Chapter 6

The day of Comiket had finally arrived.

Even if he’s an irresistibly adorable shota, I can’t exactly bring a guy into the girls’ changing room. So, I slip into my costume while watching a video I recorded during the fitting.

Once I’ve donned everything except the external attachments and step out of the changing room, Riku, waiting just outside, offers, “Let me help,” his tone suggesting he’s ready to escort me.

My heart skips a beat, the moment so intense it nearly freezes me in place. He knows I can navigate a crowd on my own, especially since I’m not yet weighed down by the bulky gear.

He’s usually so distant, so it’s unfair how he suddenly shows this gallant side. I desperately want to link arms to ensure we don’t get separated, but the armor on my chest and arms makes it impractical. Reluctantly, I settle for holding his hand. When I intertwine our fingers in a lover’s grip, he doesn’t pull away as he usually might and instead returns the hold.

It nags at me a little that he’s so adept at escorting despite his aloof nature, but given how close he is to his sister, it’s probably second nature. I’ll just consider it a perk of being the first one he’s grown comfortable with.

“Brr, it’s cold…” Riku shivers in his coat as we step outside.

“Really?” I tilt my head, puzzled.

“How are you not cold, Hiyori-san?”

“…I’m used to it, I guess?”

Sure, my body temperature might run a bit higher than most, but it’s probably because we’re holding hands right now. Deep down, I don’t have the spare energy to feel the chill. My heart’s been racing, fluttering nonstop. Wearing the costume they crafted for me feels like being enveloped in their care.

“Haah, I love…” I accidentally let my thoughts slip out loud.

Riku tilts his head, clearly not catching the meaning. It’s probably too sudden for him to follow. For me, though, everything’s connected.

A gust of wind prickles my exposed skin. Was today’s high supposed to be 8 degrees Celsius? It’s not so cold that I couldn’t handle it even in bare skin. I once endured an eight-hour pool shoot in a swimsuit during midwinter when the high was only 3 degrees, fully submerged in the water no less. For a cosplayer chasing the latest trends, dressing true to the character is non-negotiable, regardless of the release month. Still, I wish they’d stop dropping swimsuit skins in the dead of winter.

We reach the park, our destination, but only a handful of participants are scattered about. Nearly two hours have passed since the event opened, yet most general attendees are likely still caught up buying doujinshi. My makeup today is light, so I left the changing room quickly, but many cosplayers among the general attendees probably haven’t arrived yet.

With a click, I attach the mask I’d removed during the move. My vision is instantly swallowed by darkness. The mask’s narrow slit—about 1mm tall and 10cm wide—offers only faint glimpses of the scenery through its black-tinted material. This is my view for the day.

“You okay?” Riku’s voice cuts through.

—But I know exactly where he is, as long as our hands stay linked.

“It’s bright outside, so I can kinda see. I can make out faces if they’re close enough.”

“Masks like this often don’t even have peepholes in the official design. I made it so you can see a bit, but it’s not exactly Comiket-friendly. Sorry.”

“It’s not like I’m blind, so it’s fine. Just don’t stray too far, okay?”

I grip his hand tightly, ensuring he won’t let go. I’d love to hug him, but the gear’s in the way, and with people around, I hold back.

“Got it. But you can take it off when you’re not shooting—”

“No way! It’s such a rare chance, right?”

I haven’t told anyone I’m cosplaying at Comiket today. Naturally, I didn’t bring a whiteboard with my handle or SNS ID either. Today, I’m not Tsukushi Fumu, the cosplayer with 540,000 followers, but an anonymous cosplayer at Comiket. To pull that off, I can’t show my face for too long. In summer, I’ve been recognized before even getting into costume. Just to be safe, I swapped out all my carry bags and luggage.

I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t nervous, but with Riku here, I’ll be fine.

“Should we get set up now?”

“Yup!”

I set down a Boston bag large enough to fit a child and begin pulling out heaps of gear, spreading them on the ground. At crowded events like this, large equipment has to be broken down and reassembled at the cosplay area.

“…Alright, looks good,” Riku says after about twenty minutes of assembling weapons and gear, handing me a scythe.

It’s not a grim reaper’s scythe with a menacing aura but a sleek, sci-fi version, adorned with nozzles for a character who wields it gracefully using jets. Despite its length and awkward balance, it’s light enough to swing single-handedly. With my limited vision, though, swinging a scythe as tall as me might cause some chaos.

“Can I try moving?”

“Sure, I’ll step back a bit.”

“Huh?”

“…Some parts flew off during assembly.”

“That’s scary! That didn’t happen yesterday, right?”

“Nope. But since it’s been disassembled once… well, it’s probably fine here.”

I glance around, and indeed, there’s no one within a few meters. Cautiously, I move my body. The armor clanks and restricts my range, but it’s not immobilizing, and no parts fly off. I can strike most poses without issue. Despite its heavy appearance, the gear feels almost featherlight—not quite, but light enough to move freely. Apparently, they prioritized lightweight materials, clever attachment methods, and even specialized paint.

“Looks good, so shall we start shooting? Just strike some poses.”

“Got it!”

In the widest part of the cosplay area’s park, our one-on-one shoot begins. While posing, I steal glances at my surroundings. Normally, I’d face the camera, but with the mask, only the direction of my head is visible.

Photographers, cosplayers, and general attendees without cameras—likely here to spectate—cast curious glances at our shoot. What matters here isn’t photography skill but the dynamic: a man with a camera shooting a woman in cosplay. Even those hesitant to approach a lone cosplayer on their phone will naturally line up behind someone already shooting.

As we continue, I notice the crowd growing. More men with cameras gather, likely watching since we started assembling the gear. Rather than forming a line, they seem to be waiting for our shoot to wrap up.

Noticing the onlookers, Riku lowers his camera and gestures to someone nearby. “Go ahead.” The man gives a slight bow, and as if on cue, photographers eagerly line up.

“Is it okay to shoot?”

“Please do! I’ll strike some poses!”

No one could possibly identify me from this brief exchange. Sure, some skin is exposed—my stomach, back, and hips—but my face, the most recognizable feature, is half-hidden. Only my nose and below are visible, and with armor covering my chest, its size is obscured.

With years of cosplay experience, I can sense where a camera is aimed just by following its gaze. So, during the first shoot, I notice immediately.

—Something’s off.

The cameras’ focus, the eyes watching me—they’re different from usual. The photographers, the cosplayers, and the attendees passing by aren’t fixating on my chest or face but on my gear.

