Chapter 3

“So,”

Summer Comiket had come and gone, and some time had passed since then. In the living room of our family home, three of us sat around the table: me, my sister, and—

“Why did Onee-chan bring this person here…?” I muttered, eyeing the stranger warily.

“Well…” My sister’s tone was evasive, a faint smirk tugging at her lips.

“Thank you so much, Minami-san…” came a timid voice from the third person.

Sitting there was someone with the handle name Tsukushi Fumu, a notorious exhibitionist who strips at the drop of a hat. Her real name? I’d already forgotten it.

“Alright, go ahead and explain,” my sister prompted.

“Y-Yes…” Fumu-san lowered their head, their words stumbling out hesitantly.

Comiket was a colossal event, so it was no surprise that TV crews swarmed the place. They hunted for easy, digestible shots to feed the public a glimpse of the otaku festival, usually zeroing in on cosplayers striking poses in the designated area. Most cosplayers, bursting with confidence, were all too eager to chat on camera, faces unmasked, acting as if their identities were ironclad. But that didn’t mean there was no risk. A recognizable face, a distinctive accessory, even a stray belonging could unravel everything.

“My mom noticed my carry case,”

“……”

“Everything got found out……”

“That’s hilarious!” my sister burst out, clutching her sides.

“Is this really something to laugh about…?”

In short, their family had discovered her revealing cosplay. And then—

“Why our place?” I asked, my tone heavy with suspicion.

“They said I’m not their kid anymore and kicked me out…” Fumu-san’s voice trembled, their eyes downcast.

“……”

I had no words. That was harsh. But, well, cosplayers who drew crowds often flaunted sketchbooks or whiteboards with their account names plastered for all to see. A quick search would unearth their entire history of antics. For an exhibitionist cosplayer with over 500,000 followers, their media tab must’ve been a spectacle. No wonder their parents were livid.

“Yesterday, I got a DM begging for help,” my sister explained, still grinning. “Thought it was spam, but turns out it’s our neighbor! So I went to pick them up earlier.”

“Don’t talk about it like you picked up a stray cat… Take them back!” I snapped.

“Nooo! Don’t kick me out! I’ve got nowhere else to go!” Fumu-san wailed, practically flailing.

“But… you’re making a ton of money, aren’t you…?” I pointed out, raising an eyebrow.

Fumu-san flinched dramatically and averted their gaze. My sister, meanwhile, was struggling to suppress her laughter, clutching her stomach. Did she bring them here knowing this would happen?

“Well, our place is huge, and it’s just the two of us living here, so—” my sister started.

“Wait, what about your family!?” Fumu-san interjected, eyes wide.

“They’re both dead. Happened when I was in high school, so it’s been almost ten years now, I guess?” My sister’s tone was casual, almost flippant.

“Huh?” Fumu-san blinked, caught off guard.

She didn’t even mention that before dragging them here? I sighed, rubbing my temples. Our parents had passed away long ago—not in some dramatic accident, but one following the other. Dad succumbed to cancer, and Mom followed soon after. Why my sister and I were left behind, I couldn’t say. Thanks to insurance covering the home loan, we’d stayed in this house ever since. My sister had dropped out of high school to work, supporting us both, while I, still in elementary school at the time, had made it to high school because of her.

After I gave Fumu-san a rough explanation, their eyes began to glisten with tears. “W-While I was holed up at home, something like that happened…”

“It’s not like it bothers me anymore,” my sister said with a shrug. “Same for you, right, Rikkun?”

“Honestly, I don’t remember much. Dad was in the hospital before I even started elementary school, and neither Onee-chan nor I have any lingering issues from it.”

“That’s how it is. So we don’t dwell on it too much. Can we get back to the topic?”

“Y-Yes!” Fumu-san nodded quickly.

“Right now, we’re using the two bedrooms upstairs—one for me, one for Rikkun. Downstairs, we’ve got a white horizon—”

“You have a white horizon in your house!?” Fumu-san’s jaw dropped.

