The day was already a mistake.
Momo had known it the second she stepped through the gates of Higan Academy. The sun was too bright, the air too clean, and every single adult within a fifty-meter radius seemed to have a sixth sense for her.
“Chikata-san, where have you been these past two weeks?”
“Chikata-san, we’ve discussed the uniform issue.”
“Chikata-san, you still haven’t turned in your makeup assignments.”
Every few steps, someone new popped up: teachers, hall monitors, even that one first-year from the disciplinary committee who had way too much courage for his own good.
The back of the school was quiet, the kind of quiet that only existed during class hours, when the whole world seemed to forget there were corners like this.
The air smelled faintly of dirt and freshly cut grass.
A few crows perched along the fence, eyeing the lone figure squatting by the wall with bored curiosity.
Momo sat there, elbows on her knees, chin in her hands, staring at nothing in particular.
“Peace at last,” she muttered. “No teachers, no Madoka, no—”
Something moved above her.
A small whip-whip-whip sound.
Then fwip! a book descended right in front of her face, swaying gently in the air.
She blinked. Once. Twice.
It was a textbook.
Tied to a fishing line.
“What the hell—?”
“Hey!” came a familiar voice from above. “That one’s math. You’ve been slacking on it, right?”
Momo looked up.
There, sticking halfway out of a second-floor window, was Shu Jinkō, student council president, hero, nuisance, heroic nuisance and apparent part-time fisherman. He was holding a fishing rod which he had used to lower the textbook.
“What,” Momo said flatly, “are you doing.”
“Helping you study,” Shu said, as if this was the most natural thing in the world. “You’ve been skipping class a lot, so I figured I’d bring the class to you!”
Momo looked back down at the open book dangling in front of her face, pages flapping lightly in the wind.
She stared at it.
Then at the line.
Then up again.
“You’re outta your damn mind.”
Before she could even stand up, another line dropped.
Fwip.
Another book, this one a notebook full of class notes, dangled beside the first.
“Oh, right,” Shu said cheerfully. “Almost forgot the notes! You’ll need those.”
She looked up again.
He now held up two fishing rods proudly.
For a few seconds, Momo could only stare. Her brain tried — tried — to process what she was seeing, but there were no coherent words for it.
Finally, she stood up, reached for both lines, and gave them a sharp yank.
Shu’s eyes widened a split second before he disappeared from the window with a startled yelp.
A thud and a muffled “I’m fine!” followed almost immediately.
Momo dusted off her skirt, completely unfazed, and started walking off.
“Don’t get on my case, Shujinko,” she muttered without looking back. “Just focus on hitting the books yourself.”
From behind her, Shu groaned, still lying in the grass, surrounded by open textbooks. “Technically… that’s what I just did…”
She didn’t even turn around, just waved a dismissive hand over her shoulder as she left.
The sun was brutal by the time Momo made it halfway across the courtyard.
Her patience—already hanging by a thread—finally gave up the ghost.
Every time she tried to cross the damn campus, someone stopped her.
Teachers, hall monitors, nosy staff.
“Chikata-san, are you attending class today?”
“Chikata-san, your attendance record—”
“Chikata-san, the counselor would like to have a word—”
If she heard her name one more time, she was going to start throwing desks.
“I’m leaving, alright?!” she barked over her shoulder, not waiting to see who had called this time.
They flinched. She didn’t care.
She marched toward the gate, muttering curses under her breath.
But halfway there, just her luck, she spotted a flash of blonde hair in the distance.
Madoka Onguuchi.
The radiant, insufferably sociable dojo princess herself, chatting with a group of underclassmen.
Momo froze mid-step, grimacing.
And her friend.
Of course she’s here. Just my damn luck.
If Madoka saw her, it’d be over.
She’d flash that bright smile, say something about “responsibility” or “potential,” and somehow rope her into staying the whole day.
Not happening.
Momo scanned the courtyard for an escape route. No luck, open field, watchful teachers, and one overachieving student council PR manager right in her path.
Then—salvation.
The throaty vrrrmmm of a motorcycle.
A figure rolled to a stop at the curb: a tall guy in a cheap leather jacket, slicked-back hair, sunglasses, and a black face mask. A long scar ran down his cheek like a villain from a cheap drama.
He kicked the stand down and turned toward her, voice gravelly.
“Yo, boss. Need a hand gettin’ outta here?”
Momo blinked.
Boss?
She didn’t recognize him, but she also knew the worst that could happen is her having to beat down a random thug.
And right now—trapped between teachers and Madoka—she didn’t have time to question her choice.
“...Yeah,” she said, hopping on behind him without hesitation. “Floor it.”