Nobody cares about costume quality at Comiket? Sure. Photographers come to capture cute girls, sexy girls, or rare gag cosplays exclusive to the event. As long as the costume is recognizable, extra polish is rarely expected. The difference between 100-yen-per-meter fabric and 2,000-yen fabric? Only cosplayers would notice. Wrong accessory placement or reversed left-right accessories? Most photographers wouldn’t even catch that.

—But that’s within the realm of common sense.

No otaku could lay eyes on this costume, plunging headlong into the absurd, and feel nothing. It’s a character from Super Flash Arcadia, a game still inspiring a flood of fan art six months after its release. Even those who haven’t played would likely recognize it.

The battle outfit isn’t mere cloth but rigid armor fastened across the body, dubbed a “powered suit” in the game. The character I’m cosplaying, Sendou Shanon, wears one with a skirt adorned with vernier nozzles—its defining feature. It enables high-speed movement and precise posture control, letting her wield a massive scythe with graceful, dynamic animations that rank among the game’s best.

In the game, the skirt floats around the waist armor, but in reality, making things float requires serious engineering.

—Yet, somehow, it looks like it’s floating.

I know it’s supported by thin wires, like an umbrella’s frame, with a matte finish. But no matter the angle, those supports vanish in photos. By attaching it slightly away from the body, it sways with a subtle delay to my movements, making glossy metallic pieces appear to hover. The wire’s color was chosen to blend seamlessly in both bright and dim settings.

And that’s not all.

Confirming the crowd’s captivated gazes, I glance at Riku. —He nods, reading my intent without a word.

I reach inside the skirt and firmly press a button.

“““Whooa…”””

A rustling sound erupts, followed by cheers. The force is stronger than I expected, nearly making me yelp.

When the button releases the supports, the vernier skirt unfurls like an umbrella, and bluish-white light bursts from the nozzles. Yes, despite its bizarre structure, the skirt moves to mimic battle animations and even glows.

Apparently, it’s built on the frame of a one-button folding umbrella, allowing it to open and close with a single press. It was already flawless without moving, but they went all out with the details.

I ready my weapon, the pose for my favorite move etched in my mind without needing a reference. Holding the scythe at my hip, I face the stunned photographers. Before I realize it, their line has grown significantly. Of course, they’d want a close-up of that gimmick—I’d feel the same.

The moving parts aren’t limited to the skirt. The weapon and other components boast various mechanisms to recreate in-game animations. Even official cosplayers couldn’t pull off something like this.

Ugh, what is this, what is this, what is this?! Cosplay is so much fun…!

I’ll never forget this day.

＊

Kagajou Mashiro, 18 years old. Thanks to a late birthday, I’m finally free to buy adult-oriented doujinshi as a third-year high schooler this winter. The stacks of back issues I’d reluctantly passed up weigh heavily on my shoulders.

But this is the weight of love. With a tote bag proclaiming its devotion so fiercely the straps might snap, I head to the disaster prevention park where my friend awaits.

“Shiro-san, you’re so slow!” she huffs.

“Sorry… I got a bit tempted.”

“You ero kid!”

“We’re about the same…”

“I’m two years older!”

My friend, puffing up in mock indignation, barely reaches 140cm. With my heels boosting me to nearly 170cm, our perspectives are worlds apart. Today, we’re doing a paired cosplay of a yuri couple from an idol game I’ve adored forever.

As a yuri fan, I gravitate toward those characters in cosplay, but paired cosplays demand more interaction, and some girls shy away. This friend, though, has stuck by me for three years despite her playful immaturity. When I shared the kind of photos I wanted, she teased, “Shiro-san, are you a lesbian?” “No.” “Oh, okay,” and dropped it. Truth is, I love yuri, but I’m not a lesbian.

“…So many people,” I murmur.

“Yup,” she agrees.

The entrance is packed, so we follow the flow deeper in. Near the park’s center, I spot a large crowd—maybe a circle around someone? It’s hard to tell from here.

The moment I glimpse the cosplayer through a gap in the crowd, my feet freeze.

“What’s up?” my friend asks.

—My gaze won’t budge.

It’s not because it’s funny, trendy, or even a favorite of mine. I just can’t look away.

That’s a cosplayer.

Just a cosplayer—supposedly.

“CG…?” The word slips out unconsciously. That’s how unreal the sight feels.

“Hm? What’s there?”

Her voice snaps me back. “…That cosplayer in the crowd.”

“Can’t see! Carry me!”

“…Done acting older?”

“Onee-chan, carry me!”

“Fine, fine,” I say, lifting her by the armpits. She’s so light. My cousin felt heavier even in elementary school. What’s she made of?

The figure in the crowd is a female cosplayer clad in armor. “…Whoa, that’s insane,” my friend gasps.

I nod inwardly. Yeah, that’s the reaction, right?

“Her face isn’t even visible…”

“…Oh, you’re right.”

“You didn’t notice?”

“Yeah… I guess.”

I hadn’t even thought about her face. It’s obvious she’s a woman—not from exposed skin, but from the unarmored waist and her posture, clear proof she’s not a crossdressing man.

Yet, the most crucial part for a cosplayer—her face—is more than half-hidden. A distorted, mask-like covering conceals everything above her nose. As someone familiar with the source material, I know that character only wears the mask once in the story. So why choose that outfit?

But one thing is certain. —That woman is breathtakingly beautiful.

Even from a distance, her figure and the sliver of her face scream it. Beautiful, perfectly proportioned, and experienced. Despite being surrounded by dozens of cameras, despite the mask likely leaving her nearly blind, despite the armor restricting nearly all movement, her limbs flow smoothly, like a motion actor’s. She moves with a precise understanding of how she’s seen and from where.

Just spreading her legs shifts the crowd. As if commanded to shoot from a low angle, the photographers are maneuvered by her presence.

As I watch from afar, the crowd thickens, making the cosplayer at the center nearly impossible to see, so I set my friend down.

“Oh, I just remembered,” she says, fiddling with her phone before showing me the screen.

“Huh?”

“It’s Yotsutsuji Mei, look!”

“……Ah.”

That’s right, now that she mentions it. About two weeks ago, I saw a photo posted during production—exactly this gear. But it was just a single still, not even a video, of the gear on a torso mannequin. In just two weeks, it’s been refined so much that, despite recognizing it, I can hardly believe it’s the same.

—Yotsutsuji Mei.

A cosplay prop maker with over 200,000 followers, likely the most followed figure in cosplay circles who neither cosplays nor photographs. Age, gender, and residence are completely unknown. On SNS, they post only production progress or completed works, never engaging with cosplayers, reposting photos of their creations in use, or making casual remarks—a true enigma.

They’re so detached about who receives their creations that clients have created a culture of tagging posts with a dedicated hashtag when shooting in them. They open a reservation form once every six months for the next half-year’s orders, and it reportedly fills in five seconds—an absurdly competitive process.