“Yup, come on, check it out!” My sister sprang up and flung open the door connecting the living room to the next room.

It used to be a windowless tatami room, but my sister had transformed it into a white horizon studio—a shooting booth with seamless white walls and smoothed corners to eliminate shadows. I used it to photograph my finished models, though I steered clear of her piles of professional shooting equipment. My smartphone camera was plenty for me.

“Whoa… this is insane…” Fumu-san gaped.

“Couldn’t have done this if our parents were still around, right?” my sister said with a grin.

“That’s true…” Fumu-san nodded, still awestruck.

“And Rikkun’s modeling room is over here,” she continued, leading the way.

“You’ve got a whole room for that…? Whoa, it’s huge!? What is this place!?” Fumu-san’s voice pitched higher with every step.

“Dad was a car nut,” I explained. “When I was little, he was always tinkering with cars in here.”

The other door off the living room opened to an inner garage—an indoor carport. No car parked there now, though. It was spacious enough for two vehicles, dwarfing the living room in size. Between the heavy paints, primers, and oversized materials I used for modeling, lugging everything through doors was a pain. Hauling it upstairs would’ve been impossible, so the garage had become my workspace. It wasn’t built for living, so it was swelteringly unbearable in summer and freezing in winter, but a heater or industrial spot cooler kept it manageable.

“So, there are two rooms left. One was our parents’ bedroom, but now it’s for storage or shooting. The other one—”

“Huh?” Fumu-san tilted their head.

“Our little sister’s room.”

“You have a little sister too? Is she older than Rikkun?”

“Please don’t call me Rikkun…” I muttered, exasperated. “She’s younger.”

“Where is she today?” Fumu-san asked, glancing around.

“……”

“She died with our mom. Out of a family of five, it’s just the two of us left.”

“Huh?” Fumu-san froze.

“That’s how it is,” I added, my tone flat. “If you want the details, get close to Onee-chan first and ask her.”

“W-Wait, no, I-I’ll hold off on asking for now…” Fumu-san shrank back, clearly flustered.

You didn’t have to say it, you know. But I figured it was better to lay it out now than let it surface awkwardly later.

“Anyway, those two rooms are free, so you can use them,” my sister said, brushing past the tension. “Oh, unless you want to bunk with Rikkun—”

“No way that’s okay!?”

“Is it okay!?”

“No, it’s not!!”

“Is it really okay?!?!?!”

“Sure!!!!”

“I said it’s not!!!!”

Fumu-san pouted, muttering, “…Stingy.” My sister roared with laughter, barely containing herself. Can you not tease someone you barely know like this? They might actually believe you.

“Um, seriously, is it really okay if I use one of the rooms…?” Fumu-san asked.

“Sure, why not?” my sister replied. “We cleared out all the stuff in there anyway. Both rooms are empty since we don’t need them. Though, we might still use them for shoots sometimes.”

This house was far too big for just the two of us. Even when our whole family was here, we each had our own room. There was even a space set aside for our youngest, still in kindergarten back then, to grow into. I vaguely recalled a sleek, fancy car parked in the garage too. Either we were well-off, or—given our near-empty savings—our parents were just reckless with money. Adding one more person wouldn’t strain us. But hold on, this was starting to sound like—

“Hang on. Are you seriously planning to live here?” I asked, my tone sharp with disbelief.

“That’s the idea…” Fumu-san mumbled, shrinking slightly.

“Rikkun, is there a problem?” my sister chimed in, tilting her head. “You basically never leave the garage, right?”

“I don’t, but… come on, you’re making a fortune just from cosplay, aren’t you?” I turned to Fumu-san. “You could easily live on your own anywhere.”

“I-I can’t…”

“How much do you make a month? Just the easy-to-calculate stuff is fine.”

“It varies a bit, but… around 1.5 million yen?” Fumu-san admitted hesitantly.

“Whoa, that’s nuts,” my sister whistled. “520,000 followers aren’t just for show, huh?”

