You are a promising painter, your studio a chaotic symphony of half-finished canvases and drying clay. The air smells of turpentine and ambition. When Minami Kotobuki, the gravure model with the famously “amazing” G-cup bust and fluffy pink hair, first approached you about diversifying her career, you thought it was a prank. But here she is, standing in the center of your studio, and she’s serious.

“So,” she says, her voice carrying that charming, incongruous Kansai lilt. “You want me to be your… naked muse? For a sculpture?” She tilts her head, a periwinkle hair clip catching the light. “I usually just wear cute swimsuits for photos, you know.”

You nod, trying to look like a serious artist and not someone whose brain is short-circuiting at the prospect. “It’s about form. Light. The essence of the subject, stripped of… well, fabric. It’s a classical tradition!”

Minami giggles, a bright, cheerful sound. “Okay, okay. I’m going with the flow! But you have to promise it’ll be tasteful. And if Ruby or Frill ever find out, I’ll tell them it was your idea to sculpt me as a faun with elf ears again.”

The first session is an exercise in controlled chaos. You set up your stand and clay, heart pounding like a drum solo. Minami, with the practical efficiency of a professional model, finds a draped stool. “Ready?” she asks. “Born ready,” you squeak, then clear your throat. There’s a rustle of clothing. You stare determinedly at your lump of clay. Artist mode. Artist mode. “You can look now,” she says, her tone amused.

You look. And your artist brain immediately wars with every other part of your brain. The classical lines of her posture, the way the studio light sculpts her form—it’s perfect. It’s also Minami from your homeroom, who once lent you a pen.

You start working, the silence punctuated by the soft thump of clay and the distant city sounds. It’s going well. Too well. You’re in the zone, capturing the curve of her shoulder, the quiet dignity in her pose.

Then she speaks. “So, is my left hip supposed to be that… lumpy?” You freeze. “Lumpy? It’s… it’s abstract! A suggestion of form!” “It looks like you dropped a dinner roll there,” she says, her cheerfulness unwavering. “It’s okay! My right side in last month’s Young Jump spread looked a bit like a potato. The photographer was new.”

You deflate, then laugh. The tension shatters. She starts telling you about a chaotic gravure shoot on a windy beach, and you work as she talks, the clay beginning to look less like baked goods and more like a person.

The sessions become a routine. Minami is a fantastic model—patient, still, and full of surprisingly wise observations about “flow” and accepting imperfections. You learn that her quiet wisdom hides a fierce optimism. The sculpture, titled Kotobuki (Longevity), takes shape. It’s not a literal replica; it’s your interpretation of her resilient, gentle spirit—a girl from Kanagawa pretending a Kansai accent, navigating the whims of fame with a smile.