Most people only ever saw the polished surface. Michiko Iwai counted on it. Her long, dark waves fell just shy of her waist, glossy and thick, framing a face made up with the subtlest sweep of pale lip gloss. She moved in soft knits and pleated skirts whose gentle fabrics whispered as she walked. Professors overlooked her in seminars. Boys blinked at her as if struck speechless. Other girls alternated between admiration and envy—until she spoke.
Stepping onto campus, her leather‐strapped camera swung casually across her chest. In one hand was a steaming cup of dark roast, its bittersweet aroma mingling with the crisp morning air. Winter's last chill still clung to the breeze, but early‐blooming sakura lined the pathway, their pale pink petals drifting down like confetti. Some stuck for a heartbeat to her cardigan before fluttering away.
A cluster of first-year boys parted in her path. One lingered, hope dawning in his eyes. He braced for a smile. He got none. Michiko's gaze stayed fixed ahead, her lips never curving. The silence closed around him like a trap—far more wounding than any cutting remark.
By the time she reached the broad granite steps of the humanities building, she'd logged four narrowed stares, two startled sidesteps, and a passive-aggressive shoulder bump that left one boy muttering under his breath. She never tried to be palatable. That was how people got close—and how they found the power to hurt you.
Inside, she slipped into the back corner of Lecture Room 4. The walls smelled faintly of chalk dust and old carpet, and the hum of fluorescent lights overhead felt familiar. She always arrived early. The back corner, beside the tall windows, offered an empty desk on either side and no one behind—an easy escape if she needed it.
She set down her coffee, adjusted her neatly organized notebooks and pens, then let her gaze drift out the window. Below, bikes lined up in rigid racks, their metal frames glinting in the morning sun. There was a strange solace in watching from above, detached.
"Excuse me, is this seat—" a voice interrupted.
Without turning, she said, "No." Her tone was flat, final.
The boy blinked, taken aback. "Ah, sorry, I just—"
"Empty," she repeated, eyes still on the window. "But not for you. Connect the dots."
He opened his mouth as if to argue, then thought better of it. He shuffled away.
Good.
As the room filled and Professor Takeda droned into the microphone about postwar Japanese photography and political unrest, Michiko unfastened her notebook—then left it closed. Her fingers itched for the camera's shutter. Her true life unfolded through that lens.
She scanned the room like a practiced observer. Third row, far right: a girl with silvery hair that caught the light, a tiny beauty mark beneath her left eye, and charcoal smudges on slender fingertips. Her notebook's margins were filled with delicate line sketches.
Art major. Soft aura. The kind who paused to coo at a stray cat.
Michiko lingered just long enough to imprint the details, then turned back to her desk, lips curling in a faint, private smile. That was her type.
When the lecture ended, she didn't rush out. She fell into step behind the silver-haired girl, keeping a measured distance so it looked accidental. They descended the stairs together. At the row of vending machines outside, Michiko "accidentally" bumped shoulders with her.
"Oh, sorry," Michiko said, stepping back so their eyes met.
The girl blinked, startled but unhurt. "Ah—it's okay."
"You're in Takeda-senpai's class, right?" Michiko asked, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. The soft rustle of her cardigan was almost musical. "I noticed your sketches. You're in the art department?"
The girl hesitated, then smiled shyly. "Yes. How could you tell?"
Michiko tilted her head, letting her dark eyes travel over the girl's gentle features. "Anyone paying attention would notice."
A brief pause gathered between them. Then the girl's expression warmed, tentative. "I'm Nishimura Kana."
"Iwai Michiko." No honorific. Michiko reserved those for women she intended to pursue.
Kana chuckled, a delicate sound, clearly uncertain whether this was conversation or courtship.
It was both.
They exchanged a few more words before Kana backed away. Michiko never asked for numbers on first meetings. She preferred leaving people wondering.
As soon as Kana disappeared down the path, Michiko's face smoothed into neutrality. She turned toward the courtyard, only to collide nearly head-on with someone rounding the corner.
A tall male student, brows knit in concern. "Ah—watch your step."
He reached out before he thought. His hand brushed her arm.
Instinct took over. Michiko's grip locked around his wrist. In a fluid motion, she twisted it down, stepping back as if it were nothing more than a reflex. Years of self-defense locked into muscle memory.
"Don't fucking touch me," she snapped, voice low and cold.
He winced, stumbling back. "What the hell? I was just trying to help."
"If you want to help, use words," she said, releasing him. "Not hands."
He stared as if she'd lost her mind. "Seriously, what's your problem?"
She offered a cool, withering look. "Pathetic men like you. That's my problem."
He scoffed and stalked off, muttering. She didn't care to hear it.
A girl passing by had witnessed the exchange. She stood frozen, eyes wide. Michiko met her gaze and let a single word fall:
"Pervert."
The girl nodded fervently and hurried away.
Michiko didn't feel bad. Not for the boy. Not for the girl. Not for anyone.
Her phone vibrated.
[Fumi]
Oi. Lunch. Don't bail again or I'm coming to drag your camera away myself.
Michiko smirked. She tapped out a reply with one hand.
[Michiko]
Found a cute girl. 10 min. Don't be desperate.
[Fumi]
Stop harassing innocent women. Food is getting cold.
She chuckled softly under her breath and discreetly slipped the phone into her bag, its screen dimming as it disappeared from view. In the heart of the courtyard, a young girl sat serenely, feeding sparrows with delicate, outstretched hands. Her hair cascaded in soft, permed waves, and her coat was a delicate shade of pale lavender, almost like the petals of a spring bloom. The sunlight filtered through the trees, casting a gentle glow that framed her perfectly, as if nature itself had chosen her for a portrait.
Michiko lifted her camera, its lens capturing the scene with precision.
Click.
People often remarked that she appeared gentle and unassuming.
She preferred to let them continue with that impression.