“That much…?” I blinked, stunned. “Wait, with that, you could live in a mansion…”

Over a million yen a month, plus events and selling ROMs on the side—their actual income had to be even higher. Taxes would take a chunk, sure, but still. They were earning several times what an average office worker made. They could easily afford a nice place in Tokyo, no need to crash in the suburbs like this.

“Do you have any savings?”

“……” Fumu-san’s silence was deafening.

“No way, you don’t have any?”

“…I spend it as soon as I see it pile up,”

“On what?”

“S-Social games……”

““Ahhh……”” My sister and I clutched our heads in unison, groaning. We’d been there. Well, I hadn’t sunk that deep.

“…You make over a million a month and have no savings?” I asked, incredulous.

“I-It’s not like I have none!?” Fumu-san protested weakly.

“Did you ever contribute to your family’s expenses?”

“……They thought I wasn’t even working a part-time job.”

““Aahhh……”” We groaned again, the pieces falling into place. Normal people wouldn’t grasp that exhibitionist cosplay could rake in cash. Fumu-san never told them, so no wonder they got kicked out. And if their family thought they weren’t even working part-time, they were likely covering their school fees too. With that kind of income? Parents that wealthy weren’t exactly common.

“Alright, how about you pay some rent and living expenses?” my sister suggested, turning to me. “Rikkun, how much sounds good?”

“I don’t know anything about market rates for that stuff…” I muttered, scratching my head.

“Then let’s make it a clean million,” she said, smirking.

“I-I’ll do my best to pay it!” Fumu-san blurted, eyes wide. “If I cut back on gacha…”

“No, reject that!!” I snapped, horrified. It was terrifying that they seemed capable of coughing up that much. Just how much were they blowing on mobile games?

“Kidding, kidding,” my sister laughed, waving it off. “We don’t pay rent ourselves, so just chip in a little, okay?”

“No, I’m more confused about why she’s living here in the first place…”

“You don’t like it?”

“It’s not that I don’t like it… Why?”

My question wasn’t for Fumu-san—it was for Onee-chan. Sure, she had a soft spot for strays, but she wasn’t usually this generous with someone she barely knew. She wasn’t the type to collect a hundred friends; she kept a tight circle, valuing deep, lasting bonds. She rarely brought people over, and despite the house’s size, I’d never seen her host anything like an offline meetup. Maybe she’d been mindful of me, but still, this level of closeness felt off. Even I could sense that.

“Well, you see—”

“Yeah?”

“Rikkun, you’re kind of a lifestyle disaster, aren’t you?”

“I can’t exactly deny that,” I admitted, wincing, “but so are you, Onee-chan…”

“True enough,” she said, flashing a half-smirk. If anything, she was worse. At least come home sometimes.

When I was alone, I’d lose myself in work, skipping breaks unless I hit a natural stopping point. I’d stayed up until sunrise before collapsing, and on days off, I’d get so absorbed I’d forget to eat or even drink water. After a crunch, I’d crash and sleep for a full day. I’d been late to school a few times because of it. The only family member who could keep me in check spent maybe the first three days of the year at home. On weekdays, she crashed at a hotel near her workplace, and some weeks, she didn’t return at all due to weekend shifts. When she finally got a full day off, she’d go all out on cosplay shoots. Was her stamina superhuman or what?

“Fumu-san says she handles all the cooking, laundry, and cleaning.”

“Yes!” Fumu-san piped up, suddenly animated. “I’ve been a shut-in since elementary school, so I’m super skilled at all kinds of housework!”

“So, think of it like having a live-in housekeeper,” my sister said, her grin widening.

“…Then shouldn’t we be the ones paying her?”

I pointed it out, and my sister put a hand to her mouth, looking serious. Why were you trying to charge her then? Pay up! A live-in housekeeper would at least get a salary, right?

“…Do you want money?” she asked Fumu-san, tilting her head.

“No, no, no, no, no!” Fumu-san waved their hands frantically. “Just letting me stay here is more than enough!!”

“There you go,” my sister said, turning back to me. “Rikkun, what do you think?”

“…If you’re okay with it, Onee-chan.” I sighed, giving in.