He grunted affirmatively, revving the engine. The bike roared, and they shot off down the street, leaving behind a cloud of dust, confused teachers, and the torture of education.
Momo’s long black hair whipped behind her, her long skirt snapping in the wind. For a second, she almost smiled. Freedom, speed, the city rushing past—yeah, this was her kind of school day.
Until she noticed something.
The “scar” on the man’s face looked weird up close.
She leaned forward, squinting. “…Wait..."
The man tensed slightly. “Eh?”
"Is that marker?”
“…Hold up.”
The man sighed and tugged his mask down.
Underneath was the grinning face of Shu Jinkō.
“Yo,” he said cheerfully, his voice now his own. “Nice day for a joyride, huh?”
Momo just stared. “…You’ve gotta be kidding me.”
“Since you were so eager to skip class,” Shu said, smiling like a man who’d just solved world peace, “I figured I’d tag along. Gotta see what all the hype’s about.”
She was too stunned to even yell at first. Then it hit her.
“ARE YOU INSANE!?” she shouted over the wind. “You’re the Student Council President! You’re supposed to stop people from skipping!”
“I’m conducting field research,” Shu replied smoothly.
“That doesn’t even mean anything!”
“It does if you believe it.”
“THAT’S NOT HOW THAT WORKS!”
She smacked his shoulder, he just laughed.
Her eyes narrowed. “Where did you get this thing?”
He hesitated, just for a moment. “...Borrowed it.”
“Borrowed from who?”
At that exact moment, back at the Nejima Flower Shop, Kenta, Takaishi’s (former) delinquent cousin, was standing in the garage, holding his helmet, staring at an empty parking spot where his beloved motorcycle used to be.
“…Yo,” he called out, voice flat. “Anybody seen my bike?”
The ride had been—up until that exact second—surprisingly smooth.
Momo had almost started to think that maybe, just maybe, the idiot actually knew what he was doing.
The wind whipped past them as they sped down the narrow backstreets of Kageoka, her long skirt snapping behind like a black flag of defiance. Shu was laughing, actually laughing, like a kid who’d just gotten away with something.
Then Momo leaned close enough to yell over the roar of the engine:
“Hey, Shujinko—do you even know how to drive this thing?”
Shu turned his head slightly.
“Ah, actually, no.”
Momo’s blood ran cold. “WHAT—”
The rest came in a blur.
The bike jolted as it hit a pothole, wobbled once, twice, and then the world spun.
Metal screeched against asphalt, sparks flying.
They slid sideways, then forward, and somehow—miraculously—Shu managed to twist them into the soft dirt by the roadside instead of into traffic.
The motorcycle landed with a thud.
Momo landed on her side, her long hair and bow full of dust.
Shu was sitting a few feet away, cross-legged like a meditating monk.
“…You absolute moron,” she hissed, clutching her aching shoulder. “What the hell do you think you’re doing!?”
Shu tilted his head. “Trying to reform one of Higan's most notorious delinquents.”
She stared. “By crashing a motorcycle!?”
“Well, the thing is,” he said, dusting himself off, “Madoka was busy today, so I figured I’d take it upon myself to reel you in. You've got a lot of work pending!”
Momo blinked at him, jaw slack. “Reel me in? You just launched me into a ditch!”
Shu thought for a second, then nodded, perfectly serious. “Reeling can be messy.”
She groaned, dragging a hand down her face. “I swear, you’re worse than Madoka. At least she just nags.”
He stood up, offering her a hand. “But you came out here to skip class. I just thought you might want company.”
“Company!?”
“Yeah. Think of it as team bonding. Student-council-slash-delinquent relations.”
She batted his hand away but got up anyway, brushing off her skirt.
The motorcycle lay steaming beside them, its front wheel bent and the handlebar crooked.
They ditched the wrecked motorcycle by the roadside, Shu giving it a friendly pat like a fallen comrade, and started walking.
Momo shoved her hands deep into her skirt pockets, head down, fully intent on continuing her original plan: skip school, find a quiet place to brood, and maybe punch something. Anything.
But she had a problem.
That problem was walking half a step behind her, talking nonstop.
“—so then I tried to make pancakes in Home EC, right? But I mixed up the flour with plaster mix because Ran was repairing the council room wall, and—get this—it still looked edible.”
“Shut up,” Momo muttered.
He didn’t.
“—and Takaishi’s been growing these tiny purple flowers in the gardening club. I told him we should plant them around the gym because it really matches the colors of some sports uniforms we have—”
“Shujinko.”
“—but then she heard me say that and chased me with a broom, so I had to—”
“SHUJINKO.”
He blinked at her, all cheerful confusion. “Yeah?”
“Why are you still here?” she snapped. “You got your daily quota of being a dumbass already. Go back to school.”
