At first glance, all he saw was white.
From head to toe, her body was pure, dazzling white.
Her skin was smooth and milky, radiating a gentle sheen like a freshly peeled egg—soft, warm, inviting the eye to linger, tempting one to reach out and touch...
But of course, he couldn't actually touch—that would cross the line into sexual harassment.
And anyway, the overwhelming whiteness was partly due to the curtains blocking out the dusk, and partly due to the high-powered LED ceiling lamp illuminating everything brightly.
With such perfect lighting, Kuroba Akira's view was crystal clear.
The whole scene reminded him of one of those street artists from his past life—the kind who painted themselves entirely white and stood motionless like statues, startling passing pedestrians who came too close.
If Akira had encountered such a scene back then, he'd have tossed the performer a coin. Right now he felt the same—after all, what he saw was exactly half of a "one yen" coin. (*One yen coins are small, shiny, and silver-white.)
In his past life, Akira was from the northern part of China, where winters were long and bitterly cold. His strongest memory of winter had always been the first snowfall.
The first snow of winter covered the ground like a huge, white velvet carpet—pure, cold, and clean, chilling you to the bone with every breath, as if purifying your very soul.
Actually, in his previous life Akira didn't particularly like snow. Sure, it was pretty when freshly fallen, but once trampled by pedestrians and cars, it quickly turned dirty and unpleasant. And when the melted snow froze overnight, the ground became dangerously slippery, causing people to slip and fall if they weren't careful…
But since transmigrating, Akira found himself yearning for the climate of his hometown for the very first time—probably because Tokyo's summer was unbearably humid and stuffy. Compared to this heat, he was desperate for winter to come quickly.
Of course, if he wanted to see a thick layer of snow again, Tokyo wouldn't cut it—he'd have to go up to Hokkaido. Hopefully one day he'd have enough money to travel there.
Thinking about these random things helped Akira distract himself from the moment at hand, and also naturally connected his thoughts to the snowy scene before him.
Truthfully, the lingering heat of late summer still kept the room temperature quite high. Shiroi Shiori's room had no air conditioning, the window and curtains were tightly shut, trapping the hot air inside. But thanks to the "snowy" view before him, Akira inexplicably felt a slight chill… although Shiori's current awkwardness probably wasn't due to feeling cold.
Aside from snow, Akira's thoughts also drifted toward plaster statues, blank canvases, and clean sheets of paper…
Suddenly, he had a playful urge to practice calligraphy—perhaps writing a neat "正" character, or any other suitable words. Everyone could freely fill in their own blanks here.
Actually, with a canvas this clean, even Akira—someone utterly talentless in drawing—felt confident enough to paint a few strokes.
Meanwhile, Shiori stood awkwardly, not saying a word, wishing desperately for a hole to crawl into.
Her eyes lowered, lips biting down hard, left hand nervously gripping her right arm as her expression shifted between shame and anger. The embarrassment had flushed her cheeks bright red, further enhancing her already captivating appearance.
Looking like that will only make people want to bully you even more, Shiroi-san…
Thinking of the proud and arrogant girl from before now standing helplessly like a mannequin filled Akira with secret satisfaction.
He deliberately teased her further, pointing to her hands:
"Still leaving your gloves on, huh? I never noticed before—those gloves are surprisingly long."
"Ugh…!"
Indeed, Shiori still wore her usual long, white silk gloves—accessories meant to keep her books pristine.
It wasn't intentional; she'd honestly forgotten about them. Usually, she'd only remove the gloves when washing up at night, then put them back on first thing in the morning, since she practically never put down her books during the day.
She'd never encountered a situation that required removing them outside of her daily routine.
"You want to do it yourself? Or... shall I help you?"
"…"
Seeing Akira's surprisingly calm demeanor, Shiori felt her embarrassment and anxiety slowly melting away.
