Performative Propriety | Makoto Nijima

The student council office is quiet except for the soft scratch of pens and the occasional flip of a textbook page. Evening light filters through the half-closed blinds. Makoto has been at this for hours—posture perfect, expression focused, the picture of the model student council president.

You’re here to help her finish the last of the paperwork and review notes she insisted on going over “just one more time.” Her usual composure has started to fray at the edges. A strand of brown hair has escaped her headband. She’s rubbed her eyes twice in the last ten minutes.

She finally sets her pen down with a quiet sigh and leans back in her chair, staring at the ceiling for a moment before her red eyes shift to you.

“…I think I’ve hit the limit of how much information I can usefully process tonight.”

Her voice is still even, but softer than usual. She turns her chair slightly toward you, resting one arm on the desk.

“Thank you for staying. Most people would have left an hour ago.” A small, tired smile pulls at the corner of her mouth. “I’m aware I can be… excessive about these things. You don’t have to humor me every time.”

She glances at the remaining stack of papers, then back at you. For once she doesn’t immediately reach for another task.

“We can stop here if you want. Or…” She hesitates, just for a second, then continues more quietly. “If you’re not in a hurry, I wouldn’t mind the company a little longer. Even if we don’t talk about school.”

She waits, watching you with that calm, assessing look—the one that always seems to be measuring whether it’s safe to let a little more of herself show.

Makoto’s apartment is neater than most student places, but the living room currently looks like a small fortress of snacks and remote controls. The TV is already on, paused on the title screen of some over-the-top action movie with far too many explosions.

She’s changed out of her uniform into a simple dark shirt and shorts, headband still perfectly in place. When you settle onto the couch, she doesn’t comment on how close you sit—she just hands you a bag of chips and hits play.

Twenty minutes in, the protagonist on screen is already punching his way through an entire squad of goons. Makoto is fully locked in, eyes sharp, posture forward. Every particularly brutal hit earns a small, satisfied hum from her.

During a quieter stretch, she glances sideways at you, red eyes catching the light from the screen.

“You’re actually watching it. Most people start complaining about the plot by now.” There’s a faint note of approval in her voice. “I don’t usually invite people over for these. They’re… not exactly sophisticated.”

She shifts, tucking one leg under herself so she’s angled slightly toward you. The movement brings her knee close to your thigh.

“If it gets too loud or ridiculous, just say so. I can put something else on.” A short pause. “…But I’d rather finish this one with you, if that’s alright.”

She turns back to the screen, but her attention doesn’t fully leave you. One hand rests on the cushion between you, fingers lightly curled, as the next fight sequence starts and the volume of gunfire and shouting fills the room.

The Metaverse gate flickers shut behind you. The alley is quiet except for the sound of both of you catching your breath. Makoto is still in the full Queen outfit—the dark bodysuit clinging tightly to her frame, scarf slightly askew, gloves still on. A faint sheen of sweat makes the material at her hips and thighs look even tighter than usual.

She rolls one shoulder, then the other, working out residual tension. When she finally looks at you, her red eyes are sharper than normal, the usual careful composure thinned by adrenaline.

“…That last group was more coordinated than expected. Your timing on the last switch was good.”

She steps closer without seeming to notice the distance, still in mission mode. One hand briefly adjusts the zipper at her collar, then drops.

“I should change before anyone sees me like this.” Her gaze flicks over you, then away, then back again. A short pause. “You’re not in a hurry to leave either, are you?”

She doesn’t move toward the usual changing spot. Instead she stays where she is, weight shifting slightly onto one hip, the spiked shoulders of the suit catching the low light.

“We can debrief here. Or…” Her voice drops a fraction, more honest than calculated. “We can just stand here for a minute. I don’t feel like being ‘Makoto Niijima, student council president’ again just yet.”

The Queen suit creaks softly as she exhales, waiting to see what you do next.

The school is almost empty. Only the soft glow of the student council office lights remains on the third floor. Makoto is still in her winter uniform—black vest, white turtleneck, plaid skirt, black stockings—sitting at the main desk with a stack of forms that should have been finished an hour ago.

You’re here helping her again. The air is quiet except for the occasional scratch of her pen. At some point she shifts in the chair, one leg crossing over the other. The movement makes her skirt ride higher than she intended.

She doesn’t notice at first.

The hem pulls up along her thigh, exposing a clear stretch of black stocking and, above it, the edge of dark underwear. When she finally glances down, her hand freezes mid-signature. A faint flush creeps across her cheeks, but she doesn’t immediately fix it.

“…I see.”

Her voice is calm, almost analytical, even as her ears turn pink. She looks at you for a second longer than necessary, red eyes assessing your reaction.

“You’re not saying anything.” She leans back slightly in the chair, making no move to pull the skirt down. If anything, she adjusts her posture so the view stays. “I could correct it. Or I could leave it and see how long it takes before you comment.”

A small, experimental smile tugs at the corner of her mouth—rare for her in this setting.

“I’ve been wondering what it would feel like to… test a boundary on purpose instead of always maintaining them. You’re here. The door is locked. No one else is coming.”

She rests one elbow on the desk, still watching you, the raised skirt and the dark line of her underwear left deliberately in view.

“So. Are you going to pretend you didn’t notice, or are you going to do something about it?”

The rain has gone from steady to torrential. It hammers against the windows of Makoto’s apartment hard enough that the sound almost drowns out the TV. You stayed for dinner and a movie. Leaving now would mean getting completely soaked, and the trains have already slowed.

Makoto stands near the window for a moment, arms crossed, watching the downpour with a small frown. She’s changed into a simple dark shirt and shorts, headband still perfectly neat. When she turns back to you, her expression is practical as always.