Shu looked genuinely baffled, like she’d asked why gravity existed. “What, and leave you unsupervised? You’d just get into more trouble.”
“I am trouble,” she said flatly.
“Hey,” he said. "Is that the right way to talk to someone who prevented your suspension?”
Momo groaned and started walking faster. He kept pace without missing a beat.
“Man, it’s nice out today,” Shu said, looking up at the clouds like they’d been personally crafted for him. “You know, it’s kinda peaceful when you don’t have ten people asking about council paperwork.”
“If you had that much work then why the hell didn’t you stay there?”
“Hey, that goes for you too. Also, because then I wouldn’t get to hang out with you.”
That caught her off guard just long enough for him to grin wider.
She gave him a sidelong glare. “You’re saying that like it’s supposed to make me happy.”
“Hey, you’re interesting company,” he said, shrugging. “Way more honest than the people who pretend they’re not angry at me half the time.”
“Yeah, well, I am angry at you.”
“See? Refreshing.”
Momo stopped walking for a second, staring at him. “Do you enjoy getting yelled at?”
“Depends on who’s yelling.”
She rubbed her temple. “Unbelievable…”
The park was quiet in that mid-day way that made everything feel weird.
No kids on the swings, no old folks feeding pigeons, just the hum of cicadas and the low churn of wind through the trees.
Momo kicked at a pebble and watched it skip across the cracked path.
Her eyes caught the faded red of a vending machine tucked by the restroom wall. She could almost taste the cold canned drink just looking at it — and then reality set in. She slapped her pockets. Empty.
Of course.
Behind her, Shu let out a little whistle. “Well, look at that. Lucky me.”
She turned. He was crouched by the sidewalk, holding up a few coins like they were treasure.
“Found change,” he said brightly. “A whole drink’s worth.”
“Good for you, Shujinkō,” she said dryly.
He stepped up to the machine, reading the labels like he was making a life-or-death decision. “Mm. Hear me out — I could treat you.”
Momo arched an eyebrow. “Treat me?”
“Yeah. One condition.” He inserted the coins, the machine clunking to life. “You come back to school and actually give the homework a try.”
She scoffed. “What do I look like, a charity case? Keep your bribe.”
He looked over his shoulder with that infuriating grin of his. “I didn’t say it was a bribe. Think of it as… incentive.”
“The only thing you’re incentiving is me to beat you up.”
“Aw, c’mon, Momo. You might even like it. Math’s not so bad once you stop treating it like an enemy gang.”
She shot him a glare that could’ve cracked glass. “Shujinkō, you realize I’ve fought actual gangs that were easier to deal with than quadratic equations.”
“Then you’ve already got the spirit of it!” he said, pressing a button. A can thunked into the tray. He pulled it out and tossed it to her. “There. Take it.”
She caught it automatically, blinking. “I said I didn’t want—”
“Too late. I paid for it with fate’s money, so you can’t refuse. Bad luck otherwise.”
She tossed the drink back to him. "Can't get much worse than this."
And left to find her own way to deal with the heat.
The shade under the big camphor tree was perfect, cool, dappled, quiet. Momo slid down its trunk until she was sitting in the dirt, arms draped over her knees, glaring up through the branches at the shimmering sky. The can in the vending machine could rot for all she cared. She’d take the breeze over sugar water any day.
She let out a long sigh, eyelids fluttering halfway shut.
Then the sound came again, that whirring noise.
She cracked one eye open just in time to see the spine of a school textbook slowly descending into view, bobbing in front of her face at the end of a fishing line.
Her jaw clenched. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
She followed the line up.
There, crouched on a low branch like some smug jungle spirit, was Shu, grinning down at her, another fishing rod in hand.
“Figured since you don't want to go back,” he said cheerfully, “I’d bring the class to you.”
The vein in her temple twitched.
“One more word,” she said evenly, “and I swear—”
He blinked, innocently, “—you’ll thank me later?”
That was it.
Just like before, she yanked the fishing like, bringing Shu down, and then, mid fall, she delivered one precise, perfectly-aimed punch.
CRACK.
Momo stood over him, shaking out her fist. “Should’ve stuck to fishing for compliments, dumbass. And just were are you getting all these fishing rods from...?”
When he didn’t move, she crouched down, poked his cheek once. No response. Still breathing, though, she could see the idiot’s chest rise and fall. Good. That meant she could have some fun.
Ten minutes later, Shu Jinkō, the Student Council President, Hero of Higan, was buried up to his neck in the sandpit.
Momo patted the last mound of sand flat, satisfied. “There. Perfect.”
She had fished a marker from his bag, uncapped it, and crouched down again. A few quick strokes. Circles around his eyes. Whiskers on his cheeks. A cat nose.
