Upon arriving at the classroom, Hozuki Nozomi stopped mid-step.
Every piece of equipment had been upgraded. The chalk-dusted blackboard—gone, replaced by a sleek high-definition display panel that hummed faintly with electricity. The floors gleamed with fresh lacquer, doors fitted with brushed-steel handles, windows double-paned and crystal clear. Even the desks felt different—smoother edges, ergonomic curves.
He blinked.
Only one day had passed. Right?
Why does the school look like it swallowed a tech company's renovation budget?
His mind spiraled. Had some Death God elementary school student wandered in from another timeline, merging worlds, scrambling continuity? The Conan universe was notorious for chronological chaos—characters aging in dog years while others remained frozen in perpetual adolescence.
But no. He hadn't seen any news about precocious detectives or mysteriously solved murders. The Chiba police remained efficient, especially Uncle Daisuke, whose competence bordered on suspicious.
"Um, Mahiru. What's the date today?"
Shiina Mahiru tilted her head, honey-blonde waves catching the fluorescent light. Her uniform blazer hung slightly open, revealing the soft curve of her collarbone. She smelled of vanilla and something warmer—sleep, maybe. Intimacy.
"Today is the first of the month. It's been a month since we went to the hot springs." Her brow furrowed prettily. "Nozomi, are you still half-asleep?"
"Stayed up too late," he muttered.
So time had lurched forward. A full month, compressed into nothing. He accepted it with the ease of someone who'd faced demons and worn divine lingerie as a gag.
If a Detective Conan ever materialized, he'd make a point to meet Ran Mouri. Angelic, allegedly.
For now—he stopped checking dates. Mahiru would tell him what he needed.
…
The Student Council office no longer resembled an office.
Kaguya Shinomiya had transformed it into something approaching a presidential suite. Velvet drapes pooled against marble floors. A crystal chandelier scattered prismatic light across cream-colored walls. The sofa she occupied—burgundy leather, deep-cushioned—probably cost more than a year's tuition.
The soundproofing, Ai Hayasaka noted, was excellent. If one were to do something naughty here, no one would hear.
Hayasaka had changed from her severe black suit back into her maid uniform—white apron crisp over black fabric, skirt falling just above the knee, stockings sheer enough to show the faint blue of veins beneath pale skin. She moved with military precision, setting a porcelain teacup before her mistress.
Kaguya lifted it. Took a delicate sip. Set it down without a sound.
"Ai." Her voice was silk over steel. "You observed him. What do you think?"
Him. Hozuki Nozomi. The question needed no clarification.
Hayasaka's eyes remained downcast, but her mind replayed the morning's encounter—that moment when her mistress's gaze had locked onto his. Most men wilted under Kaguya Shinomiya's attention. They stammered. Bowed. Averted their eyes like sunflowers flinching from an eclipse.
Hozuki Nozomi had done none of those things.
He'd appraised her. Brazenly. Like she was a curiosity rather than a conqueror.
"Kaguya-sama, that person is not simple." Hayasaka kept her tone neutral. "He cannot be easily subdued. He showed no fear of the Shinomiya family's influence."
Kaguya's lips curved—a slow, predatory smile that transformed her aristocratic features into something dangerous.
"Not easy to subdue?" She crossed one slender leg over the other, skirt riding up just enough to reveal the pale curve of her thigh. "That's what makes it interesting."
She leaned back into the leather.
"Since today marks my first day as Student Council president, let's issue my first directive."
"Yes, Kaguya-sama."
Hayasaka collected the prepared document and exited, heels clicking against marble.
….
Class F.
Nozomi slouched at his desk, phone glowing beneath the edge of his textbook. Messages to Eriri Spencer Sawamura. To Utaha-senpai. To half a dozen others whose names blurred together in a pleasant haze of affection and obligation.
Time management was an art form. He'd mastered it through sheer necessity—strong skill attributes helped, but maintaining harmony among multiple romantic entanglements required finesse.
Being a light novel protagonist demanded capital. He had it in spades.
"Nozomi! Someone's looking for you!"
Saika Totsuka's voice cut through his concentration—bright, androgynous, tinged with curiosity.
He looked up.
Every male in Class F had frozen mid-motion, jaws slack, eyes fixed on the doorway.
Yukino Yukinoshita stood there.
Her dark hair fell past her shoulders in a sheet of liquid midnight, catching the overhead lights like polished obsidian. Pale skin. Sharp cheekbones. Eyes the color of frozen violets, cool and cutting. Her uniform fit her slender frame with almost architectural precision—blazer buttoned, skirt pleated, everything immaculate.
She radiated winter.
"Nozomi. Yuigahama-san." Her voice carried no warmth. "Come with me. There's something."
He rose, Yui Yuigahama falling into step beside him. As they passed Hayato's desk, Hozuki caught the other boy's expression—something gleeful lurking beneath the pretty-boy smile.
Interesting.
They found a quiet corridor near the old wing. Dust motes drifted through afternoon light. The smell of aged wood and floor wax hung heavy.
"Yukino-chan, what happened?" Yui asked first, pink lips pouting with worry.
Yukino sighed—a rare crack in her composure.
"Trouble." She handed over a document. "See for yourself."
Hozuki leaned close to Yui, close enough to catch her scent—strawberry shampoo and the faint musk of nervous sweat. Their shoulders brushed. He scanned the Student Council notice.
Strict club review. Meaningless clubs to be canceled. Resources reclaimed.
"The Shinomiya heiress," he murmured, "is stirring things up."
"Yes." Yukino's expression flickered—helpless, frustrated. "According to the new requirements, all clubs must demonstrate positive impact on future employment or current academics. Otherwise..." She gestured sharply. "Cancellation."
"Our Service Club should qualify, right?" Hozuki frowned. "We help people improve themselves. That's practical."
Yukino glared at him—a flash of violet ice. "We haven't taken many requests. The Student Council claims we're monopolizing resources."
"So... the club's being canceled?"
"No!" Yui wailed, clutching her chest. Her breasts strained against her blazer with the dramatic motion. "We finally have such a nice clubroom! I don't want it to disappear!"
The clubroom.
Yukino's jaw tightened.
That room held too many memories. Quiet afternoons. The smell of tea and old books. The sound of rain against windows while they debated philosophy and pretended not to notice how close they sat.
And other things.
…
She remembered—
—his hands braced against the wall on either side of her head. Her back pressed to cold plaster. The way she'd said no, stop, we can't —voice trembling, unconvincing even to herself.
He hadn't stopped.
He'd leaned closer, breath warm against her ear, and whispered something that made her knees buckle. His thigh pressed between hers, firm and insistent. Her skirt rode up. His fingers found the hem of her stockings, traced the bare skin above—
"—nngh—"
She'd bitten her lip to muffle the sound. But he'd heard. Of course he'd heard. And he'd smiled that infuriating smile, thumb stroking lazy circles against her inner thigh while she shuddered and hated herself for not pulling away.
You want this, he'd said. Not a question.
She hadn't denied it.
…
The Service Club held special significance for Yukino Yukinoshita.
She was not letting it disappear.
"Yukino." Hozuki's voice pulled her back. His eyes held knowing warmth—he remembered too. "You've already decided, haven't you?"
She met his gaze. Steadied herself.
"Of course." Her chin lifted. "Nozomi. Yuigahama-san. We're going to protest to the Student Council president."
A confident smile touched her lips.
"We'll make Kaguya Shinomiya acknowledge the legitimacy of our Service Club's existence."