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

The next day.

I woke up with a single, humble prayer: for the campus to return to its boring, normal self.

No drama. No tears. No fathers I had to restrain myself from punching.

But hope is often like a deceptive store discount—it looks incredibly convincing on the surface, but it rarely delivers anything of substance.

"Kengo-kun, you look exhausted," Kurumi noted as we strolled toward the cafeteria.

"Yeah. Probably because I couldn't sleep a wink. My head kept replaying yesterday’s scenes over and over like a broken record."

Kurumi let out a small laugh, light as a spring breeze. "You’re actually quite the funny person, aren't you?"

Say whatever you want. My life currently felt like a soap opera that had forgotten to air its final episode.

We made our way down the hallway, but just as we reached the cafeteria entrance—the atmosphere shifted.

A roar. Shrieks. The thunder of footsteps like a flock of birds that had just spotted a loaf of bread being tossed.

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

The cafeteria had transformed into an impromptu concert stage. In the center of the swarm stood a tall man with long blonde hair tied in a half-up style. His eyes were a piercing sky blue, and his face was so symmetrical he looked like a 3D render that was far too perfect for the real world.

Ikeo Takeda.

Popular student. Professional model. And apparently, the center of gravity for every female student on campus. He smiled. It was a practiced smile. Precise. Calculated.

"Quiet down, everyone. One at a time," he said softly.

The girls' laughter exploded like popcorn in a microwave. Some nearly dropped their trays, while others just wanted to stand closer—as if his "handsome aura" could be caught like a contagious fever within a one-meter radius.

I narrowed my eyes. His life must be so incredibly easy.

No need for confessions. No experience with rejection. No reason to ever question the philosophy of "true love."

Meanwhile, Kurumi watched him with a look of pure admiration. "He really is breathtaking, isn't he?"

"Yeah. Like a shoujo manga protagonist who perpetually exists with flower petals fluttering in the background."

Kurumi giggled. "Are you jealous?"

"No." I paused for a beat. "Well... maybe a little."

Kurumi turned to me, a faint, unreadable smile playing on her lips.

"Do you like him too?" I asked casually.

"N-no! I mean, he’s not really my type. And besides... he probably has dozens of girlfriends already." Her voice faltered slightly.

Ah. So even girls like her get flustered in the presence of those expensive blue eyes.

Curiosity got the better of me. I pulled out my smartphone and searched his name. Campus articles flooded the screen immediately. Ikeo Takeda was a man impossible to ignore. His blonde hair was impeccably maintained. His blue eyes—cold yet calm—were like the surface of an ocean that hid its true depth.

As a professional model, his face was everywhere: fashion catalogs, digital campaigns, and massive billboards in the city center. On campus, he was never seen without a trail of women. The gossip never stopped—rumors of multiple lovers and his unofficial title as the "Real-Life Harem Protagonist."

He never confirmed or denied any of it. He remained perfectly composed. Always keeping a distance.

But then—

"And though he seems perfect on the outside, there is something in his gaze that makes one wonder..." I read the final sentence of an article. "...is everything as it truly appears?"

I swallowed hard. Suddenly, his gaze shifted toward me. Like a spotlight selecting its next victim.

Oh god. Don't come here. Do not come here.

And, of course—he began walking straight toward us. The crowd of women followed him like planets locked in an inescapable orbit around the sun.

"Would you happen to be the one they call Muramasa Kengo?" he asked politely.

I felt my heart jump like an emergency notification. "Y-yeah... that's me."

Whispers rippled through the crowd instantly. "Who is that guy?" "He knows Takeda-sama?" "He’s actually kind of handsome too..."

I felt like a background extra who had suddenly been shoved into the main movie poster without a permit. Takeda then turned to Kurumi.

"And you must be Kurumi Mitsuzu?"

"Y-yes..." Kurumi looked overwhelmed. Her shoulders tensed. Her body language was screaming; she was uncomfortable.

A few hours later.

The Heartbreak Society opened its doors. And today’s client was none other than Ikeo Takeda.

Dammit, I cursed internally. Why is my life like a gacha game that only drops the weirdest prizes?

Takeda sat upright in his chair. He looked like a man preparing to confess a grave sin.

"My name is Ikeo Takeda."

"I know," I muttered.

"Do you know what it feels like to walk five steps and hear 'Kyaa! Takeda-san!' from three different directions?"

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

Takeda clasped his hands together as if in prayer.

"Hey. This isn't a church."

"Kengo, you don't understand." His eyes no longer sparkled like they did in the cafeteria. "I’m exhausted."

The words dropped like a heavy weight that had finally stopped pretending to be light.

"I’m actually starting to regret this dream of mine."

I fell silent. For the first time, the most popular model on campus looked... human.

"How about you change your modeling style?" I suggested finally. "Rebrand yourself. Make it so people don't recognize you anymore."

He stared at me. "That’s... actually a great idea."

"Wait, I meant—"

Too late. He was already gone.

The next day.

The campus exploded again.

"Takeda-saaan!" "Kyaaa!"

His long blonde hair was now a short, misty grey. His blue contacts had been replaced with deep red ones. He radiated a mysterious, edgy aura.

And for some reason—it made him look even more dangerous. More attractive.

"Are you serious?" I muttered. Instead of fading into the background, he had just leveled up.

Takeda looked horrified. He started to run. A swarm of women chased after him like a scene from a romanticized zombie movie.

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

He bolted into a restroom. A few seconds of silence followed. Then—

"KYAAAAAAARGH!"

A deafening scream echoed out. Apparently, some poor guy had been caught in the crossfire of the stampede. I looked away. This world was far too absurd to analyze.

However—the gaze of the crowd slowly pivoted toward me.

"He’s the one who was with Takeda-sama yesterday!" "He’s handsome too!" "Maybe they’re close?"

I took a step back. "Uh... Takeda and I have no connection whatsoever!"

"His scent is still on you!"

What the hell is that supposed to mean?!

They drew closer. I swallowed hard. Survival instinct took over. I spun on my heel and bolted.

"Why is it always me?!" I screamed at the top of my lungs. "The main character is somewhere else! Why are you chasing the extra?!"

I sprinted down the hallway, lungs burning, heart pounding. And for the first time, I truly understood one thing.

Dreams might look beautiful from a distance. But when you’re standing right in the center of them—they can feel an awful lot like a prison with no exit.