The King of Tokyo Freeloaders [161]

After finishing her “landmine-avoidance” briefing about Aizono Momo, Shiroi Shiori finally said what she really felt.

“Akira-kun, I think you know this already, but Momo-chan isn’t like me. She has truly outstanding talent, yet she doesn’t realize it. She’s always rated herself too low—she lacks confidence.”

“Mm…”

To Akira, the three of them in the Literature Club were basically two Bs and one A—three gifted girls, all of them “geniuses” when you judged them with his Talent-reading right hand.

But from their own perspective, neither Anri Hitomi nor Shiroi Shiori thought of themselves as prodigies. Only Aizono Momo’s Talent lined up directly with what she was doing, and only hers translated into the biggest proficiency boost.

Sure, Hitomi and Shiroi both wanted to do better in front of Akira, to prove their worth—but they also agreed on one thing: Momo’s Talent shone the brightest.

Shiroi clasped Akira’s right hand in both of hers and pleaded with him, dead serious.

“To be honest, I’ve been able to keep writing all this time because Momo-chan was beside me—because her passion never faded, and it kept rubbing off on me. So I want you to help her find her confidence again, Akira-kun. I want her to be proud of her Talent and her hobby again.”

“You really are treating me like some kind of chicken-soup guru… Anyway, I’m not going to promise I can do it, but I’ll do everything I can to encourage her.”

“Mm! I’m counting on you!”

Hearing that, Shiroi felt a wave of relief. Somewhere along the way, she’d become like Hitomi—trusting him completely, believing that if she left it to him, it would be fine.

And the moment she let go of Akira’s right hand, Hitomi copied her—only she grabbed him and, like she was competing, clamped down on both his hands in a grip that would not budge.

Her words, however, were pure formality.

“Momo is one of our Literature Club’s indispensable members. As the club president, I’m entrusting you with the important mission of bringing her back, Akira-kun.”

“Yes, yes, yes…”

It wasn’t that Akira meant to brush them off. They were just so serious—like they were sending him off to war—that he couldn’t quite keep a straight face.

What was this, ‘No Momo, No End’?

If he failed the mission and made Aizono Momo cry, her two besties would probably launch a joint manhunt.

The pressure was officially on Akira.

And so, carrying the weight of their expectations, Akira was escorted out of the Literature Club room.

Fine. First things first—find Aizono Momo. He’d check near the bathrooms—

He’d barely taken two steps when he spotted Momo half-hidden by the stairwell, peeking out and waving at him.

“Kuroba-kun, over here…!”

Her call was so quiet it was practically a breath, as if she was afraid of startling something—cautious to the point of tiptoeing through the air.

When Akira reached her, she looked nervous, covering her mouth with her sleeve as she spoke.

“Um, Kuroba-kun… I-I’ll buy you a drink?”

Akira immediately pressed his palms together and gave her a solemn salute.

“My deepest thanks for Aizono-sama’s gracious gift.”

If there was a chance to mooch free food or drinks, Akira would never refuse. Anyone who treated him was a good person.

“N-no, you don’t have to thank me… I’m the one who wants to thank you, Kuroba-kun. Thank you for understanding what I was trying to say…”

“It wasn’t that hard. You meant ‘meet at the bathroom,’ right?”

“N-not the bathroom specifically… I-I’ve never been in the boys’ bathroom, and you can’t go into the girls’ one, right? I just wanted to get you out here. And I didn’t want Hitomi-chan and Shiori to notice, so I might’ve gotten a little… abstract… Ahaha…”

Momo let out a dry, strained laugh.

But in reality, they’d noticed anyway.

And they’d told me every single one of your landmines, too.

Poor Momo-chan—your besties saw right through you down to your—well, everything.

Of course Akira wasn’t going to say any of that out loud. He just played along.

“So, Momo, you wanted to tell me something. Something you can’t bring yourself to say to Class Rep and Shiori.”

“Mm… I didn’t want to tell you either, Kuroba-kun… But if I don’t say it now, it feels like… like I’m committing fraud. So I wanted to tell you myself.”

“Alright. I’m listening.”

If he hadn’t gotten the other two’s advance coaching, Akira would’ve reflexively blurted, It can’t be that serious.

But now he understood. For Aizono Momo, this was as terrifying as working up the courage to confess to someone she liked.

