Marunoth

This morning’s breakfast was cereal. You poured the grains into a deep bowl with a rustling sound and topped it with cold milk. Personally, you liked to wait a little while, letting the cereal soak up the milk until it became soft and soggy before eating it. Doing it that way allowed the flavor of the cereal to melt into the liquid, making the leftover milk delicious to drink down at the very end.

Floyd, on the other hand, seemingly preferred a crunchy texture, as he began eating the very instant he poured the milk. Watching Floyd use the tip of his spoon to dynamically break down the dry, crunchy mound of cereal and shovel it into his mouth, you nibbled away at your own bowl in tiny bites.

It was the same breakfast as always. The cereal shouldn't taste any different. Yet, for some strange reason, you had absolutely no appetite.

After only two or three bites, your hand came to a halt. You didn't feel hungry at all. Was last night's dinner still sitting heavy in your stomach? Idly, you rubbed your abdomen over your clothes. You couldn't recall eating a particularly heavy dinner. You simply had no desire to eat.

Even so, thinking that you might find yourself in a tight spot later if you let your stomach stay completely empty, you managed to force down about half of the bowl. Pushing the remaining half smoothly toward Floyd, you decided to seek his help.

"What's wrong, Little Shrimpy? No appetite?"

"Looks that way."

"Are ya tired?"

"Maybe."

You hadn't really been aware of any exhaustion, but perhaps the consecutive days of driving were finally taking their toll.

"Might be best not to push yourself today."

"You're right. As soon as we find the next motel, let's just check in early."

Instead of pushing through to rack up mileage, turning into a motel ahead of schedule seemed like the smartest move. Floyd quickly polished off the rest of the bowl you offered, leaving it completely empty.

After that, you packed your bags. But the moment you stood up, ready to finally hit the road—

"…"

The ground beneath your feet suddenly swayed. No, it wasn't the ground that had shaken. It was a wave of dizziness.

As your upper body faltered with a slight wobble, Floyd, who was standing right behind you, caught your shoulders to steady you.

"Little Shrimpy."

"…"

You knitted your brows in a sour grimace. It wasn't that you were upset by Floyd's words; rather, it was because you had a very good idea of exactly what was happening to you.

"…Um."

"Yeah?"

"This is just a guess, but…"

"Uh-huh?"

"I think I might have a fever."

"Wait, what?!"

Floyd hastily brought his massive palm to touch your forehead. Then, he let out a bizarre shriek: "Gyach!"

Dropping his luggage with a heavy thud, Floyd immediately scooped you up into his arms instead. With strides far wider than usual, he stomped his way back to the bed, pulled off your shoes, and carelessly tossed them aside. Floyd then tucked you straight back into the bed, which was still messy from when you woke up this morning.

"Little Shrimpy, your body temperature is rising like crazy right now?! This ain't normal!"

"…"

You softly lowered your eyes beneath the covers. After a brief moment of thought, you offered a wildly casual remark.

"…As long as it doesn't go over 107.6°F, I'll be fine."

"And what happens if it goes over that?"

"I turn into a boiled egg."

"That's bad!"

It was, indeed, bad. The proteins that make up the human body begin to denature once they surpass that critical temperature. Just as a boiled egg can never return to its raw state, the body would suffer irreversible damage.

Floyd plonked himself down into the bedside chair and began looking up something on the device in his hand. Watching him from inside the bed, you spoke in a low, quiet voice.

"I don't want to go to a hospital."

"…Huh?"

Floyd lifted his gaze from the device, his voice laced with pure exasperation. He had presumably been using his smartphone to search for nearby hospitals you could rush into this very moment. While it pained you to brush aside Floyd's kindness, you declared once more in a firm, unyielding tone, "I am not going to a hospital."

You hated hospitals. That was why you refused to go.

"…"

A deep crease formed between Floyd's brows.

"Little Shrimpy."

"I'm not going."

You dug your heels in stubbornly. Floyd let out a heavy sigh tinged with seeping irritation. He was clearly upset by your utter lack of cooperation.

"Look, you know I can easily just take you there by force, right?"

His voice carried a thoroughly exasperated ring. In his mismatched eyes, there was a look usually reserved for a completely unreasonable child. Floyd believed there was still room for negotiation here. He thought he could persuade you, just like he always did.

However, this was a line you absolutely refused to cross. No matter what was said, and even if the person across from you was Floyd, you could not back down.

There was no room for negotiation. You had zero intention of being persuaded.

"No."

You insisted with a dry, raspy voice. The tension caused your pitch to waiver slightly. What you hated, you hated. And because you knew all too well that if Floyd truly intended to, he could easily force his way regardless of your refusal, your attitude grew increasingly stubborn. This, of all things, was something you could not allow him to push through with brute strength or physical power.

You had to stop Floyd. A man who was practical in everything he did, a man who possessed near-omnipotent capabilities both as a mage and as an individual—and yet, here you were, delirious with a high fever, your mind working slower than usual, drained of stamina and physical strength, and naturally devoid of any magical power.

You held only a single card to play. Inside the bed, you clenched your fists tightly. You knew that saying this would mean the end. You knew that if you uttered these words, it would likely destroy your relationship with Floyd. Even so, you had to draw a line that could not be crossed. You had to make it unmistakably clear to Floyd that this boundary was completely non-negotiable.

And so, with a voice as rigid and sharp as shattered glass, you spoke.

"If you bring me to a hospital…"

Your lips trembled with hesitation. Torn until the absolute last second over whether you should say it or not, the sheer impossibility of yielding drove you to finally give voice to the words.

"Our journey together ends right here, Floyd-san."

"…"

Floyd exhaled. A massive palm raked through his own hair, leaving it a tangled mess.

"That's…"

Floyd’s voice carried a sharp edge. But as he continued—

"…completely unfair."

