Chapter 16: Kawasaki Rika (3).
In this crowd of wayward teens, with their warped values and social circles, dating a “delinquent” girl was peak bragging rights.
It meant your girlfriend would fight for you, “show off”—that violent “protection” and “belonging” became swagger capital.
Social comparison theory: people gauge worth by stacking against others, feeding self-image and satisfaction.
Deeper: identity hunger.
In fluid modern society, fraying community ties, folks crave visible badges proving group alignment.
To these narrow-minded kids, their bad-girl partners were “social currency”—proof of standing out from “goody-two-shoes” classmates.
Now, seeing their once-cool girlfriends quail like chicks before Kawasaki Rika, a twinge of discontent stirred—yet eyes glued helplessly to her.
Rika’s “look” crushed the rest: wrecked by chaos—sleep-deprived, booze-soaked, overindulged—gaunt like sticks or bloated.
Under black biker leather: balanced, powerful physique.
Face: bold, wild, sharp contours radiating defiance; those “ab asylum” gray eyes.
The immature boys felt parched throats, racing hearts.
Legs clenched instinctively, subtle grinding to ease sudden physiological tension.
The delinquent girls clocked their boyfriends’ pathetic fidgets and drooling stares.
Faces burned; inner curses: Assholes.
Then, one booze-and-vanity-drunk boy—caked eyeliner smudged dirty, micro-shorts barely covering thighs, flaunting legs—ditched his girl.
Grinning what he thought charming, he sauntered to Rika’s sofa, plopped on the edge, inches from her.
“Hey, big sis~ That’s heavy-bike leather, right? So cool!”
Pinched falsetto, syrupy fake-sweet, eyes fluttering for contact.
“I’ve… never ridden a motorcycle~ Can I… try yours? Feel the wind~?”
He slithered closer like a snake, “subtly.”
Rika ignored—until cloying perfume hit, stomach-turning.
She lifted her head, gray eyes emotionless, glancing at the girl who brought this clown.
The underling jumped like tail-stepped cat, cold sweat.
She bolted, yanked the boy’s arm, hauled him off the sofa brutally.
“You played-out male whore, think you can climb Boss’s bed? You worthy?! Get over here!”
Furious curses; hand cracked across his face—loud slap.
Onlookers howled mocking laughter; room buzzed with glee.
Everyone knew Boss never messed with guys—question if she ever had.
Private whispers: maybe her orientation’s “off”? No proof.
Then, one decent-looking delinquent girl’s eyes glinted slyly.
Watching the farce, Rika’s stoic profile—she hatched a bootlick plan.
Smirking mischievously, she leaned to the younger, pretty boy in her arm, whispering.
“No… A-Hui… aren’t I your boyfriend?”
The clear-faced boy paled, terrified by her suggestion.
Clutched her hem, looked up with big scared eyes, voice trembling grievance.
“Psh, what’s the big deal? Boss is top-tier—you’re not losing out.”
A-Hui slapped his hand away, annoyed, tone flippant.
The school-uniformed boy didn’t know: once she’d used him up, he’d be tossed to her sisters.
Not just him—all guys here, boyfriends or plus-ones.
Inside the gang, men were swap-able, shareable resources—toys.
Drag to any room, sate whims.
This cute newbie, first time here, looked cluelessly pure.
The women had eyed him like merchandise—naked lust—for ages.
His innocent, pitiful vibe stirred them.
Secretly thrilled: tonight, drag this “clean” boy to a dark room; under multiple women’s ravaging, how heartbreakingly he’d cry.