A narrow room, a narrow window. Satoru sat at his desk, staring at the night sky. Far away, the neon of Tokyo flickered like a broken kaleidoscope.
He suddenly missed smoking.
Back in his old life he used to smoke, but quit because his roommate hated it. After transmigrating and going through all this chaos, the craving came crawling back.
But Japan's "no tobacco for minors" law was enforced like a religion. If he walked into a konbini looking like this, he'd be kicked out before he even opened his mouth.
He felt like he was forgetting something important. He'd been trying to remember for ages, which was exactly why he wanted a cigarette to jolt his brain.
Down on the road, a junior-high girl with a backpack, fresh from cram school, walked into view.
"Oh, right. I forgot to do homework."
Satoru leapt off the desk, yanked out textbooks and worksheets, and started scribbling like his life depended on it.
Gotta balance fun and duty—that's the healthy student life.
Just as he picked up his pen,
a noise came from the door.
This apartment was cheap; walls were paper-thin.
Moments ago, next door had been blasting "OH YEAH" mixed with sweet "Yamete~", a perfect Japan-foreign collab.
This time the sound was more normal, and it was coming from the hallway, not the neighboring unit.
"Oh~~ Madam, why are you all alone out here?"
Even through the wall, Satoru could recognize that cotton-picker-starting-engine accent.
Every time he heard that voice, he pictured plantations two hundred years ago.
Satoru hated two kinds of people in this world:
Racists.
Black people.
Of course he knew not all black people were bad, but what did that have to do with him? He hadn't met any of the good ones.
And the one outside right now, "Mike," definitely wasn't one of the good ones.
According to the building manager Takahashi, Mike had just moved in recently.
This afternoon when Satoru was heading upstairs, they'd crossed paths.
Satoru going up. Mike coming down.
They locked eyes for a second. Satoru stayed silent.
Mike opened with that engine-revving accent:
"Oh, you live here too? I just moved in. Name's Mike. You are?"
Broken Japanese.
"Kobayashi," Satoru nodded.
Then noticed the woman behind Mike—crop top, miniskirt, a little older than Satoru but still "young." Heavy makeup, sagging skin.
Satoru sighed inwardly. Classic paid companion.
Mike noticed where his eyes went and flashed a big grin. The only clean thing on him was his teeth.
But the smile held zero friendliness—just pure mockery and contempt.
Satoru pretended not to see, slipped past, and kept climbing.
Mike turned, smacked the woman's ass—PAK! loud enough to echo.
"Yeah~ Yuri-ka, am I not way better than Japanese guys!?"
"…Y-Yes," the woman answered two beats late, then switched to sugary voice and plastered herself against his muscular body: "Of course, Daddy, you're the best~~"
"Where exactly am I the best?"
"I already said you're the 'best stick'~~ Where else could you be the best~~?"
They were clearly saying it loud enough for Satoru to hear.
Satoru heard every word crystal clear.
But why the hell should he care? Pure-love warrior here.
He even started humming cheerfully:
"How can you cry~ Everything will be alright~ Just think~~~???"
Mike clicked his tongue, glanced back at Satoru who was acting like he heard nothing, then squeezed the woman's hip hard:
"Food first. When we get back, Papa's gonna wreck you!"
"Okaaaay~~" Yurika's gaze lingered on Satoru's retreating back, as if she hadn't had enough.
…
"Oh yeah."
Satoru suddenly remembered. He fished out a name card from his pocket:
『Momoki Yurika ♡ Contact: ——』
The woman had slipped it to him when Mike wasn't looking.
Satoru tossed it straight into the trash, clasped his hands, and bowed.
"Amitabha. This Buddha does not save idiots."
…
"Please… stop…"
Outside, besides Mike's nonstop rap, a soft, weak female voice rose in protest.
Even without seeing her, Satoru could already picture a beautiful woman—way higher quality than the one in his trash can.
That feeble resistance… made his fists hard.
Holy déjà vu. NTR radar activated!
But this time Satoru came prepared.
Instead of rushing out, he pushed up his black-rimmed glasses with his middle finger.
Smirked.
With X-ray vision, he could see every single pore on the "madam" outside.
Then his jaw dropped.
He might actually be seeing a ghost.
…
Meanwhile, Mike was ecstatic.
The loud knocking had interrupted his work on Yurika's stomach and pissed him off.
But when he opened the door and saw who it was, his eyes nearly popped with bloodlust.
A young, gorgeous woman.
Light blue hair tied in a mature bun.
Ocean-deep eyes, snow-white skin, cherry lips, cheeks flushed pink.
Even in warming spring, she wore a sweater under a blue office-lady coat.
Her pencil skirt perfectly outlined a perky butt, black stockings wrapping thick, round thighs.
Classic Yamato nadeshiko beauty.
Top-tier.
Mike instantly knew—this was the beautiful married woman from the fifth floor the manager had mentioned.
When he moved in, he'd jokingly asked Takahashi if there were any hotties in the building.
Takahashi had grinned and said, "Fifth floor. One really pretty madam."
Jackpot!
No way he'd let this pass.
"Please… keep it down a little," the madam said, cheeks burning.
Seeing her slightly aroused expression, Mike's appetite skyrocketed.
Who cared about paid chicks like Yurika? Real men steal married housewives!
"Hehe, madam, are you… maybe interested in this kinda thing too?" Mike stepped closer, flexing his pecs under the bath towel he'd thrown on in a hurry.
"…Disgusting." The madam turned her head and muttered something under her breath.
Mike took it as shy playing-hard-to-get—classic Japanese restraint! He was thrilled.
Then,
BAM!
The door swung open violently.
Mike's face ate a full-force door slap.
"Whoa! Sorry sorry, didn't see you standing there," Satoru exclaimed in exaggerated shock. "But actually it's still my fault. Even if I didn't see you, I should've smelled you coming. By the way, Mr. Mike, do you know why black people have body odor?"
Mike had just met the least restrained Japanese person of his life.
…
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