The tone that followed sounded in pain. It was a voice seeping with a hurt raw enough to suggest he had been cut by the shards of glass laced into your words.

Ever since the day you picked Floyd up in that parking lot, you had never once unilaterally thrown your weight around as the one funding the trip. You had always treated him as an equal partner in this journey. In reality, while you provided the money and let him ride in the car, you were actually the one who ended up being saved by him in almost every other aspect. Because of that, the two of you had made it this far like equal friends. That dynamic had been comfortable. It was never something to be taken for granted; it was an equilibrium maintained through mutual, unspoken consideration, a shared effort to navigate and preserve a distance that felt right for both of you.

Yet right now, you were weaponizing your position as the financial provider to silence Floyd. You were threatening him, telling him that if he wanted to continue this trip—if he wanted to remain your freeloader—he had to obey.

Even though Floyd had done nothing but worry for your well-being.

"…"

Precisely because you knew exactly how terrible your actions were, you had no right to feel hurt. Refusing to let him look at your face any longer, and as if to signal that the conversation was entirely over, you turned your back to Floyd and curled into a tight ball beneath the covers.

Floyd let out another sigh. It was a heavy breath mixed with frustration and disappointment.

Inside the bed, you bit your lip hard. Despite being the one who inflicted the wound, you refused to play the victim and weep as if you were the one aggrieved. Even so, a sharp heat welled up at the back of your throat, aching intensely.

Behind you, you sensed Floyd heavily pushing himself up to his feet. A sharp, aggressive rattle echoed through the room as he snatched the keys off the table. Then came the heavy, thudding footsteps moving away, followed by the sound of the room door swinging open, and then clicking shut.

Floyd had walked out. Presumably, taking your car keys with him.

"……Ugh……"

An unsuppressible sob spilled from your lips. Now that you were alone—now that you had ended up completely by yourself—you didn't have to hold it in anymore. Sniffling weakly, you wept in the solitude of the room. The skin around your eyes felt damp and burning hot. Your nose was so stuffed that even breathing was painful. And so, like a child, you kept your mouth open, letting out jagged, hitching gasps as you cried.

Even though you were the one who had rejected him, the isolation of the single bed was unbearably lonely. The sheer sorrow of being left behind by Floyd overwhelmed you, and you wept. For a fleeting second, you even thought about just escaping back to your original world right then and there. But perhaps because the fever was so high, even taking the necessary actions to do so felt like too much of a chore. You didn't even want to go through the motions of sitting up anymore.

Yielding to what could only be described as self-punishing despair, you wanted nothing more than to feel utterly miserable. Without even attempting to wipe your messy, tear-stained face, you limply sank your body into the mattress and curled up into a ball. Pitying your solitary self, you cried and cried and cried, until—

"Whoa."

At the sound of that voice, you vaguely tried to lift your eyelids. Or rather, you attempted to. Your eyelids felt as though they had been tightly glued shut, refusing to budge. In the first place, when on earth had you even closed your eyes? You couldn't grasp the situation. Your sense of time was completely gone. You were supposed to have been weeping after Floyd walked out on you, yet the skin around your eyes now felt dry, tight, and parched.

Had you fallen asleep? Just as you tried to force your eyes open by rubbing them with your hand, a voice cut in.

"Hold on a sec."

It was Floyd's voice.

"……"

You wondered if it was a dream. Floyd was supposed to have left, so there was no reason you should be hearing his voice here right now.

Pitter-patter. The sound of light, quick footsteps returned. The bed springs groaned with a heavy creak. Then, a warm, steamed towel was gently pressed against your face. It wiped across your entire face, and then carefully, tenderly warmed the area around your eyes.

"Your face is an absolute mess. It's hilarious."

At the sound of that slightly teasing voice, you finally, softly managed to lift your eyelids. It was Floyd. He was leaning over the edge of the bed, peering straight down at you.

"……Floyd… san?"

"Yep."

"Floyd-san……???"

Completely unable to comprehend why he was here, you blinked blankly. Floyd lowered the corners of his eyebrows in a troubled look at your dazed reaction.

"Your brain is totally fried right now, huh? Can you sit up?"

A massive palm was gently slid behind your back, supporting you as he helped your upper body up. He then smoothly propped a pillow underneath your back. Just as Floyd had said, your head wouldn't work. The moment you tried to process a thought, the feeling of your concentration scattering into pieces took over. You couldn't reach a conclusion. You couldn't form a deduction.

And so, regarding the fact that Floyd was right there in front of you, nothing but the simple observation of "It's Floyd" and the lingering question of "Why?" just kept spinning around and around in your head. Because of the fever, your brain's processing capacity had dropped to an extreme low. Perhaps the disorientation of having just woken up played a part in it, too.

"Drink this for now. It's a fever reducer. You gotta get that temperature down, right?"

"Yeah."

Nodding, you accept the glass and the medicine held out to you. At your completely cooperative compliance, for some reason, the corners of Floyd's eyebrows droop slightly. The capsule for the fever reducer is somehow much larger than the ones you know so well.

"…"

"Little Shrimpy?"

"Why?"

"Hmm?"

"Why is the medicine on this side always so big?"

"……Who knows?"

"Is it because everyone else is big?"

"Hmm… Just take your medicine for now, okay?"

Nodding once more, you sluggishly pop the capsule into your mouth. The unpleasant sensation of your tongue sticking slightly to the dry surface of the capsule bothers you. You wash it down with a gulp of water from the glass. With a heavy swallow, the considerably massive capsule plunges down into your stomach, making its presence starkly known as it slides past your throat.

Having watched you finish it, Floyd takes the water glass away from your hands. In its place, a different cup with a straw poked inside is handed over to you.

"You're probably sweating a ton, so keep your fluids up."

"…Okay."

