Prologue

“Your reign of terror ends.” OP-kun sheathed his sword with theatrical finality, his cape fluttering in a wind that didn’t exist.

“Just because you killed me doesn’t mean it’s over!” God cried out, reaching with a trembling hand for one last attack—cut short as the screen exploded into a kaleidoscope of overpowered triumph and aggressively upbeat credits.

The hum of fluorescent lights buzzed overhead in the university’s anime club room, casting an oddly romantic glow on rows of beanbags, manga stacks, and half-eaten snacks. 6:45 PM: the sacred hour when classes had ended, conversations were weirdly philosophical, and everyone was either caffeinated or exhausted—sometimes both.

Allen crossed his arms, leaned back in a folding chair that squeaked suspiciously, and watched the credits roll with mild contempt. He didn’t blink. Didn't sigh. Just stared, silently judging the narrative sins unfolding on screen.

Next to him, Monica clutched a magical girl body pillow with enough affection to raise eyebrows. Her purple-streaked hair bounced as she sat upright—electric with excitement. “Isekai is peak fiction,” she declared, voice high and proud, slicing through the room’s stunned silence like a katana made of pure opinion. “OP-kun literally kills God in episode one! That’s next-level!”

Allen didn’t flinch, but his sigh was visible enough to earn a knowing groan from the club’s president, Liam, who slumped further into his chair like this debate might kill him before midterms did.

“‘Next-level’ awful,” Allen countered, gesturing so dramatically he nearly knocked over a bag of chips. “It’s a plot built on broken tropes duct-taped together by pure nonsense. An overpowered underdog surrounded by impossibly devoted women? It’s a wish-fulfillment fever dream wrapped in a glorified loot box.”

A few club members muttered in agreement. Others defended OP-kun as misunderstood brilliance. Monica just rolled her eyes and smirked—like this wasn’t their first war.

“Wish fulfillment isn’t a crime!” she retorted, hugging her pillow tighter. “It’s escapism. Not every story has to be your serious, award-chasing literary masterpiece about sad poets crying into their metaphors.”

Allen sat up straighter. His left eyebrow did a thing that only happened when he was about to monologue. “You want escapism? Fine. But give me one real struggle. One moment where the guy has to grow, not just level up. I’m tired of watching characters skip emotional development because they got a cheat code and a harem.”

The clubroom—now fully aware this was another legendary Allen and Monica sparring match—braced for impact. Someone started recording on their phone. Liam sighed, reached into his bag, and pulled out the emergency flask with all the weariness of a war veteran preparing for battle.

Around them, chairs shifted, whispered bets were placed, and someone casually suggested building a shrine to OP-kun. Yet despite the chaos, Allen and Monica saw only each other. Opposing forces, locked in eternal combat, debating anime tropes with the intensity of philosophers dissecting the universe.

And in that charged silence, lit only by flickering credits and fluorescent lights, everyone in the room knew the truth: Allen and Monica were arguing about anime—but they were really arguing about themselves.

“Sometimes people just want to enjoy seeing burning trash, Allen! That’s the point!” Monica fired back, eyes narrowed, voice brimming with playful challenge. “It’s escapism!”

Thus began their hundredth anime philosophy skirmish.

Two hours later, the clubroom had transformed into a battlefield of narrative critique and absurdity. The air buzzed with rhetorical combat—genre theory, character arcs, the ethics of harem tropes. Allen had just dropped a quote from 'Bam Ba Bam'. Monica countered with beach filler logic. It was war in high-definition.

“Someone pick the next anime,” groaned a club member buried in plushies.

“How many maid outfits can we justify with one female member?” another mused, already halfway through a glue gun tutorial.

Phones glowed. Ramen crumbs multiplied. Liam, president and long-suffering referee, had abandoned hope somewhere between Monica’s impassioned defense of power fantasy and Allen’s tangent about literary modernism. His head lolled against the desk. An empty sake bottle glinted nearby—his last surviving ally.

But Allen and Monica weren’t just arguing. They were sparring like seasoned rivals in a shōnen arc—every eye-roll a jab, every sarcastic sigh a parry. Their clubmates had long stopped trying to intervene. They weren’t watching a debate. They were watching two people orbiting each other so tightly that gravitational collapse was inevitable.

Then, from the far corner—the one perpetually cluttered with questionable snacks and legendary cosplay props—a voice emerged.

“ENOUGH.”

The tone was gravel over broken dreams.