A small clink drew her attention, his dropped drink can, lying on its side by the swing set. She picked it up, turning it in her hand. The liquid inside sloshed; it was some weird blue flavor, probably the kind of thing only Shu would drink on purpose.
She looked at him again, half-buried, face doodled, faint breeze ruffling his hair, and a small, traitorous laugh slipped out before she could stop it.
The world came back to Shu in fragments.
Heat, sand itching against his neck, the faint hum of cicadas, and the smell of cheap blue soda.
“...Ow,” he muttered, blinking grit from his eyes. He tried to move, but his body wouldn’t budge. Just his head. He looked down, or as much as he could, and saw the sand mounded up to his shoulders.
“What the…?” He sniffed, frowned, then made a face. “Ugh. Sticky. Oh, come on, this is soda, isn’t it?”
Somewhere behind him, Momo’s footsteps crunched on gravel. He turned his head as far as the sand allowed. She was already halfway across the park, hands in her skirt pockets, not even glancing back.
“Momo? Momo!” he called. “Okay, very funny. You win! I’ll stop bothering you—just, you know, maybe dig me out before—”
He froze.
A soft whuff sounded to his left.
Turning his eyes, he found himself staring straight into the curious gaze of a scrappy brown mutt. The dog tilted its head, sniffed once, then stepped closer, tail wagging lazily.
“Oh. Hey there, buddy,” Shu said carefully, forcing a nervous grin. “You, uh… you don’t wanna do what I think you’re about to do, right?”
The dog sniffed his hair. Then circled once, positioning itself beside him.
“Momo,” Shu said, voice rising an octave. “Momo, please tell me you still care about basic human decency.”
No response. Just the lazy rhythm of her boots crunching farther away.
The dog lifted its leg.
“NONONONO—!” Shu squeezed his eyes shut, sputtering. “MOMO! YOU’RE GONNA LET ME DIE LIKE THIS?!”
Still nothing.
She didn’t even slow down, one hand lifting in a lazy wave behind her back without so much as a glance.
The dog, content and entirely without mercy, claimed its new territory.
Shu made a strangled noise somewhere between a scream and a sob.
Momo smirked faintly without looking back, muttering just loud enough for herself, “Serves you right, idiot.”
Momo kicked at the curb until the faint roar of engines rolled through the afternoon heat.
The sound felt like a challenge to her ears.
She looked up from under her fringe and saw them, maybe a dozen, maybe more, old bikes with chrome gleaming in the sun, patches on the backs of their jackets, faces hidden by bandanas and cheap sunglasses.
The whole block rattled as they coasted down the slope, circling lazily like sharks that had sniffed out blood.
Momo sighed through her nose, stretching her shoulders.
“...Of course.”
She’d been simmering all day, staff nagging her, Madoka’s voice echoing in her skull from all the times she actually convinced her to stay at school for the day, and then Shujinkō, the human disaster, managing to turn her truancy into a clown show.
The tension needed somewhere to go.
And now, as if on cue, the universe had delivered an outlet wrapped in leather and followed by exhaust fumes.
The lead biker cut the engine first, boots scraping the asphalt as he stopped in front of her.
He had the look, pompadour trying too hard, cigarette dangling from his lips, the smell of gasoline overwhelming everything except the ego, evident in how he carried himself.
“Well, what do we have here?” he drawled, voice muffled around the smoke. “A little schoolgirl outta bounds, huh? You lost, sweetheart?”
Momo’s grin was slow and mean, the kind that didn’t reach her eyes.
“Nah. Right where I wanted to be.”
That earned a few snickers from the back. Someone wolf-whistled.
The leader smirked. “Feisty. Maybe we take her for a spin, boys?”
One of them revved his engine in approval.
Momo rolled her neck.
“Y’know,” she said, taking a few steps forward, “you punks picked the worst possible day to breathe near me.”
The leader scoffed. “Oh yeah? And what’re you gonna do, little miss sailor skirt—”
He didn’t finish.
Her kick hit his gut hard enough to lift him off the ground. The cigarette flew one way; his sunglasses the other. He folded over like an empty can and hit the pavement with a grunt.
The gang roared—half in anger, half in disbelief.
“Oh, hell no!" one of them shouted, charging.
She ducked, slammed an elbow into his ribs, and grabbed him by the collar as he bent double. His helmet cracked against her knee, and he dropped without ceremony.
Another one swung a chain. She caught it midair, twisted her wrist, and pulled. The guy came stumbling forward into a right hook that sent him sprawling across his own bike.
Engines sputtered and roared as the rest dismounted, circling her.
She was a blur of red and black. Fists against flesh, boots scraping asphalt, the clang of metal.
