Chapter 4: The Curse of Ranka, the Second Streaming Sister

"Hey, Meru. There’s no underwear in the laundry..."

"Oh, uh... we decided to wash our own underwear, you know."

"Oh, right... yeah, that makes sense."

"Yeah..."

Ever since that incident during the study session for the last test, moments like this have occasionally led to an awkward atmosphere between me and Meru.

As far as I’m concerned, I’ve chalked that whole thing up to an accident, but it seems some part of my brain can’t help but dwell on it. That awareness creeps into the edges of my words and the smallest of my gestures.

What a hassle.

I swear, I’m not consciously thinking about Meru in that way because of what happened. For one, I’ve always kept my distance from romantic entanglements, and for another, this is a workplace. A guy who gets hung up on something like that doesn’t deserve to work in a house full of women.

But my solemn vows don’t exactly broadcast themselves to others—

"..."

While we’re munching through the dinner I made, two girls are staring at Meru and me with damp, judgmental eyes.

Chinana and Ranka.

Even though I explained what happened back then, I can’t exactly say they were fully convinced. And honestly, that’s fair. If I were in their shoes, I wouldn’t believe it so easily either. That’s why I’ve got no choice but to rebuild their trust through my actions...

"...Kinda bittersweet, huh? Like that rom-com anime we did a mob role for the other day," Chinana says.

"Ain’t that generous. More like two idiots who made a one-night mistake in some melodramatic soap opera," Ranka quips.

Prick, prick, prick, prick.

Every chance they get, they sling these barbed comments our way.

"...Alright, I’ll admit I messed up, so can you guys lay off already? You’re showing the worst side of girls here."

"Gender discrimination in this day and age, senpai?" Chinana fires back.

"That’s why you’re such a caveman. You saying guys don’t throw shade?" Ranka adds.

"You’re admitting you’re throwing shade, then?"

I barely hold back a sigh as Meru plops down in her usual seat and says, cool as a cucumber:

"Jealous?"

Just like that, she drops a bombshell.

Chinana and Ranka jolt, practically rattling their chairs.

"N-No way that’s what this is...!" Chinana stammers.

"As if! I’m just saying I don’t want the house’s morals going to hell!" Ranka snaps.

Chinana’s cheeks flush with embarrassment, while Ranka’s face burns with righteous fury.

Meru, unfazed, just goes, "Hmmm..." and slurps her soup.

zuzuu

Chinana and Ranka clamp their mouths shut, practically growling gununu.

"Why do you have to stir the pot, huh?" I mutter.

This time, I can’t hold back the deep sigh that escapes me.

Meru grabs a baguette and says, "Just thought it’d be fun."

"Can you not make the workplace vibe worse just because you’re a chaos gremlin?"

"If you get fired, I’ll personally hire you."

"That’d make it even worse."

What a damn hassle.

The worst part? The main person involved doesn’t seem to care about the tension at all.

"I-I’m over it already!" Chinana blurts out, her first-person pronouns starting to stabilize lately. "I don’t think senpai’s the kinda guy who’d make a move on girls like that! If anything, he’s the type to overthink and back off for a million reasons!"

"Hey, that’s an insult," I shoot back.

"C’mon, Ran-nee, forgive him already! Right?"

Despite Chinana’s plea, Ranka just sits there, lips pursed in a sullen pout.

Without a word, she stabs her fork into a sausage—BUSSU!—and chomps it down—BORI!

I’d been getting fairly normal treatment from her lately, but it seems her man-hating tendencies have flared up again. Since I’m the cause this time, I can’t exactly push back too hard, but if this keeps up, it’s gonna mess with work.

"Hey, what’s it gonna take to get you to chill?" I ask, fed up and cutting to the chase.

Ranka, still chewing her sausage—bori bori—says, "Hmm... how ‘bout you make breakfast tomorrow morning?"

"You want me to come in early...?"

"Make it something Instagrammable. Something chic. Post a pic of it, and if it goes viral, I’ll think about forgiving you."

"Yes, yes, I’ll obey my esteemed employer."

If that’s all it takes to get her to cool off, it’s a small price to pay.

Little did I know, agreeing so easily to this job would lead to that mess—I couldn’t have imagined it at the time.

"Ranka! I saw your Insta post!"

"Me too, me too! It looked so good!"

At school, after finishing my morning shift at the Kichijoji household, Ranka’s surrounded by her classmates as usual.

Normally, I wouldn’t care, but today’s different.

Why? Because they’re gushing over the breakfast I made at the Kichijoji house, which Ranka posted on social media.

The order was to make something "Instagrammable," so I went with a standard breakfast—toast, fried eggs, bacon, salad—arranged artfully on a fancy white plate. It looked vaguely chic, so I figured it’d do.

It might sound like I half-assed it, but making food look appetizing is a chef’s skill too.

Ranka, who’d been in a sour mood, was practically buzzing with excitement, snapping photos from every angle.

That said, the dish itself was something anyone could whip up. It’s not like it was some gourmet creation by a pro chef—

—or so I thought.

"Yeah, that one," Ranka says to her classmates with a slightly awkward smile.

"That dish was actually—"

"You can cook too, Ranka?!"

"You’re, like, perfect! Don’t you have any flaws?!"

"It was blowing up, right? A high school girl making food like that? No wonder!"

Yup.

Apparently, it’s gone insanely viral.

And somehow, people think Ranka made it.

Let me repeat: the dish was nothing special. Just some stuff I toasted, tore, and plated. Add a white plate like you’d see in a French restaurant, and Ranka’s knack for good lighting and angles. That’s it. It’s not particularly delicious or intricate.

And yet, it’s racking up thousands, tens of thousands of reactions... Should I praise Ranka’s influence or lament the lack of taste among social media users? I can’t decide.

Either way, this hollow fame doesn’t exactly thrill me.

If anything, I want to sigh.

There are people out there whose lives could be changed by a fraction of this attention, and yet a dish even a kid could make is going viral... haah.

Ranka’s probably just as confused. Having something she didn’t even do credited to her, being hyped up beyond reality—

"...W-Well, yeah! I’ve been practicing little by little!" she says.

—huh?

"I mean, eating out all the time gets old, right? Gotta cook for myself sometimes!"

Huh?

"Plus, I’ve got my little sisters at home, you know? As the big sister, I gotta step up—"

What’s she going on about?

This is the same girl who’d rather laze on the couch and order delivery at the drop of a hat.

"Gotta know how to cook to keep up appearances, right?"

Let me quote something I once heard from a certain girl:

'Self-cooking’s cheaper? That’s just propaganda. When you factor in the effort, isn’t ordering from Sukiya or CoCo Ichibanya cheaper? Like, people who cook for themselves are idiots.'

The moment I shot her a glare that screamed, Wanna see me set this whole thing ablaze?, Ranka kept her dazzling smile plastered on while subtly turning her face away from me.

—What else can I do?! It’d be a shame to ruin their dreams!

It was as if I could hear her voice pleading.

Man, people who put on airs are such idiots.

Still, I get why she’s hesitant to clear the air. It’s probably a one-time thing anyway, and if going along with it keeps the peace, I’m not gonna make a big deal out of it—

“So, you’re gonna start posting cooking pics from now on?”

“What else can you make? I’m so excited! ♪”

“…Haha, ha.”

Ranka’s smile twitches as she glances at me, her eyes practically begging for a lifeline.

Yeah, the idiot who went along with her vanity’s just as bad.

