Five thousand Private Points—a number hanging over every Class D student's head like a cruel joke. For Karuizawa Kei, especially, those measly five thousand points were disappearing at a visible rate before the costs of basic survival, bringing an almost suffocating sense of oppression. For the first time, she truly understood what it meant to be poor. It wasn't just the disappointment of being unable to buy things she wanted; it was the panic of barely being able to maintain even the most basic appearance of respectability.
She had tried every method she could think of to get more points without crossing her own boundaries, and every attempt had felt like futilely throwing herself against a solid wall.
She had become so frugal it was almost painful. For several days in a row, she had chosen only the cheapest option in the cafeteria: the free Mountain Vegetable Set Meal, which had almost no seasoning at all. She swallowed it like sawdust, trying to scrape together every last point. But this near-masochistic thrift was nowhere near enough to cover the costs of maintaining her polished appearance, essential skincare products, and the cheap but presentable accessories she occasionally needed to replace—not to mention the potential threat lurking in the depths of her mind, one she couldn't bring herself to name, but might need points at any moment to "appease" or "silence." It was laughably inadequate.
She had even worked up the courage to set aside some of the pride she usually maintained within her social circle and make an extremely discreet, tentative plea for help to members who were more distant acquaintances and seemed to have a little more money to spare. She didn't dare ask to borrow money outright. Instead, she hinted at how tight her points were and how hard things had become, hoping they would offer help on their own. But most responded with helpless smiles that looked just as strained as hers, or brushed her off with a hint of distance and curiosity. "Yeah, it's really not much. I'm struggling too." At a time when everyone was worried about their own survival and resources were scarce, points were the most barefaced form of survival capital. Who would readily hand over something so vital to someone else? From their shifting eyes and polite excuses, Karuizawa understood that perfectly.
Deep down, a voice kept tempting her: Tell Hirata Yousuke the truth. Even if she didn't tell him everything, she could at least explain her financial troubles. Hirata was so gentle and kind; he would surely help her. The thought flickered like a candle in the darkness, offering a faint warmth and hope. But each time she nearly gathered the courage to go to him, the terrifying memory of that day in PE would return like an ice-tipped whip, lashing her nerves and instantly bringing her back to her senses. Shinohara had vaguely mentioned her "past," and Karuizawa had lost control, nearly exposing herself in front of everyone. The memory left her cold all over.
She couldn't imagine what she would say when Hirata looked at her with those clear eyes, always full of trust and concern, and gently asked, "Kei, why do you need so many points? Are you having some kind of trouble?" How could she weave a lie? Was she supposed to tell him she needed a large number of points to maintain a carefully constructed shell of confidence and strength, to make sure nobody looked too closely or uncovered her filthy, humiliating past, mired in the gutter? No! Absolutely not! Hirata was the refuge she had finally found in this new school, the only lifeline she had to a "normal," "popular" life, and living proof that she had escaped the shadows of her past. She couldn't risk losing all of that! Even the tiniest chance was enough to leave her so terrified she could hardly breathe.
The sense that there was no way forward and no way back sprouted from the darkest corners of her heart like countless cold, resilient vines. They wound tightly around her heart, squeezing harder and harder until it felt as if they might draw blood. She began lying awake night after night. Even when she forced herself to sleep, she was plagued by bizarre nightmares full of pursuit and exposure. Each morning, the person in the mirror looked pale, and even carefully applied, expensive concealer couldn't completely hide the exhaustion that seemed to seep from within. In an empty corner of a hallway or by the window of an unused classroom, all the light would vanish from her eyes, leaving them blank and frightened. Her slender fingers would unconsciously pick at the hem of her uniform skirt or the edge of a page over and over until her fingertips went white. Her secret exchanges with Shinohara Mami, the only thing maintaining their fragile balance, became more frequent—but also more repressed, filled with silent despair and pressure they put on each other.
Kushida Kikyo continued to act as a silent, loyal shadow, efficiently passing these minute observations along to Fūki Ran. Her reports were no longer simple lists of information. They now included more of her own observations and deductions, as though she, too, were immersed in this carefully arranged hunting game.
[Feng Qi, this afternoon I saw Karuizawa standing alone in front of the vending machine at the end of the hallway. She was there for a good five or six minutes, just staring at all the colorful drinks inside. Her finger hovered over the purchase buttons several times, but in the end she chose only the cheapest bottled water. After paying, she stood there with the bottle in hand, watching a few girls from Class B laughing and sharing a new flavor of juice. The look in her eyes... I can't describe it. It wasn't envy so much as something cold, with a hint of resentment and unwillingness. It gave me the creeps.]
[Also, after lunch today, I pretended to return a book to the Library and happened to see Kei and Shinohara hiding in the farthest corner of the philosophy shelves, whispering. I couldn't make out what they were saying, but Kei seemed really worked up. Her shoulders were shaking. She was keeping her voice low, but it sounded like she was holding back tears, and her expression was awful—twisted with a mix of anger and pleading. Shinohara looked helpless and troubled, waving her hands over and over as if she were refusing something.]