With a soft sip through the straw, you take a drink. It's a sports drink. It carries a faintly sweet, gentle flavor. As you gulp it down, your throat making rhythmic swallowing sounds, a massive palm rubs and ruffles your hair as if praising you for a job well done.

"Floyd-san."

"What is it?"

You call out softly from beneath that heavy, large hand. Your head is still in a complete fog, and you still can't grasp why on earth Floyd is staying here with you, but you know with absolute certainty that there is something you absolutely have to say.

"I'm sorry."

You force the apology out from the very back of your throat. It is an apology for shaking off his kindness in the most terrible, cruel way possible.

A small, soft puff of laughter escapes his lips.

"It's fine. We both got our own complicated baggage, right?"

As he says this, Floyd smoothly slides out the pillow he had propped behind your back, letting you lie back down. You roll over onto your side. This time, it isn't to turn your back on him. You roll over explicitly to face Floyd.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, Floyd strokes your hair with his fingertips, almost as if teasingly tickling you.

"…Um, look."

"Uh-huh?"

"I don't want you to get the wrong idea, but…"

"What is it?"

"…I tend to get fevers whenever I'm stressed out or just completely exhausted."

Devoid of any typical cold symptoms like coughing or a runny nose, a spiking fever is the only thing that hits you. Your temperature just rockets sky-high out of nowhere, and as long as you take a fever reducer and get some solid rest, the fever completely clears up by the next day, or at the very longest, within two days.

"So, it's not because I hated being with you, Floyd-san. It happens when I get really tense, or… even after something I was really looking forward to finally ends. I get fevers during times like that, too."

Even back at the institute, you used to run fevers quite often. Whenever an experiment—one that made you think this might finally be the breakthrough that lets me return to my original world—ended in complete failure, you would inevitably collapse with a high fever and end up confined to bed. Surely, it was because your expectations had been utterly shattered. Or perhaps it was because you had simply pushed yourself far too hard, gambling everything on the sheer possibility of success.

"They actually examined me a few times back then."

After all, you were likely the only soul from another universe in this entire world. The institution couldn't afford to lose their only outsider, so the very first time you ran a fever, you were subjected to a barrage of meticulous medical examinations and tests. Yet, despite their efforts, no abnormality that could explain the soaring temperature was ever found inside your body.

"They couldn't find anything wrong with me."

And so, it was concluded that the fevers were caused by stress. All they could offer was symptomatic treatment. If your head ached, they prescribed painkillers; if you ran a fever, they prescribed fever reducers.

"That's why I'm completely fine."

All you needed to do was take the medicine, bring the fever down, and let it pass. There was absolutely no need to go to a hospital.

"I see."

Floyd's cool palm gently touches your sweat-dampened forehead. It feels as though the thick, lingering heat of your fever is being absorbed straight into his hand.

"I already called the motel owner and told them we're extending our stay. Said we might be here tomorrow night too. I also went out and grabbed a bunch of extra drinks and food. You want anything else?"

Something you wanted. Something you wanted to eat. Your fever-addled brain has completely lost its filter. Even though Floyd is already being more than kind enough, your unvarnished desire slips past your lips in a soft mutter.

"Pucchin Pudding…"

"Pucchin Pudding???"

Floyd echoes the unfamiliar words, his voice thoroughly bewildered. Yes. Pucchin Pudding.

"If you snap the little tab on the bottom… it plops right out. It's so jiggly…"

Some people back home used to argue that it was technically closer to a bavarois or a gelatin jelly rather than a true custard pudding, but to you, that was the most familiar pudding in existence. Whenever you caught a cold, your mother would always buy it for you. She would tell you that pudding was highly nutritious because it was made with eggs, and she never failed to bring home a Pucchin Pudding.

"The caramel is so sweet…"

As you mumble about the dessert, the contours of your voice soften and dissolve. You are incredibly sleepy. Part of it is your body demanding rest, but it's also highly likely that the fever reducer you swallowed earlier contained some kind of drowsy sedative. Your blinks become progressively slower and heavier.

"Whoa, hold on a sec, Little Shrimpy. What do you mean 'snap the tab and it plops out'???"

You faintly register the sound of Floyd muttering in utter confusion, but the sheer, overwhelming wave of relief that comes from knowing he is by your side wraps around you. Your blurred, feverish consciousness drifts away, sinking softly into the path of dreams.

Suya…

■□■

The next time you woke up, it was evening.

The light streaming through the window was deep and crimson. The fever reducer must have finally done its job; your temperature had dropped significantly, and that distinct, internal burning sensation had mostly faded away.

You stretched your arms. Then, you scanned the room.

There was no sign of Floyd anywhere. He might have headed down to the motel bar. Slipping quietly out of bed, you made your way to the bathroom sink. You were in the middle of splashing cold water over your face and patting it dry with a towel when a loud slam echoed through the room as the main door swung open.

With heavy, deliberate footsteps, Floyd marched in and peeked his head into the bathroom.

"Ah, you're awake, Little Shrimpy."

"Yes. I am."

The next words snagged at the back of your throat. You felt as though he had witnessed you at your absolute, most pathetic worst. Not only had you fallen asleep with your face a messy, tear-stained disaster, but losing your composure to that extent in the first place was an entirely embarrassing display. You had said terrible things to him, and on top of that, you had been a complete burden.

Part of you thought you should apologize once more, but now that the fever had broken, forcing out those simple words of regret felt incredibly difficult. You could only press your lips together, shifting them in an awkward grimace. It wasn’t that you didn’t want to apologize. It was just that a heavy, damp apology didn't quite fit the dynamic between you and Floyd.

The relationship between the two of you was built on a casual, fleeting whim—effortless and light, yet somehow fitting together with a bizarre, flawless precision. Offering a formal apology felt like stepping completely out of those boundaries. Even so, saying nothing felt entirely ungrateful.