That evening, in the Kichijoji family’s living room, Ranka’s standing in front of me, hands clasped together in a plea.

“Please! Just one more time!”

“No way.”

I cross my arms, my tone unyielding. Ranka pouts, clearly not happy.

“Stingy…”

“It’s not about being stingy. I’m saying I’m not gonna be part of your scam.”

“Scam’s a bit dramatic… It’s not like I’m lying, right?”

“It’s the same thing. People see it and assume you made it.”

Ranka clams up, looking guilty.

Good. At least she knows it’s wrong.

“But what am I supposed to say, then? Just come out and admit I didn’t make it and won’t post any more pics?”

“That’d be the best move, but knowing you, you’d find some way to dodge the truth.”

“So many people are expecting stuff from me… You can’t tell me you don’t feel some kinda thrill from it, right…?”

“I do. I feel bad for deceiving people, even if it wasn’t on purpose. Obviously.”

“…Stubborn…”

“Better than being a coward.”

Ranka still looks dissatisfied.

I respect her drive to meet her followers’ expectations, but her methods are just plain bad. I don’t care how she chooses to play her game, but if she’s gonna misuse my skills, that’s a different story.

We’re going back and forth when the wall-mounted monitor flickers on with a putsu.

‘I was listening, but isn’t that kinda messed up, Ranka?’

It’s Kikuri, the blonde high school girl illustration.

‘It’s like those kids who claim a god-tier artist’s account is theirs and DM them like, “I told my friends it’s mine, so post a drawing at this time.” Getting likes that way doesn’t mean jack, right?’

“I know! That’s why I’m saying just one more time!”

‘Then just stop now.’

I stare at the eldest sister from another dimension, delivering straight-up logic in her laid-back tone.

‘…What’s up, Kiminaga-kun? Fallin’ for me or what?’

“Just thinking you can actually act like a big sister.”

‘Hey now, I’m the real-deal big sis here.’

She’s usually just a chaotic troublemaker, so I’m kinda impressed.

Ranka looks down for a bit before speaking, her voice heavy with sincerity.

“…I’m… supposed to be Japan’s number-one high school girl.”

She pleads with me.

“I don’t wanna let them down… I know I messed up, but if there’s a version of me that everyone’s excited about, I wanna protect that as much as I can. So please! Just one more time!”

Ranka bows deeply to me.

That Ranka—the one who hates guys, who once kicked me out without a second thought—bowing to me like she’s about to grovel.

Is this really that important to her?

Important enough to lower her head to someone she can’t stand…

“…Haa.”

I let out a sigh and say in a low, firm voice, “One more time. That’s it.”

In an instant, Ranka’s face lights up, and she beams.

“Yeah! Thank you so much!”

Beside her, Kikuri mutters, ‘Oh, man.’

‘You’re such a softie. Don’t blame me when this blows up.’

I should’ve listened to that 2D elder sister’s warning more closely.

I’d come to regret it later.

“Hey, about the next dish. Can you make something with pasta? Nothing too pricey, maybe mix in some frozen stuff. I heard this kinda thing’s trending overseas—oh, yeah, yeah, yeah! Like that! Just toss in some ingredients to make it look fancy! Thanks~!”

I was an idiot for giving in.

“Just one more time” was a blatant lie.

Ranka kept coming up with excuses to make me cook. Sometimes she offered payment, other times she leaned on her authority as my employer. Once, she even pretended it was just for a regular dinner, then posted the pics on social media without my permission.

Of course, I call her out every time.

And every time, she says the same thing:

“They’ll get bored soon anyway! Once the likes drop off, I’ll stop!”

That was her line, and now it’s been almost two weeks.

It’s mid-May, and the rainy season’s creeping closer. But even before the rain clouds roll in, my mood’s already a downpour of gloom.

The other sisters have noticed what Ranka’s up to, of course.

“Ran-nee’s all about the numbers,” Chinana says with a wry smile. “She found a ‘like-generating tree’ instead of a money tree, so no way she’s letting go of it that easily.”

“If you wanna stop, just stop,” Meru adds, exasperated. “You’re just as bad for not putting your foot down, Shikimi.”

I’m disappointed in myself too. I thought I was the type to call out nonsense when I saw it.

But look at me now, getting swept up in Ranka’s momentum. What does that make me? Just another spineless weathervane, bending to the crowd—the kind of petty conformist I despise.

“So you’re moping about it, huh? That’s a rare sight,” Matsuba Mitsuba says with a knowing smirk, sitting at the cafeteria’s window counter.

I slurp down the last of the cheapest kake udon from the cafeteria and reply, “I’m not moping. Just venting. I’m telling that Kichijoji girl today that I’m done.”

“Really? From where I’m sitting, you look more troubled now than ever since we met, Kunshi-kun. Kinda makes me jealous.”

“Of what? What’s there to be jealous of?”

“Right now, your head’s full of Ranka-chan, isn’t it? Pretty enviable, if you ask me—your self-proclaimed best friend.”

“That’s the part you got wrong. My only friend.”

I’ve never once seen Mitsuba talk to anyone else.

Sometimes I wonder if this so-called friend is just a hallucination only I can see. She’s wearing a uniform, but I don’t even know what year or class she’s in—or if she’s actually a student at this school.

“Seriously—does it feel that good to take up space in someone else’s head? If it were me, I’d feel guilty or creeped out.”

“It’s fun,” Mitsuba says. “Posting pics on social media, dropping viral content, or tossing out spicy takes—it’s all about coloring other people’s minds with your own presence, right?”

“Approval-seeking, huh? Absolutely pathetic…”

“Everyone’s got a bit of it, don’t they? Even you, Kunshi-kun.”

“…That’s a bad joke.”

I gulp down some self-serve water and set the empty glass on the table.

“I don’t have any need for approval. All I’ve got is the drive to refine myself.”

“Really? Never felt a spark of joy when the Kichijoji sisters praised your cooking? Never got a bit of satisfaction when they thanked you for cleaning?”

“…”

“Even venting to me like this—doesn’t it come down to wanting someone to get how you feel? Isn’t that just another form of seeking approval?”

“…You really don’t have any friends, do you?”

“I do. You.”

Mitsuba props her cheek on her hand, flashing a shady grin across the table.

“And, y’know, the fact that you get how that comment might rub people the wrong way shows you understand approval-seeking more than you let on—same deal with Ranka-chan.”

“So I should just go along with her crap?”

“You know that’s not what I’m saying. You’re just itching to shoot down my words right now.”

I scowl, lips tightening.

“…Quit being so damn reasonable. You’ll really end up friendless.”

“That’d be a shame. Wanna bribe me with some fried chicken?”

“Don’t try to buy me off.”

As usual, I head straight from school to the Kichijoji house after classes.

Sometimes I walk partway with Chinana, but today I’m alone. The sprawling living room is empty, littered only with traces of the four sisters’ lives from last night. I keep telling them not to leave used mugs on the table.

I drop my bag by the wall and start tidying the cluttered glass table. Then, the wall-mounted monitor flickers on by itself.

‘Yo, Kiminaga-kun, mornin’~’

“It’s afternoon—borderline evening. What time do you think it is?”

‘In our biz, it’s always mornin’. Ohayohisoka~’

VTubers often use greetings tied to their names, I guess. Kikuri’s pen name and handle, Kuriki Hisoka, is probably the source. But as far as I know, she’s never used that greeting before.

I glance at the camera above the monitor. “You always watching this living room or what?”