“Then it’s a done deal!” she declared, clapping her hands. “Welcome aboard starting today!”

My sister made a playful motion, as if stamping a contract—on her chest. Why her chest? Stamp it on paper.

“Yes! Thank you so much for having me!!” Hiyori-san exclaimed, her voice brimming with gratitude.

“Wait, starting today!?” I sputtered, still reeling.

“Don’t kick me out!!” she pleaded, her eyes wide with mock desperation.

“…Fine, do whatever you want,” I muttered, slumping back in my chair.

Weighing the pros and cons, I figured the benefits just barely edged out the drawbacks. From experience, I knew that unless I put up a fierce fight against my sister’s wild ideas, my opinion rarely made a dent. The biggest downside? There were now two exhibitionists under this roof. If this were Othello, I’d have to strip too. Not happening. The biggest upside? No more dashing to the convenience store for food during crunch times.

Neither my sister nor I could cook to save our lives. Boiling water in a kettle? Too much effort. Cleaning was left to the robot vacuum, and laundry—when we bothered—was chucked into the fully automatic washer-dryer. Folding or hanging? Never. A mountain of clean clothes loomed near the washing machine on the second floor. Our house was the textbook definition of needing a housekeeper.

Even living together, I figured I could avoid Hiyori-san if I didn’t go out of my way to interact. We’d probably barely cross paths—or so I thought at the time.

＊ ＊

“Rikkun, breakfast is ready!”

The bedroom door flew open with a bang. I tried to ignore it, burrowing deeper into my blankets, but—whoosh—the covers were yanked off with relentless force.

“If you don’t get up, I’m gonna pounce on you!” Hiyori-san threatened, her voice far too chipper for this hour.

“Please, seriously, don’t… Hiyori-san, why aren’t you wearing clothes?” I groaned, squinting at her.

“I am wearing clothes!” she huffed, spinning to show her back.

She had on a tube top and hot pants, layered with a large apron. From the front, it looked suspiciously like a naked apron, but from behind, it was clear she was dressed—a miraculous feat of styling.

“You gotta eat breakfast properly! Come on, get up, get up!”

“Let me sleep a bit more…”

“No way!!”

She tugged at me, trying to drag me out of bed. Half-asleep and lacking the strength to resist, I was no match for her. Even if I’d tried, her sheer physical energy would’ve won. Reluctantly, I let her haul me to the living room.

On the table sat French toast, sausages, and… some kind of salad mixed with mayo? I glanced at the clock—still early. If I’d been alone, I’d have slept another thirty minutes.

“Eat it while it’s warm!” Hiyori-san chirped. “Or should I feed you with an ‘aah’?”

“Don’t… Let me eat at my own pace…” I mumbled, already overwhelmed.

Hiyori-san’s energy was unlike anyone I’d ever met, and her closeness threw me off. She attended night school, yet here she was, up earlier than me, making breakfast. When did she sleep? I’d heard the sewing machine whirring in the middle of the night. Did she just… not?

“…Itadakimasu,” I said, clasping my hands. The words felt foreign, like something from a distant past. These past few days—since Hiyori-san moved in—I’d been saying it daily, but it still carried a nostalgic weight.

I cut into the French toast and took a bite. The egg mixture had soaked in perfectly, cooked slowly to a pudding-like texture, rich with eggy flavor. Dusted with powdered sugar, the sweetness was subtle. I drizzled maple syrup and took another bite. The sugar seeped into my groggy brain, waking it gently.

“…It’s warm,” I murmured, the words slipping out unbidden.

Eating warm food in the morning hadn’t happened in over a decade. Sure, I’d grabbed hot snacks from the convenience store on the way to school, but that warmth was fleeting, superficial. This—something freshly made by someone’s hands—was different. It had been so long.

“Fueh…” Hiyori-san let out a small sound, and I looked up. Her eyes glistening, tears on the verge of falling.

“…Uh, why are you crying?” I asked, startled.

