I Reincarnated as the Counselor NPC in a Dating Sim, and Now Every Heroine I Treat Becomes Obsessed with Me - Chapter 27: “The Shadow in the Rehearsal Hall—The Day Mio Invited Ren to Practice”

Chapter 27: “The Shadow in the Rehearsal Hall—The Day Mio Invited Ren to Practice”

Late August.

Only one week left of summer vacation.

That day, there was a note slipped under the counseling room door.

It wasn’t addressed to me.
Not even to the counseling room.
No sender name either.

Just one line.

『Tomorrow, 3 PM. Small hall behind the second gym. Come.』

A command. No name. That tone.

It was Mio.

When Mio came to the counseling room, she always showed up on her own terms—and left the same way. This was the first time she’d left a note, but that “come” sounded exactly like her.

The next day. 3 PM.

Behind the second gym, there was a small hall.
It was usually used as a rehearsal space for the drama club.

Not a full theater, but it had a simple stage and seating.

When I opened the door, a dim space spread out before me.

The audience area was dark.
Only a single spotlight shone on the stage.

Mio stood there.

Alone.

In the empty rehearsal hall during summer break, there were no other members.

Only Mio, standing within the circle of light.

She wasn’t in costume.
Not even in her uniform.

Just a black shirt and black pants.

Nothing extra—only the outline of her body standing out in the light.

“…You came.”

She looked toward me from the stage.

“Thanks for the invitation. —Practicing alone?”

“Yeah. Just today. The others start tomorrow. —There’s something I want to show you.”

“Something you want to show me?”

“…Sit.”

I took a seat in the front row.

About three meters away from Mio.

The spotlight lit up her face.

An androgynous look.
Long eyelashes.
Sharp, narrow eyes.

On stage, she looked even more striking than usual.

The contrast of light and shadow made her features stand out.

“I’m going to run the cultural festival piece from start to finish. —Watch quietly until the end.”

“Got it.”

Mio closed her eyes.

Three. Five. Ten seconds.

In that silence, I could see her body change.

The set of her shoulders, the angle of her back, the way she shifted her weight.

Just by standing there—she was becoming someone else.

Her eyes opened.

They weren’t Mio’s eyes anymore.

They were the eyes of the “girl with the mask.”

The monologue began.

—“The Girl with the Mask.”

The piece Mio chose herself.

A story about a girl who lives while wearing a mask.

Mio’s acting—was overwhelming.

Her voice.
Her timing.
The way she moved.

Everything was close to a professional level.

No—at a high school level, it stood out far too much.

Why the girl put on the mask?
The real face hidden underneath.
How the mask became so natural that she forgot how to take it off.

Every line Mio spoke overlapped with her own story.

The “prince” mask.
Her mother’s expectations.
Seventeen years of hiding who she really was.

Through the language of theater, Mio was telling her own story.

The words she couldn’t say out loud—she placed into her lines.

I watched in silence.

So absorbed, I almost forgot to breathe.

And then—the climax.

The moment the girl removes her mask.

Mio stopped at the center of the stage.

Her hands slowly rose to her face.

The motion of removing the mask.

Her fingertips touched her face.

—And then, she stopped.

Her fingers stayed there, unmoving.

Frozen midway through taking it off.

Five. Ten. Fifteen seconds.

Her fingers were trembling.

Slightly—but clearly.

“…………”

Mio lowered her hands.

She couldn’t take off the mask.

Under the spotlight, she lowered her head.

Her long bangs cast a shadow, hiding her expression.

Silence.

“…This is where I stop.”

Mio’s voice came down from the stage.

Not her acting voice.

Her real one—low, and slightly rough.

“Every time, I get stuck here. I don’t know what the face looks like—after the mask comes off.”

I stayed silent.

She raised her head.

The spotlight hit her eyes.

And in them—there was fear.

Mio, who had stood on stage before thousands without hesitation.
Mio, who had perfectly worn the “prince” mask.

She was afraid—of the face beneath it.

“…I can act while wearing a mask. Any mask. A prince, a villain, even a fool. —But I can’t act what comes after taking it off.”

She stepped to the edge of the spotlight.

Standing right on the line between light and shadow.

“What’s under the mask? In the script, I wrote, ‘her real face appears.’ But what is my real face? After I take off the prince—what am I?”

That wasn’t a line.

It was her own question.

“…Counselor. I’m asking you.”

She looked at me.

I—didn’t answer right away.

This wasn’t something I could respond to lightly.

Saying things like “this is your true self” or “just show your real face”—that wouldn’t reach her.