‘Ain’t got that kinda free time. Just peek in now and then.’

“Bit unsettling…”

‘Don’t go doin’ anything naughty, yeah?’

Ni-shi-shi. Kikuri lets out an exaggerated laugh.

‘Alright, I’m off to prep for my stream.’

“You streaming today too? You were at it pretty hard yesterday.”

‘Daily streams are the streamer’s way. Catch ya later~’

With a putsu, the monitor shuts off.

Streaming every day and working as an illustrator… Meru streams daily too, but that doubles as her pro-gamer gig. Kikuri—Kuriki Hisoka—doesn’t always stick to art-related streams. She’s more into gaming, chats, or random projects. Juggling that with her illustrator work seems exhausting, even to an outsider.

She comes off as a shut-in, but maybe she’s secretly a ball of energy.

All that, with a half-assed pen name like hers. Kikuri scrambled into Kuriki…

I toss the piled-up dishes into the dishwasher and flip it on, then head to the second-floor laundry room to grab the clothes.

It’s just one day’s worth, but with three people, it adds up—though, saying that makes me wonder where the fourth went. Kikuri’s room apparently has its own bathroom and laundry setup, so I’ve never seen her stuff. I’m starting to think she’s just a monitor-bound entity.

Since Meru started washing her own underwear, I’m finally spared from handling the sisters’ delicates. Makes sorting easier, and laundry’s done faster. Not that it was a big deal—just tossing stuff in the machine.

Next, I rinse rice, dump it into the cooker, and while it’s going, I give the living room a quick vacuum.

Gotta clean Meru’s room soon too. In a week, it turns into a chaotic jungle.

As I’m thinking that, the front door clicks open.

“I’m back~”

It’s Ranka, obviously fresh from school, still in her uniform, bag in hand.

She spots me and lets out a small, “Oh.” Kicking off her loafers carelessly, she hurries into the living room.

“Kiminaga! Perfect timing.”

“…What?”

Her cheery grin sets off alarm bells, but I ask anyway.

“For the next dish, I was thinking maybe a video. I’m getting a ton of requests. If we keep you out of the frame and just show the pan or pot—”

I furrow my brow and say, clear as day, “No.”

Ranka, mid-excited ramble, freezes.

Blinking her wide eyes in confusion, she stammers, “W-What? Why so sudden…?”

“It’s not sudden. It was supposed to be just one more time. You conveniently forgot that part.”

“That’s…! …Well, yeah, but…”

I set the vacuum back on its wall charger.

“Doesn’t it bother you? Your followers think you made those dishes. How can you smile like that while deceiving them?”

“I’m not deceiving anyone…! I never said I made them…!”

“Maybe not at first, but now you’re banking on people assuming you did. That’s hardly honest. Frankly, it’s shameless.”

“Y-You don’t have to go that far—”

“If the truth comes out, your followers will say the same.”

Ranka clamps her lips shut.

I level a cold, angry glare at her.

“I’m not saying you have to spill the truth. I’m just done helping. If you wanna keep posting food pics, practice and cook yourself. That’s what everyone else does.”

She’s probably not confident in her cooking. I’ve never seen her make anything beyond instant ramen.

But cooking’s not rocket science. Anyone can do the basics. No talent required—just a bit of effort and motivation. If she can’t even muster that, then that’s all she is as an influencer.

We’re done here.

The rice cooker chimes its melody. Chinana should be back soon, and Meru’s probably waking up. Time to start dinner—

“—Really, no way?”

Her words hit at the same time.

A heavy thud slams into me from behind, and I stumble forward.

Luckily, the carpet cushions my fall, so it doesn’t hurt much. But there’s still a weight pinning me down, making it hard to move. I barely manage to roll onto my back.

Ranka’s on top of me.

Her hands brace on either side of my face, her eyes pleading as they lock onto mine.

“What… are you doing?”

I force down my panic and demand an answer, but she doesn’t budge.

Instead of responding, she speaks in halting, broken bursts, like a kid sniffling through excuses.

“You’re right… I know that. But… they expect so much. They want me… to be this perfect, super high school girl who can do anything.”

“Then practice and cook for yourself. I’m not even making anything fancy.”

“The quality won’t match! They’ll figure out I didn’t make the earlier stuff…”

“That’s your own damn fault!”

Anger flares, and I raise my voice.

“You got carried away when it went viral! Now you’re dealing with the consequences! It’s all on you! I’ve got no reason to clean up your mess!”

“I know…! I know, but…!”

She sounds like a whining kid.

Is this really Kichijoji Ranka? The girl who keeps her sisters in line, who acts like the household’s morality police, who I thought was the most mature person here?

Right now, she’s the opposite.

Like a kid scolded by a parent, refusing to admit fault, spouting nonsense excuses. That’s all I can see.

“What would it take… for you to help me?”

Her voice cracks as she leans closer, peering into my eyes.

“Anything I can do… just name it. I’ll do anything…”

Her hands frame my face, almost like she’s trying to hold me in place.

Her ample chest presses against my ribcage.

With flushed lips and a trembling, needy voice, she pleads greedily.

“…So? Is it… no good…?”

My anger hits its peak.

“Don’t screw with me!!”

I slam my clenched fist into the carpet.

With a thud, Ranka flinches, her shoulders trembling, frozen stiff.

“What happened to hating guys? You kicked me out because no man could set foot in this house—what was that all about!? Now you’re using your body when you’re desperate? You’re the one who hates people like that the most!!”

“…Ah…”

Ranka’s mouth hangs open, stunned, as I roughly shove her off.

I don’t even want to look at her sprawled on the floor.

Standing up, I turn my back and spit, “You’re so shallow. People like you—I despise more than anything.”

No need to waste more words.

I head to the kitchen and start my work in silence.

◆

I didn’t have the courage to speak to him.

“Senpai! I need help with some studying…”

“Sure. Oh, math, huh?”

“Shikimi, one of my socks is missing…”

“Probably buried somewhere! Check around your bed.”

In the same living room, watching my little sisters chat with Kiminaga, I stay silent.

I couldn’t picture it.

Myself, talking to Kiminaga like normal… It used to be so ordinary just a little while ago, but now it feels like a dream.

—You’re so shallow.

His biting words, his retreating back—they’re seared into my mind.

I couldn’t even get mad. I was just… sad.

Because deep down, I know it’s true—

I can’t bring myself to talk to Kiminaga.

And it feels like he’s avoiding looking at me too.

Chinana and Meru seem to have noticed, glancing at me with concern now and then, but they don’t know what to say, so they don’t bring it up.

The only one who said anything was Kiku-nee.

‘What’d you expect? Of course it’d turn out like this.’

Unusually sharp, Kiku-nee scolded me.

‘If anything, Kiminaga-kun was kind about it. He could’ve snapped way earlier, or just stopped coming to this house altogether—no one would’ve blamed him. But he went along with it for a while and still keeps up with the housework. He’s a good kid, really.’

This whole mess… it’s all my fault.

I got too comfortable. I convinced myself that Kiminaga would forgive me no matter what.

At some point, he became that kind of person to me.

Even though I rejected him so hard at first. In just two months, I’d gotten so used to leaning on him.

He’s just a high schooler my age—not some all-forgiving hero or a mom who accepts everything.

Realizing that, but unable to accept it, I resorted to such a pathetic, shameless tactic—

I’m so disgusted with myself.

The me who clings to others so easily.

The shallow me.

‘You gotta apologize as soon as you can. That’s all you can do, right?’