“B-Because…” She wiped her eyes with a tissue, sniffling. “Rikkun, you’ve been through so much…”

“……Onee-chan’s the one who’s had it harder,” I said quietly, deflecting.

“You too, Rikkun.”

I’d given up correcting her on the “Rikkun” thing—she’d ignored my protests for days. Fair enough; I wouldn’t want to be called by my handle name at home either. When she reached out to pat my head, I dodged swiftly.

The salad had kani-kama, carrots, and cucumbers, its crunchy texture a rare treat. I’d never pick something like this at a convenience store. I actually liked kani-kama—more than real crab, even. Not that I’d eaten much of the real stuff.

[T/N: Kani-kama = Crab sticks.]

I tried to ignore Hiyori-san’s intense stare as I ate. After finishing, I tossed the dishes into the dishwasher—it was just a dishwasher, after all—when she called out, “Hey, by the way.”

“Rikkun, do you always do stuff like that?”

“Stuff like… what?” I asked, puzzled.

“Sorry, I left out the subject. At Comiket, you called out to me, right?”

“…Did I?” I frowned, racking my brain.

“…You don’t remember?” Her voice carried a hint of disbelief.

“No clue. Was this this year?”

“Yes, this year! Right after I left the changing room, before the venue opened, at the bottom of the escalator!”

Digging through my memories, a faint moment surfaced. “……Wait, that was you, Hiyori-san?”

“You didn’t even notice!? We were right next to each other!” she exclaimed, incredulous.

“I just thought, ‘Oh, a Willhan cosplayer,’ and that was it…”

“……”

She stared at me, dumbfounded. I mean, there were tons of people cosplaying the same character, and I’d assumed we weren’t acquainted, so I probably didn’t even look at her face. Even if I did, I’d have only checked the costume’s quality. But it was a bikini, so there wasn’t much to judge anyway—I didn’t look at the details.

Still, I don’t usually go out of my way to talk to strangers, I think.

“That photographer—Rohan-san—I only remembered him because he got into a fight with someone I know last year. We don’t interact, and I don’t go around giving warnings or anything.”

“Heeh…” Hiyori-san’s expression softened, a glimmer of delight in her eyes as she cupped her cheeks, gazing at me.

She kept staring, her intense focus almost distracting. “That closeness—”

“What?”

“Isn’t it kinda weird? We’re basically strangers, right?”

“That’s harsh!?” she gasped. “We’ve been living together for so long!”

“So long? It’s been, like, a week…”

“That’s forever to me! I’ve never lived with anyone besides family!”

“Same here, but still,” I said, shrugging.

“Even so! I don’t even have friends!!” Hiyori-san wailed, her voice tinged with genuine distress.

“…Maybe that’s because your sense of boundaries is so weird,” I replied, trying to soften the blow.

She tilted her head, blinking. “Really?”

I wasn’t exactly Mr. Popular myself, but her approach to personal space was next-level. Moving into a near-stranger’s house like it was a sleepover at a friend’s to play video games? That took guts—or a complete lack of self-awareness.

“Actually, I get a lot of hate online…” she admitted, her tone dropping.

“Yeah, no surprise there,” I said bluntly.

“Deny it!?” she gasped, eyes wide.

There was no “actually” about it—I had no grounds to argue. I didn’t know how she interacted with male photographers or fans, but it was easy to see how some might misread her signals. And when other women saw her behavior, well, the backlash made sense.

“Pretty much no one outside my fans interacts with me, so I can’t make new friends,” she added, her shoulders slumping.

“Yeah, yeah, you get it, Rikkun.”

“…Onee-chan’s the same way,” I muttered.

“Really…” Hiyori-san’s voice softened, her eyes flickering with curiosity.

Onee-chan hadn’t always been into revealing cosplay. Back in her teens, she’d done wholesome collabs and location shoots with friends. But then came the photo books, then ROMs. The slightly risqué ones sold better, so she leaned harder into that direction, spiraling into increasingly extreme territory. Soon, her world shrank to “old friends” and “fans.” She kept fans at arm’s length, and new friendships just… stopped forming. Now imagine that happening to someone who started with barely any friends. Being popular alone was enough to draw internet hate.