Liam raised his face. His hair stuck out at odd angles, as if chaos had personally styled him. His gaze, bleary yet unyielding, scanned the room like a general surveying a battlefield. His soul had clearly left the building hours ago, but his will remained.

“The next person to utter a single word…” he growled, one hand rising with prophetic force, “wears the goddamn bunny girl costume until the club dissolves.”

A hush fell over the room.

Allen froze mid-gesture. Monica’s mouth hung open, the words “thematic depth” stuck midair. They turned to the coat rack. There it hung—ominous and fluffy. The bunny suit. Pink bows. Suspicious sparkle. Fluffy tail of doom.

No one moved.

Allen and Monica locked eyes. All sound ceased. The entire clubroom—phones, snacks, lights—seemed to pause, as if the anime gods themselves recognized this moment as sacred.

A new war had begun. Not one of words, but of willpower. The challenge was simple: remain silent. Speak, and suffer fluffy consequences.

Allen arched one brow. Monica matched it.

Somewhere, Graham started a timer.

And so began the silent, unspoken, ridiculously high-stakes duel that would define the club’s history.

Monica moved first—stealth, precision, and maximum petty intent. She pulled out her phone and typed with the intensity of someone crafting a diplomatic insult. Then she turned the glowing screen toward Allen.

“U mad, bro?”

Allen’s eye twitched. A full-bodied sigh brewed deep within his soul. He didn’t groan, but a low, frustrated growl escaped—just enough for Monica to grin like a victorious villain. He retaliated the only way a man with pride and proximity could: with one strategic toe nudge, he slid her favorite peach-flavored energy drink just out of reach.

Monica’s smile vanished. Her eyes narrowed. She mouthed something that unmistakably resembled: “You absolute tsundere.”

The silent standoff escalated like a filler arc gone rogue.

Allen, smirking, queued up the infamous “Nyan Nyan Paradise!” theme on his phone. Within seconds, the obnoxiously catchy chorus filled the room like a weaponized ringtone. Monica visibly struggled. Her lips curled. Her shoulders tensed. That song had a Pavlovian grip on her vocal cords and Allen knew it.

She countered with cold-blooded precision: casually reaching into his chip bag while he was distracted—and eating every last one. Not even the courtesy of a few survivors. Just crumbs and betrayal.

Graham checked the timer. The club whispered among themselves like sports commentators analyzing a duel. Someone passed popcorn.

Then came Monica’s trump card.

She reached into her bag and retrieved a laminated photo album—one Allen hadn’t seen in years. With cinematic slowness, she flipped it open and laid it on the table. There, beneath plastic glare, sat a snapshot of 8-year-old Allen in full Magical Girl Yumeko cosplay. Sailor uniform, glitter wand, and a look of pure, radiant childhood innocence.

The entire club gasped in reverence. A few bowed.

Allen froze.

Vein: throbbing. Pride: crumbling.

This was psychological warfare. But Allen had one final gambit.

From his own bag, he pulled out a fresh, pristine copy of Probability’s Pawn—Volume 9. The coveted release Monica had been counting down to for months. He held it up, flipped through the pages… slowly… seductively… heading toward the final chapter.

Monica cracked.

“Just… stop!” she whispered, barely audible but undeniably verbal.

Allen’s grin exploded. “HAAA!” he crowed triumphantly, pumping both fists in the air. “Victory!”

But fate, dressed as drunken vengeance, struck back.

From under the table, a terrifyingly detailed oni mask emerged—slamming onto Liam’s face with shocking velocity. Without warning, Liam vaulted over the table like a thunder god fueled by ramen and rage. He landed between Allen and Monica and unleashed his signature move: The Iron Vice Grip of Accountability. Patent Pending.

Both of their heads were crushed in a two-handed noggie blitz.

“One hour and seventeen minutes,” Graham announced. “New personal record.”  

The club erupted in laughter.

Ten minutes later, Allen and Monica stood in the center of the room, stiff-backed and begrudgingly fluffy. Matching bunny girl costumes. Ears askew. Puffy tails bobbing. A handmade sign hung from Allen’s chest, scrawled in jagged marker: "BAKA."

He glared at Monica, mouthing pure fury: “This is all your fault.”

Monica simply smirked. She didn’t speak. She didn’t need to. Her silence was victorious. Her expression? Eternal smug.

Around them, the club cracked up, snapped pics, and memorialized the moment for the wall of shame. Allen and Monica stayed wordless, ridiculous, and undeniably… inseparable.

They were two sides of the same otaku coin. And no one—least of all themselves—could pretend they weren’t caught in something bigger than the argument.