I know… but just saying sorry feels like it’ll only make me seem shallower.

Because I’m still the same shallow person…

Unable to bear being in the same space as Kiminaga, I escape to my room.

I want confidence.

Confidence that I’m not some shallow, worthless person.

Without it, I don’t know how I’ll face tomorrow—

So, almost instinctively, I grab my phone.

◆

Cutting through the breeze on my bike, I leave Daikanyama’s chic streets behind, passing Ebisu Garden Place and weaving into a maze of residential alleys.

After a few turns down a road barely wide enough for a single car, a two-story wooden apartment comes into view, looking out of place in central Tokyo. The walls are coated with stucco, but the cracks running through them betray its age without needing to call a realtor.

That’s my home now.

There’s a spot for my bike inside the fence, but I stop pedaling on the street in front of it.

A familiar middle school girl is rhythmically juggling a soccer ball at the apartment’s entrance.

“Shinomi, don’t kick a ball on the street. What are you, a grade-schooler?”

With her crisp short haircut and a hoodie and shorts like some weekend elementary school boy, she stops the ball cleanly on her foot and looks at me.

“Yo, Shikimi-kun. You’re back early lately.”

“It’s just the days getting longer. Same as always.”

“That so? Now that you mention it, dinner’s been earlier too.”

This kid, telling time by the sun’s height instead of a clock, is my step-sister—Kiminaga Shinomi.

Two years younger than me, same age as Chinana from the Kichijoji sisters, I guess.

She’s tall for a middle school girl, so it doesn’t quite feel like it.

As I get off my bike, Shinomi pops the soccer ball up and catches it on her hand.

“What’s for dinner?”

“There’s still some curry left.”

“Again…?”

“You like it.”

“Three days in a row’s a bit much.”

We head inside the fence, squeezing my bike into the narrow gap between the block wall and the stucco. We climb the rusty iron stairs together.

“Where’re Dad and Mom?”

“Working late again, they said. Poor folks, no rest for the broke.”

After their company went under, both found new jobs, working late into the night. They’ve got experience as former business owners, so their pay’s decent enough, but the debts left from the company’s collapse mean they have to work as much as they can.

I’m working to help out too, but Shinomi doesn’t seem interested in getting a job even when she hits high school.

That’s fine. Me, Dad, and Mom are busting our asses so she doesn’t have to struggle more than necessary.

Besides, unlike me, she’s got talent—

I pull the key from my pocket, unlock the door, and open it.

“I’m home—”

Shinomi calls out, even though we know no one’s there, and steps into the entryway.

I follow, kicking off my shoes in the cramped space. Shinomi’s already sprawled on the tatami in the living room, flipping on the TV.

It’s a 2DK layout.

Compared to the Kichijoji house, it’s like a storage closet, but we’ve got private rooms (shared with Shinomi), a separate bath and toilet, and I don’t find it too inconvenient.

If I had to complain, I’d want a drum-style washer and a bigger fridge.

Our washing machine doesn’t have a dryer, so laundry’s hung out on the balcony, where the neighboring building’s wall slows the drying to a crawl.

I wash my hands and call out to Shinomi, who’s zapping through TV channels.

“Clean the bathroom before you get comfy. It’s a pain after dinner.”

“Mmm—fiiine.”

Her half-hearted reply echoes as I drop my bag in my room and change out of my uniform into casual clothes—a simple shirt and chinos.

Since I usually head straight to the Kichijoji house from school, this is when I finally ditch the uniform.

Back in the living room, Shinomi’s gone from the TV, and I hear water running from the bathroom.

Alright, better get dinner ready before that gremlin starts raging from hunger.

Not that it’s much work—like I said, we’ve got leftover curry, so it’s no big deal.

The meals at the Kichijoji household let you pick whatever ingredients you want, so they end up being a hassle to prepare. Here, though, the options are so limited it’s often a breeze to decide on a menu.

I open the fridge and spot some leftover pumpkin. Maybe I’ll make a stew out of it.

I toss the pumpkin into a pot to simmer and head off to bring in the laundry.

“Shikimi-kun! Can I start running the bath now?”

Shinomi peeks out from the bathroom, her voice carrying over.

“Go for it. I wanna hop in early too.”

“Sweet!”

It’s been four years since we moved into this apartment… Back then, Shinomi was just a grade-schooler. She’s gotten pretty dependable since—though maybe I’m just too used to the Kichijoji sisters’ total lack of life skills. Shinomi helps with chores now and then, but I’m still the one handling most things around here.

Later, I set the warmed-up curry and pumpkin stew on the low table, and we eat together.

Just as we finish, the bath’s ready, signaled by a little notification melody.

“Yo, Shikimi-kun, bath’s calling!”

“After we wash the dishes.”

We clean up the plates together, then head to the bathroom.

Shinomi, impatient as ever, yanks off her hoodie—undershirt and all—in one go right in front of me.

“Hey! I keep telling you not to strip everything off at once!”

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll sort ’em, I’ll sort ’em!”

Grumbling, Shinomi pulls the undershirt out from the hoodie and tosses it aside, then strips off her sports bra, shorts, and underwear, chucking them into the laundry basket. Buck naked, she heads for the bath.

“First dibs! ♪”

God, no matter how old she gets, she’s still so damn hyper.

I strip down too and slide open the frosted glass door to the bathroom. Shinomi’s already soaking in the tub, submerged up to her neck.

“Ahh, pure bliss.”

No sign of her offering her tired, working brother the first dip, apparently.

Whatever. I’ll just wash my hair and body first.

I turn on the shower, letting the hot water pour over my head.

I met Shinomi about six years ago—when I was in fifth grade and she was in third. She showed up at the children’s home where I lived, brought by Dad and Mom. Even back then, she was ridiculously friendly. She latched onto me just because our names sounded similar, and that connection led to us being adopted together.

Taking baths together started back then too—a habit that’s stuck. Shinomi was always so full of energy, playing in the mud till evening like it was her job. I’d get dragged into it, and Mom would toss us both into the bath to clean up. That’s how this whole routine got started.

I’ll admit, I’ve wondered if it’s a bit weird for a ninth-grader to still be bathing with her older brother. But it saves on the gas bill, and as long as Shinomi’s cool with it, I’ll keep it up.

“…Shikimi-kun.”

I’m scrubbing shampoo into my hair when Shinomi’s voice echoes through the tiny bathroom.

“Something bad happen lately?”

“…Huh?”

I rinse out the shampoo and glance back at the tub.

Shinomi’s got her arms draped over the tub’s edge, leaning back all relaxed, looking up at me with a chill expression.

“…Why’d you think that?”

“You’ve seemed kinda off the past few days.”

“Have I?”

“Dunno, just a vibe. Not obvious, but… yeah.”

…Guess that’s what six years of living together gets you. Or maybe she’s just that sharp?

Shinomi grins smugly, arms still resting on the tub’s edge.

“Bet it’s girl trouble.”

“…You’re just throwing that out there, aren’t you?”

“My friend in class said, like, eighty percent of high school guys’ problems are about girls.”

“Don’t go spreading that kinda nonsense.”

“Feels kinda nostalgic, though.”

She splashes lightly in the water as she talks.

“Like, you’ve got that same vibe as when we first met. All walled off, y’know? Especially around girls. You used to give me that ‘ugh, go away’ look, Shikimi-kun.”

“If you knew that, you could’ve backed off a bit.”

