Chapter Forty-Two: Teacher Kuro

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At three in the afternoon, Kuroko-sensei's autograph session officially began in the lobby on the first floor of an office building.

As Kuroko-sensei’s number one fan, Eijuu Nanahara had dragged Anwa along and arrived at the venue half an hour early, unable to contain his excitement.

But to his surprise—

Even with their early arrival, they were still late.

Staring at the dense, snaking queues in the hall, Eijuu and Anwa exchanged a helpless glance and resigned themselves to lining up quietly.

Before entering the hall, however, Anwa discreetly put on a mask.

After all, for an event like this, Eijuu Nanahara could be indifferent, but Anwa still cared about his public image.

After waiting for a while, perhaps finding the monotony unbearable, Eijuu couldn’t help but turn around and gossip with Anwa.

“Anwa, what do you think Kuroko-sensei looks like?”

Before Anwa could answer, the guy standing in front of Eijuu spun around and replied first, “Isn’t it obvious? She’s probably got a face full of pimples and wears thick glasses.”

“No way!” Eijuu retorted vehemently, glaring at him. “If she were really ugly, why would Kuroko-sensei dare to hold a signing event? Doesn’t she care about losing fans?”

Startled by Eijuu’s reaction, the man hesitated, but unwilling to lose face, he argued back.

As their voices grew louder, mixing in wild guesses about Kuroko-sensei’s real appearance—words like “wife material” and “loli” floating in the air—Anwa quietly took two steps back, feigning ignorance and burying his head in his phone.

In the blink of an eye, half an hour had passed, and the signing event was about to begin.

Just as Anwa, who had been arguing with Nobue Ito, was in the thick of it, he heard a sudden commotion in the hall. Putting away his phone, he looked up to see a striking figure standing behind the signing table at the center of the hall.

She wore sky-blue skinny jeans, the cuffs rolled up to reveal fair ankles, and a white turtleneck sweater under a Mickey-colored trench coat.

Her long pink hair was tied in a voluminous ponytail, draped over her chest.

Though she wore a mask and sunglasses, her shapely figure alone was enough to ignite excitement in the crowd.

But Anwa merely raised an eyebrow.

If he wasn’t mistaken, the outfit she wore was the very same he’d seen just last night—plus that head of pink hair.

A figure quickly surfaced in Anwa’s mind.

...

Elsewhere.

In the center of the hall, gazing at the throng before her, Fukiko Kurorai took a deep breath and sat down in the seat marked “Kuroko-sensei.”

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With a gesture from the security staff managing the crowd, a young man, face flushed with excitement, soon stepped forward. Fumbling, he grabbed a comic from the table and, without even opening it, handed it to Fukiko, stammering, “Ku... Kuroko-sensei, could you please sign this for me?”

At his request, Fukiko nodded without looking up, her pen already in hand. In swift strokes, she signed “Kuroko” on the cover.

“Thank you!”

The young man clutched the comic, wanting to say more, but before he could, the eager crowd behind him surged forward.

“No pushing—one at a time!” the security staff, anticipating the rush, immediately stepped in to maintain order.

Fukiko was used to scenes like this.

Since childhood, she had loved drawing. Even after graduating from university, she had worked for a time at the most prestigious manga studio in Tokyo.

Back then, her greatest dream was to create a manga with her own hands that would be beloved by countless people.

But dreams and reality rarely coincide.

She had found no success in her career, and her love life had been a disaster. The husband who had been sunny and cheerful before marriage became a different man afterward—drinking, violence, gambling. After racking up fifty million yen in debt, he simply vanished.

Thus Fukiko had to raise her newborn daughter, Sakuri, alone, while working multiple jobs to pay off the debts.

By chance, she came across a recruitment ad for an “improper” manga artist. On a whim, she applied.

That whim turned into seven years.

Now, Fukiko Kurorai had become a well-known illustrator in the industry, with nearly a hundred “improper” manga to her name.

And today was the signing event for her latest work, “Train,” inspired by a flash of creativity not long ago.

At first, she hadn’t wanted to hold such an event, but the sponsor’s generous payment left her little choice.

To repay her debts as soon as possible, Fukiko compromised.

After sending off another enthusiastic fan, Fukiko flexed her sore wrist, ready to sign the next comic. But just then, a familiar male voice froze her in place.

“Kuroko, you’d better make my autograph look good~”

Hearing that voice, Fukiko’s head snapped up. Behind her sunglasses, her eyes widened in shock, and she almost called out.

“Yu...”

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“Shh!”

Anwa hurriedly made a silencing gesture. Fukiko, realizing herself, quickly swallowed her words.

With mixed feelings, she signed Anwa’s comic. As he left, still waving the comic in his hand, Fukiko suddenly realized what he meant, her cheeks flushing pink.

After Anwa’s visit, Fukiko finished the remaining autographs in a daze.

An hour later, the signing event was over.

After bidding farewell to the organizers, Fukiko hurried toward the exit.

Outside the office building, with a casual glance, she spotted a black-and-green motorcycle parked on the street, two people standing beside it.

One of them was Anwa.

He saw her as well and waved.

“Over here!”

Catching sight of him, Fukiko walked over.

With a stranger present, she kept her distance, simply calling Anwa’s name and nodding to the dumbstruck, chubby boy beside him.

Understanding her intent, Anwa didn’t expose her identity but looked smugly at the stupefied Eijuu, saying, “Well, a bet’s a bet. From next week, Eijuu, you’re buying my lunch.”

Snapping out of his shock, Eijuu pointed at Anwa, then at Fukiko, stammering, “You—you two actually know each other?”

“Of course,” Anwa replied cheerfully. Fukiko, guessing the situation, nodded and didn’t deny it.

The chubby Eijuu still looked as if he’d seen a ghost. Anwa glanced at the time—it was nearly five. He tossed the signed comic, courtesy of Fukiko, to Eijuu and clapped his hands. “Alright, it’s getting late. I’m heading home; you can get back on your own.”

Catching the comic in a panic, Eijuu looked up, ready to ask why Anwa couldn’t give him a ride since he had a bike, but seeing Kuroko-sensei meekly seated behind Anwa, his words died in his throat.

The motorcycle sped away.

Holding his two autographed comics, Eijuu suddenly remembered what Anwa had said before:

“Signed comics? What do I need those for? If I want, I can just ask Kuroko-sensei for a private cosplay session—wouldn’t that be better?”