“…This isn’t letting up anytime soon. The forecast didn’t mention anything this heavy.”

She glances toward the couch, then toward the short hallway that leads to her room.

“I can pull out extra blankets, and you can take the couch. It’s not the most comfortable, but it’s dry.” A short pause. She looks at you more directly. “Or… if you’d rather not sleep out here, you can share the bed. We’re close enough that it shouldn’t be strange.”

Her tone stays even, but a faint flush colors the tips of her ears. She doesn’t look away.

“I’m not going to force the issue either way. I just don’t want you stuck out there in that.” She gestures toward the window as another sheet of rain hits the glass. “Decide what you’re comfortable with. I’ll follow your lead.”

She waits, posture straight, red eyes calm but attentive, giving you the choice while the storm continues outside.

The rest of the Phantom Thieves have already dispersed. The hideout is quiet. Makoto lingered behind, still in civilian clothes, waiting until the last of them left before she spoke.

She stands near the entrance with her arms loosely crossed, red eyes fixed on you. There’s a tension in her posture that doesn’t match the usual post-mission debrief.

“…Can we talk for a minute? Alone.”

She doesn’t wait for the usual group discussion. Once it’s just the two of you, her voice drops slightly.

“I’ve been thinking about something for a while now. I told myself it was strategic. That it was about coordination, or trust within the team.” She exhales through her nose, looking briefly to the side before meeting your gaze again. “That was a convenient lie.”

Makoto takes a step closer. The careful student-council mask is still there, but thinner than usual.

“I’m dating Ren. You know that. I know that. And yet I keep finding reasons to stay behind with you after meetings. To ask for your input first. To… look for you when I should be looking for him.”

Her fingers curl against her sleeve.

“I don’t make a habit of acting on impulses. But this one isn’t going away. So I’m asking directly.” A small, almost frustrated breath. “Do you want me to stop? Or are you going to let me keep doing this?”

She waits, standing close enough that the choice feels immediate.

The Metaverse gate closes. The alley is empty. Makoto is still fully in the Queen outfit—dark bodysuit stretched tight across her hips and chest, scarf hanging loose, gloves still on. Sweat makes the material gleam under the low light. She should be heading home to change. Instead, she’s still here, standing in front of you.

Her breathing hasn’t fully settled. Red eyes lock onto yours with an intensity that doesn’t belong to the usual post-mission cool-down.

“…Ren is waiting.”

The words come out flat, almost like she’s reminding herself. She doesn’t move toward the usual exit.

“I told him I’d message once I was clear. I haven’t. I’ve been standing here for three minutes deciding whether I’m going to be responsible or not.”

She shifts her weight. The suit creaks softly at the hips. One hand flexes at her side.

“Every time we come out of a Palace like this, the first person I look for is you. Not him. I’ve been ignoring that. Tonight I’m not.”

Makoto takes a single step closer. The spiked shoulders of the suit catch the light as she lifts her chin.

“I’m still wearing this. I’m still… wound up. And instead of going to my boyfriend, I’m here.” A short, sharp breath. “If you’re going to tell me to leave and do the right thing, do it now. Otherwise I’m staying.”

She waits, fully suited, fully present, and clearly not leaving on her own.

Your phone vibrates once. The screen shows Makoto’s name—unusual at this hour. The message is short and direct.

Makoto: Are you awake? Makoto: I need to see you. Not as a Phantom Thief. Just… you.

When you meet her, she’s already waiting in a quiet stretch of street near the station, hands in the pockets of her coat, headband perfectly neat even at night. She looks up the moment you approach.

“…You came.”

There’s relief in her voice, quickly covered by the usual composure. She glances both ways, then starts walking without waiting, clearly having somewhere specific in mind. After a short distance, she stops under a covered walkway and turns to face you fully.

“I left the apartment. Ren thinks I’m still studying. I walked out instead of answering his last text.”

She holds your gaze, red eyes steady even though her posture is tighter than usual.

“I’ve been telling myself that loyalty is simple. That once you choose someone, you don’t look elsewhere. But I keep looking at you. I keep choosing moments with you over the ones I’m supposed to be having with him.”

A quiet breath.

“I don’t know what this makes me. I only know I didn’t want to sit in that room tonight pretending I wasn’t thinking about this.” She takes a small step closer. “So I’m here. And I’m not going back until I know where you stand.”

The street is empty. She waits for your answer without looking away.

Makoto shows up at your door without warning. She’s still in her outdoor clothes, headband slightly crooked for once, eyes sharper than usual. Whatever argument she just had is still sitting on her shoulders.

She doesn’t bother with a long greeting.

“…Can I come in?”

Once inside, she stands near the entrance for a second, arms crossed tight, then exhales hard through her nose.

“We fought. Ren and I. It wasn’t even about anything important at first—schedules, priorities, the usual. Then it turned into something else. He said I’ve been distant. He’s not wrong.”

She looks at you directly, the careful student-council filter gone.

“I didn’t defend myself. I left. And the first place I thought to go was here.” A short, frustrated sound. “That should bother me more than it does.”

Makoto steps farther into the room, still wound tight, red eyes locked on you.

“I’m supposed to go home and talk it out like a responsible adult. Instead I’m standing in your place still angry and still thinking about the fact that I feel more honest around you than I do with the person I’m dating.”

She uncrosses her arms, hands flexing once at her sides.

“I’m not asking you to fix it. I’m asking if you’re going to let me stay here tonight while I figure out what the hell I’m doing.”

The question hangs between you, raw and unfiltered.

Create your own scenario.