I did have a phase where I was uneasy around girls. Not just uneasy—more like a phobia. I couldn’t talk to girls my age, could barely stand being near them without feeling anxious. Yeah, I went through that.

“Hard to believe that Shikimi-kun started working as a butler in a house full of girls. Kinda blows my mind.”

“Not a butler, a housekeeper. And the client’s gender doesn’t matter.”

That said, the old me would’ve never managed working at the Kichijoji place.

And who fixed my fear of girls? None other than this Kiminaga Shinomi right here.

Living with her—someone who never reads the room and constantly got in my face—gradually chipped away at my phobia.

Because I’ve got a little sister.

I say that a lot, and it’s not just some throwaway line. Honestly, without Shinomi, I wouldn’t have survived half the stuff at the Kichijoji house.

“Back then, you wouldn’t even look me in the eye. You’d hide in your room the second you got the chance, always acting all nervous…”

“Was I that bad? That sounds like—”

—Ranka right now.

I swallow the last words, and Shinomi gives me a curious look.

“Sounds like what?”

“…Nothing.”

I sit on the bath stool, wetting a body towel under the shower, when a hand snatches it from me.

“…? Hey!”

“Lemme wash your back.”

Shinomi stands up, water dripping off her as she grabs the towel. Without waiting for my okay, she starts scrubbing my back.

“Kinda nostalgic, huh? We used to do this all the time.”

“…Mostly me washing you, though.”

What’s gotten into her? Does she think I’m down or something?

If so… why am I feeling off?

Through the mirror in front of me, I see Shinomi scrubbing my back, and my mind drifts to the past.

I only half-remember why I developed that fear of girls.

Half of it, I remember vividly—crystal clear.

But the other half… I feel like there was something else. Something tied to a girl, something sad. That fear, that anxiety, it’s like it was burned into a blank spot in my heart, pushing me to avoid girls altogether.

Just like Ranka’s doing now.

Avoiding me, like Ranka.

“Shikimi-kun.”

Suddenly, Shinomi leans against me from behind, wrapping her arms around my neck.

“If you got rejected, just say so. I’ll cheer you up, y’know.”

“…I didn’t get rejected.”

“Yeah, right. Don’t aim too high, okay? Settle for your little sister for now.”

Her face in the mirror’s grinning like an idiot.

So that’s what she’s thinking. No wonder she’s being all weirdly considerate.

She’s such a pain sometimes, but it’s true her obliviousness saved me back then.

Without Shinomi, how would I have dealt with that fear, that anxiety? Would I have just shut myself in my room, rejecting everything? Unlike Kikuri or Meru, I don’t even have anything to do in there.

What about Ranka?

What’s she doing, hiding away in her room like that?

◆

“Hey, Ranka-nee.”

Chinana spots me in the second-floor hallway.

“Senpai made breakfast. You not eating?”

“Uh… I’ll eat later.”

“Oh… okay…”

I hurriedly slip past Chinana and duck into my room.

It’s a day off today. Kiminaga’s here as usual, doing chores like it’s nothing, chatting with the sisters like it’s nothing.

I’m the only one who’s not normal.

I can’t do things the way I used to. I can’t fit into their circle. It’s my own house, but I feel more out of place here than anywhere else.

Still, morning comes whether I like it or not.

Video editing’s half-done… Gotta plan where to hang out with my classmates. Need to check SNS replies too. Oh, and school assignments—

All these ‘things I should do’ and ‘things I have to do’ race through my head, but in the end, all I do is flop onto my bed.

I can’t bring myself to start anything… I just don’t have the energy…

I know I should just force myself to move, but I can’t muster the will. Sprawled on the bed, I glance at my phone screen.

No messages I need to reply to. Not in the mood for videos. Already finished today’s gaming quota.

So, naturally… I type my handle into the SNS search bar.

‘[Lanca]’s way too cute~’ ‘Been watching [Lanca]’s videos lately. Cute and hilarious.’ ‘Is [Lanca]-chan streaming today?’

My heart feels full. Sure, I could find praise like this in my video comments anytime, but there’s something special about knowing people are hyping me up in places I can’t see, places I don’t even know about.

‘[Lanca]’s body is insanely hot.’ ‘[Lanca]’s really a high school girl? If she was in my class, I’d be all over her every day.’ ‘[Lanca]’s man-hating vibe is such a turn-on.’

…Gross. But, I mean, it’s kinda positive, so I’ll let it slide. If they said that stuff where I could see it, they’d be blocked in a heartbeat.

‘Hate girls like [Lanca]. Acts like she’s above guys but flirts with her friends’ boyfriends. Bet she’s messing around behind the scenes.’

“…”

…Don’t care. Don’t care.

I scroll past it quick to get it out of sight. If I let every little hater comment get to me, I wouldn’t be able to do this. That kind of accusation isn’t even new—

—Using your femininity when you’re desperate, huh!

…Was it… not just an accusation?

I let my phone drop face-down onto the bed and bury my face in the pillow.

I was supposed to hate guys. I’ve said it over and over, at school, on streams. The guys at school, the creeps online eyeing me up—I was supposed to hate them all.

But somehow, I let Kiminaga slide… got used to him being around.

And then… I went and made a fool of myself like that…

“…I’m… such a liar…”

I pick up my phone again and open the comment section on my video site.

It’s full of praise for me. The hater comments are buried way down, out of sight unless you scroll forever.

But these people… they’re praising a fake me.

A cute, cool, guy-hating, confident, independent me who doesn’t need anyone.

If they knew the real me was like this… they’d probably all tear into me like that hater did.

I have to bury it.

Bury it, hide it.

I need to soak up the me they expect, bury the real me, hide it away, and keep getting more, more, more praise.

So forget it, forget it. Everyone’s praising me like this, so there’s no need to care about one stupid hater post. Forget it, forget it, forget it—

—Hate girls like [Lanca].

“…Ugh…”

Too late.

It’s burned into my heart—

—Pop.

A notification pops up at the top of my phone screen.

The sender and message catch my eye, and my heart jumps.

…Huh? Why? What for?

Confused, I open the chat. Right then, another message comes through.

Immediately after—

BAM! My door flies open.

There’s Kiminaga, standing in the doorway.

I freeze on my bed. W-What? What’s…?

Kiminaga strides over, lips pressed tight. He stops by the bed, arms crossed like a teacher scolding a troublemaker. I look up at him. He opens his mouth.

“—You’re such a pain!”

My jaw drops.

“…Huh?”

“Locking yourself in here with that pathetic, lonely look! It’s awkward as hell! I don’t think I did anything wrong—not one bit—but you’re making me feel kinda bad anyway!”

W-What the hell’s with that!?

I’m hurting here, all alone, and that’s what you say!?

“What’ve you been doing, moping around since morning?”

His eyes catch the phone in my hand.

“Lemme see.”

“What? Hey, wait—!”

Kiminaga snatches my phone and swipes through the screen a few times, frowning in disgust.

Oh no… crap… I didn’t close the app from my ego-search…

“…Knew it.”

He sighs heavily, then holds down the power button on my phone.

Sliding it into his pocket, he declares, “I’m keeping this for the day.”

“What… WHAT!?”

I leap off the bed and grab at him.

“Give it back! I’ve got tons of stuff I can’t do without it—!”

“Like what? Digging up hater comments first thing in the morning so you can wallow in your own misery?”

“…”

I can’t meet his eyes, glaring straight at me.

He snorts, looking at me.

“I think I’m finally getting you. You’re one of those—what’s it called—menhera types.”

