You know a figure drawing class is off to a strange start when your nude model walks in carrying a katana.
Not a prop.
Not a foam cosplay toy.
An actual sword, complete with velvet sheath, ancient-looking scabbard, and an energy that screamed "I've disemboweled men more attractive than you."
"Is that… legal?" Kaito asks, eyes twitching.
Haruka Morimoto shrugs, perfectly calm in a trench coat and fishnet stockings. "Only if I don't swing it too fast."
Kaito opens his mouth to argue, then closes it. At this point, arguing with Haruka is like telling gravity to stop being clingy.
Rei Tachibana arrives next, silent as always, sketchpad clutched like it owes her money. She glances at the sword, then at Haruka, then at the pile of bean bags in the middle of the studio.
She says nothing, but her eyebrow lifts exactly 3.4 millimeters. This is Rei's version of a screaming reaction.
Yuuto arrives last, out of breath, holding a box of melonpan and his eternal aura of mid-tier anxiety.
"I brought snacks?" he says.
"Good," Haruka says, unsheathing the sword slowly. "If I pass out from posing too long, feed me one like a fallen warrior."
Yuuto goes pale. Kaito reconsiders his entire life. Again.
The session begins.
Haruka steps onto the posing platform, trench coat swirling dramatically. She flings it off in a motion so smooth, so theatrical, so cinematic, that even Rei's pencil hesitates mid-line.
There stands Haruka: nude, defiant, posing with a sword raised like a fallen angel who just got rehired for one last mission.
Kaito blinks. "This is... somehow more tasteful than I expected."
Rei starts sketching immediately, fierce, focused.
Yuuto whispers, "Is this what it's like to die and go to horny heaven?"
"Shut up," Kaito mutters, trying not to cry into his overpriced herbal tea.
Two poses later, and the air in the studio is different.
No one's giggling. No one's uncomfortable.
Haruka holds her pose like a goddess in a fever dream, equal parts strength and sadness. There's a weight behind her stillness—like the sword is holding something in. Or keeping something out.
Rei's drawings are getting sharper. Her usual harsh, jagged lines now cradle Haruka's form like something precious. Even Yuuto—who normally draws like he's in a haunted sleep paralysis—finds a rhythm. His pencil moves with something close to grace.
And Kaito watches.
He watches the way Haruka breathes. How her eyes scan the room, searching not for admiration, but recognition.
He wonders:Why did a former idol, once the darling of shampoo commercials and hologram concerts, walk away from it all to pose naked in a musty ex-karate studio?
Then Haruka says, softly:"I used to get dressed to lie to people. Now I undress to tell the truth."
Nobody responds. Rei stops sketching for a moment. Yuuto's pencil falls.
The silence stretches.
Then Haruka sighs. "Okay, that sounded way cooler in my head. I blame the sword."
Kaito snorts. "No, that was deep. Like, five inches into the emotional sushi."
Rei coughs. "That metaphor hurt."
Yuuto raises a melonpan like a toast. "To emotional sushi!"
They laugh.
Even Rei smiles. (Briefly. But it happened. It definitely happened.)
After class, the three students linger longer than usual.
Yuuto asks Rei for feedback on his sketch. She says it's "less terrible than usual." He takes that as high praise.
Haruka slips on her coat, now mysteriously wearing a glittery eye patch she definitely didn't have earlier.
"You gonna cosplay next time too?" Kaito asks, half-joking.
"Depends," Haruka replies. "Do you allow full-on warrior nun aesthetics?"
"…I'll allow it if there's incense."
She grins.
Rei gathers her things, then, surprisingly, walks up to Haruka. She holds out her sketchpad.
"Here. I think you should see this."
Haruka takes it.
And pauses.
It's not just a sketch of her. It's… her. Her jawline, yes. Her pose, yes. But also something deeper—her loneliness, her anger, her fight to be seen as more than a product in glitter. It's all in the pencil strokes, delicate and furious.
Haruka says nothing. But she blinks three times.
"Thanks," she says quietly.
Rei nods. "Don't get used to it."
Later, Kaito locks up the studio alone.
The walls are still plastered with charcoal fingerprints and stray life-drawing limbs.
But something's changed.
The place doesn't feel like a failed dojo anymore. It feels… alive. Like a canvas soaked in soul juice.
He looks around, lights dimming, incense fading.
He mutters: "I might not be a fashion icon, but damn it… I think I accidentally created art."
His phone buzzes.
It's a message from someone named Mika Hoshino.
Hey. Heard about your weird nude drawing place. Do you still need models? I've got stories to unload and scars that look good in pencil.
Kaito stares at the message.
Then he smiles.
"Bring it on."
Tools
ChatGPT can make mistakes. Check important info. See Cookie Preferences.