They swung pipes and chains, but she was faster, dodging, countering, driving her knuckles into jaw after jaw. Every hit felt like release; every crack of impact burned off the day’s irritation.
One biker managed to grab her sleeve. She spun, ripped the fabric free, and slammed his face into his own handlebars before flipping him onto the ground.
"Alright! Keep 'em coming!" She roared.
Almost half an hour had passed.
By now the street reeked of sweat, gas, and rusted blood.
Engines idled in a low, hungry grow.
Momo staggered a step back, her sneakers slipping in the grit. Her breathing was rough but steady, her stance was still sharp, even though the sleeves of her sailor uniform were shredded and one cheek dripped red.
Turns out, they had kept 'em coming.
The bikes ringed her in, a cage of steel and chrome. The broken bodies of the twenty she’d already flattened littered the surroundings, helmets cracked, jackets torn, curses leaking from busted lips.
“Damn… you crazy bitch," one wheezed from the ground.
Momo spat to the side, a smear of blood hitting the concrete. “You talk too much.”
Another biker revved his engine in response, the tire squealing like an animal. “She’s done,” someone said. “Can barely stand. Go on—finish the Fujiwara princess off. No one’s gonna come save her.”
That got a round of cruel laughter, engines blipping in rhythm with their mockery.
“Yeah!” another voice added, half drunk on bravado. “Chicks like you don’t get knights in shining armor. You don’t even get a funeral.”
Momo wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, eyes narrowing into slits.
“...The hell’s that supposed to mean?”
“She’s tough, but she’s still just a girl, and a stupid one at that,” a third voice said from somewhere behind the roar. "What kind of gang leader just wanders around without her gang?"
The laughter got louder.
For a heartbeat, everything inside her went still.
Then the corner of her mouth twitched.
“Oh, I see…”
She straightened up, cracked her neck once, and the air seemed to tighten around her. “So what you’re saying is—” she crouched low, her hair falling across her eyes, “—I’m a damsel in distress when I'm by myself?”
The closest biker smirked. “That’s right, sweetheart—”
She was on him before he finished.
A flash of movement. Her fist slammed into his throat, her heel into his knee. He dropped like a stone.
“—Then I guess I’ll save my damn self!”
Another swing, she caught a pipe, twisted it free, and drove the blunt end into a stomach. Another kick sent a helmet spinning into a wall.
“Chicks like me,” she shouted, voice raw, “don’t wait for heroes!”
The next one lunged. She ducked under the swing, planted her fist in his gut, and when he folded, she uppercut him so hard his visor flew off.
“Chicks like me don’t pray!”
Someone tried to grab her hair—she turned, headbutted him square in the nose, and stomped on his foot hard enough to break it.
“Chicks like me—” she snarled, spinning the stolen pipe in her hands like a staff, “—make their own miracles!”
She tore through five more before the mob even registered what was happening. A blur of fists, knees, and fury. Her movements weren’t clean anymore but they hit like she was a demon.
By the time she stopped to catch her breath, the count had gone up again. Twenty-five down.
And she was still standing.
Her knuckles were split, her uniform soaked crimson.
She spat out another mouthful of blood, glared at the fifty-something still circling her, and growled,
“Alright. Who’s next?”
Momo could feel her pulse hammering through every bruise.
Her skin felt feverish, her heartbeat rattling in her ears like a war drum. The world had narrowed down to the circle of engines and faces around her—fifty-something bikes, all growling, all waiting for her to finally fall.
Her vision swam, every breath dragging fire through her chest. Maybe this was it, she thought distantly. Twenty five. Not bad.
Then a voice cut across the din.
“That’s what I call maximum effort!”
Every head turned upward.
Momo’s stomach dropped. “…Oh, god. No. No, no, no, not now.”
Up on the roofline, backlit by the haze of the setting sun, stood a young man, hands on his hips, jacket flapping in the wind like it was a cape.
He looked like he’d fallen straight out of a fever dream.
The last streaks of light from the bikes swept over him as he jumped down from the building, landing in a half-crouch that somehow managed to be both heroic and completely stupid.
The bikers looked at each other, blinking.
The floodlights and headlights from the bikes caught his frame.
Momo pinched the bridge of her nose, muttering, “I should’ve buried him deeper.”
The bikers howled. “Oh man—what is that supposed to be?”
“You lost a bet, dude?”
“Paint yourself up for a kid’s show?”
“Who the hell’s this clown supposed to be?” one asked.
Shu smiled earnestly, oblivious, or maybe immune, to shame.
“I’m Doraemon,” he said, utterly straight-faced.
