“Sorry, Izumi… if it’s important, just message me on Line, okay?”
During lunch break, Minako apologized with a guilty smile before leaving with friends from another class for the student cafeteria.
Meanwhile, Sae, as usual, was breezy and casual, her tone no different from their everyday partings:
“Then I’ll head off first! If you’re feeling better, Izumi, just let me know!”
Does she still not get what’s going on right now…?
Nogami waved back, a faintly exasperated thought rising in her chest.
The “compensated dating” rumors had already begun spreading to those around her.
Unlike Harutaki —who’d been painted as a perverted scumbag for confessing to two girls in a row and groping someone’s chest—her own label as a “compensated dating girl” was several times heavier.
Society has plenty of “bad boys” and “bad girls.” And Harutaki’s looks scored high—
After all, isn’t being called a scumbag proof you have the kind of charm that attracts multiple people?
If someone ugly did the same thing, they wouldn’t be called a scumbag. They’d just be a creep, a molester.
But selling your body—enjo kōsai—draws contempt everywhere. And in a school where bullying is already rampant, being branded a “compensated dating girl” is basically the same as holding up a sign that says “I can’t fight back.” It’s an invitation for malice from all directions.
And not only the target herself, her friends and anyone close to her get dragged down, too.
Birds of a feather flock together.
People divide by class, by circle.
Just like the first-tier students perched atop the school’s caste pyramid would never mix with those at the very bottom, the “third-tier”—befriend an otaku, and you’re branded an otaku; hang around the popular kids, and you’re assumed to be one of them. And so, in most people’s eyes, what kind of person hangs out with a “compensated dating girl”?
Sae and Minako were precious to her. They weren’t “toys.” To keep the venom directed at her from spilling over onto them, Nogami had no choice but to distance herself until the storm passed.
“How about the yakisoba set today?”
“Yakisoba’s too greasy. Besides, I’m a meat-eater. Today’s the discounted pork cutlet day, of course I’m going for that.”
“Then remember to give me a piece, Harutaki. I’ll trade you some of my salad.”
“Miho, you’d better stay away from people who openly call themselves meat-eaters(aggressively assertive type).”
Watching Harutaki and Murai Ren as they walked past the classroom, Nogami’s fists clenched tight—
Why does he get to stroll around like nothing happened?
Why am I the one getting hounded by a pack of rabid dogs online?
Why am I the one forced to break off from my friends, while that gloomy creep—no different from that fat pig Tazaki, still got to hang out with his buddies…
Her stomach growled, breaking up her furious thoughts.
She wanted to see him fall to her level—wanted to see his expression when he was desperate, struggling like a drowning dog. As if only then she could finally breathe easier.
When had she become so petty?
Just like the “toys” she used to torment.
Finding comfort in imagining her tormentor’s misery. Feeling better only by comparing herself to someone worse off.
Has she really fallen so far? Become someone’s “toy” now?
If that was Harutaki’s plan, why wouldn’t he even look at her? Why act as if he didn’t care at all about the isolation, the stares, the ridicule she was drowning in?
As the victor, shouldn’t he be here now, looming over her as she lay in the mud, relentless, pushing her down, mocking her, watching her cry in despair?
If Harutaki wouldn’t do that, then how was she supposed to shift all of her resentment, her fury, her blame onto him without guilt?
Taking a deep breath, Nogami pulled her lunchbox from her bag, deciding to eat alone in an unused classroom.
Her appetite was shot, but starving would only hurt her. Any mistake would just delight the ones waiting for her to crack.
But as soon as she stepped out of the classroom door, four girls—almost like they’d planned it—split into two lines and brushed past on either side, suddenly quickening their steps to “accidentally” slam their shoulders into hers.
“Oh dear, so sorry. Didn’t see you there.”
The one with black hair streaked pink spoke first, her expression a smirk with zero apology in it.
“Huh? Isn’t this the famous Nogami-san?”
“She’s glaring at me. Scaryyy.”
The girl at the front shrank back, giggling, not even pretending to respect her anymore—forgetting how just one glance from Nogami used to make them tremble.
They surrounded her where she’d stumbled, but left a conspicuously wide gap so passing students could all see her humiliation.
A pack of opportunistic jackals…
She looked up at their jeering faces. Fury burned in her chest, but she clenched her teeth, showing nothing. Her eyes stayed calm.
For some reason, she remembered Harutaki’s face when he had stood before her, just as she was now—
What had he been thinking? What had he felt back then?
As someone who’d always been the bully, the aggressor, Nogami knew: the more anger or fear you showed, the more pleasure bullies got from it. The only way to rob them of that joy was to stay cold and quiet.
Even so, she was this close to punching someone.
“Tsk, tsk. Fancy lunch you’ve got there. If you’ve got good stuff, shouldn’t you share? Let us have a taste?”
The lunchbox had fallen from her arms during the collision. Its lid had slid open, revealing a colorful, luxurious spread.
But they weren’t waiting for her answer. The smirking girl shook her head and added:
“On second thought, never mind. Food bought with money from greasy old men during compensated dating? Even touching it makes me want to puke.”
“Can’t believe you can eat that stuff, Nogami-san. Amazing, really.”
Seeing Nogami’s stony silence, one of them—remembering her old reputation—felt a twinge of fear. But walking away now would look weak, so she just pushed her friends forward and muttered:
“C’mon, let’s go. What if we catch some weird disease off her…”
Even when they glanced back after walking away, all they saw was Nogami quietly gathering her lunchbox, not the furious outburst they’d hoped for.
If Nogami had turned her hand over then, they would’ve seen the palm flushed red, almost purple.
She’d been the bully all her life. She wasn’t used to this.
But if she lost control and lashed out, it would only excite the people waiting for her to slip up—
Unless she could strike one of them hard enough to make an example, scare the rest.
But the cruel truth was this: Nogami could no longer use the old methods that had always worked.
Because now she was the “toy” being crushed by the crowd.