"This is exactly what I need!" Shirakawa Natsu ran his fingers over the glowing display, eyes fixed on the shifting lines and dots in the status bar that marked each of his failing organs.
To him, this wasn't just data—it was hope. The fragile hope of living.
He drew in a deep breath, trying to steady himself, and began to imagine the kind of person no one could refuse: a beautiful, cheerful older sister type, easy to get along with, generous in every sense.
His body had always been broken, his life cut short before it could even begin—but now he could see a sliver of possibility. Whether for love or for survival, he had no choice but to move forward.
At three in the afternoon, Miyabi Aoi arrived at the hospital, a cigarette dangling unlit from his lips.
"You're in a good mood today." Aoi shoved his hands into his pockets, walked up to the bed, and casually picked up the manuscript lying on the bedside cabinet. He flipped through it with the ease of someone who had done so countless times before. "Another hot-blooded theme? So where do you plan to cut it off this time?"
"I'm going to finish it, this time," Shirakawa Natsu replied, watching him.
Aoi was tall—just under 1.8 meters—with mid-length black hair that framed his sharp features. A brown leather jacket thrown over a T-shirt, dark jeans, and riding boots completed the look. He seemed less like a hospital visitor and more like he had just stepped off a fashion runway.
Aoi froze for just a second at Natsu's words, then quickly resumed flipping through the pages. "Well, at least this time you won't have your editor dropping to his knees begging for you to continue. You know, the complaint letters piled up so high they could fill a conference room. You've actually been voted one of the worst mangaka in history."
"But every time I open a new hole, people still read it while cursing me." Natsu smiled faintly. He never ended a series in the usual way—he always stopped right at the most intense moment, cutting it off like a tremor suddenly silenced. It drove his readers mad.
"It's ridiculous, but… somehow brilliant," Aoi admitted, pulling out a chair and sitting down lazily. He glanced around the room. "I honestly don't know how you come up with these ideas."
"Let's not talk about that today." Natsu gestured for seriousness. Once Aoi set down the manuscript, Natsu spoke firmly: "I've decided to pursue Hashimoto Arina. I need your help."
If he had the choice, he wouldn't announce something like this to anyone. But with his failing body, he couldn't move forward without support.
Aoi looked at him as though seeing him anew. "You're serious?"
"Do I look like I'm joking?" Natsu said flatly. "You're experienced with women. What advice do you have?"
Aoi fell silent for a while, his gaze sharp. "…It really has to be Hashimoto Arina? With your manuscript fees, you could afford almost any kind of woman you want."
"This isn't about the red-light district. It's love," Natsu said firmly, his lips pressed together. "Come on, give me something useful."
Aoi leaned back, thinking. Then, deadpan: "Only one possibility—I go after her first. Once we're dating, I introduce you. That way, it's like you're indirectly in contact with her."
Natsu studied him seriously. Aoi was handsome—he'd always known that—but he usually presented himself in a neutral, understated way. Now, sitting there in the afternoon light, his presence was striking.
His chest was unexpectedly full, too. At least a C-cup, Natsu thought absurdly.
Aoi noticed where his eyes had landed, and didn't bother to move. "Don't tell me you're actually considering it?"
"Of course not," Natsu shot back. Still… the thought crossed his mind that maybe letting his best friend do the hard part for him wasn't the worst idea.
"Forget it. It's impossible," Aoi said, his tone more serious now. "You're her patient. That's already a line most wouldn't cross. And you're, what—six years younger? At this stage, boys like you are naturally fascinated by mature older women. It's biology, not love."
He gave Natsu a long, level look. "But men… men always end up chasing youth and beauty. Don't confuse a passing fixation with something more."
Natsu's head spun. Deep down, he knew Aoi had a point. Arina Hashimoto wasn't just a hard target—she was probably the hardest target imaginable.
If only he'd chosen to input Aoi's photo instead—maybe then, for the sake of their bond as brothers, the "strategy" would have had a chance.
