Chapter 28 – No Way Back
Kotarō lay on his bed, arms stretched out like he'd been dropped from the sky.
The ceiling fan spun slowly above him, casting a soft hum over the quiet of his room. Outside, someone was playing music two houses down. A melody he couldn't name. Probably something cheerful.
He hadn't touched his phone since getting home. His blazer was still draped over his desk chair, tie loose around his neck. The same notebook from the debate rested beside his pillow, pages open like it had something to say.
He stared at the ceiling.
"We lost.
But it didn't feel like losing. It felt like being seen.
Exposed.
And then... invited."
His hands still remembered the sensation of gripping the podium. His throat remembered every pause. Every stumble. Every word.
"I spoke. And I didn't break.
And that matters more than the trophy."
He remembered Ayumu's smirk. Haruka's steady eyes. The dull ache in his chest when the match ended.
He exhaled slowly.
"I'm already in it. There's no turning back now."
Three days later.
The school hallways were buzzing again. Students preparing for the next seasonal event. Flyers on the walls, chatter in the corners.
Kotarō walked the long corridor toward the club rooms with his hands in his pockets.
He stopped in front of the English club door.
Voices inside. Loud ones.
He glanced at his phone. Haruka wasn't here today. She'd said so in the group chat.
Still... He knocked once, then slid the door open.
The room was chaos.
Books stacked haphazardly. Debate posters, practice charts, highlighters everywhere. Someone had drawn a dragon made of thesaurus entries on the whiteboard.
Inside were two students.
One of them immediately leapt onto a chair.
"Behold! A new contender arrives!"
Kotarō blinked.
"Uh... I—"
"Do you seek redemption?" the boy shouted. "Glory? A second chance at the stage?"
"He's trying to say hello," said a girl sitting cross-legged on the floor, flipping through a grammar book and munching on Pocky.
"Don't mind him. He thinks every visitor is a plot twist."
Kotarō stepped in slowly.
The dramatic boy landed on the floor and approached.
"Souta Murai, second year, performance addict. I write rebuttals like sonnets."
The girl waved a half-eaten Pocky stick.
"Mikako Enomoto. Editor of everything, critic of everyone."
"You're the second speaker from the festival finals, right?" Souta leaned in. "Nozomi, right?"
Kotarō nodded once. "Yeah."
Mikako raised an eyebrow.
"Did Haruka finally convince you to join or did you lose a bet?"
Kotarō hesitated. "Neither. I want to join."
The room went silent.
Then Souta gasped.
"A warrior reborn!"
Mikako stood up, dusting off her skirt. "Well. Welcome to the chaos."
Souta threw an arm around Kotarō's shoulder instantly.
"Welcome! We have files, footage, fury, and too many opinions about transitional phrases!"
"And snacks," Mikako added. "Though if you touch my strawberry Pocky, I will challenge you to a 1v1 rebuttal death match."
"You lost that match last time," Souta said.
"I was tired and misquoted Orwell. It doesn't count."
Kotarō blinked. "...Is this normal?"
"Oh no," Mikako said. "This is tame."
Souta handed him a highlighter like it was a sacred sword.
"Welcome to the front lines, comrade. Choose your color. Your destiny begins now."
Kotarō took the highlighter. Yellow. Of course.
Mikako rolled her eyes. "Ugh, yellow. The color of passive-aggressive margin notes."
"Exactly what I was going for," Kotarō murmured.
They started talking again. Arguing about which debate style was more exciting. Tossing books back and forth. Spilling tea on someone's notes.
Kotarō stood there, watching. Quiet.
But not alone.
Chapter End