Because there he was:
Student Council President, local hero, savior of burning buildings, his face blue from the spilled soda, circles around his eyes, whiskers and a cat nose drawn in marker.
There was a beat of silence.
Then chaos.
The entire gang erupted, engines sputtering from the vibration of their laughter. Someone doubled over their handlebars wheezing, another slapped his own helmet.
Even Momo couldn’t stop the disbelieving snort that escaped her.
Shu glanced over at her, still smiling, blue face glowing under the headlights. “You alright, Momo?”
“Do I look alright!?” she barked.
“You look like you could use a partner.” He grinned. “Lucky for you, Doraemon always has the right thing for the job.”
Momo sighed, exasperated. “You’re a damn idiot, Shujinkō.”
He winked at her. “Maybe, but this idiot has come to save you!”
The moment he said that she saw red.
Momo stomped right up to him, grabbed the front of his shirt, and—
SLAP!
The sound cracked across the empty lot like a gunshot.
Shu’s head snapped sideways, his grin frozen halfway between confusion and surprise.
Before he could even say anything—
SLAP!
Again. And again.
SLAP!
SLAP!
SLAP!
SLAP!
SLAP!
SLAP!
SLAP!
SLAP!
SLAP!
The bikers howled, doubling over their handlebars.
“Yo—she’s killing him!”
“Damn, Doraemon you gotta guard!”
Shu staggered back, both cheeks blazing red and swelling fast, eyes watering from the sheer speed of her fury. His lips wobbled into a weak smile. “O-okay—ow—communication received—ow—!”
“Idiot!” she shouted, hands still clenched. “Do you have any idea how much worse you’re making this!?”
“I was trying to help!”
“Help!? You painted-faced moron, you look like you escaped from a children’s mascot convention!”
That, of course, only made the laughter worse. Someone was literally banging on their bike seat, wheezing, “He looks more like Doraemon now!”
Shu blinked through the sting, cheeks swollen into perfect roundness, face blue and puffy and ridiculous.
Even Momo, furious as she was, couldn’t stop the brief, horrified snort that slipped out before she groaned and buried her face in her hand.
“Ugh… I hate this,” she muttered, half to herself.
“Fair,” Shu said through puffy lips. “But I think they’re about to—”
The engines roared all at once, the bikers had stopped laughing. The circle closed in, boots scraping the asphalt, pipes and chains gleaming under the headlights.
Momo took a fighting stance automatically, shoulders tense.
Shu, somehow still smiling, looked down—
—and blinked.
A hairline crack snaked across the rusted manhole cover beneath them, widening with each vibration from the bikes.
“Uh, Momo—”
“Not now!”
“...No, seriously, I think—”
CRRRACK.
Both their eyes dropped at once.
And then the street gave out.
The old cover split in half, and the two of them plunged straight down into the dark with a splash, the echo of Momo’s furious yell—
“SHUUU JINKŌŌŌŌ!!!”
—ringing off the sewer walls as the bikers stared in disbelief.
There was a long, awkward silence aboveground.
Then one of the bikers scratched his head and muttered,
“…Did Doraemon just use the Anywhere Door?”
Somewhere far below, a furious splash and a string of inventive curses could be heard.
By the time they dragged themselves out of the storm drain, both of them looked like they’d crawled straight out of the underworld.
Momo’s long black skirt was streaked brown, her red bow plastered to her hair, and Shu… Shu looked like he’d lost a wrestling match with a swamp monster.
“Disgusting,” she grumbled, shaking water from her sleeve. “Absolutely disgusting.”
“You’re welcome,” he said flatly, wringing out his shirt. “I cushioned your fall, by the way.”
She kicked him in the shin. “You cushioned nothing. You fell first.”
He winced, hopping a step back. “Ow! But you aren't gonna make me regret saving you.”
She aimed another kick, lighter this time.
They trudged through the empty backstreet, squelching with every step, passing dark windows and puddles. Momo kept muttering curses under her breath, kicking every loose can or stone in sight just to hear it clatter.
“Momo.”
She turned, still scowling. “What.”
He crossed his arms. “I’ve been looking the other way on your whole Fujiwara Senki thing. You wanna play the tough girl, fine. You fight thugs, you lead your gang, whatever. But I really hoped you’d at least care enough to try a little in class.”
Momo blinked, momentarily thrown off by the sharpness in his tone.
He continued, voice calm but firm: “You’ve got teachers bending over backward to keep you enrolled. Yae files reports for you. Madoka smooths things over. Hell, I spent two hours last week convincing the vice principal not to expel you.”
Her jaw clenched.
“So yeah,” Shu said, staring right at her, “I think it’s fair to say it sucks watching you treat all that effort like it doesn’t mean anything.”