In the end, you awkwardly straightened your posture and opened your mouth to begin a press-conference-style public statement: "…Um, I am deeply sorry for the inconvenience I have caused—"

"Yeah, yeah."

Ruffling your hair aggressively as if to say whatever, forget about it, Floyd cut you off. Your words died in your throat with a muffled grunt. Your hair, already plagued by bedhead, began to stick up and sprout in random, messy cowlicks.

Is it really okay? you wondered, looking up at Floyd from beneath the heavy palm resting on your head.

Sure, why wouldn't it be? his expression seemed to answer, the corner of his mouth lifting into a faint, lazy smirk.

"…"

Deciding that if Floyd said it was fine, it was fine, you let the matter drop. Letting out a soft, breathy chuckle, Floyd went on.

"You hungry, Little Shrimpy?"

"Starving."

You answered instantly. Come to think of it, you had eaten next to nothing since morning—just half a bowl of cereal, and you had been asleep ever since. Now that your fever had broken and your body was reclaiming its health, it was honestly and loudly demanding food.

"I made some porridge a bit ago. Think you can handle it if I warm it up?"

"I'll eat it."

What Floyd warmed up for you in the room’s small microwave was a milk-based porridge. To your sensibilities as a born-and-raised Japanese person, it felt remarkably close to a savory soup rice. The broth—drawn out beautifully from the thoroughly simmered vegetables and finely chopped bacon—carried a rich, comforting depth. The oatmeal, having soaked up the savory stock until it swelled plump and tender, offered a wonderfully chewy texture.

With your black hair still sticking out in the messy cowlicks Floyd had left behind, you savored the meal spoon by spoon. All the while, Floyd sat directly across from you, his elbows propped on the table as he silently watched you eat. His gaze was exactly like that of someone watching a small animal single-mindedly nibbling on sunflower seeds.

"Thank you for the meal."

"Was it good?"

"Yes. It carried a really gentle, comforting flavor."

"Well, yeah. 'Cause it's loaded with love."

Saying that with a teasing note in his voice, Floyd pushed himself up to his feet. He collected the finished dish from you, and in its place, seamlessly held out a capsule of medicine.

"…"

You stared intently at the pill. It was that incredibly hard-to-swallow, massive capsule from before.

"…Um."

"Yeah?"

"I think my fever has already gone down, though."

"You might not realize it yourself, but your body temperature is still higher than usual."

You were shut down instantly. It was likely nothing more than a slight, lingering fever now. Compared to the scorching high temperature you ran around noon, saying it had "gone down" was technically within reason, but that didn't mean the fever was completely gone.

Reluctantly, you popped the massive capsule into your mouth and washed it down with water. As expected, it was horribly difficult to swallow. The distinct sensation of a solid object scraped past your throat, making its presence known as it slid down your esophagus.

Having witnessed you finish it, Floyd stepped away from the table. Assuming he was heading over to the bathroom sink to wash the dirty dishes, you turned your head around at the sudden, heavy thud of the refrigerator door swinging open.

What Floyd pulled out of the fridge was a small plate. Resting on top of it, swaying with a soft wobble, was a custard pudding. The smooth, rich, creamy-yellow body of the dessert was beautifully crowned with a generous drizzle of deep brown caramel.

"Here's a reward for the good little Shrimpy who took their medicine properly~♡"

With a light clack, the plate was set down right in front of you. The pudding gave a soft, enticing jiggle.

"Pudding…"

The word slipped from your lips completely unbidden. Pudding. The food reserved for the days you caught a cold, the days you ran a fever. On the plate, the mesmerizing dessert swayed back and forth with a tantalizing wobble.

"Where did you get this…?"

There was absolutely no way a custard pudding would be on a motel bar menu. As you blinked in utter bewilderment, Floyd answered casually.

"I made it."

"You made it…?"

It was exactly the same as the porridge you had eaten just moments ago. Floyd had gone out for supplies, gathered the ingredients, and prepared this completely with his own hands. It was home cooking. Because you had muttered that you wanted to eat it, he had gone out of his way to make it for you.

Gently wrapping your fingers around the spoon, you scooped up a single bite of the pudding. The beautifully chilled dessert instantly vanished, melting away the moment it touched your tongue. The rich, deep flavor of the eggs blended flawlessly with the exquisite bittersweetness of the caramel.

"Sorry it's not Pucchin Pudding."

Floyd’s voice is incredibly soft as he speaks. It is a calm, gentle tone that seeps straight into your fever-parched heart. Doing something like that is completely unfair. It makes you want to cry. In fact, you are crying. Sniff. You wetly draw up your nose. Fat tears begin to fall, plop after plop.

"What's this?"

Floyd laughs softly.

"Is it really so good it makes ya cry?"

Cheeks stuffed with pudding, you give a firm nod. It is delicious enough to make you cry, and it makes you happy enough to cry. Floyd’s massive palm rubs and ruffles your hair.

"Is it better than Pucchin Pudding?"

"It's better than Pucchin Pudding…"

At your words, Floyd pumps his fist with a triumphant "Yesss!" It seemed that because his information on the concept of "Pucchin Pudding" was far too lacking, he had operated under the stance that as long as he made a pudding that tasted better than it, you would have no complaints—rather than trying to replicate the original itself. The sweetness of the caramel, its bittersweet depth, and the subtly low-sugar, vanilla-scented pudding—every single element made it the absolute ideal dessert. Hic. You let out a weeping sob.

"What are you going to do about this?"

"About what?"

"From now on, whenever I run a fever, the only pudding I'm going to crave is yours, Floyd-san."

"Nhaha!"

Holding the spoon—which still carried the lingering aroma of vanilla—between your lips, you mutter your resentful complaint, making Floyd laugh thoroughly amused.

Perhaps, in his own way, this was his sweet revenge.