Their work spans genres, crafting anything requested: not just typical cosplay costumes but full-body armor, mascot suits like those in tokusatsu or kaiju films, dresses, and fantastical outfits suited only for fantasy settings—all with terrifyingly high quality.

Recently, they’ve taken corporate commissions, mainly from smartphone game companies, but without publicized contact info, even major companies must vie for those five seconds. In an interview, one game company said, “We had our entire staff try to get a famous prop maker to craft costumes for our official cosplayers,” instantly sparking speculation that it was Yotsutsuji Mei. Apparently, even with all that effort, they secured only two costumes.

“You know, I tried requesting Yotsutsuji Mei once,” my friend says.

“…What a coincidence, me too.”

“I mean, every cosplayer tries at least once, right?”

“Probably…”

I reply with a sigh. I tried applying once too. In the community, Yotsutsuji Mei’s reservation form opening is like a mini-festival. I didn’t finish entering in time, but one line on the form stopped me cold.

In the budget section, in red text, it read, “We will not accept requests with unrealistic amounts.” In other words, if the offered amount is too low, they won’t accept it, even if you make it through the application.

Some call it a shady blind auction, but no other prop maker takes personal commissions at that level. Those desperate to have something made, no matter the cost, don’t join the critics.

“…Wanna get a closer look?”

“Heck yeah!”

My friend grabs her camera from her bag, and we weave toward the crowd.

We edged closer, but with the crowd swelling, the cosplayer at the center was barely visible.

But our gender played to our advantage.

“Here, go ahead,” a few men at the crowd’s edge offered, shifting or stepping aside to make space. Grateful, we slipped in.

Squeezing my camera through a gap, I counted about three layers of people—manageable for shooting with my height. My tiny friend struggled, but before I realized, she’d reached the front, sitting and aiming her camera. Someone must’ve yielded their spot.

As I started shooting, I noticed something immediately.

—A sound.

The sound of wind, sharp and distinct.

The disaster prevention park, near the sea with few barriers, is naturally windy. But this wasn’t the sea breeze.

It was the sound of the weapon slicing through the air.

When she swung the nearly 2-meter-long scythe, it produced a sound that felt like the wind itself was stirring. The speed wasn’t enough to truly cut the air, so why was it so clear?

Is it designed to make that sound? …No way, that’s absurd.

It didn’t add up. Cosplay is about the visuals left in photos—sound shouldn’t matter.

—But what if they went that far with their obsession?

That’s the kind of existence Yotsutsuji Mei is.

I’d seen Yotsutsuji Mei’s gear displayed at events, but this was my first time witnessing a cosplayer wear it in person. With a single prop maker’s output limited—especially since they only got serious three years ago, producing maybe fewer than 50 costumes total—and demand spanning Japan, the odds of me, a Tokyo resident, seeing one in person were slim. I’d only known Yotsutsuji Mei’s obsession through what’s visible online.

What if there are details only the wearer feels, or something only those seeing it live can grasp?

—It’s abnormal.

I refocused my camera. The weapon and gear’s size demand space when posing, so even this large crowd barely suffices to capture her fully. No wonder it spread out so much—too close, and the armor or long weapon gets cropped, making a full-body shot impossible.

She wields the oversized scythe so effortlessly, but isn’t it heavy? With the weight concentrated at the tip, stopping mid-motion should strain her arms significantly. Yet, her arms halt at perfect angles, holding steady for photographers as if suspended by invisible strings.

When she readies her weapon, the shutter sounds erupt in a chorus. The glossy metallic armor shifts into pose-perfect positions like a precision machine, and the scythe reconfigures with a strange noise, its blade expanding to twice its size.

There must be more gimmicks. I haven’t captured this pose yet. As if spellbound, the photographers stay glued, even those shooting from the back—where the crowd’s density is a drawback—keep snapping. The parts invisible from the front shine from behind.

The cosplay is of a character from Super Flash Arcadia, an action game released about six months ago. A junior at school recommended it, and I played it too. It’s centered on the protagonist and heroine’s interactions, with no yuri elements, so it rarely appears on my timeline. But in male-oriented circles, its fan art and cosplay are thriving.

Sure, Yotsutsuji Mei posted production photos, but how could someone request a costume from a game released six months ago—especially a version not in the pre-release PV—through a reservation form opened over six months ago? That question surfaced often, but no answers emerged.

Yotsutsuji Mei always labels corporate work with “Commissioned by a company,” but no such note accompanied this Arcadia costume, likely their last project of the year. So, this woman must be a genuine individual, not a pro cosplayer hired by the game’s marketing team. Supposedly.

But unease took root quickly.

Having finished shooting quickly thanks to a prime spot, my friend slipped out of the crowd and joined me behind. I turned to her.

“Something’s been bugging me.”

“…Everything’s bugging me, but what?”

“Who is this person?”

“……Huh?”

Her voice drew an “Eh?” from the photographers around us, their eyes turning our way.

“Whoa, I mean, look, there’s no sketchbook or anything. Does anyone know who she is?”

“…Oh.”

Including me, many photographers shifted their gaze to the cosplayer striking poses at the center—and then, we finally noticed.

Not a single thing indicated her name.

That was the source of the unease.

—Who the hell is she?

Normally, a cosplayer drawing a crowd this size would display a whiteboard or sketchbook with their account name to save the hassle of telling photographers. But there’s nothing like that anywhere. We’re photographing someone we don’t even know.

“An unknown cosplayer drawing a crowd this big…?”

Is that even possible?

I’ve never seen it. Crowd shoots like this are rare to begin with. A famous cosplayer with hundreds of thousands of followers announces their presence, spreads the word, and gradually gathers fans to form a crowd this size. In a busy cosplay area, a small crowd might form naturally when there’s no space for a proper line, but this disaster prevention park is Comiket’s largest cosplay area, with ample space. Spontaneous crowds almost never happen here.

—And yet.

“Um… does anyone know who this person is?” I called out.

A few photographers groaned. “There’s no Arcadia cosplayer tied to a company, right?” “But this level without a company is insane.” “The costume’s Yotsutsuji Mei’s—I saw them making it.” “An idol maybe? But they’d at least show their name.” Each tossed out guesses, but none landed.

After finishing my shots, I stepped out of the crowd and searched “Arcadia” on SNS. A flood of comments, photos, and videos of the moving gimmicks were being shared. Judging by post times, the crowd shoot started about an hour ago. It’s surprising the crowd hasn’t thinned after an hour, but I’m also amazed by the cosplayer’s stamina. Even just standing, a cosplayer must stay conscious of angles and poses, freezing for the shots they want. —It’s exhausting.