“…Don’t act like you know me… You barely even talk to girls…”

“I’ve got a little sister, y’know. And you’re pretty much her polar opposite.”

…Yeah, I know. I know. I’m a mess!

I get anxious when a friend cancels plans, I spiral when a video doesn’t do well, I can’t stop ego-searching even though I know it’ll hurt, I get a tiny thrill from being objectified, and I’ve somehow gotten attached to a guy I’ve only known for two months!

“…I know…! I know I’m a pain in the ass…! But I was born this way, okay!? Be grateful I’m not venting on some secret account with a bunch of rants!”

“You need praise for every little thing you do, don’t you?”

“Yeah! I want you to say ‘Good job getting up!’ when I say ‘Morning!’”

“That’s just being patronized at that point.”

He says it with an exasperated tone, but then Kiminaga gently puts a hand on my shoulder.

“Kichijoji… as the guy handling your household, managing your life, I’ve gotta teach you something.”

“…What…?”

“People don’t need phones to live.”

Dead serious, he says it.

“For thousands of years, humans got by without these glowing screens—today, I’m gonna make you remember that.”

◆

So I dragged Ranka out of the house, but we hit a snag right away.

“…Where do we even go?”

“You didn’t plan anything!?”

We’re kinda just walking toward Daikanyama Station, but I’ve never hung out with friends in the city, so obviously I’ve got no clue where to go for fun.

“You made that big, smug declaration, and now what? Look at the effort I put into my outfit, thinking I’m going out with a guy!”

Unlike her usual loungewear, Ranka’s dressed up in a loose-sleeved, off-shoulder blouse and a high-waisted miniskirt—the kind of trendy look you’d see on girls around town.

“For someone who claims to hate guys, you sure care about that stuff.”

“…!”

Ranka chokes on her words for a second before shooting back,

“…It’s called TPO, okay? Time, place, occasion. Better than wearing my convenience-store loungewear, right?”

“Wouldn’t have cared if you did,” I say. “I’m fine with that.”

“You care too little!”

Humans can get by just fine in clearance-rack shirts and clearance-rack chinos.

Ranka turns her face away with a huff.

“…I do hate guys. That’s real. But, like, that doesn’t mean I don’t wanna be cute.”

“No clue how that works,” I say.

“It’s like… if you’re gonna play a card game, you wanna build a strong deck, right? Same thing.”

“Still no clue.”

“What do you get, then!?”

Hmm. She’s right—I don’t get a lot of this.

So let’s make that the theme.

“Alright, I’ve decided. Take me somewhere you’d go, somewhere I’d never even think of.”

“…Huh?”

“You know I don’t have a clue what girls usually do. So show me. Take me to the places you go, places you’re curious about, your favorite spots—whatever. But don’t think about what looks good on SNS. You’re not taking pics anyway.”

This could be a chance for me to broaden my horizons too.

It’s not like it’ll be useful for anything specific, but knowledge is always good to have.

The gentleman harmonizes but does not conform; the small man conforms but does not harmonize—this is probably some kind of “harmony” too.

“Teach me about you, Kichijoji.”

At that, Ranka glances at me, her lips twitching.

“F-Fine… if you’re gonna be that insistent…”

“You’re not hiding that excitement, approval-seeking monster.”

Already learned something new.

People obsessed with validation can’t resist showing off.

I was ready for anything—some chic café, a fancy boutique, bring it on—

Or so I thought.

“…Why here?”

Blaring pop music.

Eye-searing, colorful bookshelves.

And a crowd of hyped-up customers (mostly women).

We’re on the third floor of a building down a side street off Shibuya’s main drag—an anime shop, of all places.

“What? You said to go somewhere I like,” Ranka says, sulking next to me.

I glance around, feeling out of place.

“Yeah, but… this wasn’t what I pictured…”

“Thought I wasn’t into anime?”

“Thought you’d look down on it.”

“What kinda prejudice is that?”

Ranka snorts, clearly annoyed.

“I watch anime like anyone else. Play games in my free time, drop cash on gacha when it updates, and obviously hit up events with my ita-bag on my days off.”

“Don’t know much about it, but that doesn’t sound exactly ‘normal.’”

What’s an ita-bag?

“Anyway, they just dropped some new acrylic stands I wanted.”

“Not gonna ask what that means ‘cause it sounds like a rabbit hole… but still, didn’t expect this. Anime’s fine for you, then?”

My eyes land on a life-sized panel of a smiling, handsome idol guy and a screen playing a shonen manga anime on loop.

Hates guys, but fictional ones are fair game, huh?

“Nah, not like that. This place does lean toward women’s stuff, but I’m into that section.”

Ranka weaves through the shelves with practiced ease.

She stops in front of a display packed with anime girl merch—characters I recognize from TV commercials for some idol game.

“2D idol girls are where it’s at!” Ranka declares, puffing up proudly.

I stare at the idols, their thighs and cleavage practically glowing.

“Just checking—you’re not saying that to pander to otaku, right?”

“I’ll knock you out! Everyone’s got these stupid biases just ‘cause I’m stylish and cute as hell!”

“Gotta respect the hustle, hyping yourself up even when you’re mad.”

Hard to believe this is the same girl who was holed up in her room, obsessively ego-searching.

“2D idol girls are the ideal! Cute, pure, hardworking, shining! Their light purifies us gloomy real-world girls! Your sister cheered for Precure when she was little, right!?”

“She used to play ‘real Precure’ against the neighborhood boys.”

“Isn’t that just violence!?”

She was always a handful, in every sense.

“…Anyway, don’t lump these girls with those pervy, male-gaze characters! The ones with weirdly thick thighs, or sideboob on full display, or zippers on their chests, or trending the second they’re in a bunny outfit—”

“You know a lot about this.”

“…I-I was just throwing out examples!”

What kinda imagination is that? Zippers on their chests?

“Sounds like you’ve got strong opinions. Alright, introduce me to one. Who’s your favorite?”

Today’s about getting her to forget the internet. I toss out the question casually, but—

“Huh?”

Ranka blinks, wide-eyed.

“I-I can…?”

Her voice wobbles, a little unsteady.

Instinct kicks in.

Oh no.

Her flared nostrils, her sudden lack of blinking—she’s like a middle school boy staring at a girl’s body.

I flipped a switch.

By the time I realize it, the onslaught’s already begun.

“Okay, so! My fave is this girl, and her gap is just insane—!”

I couldn’t move for the next hour.

From there, we wandered Shibuya—hit up an arcade, checked out clothes, ate at Ranka’s go-to restaurant. Before I knew it, dusk was creeping in.

This girl’s wild. What’s wild? Her complete lack of hesitation when it comes to spending money. I thought girls’ shopping trips were supposed to be long, but she’s like, “This looks good. I’ll take it.” No worrying about picking a dud. No wonder she’s got a ridiculous amount of clothes. Still reeling from that culture shock, she says, “Let’s take a break,” and drags me to Miyashita Park.

We ride the escalator up the low-rise building and step out onto the rooftop park.

A wide lawn stretches out, hard to believe we’re in the middle of jam-packed Shibuya. Ranka strolls leisurely along the white walkway beside it, heading toward a white building with a Starbucks logo.

“Here…”

I glance around, digging through my memory. Wait, isn’t this…?

Ranka turns back to me.

“You been here before?”

“Nah… but I think I saw this place in one of your short videos.”

“It’s a classic spot, Miyashita Park. Especially at night—super photogenic.”

