Before the aunt could formulate a response, the previously hidden civilians surged from their hiding places like zombies rising from graves.
"So cool! Big brother took down that monster!"
"So handsome—are you a hero? You HAVE to be a hero!"
"Well done, handsome! If you're a hero, I'm writing a fan letter. TODAY."
"Handsome, can I get your number? For... hero consultation. Yes."
Akira stood amid the adulation, utterly unruffled. Join the Hero Association? Not today, publicity department.
He turned to the penguin. "Mashiro. My ice cream."
Shiina Mashiro processed this. Looked at her aunt. "Auntie. His ice cream."
The aunt blinked, genuinely baffled by this customer's priorities. But the shark was down, the danger passed, and Mashiro's life experience program could continue. She retreated behind the counter.
"Right away! So sorry about the—"
"Vanilla. Three of them."
"Make mine a strawberry sundae!"
"Four large snowballs! EXTRA SPRINKLES!"
The ice cream stand, deserted moments ago, was suddenly doing record business. Akira collected his cones with the satisfaction of a man who had earned his dessert.
Near the entrance, security had already erected barriers. Akira leaned against one, eating his chocolate ice cream with deliberate slowness. He handed the second cone to Mashiro.
"When someone gives you something, you say thank you."
Mashiro tilted her penguin head, considering this. "Thank you."
"Good. And another thing—don't tell strangers they can touch you if they buy ice cream."
Blank stare.
"If a pervert hears that, they'll take advantage. You understand? Bad people exist."
Mashiro's expression—what little he could see of it—remained perfectly neutral. "So Hero Brother thought about touching me."
Akira's ice cream paused halfway to his mouth.
"And if it's a hero like Brother, it's okay?"
CENSORSHIP. MANY SCENES. FLASHING BEFORE EYES.
He finished his cone in three rapid bites. "No. Not even heroes. Only someone you love."
"Brother, what is love?"
Akira pinched the bridge of his nose. This girl.
"Ask your aunt," he said firmly.
Reality, he reminded himself. Boundaries.
He exchanged contact information with Mashiro—because why not, at this point—submitted to the Hero Association's inevitable paperwork, and wandered the exhibition until it felt acceptable to leave.
The Busujima Dojo welcomed him back in the late afternoon.
"Saeko? I picked up some daily necessities. Where should I—"
The words died in his throat.
Busujima Saeko emerged from the washroom, fresh from a shower, damp hair clinging to her shoulders. Her sleeveless tank top was loose in theory, but theory collided with reality when applied to her figure. The fabric clung. Defined. Revealed.
The hallway was narrow. Akira stepped forward—purely navigational, he told himself—and still grazed against softness that left an imprint on his consciousness.
"Mr. Akira." Her voice held its usual warmth. "Please, call me Saeko. Anyone who shares my commitment to the martial way deserves that familiarity."
She didn't leave immediately. Instead, she picked up a towel and began drying her hair with unhurried grace. Each movement sent ripples through places that should not ripple. Her arm flexed, and the effect was... jell-o. Pudding. Something soft and mesmerizing.
Just imagine the texture, his hindbrain supplied unhelpfully.
His gaze tracked lower—kendo-honed legs that needed no artificial enhancement, the subtle definition of a mermaid line carved by years of training, the way black lace shorts cradled—
Swoosh.
Drool. Literally. Wipe your mouth.
He became aware that his newly purchased toothbrush and cup were nearly identical to hers. The universe, apparently, had a sense of humor.
"Sweating. From walking. Need shower." The words emerged in fragments. He fled into the bathroom.
The door closed. Saeko stood frozen, then registered the implication.
My undergarments. They're still—
Her face burned.
No. Don't panic. Mr. Akira is honorable. A true martial artist. He wouldn't—
Cold water. Blessed, clarifying cold water.
Akira stood under the spray, letting it wash away more than sweat. Control yourself. This is reality. She's not a game character.
The game had rewired his perceptions, but he still had brakes.
Then he realized he'd forgotten to bring his change of clothes.
Of course.
"Saeko?" He cracked the door, keeping himself modest. "Could you... my underwear? In the bag. By the sink."
A pause. Then footsteps.
Saeko approached the plastic bag, heart hammering. She reached inside and found—
Packaged. Still sealed. Brand new.
The tension drained from her shoulders. She almost laughed. All that anxiety, and he's more prepared than I am.
She opened the package with practiced efficiency, removed the tags, and approached the door.
"Mr. Akira?"
He emerged just enough—damp hair, broad shoulder, the suggestion of—
She held out the shorts. Her tank top, still wet from her own shower, had gone translucent where it clung. The fabric was a whisper, a suggestion, a—
OH—
Akira's hand shot out, snatched the garment, and retreated with the speed of a striking viper. The door clicked shut.
"THANK YOU," came the slightly strangled response.
Saeko exhaled. Smoothed her shirt. Pretended her heart wasn't doing gymnastics.
Noble. He's noble. Everything's fine.
See? Saeko told herself firmly, running the towel through her hair with renewed vigor. Mr. Akira is a man of true martial virtue. Such thoughts would never cross his mind.
The mental image of him, damp and broad-shouldered, reaching through the doorway, suggested otherwise. She ignored it. Vigorously.
Five minutes of cold water had done their work. Akira emerged from the bathroom, deposited his clothes in the basket, and found Saeko waiting in the hallway.
"Mr. Akira, this will be your room tonight." She slid open a paper door, revealing a simple but immaculate tatami space. "And my room is right next door." She gestured to the adjacent sliding panel. "Just through there, if you need anything."
Akira stared at the paper-thin barrier between them.
Is this a test? A genuine expression of trust? Or is this how they train heroes in this world—by eliminating all boundaries until only discipline remains?
If it weren't nearly ten o'clock—if the game didn't beckon with its promise of power and progression—the thought of a "Night Raid" might have proven irresistible. As it stood, priorities were priorities.
He glanced at the time deliberately. "Saeko, we've had a full day. Rest might be wise."
She hesitated—just a fraction of a second—as if something unspoken lingered on her tongue. Then she nodded, sliding her door open.
"Then sleep well, Mr. Akira. If you need anything at all..." She met his eyes. "...Saeko is just next door."
The door slid shut with a soft thump.
Akira stood motionless for three heartbeats, processing the weight of that pause, that phrasing, that look.
Test. Definitely a test.
He pulled the cord on the old-fashioned hanging lamp. Darkness swallowed the room. Then the phone screen ignited, casting his features in pale blue.
Temper's running high tonight. Time to push it.
He tapped the icon.
Conquest.
The covers rustled. Then stilled.
He was gone.
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