And she’s doing it in that restrictive gear, wielding a massive weapon. The costume’s quality is one thing, but the cosplayer wearing it is extraordinary too. She can’t be an unknown amateur. —She shouldn’t be.

A quick search showed no cosplayers announcing an Arcadia battle outfit for Comiket. With gear like that, you’d expect them to brag about it.

“Should we start shooting ours now?”

“…Yeah.”

Thinking won’t solve it. It’ll probably spread online eventually.

We left the crowd and took photos of each other for a while. A photographer approached, so we did some paired shots. Then, a countdown echoed from afar, followed by applause as loud as Comiket’s opening. The crowd shoot had disbanded.

With a crowd this size, left unchecked, the shoot could drag on for hours—too much for the cosplayer—so they must forcibly end it.

As the crowd dispersed, my friend nudged me. “Wanna check it out if you’re curious?”

“Yeah,” I nodded, and we pushed against the flow of people.

Up close, many lingered despite the disbanded crowd—photographers likely seeking contact info, and even some women without cameras, probably from talent agencies. A cosplayer who can draw a crowd this size, possibly unknown, is bound to attract professionals.

The line was longer than expected, and as I hesitated to join, I caught sight of someone familiar and turned.

“…Huh?”

“What’s up?”

“Uh, no… um…”

A bit away from the mysterious cosplayer stood my school junior, Higashiura Riku. Unbelievably short for a high schooler, he sometimes jokes about it but is clearly self-conscious. With a baby face and charm that wins over older people, he’s aloof, rarely initiating conversation. Even when club members chat with him at lunch, he barely responds. His demeanor, unusual for a high school boy, isn’t from shyness around girls but from being teased relentlessly by an overly close older sister, apparently.

He stood there, shivering in a warm-looking coat, carrying a Boston bag big enough to fit him.

“Sorry, I’ll step away for a sec.”

“Okie-dokie!”

Leaving my friend, I headed toward him—

“Yo,” I called, raising a hand as Higashiura-kun turned to face me.

He looked puzzled for a moment but quickly exclaimed, “Oh!” It was my first time meeting him in cosplay, but since he knows my face, it made sense he’d recognize me.

With my heels boosting my height, he seemed even smaller than usual as I stood beside him.

His gaze lingered on the female cosplayer. He wasn’t holding a camera now, but he might’ve been in the crowd earlier. Come to think of it, he’s the one who recommended Arcadia. With a cosplayer of that caliber for his favorite game, it’s no wonder he’s captivated.

“Senpai, right?” he asked.

“Yup, your senpai.”

“Uh, sorry, I don’t know your handle. What should I call you?”

“Senpai’s fine, isn’t it, kouhai?”

He always calls me senpai anyway. But what should I call him? The usual works, I suppose.

We knew we’d both be at Comiket but never planned to meet up, so this was our first encounter here. He’s not cosplaying himself—his much older sister does, apparently.

“Got it. …What’s that you’re wearing, Senpai? Like an 86 or something…?”

“That’s a car. It’s 97. Here with your sister?”

“No, today I’m—”

He glanced at the mysterious cosplayer, still drawing a line even after the shoot ended. So he came to see her, I thought, but the next moment—

—The woman looked our way. Her “Eh!?” rang out, audible even from a distance.

She bowed to the line, shouting, “Sorry, I’ll be back!” and jogged over, grabbing Higashiura-kun’s shoulder.

“Rikkun, who’s that!?”

“My school senpai. Is it okay to leave them waiting?”

“It’s fine, it’s fine! They’re all strangers anyway!”

“If you say so.”

That voice sounded familiar. The woman muttered, “Outta the way,” and removed her mask.

“…Huh?”

The moment I saw her face, I gasped.

—She was someone I knew well.

“Mi-Miyoshi-san…?”

“Huh?”

—Miyoshi Hiyori.

A third-year in the part-time program at my commercial high school, and my friend.

Tilting her head, Miyoshi-san stared at my face, let out an “Eh,” and quickly darted behind Higashiura-kun, crouching down. It was obvious she was trying to hide, but her bulky gear made it impossible to conceal her. With Higashiura-kun’s small stature, most of her body stuck out.

“Y-you’ve got the wrong person!”

Then why are you hiding?

“…It really is you, Miyoshi-san.”

“No, it’s not.”

Her immediate denial made me sigh as I glanced at Higashiura-kun.

“Senpai, you know her?”

“Hey, Rikkun!?”

“Yeah, I told you before, didn’t I? About the part-time program’s ghost club member.”

“Oh… so that was about Hiyori-san?”

“No, no! It’s a different Hiyori-san!”

“There aren’t that many people like this out there.”

“Right.”

“What do you mean, ‘like this’!?”

This could go on forever, so I opened the messaging app on my phone. Since I hadn’t changed phones in a while, my chat history with Miyoshi-san was still there. I sent a sticker from it.

A poron chime sounded—from Higashiura-kun’s pocket. Silently, he pulled out the phone and handed it to Miyoshi-san. He must’ve been holding it for her.

“See? Told you.”

“……”

She finally fell silent.

“What’s your relationship with Miyoshi-san?” I asked.

“Uh… this is really hard to say, but…” Higashiura-kun glanced around, ensuring no one was close enough to overhear, then lowered his voice. “She’s the weird person my sister brought home, like I mentioned before.”

“Oh……”

I got it. A weird person, huh? Fair enough. She was only in the club for about two months, but she definitely had a unique vibe—bold yet reserved, somehow.

“Hey, Rikkun!? What are you telling Ma—this woman!?”

“Just that there’s a weirdo at my house.”

“Can you wrap it in a little more tact!?”

“That was me wrapping it in tact…”

His sigh drew a small chuckle from me. I’d never seen him talk so casually before. As a full-time student, I rarely crossed paths with part-time students, and all I knew was that her name was still on the club roster, meaning she hadn’t dropped out.

Come to think of it, Higashiura-kun mentioned something about her being in the part-time program, so she could attend school during the day or something. What an unexpected connection.

“Hey, Miyoshi-san.”

“W-what is it, stranger…?”

“If you’re gonna keep up that attitude…”

I grabbed Higashiura-kun’s hand and pulled him into a hug.

“I’ll just take him for myself. That okay?”

—That’s my declaration. I could tell from their banter that Miyoshi-san has her sights on Higashiura-kun, even if she stubbornly refuses to admit it.

“Wait!!”

She finally stepped forward. —Yup, that’s the Miyoshi-san I know.

Maybe because she couldn’t do full makeup under the mask, her look was light. That’s why I recognized her even after two years. Still, her natural beauty was undeniable—an undercover idol wouldn’t be a stretch.