For once, she didn’t have an instant comeback. Her fists were tight, her teeth grinding.
“…You done?” she muttered.
“Not really,” he said. “But I’ll shut up for now.”
He started walking again, water dripping from his ruined shirt, the faint blue stains on his cheeks still visible under the grime.
Momo watched him go for a few seconds, chest tight and unfamiliar.
Then she growled under her breath, caught up to him, and kicked him in the leg again, harder this time.
“Don’t lecture me, you idiot hero,” she snapped, storming ahead of him. “You don’t know anything.”
The argument started small, like most explosions do.
Just a spark.
“Yeah, I don’t get it,” Shu said, kicking a bit of gravel ahead of him. “Do you really find school that unfun? It’s not that bad, you know.”
Momo stopped dead, spun around, eyes sharp. “Unfun?” she echoed. “You think that’s what this is about? ‘Unfun’?”
He blinked, wary but stubborn. “I’m just saying, like it or not, school’s part of our lives. The people there are too.”
“Of course I hate it,” she snapped. “You think I enjoy sitting in those rooms, listening to people whisper about me like the way I do everything is wrong? Getting treated like I don’t belong?” She stepped closer, glare burning. “You wouldn’t understand, Shujinkō. You’re you. Everyone loves you. Everything just works out for you And I have far more important things to do that dealing with all that. You'r life is in Higan, mine is elsewhere.”
Shu’s expression hardened, rare for him. “Well, when you put it like that,” he said quietly, “of course I can’t understand you. By that metric, nobody can. No one else is you.”
“Then nobody’s got the right to decide how I should act!” she shot back, heat rising in her chest.
“That’s not what they’re trying to do,” Shu said, and his tone finally sharpened, cutting through the night. “They’re trying to help you, Momo. To get you to take care of yourself, and that includes the parts of your life you'd rather ignore.”
“By sticking their noses in my business?”
“By caring," he said. “You think they do all that because it’s fun? Because they’re bored?”
“Then they should stop pretending they know what’s best for me!”
“They don’t,” Shu said, and his voice dropped lower, steadier. “They just know you matter. That you’re part of their lives just like they’re part of yours.”
Momo froze, caught off guard by how direct he’d gotten.
He took a slow breath, meeting her eyes. “You’re right. Nobody can ever understand you completely. Even if I understand ninety-nine percent of you, that last one percent will still feel like infinity.”
“So no,” Shu went on, “I’ll never perfectly get you. But that’s not a reason to stop trying. It’s the reason to keep trying.”
The silence that followed was heavy. Only the sound of water dripping off their clothes.
Shu’s voice softened. “So until I get there, you're right, the only person who can fully understand you and take care of your life is you, I just… want you to take better care of your life. All of it.”
He smiled.
Momo stared at him, breath uneven. Her heart was pounding for all the wrong reasons.
“...You’re such a pain,” she muttered finally, looking away, her voice quiet. “You know that?”
“Yeah,” Shu said, still smiling. “But at least I’m a consistent pain.”
Momo exhaled through her nose, fighting the twitch at the corner of her mouth.
Shu’s expression flickered mid-talk, his eyes darted past Momo’s shoulder and froze.
He straightened a little, smile going thin.
“…Oh. Hello, officer.”
Momo didn’t even blink. She jabbed a finger at him without turning around.
“Oh no, not falling for that cop-out. Classic ‘look behind you,’ idiot hero move.”
“No, seriously—” Shu started.
“Uh-huh,” she said, smug, still staring him down. “What’s next, you gonna tell me there’s—”
Her hand, mid-gesture, met resistance. Something solid. Warm.
And then came a pained grunt.
Momo froze. Slowly, very slowly, she turned her head.
Her outstretched finger was pressing directly into the eye of a very real, very unimpressed police officer.
The man’s face twitched, one eye squeezed shut behind a furrowed brow. His jaw tightened as he exhaled through his nose like a kettle about to whistle.
“I,” he said evenly, “came to check out complaints of a disturbance in this area. Happy to see I was right.”
There was a pause, long, heavy, punctuated by the faint squelch of Shu’s wet shoes.
Then Shu coughed. “Ah. Well, officer, that’s—uh——”
Momo hissed, “Shut up!”
The officer’s other hand twitched toward the baton at his belt.
Momo and Shu exchanged a single glance, just one, and immediately came to the same conclusion.
“RUN!”
They bolted down the street, sneakers splashing through puddles, Shu laughing despite himself and Momo shouting every curse she knew.
“THIS IS YOUR FAULT!” she yelled over her shoulder.
“HEY, AT LEAST WE'LL DRY FASTER IF WE RUN!” Shu called back.
Behind them, the officer’s voice boomed: “STOP! POLICE!”
