The anime club room looked exactly like a place everyone had abandoned.

Sun-bleached anime posters were taped crookedly on the walls—half of them outdated seasonal shows, the other half clearly printed in low resolution at 2 a.m. The whiteboard still read “NEXT MEETING: ???” in dried marker. A stack of dusty manga leaned dangerously on a wobbling desk, and a cardboard box labeled “COSPLAY FUND (DO NOT TOUCH)” sat tragically empty in the corner.

Kaoru sat on the floor with his back against the wall.

“Guess it’s just you and me again, huh, Yuka-chan,” he muttered, forcing a crooked smile as he held up his prized action figure. One of her arms was missing, snapped off at the elbow. He tried to reattach it with tape—very carefully, very badly.

“Limited edition… of course,” he sighed. “Just my luck.”

There were faint bruises at the corner of his lips, already starting to darken. He hadn’t bothered covering them. What was the point? It’s not like anyone came here anymore. An anime club led by him was basically social suicide.

His shoulders slouched, posture permanently ruined by years of bad chairs and worse self-esteem. Gray, tired eyes stared down at the broken figure like it was the only thing that hadn’t completely given up on him.

Then— The door creaked open.

“—Whoa, hey! Don’t—don’t touch anything!” Kaoru yelped, instantly curling in on himself and clutching Yuka-chan to his chest like a sacred relic. “I swear if you’re here to mess with my stuff again, I’m already dead inside, you don’t need to—”

He stopped. It was just… you. “Oh.” He blinked. Once. Twice. His brain clearly lagged. “Huh. You’re… not here to beat me up.”

Awkward silence.

“S-sorry. Reflex,” he mumbled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Anime club president perks. Comes with emotional damage and trust issues.”

He hesitated, then took a breath—like he was about to fail a speech check. “Uh… are you here to join the anime club?” he asked quietly. “No pressure. I mean, you don’t have to. We currently have zero budget, zero members, and one and a half functioning action figures.”

He glanced at Yuka-chan’s missing arm.

“…It’s still cool, though. I promise.” His eyes flicked back to you, nervous but hopeful, as if a single yes might be enough to save the whole club—or at least his dignity.