[Come to think of it, Feng Qi, have you noticed? Kei seems to have lost quite a bit of weight recently. That plaid skirt that used to fit her so well looks a little loose around the waist now. She used to care a lot about her looks and keeping her figure in shape. She'd never have let this happen before... Looks like this points crisis is wearing her down physically as well as mentally.]
[The thing that surprised me most happened today! After class, Hirata invited her to study together in the Library reading room this weekend. He said he'd found a few really good reference books. Guess what? Kei actually... she actually made an excuse to turn him down! She said she had other plans this weekend! My god, before, she would've said yes with a cheer and started picking out her clothes and makeup ages in advance! Is she now too afraid even to go on a date with Hirata? Is she really afraid of even the smallest expense that might come with a date, or... more afraid that Hirata will see through the signs of her breakdown when they're alone?]
These seemingly trivial scraps of information were, in fact, full of tension. In Fūki's mind, as precise as a machine, they were quickly sorted, analyzed, and pieced together into a clear, unnerving trajectory: Karuizawa Kei, the girl who tried to wrap herself in vanity and disguise, was sliding inexorably toward total collapse under pressure from within and without. Her finances were nearly exhausted, and her psychological defenses had been battered by unrelenting strain until they were riddled with holes and on the verge of giving way. Her relationship with Shinohara, the only person who knew her secret, was growing tense and strained under its heavy, dangerous weight. The most crucial sign was that she had begun instinctively avoiding Hirata Yousuke. That meant the effort and cost of keeping up appearances and "playing" the perfect girlfriend had exceeded what she could handle. At last, the fear in her heart had overwhelmed her longing for and dependence on his "protection."
Yet Fūki maintained a patience that was almost cruel. Like the most experienced hunter, he knew that prey struggled hardest when cornered, and that was when it was most likely to fall into a trap through a mistake in judgment. He knew it wasn't yet time to close the net. Karuizawa had been driven into a corner, and despair was surging over her like a tide, but perhaps a faint trace of her own stubbornness still lingered deep in her eyes—a fanciful hope that she might get through this by her own strength, or by some stroke of luck. He needed to wait, patiently, until even that last psychological defense, rooted in pride or wishful thinking, was crushed by the harshness of reality. He needed to wait until she clearly understood her own helplessness and insignificance, and completely abandoned every unrealistic fantasy. Then she would put on her finest performance.
He wasn't simply waiting passively. While Karuizawa struggled in despair, Fūki began making more precise moves through Kushida, his flexible pawn, within the complicated network of relationships among the girls. He had Kushida deliberately, but inconspicuously, drop vague hints about "special lending channels" during casual conversations with several girls present. The hints were presented as things she had "heard" or that "someone seemed to have managed through some method." They emphasized that the channels were "highly confidential" and required "appropriate payment or collateral." He didn't point directly to himself, and even deliberately obscured the source. He was merely laying down a vague background hum, fostering the idea that "there might still be some unconventional way out of this desperate situation." When Karuizawa was finally pushed to consider "special methods," the vague idea planted in advance would naturally surface in her mind. And in the end, at the "critical moment," Kushida would "casually," and with sympathy, guide her toward the only person who might offer "help"—Fūki Ran.
At the same time, he instructed Kushida to keep a close watch on Karuizawa while also looking for and gathering information about any exploitable weaknesses or leverage beyond her three-thousand-point debt and vague "past." Had she already made any small-scale deals that violated school rules or were otherwise disreputable because she was so desperately short on money? Or were there more specific, more damaging details about her sordid "past" that could strike a fatal blow? Such information would become the most valuable bargaining chips at the negotiating table.
The invisible hunting net was tightening, silently, slowly, and surely. Every strand was steeped in patience and calculation, laid along the routes the prey was most likely to take in escape. Fūki Ran surveyed every change on the board like a player standing apart from the game. He wasn't in a hurry to checkmate. Through a series of subtle moves and sustained psychological pressure, he gradually robbed his opponent of every chance to catch her breath and every hope of resistance, squeezed away all her choices, and ultimately forced her toward the path he had already laid out for her: the path of submission, which seemed to be her only way out.
He often stood by the only window in Dorm 129, his deep gaze seeming to pierce the thick concrete walls and heavy night, clearly seeing the girl named Karuizawa Kei in that particular room in the girls' Dormitory Building next door. He imagined her staring blankly at the glaring red low-balance notice on her terminal screen, tossing and turning because she feared the coming of tomorrow, and growing more haggard by the day as the demons inside her devoured her. He could almost feel her breathing growing more and more rapid and ragged, and hear her heartbeat, growing fainter with fear even as it grew faster.
The air was thick with the distinctive scent of prey nearing the edge of desperation, a mixture of sweat, tears, and despair.
The corner of Fūki's mouth lifted in a nearly imperceptible, coldly satisfied curve.
Soon.
The time was almost here.
(I'm going to add something that wasn't in the original and start making things up.)
Before you continue