for anything."
"Hmm, how about that new one, Zero's Destination? I've been hearing a lot about it lately."
"Never heard of it, but sure! Let's go check the showtimes."
They made their way to the cinema wing of the mall, which was bathed in the glow of digital posters and the overwhelming, buttery scent of fresh popcorn.
Zevion insisted on buying a massive tub of popcorn and two sodas—a small price to pay for the "practice"—and they settled into their seats in the front row.
As the lights dimmed and the trailers began to roll, Zevion prepared himself.
He had a mental checklist: he planned to make witty comments, to offer her popcorn with a charming smile, and to build the "bond" that everyone talked about.
Instead, the movie started.
It was an action-comedy masterpiece that Zevion had completely underestimated.
The plot followed a "Number One Spy" who was a genius with technology but a disaster in the field.
He had compromised the identities of every secret agent of his country.
The government's only hope was a legendary, retired spy who was so technologically illiterate he thought a "cloud" was something that only existed in the sky and that a "firewall" required a bucket of water.
This old-school spy had a 100% mission success rate, but his collateral damage was so catastrophically high that his own country had deleted every trace of his existence from the history books just to avoid lawsuits.
Zevion became so enthralled by the "technologically challenged spy" accidentally leveling a friendly military base while trying to find the "on" button for a laptop that he completely forgot a girl was sitting three inches away from him.
He laughed loudly, he cheered at the fight scenes, and he leaned forward in his seat, lost in the cinematic chaos.
When the credits finally rolled, and the house lights flickered on, Zevion stood up, feeling a genuine sense of satisfaction.
"Man, what a ride! That scene with the helicopter and the fax machine was legendary! I'm ready to—"
He stopped mid-sentence.
He looked to his left.
Right.
The girl.
Tomiko.
The pseudo-date.
He cleared his throat, desperately trying to regain his "cool" facade while his heart was still racing from the action scenes.
He offered her his hand as she stood, attempting a suave gesture.
"So, what are we doing next? That was a solid choice, by the way."
"Hmm… I'm getting kind of hungry. Maybe lunch, and then I should probably head home?"
Tomiko suggested, smoothing out her skirt.
"Sure, lead the way. I know a few places around here."
On the way out of the theater, passing through the lobby, Zevion held up a hand. "
Wait a minute, stay here. I'll be right back."
Tomiko tilted her head, her dark hair falling over her shoulder in confusion.
"Alright? Don't get lost."
Zevion vanished into a nearby convenience store and returned five minutes later carrying a small plastic shopping bag.
"What's that?" she asked, eyeing the bag with curiosity.
"Snacks for me," Zevion said bluntly.
He reached into the bag, pulled out a fresh, fluffy cream bun, tore the wrapper open, and took a massive, unceremonious bite.
"You want some? They were on sale."
Tomiko stared at him, her eyebrows twitching as she watched him chew.
"I don't want it. But your timing really sucks, you know? We are literally on our way to a restaurant to eat lunch."
"Doesn't matter," Zevion mumbled through a mouthful of sweet cream. "Fuel is fuel."
They reached a mid-range restaurant that looked decent enough to not be "cheap" but not so expensive that Zevion would have to sell his Beyblade for parts.
Both were clearly famished after the long movie, and as the waiter approached with two menus, they spoke in perfect, simultaneous unison.
"Give me the best you've got!" Zevion declared, his voice full of bravado.
"Give me the best you have to offer!" Tomiko demanded, her voice just as firm.
They both froze, menus mid-air, looking at each other for a beat of stunned silence before both burst into genuine, rib-aching laughter.
The tension that had been hovering over Zevion like a dark cloud finally broke.
They spent the entire meal talking—not about romance, but about the movie, the absurdity of the spy's gadgets, and their favorite action tropes.
Zevion found himself actually enjoying the conversation.
He wasn't even "simulating" anymore; he was just talking.
When the bill arrived, Zevion stepped up to pay.
Tomiko sheepishly admitted that she hadn't brought her purse—she'd only had enough loose cash on her for the movie ticket she'd already watched with him.
Normally, Zevion was staunchly against the "guy pays for everything" trope—he found it archaic and unfair—but this felt like a genuine exception.
She'd been good company, and he wasn't going to make her wash dishes to pay her share.
As they stepped out of the restaurant and back into the mall's main thoroughfare, the sky visible through the high glass ceiling had turned a deep, bruised purple.
Evening was falling.
"I guess it's about time I head home," Tomiko said, looking toward the exit.
"What about you?"
"I'll escort you back," Zevion said, his "pseudo-date" training kicking back in.
"It's the least I can do."
"Sure. I won't say no to a bodyguard."
They walked for a long time.
They left the bright, commercial center of the city behind, the neon signs giving way to dimmer streetlamps and quieter, narrower alleys.
The transition was abrupt—from the loud, artificial joy of the mall to the somber silence of a residential district.
"You live pretty far from the center, huh?"
Zevion noted, looking at the aging buildings.
"The walk is longer than I expected."
"Well, my dad doesn't like pollution or the noise of the city," she replied simply, her tone a bit more guarded than before.
As they rounded a corner into a particularly quiet, shadowed stretch of road, the atmosphere shifted.
Zevion saw them first: a group of men gathered near a large, ornate gate.
They weren't teenagers; they were adults, and they looked dangerous.
Their leader was aggressively barking orders, and Zevion's eyes widened as he spotted a genuine katana strapped to the man's waist.
Zevion's "Trouble Radar"—honed by years of watching shonen anime—went off like a nuclear siren.
This was a classic "plot-relevant encounter," a scripted event that usually led to a massive fight or a life-changing debt.
Zevion was currently a "solo player" with zero interest in getting involved in someone else's drama.
"Ahem," Zevion coughed, stopping dead in his tracks about twenty yards away from the group.
"So, uh, now that you're practically home and I can see your street, I should probably get going. It's late, and I have… important things to do. Training. Sleeping. That sort of stuff. See ya!"
He turned on his heel, ready to bolt back toward the safety of the neon lights.
Thump.
Before he could take a single step, a pair of slender arms wrapped firmly around his waist from behind, pinning his jacket to his sides. Zevion froze, his heart leaping into his throat.
"Eya~ don't leave me alone," Tomiko's voice came from right behind his ear.
The sweetness was still there, but the temperature had dropped by about twenty degrees.
It was a voice that commanded, rather than asked.
"You should drop me all the way to my door, Zev. You know how dangerous the neighborhood is these days~"
She spun him around with a strength that was completely disproportionate to her size.
She seized his hand in a grip that felt less like a "pseudo-date" and more like a pair of high-tensile steel handcuffs.
Without waiting for him to object, she began guiding him directly toward the group of men with the swords.
"Let's go~" she sang, her eyes fixed on the men ahead with a terrifyingly calm intensity.
"Otherwise, who knows what might happen to someone tomorrow~"
Zevion looked at the back of her head, then at the men who were now turning to look at them, then at his hand trapped in hers.
He felt the heavy weight of Apeiron Sof in his pocket, but even the cursed blade couldn't help him now.
I am screwed, he thought, his stomach sinking.
This wasn't a pseudo-date anymore.
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