-------------------------------------------

As if it were the most natural thing in the world, you both reached into each other's plates and picked at the food.

"They make the bacon really crispy here, don't they?"

"Eh? Your hometown doesn't make it crispy?"

"We usually cut it pretty thick, fry it until it's nicely browned, and eat it juicy. I think that even though we call it the same thing, 'bacon,' the way it's made is actually quite different. I have a feeling that no matter how much you cook the bacon from my homeland, it would never get crispy like this."

"Huh."

Talking about such things, you brought a piece of bacon from your plate to your mouth. Crispy bacon wasn't bad at all. However, what you were familiar with was soft, thick-cut bacon. Your mother used to brown both sides nicely and serve it for breakfast. That was what paired so perfectly with white rice.

Mixing ketchup into the scrambled eggs—which had finished up flavorful from absorbing the bacon grease—you piled them on top of your toast and took a big bite. This wasn't bad in its own way. The chewy toast was fragrant, and the sweetness of the wheat filled your mouth entirely. Beside you, Floyd piled his omelet onto his toast as well, using his massive mouth to aggressively and spectacularly inhale his food.

"Hey, by the way," Floyd spoke up, wiping the corner of his mouth with the pad of his thumb. "There's a shop I wanna stop by."

"Sure, that's fine. Are you going shopping?"

"Yep."

At Floyd's request, you gave a straightforward nod. This wasn't a trip where you were in a hurry. There was no harm in seeing what Floyd wanted and taking your time to deliberate over buying it.

After finishing your meal at the diner, you headed toward the store Floyd guided you to as he looked up directions from the passenger seat. It turned out to be a massive home improvement center situated on the outskirts of town.

Parking the car, you blinked in astonishment. First of all, the parking lot was ridiculously spacious. You could probably play a game of baseball in the parking lot alone. And the store itself was absolutely humongous. To top it off, it was a single-story building. It wasn't a two- or three-story structure like the home improvement centers you knew back home. It was a luxurious, extravagant layout that could only exist in the countryside where land was cheap and plentiful.

"Let's go, Little Shrimpy."

Floyd grabbed one of the shopping carts lined up near the entrance and started pushing it. This, too, was absolutely humongous. It was a giant cart that someone your size could easily climb into without a problem. What on earth were people supposed to buy to fill a cart like this? If you were in a Japanese supermarket, a cart of this scale wouldn't even be able to fit down the aisles in the first place. Yet, despite how monstrously huge the cart was, when Floyd was the one pushing it, it bizarrely looked like a perfectly normal size.

A humongous man pushing a humongous cart. Every sense of scale was completely warped. You felt as though you were the only one who had been turned into a dwarf.

Floyd walked briskly into the store while pushing the cart, and you scurried along to keep up with him. He seemed to know exactly what he was looking for, as there wasn't a shred of hesitation in his stride. Following the overhead aisle signs hanging from the ceiling, Floyd pushed the cart straight toward the camping gear section.

"Little Shrimpy, grab that cooler box over there."

"Okay."

"Next, get that grill and the fire pit over there."

"On it."

Doing exactly as you were told, you picked up the items Floyd selected and tossed them into the cart. Whenever you hesitated to put something in, a brief consultation period would begin. This was the exact same routine as your usual shopping trips. Floyd would place what he wanted into the basket, and if you didn't lodge a complaint, it was considered approved; all that was left was for you to settle the bill at the register.

When it came to things like snacks, they rarely amounted to a significant sum, so you never bothered to check the prices meticulously. However, since they were looking at actual camping gear now, you made sure to double-check the price tags. It would be a problem if the total ended up being an amount you couldn't pay at the register, and even if you could afford it, you couldn't allow yourself to go completely bankrupt right here.

While you didn't really know the difference between good and bad camping gear, fortunately, the items didn't seem to be overly expensive.

They were well within what you could afford. Once you confirmed that, you quietly placed the selected items into the shopping cart. A few cooking utensils followed: a skillet and a Dutch oven were carelessly tossed into the mix. Next came a knife and a cutting board. By this point, even you could figure it out. Floyd was planning to cook. And what's more, he was going to do it outdoors. He had presumably found last night's dinner of nothing but potato chips utterly insufferable.

After gathering the necessary equipment, your next stop was the grocery section. Bread, ham, bacon, pasta, and cheese. Along with those non-perishable staples, you also bought vegetables, eggs, milk, and seafood.

"…Will these actually keep?"

"That's exactly what the cooler box is fooor."

"Ah, I see."

Floyd curled the corner of his mouth upward into a smug grin, meaningfully waving his left hand. Glinting as it caught the light was the silver ring sparkling at the base of his middle finger. He intended to chill the cooler box with magic to preserve the freshness of the ingredients. An impromptu refrigerator.

Beep. Beep. Beep. An unfriendly clerk quietly ran the items piled high in the cart through the register. While Floyd took the items and bagged them, you stood waiting right behind him to settle the bill. Piling the goods—now packed into extra-large plastic bags—back into the cart, you wheeled it toward the parking lot, the wheels rattling against the ground.

"…Do you think it'll all fit in the trunk?"

"Can't we just leave the cooler box in the back? We can keep our drinks cold that way."

"Genius."

Popping the trunk open, you stowed away the cooking utensils. Next, you packed the food into the cooler box. Floyd systematically arranged the vegetables, meat, eggs, and drinks with practiced ease.

"You're remarkably used to this, aren't you?"

"I used to work in the food industry back in the day."

"So that's why you're such a good cook."

"Yep."

Lifting his lips into a proud chuckle, Floyd effortlessly carried the now heavily laden cooler box and set it into the backseat. Without losing a moment, he pulled out a bottle of beer, snapped it open, and settled into the passenger seat with the drink in hand.