Cosplayers generally fall into two types: those who shine with makeup and those who are stunning without it. Miyoshi-san is the latter. Despite her striking appearance, she was a shut-in who barely attended middle school, or even elementary school.

I never asked why. It wasn’t my place to pry, and I trusted she’d tell me if she wanted to.

“…There’s something you need to tell me, isn’t there?”

I believed she’d open up to me, of all people.

—Even on that day, two years ago.

＊

“Hey, Kagajou-san, did you hear? About the old lady in the part-time program?”

While eating lunch in the classroom with a handicraft club classmate, she brought it up out of the blue. “Old lady” didn’t ring a bell, but “part-time” likely meant the club’s only part-time student, Miyoshi Hiyori.

“Old lady… you mean Miyoshi-san? She’s still under twenty, isn’t she?”

“Really? Apparently, she’s got, like, a secret account or something? They say she has about 100,000 followers. Isn’t that kinda creepy?”

My chopsticks froze.

“Oh… where’d you hear that?”

“Last Friday, after we left, she forgot her phone in the clubroom. The screen kept lighting up with notifications, and a senpai checked it out. Turns out it was an account with her in skimpy outfits. That’s a secret account, right?”

“…Isn’t that kind of a privacy violation?”

“Hey, she’s the one who left it behind.”

“Still, looking through it feels wrong…”

Regardless of who was at fault, I was worried. Miyoshi-san is… a bit of an oddball. We’re both first-years, but she’s in the part-time program, and I’m full-time, with a three-year age gap.

When asked why she joined the club despite part-time students not needing to, she hesitantly said, “I wanted to make friends…” I still remember that. She wasn’t overly assertive, though. During club, she’d quietly read sewing books or knit. The constant hum of sewing machines made casual chats tough anyway.

Maybe because of her age, she was distant from other members, but not from me. I noticed a keychain on her bag—a motif from my favorite idol game—and we exchanged contact info. We found out we were both cosplayers and talked about doing a paired cosplay someday.

If the “secret account” rumor was true, was it really okay for others to judge her? I wasn’t sure back then, so I sent her a few messages out of concern.

—But though she read them, she never replied.

Since that day, Miyoshi-san never returned to the clubroom.

“No matter what anyone says, I think of you as a friend.”

I thought that final message would reach her.

But this person—

＊

““……””

The silence between them hung heavy, as if the chilly park air had frozen solid.

I don’t know the details, as neither has shared much, but it feels like stumbling upon someone after a falling-out. The cosplay world is smaller than you’d think, so these encounters happen. Once, I sent a costume to a client, and they saw my phone number on the shipping label, calling me out of the blue with, “Are you the Minami-san’s little brother!?” Don’t spread rumors about her brother—the industry’s too tight-knit for that.

I let out a sigh. Hiyori-san’s one thing, but Mashiro-senpai seems awkward too. With that face, she’s probably always surrounded by girls, yet here we are.

They’re too entangled to meet halfway. So, as an outsider, I’ll step in.

“I don’t know what happened, but I’m in a bad mood, so can I say something?”

Both turned to me, visibly shocked. My interference must’ve been unexpected.

“I’m not asking who’s at fault. Probably both of you, so just apologize.”

“W-wait, I’m the one who messed up…” Hiyori-san stammered.

“Apologize? You’re telling me…” Mashiro-senpai began.

“The vibe was so high, and now it’s like a funeral. What’s with this?”

“That’s what got you tensed!?” Hiyori-san exclaimed.

“…Really?” Mashiro-senpai muttered.

Obviously, my expression said, without words.

Seeing someone wear my handmade costume up close is rare, aside from my sister. I’d worried whether the costume’s quality could draw a crowd without a face or name, but the plan worked perfectly. —And yet, this is the mood now.

“Uh, Rikkun, listen…” Hiyori-san started.

“I’m not interested in the fight details—it’ll get subjective.”

“……”

“Mashiro-senpai’s mad, and Hiyori-san wants to make excuses, right? That’s the vibe.”

“…I’m not mad,” Mashiro-senpai said.

“That kind of face…”

“Since I’m mostly right, this conversation’s over. Apologize, both of you.”

I clapped my hands to urge them, but they still looked unconvinced. If long-standing grudges could be resolved with a quick chat, the world would be far more peaceful. But it’s not. People bicker on SNS constantly, posting rants, and if one side stays silent, the uninformed masses swing their “justice” hammers, assuming the quiet one’s guilty.

I hate that stuff and avoid it, steering clear of online interactions. I just wanted to live without touching that ugliness.

—And I didn’t want these two to have it.

“Hiyori-san, say what you did wrong, out loud.”

“W-wrong? I mean, it’s not like—”

“No excuses.”

“……”

Hiyori-san clamped her mouth shut, looking away. Her usual boldness was gone, replaced by an almost painfully meek expression. It’s like I’m the bad guy here, when my mood’s the one ruined.

“…I’ll praise you properly later.”

Her eyes snapped up to mine. “……Really?”

“Really.”

“Really, really?”

“I said really.”

Sighing, I replied, and Hiyori-san nodded with an “Okay!” Her usual spark returned as she faced Mashiro-senpai.

“I’m sorry for not replying. I got scared I’d be bullied again in high school and ran away without saying anything. I’m sorry.”

She bowed slightly, her expression lighter, as if a weight had lifted, waiting for Mashiro-senpai’s response.

“Now, Mashiro-senpai.”

“…You’re pushier than I thought. Getting heated because it’s about someone who likes you, huh?”

“If you keep acting flippant while someone’s sincerely apologizing, I won’t talk to you again until you graduate.”

“…Sorry.”

I tossed out a random condition reflexively, but she apologized, so whatever. Why’d she even agree?

“I assumed Miyoshi-san betrayed me without considering she had no choice but to run. I’m sorry.”

Unlike Hiyori-san’s relieved bow, Mashiro-senpai’s was sincere but tinged with dissatisfaction.

“Senpai.”

“What?”

“Got anything else to say?”

“……”

“This might be your only chance. Talking about this later will be awkward.”

“…You’re right. Guess I’ll say it now.”

Her usual cryptic, suggestive expression returned as she stood and suddenly hugged my arm.

“Huh?”

“Miyoshi-san, you don’t even know what kind of relationship Higashiura-kun and I have, do you?”

“…Huh?”

Hiyori-san’s eyes darted between my arm and Mashiro-senpai’s face, trying to step in but stopped by a raised hand.

“W-w-w-w-w-what are you doing!?” Hiyori-san stammered.

“Uh, what’s your deal? This is way out of left field,” I said.

“Nah, I’ve got something to say, alright.”