“Didn’t I say no thinking about SNS?”

“It’s still technically daytime. Not too crowded either, right?”

“Well…”

Guess that means it gets busier at night, huh.

“Wanna grab some drinks?”

I nod, and we head to the Starbucks in the middle of the park. Ranka insists on paying for both coffees, claiming it’s “business expenses,” and we settle onto a bench at the edge of the walkway, side by side.

Ranka cradles her white cup in both hands, takes a tiny sip, exhales softly, and looks up.

“I kinda love Miyashita Park during the day. It’s Shibuya, but the sky feels so big.”

“The sky…?”

Overhead, arching beams—like whale ribs—stretch across, framing patches of clear blue sky.

A wide-open view without skyscrapers blocking it is pretty rare in this city.

“Sometimes, when I’m in the mood, I come here alone during quiet hours. Like you said, I use this place for shoots a lot, or come with friends, so choosing to come alone… it’s, like, freeing, y’know?”

“Huh… that’s not bad.”

I take a sip from my cup.

School’s all studying, home’s all chores, and any other time’s spent on my part-time job—when’s the last time I just sat and did nothing like this?

For a while, we listen to the cool breeze. Then I catch Ranka quietly starting to speak.

“…Hey, can I ask something?”

“What?”

She pauses for a moment before continuing.

“I… I know I pissed you off, so why’re you going out of your way to meddle like this?”

Her face doesn’t have that tense vibe from before I dragged her out.

Looks like the digital detox is working—probably why she’s curious. Why’s the guy who was mad at her bothering to care?

I owe her an explanation.

“First reason’s what I said earlier. You’re a pain. Getting blatantly avoided at work makes things awkward, and having to deal with that’s a hassle I don’t need.”

“That’s it?”

“There’s another thing…”

I hesitate for a second—but screw it, dodging around it’s just more trouble.

“—‘Get yourself a girl.’”

“Huh?”

“‘If you’ve got a girl, no matter how much of a loser you are, you’ll feel like you’re worth something.’ That’s what my biological dad told me when I was in fifth grade.”

A vile phrase—a vile memory.

Ranka’s face twists in confusion as I grimace, replaying those words.

“That’s… kinda…”

“No need to sugarcoat it. The guy who gave me half my genes was a straight-up deadbeat. A washed-up band guy, apparently. Leeched off the money my mom earned, spent all day at the pachinko parlor—a textbook mooch. I was too young to remember much clearly, but in the end, Mom got fed up, he got desperate for cash, turned to fraud, and landed in jail.”

“Is that… how you ended up in the children’s home?”

“Yeah. Second grade.”

I heard those words when I went to see him—to cut ties for good—after my adoption into the Kiminaga family was finalized.

He wasn’t sorry at all. Didn’t expect him to be.

Not for the world, not for himself.

That’s why he could say something like that to a kid without blinking. A pathetic, foolish man with nothing but a rotten life philosophy.

I’ll never forget the look of pure disgust on the staff member’s face who was there.

That’s when I realized my biological father was truly irredeemable.

“From the moment I heard those words, I had this intense aversion to girls for a while. Just like you hate guys, I had a phase where I hated girls.”

That’s half the reason for the phobia Shinomi helped me overcome.

Even now, part of me still shies away from romance.

“So… you’re saying you get me?”

“Not related to what you pulled, but… it reminded me. Back then, I didn’t have any real allies, and I felt so damn alone. Lucky for me, I had someone who wouldn’t let me wallow in solitude, but you? Doesn’t seem like you’ve got anyone like that.”

“What’s that supposed to mean? I’ve got, like, infinite friends compared to you.”

“The curse of being famous. Everyone around you sees you as Lanca the influencer, don’t they?”

“…”

“I still don’t really get how big a deal you are. Haven’t watched your videos or checked your SNS since tax season. So, as a break buddy for Japan’s most famous high school girl, I’m probably not the worst choice.”

Ranka stares at me, like she’s trying to figure out my angle, then drops her gaze to her cup.

I’m not trying to act like some savior. I’m the reason she spiraled this time anyway—if I acted like I was doing her a favor, that’d be some hypocritical BS.

But I can’t just watch.

All those people around her, all those eyes on her, and yet she’s locking herself in her room at home—I can’t just ignore someone like that.

Even if we don’t get along… I can’t look away.

For a while, we listen to the distant hum of the city.

The clear blue sky’s slowly turning into a red sunset. Ranka said this place gets crowded at night. This quiet sky we’ve got to ourselves now will probably get swallowed up by the noise soon.

Before that happens—Ranka speaks.

“…My mom was a rich guy’s mistress.”

I glance at her profile and ask quietly, “Just to be clear—your mom’s the chairwoman, right?”

“Now she is. Think about it. All four of us are only a year apart. You really think that ageless beauty popped out four kids back-to-back?”

…Yeah, deep down, I kinda knew. But I avoided thinking about it, not wanting to pry into my employer’s private life.

The chairwoman’s never come back to that house.

She doesn’t even look old enough to have high school daughters.

And—the four sisters don’t look anything alike.

“Adopted… all of you.”

“Yup. Just like you.”

No blood ties.

Not the chairwoman, not the sisters—just like me and the Kiminaga family.

“I was in a children’s home too when I was little. My mom just up and vanished. I said mistress, but that’s putting it nicely. I was some rich guy’s one-night kid. Never acknowledged, no child support. Maybe she got some hush money, but not enough to make life easy. In the end, she couldn’t handle the poverty and ditched me. Probably only kept me around to try to hold onto that rich guy anyway.”

Ranka’s voice is dry.

Barren, like she’s wrung out every last drop of emotion.

“My dad was an idiot who gave in to a night of lust and screwed things up for good. There’s tons of idiots like him out there—and once I realized that, they all started feeling gross.”

“…So that’s why you hate guys.”

“Convinced?”

“Yeah… I get it. I’m not so different.”

I thought we were opposites—but to think we’d have this in common.

People are so unpredictable…

“What I did back then… I know I was out of line.”

—…C’mon, please…?

I remember Ranka’s soft, pleading voice from that moment.

“It was like… I was no different from my mom, clinging to a guy to survive. I was really messed up. Somewhere along the way, I started thinking you’d do anything for me…”

“That’s just proof I’ve earned your trust as a housekeeper. I’ll take it as a compliment.”

“That’s not it.”

Ranka starts to say something, stops, then tries again.

“—I was relying on you. I knew you were just the housekeeper, just doing your job, but you were there every day, doing everything…”

“Look,” I say with a sigh.

“Sure, doing the laundry, cleaning, and cooking are all part of my job. I get paid for it, plain and simple. My feelings don’t come into it.”

But.

As I continued, Ranka’s eyes locked onto mine.

“You think playing therapist like this is part of being a housekeeper? That’s not all. Every single day, I’m dragged into the chaos of you four sisters. I’m teaching Chinana her studies now and then, getting an earful about some game I don’t know from Meru, and Kikuri’s roping me into her pointless chitchat. You think putting up with all that is just ‘work’? Hell no. This kind of heavy labor? Double my pay, and it still wouldn’t cut it!”

Ranka’s eyes widened in shock as I laid it out.

“I’m gonna be straight with you today, ‘cause sugarcoating it makes you spiral. You sisters stopped being ‘just my employers’ a long time ago! I hate to admit it, but it’s the truth! So, Ranka—”

“Wha—?!”

Not just a classmate, not just an employer—I was gonna start treating her like a person, call her by name. Her voice cracked in a panic.