From here on out, it was your turn. Resting his elbow on the window frame, the man drank his beer while the rushing wind set his vibrantly colored hair fluttering. With him by your side, you started driving once more. Leaving the town behind, you headed back onto the arterial highway that sliced straight through the wilderness.

Floyd turned on the car radio. A recent hit song you had heard a few times began to play. Between sips of his beer, Floyd started to hum and croon along with the music. Before you knew it, you were humming the melody right along with him. You only knew the lyrics to the chorus. The rest of it was just mindless humming, but as the two of you sang along in pure enjoyment, the bright red sports car swept through the open wilderness.

■□■

That evening, Floyd prepared dinner for you behind the motel. The manager had granted permission on the sole condition that you were careful not to cause a fire, so you had decided to set up a campfire in the motel's backyard.

Floyd piled up the charcoal and set up the tripod. With a simple, sharp snap of his fingers from his silver-ringed hand, a bright, cheerful flame instantly popped into existence.

"Little Shrimpy, go look around for some stuff we can use for firewood~"

"Okaay."

Giving the response of a well-behaved child, you walked away with brisk steps, rustling through the leaves and branches as you stepped into the woods stretching out behind the motel.

A handful of dry, crisp fallen leaves lay scattered over the grass. There were also several branches—perhaps snapped and brought down by a gust of wind on a particularly breezy day. Or perhaps the staff had left them there after pruning the trees. Then again, maybe it was the doing of some wild animal. Since you had no way of knowing for sure, you could only let your imagination wander as you gathered the fallen twigs from the grass. But even that guesswork was fun. Walking outdoors, taking in the world through your five senses, and making deductions.

Once you gathered an armful of those wooden branches, you headed back to Floyd.

"Good job."

His massive hand casually rubbed your head, carelessly messing up your hair. Under the weight of that large hand, you let out a soft chuckle, "Nff." Floyd's hand smelled faintly of vegetables. He must have been right in the middle of his prep work. Already, thick-cut slices of bacon were sizzling beautifully on the skillet, dripping savory grease, while inside the Dutch oven, rice sat submerged in a flavorful broth. Right now, he was systematically layering the remaining ingredients on top of it.

"Little Shrimpy, go ahead and add some branches to the fire whenever you think it needs it."

"Okaay."

Another response like a well-behaved child. After all, you had zero camping experience. To be precise, it wasn't that you had never been camping at all in your life, but a real camp like this—building a fire from scratch and cooking over it—was a complete first for you.

You fed a branch into the charcoal. The tip of the wood glowed a faint, burning red with a soft crackle, and before long, the flame gradually grew larger. Feeling strangely as though you were feeding some mysterious living creature, you diligently kept placing the twigs into the charcoal.

Perhaps because they weren't completely dried out, a slightly thick, hazy smoke began to billow from the branches. It stung your eyes.

"That's about enough. Now, come over here and sit down, Little Shrimpy. You can snack on the bacon that finished cooking first."

With a heavy clonk, a wooden crate rolling around nearby was thrust toward you to use as a chair. It had likely been used for vegetables or fruit originally. Floyd settled down onto a similar crate himself, starting to relax with a beer bottle in hand.

You sat down on the crate as well, idly gazing at the fire. Since you weren't particularly fond of beer to begin with, the drink you pulled from the cooler box was a bottled cider. Thanks to Floyd's magic, it was chilled to a crisp.

"Here."

He extended his hand as if it were the most natural thing in the world. When you handed him the bottle, he popped the crown cap off like magic—catching it deftly with the silver ring fitted at the base of his left middle finger.

"Isn't that just way too convenient?"

He could use magic, and he could even open bottle caps with it. At your wide-eyed comment, Floyd simply hitched up a single eyebrow.

"But you see," he started.

"Yes?"

"I can use magic, I can open bottle caps for you, and I can even make you a delicious paella."

"…Are you competing with the ring?"

"I am."

"Ahaha!"

An involuntary laugh burst out of you.

It was true; even if someone handed you that ring, you wouldn't be able to use magic, nor would you be able to open a bottle of juice. The ring wasn't the incredible one here. Floyd was. And that greatness certainly didn't originate from a piece of jewelry; even without that silver band, Floyd would undoubtedly find a way to sort out all kinds of things for you. He'd still pop open your bottle caps, and he'd still cook you a delicious paella.

"You're right. You're the amazing one, Floyd-san."

"Exactly. Look, the bacon's done, so eat up, okay?"

"Thank you for the food."

Holding your fork, you pressed your palms together to offer a brief Itadakimasu before reaching out to pop a sizzling slice of bacon from the skillet into your mouth.

"…"

The moment your teeth sank into the tender meat, a burst of savory fat, rich flavor, and a perfectly judged amount of salt flooded your mouth. The edges were slightly charred, sending a wonderfully smoky, fragrant aroma right through your nose.

It was bacon. Not the crunchy, crispy kind, but the exact thick, soft bacon you knew so well. It tasted just like home.

"Floyd-san, this…!"

"Nff, fufu. Does it taste like the bacon from back home, Little Shrimpy?"

"It does!"

"Ya know, that type of bacon is actually kinda rare over here."

"I figured! I hadn't eaten this kind of bacon at all since coming to this side."

"Well, you did say it doesn't get crunchy no matter how much you fry it, right? So I had a feelin' this was probably what you meant."

Licking away the beer foam resting on his lip, Floyd began to poke at the campfire with a thick, rather long branch. With a rough rustling sound, he pushed aside the twigs you had gathered earlier—which were now turning to ash—and rolled out several lumpy shapes from within the charcoal.

"The thing is, the cut of meat is completely different."

"The cut?"

"The bacon on this side is usually made from pork belly, which has tons of fat. That's why when you fry it, the fat melts, the moisture evaporates, and it gets all crunchy. But the bacon you're eatin' right now is made from loin, so it's got way less fat. Because of that, it keeps a lot of its moisture, stays soft, and won't get crunchy even if you cook it."