With my arm pressed against her, I thought, Probably fake, right? She’s not the type to look slimmer than she is, so it’s likely padded for the character. The feel’s obviously different from the real thing.

What’s with this situation, multiple weirdos pressing their half-exposed chests against a high school boy?

“Look, Miyoshi-san. Has Higashiura-kun ever mentioned me?”

“……Maybe not,” she muttered, her face serious.

Really? But our lunchtime chats are mundane, not worth reporting to Hiyori-san at home. I recall her asking, “Who do you eat lunch with?” and I said, “With a senpai in the clubroom.” She didn’t ask more, so I didn’t mention which club or senpai. Maybe she assumed it was a crafting club senpai.

“We’ve even gone as far as kissing—”

She tapped my lips with her finger, so I swatted it away. What’s this girl on about?

“Rikkun!?” Hiyori-san yelped.

“We haven’t.”

“This kind of relationship… what would you call it?”

“Rikkun!? What’s that supposed to mean!? Tell me!!”

“…Just a normal senpai-kouhai relationship.”

“Senpai and kouhai don’t feel that close! Wait… it’s not like that, right?”

“I wouldn’t know.”

Since starting high school, I’ve barely talked to upperclassmen besides Mashiro-senpai and the crafting club folks, who are all into that national robot anime I don’t care for, so we don’t click.

“…Rikkun.”

With some resolve, Hiyori-san wrapped her arms around my other arm. The armor’s edges dug into me, and it actually hurt.

“What?”

“Can I kiss you too?”

“No way.”

“Why!? It’s fine for Mashiro, but not me!?”

“It’s not fine for anyone.”

“Why not!? What about Umi-san!?”

“……Not her either.”

“Was there a weird pause just now?”

“Oh, Miyoshi-san, why don’t you go back to the people waiting in line? They’re still there,” Mashiro-senpai said.

“In this situation!?”

“Don’t worry, I’ll stay close enough for you to see but far enough that you can’t do anything if something happens.”

“That’s not reassuring at all!? Mashiro, I don’t know what you’ll do, so let go of Rikkun!”

“No way.”

“Why!?”

“Because you’re not the only one after him.”

Hiyori-san froze, mouth agape.

“……For real?”

“Totally for real.”

“What are you guys talking about?”

They shared some understanding, nodding at each other with warm smiles. Don’t bond over something unrelated to the apology.

Most of the greeting line had dispersed, assuming the conversation wouldn’t end soon, though a few lingered. When Mashiro-senpai beckoned, they shuffled closer, maintaining the line.

“Alright, see you later.”

“Wait, Mashiro!? Later, you said later!? Don’t take Rikkun away, okay!? Absolutely not, got it!?” Hiyori-san called out.

“Yeah, yeah.”

Hiyori-san isn’t the type to ignore people waiting for her, even in this mess. She kept glancing back at me as I was pulled away, reluctantly returning to the line.

Once we were far enough that I could see but not hear her, I sighed and yanked my hand free.

“…Uh, Senpai.”

“What’s up?”

“…Please stop using me as a tool to make up.”

“Sorry about that.”

She was probably just trying to lighten the heavy mood. If someone acted like that, Hiyori-san would react as expected. They haven’t known each other long, but Mashiro-senpai read her well.

Same goes for me, I suppose. I’ve been eating lunch with Senpai for nearly two years, but it’s only been six months since I met Hiyori-san.

“…It was just a joke, you know.”

“Haah…”

Which part? The kissing bit? Calling an indirect kiss a “kiss” is misleading. It’s just sharing side dishes from our bentos.

“Hey, about Miyoshi-san’s costume… did someone make it for her?”

She asked, watching Hiyori-san receive a business card from a woman in a suit. Come to think of it, I posted a progress shot online once, but since it was finished last-minute, I didn’t post anything after, did I?

“Oh, that? I made it.”

“……Huh?”

“I know it’s hard to believe, and I’m not asking you to force yourself to believe it.”

“…No, wait, that… Higashiura-kun, you usually make costumes for your sister, right?”

“I make other stuff too.”

“But that was posted by Yotsutsuji Mei—”

Seeing Senpai flap her hands in rare panic, I cut in.

“That’s me.”

“……I see.”

So she did know the name. We never mentioned Yotsutsuji Mei in our chats, but she probably didn’t expect them to be a high schooler. I got a similar reaction when a client, my sister’s friend, found out.

It’s been five years since I started taking personal commissions. Around that time, my sister joined her current company and cut back on cosplaying, leaving me with free time. The industry’s demand isn’t huge, so requests were sparse at first. But a costume I made through my sister’s connection for a pro cosplayer with hundreds of thousands of followers went viral, and orders flooded in after that.

That client still commissions me regularly, winning the reservation wars without special treatment. I’ve wanted to meet them properly, but no chance yet. My sister openly says her costumes are made by her brother but never mentions I’m Yotsutsuji Mei. Since I was crafting for her before the alias, it’s only natural.

“Senpai, you here for shopping?” I asked, steering away from the topic in this crowded place.

Mashiro-senpai looked like she wanted to press further but nodded. —We’ll still see each other in the clubroom until she graduates. I can answer if she asks then.

Her tote bag bulged with doujinshi. Come to think of it, she mentioned frequenting doujin events, even without cosplaying. I rarely attend alone or buy doujinshi.

“You know, my birthday’s in December.”

“…That explains it.”

“Yup, that’s the deal.”

Got it. For a third-year high schooler, it’s the age when adult-oriented works become fair game. She must’ve gone all out. My sister did the same back then, so I know. Don’t leave adult doujinshi or risqué cosplay CDs on the table.

＊

After chatting briefly, Miyoshi-san returned from greeting everyone. Then we talked about the years we’d missed—just a short time, feeling like it wasn’t enough.

*—Because,

Because, I thought if we didn’t, our relationship would end for good.

I have few ways to see Miyoshi-san. Despite being at the same school, full-time and part-time programs have entirely different schedules, and we didn’t meet for two years.

Without effort from both sides, our connection could easily fade. Even with Higashiura-kun between us, it’s the same. He’s not the type to mediate. He must’ve been genuinely annoyed earlier—his tone was usual, but I felt real anger.

If I used him as an excuse to meet, he’d probably say, “Why don’t you two just meet without me?” in his cold tone. —Just imagining it sends chills.

So, though I wanted to keep talking, I said, “I’ve got a friend waiting, so let’s catch up later,” and left.

No doubt we reconnected because of him—Higashiura Riku. He brought us back together. Without him, we couldn’t have broken through Miyoshi Hiyori’s tough shell.

—Because I couldn’t do it.

A same-sex friend wouldn’t do. A regular friend wouldn’t do. Trying to crack her shell from the outside only made it close tighter. It had to be someone who made her want to break out herself.