They stopped in front of the familiar vending machine outside the school building. Momo bought a bottle of orange soda and handed it to Akira, then asked softly,

“Kuroba-kun… what color is this orange soda, to you?”

“Orange.”

“Right… but to me, it looks closer to yellow. Sometimes even a little greenish. And it’s… kind of dark.”

“So that’s what it is.”

Akira wasn’t surprised. He’d already guessed as much.

“Momo. You’re… color-weak, aren’t you?”

Momo gave a miserable little smile and admitted it.

“Yes… I’m sorry, Kuroba-kun. I kept it from you.”

It wasn’t complete color blindness, but a visual defect known as “color weakness.”

The eye worked like a camera: light entered through the cornea, passed through the lens, and landed on the retina. The retina converted that into nerve signals and sent them to the brain—and that was how people saw.

The cells in the central retina were tied to color perception. When those cells were abnormal from birth, the colors a person saw could differ drastically from what most people saw.

In truth, everyone’s perception of color varied a little from person to person—only, for some people, the gap was glaring. Aizono Momo was one of those.

Her ability to distinguish colors wasn’t “a little worse.” It was much worse. That was why she’d been desperate to hide it.

Because for an illustrator, being unable to tell colors apart wasn’t just a weakness.

It was fatal.

If you couldn’t tell colors apart, then sooner or later you started doubting whether the world you saw was the “real world” at all.

You couldn’t even get close to “correct.” You were always second-guessing yourself. And that constant self-doubt bred insecurity—and a habit of clinging to other people’s judgments.

That was the root of her inferiority.

“I didn’t want Hitomi-chan and Shiori to worry about me… so I never told them. And I… I don’t want special treatment anymore…”

Akira understood the feeling. Back when he’d first transmigrated, Kozaikawa Motoko had given him “special treatment,” too. Even now, it hadn’t stopped—it was just less obvious than at the beginning.

The difference was that Akira had found it annoying, while Momo’s feelings came from guilt.

Because they were her good friends—her precious besties—she didn’t want to owe them any more.

She didn’t want to be the one constantly looked after, the one who couldn’t hold her head up around them. She wanted to stand shoulder to shoulder with them, walk arm in arm, and spend time together without any weight on her heart.

Akira pinched his chin, dredging up some random trivia he’d seen before.

“But if I remember right, mild color weakness doesn’t really affect daily life that much, does it? You can still get a driver’s license and everything.”

“Yes. It doesn’t really affect my life, but… um… it affects drawing a lot. The doctor said it was only a tiny difference, but I don’t know where that ‘tiny difference’ even is…”

Every morning, when she opened her eyes, pulled back the curtains, and looked at the sky outside, Momo couldn’t help thinking—

Today’s sky… is it really blue?

She didn’t know.

“I’m sorry… I’m really sorry… I should’ve told you from the start. I just…”

It was just that—

She’d been invited.

She’d been valued.

She’d been praised.

So…

She’d gotten carried away.

And in the end, all of it had been nothing more than an illusion—foam waiting to pop.

“I let it go to my head…”

“Even though I can’t tell colors apart, I shamelessly accepted your invitation…”

“But I’m not the illustrator you were hoping for, Kuroba-kun…”

The more she spoke, the smaller she became, as if some invisible force were dragging her down. Her head lowered, shoulders slumping beneath a sadness no one else could truly share.

Her hair slipped forward, veiling part of her face. In the shifting light and shadow, she looked painfully lonely—yet, somehow, heartbreakingly pretty.

“So please… replace me… wh—mgh?!”

Akira didn’t let her sink any deeper. Without warning, he pinched her soft, round cheeks between two fingers, turning her words into a garbled squeak, then lifted her chin until she had no choice but to meet his eyes.

“I refuse.”

Akira’s mouth curled upward, a wicked grin making his answer final.

“My dear Aizono, adorable Momo-chan—have you forgotten? You already agreed to be my exclusive illustrator.”

“Mmh… b-but…!”

“No buts. You already said yes. Do you really think I’d just let you go now?”

Don’t even think about escaping my grasp!

I’m keeping you—no matter what!

—

This is a fan translation of 拒绝我啊，可恶的女人 by 帝国の咕咕鸽. All rights to the original work belong to the creator. Please support them by exploring their original work or sharing it with others if you can. Thank you for reading and supporting my efforts to bring this story to a wider audience!