Chris turned more fully toward him, his light coat draping elegantly over the sofa back.
"What is it?" he replied, voice composed and open, blue eyes eting Satoru’s steadily.
Satoru leaned forward a little, elbows on his knees, black sleeves pulling taut.
He kept his tone asured, like filing a routine report.
"I’ve read so of your books... the ones about Ryū, the Dragon Lord."
He let the words linger, his sharp eyes watching Chris’s reaction closely.
Through months of using his X-ray-like vision to peer through the shared wall, Satoru had seen the truth countless tis: Rin at the desk in his room, blue hair tousled, scribbling or typing furiously into manuscripts late into the night—
the real author crafting the thrilling tales of monster battles and adventures.
Chris, anwhile, took the completed works to Comiket, his striking androgynous beauty drawing crowds that boosted sales. The organization had taken note of the anonymous publications, but Satoru knew the full picture from his surveillance.
Chris’s smile widened slightly, elegant and proud.
He uncrossed his legs, shifting closer on the couch with graceful ease, the fabric of his trousers whispering against the cushions.
"Oh, Dragon Lord Ryū!" he exclaid, voice bright with respect.
"Yes, he’s a close friend.
I respect him so much—his strength, his calm in the face of chaos, the way he handles threats that would overwhelm most.
There’s no one quite like him."
He bragged subtly, his blue eyes lighting up as he gestured with one hand, describing Ryū’s feats with genuine admiration, as if the character—and the man behind him—represented an ideal.
"And yeah, I go out with him sotis.
I write about his adventures, turning the raw experiences into stories that people seem to enjoy at the markets."
The kitchen sounds continued in the background—Hinata’s knife chopping potatoes into even pieces with rhythmic thunks, the wooden spoon scraping the pot as she stirred the thickening curry sauce.
The rich, spicy aroma grew thicker, promising a hearty al and filling the modest apartnt with warmth that contrasted the careful tension on the couch.
Satoru’s nervousness had eased slightly into focused alertness, his observant eyes narrowing.
"But isn’t this like a cri?" he pressed, keeping his voice even but probing.
"Publishing detailed accounts of real supernatural events, monster fights... selling them openly without clearance?"
Chris leaned back against the sofa, his elegant posture relaxed yet commanding.
A small, confident smile curved his lips, blue eyes behind the glasses gleaming with quiet defiance.
He tilted his head slightly, golden hair catching the light once more.
"A cri?" he echoed, the word rolling off his tongue with light amusent.
"Then we shall see what they will do."
The statent carried clear aning—
let the officers, the law enforcers, or even the Supernatural Control Organization try to act.
His smile deepened, poised and unconcerned, as if the potential consequences were rely an interesting challenge rather than a threat.
The afternoon light continued to warm the living room, the TV murmuring forgotten in the background, while the savory slls of Hinata’s curry simred from the kitchen, wrapping the scene in deceptively dostic calm.
Satoru sat there, still processing the elegant man’s words, the thin wall to Rin’s apartnt a silent reminder of the overlapping secrets all around them.
The savory aroma of Hinata’s curry had thickened the air in the modest living room, wrapping around the worn sofa and low coffee table like a warm, comforting blanket.
Steam rose in gentle curls toward the ceiling, visible in the slanting afternoon sunlight that painted golden rectangles across the wooden floor.
Satoru sat rigidly on the sofa, his black shirt slightly rumpled from earlier nervous shifting, short dark hair catching the light as he leaned forward.
His sharp, observant eyes fixed on Chris with renewed intensity, the earlier tremors in his hands now steadied by professional focus.
As an SCO agent embedded in long-term surveillance, every word from Chris was potential intelligence—fragnts to piece together about the enigmatic figure next door.
The TV droned forgotten in the background, its midday news report a low hum beneath the kitchen sounds.
Chris remained elegantly composed beside him, legs crossed gracefully, light coat draped over the sofa back, golden hair framing his androgynous features like a halo in the warm glow.
Satoru cleared his throat, his voice dropping into a careful, probing tone.
"If it’s really true that everything in your stories about Ryū is based on real events... then explain why he burnt down a family."
The question landed heavily in the room.
Satoru’s jaw tightened, his black sleeves pulling taut over his forearms as he clasped his hands together on his knees.
In the books Chris sold at Comiket—the thrilling tales of Dragon Lord Ryū—there had been a particularly dark Chapter.