For her, that was Higashiura Riku. For me, he’s a precious kouhai.

…I’m glad.

I muttered to myself and headed back to my friend. She’d been watching from somewhere and patted my shoulder. “Dunno what happened, but glad it worked out!”

“Yeah,” I replied softly, walking far enough that I couldn’t see them anymore.

＊＊

“Aaahh… this is nice…”

Soaking in a slightly lukewarm jet bath, I gazed at Tokyo’s skyline, unusually bright for late December. That lit-up thing in the distance—is it Tokyo Tower? Or maybe Skytree?

I’m in that mysterious building always looming behind me in Comiket’s waiting line. I’ve been to Comiket forever but never knew it was a hotel—a super luxurious one with a spa and pool on the top floor.

The legit spa, feeling unlike a hotel, is so comfy it warms my winter-chilled body to the core. Next to me, making childish “Awa-wa-wa-wa…” noises against the jets, is Umi-san, who invited me here.

Looking at Umi-san’s body, I feel average. Weird, since I’m supposed to be on the bigger side… Living with someone like her, most would look flat by comparison. Can’t help it.

“Umi-san, do you always come to places like this during Comiket?”

“Unless work’s crazy, yeah.”

“…Maybe I should get a membership. It’s members-only, right?”

“You sure? Even my membership cost like 8 million yen.”

“Wait, where’d that money come from!?”

“I’d love to say company expenses, but it was out of pocket. Took about five years to break even. Glad I bought it—comes in handy for stuff like this.”

“That’s wild…”

She works at a black company, right? Lives in hotels near the office during the week, rarely comes home. She’s back on weekends but hardly stays both days. I’ve never worked a corporate job, so I don’t grasp how intense that is.

“Something happen today?”

“…It’s kind of a long story, but can you listen?”

“Sure. Is it a spicy story?”

“No, no!! Well, I’d like to get to that eventually, but it’s heavier for now—”

“Alright, leave it to your big sis. …Not the kind of talk you can have with Rikkun, right?”

I nodded and started, bit by bit.

How I became a shut-in for a trivial reason and couldn’t leave the house.

How starting cosplay made me brighter, enough to attend high school.

How I joined a club to make friends but couldn’t fit in, and when my account got exposed, it got awkward, and I stopped going.

How I vanished without saying goodbye to a new friend.

How that friend was a senpai close to Rikkun.

—And how, today, after two years, I reunited with her and apologized.

Umi-san listened silently and let out an “Oh.”

“I’ve heard about that from Rikkun—the senpai he eats lunch with, right?”

“Lunch!?”

“He said she shares side dishes or something. A cosplayer, right? He doesn’t say much, but she’s the cool type, yeah?”

I forgot, since she was in a normal girl cosplay today, but she had that “prince of the girls’ school” vibe. Popular in the club, always surrounded, so shy me could only talk to her through the messaging app.

“…Is that the kind of girl Rikkun’s into?”

“Dunno. She’s the only person at school he really talks to, so he’s a bit dependent on her, but I don’t think it’s romantic. Still,”

“Still?”

“Being someone’s one-and-only is a big deal, right?”

I shot up, splashing water. Umi-san laughed.

“But she’s a third-year, graduating soon, right? No need to worry too much.”

“…A senpai he’s eaten lunch with every day for two years—would they stop talking just because she graduates?”

“I haven’t seen my middle school friends since graduation.”

“W-well, that’s, uh, family circumstances…”

Due to complicated—or tragically unfortunate—circumstances, the Higashiura siblings didn’t grow up normally. Common sense doesn’t quite apply.

Then again, I’m a 10-year shut-in with a final education of kindergarten, so I’m hardly “normal” either.

“It’ll work out.”

“Will it…?”

“She’s just a senpai he eats lunch with, right? Living together gives you way more points.”

“Maybe, but… still…”

“Worried Rikkun might get taken?”

I dunked my face in the water, nodding slightly, blowing bubbles to hide my embarrassment.

“It’s fine.”

“…Really? Do I have a shot?”

“You totally do.”

“Really, really?”

“Yeah, but oh, you don’t know, huh, Hiyori-san?”

“…Know what?”

Looking at the sky, Umi-san said, “The commissions Rikkun took starting in January are way fewer than usual.”

“…Huh?”

“The last month or so is usually chill, but even so.”

That means, in other words—

“Wonder what he’s planning with all that time? He’s never been one to spend the money he earns—just saves it. It’s less about money and more about killing time.”

“……”

“Thanks for getting close to my little brother, from me too.”

At those words, I nodded softly, “Yes.”

Have I become someone special to him?

—Will I be able to, from now on?

“Rikkun’s the type to draw lines with everyone, right? With that blunt attitude, he’s barely gotten close to anyone. That senpai might’ve just crossed that wall, but…”

My face heated up. Maybe it’s the water up to my mouth, but still. Happiness is happiness.

“Hiyori-san, you’re fine.”

“R-really? …I might just steal him from you, Umi-san.”

“Go ahead and try.”

She shot back with a confident smirk. Ugh, I don’t stand a chance. But I’ve got one clear advantage: I’m not related by blood! …Or so I thought, but with these siblings, their bond doesn’t seem like a downside. Normally, family ties would rule out romance or physical stuff, right?

A high schooler bathing with his much older sister—does that even happen? I’m an only child, so I wouldn’t know…

Places I can beat Umi-san: I’m younger, and I spend more time with him. Wait, is that it? With Mashiro… I think we’re even for now, but still!

“Um, is there any chance you and Rikkun aren’t actually related by blood or something?”

“Nah, same parents, he’s my real brother.”

“R-right…”

“Our closeness seems weird?”

“……It’s weird, right?”

I added a question mark, unsure if my sense was correct, but Umi-san laughed, “Haha,” and turned toward me.

Whoa, huge! I’m floating too, but the size difference is unreal… like a whole head bigger!? I-I wanna touch…

“…I know.”

Umi-san’s expression softened, a far cry from her usual cheer. A calm face, as if she’d surrendered everything but still managed a faint smile.

—I knew at a glance, this was her true self.

Forcing herself to act bright. Probably because without it, she’d break—

I understand. I’ve felt that way before.

“It wasn’t always like this.”

“……”

“The opposite, actually. When we were little, we barely talked, let alone played together. But after that thing happened, seeing Rikkun moping alone—”

Aah, I can imagine it. It wasn’t just one person who gave up everything.

…Both of them did.

“It’s like, maternal instincts? They just kicked in.”

“No way, that’s definitely not maternal instincts!”

“What? Don’t you wanna give him your boobs?”

“I mean, I do, but!!!!”