“Minami-san… I mean, Umi-san, does she have a boyfriend or anything?” Hiyori-san asked, leaning forward.

By the way, my sister’s real name is Higashiura Umi. Umi, Riku, and of course, our little sister was Sora.

“I don’t think so,” I said, scratching my head. “Can’t think of any guys she’s particularly close with.”

“Heeh… What about collabs?”

“Lately, just a few times a year shooting with her exhibitionist buddies. Mostly solo shoots.”

“I see…” Hiyori-san nodded thoughtfully.

Onee-chan’s lack of a boyfriend probably tied back to her extreme brother complex, but Hiyori-san seemed to sense that, so I didn’t bother spelling it out. Still, it wasn’t like she was uninterested in guys—she was obsessed with those female-oriented romance games packed with all-male casts. So, honestly, I didn’t quite get her. During events like Christmas, she’d hang out with her exhibitionist cosplayer friends to create an alibi. There might be guys there, but I never asked for details. I’d been invited once, but the thought of a room full of Onee-chan types was terrifying, so I passed.

“…I’ve never taken photos with anyone,” Hiyori-san said quietly, almost to herself.

“Haah…” I let out a half-hearted sigh.

“Wow, you sound totally uninterested!” she huffed, fidgeting and twirling her fingers. “I’ve been doing this for a while, so I’ve got a decent number of fans, I guess? But, like, you know?”

With 520,000 followers, she called that “not many”? I raised an eyebrow. “Honestly… aren’t your followers just there because you take your clothes off?”

“Probably,” she admitted without missing a beat.

“At least deny it!!” I snapped, exasperated.

“Why…?” she asked, genuinely confused.

Her popularity clearly stemmed from stripping. Why get mad when I agreed? If she hated it, she wouldn’t prance around in a (sort-of) naked apron or strip in front of a near-stranger.

“I’m an otaku, you know!?”

“…Well, yeah, obviously,” I said, deadpan. “If you weren’t, you wouldn’t be dropping over a million yen a month on gacha games.”

“I-I’m not spending that much anymore…!” she protested, flushing.

“How much did you spend in August?”

“…Like, 500,000?” she mumbled, barely audible.

“You idiot…” I groaned, rubbing my temples. Summer break meant every game was rolling out swimsuit gachas, but still.

“Ah! You just called me an idiot, didn’t you!?” she yelped, pointing at me. “The one who calls someone an idiot is the real idiot!! I’ve started saving for the future, you know!!”

“Stop saying stuff like a grade-schooler when you’re that old,” I shot back.

“My highest education is kindergarten! I haven’t gone to school since fourth grade! So of course I’m like a grade-schooler!!” she declared, puffing out her chest.

“That’s not something to brag about,” I said, unimpressed.

“I know that…” Her voice shrank, and she wilted, whimpering.

One moment she was yelling, the next she was a mess. What a handful.

She had a great face, a better-than-average figure, and after a week of living together, I could tell her personality wasn’t bad. Her housework was impeccable, her cooking divine—so why was she such a disaster? Her emotions swung like a pendulum.

“I’m a hardcore otaku… but people call me a cosplayer who only strips and isn’t into games…” she murmured, her voice heavy.

“Haah…” I sighed again, not sure how to respond.

“I cosplay out of love for the characters and the works, you know…”

“But you still end up stripping, right?” I pointed out.

“Because if I don’t, I lose my identity!” she cried, clutching her head.

“Just ditch that identity,” I said flatly.

“If you take that away from me, what’s left?”

“……”

“Say something at least!?” she pleaded, leaning forward.

“Uh, well, you’re great at housework,” I said, scrambling for an honest answer. “Even if you quit cosplay, you’d probably make a good bride.”