She just couldn't understand this guy… Back in the clubroom, his eyes had wandered everywhere, shamelessly staring at people's chests like a perverted old man. Yet now, in this intimate situation, he could act so casually…
She'd expected to be completely mortified, yet standing before him now, Shiori felt that there really was no reason for her to feel that embarrassed.
She even found herself strangely unopposed to letting him touch her body.
Her mind drifted back to the time he'd held her best friend's hand.
Back then, she'd rejected his excuse of "reading palms," believing it was just a lame cover for feeling up girls. But perhaps she'd misjudged him.
Now that she thought about it, he'd shown genuine excitement only after carefully examining Momo's hand. Immediately after that, he'd enthusiastically invited Momo to become his novel's illustrator.
Even if he'd figured out Momo could draw just from her hands, how could he know she'd be good at illustrating specifically? Shiori might not be an artist, but even she knew drawing came in vastly different styles and fields—comparing an oil painter and a manga artist was probably even more extreme than comparing a literary novelist and a light novelist.
Besides, even Hitomi had acknowledged Akira's ability to read palms... Perhaps Hitomi's trust in him wasn't due to romantic infatuation but because Akira truly possessed some mysterious skill.
After nearly a month of observation, Shiori realized that while Hitomi was clearly close to Akira, they definitely weren't dating.
The main reason was that Akira never flirted or whispered sweet nonsense to Hitomi, never openly displayed affection, never asked her out on dates, and always called her "Class Rep." He treated Hitomi casually—nothing like a boyfriend at all.
Likewise, Hitomi hadn't changed much. Her intelligence and maturity hadn't diminished due to romance; she was simply a bit more playful and lively when talking with Akira.
At that moment, Shiori finally understood: Hitomi genuinely saw Akira as an important friend—someone no less valuable than herself—but certainly not a romantic partner.
It was only because Shiori had never witnessed Hitomi's interactions with a genuine male friend before that she'd mistaken her friend's newfound cheerfulness as romantic feelings.
I don't even understand my own best friend properly… This realization left Shiori deeply disappointed in herself.
Meanwhile, Akira was feeling rather puzzled. She'd stripped down to her underwear without hesitation, so why was she suddenly hesitating so long over just removing her gloves?
Are you really focusing on the right things here…?
"Um, Shiroi-san, if you're truly uncomfortable with this, we can stop here?"
Shiori snapped back to reality. Seeing Akira's raised eyebrow made her stomach churn with a sudden, stubborn fire.
He's already seen everything else—both things he should and shouldn't have—so how can I stop halfway!
"Continue…!"
She extended her trembling hands towards him.
Seeing those delicate hands shaking slightly, Akira felt a hint of sympathy. Despite her outward toughness, she was still scared after all.
No matter how much she acted tough, she was still alone in a locked room with a boy. Under circumstances like these—where one needed to bare everything—she surely knew that if he had malicious intent, her innocence would be destroyed forever.
But after previously losing control of himself with her once, Akira now knew how to maintain his rationality when dealing with Shiori.
He was no longer a reckless teenager. He knew how to consider consequences—and he would absolutely never cross that criminal line.
Therefore, Akira only gently pinched the tips of her middle fingers, pulling smoothly and helping her remove the last remaining fabric—the long, white silk gloves.
Finally, Akira clearly saw both of her palms.
At last, he had fully witnessed her—inside and out.
Indeed, Shiori had a Talent.
But it wasn't a Talent for writing.
[Memory B]
She merely read more, saw more, remembered more clearly than others.
The Skill in her left hand recorded her dedicated effort:
[Writing Proficiency LV 3]
She had no innate writing Talent whatsoever. Yet through sheer persistence, she'd elevated her Skill to lv3, with the progress bar already halfway full.
She hadn't won literary awards through divine inspiration or natural talent, but rather through massive amounts of reading, careful observation, material accumulation, imitation, and painstaking practice. She'd earned that recognition purely through hard work.
Ah... I should've realized earlier. Creativity doesn't appear in Skills.
Shiroi Shiori is exactly like me—
Just an ordinary girl who truly loves stories.