Chapter 4: When Dreams Aren’t as Sweet as They Look

That morning, I woke up with a simple prayer: Please, let the campus be boring again.

No drama. No crying. No someone else’s father I had to restrain myself from punching. However, hope is often like a fake store discount—convincing from the outside, but empty once you get inside.

"Kengo-kun, you look exhausted," Kurumi said as we walked toward the cafeteria.

"Yeah. I couldn't sleep at all. My brain kept replaying yesterday's events like a broken cassette stuck on a single song."

Kurumi let out a small laugh. It was light, like a spring breeze that passes by and vanishes. "You’re actually quite funny."

Whatever. My life currently felt like a soap opera that forgot to air its final episode.

We made our way down the corridor. But just as we reached the cafeteria doors—the atmosphere shifted.

Shouts. Screams. The sound of running footsteps, like a flock of birds that had just spotted breadcrumbs.

"Kyaaa! Takeda-san!" "He’s still so handsome even when he’s not in front of the camera!" "Takeda! Over here!"

The cafeteria had transformed into an impromptu concert stage. In the center of the crowd stood a tall man. His long blonde hair was tied in a half-ponytail. His eyes were as blue as a summer sky. His face was too perfect. Too symmetrical. Like a 3D render that was far too high-quality to be a real human being.

Ikeo Takeda. Popular student. Professional model. The center of gravity for almost every female student on this campus. He offered a smile—one that was highly practiced. Precise. Calculated.

"Calm down, everyone. One by one," he said softly.

The girls exploded like popcorn in a microwave. Some nearly dropped their trays. Others just wanted to stand closer, as if his handsomeness were contagious within a one-meter radius.

I narrowed my eyes. Life must be easy for that guy. No need to confess his love. Never rejected. No need to contemplate the philosophy of true love.

Meanwhile, Kurumi watched him with genuine admiration. "He’s incredible, isn't he?" "Yeah." "Like a shoujo manga protagonist walking around with flower petals following him."

Kurumi giggled. "Are you jealous?" "No." I paused for a beat. "Well... maybe a little."

Kurumi looked at me. A thin smile appeared on her face—one that was difficult to read. "Do you like him too?" I asked casually. "N-no! I mean... he’s not my type. Besides... he definitely has a lot of girlfriends."

Her voice wavered slightly. Oh. So even a girl like Kurumi could get nervous in the presence of those expensive blue eyes.

My curiosity piqued. I pulled out my phone and searched his name. Campus articles immediately flooded the screen.

Ikeo Takeda. A name impossible to ignore. Professional model. His face was everywhere—fashion catalogs, digital ads, even giant billboards downtown. On campus, he was always surrounded. The rumors were endless. Girlfriends everywhere. His unofficial title: The Real-Life Harem Protagonist.

He never confirmed. He never denied. He always maintained his distance. However—I read the last line of the article.

"Despite appearing perfect on the outside... there is something in his eyes that makes people wonder: is everything truly as it seems?"

I swallowed hard. Suddenly—his gaze shifted to me. Like a stage spotlight choosing its next victim. Oh no. Don't come over here. Don't come over here.

Of course, he walked straight toward us. The crowd of girls followed behind him like planets caught in a sun's orbit.

"Are you Harumasa Kengo?" he asked politely. My heart jumped like an emergency notification. "Y-yeah... that’s me."

Whispers spread instantly. "Who is he?" "He knows Takeda-sama?" "He’s actually kind of handsome too..."

I felt like an extra who had been suddenly photoshopped into a blockbuster movie poster without permission. Takeda then turned to Kurumi.

"And you must be Kurumi Mitsuzu?" "Y-yes..." Kurumi looked uncomfortable. Her shoulders tensed.

A few hours later, the Heartbreak Society opened its doors. And today’s client—Ikeo Takeda.

Dammit. Why is my life like a gacha that only gives out weird prizes?

Takeda sat upright, like a man about to confess a mortal sin. "My name is Ikeo Takeda." "I know," I muttered. "Do you know what it feels like to walk five steps and hear 'Kyaaa! Takeda-san!' from three different directions?"

The room went silent. "Is that really Takeda?" "I've never seen him look this tired..."

Takeda pressed his hands together as if in prayer. "Hey. This isn't a church." "Kengo, you don't understand." His eyes were no longer sparkling like they had been in the cafeteria. "I’m exhausted."

That sentence fell like a heavy weight that had finally stopped pretending to be light. "I’m starting to regret having this dream."

I fell silent. For the first time, the most popular model on campus looked like a regular human being. "Why don't you change your modeling style?" I finally suggested. "Rebrand. Make it so people don't recognize you anymore."

He looked at me. "That’s... a great idea." "Wait, I meant—"

Too late. He was already gone.

The next day, the campus exploded again. "Takeda-saaan!" "Kyaaa!"

His blonde hair was now short and a misty ash-gray. He wore dark red contact lenses. An air of mystery. An edgy vibe. And for some reason—he looked more dangerous. More attractive.

"Seriously?" I muttered.

Instead of fading from the spotlight... he had leveled up. Takeda panicked. He started to run. The crowd of girls chased him like a scene from a romantic zombie movie.

"Takeda-sama! Don't run!" "We’re coming too!"

He ducked into a restroom. A few seconds of silence followed. Then— "KYAAAAAAARGH!" A loud scream erupted from inside, as if a victim had been swept away in a stampede. I turned my face away. This world was too absurd to analyze.

However—the crowd’s gaze slowly shifted toward me. "He was with Takeda-sama yesterday!" "He’s handsome too!" "Maybe they're close?"

I took a step back. "Ehm... I have absolutely no relation to Takeda!" "Takeda-sama’s scent is still on you!" "What is that even supposed to mean?!"

They closed in. I swallowed hard. Survival instincts kicked in. I turned. And then, I ran.

"Why is it always me?!" I yelled. "The protagonist is somewhere else! Why are you chasing an extra?!"

I sprinted down the corridor. My lungs burned. My heart hammered against my chest. And for the first time, I truly understood one thing.

Dreams look beautiful from a distance. But when you’re standing right in the middle of them—a dream can feel like a prison with no exit.