Her face flushed, a soft ‘Eh’ escaping her lips as her cheeks gradually turned red. We’d only lived together a week, but she was already a flawless housekeeper. Her personality was… a lot, but still. As an honest assessment, she’d make a stellar stay-at-home wife. She seemed devoted, and marriage might ground her. She wasn’t exactly mature for her age, but I’d seen cosplayers settle down after marriage and become ‘normal.’ Some called it losing their spark, but it worked for them.

“…Wanna marry me?” she asked, her voice teasing but her eyes oddly serious.

“Who?” I blinked, thrown off.

“You, Rikkun.”

“Ew, no,” I said, recoiling.

“Why!?” she yelped, pouting.

“I like refined girls.”

“……Who’s your favorite female character in Willhan?” she asked, narrowing her eyes.

“Touge Kimi.”

“Auh……” She deflated, slumping in her chair.

For the record, Touge Kimi wasn’t particularly popular in the massively successful game Willhan. She was a plain character who ran an old bookstore inherited from her grandfather. No stunning figure, no flashy traits, just an understated personality. Even two years after the game’s launch, she’d gotten no spotlight events or skins. But I loved her, so she was always in my main lineup. Her squeaky “Hieah?” when her skill activated was oddly endearing.

“…Should I cosplay Kimi-chan?” Hiyori-san asked, perking up slightly.

“I’ll block you,” I said without hesitation.

“I’m serious, I might do it, so at least stop me!? And is even cosplaying her off-limits!?” she protested, flailing.

“You’d totally strip, wouldn’t you, Hiyori-san?” I said.

“Ngh… I wouldn’t!!” she insisted.

“Have you ever cosplayed in the past few years without the intent to strip?”

“……”

“Let’s just drop it,” I said, waving a hand.

“Okay……” she replied in a small voice, head hanging.

Characters like Kimi got fan art but weren’t popular with exhibitionist cosplayers. While not on Onee-chan’s level, Hiyori-san had a better-than-average figure. Short, flat-chested cosplayers rarely did revealing cosplay. If a busty cosplayer did an exhibitionist take on Kimi, fans would riot over the character misinterpretation.

“I wanna do more otaku-ish cosplay too…” Hiyori-san murmured, her voice wistful.

“You’re already an otaku just by cosplaying,” I pointed out. “That’s not the answer you’re looking for, right?”

“No! Like, your—Yotsutsuji Mei’s fans are super otaku, right?” she said, her eyes lighting up.

“…Yeah, probably,” I agreed, nodding.

The word “otaku” is losing all meaning. But I get what she’s trying to say.

What Hiyori-san means is that people who want to see “sexy cosplay” and those who want to see “highly detailed costumes and weapons” are different crowds.

To put it bluntly, most cosplayers aren’t aiming for perfectly crafted weapons or gear. Cosplay is a hobby where a wig and costume get you most of the way there.

Weapons or equipment that aren’t part of the costume—sure, most cosplayers think “it’d be nice to have,” but it’s not like they’re essential to looking like the character. Unless you’re overflowing with character love, you’re not likely to make them yourself.

Compared to costumes, which you can buy ready-made, crafting cosplay props takes way more time and effort. Low-quality props stand out even more than shoddy homemade costumes. Some doujin events even restrict what you can bring in—so plenty of people just skip them entirely.

“If I made a proper costume, got a full set of weapons and gear, and shot without stripping, would I look like a proper otaku…?” Hiyori-san asked, her voice tinged with hope.

“You’d probably just get replies like, ‘Why aren’t you stripping?’” I said, keeping it real.

“Yeah, that sounds likely…” She deflated, her shoulders sagging.

“It’s about your fanbase. They’re probably not looking for that from you.”

“Then what do I do!?” she cried. “I-I wanna do cosplay with friends, shoot until midnight, have girls’ nights at love hotels, send reply chains… Shooting alone in a rented pool all day in the dead of winter is tough, you know…?”

That’d be tough even with a crowd. Also, her stereotypes about regular cosplayers are wild.

“But I can’t even say that to anyone anymore…” Her voice softened, heavy with regret. “When I had fewer followers, other cosplayers used to interact with me, but then I got blocked without realizing it… I had a friend in high school, but my account got exposed, and it got awkward, so we stopped talking…”

That felt a bit like her own doing, honestly.