She wasn’t asking for a simple answer.

“…Mio-san.”

“What?”

“What if you try acting it—even if you don’t know?”

She narrowed her eyes.

“…Without knowing?”

“You don’t know what your face looks like after the mask comes off. —That’s fine. Take it off anyway. Even if you don’t know what will come out in that moment. —That itself could become the performance.”

She stared at me for a while.

“…You’re saying that counts as acting?”

“If you truly don’t know, and still take it off anyway—then it’s not fake. That’s real. You might get something even the script couldn’t capture.”

Her eyes—shook.

Not anger. Not sadness.

It was the look of someone about to grasp something.

“…Without knowing.”

She murmured.

“Taking it off without knowing. —That’s scary.”

“It’s okay to be scared.”

“…………”

She stepped back into the center of the spotlight.

Her hands slowly rose toward her face.

—And she stopped again.

Her fingertips rested against her face.

This time, they trembled more than before.

Five. Ten seconds.

Then—her hands moved.

The motion of removing the mask.

Slowly, her hands pulled away from her face.

And then—her face was fully revealed under the spotlight.

A face without a mask.

Not the prince.
Not the star of the drama club.
Not even Mio Kujou.

Just—a seventeen-year-old girl’s face.

There was no expression.

She wasn’t smiling.
She wasn’t crying.
She wasn’t angry.

It was empty.

After removing the mask—there was nothing left.

Mio realized it herself—and for a brief moment, she caught her breath.

“…There’s nothing.”

She touched her own face.

“After taking off the mask—there’s nothing.”

Her voice trembled slightly.

I stood up and walked closer to the edge of the stage.

Looking up at her from below.

“It’s not that there’s nothing.”

“…………”

“It just looks that way because you’ve never seen your own face before. You’ve only ever worn masks, so you don’t know what’s underneath. —But just now, it was there.”

“…There? What was?”

“A face that’s scared. A face that’s honestly afraid because it doesn’t know. —That’s one of your real faces, Mio-san.”

She looked down at me from the stage.

The spotlight was behind her, so her face was in shadow.

I couldn’t read her expression.

A long silence.

“…A scared face… is my real face.”

“Yeah. Even if it’s not pretty, even if it’s empty, even if it’s scared—anything that isn’t a mask is your real face.”

She let out a deep breath.

Then she slowly sat down on the stage, hugging her knees.

A posture the “prince” would never take.

“…Counselor.”

“Mm.”

“Stay here… a little longer.”

“I will.”

I sat back down in the audience.

Mio, sitting under the spotlight with her knees drawn in—and me, in the darkness of the seats.

Three meters between us.

The sound of cicadas echoed faintly through the gym walls.

Ten. Twenty minutes.

She didn’t say anything.

Neither did I.

Eventually, she stood up and turned off the spotlight.

The hall fell into darkness.

Only the faint green glow of the emergency light outlined her figure.

“…I’ll run it again before the festival. —Come then too.”

“Got it.”

“…………”

She walked toward the door.

Her hand on the handle—without turning back, she spoke.

“Don’t tell anyone about today.”

“I won’t.”

“…Obviously.”

The door opened, and summer light poured in.

Mio’s silhouette dissolved into the brightness.

“…Thanks.”

A quiet voice.

She didn’t turn back.

The door closed.

—

Alone in the small hall, I stood there for a while, looking at the stage.

Mio had taken off her mask.

And what appeared there—was emptiness.

She had worn a mask for so long that she no longer knew her real face.

That was the core of her problem.

But today—she took it off anyway, even without knowing.

And she showed me the result.

Something she hadn’t shown to anyone in the drama club.
Not to her mother. Not to her classmates. Not even to Haruto.

Only to me.

That was trust.

And at the same time—another “side” that she showed only to me had come into being.

Midori shared her “seventy-two self” only with me.

Rin could say “I’m scared” only to me.

Shizuku only used her voice in front of me.

Akane was the only one who called me a “friend.”

And Mio—showed that empty, unmasked face only to me.

All five of them—only in front of me, they take off their armor.

As a counselor, that’s the right kind of relationship.

Letting their guard down only in a safe place—that’s a normal part of recovery.

But—

“Only in front of me” could one day turn into “they can’t take off their armor unless I’m there.”

I still haven’t figured out where that line is.

I stepped out of the small hall.

The summer sunlight was blinding.

On my way back to the school building, I passed by the drama club room.

From tomorrow, the members would gather again, and rehearsals would begin.

Mio would put the “prince” mask back on.

But underneath that mask—there was nothing.

And right now, I’m the only one who knows that.