The comforting scent of nikujaga and simmering miso soup still lingered faintly in the air as Katsuragi Kokoro stepped out of the upstairs bathroom, drying his hands on a towel.
The second floor of the Katsuragi household was quiet, warm with soft lighting. Down the hall, the door to his younger sister Yui's room was cracked slightly, soft pop music drifting out. Past her room was his sanctuary.
Kokoro opened the door to his room and slipped inside.
Unlike his quiet, almost withdrawn school persona, his room was anything but plain. The walls were a soft grey-blue, his bookshelves lined with manga volumes and light novels stacked neatly by genre and author. Sleek action figurines of anime heroines stood proudly in their display boxes—some holding swords, others with mischievous winks and detailed outfits.
A large monitor sat on his desk, flanked by a high-end laptop and a professional-grade drawing tablet. Above the desk was a wide rectangular window, offering a peaceful view of the quiet residential neighborhood outside. The night sky was beginning to stretch its velvet curtain across the horizon, the last hues of orange melting into indigo. A gentle breeze rustled the curtains as he opened the window slightly.
The soft evening air carried the faint sounds of bicycles and distant voices.
To the right side of the room, now above a low dresser, hung a corkboard pinned with rough character sketches, plot notes, and outlines for his current manga project: a fantasy-action story about a masked rogue who secretly saves the kingdom while working as a librarian by day.
He sat in his chair, letting it swivel once before pulling himself toward the desk.
Click.
He opened his laptop and launched his writing software. A recent draft blinked back at him—a chapter from his ongoing web novel series titled "Chronicles of the Shadow Archivist."
Under a pen name, K.K. Raven, Kokoro had quietly built a modest but loyal fanbase online ever since middle school. Few knew the masked writer's true identity, and Kokoro liked it that way.
He leaned back and stretched, gazing at the blinking cursor.
"Maybe I should make the rogue trip on his cape again," he muttered to himself, chuckling softly. "Gotta keep him humble."
As his fingers danced across the keyboard, a thought crept into his mind: Kenta.
Earlier in class, Kenta Yamaguchi had casually started a conversation with him like they'd been seatmates for weeks. Kokoro didn't quite know how to react. His classmate was bright, cheerful, and talkative—the kind of person who could blend into any group with ease. But more than that… Kenta felt genuine.
He opened another tab and pulled up his story planning file. Scrolling down, he passed lists of characters, some new, some old.
His gaze paused on a note:
> Possible new side character – inspired by Kenta? Comedic, chaotic, but loyal friend?
Kokoro tilted his head, considering it. He glanced over at one of his figurines—an anime character striking a dynamic pose.
He then pulled out a sketchpad and began scribbling—a boy with spiky hair, throwing up a peace sign and grinning from ear to ear.
Kokoro smiled.
Maybe, just maybe, it was okay to let someone a little closer this time. Even if it was just enough to say: Yeah, I'm into drawing. I like stories too.
The soft hum of his monitor, the quiet rustle of papers, and the blinking cursor all kept him company into the evening.
And as the night deepened and stars blinked above Tokyo's suburban skyline, Kokoro Katsuragi—high schooler by day, rising manga artist and novelist by night—continued to write his world, one page at a time.
The glow of the screen had dimmed. His room now bathed in the soft silver light of the moon, Kokoro slowly closed the lid of his laptop and leaned back in his chair. A gentle nighttime breeze flowed through the open window, rustling the pages of a notebook nearby.
His fingers still tingled from all the typing he had done, and yet, his thoughts were louder than ever.
He tilted his head, staring up at the ceiling.
Today was… kind of insane, wasn't it?
From the moment he stepped onto the train and caught fleeting stares from curious students, to the overwhelming beauty of Sakura High School, to the extravagant entrance of Watanabe Mika—like a heroine out of a shoujo manga. The quiet tension of sitting in a new class, the buzz of introductions, the way Kojima Sayori brazenly announced herself like a tiny queen demanding her court's attention.
And then there was the chaos of lunch, the laughter of Kenta and his friends echoing in the hallway, Mika being called away by her elegant aunt, and even Fujimoto Riku scolding noisy girls like an old man pretending he wasn't softhearted.
Kubo. Rei. Sayori. Hanabusa. Even that green-haired senpai from earlier…
Everyone had felt like a character in something greater. Not just students—but cast members in a new chapter, each with their own energy, quirks, and voices.
Kokoro stood up and walked over to the window, resting his forearms on the windowsill. The faint hum of traffic from Tokyo in the distance mixed with the chirping of insects down their quiet suburban street.
It's like I was dropped right into the middle of a manga…
His lips curled into a quiet smile.
"And here I thought I'd just keep my head down and drift through high school."
He returned to his desk, flipping open a fresh page in his sketchbook. With a few strokes, he began drawing a classroom scene—an ordinary-looking boy gazing out the window as chaos unfolded behind him: a girl with sparkles surrounding her, another jumping around with a game console in hand, and two boys loudly laughing in the back.
Kokoro paused and added a small word bubble beside the boy: "Is it always going to be like this?"
Then beneath it, a narration box:
"And thus, the curtain rose on the unpredictable daily life of our quiet protagonist."
He chuckled to himself.
Maybe it really was the start of something.
Maybe, for once, he was the main character.
And as he placed his pen down and turned off the lights, a quiet sense of anticipation tugged at his chest. Tomorrow was waiting—with new pages, new chaos, and new chances to grow.
Just like the stories he'd loved for so long.