She lifted her chest, and I couldn’t help but retort. Not the line for a serious moment. —But, oh, she’s back to her usual expression.

“Then that’s maternal instincts.”

“Maternal instincts, huh…”

Okay, I can’t argue with that. He’d probably hate it, though. I’ve heard all guys love boobs, but his reactions make me nervous. A high school boy who can have his head-sized-boobed sister, who adores him, press against him and flatly say “Get off” or “Heavy” without blushing—does that exist?

When I mimic Umi-san, he either bolts or looks genuinely put off. Even changing where he can see gets me a sighed, “What’s wrong with your ethics, changing in front of people?” Or when I tried a naked apron, he deadpanned, “It’s winter. Ever heard of seasons?” It’s thrilling in its own way, but I want him flustered, you know, something.

Even during measurements or risqué shoots, he seemed briefly aware but reverted to normal after. I want him to feel that thrill in daily life too.

“Hiyori-san, don’t hold back either.”

“…I thought I was already being pretty considerate.”

Not just with him, but with Umi-san too.

“As you can see with me, you can push pretty hard, and he’ll go along with it.”

“……Like sneaking into his bed?”

I asked nervously, and she nodded solemnly.

Wait, she’s done it!? No way—right? Oh god, I’m scared to confirm…! What’s their relationship, seriously!? How far have they gone!?

“If you’re worried, want me to help?”

“L-Like deflowering him…?”

“Huh? That’s what you thought?”

“It’s not!?”

“……It’s a secret.”

“Wait, that’s a really important detail for me!!”

Umi-san laughed heartily and climbed out of the jet bath, so I hurriedly followed. After that, we hit the sauna, cold bath, and an esthetician, where a skilled massage melted my entire body.

I rarely get massages since I don’t know what to talk about and male therapists scare me, but this high-end members-only hotel was different. The therapist, a young woman, chatted only when I wanted, delivering a perfectly comfortable massage. I nearly dozed off.

I thought I’d want to come back, but the price—100,000 yen for both of us with options included—made my eyes bug out. Different worlds. I tried to pay later, but they wouldn’t take it, so I’ll repay with housework.

“Sorry we’re late!”

We’d taken our time, so it was past 8 p.m. when we finished. Feeling hungry as we returned to the room, I saw Riku sprawled on the bed, tinkering with a laptop.

“I already ate via room service, so if you want to eat out, go ahead.”

He glanced at me, then returned to his laptop—only to sit up in a panic.

“Forgot Hiyori-san was here?” Umi-san teased.

He blushed slightly, turning away. Not like he was looking at anything naughty—just embarrassed to be caught slacking. He doesn’t usually show that side at home.

—But I saw it.

Not just his unusually relaxed demeanor. Until we went to the spa, he was in a warm coat, but he must’ve bathed. Now he was in the room’s oversized nightwear, just one layer.

No undershirt, and through the wide-open neckline, my 1.7 uncorrected vision caught the faint peach-colored, fruit-like nubs.

I had things to talk about—Mashiro, today, all sorts of stuff.

—But my rationality gauge snapped in an instant.

＊

Hiyori-san dove onto the bed, pinning me down, her face closing in. I hurriedly stopped her. A split second slower, and—

“Wha…!? Why’re you suddenly in heat!?”

“H-hey, that was too much just now! Too sexy!!!!”

“What!? Are you insane!?”

Her face inched closer. She’s too strong. Onee-chan, stop laughing and help! Your brother’s chastity is in danger!

“Why’s it no good!? You do it with Umi-san, right!? It’s not like it wears out!!”

“……!!”

“Huh?”

Her strength faltered. I shoved her off and scrambled off the bed.

“Y-you do it……?”

“……It was an accident.”

I looked away. When you’re caretaking a blackout-drunk final-form brocon, accidents happen. Even sober, I can’t overpower someone bigger. When their strength and rationality limiters are off, it’s human vs. bear. No chance.

My sister smirked smugly behind me. At least she’s not drunk now—she was just at the bath. She avoids alcohol before shoots or events since it makes her puffy. If she’s got that much sense, she should keep enough to not attack her brother when drunk.

But since Hiyori-san moved in, she hasn’t come home blackout drunk. She said, “If I pass out drunk, I’ll miss Hiyori’s cooking!” Thanks to that, my chastity’s safe. Stay sober forever.

“Uh, Umi-san?” Hiyori-san asked.

“Yup?”

“H-how far…?”

Hiyori-san’s face flared as Onee-chan whispered something in her ear. What’d she say!?

“…O-Onee-chan?”

Both red-faced, they whispered and nodded, settling on a plan.

“It’s fine, right? Unlike with girls, nothing gets used up.”

“Not fine at all.”

“But seriously, Rikkun, that was too much. Even if it wasn’t Hiyori-san, people would think you were asking for it.”

“What!?”

“It’s like stripping in a classroom at dusk to seduce someone.”

“Your metaphor makes no sense!?”

Sure, I looked sloppy, but I’m beat. Being in the cold saps your energy. After shooting, I was lugging heavy bags while tagging along with Hiyori-san to circle booths.

While I was distracted by Onee-chan creeping up, Hiyori-san crawled closer on the bed, grabbed my hand, and pinned me down again. Struggling, I heard, “Eii!” as Onee-chan jumped on too, both holding me down.

Two opponents with a huge size advantage—even one-on-one, I’d lose full strength. I can barely move my neck now.

“Stop resisting!”

“S-someone…”

“Calling for help’s useless. No one can hear from the next room.”

That’s the least helpful info right now.

“Relax, Rikkun. Whatever happens, we won’t resist.”

“Yeah, don’t worry! We’ll never say ‘take responsibility’ or anything!”

“Nothing about this is reassuring!!”

Wait, that’s backward. Why’re the ones restraining me saying that?

“Ugh, Rikkun, you’re so cute… I could just eat you up.”

“S-stop, seriously.”

Onee-chan—different from when she’s shooting or drunk, maybe flushed from the bath—licked my neck. The ticklish discomfort gave me goosebumps.

“Umi-san, no monopolizing!”

“Oh, right, right.”

“I belong to myself, you know!?”

“Wrong!”

“Nope!”

“Why!?”

“For now, you’re mine and Hiyori-san’s.”

“Don’t transfer my human rights without consent!”

“So, Rikkun, don’t hold back, okay?”

“Yeah, no need to hold back. You can do whatever you want with us!”

“I’m not holding back, I’m flat-out refusing!!”

Without me knowing, they’d agreed on something, eyeing me like carnivores.

“For now, we’re—”

““Your personal big sisters.””

Being toyed with by these people who do whatever they want,

—I hate myself for not entirely hating it.