Momo glanced back once, seeing the beam of his flashlight cutting through the dark. She groaned, tugging Shu by the wrist as they rounded the corner, slipping on the wet pavement.
“You’re banned from talking ever again, Shujinkō!”
“Noted!” he shouted, laughing breathlessly.
“SHUT UP!”
They walked for a while, both still panting, shoes squishing with every step. The night had quieted down again, no sirens, no angry shouts, just the rhythm of their footsteps and the occasional hiss of tires from a distant street.
Momo’s bow had come undone, hanging by a thread. Shu’s blue-stained face was streaked with sewer grime and rain, his ridiculous marker whiskers half-smeared.
Together, they looked like a pair of runaway disasters.
“So,” Momo muttered, breaking the silence first, “Great job, hero. Ran away from the cops, crashed a bike, fell into a sewer. Productive night.”
“Hey, we technically we didn’t assault him,” Shu said, lifting a finger. “You just… gently violated his personal space.”
“Shujinkō,” she said flatly, “I poked his eye.”
He grinned. “A direct hit, even under pressure. That’s skill.”
She rolled her eyes but didn’t snap this time. The heat of the argument had simmered down to embers.
After a while, Shu glanced over. “Listen… if the issue’s everyone bothering you about school, I can do something about that.”
Momo gave him a sidelong look, skeptical. “You? What, gonna tell the teachers to quit nagging me?”
“Maybe.” He shrugged. “If I can ease off the pressure a bit, you’d have more breathing room. Then maybe you could actually focus.”
She snorted. “You’re seriously trying to bargain now?”
He smiled. “I prefer ‘negotiating.’”
Her expression didn’t change. “And what’s in it for you?”
“You do your part,” he said simply. “You start showing up. More often. And actually try.”
Momo kicked a pebble down the sidewalk. “You really think you can fix people like that?”
“I don’t need to fix anyone,” Shu said. “I just… want to make things a bit easier for them. That’s part of the job.”
“The job,” she repeated, dry as sandpaper.
“Yeah,” he said, with that casual brightness that somehow made it sound serious. “I am the student council president. Sometimes I should act like it.”
She scoffed, but a flicker of amusement tugged at her lips. “You’re out of your damn mind, you know that?”
“Possibly,” Shu said. “But if it works, you owe me.”
“Sure,” Momo said, smirking faintly. “I’ll bring flowers to your hospital bed after the beating I'll give you if there's ever a repeat of today.”
He laughed under his breath, eyes forward. “Deal.”
When they finally crossed the border into the Forbidden District, the air changed. The silence that usually hung there was gone.
Instead there was noise.
Engines. Voices. Sirens.
Both stopped at the end of the street.
The night flickered orange.
“…Huh,” Shu said.
“…You’ve gotta be kidding me,” Momo muttered.
Ahead of them, fire trucks crowded the road. Firefighters were scrambling around a building that was, unmistakably, Shu’s apartment—half the top floor already swallowed in flames. Water sprayed in thick white arcs, sizzling against the burning frame. The old walls crackled and spat embers into the air like sparks from a dying campfire.
Clusters of bystanders stood behind the police tape, curious, murmuring. A few of the district’s rare new residents had gathered in robes and slippers, half watching, half gossiping.
Shu and Momo stood there side by side, expressionless, taking it all in.
“…That’s your place, right?” Momo asked flatly.
“Uh-huh,” Shu said, equally flat.
“You leave the stove on or something?”
“No,” he said, pausing a beat. “…I think?”
Another burst of flame shot out one of the windows. A firefighter shouted for pressure on the second hose.
Neither of them moved.
The fire didn’t look normal.
The smoke didn’t billow, it rose, in slow, deliberate spirals that seemed to take form before breaking apart again. Faces, human faces, flickered in the haze: eyes stretched too wide, mouths opening in perfect silent screams before the heat distorted them back into grey.
The sound was worse. It wasn’t just the crackle and pop of wood, or the collapse of beams, but something low and guttural beneath it. Every shift of flame sounded like a cry. Every gust of smoke carried whispers that didn’t belong to the living.
The firefighters who arrived later would say the same thing, that for a second, they swore they heard voices under the roar. One man said he saw a hand in the window, reaching out, and then vanish when the glass burst. Nobody believed him, of course, but he went quiet after that.
Shu sighed, still watching his home burn down to the skeleton of black timber and glowing ash. “Man,” he muttered, “I just restocked the fridge.”
“Tragic,” Momo deadpanned. “Truly, a hero’s greatest loss.”
A firefighter rushed by shouting something about structural collapse. Momo crossed her arms.
“So where are you sleeping tonight, Doraemon?”
"I'll figure it out."