"Ah, I see."

He really proved his background in the food industry. He was remarkably knowledgeable.

After rolling the blackened lumps out of the campfire to let them cool down a bit, Floyd nudged them over to your side, casually adding, "Careful, it's hot."

Tapping the surface lightly with your fingertips, you confirmed they had cooled down enough to hold before softly picking one up. It was impossible to tell at first because it was burnt completely black, but it turned out to be aluminum foil. Accompanied by the crinkling, rustling sound of the thin metal rubbing together, you peeled it open to find a perfectly fluffy, baked jacket potato waiting inside. A wave of sweet, fragrant steam gently drifted into the air.

"Here's your side dish."

"Isn't this literally the best thing ever?"

"Ah, but we still got the main course comin', so you better not eat too much, okay?"

"Asking me not to overeat with a combination this perfect is just completely impossible."

"If you leave any behind, I'm gonna force-feed it down your throat."

"Oh wow."

Letting out a clueless, hollow exclamation at Floyd's threatening words, you bit straight into the fluffy potato.

A soft, dense bite. The natural sweetness of the potato subtly absorbed the moisture in your mouth, pairing flawlessly with the heavily salted, tender, and juicy bacon. It felt nostalgic, yet entirely new. The distinct, rustic aroma that came specifically from a potato baked with its skin on added a deep richness to the flavor.

It was delicious.

Before long, a wonderful aroma began to drift from the Dutch oven as well, where the paella had been slowly and thoroughly cooking.

An appetizing, garlic-heavy aroma enveloped the surrounding air. By that time, the surroundings were gradually turning dark, and the campfire swayed bright red against the gathering dusk.

Floyd took a taste of the paella, which was lavishly topped with seafood. Nodding in deep satisfaction with a low hum, he spooned a serving onto a plate and held it out to you. On the plate sat two large pieces of shrimp.

Darting a brief glance up at him, you saw Floyd flashing a smug grin as he laughed, "Look, it's cannibalism."

Pinching the tail of a shrimp with your fingers, you began to crack and peel the shell. This was camp food; nobody gave a damn about proper manners. Plucking off the legs one by one and tearing the shell away from the belly, you stripped it clean and brought the meat to your mouth. The shrimp, having thoroughly soaked up the tomato-based broth, was incredibly plump, naturally sweet, and mind-blowingly delicious.

"Wow… this is amazing."

"Rightoo~"

Floyd was also burying into the paella in high spirits. You fully intended to convince yourself that the terrifying, loud crunching sounds echoing from beside you were just your imagination.

"Floyd-san."

"Yeah?"

"Are you—by any chance—eating those whole with the shells on?"

"They taste good this way."

"Won't you get an upset stomach?"

"No way~"

He apparently possessed a remarkably indestructible digestive system. Deciding to leave it at that since he claimed he was fine, you reached for the second piece of shrimp. After crisply peeling the shell, you took a bite of the rice alongside the shrimp this time. The rice, heavily saturated with the savory broth, carried a rich, deep flavor; eating it together with the shrimp beautifully enhanced the natural sweetness of the meat with a perfect blend of spices.

"Floyd-san, you're a genius."

"I know."

"Ah, I see you already knew that."

Exchanging glances, the two of you laughed together. His profile, illuminated by the bright red glow of the campfire, looked peaceful and thoroughly amused. You were certain you carried the exact same expression on your own face.

Chatting about trivial things, you ate the potatoes, the bacon, and the paella. Then, after the meal, the two of you toasted marshmallows together. Threading a large marshmallow onto the tip of a long bamboo skewer, you gently toasted it over the campfire. The surface browned lightly, catching a delicate char. When you bit into it with a soft puff, the outer crust was crisp while the inside was melted, gooey, and sweet.

You let out a soft, heavy exhale, breathing out the sugary scent of melted meringue.

"I've always wanted to do this," you murmur softly.

"Do what?" Floyd asks, his gaze turning toward you to prompt you to continue.

Keeping your eyes fixed on the campfire, you quietly go on.

"I've always wanted to roast marshmallows over a campfire and eat them."

You had longed for it.

"Right before I came to this side, I had just started a new term at school. Where I'm from, the new school year begins in April. They handed out a list summarizing all the school events for the entire year."

You had looked over that schedule with a fluttering heart.

"Around May or June, it had 'Camp' written on it. You know how it is when a new term just starts—everyone in class is still a bit awkward and stiff around each other, right? So, they said the whole class goes on a two-day, one-night camping trip to help break the ice and deepen our bonds."

At the time, you had idly thought to yourself, I can't wait.

It was a camping trip meant to take place right when everyone was still unfamiliar with one another, clumsily navigating the social structures of youth to act as "classmates." You would have had to divide up the work to prepare meals together. You could rent tents, but you would have had to set them up yourselves. Surely, there would have been mishaps along the way. But by overcoming those challenges together, you were supposed to become close. Those who had simply been assigned to the same room were supposed to become true classmates in every sense of the word.

"I kept thinking, Man, I really want to try roasting marshmallows. So, I made a mental note to bring a bag of marshmallows with me when the trip came."

Gently, you cast your eyes downward.

At the tip of your bamboo skewer, the pristine white surface of the marshmallow catches the heat of the flames, tinting a pale brown before gradually turning black and carbonized.

"But because I ended up over here… I never got to roast my marshmallows."

You never got the chance to become friends with your classmates. Carrying that unresolved awkwardness from before you could form real bonds, you had come to this side. You couldn't go on the camping trip, and you couldn't roast your marshmallows.

Every single school event written on that schedule was something you had skipped.

The track and field meet, the cultural festival, the sports day, the exams, the summer intensive courses, the school trip, and the graduation ceremony.