“Well, you do seem like the type to rub people the wrong way without even trying,” I said, not sugarcoating it.

“Rikkun, you’ve got a cute face but say such mean things!?” she gasped, clutching her chest dramatically.

“It’s probably just jealousy or something. I don’t know much about it.”

“…I want friends,” she murmured, her eyes downcast.

“Don’t tell me that…” I muttered, shifting uncomfortably. I wouldn’t want to introduce her to my friends—she’d definitely cause trouble.

She had maxed out audacity, moving into a near-stranger’s house, and didn’t even seem aware of it.

It was all because she was good-looking. If she were average or below, she would’ve just been annoying, but her face had been just pretty enough to make it barely forgivable.

Unlike Onee-chan’s “untouchable goddess” aura, Hiyori-san’s approachability probably drew a lot of guys. But then they met this personality.

I was amazed she hid this side from her fans. Or did she? Maybe she hadn’t been exposed because she didn’t have friends. I vaguely noticed her at Comiket since we were next to each other, but she seemed normal—polite smiles, smooth small talk with people she didn’t know.

It’d be easier if she just got a boyfriend—oh, she was staring at me again. Did she sense what I was thinking?

“Rikkun,” she said, her voice suddenly serious.

“What?”

“What do you think of a girl like me?”

“You’re a hassle,” I said flatly.

Only high-maintenance girls asked questions like that. Such a hassle.

“…Wanna touch my boobs?” she asked, leaning forward with a mischievous glint.

“No. That kind of closeness is terrifying,” I said, recoiling.

“Why!?” she yelped, genuinely shocked.

“Someone who says that to a guy they barely know is straight-up crazy…”

“R-Really!?” she stammered. “Don’t heroines usually close the distance like that!?”

“Stop using terrible references,” I groaned. That’s the kind of heroine you don’t model yourself after.

“…Rikkun likes more refined girls, huh?” she said, pouting.

“Yeah.”

Someone who closed the gap in three seconds and started stripping was a hard pass.

“…Should I try becoming a refined girl from now on?” she asked, tilting her head.

“It’s too late to change your vibe. Just give up.”

“That’s harsh!” she whined, flailing her arms.

“Your idea of ‘refined’ is probably sneaking into someone’s bed for a cuddle, right?”

“It’s not!?”

“If someone who’s not your girlfriend or childhood friend does that, they’re pretty much a creep.”

“I’m not a creep!” she insisted, puffing out her cheeks. “Fine, let’s say I’m your childhood friend!! We were in kindergarten together! We probably promised to get married when we grow up!!”

“How big do you think our age gap is…?” I sighed. “We wouldn’t have even overlapped in kindergarten.”

I didn’t know her birthday, but she’d said she was 21, so maybe a five-year gap? We might’ve barely overlapped in elementary school, but since she was a shut-in, we wouldn’t have met even at the same school. Still, she didn’t feel that much older. Shouldn’t someone five years older be more mature? The older people I’d met weren’t like this. Onee-chan didn’t count, obviously.

Wait—

“Uh, I need to get to school,” I said.

I’d silenced my phone alarm in 0.1 seconds earlier, so I’d forgotten, but after leisurely eating and chatting, I was cutting it as close as when I rushed out three minutes after waking up.

“What, it’s already that time!?” Hiyori-san jumped up. “Oh, your bento! I made you a bento!!”

“…Thanks for going out of your way. That helps,” I said, surprised but grateful.

“Be careful! Have a good day!!” she called, waving enthusiastically.

“…Yeah,” I mumbled, hurrying to change and head out.

I attended the closest public high school, a commercial one I’d barely scraped into with some last-minute cramming. It was mostly girls, so the guys were pretty isolated, and there weren’t many otakus I clicked with—but oh well. I’d chosen it knowing that. A few online friends were enough for me.

“What’s her deal, seriously…” I muttered to myself, walking alone to school.