Ryū, in a fit of raw power, had unleashed flas that consud an entire household, leaving nothing but ash and ruins.
The scene was depicted with dramatic intensity: roaring fires lighting up the night sky, screams echoing, the family’s silhouettes crumbling in the inferno.
Was it exaggeration? His sharp eyes bored into Chris, searching for any flicker of hesitation, his posture radiating the focused alertness of an agent dissecting a lead.
Chris listened without imdiate reaction, his blue eyes behind the thin glasses steady and thoughtful.
He uncrossed his legs slowly, the slim black trousers whispering against the sofa cushion as he shifted to face Satoru more directly.
A small, elegant smile played on his lips, not defensive but reflective, as if recalling the crafting of those very pages.
"Firstly," Chris began, his smooth, neutral voice calm and asured, carrying that effortless charm, "the stories may look too dramatic on the page, but in reality, it wasn’t exactly how it really goes."
He gestured lightly with one graceful hand, fingers moving in a subtle arc as if outlining the shape of a narrative.
His golden hair shifted under the sunlight, thin glasses catching a glint.
What he ant was clear in the way he spoke—the books were entertainnt first.
Exaggerated for tension, heightened for reader engagent at Comiket, where crowds gathered around his booth.
A few embellishnts, so dramatic lies woven in to make the battles pulse with excitent, the emotions raw and unforgettable.
Real events ford the core, but the telling shaped them into sothing marketable, sothing that sold copies and drew both boys and girls to his elegant presence.
Not every fla was as world-ending, not every confrontation quite so apocalyptic.
It was the art of storytelling, turning truth into legend without losing its essence.
Satoru’s expression remained intense, brows furrowed deeply, his observant eyes narrowing as he absorbed every nuance.
A muscle twitched in his jaw, black shirt rising and falling with controlled breaths.
He could hear Hinata in the kitchen adding spices to the pot—the faint hiss of ingredients hitting hot oil, the rich curry scent blooming stronger, promising a hearty al that contrasted the heavy conversation.
His mind raced with SCO protocols: cross-reference this with surveillance logs, assess threat levels.
The thin wall to Rin’s apartnt felt alive with secrets.
Chris continued smoothly, leaning back slightly against the sofa, his light coat settling elegantly around him. "Well, it is true that Ryū had burnt down a family in the past."
The confirmation sent a subtle shift through Satoru.
He leaned forward even more, elbows digging into his knees, sharp eyes locked on Chris with laser focus.
His short dark hair cast a shadow over his forehead in the afternoon light, shoulders tense beneath the black fabric.
The intensity radiated from him—jaw set, fingers interlaced tightly, every inch the vigilant agent peeling back layers.
The kitchen sounds seed to fade montarily as he waited, the curry aroma now almost cloying in the charged atmosphere.
Chris’s voice remained composed, elegant, and unhurried, blue eyes steady behind his glasses as he recounted the mory with quiet respect.
"There was this guy—a rogue sorcerer—who had been practicing forbidden sorcery and committing havoc around the community for months.
He terrorized families, twisted local wildlife into monsters, drained resources with dark rituals that left entire neighborhoods in fear.
People were disappearing, hos marked with unnatural symbols, children whispering about shadows that moved on their own."
He paused, tilting his head gracefully, golden hair catching the light as he chose his words with precision. His hands moved subtly in the air, painting the scene without flourish.
"Ryū wasn’t happy about it.
His elegant posture remained relaxed on the couch, one arm resting along the backrest near Satoru, the faint clean scent of his presence mixing with the thickening curry slls wafting from the kitchen.
Hinata’s movents continued in the background—stirring the pot with steady circles, the wooden spoon scraping, steam billowing as she adjusted the heat.
The savory richness now filled the entire apartnt, grounding the heavy discussion in sothing warmly dostic.
Satoru absorbed the explanation, his intense gaze never wavering.
He rubbed his chin slowly with one hand, black sleeve shifting, mind filing away details for later reports.
The thin walls humd with the faint laughter from next door, a stark contrast to the darker history being unpacked here.
Chris’s words painted Ryū—Rin—not as a monster, but as a force of reluctant justice.
Yet questions lingered: how much was truth, how much dramatized for the books? Satoru’s nervousness from earlier had fully transford into sharp professional scrutiny, his body still but coiled like a spring.
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