“If it’s within reason, you can lean on me a little, y’know. You’re such a clingy mess, acting all tough like you can handle everything alone—quit it! That’s the most annoying thing about you.”

This whole mess drove that home.

People like her, left alone, just sink deeper into the swamp.

“Rely on me. We’re complete opposites, but—well, fate’s tied us together, hasn’t it?”

The gentleman harmonizes but does not conform; the small conform but do not harmonize.

That’s the saying. To me, it means cherishing the bonds forged by circumstance, not shallow, go-along-to-get-along nonsense. I’m who I am today because of the bond I formed with Shinomi at the foster home. In the same way, this job the director shoved on me—this connection—it’s gonna shape my future too.

I’m not about to let that go to waste.

I’m not gonna end up like that man, ruined because he couldn’t form a single decent bond.

Ranka stared into my eyes for a while, like she was searching for something, then suddenly looked away.

The evening sun slipped through the gaps between the buildings, lighting up her profile.

Maybe it was the light, but her ears looked faintly red.

Fidgeting, her fingers clasped together in front of her mouth, moving closer, then apart, she spoke.

“Um… Shikimi-kun.”

“What?”

“I… you know I hate guys. I swore I’d never do the whole romance thing.”

“Yeah, figures.”

“So, it’s… kinda tricky…”

“…? Tricky how?”

“I mean… I’m, like, super clingy, as you know, and when someone’s nice to me, I tend to get carried away…”

“Get to the point. What’re you trying to say?”

“I’m saying…!”

Ranka pressed her clasped hands over her nose and mouth, eyes darting nervously as she spoke in a tiny voice.

“…I might end up falling for you… so don’t be too nice…”

Hearing that, I—

—scrunched up my face like I’d bitten a lemon.

“What’s with that disgusted look?!”

“You’re too easy. It’s kinda pathetic.”

“Easy?! I’m not easy! I said I might fall for you, okay?! I haven’t yet! Don’t get the wrong idea!”

“That’s what you call a misunderstanding, huh… Japanese is hard…”

Personally, I’d prefer she stick to her man-hating shtick. Way easier to deal with than her needy side.

Stepping out from Daikanyama Station, the area was cloaked in the quiet darkness of night.

Daikanyama’s already a tranquil residential area, but at night, it’s wrapped in a silence you wouldn’t believe belongs to Tokyo. In that stillness, Ranka and I walked wordlessly toward the tower mansion, like we were holding our breath.

Gotta make dinner when we get back. What should I do? There’s still some veggies, right? That beef’s expiration date is nagging at me. Maybe shigure-ni? Or just stir-fry it, keep it simple—

But first, there’s one task I need to deal with.

Feeling the weight of the smartphone in my pocket, we arrived at the towering mansion, regal as a castle.

Stopping in front of the entrance, Ranka muttered softly.

“…Sorry.”

“For what?”

“…For being a jerk…”

Ranka pursed her lips, looking a little sulky.

“For dragging you into that scam nonsense… sorry.”

I let out a sigh, a faint smile tugging at my lips.

“Scam’s a bit dramatic. Your followers just got the wrong idea, didn’t they?”

“Y-You’re the one who called it that!”

“At least it’s not like my dad’s messes, landing him in trouble with the cops.”

I slipped my hand into my pocket and pulled out Ranka’s smartphone, holding it out to her.

“We good now?”

Ranka stared at it for a moment.

“…Yeah. I’ll cut back on the ego-surfing.”

“I thought we agreed you’d stop ego-surfing.”

“If I see some hater’s words and get down again—”

Her usual bravado was gone. She glanced at me hesitantly, like she was gauging my reaction.

“—is it… okay if I lean on you… just a little?”

Those honest eyes—sparkling with a childlike vulnerability that tugged at my protective instincts—made my heart skip a beat. Just a little… just a tiny bit.

Probably… she doesn’t even realize she’s doing it.

“…Sure. As long as you make up for it.”

“Stingy.”

“That’s what an equal relationship looks like.”

And with that, I handed Ranka her phone.

She tucked it into her bag without turning it on.

Alright, time to get back to the apartment and whip up dinner for the four sisters—when suddenly,

“Hey, one more thing.”

Ranka’s eyes darted around nervously as she spoke.

“You a bento guy or a cafeteria guy at school?”

“Huh? At school? Depends, but… bento most days.”

“Then… don’t bring a bento on Monday.”

“What? Why—”

“Just don’t, okay?!”

Cutting me off, Ranka scurried toward the entrance.

“I said it! It’s a promise, okay?!”

…She hasn’t changed one bit when it comes to not listening.

No clue what she’s up to, but she’s the boss. Guess I’ll play along for now.

And so, Monday rolled around.

The chime signaling the start of lunch break rang, and my phone pinged with a chat notification.

〈Meet at the stairwell〉

I looked up to see Ranka lingering at the classroom entrance, subtly glancing my way before slipping out into the hallway.

I got up, wove through my classmates, and followed her.

The staircase was at the end of the hall. Glass walls gave a view of the city streets below—cars zipping by, pedestrians crowding the sidewalks. Sure, it was visible from outside too, but being at the edge of the school meant it didn’t draw much attention from other students.

I climbed one flight to the landing, where Ranka stood awkwardly in the far-right corner.

“Ranka? This is new, meeting at school—”

“Mm!”

Cutting me off, she shoved a navy-blue bento wrap into my hands.

A bento?

“…Let me know what you think later.”

Her eyes flicked away as she muttered that, all one-sided, before brushing past me and hurrying down the stairs.

A bento… right?

I stared blankly at the wrapped bundle in my hands.

Who made this? …No, given the context, there’s only one person it could be.

Baffled, I returned to the classroom and opened the bento.

Inside was slightly soggy rice, slightly burnt tamagoyaki, misshapen carrots, and what was probably karaage—almost completely charred.

…Well, damn…

One thing I can say for sure:

For bento karaage, frozen stuff would’ve been fine.

…Still, gotta respect the guts it took to tackle fried food right off the bat.

Munching on the crispy, burnt karaage, I found myself hoping for a day when I wouldn’t have to cook for the Kichijoji household anymore.

And just like that, May was coming to an end.

Two months had passed since I started working as the Kichijoji family’s housekeeper in March.

And, at the same time—two months since that photo was sent to my phone.

Nothing had come of it. By now, it felt like a distant dream.

The email and photo had been transferred to the phone issued to Ranka. So, it wasn’t a dream—it definitely happened.

But maybe it was better to stop dwelling on it.

That photo of a young me with Ranka, Meru, and Chinana.

Judging by appearances and memory, it was probably taken about seven years ago—when I was in fourth grade.

Right before I developed my fear of women.

Even so, none of the sisters seemed to remember anything about the photo. And if whoever sent it—whether one of the four or not— wasn’t stepping forward or bringing it up, there was no need for me to go poking around.

Just let it go.

Pretend it never happened.

Keep dealing with them as their housekeeper, same as always—

With those thoughts swirling, I opened the door to the Kichijoji household today.

And there stood a naked girl.

Against the backdrop of Tokyo’s skyline and the glowing red Tokyo Tower, seen from the 30th floor.

A long-haired, stark-naked girl turned to face me.

Snow-white skin. Graceful, slender legs. Modest but well-shaped curves.

Even as my eyes were drawn to her, two things flashed through my mind.

—There’s a nudist in our house, y’know.

Chinana’s offhand comment from before.

And the other thing: