Early in the school year, club activities are basically nonexistent.
Unless you're in some hardcore sports club gunning for nationals, most clubs take it easy.
I'm technically part of the student council, but as a lowly secretary, I'm no help with the president's current obsession—a sister school exchange with Russia. So, I bolted for home.
It's 4 p.m. Ichijo Academy, smack in Tokyo's fancy Minato Ward, is just a few subway stops from the bustling city center. The station in front of school is always packed.
I live in Setagaya Ward, on the city's outskirts, about a 30-minute subway ride away.
When I first enrolled, the tangled subway lines had me lost, but now? I'm a pro.
Dodging the rush-hour crowd like a seasoned ninja, I swiped my Suica card at the gate.
Beep!
I checked the platform's digital board. Next train? Ten minutes out.
Plenty of time. I scanned for a spot to chill and spotted a vending machine.
Throat dry, I headed over to grab a drink, but someone tugged my collar from behind.
"Hey…"
I turned, and my heart stopped like I'd been hit by a rom-com plot twist.
It was Kishimoto Rika, the new transfer student in Class 2-B, looking at me with a hesitant expression.
"Kim-kun, right? Can I ask you something?"
When Rika introduced herself this morning—"I'm Kishimoto Rika! From Shizuoka!"—I should've seen this coming.
A girl fresh from Shizuoka, dropped into Tokyo's subway hell? No way she'd navigate that maze.
Even locals struggle with Tokyo's subway map, a mess of lines like tree roots.
Of course she'd need to ask someone for help. Problem is, that someone's me.
"How'd you know my name?" I asked, trying to keep my cool despite the chaos in my brain.
Rika tilted her head. "It's on your name tag."
Oh. Right. I scratched my neck, embarrassed by my dumb question.
She didn't seem to care, plowing ahead with her trademark confidence. "Anyway, can I ask you something?"
"What's up?"
"I'm trying to get home, but the subway lines are so confusing."
She showed me her pink smartphone, displaying her address and the station she needed: Seijo, in Setagaya Ward.
Seijo's a ritzy area, even by Tokyo's pricey standards. It's only two stops from my station, Chitose-Funabashi.
"That's near my place. Just take the same train as me," I said.
"Really? Yes! Asking you was the best idea!" Rika cheered, throwing her arms up in a cute victory pose.
Anyone else doing that might've been cringey, but on a blonde bombshell like Rika? It worked.
We'd just met, so conversation topics were scarce. The vibe got awkward fast.
To break the ice, I tapped the vending machine. "Want a drink? My treat."
"Seriously?" Rika's eyes lit up. She didn't refuse.
Clunk!
I pressed the glowing red button, and two cans dropped out: cider for me, cola for her.
Rika popped her cola open and chugged it, one hand on her hip like a cowboy. "Ahh! That's the stuff!"
Her over-the-top reaction made me curious. I sipped my cider and asked, "They don't let you have cola at home?"
"Nah, it's not that. I avoid it for self-care," she said.
"Self-care?"
"Yup. Back in Shizuoka, I was a reader model for a fashion magazine."
She proudly flashed a V-sign under her chin and showed me her phone's photo gallery.
Sure enough, there she was, striking model poses in various outfits.
I glanced between the photos and the real Rika. Same features, same hair, but something was off.
The photos had an artificial vibe, like she was airbrushed to perfection.
"Makeup magic?" I teased.
"Hey! Rude!" she huffed, playfully smacking my chest.
Her hand bounced off my rock-hard pecs, and she winced, pouting like she'd hurt herself.
"Sorry," I said, handing her phone back. I crushed my empty cider can with one hand, flattening it like a pancake.
Rika's eyes widened. "Your hand's a freaking press?!"
She handed me her empty cola can, begging for an encore. I crushed it just as cleanly and tossed both into the recycling bin.
I'd pegged her as too cool for me, but chatting with her was surprisingly easy.
Maybe it's her bubbly personality or her generous reactions to my lame comments.
Five minutes of small talk later, the train pulled in.
The doors opened, and a flood of people poured out. We waited for the chaos to clear before boarding the Setagaya-bound train.
After a few transfers, Rika and I parted ways at Chitose-Funabashi Station.
She had two more stops to go. Waving from the train, she called, "Kim-kun! See you tomorrow!"
…Tomorrow too, huh?
Rika's a talker. The whole ride, she chirped like a baby bird, grilling me on everything—my parents, my address, favorite foods, how I got so jacked.
I probably talked more today than I have all year.
Exhausted, I didn't head home. Instead, I dragged myself to the gym near my place.
No matter how tired I am, I've gotta punch that daily gym card. It's my zen.
Yesterday was chest and biceps. Today? Legs.
The thought of shredding my muscles made me grin as I climbed the gym stairs.
Inside, a crew of hardcore muscle enthusiasts were sweating it out, pushing their limits.
They're my people, and I'm theirs. Watching them grind is instant motivation.
"Fitness clubs are the real clubs," I thought, closing the door and heading to the locker room.
Kishimoto Rika is a 17-year-old girl, half-British, born to a manga artist dad and a former cosplayer mom.
She lived in Shizuoka until February, when her dad moved his studio to Tokyo, dragging the family along.
Her mom, still cosplaying at nearly 40, was thrilled about hitting Comiket more often. Rika? Not so much. Leaving her hometown friends sucked.
Her first day at Ichijo Academy wasn't bad, though. She'd heard Tokyo kids could be cliquey, but her classmates seemed nice.
Well, except for that one guy in the back, radiating a lone-wolf vibe: Kim Yuseong.
He's a Zainichi Korean, according to her classmates. Rumors claim he fought off 50 bikers or got scouted by yakuza, but he didn't seem like a bad guy.
He's a model student in class, after all. Plus, her dad always said, "No one who loves Shonen Jump is a bad person."
She wanted to talk to him, but the class vibe screamed "stay away," so she dropped it.
After school, she headed to the subway station to go home and hit a wall.
Tokyo's subway map was a nightmare. She needed help, stat.
Scanning the crowd, she spotted a familiar hulking figure at the platform: Kim Yuseong.
It was perfect. A chance to talk to the guy who'd caught her eye and get subway help.
Clearing her throat, Rika grabbed his collar as he walked toward the vending machine.
"Hey…"
Yuseong turned, his intense gaze locking onto her.
In that moment, Rika realized: this guy looked like he'd stepped out of a shonen manga, her ideal type.