"Damn…" Natsu sighed softly. He knew he was indulging in a secret, hopeless fantasy. Still, his fingers moved almost automatically, uploading Hashimoto Arina's photo into the mysterious app.
Seeing his mood sink, Aoi didn't press further. He pulled something from his pocket and slid a small card onto the bedside table. "The hospital has contacts. They do house calls too, if you catch my drift."
"Get lost." Natsu waved him away. The conversation had been useless—he was no closer to an actual plan.
Aoi placed the cigarette back in his mouth, picked up the manuscript again, and stood. "Fine. Call me if you need anything."
After seeing him out, Natsu felt strangely at ease. He'd planted the seed. When the time came, Aoi would be there.
He opened the app again. Arina Hashimoto's favorability sat at 76 points. Extracting it now would only give him 76 favorability.
Each target could be extracted twice—one of those times had to be when favorability was maxed, otherwise it would be wasted. During the pursuit, however, he could cash in once for items.
But 76 was an awkward number. The hairstyle "Messy Golden Hair" offered a flat +10 to favorability with married men. Completely useless to him.
"Elegant Golden Hair" could boost Arina's affection by 10 points, but it cost 80—just out of reach.
Music and photography skills only cost 10 each, but would Arina's favorability really rise because he could sing or snap a picture? Unlikely.
There were also consumables—like the stamina potion. A practical lifesaver, but one-time use.
No. He couldn't afford to waste points. If he could complete the strategy on his own, he'd earn a full 100 points—and with that, he could exchange for what he wanted most: the Heart of the Minotaur.
A healthy heart. His dream.
Right now, his heart skipped and stuttered over ten times a day. If he got too emotional, sharp pain stabbed through his chest. Without a replacement, sudden death was always around the corner.
Time was running out.
His weakness was his greatest disadvantage—he couldn't even leave the hospital. He had to create chances to see Arina, carefully and patiently. In every story, the blonde rival always appeared when the heroine was at her lowest. That would be his moment.
He picked up his pen and tablet again. His past works—Death, Naruto, Saint Warrior—were all battle-heavy shounen epics. Arina had praised his skill, but she wasn't exactly thrilled by endless fight scenes. She never once pushed him for updates.
Clearly, those stories weren't her type.
If he wanted to connect with her, he had to draw something that spoke to her. Something that created a bridge between them.
He dug through his memories, weighing possibilities, and finally scrawled the title across the blank sheet: "The Moon Is So Beautiful."
A tender love story about junior high students—a pure, realistic coming-of-age drama. Something that could awaken the memory of everyone's first crush.
The youthful awkwardness, the small but sincere sacrifices between boy and girl—it would be delicate, intimate, and unmistakably human.
Of course, he wouldn't copy the plot entirely. He'd use it as reference, bending and shaping the story to his will. The heroine, though, would unmistakably carry Arina Hashimoto's shadow.
Under his pen, her image came alive—eighty percent Arina, but softened into the innocence of adolescence.
A girl who smiled with all the light of the world gathered in her eyes.
He had pictured her countless times before. Now, he was simply transferring those visions onto paper.
His art had soared since he crossed into this world. Not because of any "system" or cheat—no, his time was simply too short. His body, wrecked by illness, had left him without distractions. He poured himself entirely into his work, knowing that every day could be his last. That desperate intensity honed his skill sharper than any training could.
Natsu studied the finished sketch. The heroine was beautiful, pure… but there was still something off. A faint stiffness, a trace of imperfection.
He sighed, erasing part of the chest, redrawing the curve smaller. When he looked again, the girl had transformed into the very image of first love.
But to him, it felt like she had lost some of her soul.
"…I hope she likes it." He drew in a steadying breath. Despite the weakness weighing down his arms, he forced himself onward, sketching with renewed determination.
Like a pianist at the keys, his strokes flowed with rhythm, bringing to life a gentle symphony of youthful love.