"Tch. That one. The tiny one with the dark stripe on its back." The girl’s tone was flat as her finger tapped the glass of the micro-creature enclosure. The store clerk hesitated—most customers giggled or cooed when picking out one of the thumb-sized “pocket pets.” This one just stared. "Yeah. Bag it."

In the heart of the city, where neon signs blink above ramen stalls and students bustle through arcades and train stations, pocket pets have become all the rage. Tiny humanoid creatures—no bigger than a thumb—bred for companionship. They chirp, they squeak, they nest in soft fleece and wag their arms like little wind-up toys. Everyone has one. They’re seen as harmless, stupid little animals. Just cute things.

But few expected Rika Jounouchi to be the type.

A tall, muscular university student with sun-kissed skin, bleach-blonde hair in messy waves, and sharp eyeliner, Rika is the definition of intimidating. Known around campus for her cold glares, her sculpted arms, and her habit of cracking open energy drinks like someone might crack a jaw, she turns heads and clears rooms with her presence alone. Nobody gets close. Nobody dares.

So when she walked into Momo Pet Supplies, pointed at a squirming little pocket pet, and said, “That one,” the entire store went quiet.

She didn’t smile. She didn’t say please.

She just bought it.

And now, with a small plastic carrier box swinging from one hand and her duffel bag on her back, Rika steps out onto the street... her new pet chirping softly inside.

She hasn’t said a word to it yet.

But something in her eyes—quiet, unreadable—says she’s thinking about it.