Every ordinary event proper to a student, the natural day-to-day life spent living like one—all of it had been stripped away from you, and you had ended up all the way out here.

"Little Shrimpy."

Floyd's voice called out to you, soft enough to gently sway the pitch-black night that had completely settled around you.

"Besides roastin' marshmallows, what else is it ya wanna do?"

It was a calm, quiet inquiry, without his usual rising intonation at the end of his sentences.

"Let's just do all of it right now. Everything you wanna do."

A sharp, stinging ache hit the back of your nose.

The youth you had missed out on. The days you were supposed to spend at school from the spring you turned fifteen to the spring you turned seventeen—they could never be recovered now.

You had already become an adult. Leaving every single part of your student life behind in your original world, you had grown into an adult inside that stark white research facility. Even if you chopped off your long, grown-out hair, it wouldn't undo the time that had passed.

You could never go back to being a student.

"…It's impossible. I'm not at the age to wear a school uniform anymore."

"How old are you now, Little Shrimpy?"

"Twenty-one."

"You're totally fine. Sea Lion was twenty-one and still bustin' his butt playin' the student role."

"Who on earth is Sea Lion?"

Floyd let out a low, rumbling chuckle from the back of his throat. He laughed with a serene melody, like the gentle plucking of an old, weathered instrument.

Then, Floyd gave his left hand a quick, flashing flick. A glint of light spilled forth. The particles of spilled light slithered smoothly through the air toward you, landing squarely against your chest before popping into existence with a light, crisp snap.

In that single instant, your attire completely transformed.

Your plain, unadorned outfit of a T-shirt and jeans had been replaced by a pitch-black school uniform. It was a black blazer. Running along the edges of the blazer, the borders of the pale, watery gray-blue vest, and the sides of the trousers were sharp lines of gold. The tie fastened snugly at your throat featured a diagonal stripe pattern of white and black.

Sensing an unfamiliar texture against your hands, you dropped your gaze to find both of your hands now completely encased in black leather gloves.

"This is…"

When you raised your face, you saw that Floyd—still sitting on his wooden crate and nibbling on a roasted marshmallow—was wearing the exact same attire.

The only difference was the absolute, chaotic mess Floyd had made of the uniform. At least the top three buttons of his shirt were popped wide open, and his tie and gloves were nowhere to be found. The front buttons of both his blazer and vest were completely undone, and the hem of his shirt dangled lazily out of his pants.

Floyd's mismatched eyes curved into a thoroughly mischievous smile.

"It's the uniform from my alma mater. Sorry it's not a girl's uniform. My place was an all-boys school, ya see. Don't really know much about the ones with skirts."

"Ah, I see."

You slowly flexed and wiggled your fingers, watching them move inside the black leather gloves.

Then, the corners of your eyebrows drooped down in defeat.

"Even so, isn't a school uniform at my age a little… you know?"

"Who cares? It looks totally good on you."

"Really?"

"For real, for real."

While his tone was completely saturated with his usual carelessness, the gaze he locked onto you was deeply gentle, holding a color strangely reminiscent of pure affection. Feeling a bit self-conscious for some reason, you dropped your gaze.

You bit into a marshmallow with a soft puff. The melty, gooey center stretched out long, and you deftly reined it in with the tip of your tongue.

The crackle and pop of the fire echoed through the quiet space.

"Floyd-san."

"Yeah?"

"How old are you?"

"Twenty-seven."

"Whoa."

"What?"

"You're older than I thought."

"Well, you were a lot more grown-up than I thought you'd be too, Little Shrimpy."

"How old did you think I was?"

"Underage, worst-case scenario."

"I am an adult, you know."

"Yeah, you definitely were."

Saying that, Floyd continued to poke at the campfire with his wooden branch for no particular reason. His profile, illuminated by the bright red flames, possessed the composure and charm perfectly befitting a twenty-seven-year-old adult man—yet the fact that he was wearing a school uniform was just so absurd that a soft chuckle escaped your lips.

Then, you gently rolled a certain title around in your mouth for a moment before giving it voice, releasing it along with the sweet flavor of the marshmallow.

"Floyd-senpai."

"Huh?"

A clueless, dazed sound escaped Floyd's lips. His heavy, drooping eyes widened in surprise.

Just a little. Just the tiniest bit. You wondered if it was just your imagination that his face, illuminated by the campfire, seemed to catch a slightly deeper flush of color.

"…Man."

"What is it?"

"Hearing you call me 'senpai' kinda tickles, Little Shrimpy."

He let out a soft, rumbling chuckle.

"See, my place was an all-boys school. This might actually be the first time a girl's ever called me 'senpai.'"

"It's a good thing it was an all-boys school, then."

"Why's that?"

"Because, Floyd-san, if you were at a co-ed school with a face like yours, it would have been absolute chaos."

"Nah, it would've been totally fine."

"How could that possibly be fine?"

"Because there's another one with the exact same face."

"Excuse me?"

"We aren't exactly twins, but well, there's a guy who looks just like me."

"Identical twins who are both incredibly handsome? That just skyrockets your rarity value and makes it way more dangerous. It feels like… girls from all the neighboring districts would come swarming into your school."

"Well, I can't exactly say that's never happened before."

"What do you mean by that?"

"A childhood friend of mine suddenly decided he wanted to run a café at school."

"At school?"

"Yep. It was a fully residential boarding school, but he said we were gonna run a café in our dorm lounge."

"I see…"

"Since it was technically an on-campus café, our customers were supposed to be just the other students. But that octopus is a money-grubbing, penny-pinching scrooge who doesn't care about anything but profit, so he went and blackmailed the headmage to win permission to open it to the general public. He used some high-and-mighty pretext about 'showcasing student independence' or whatever. Once that happened, outsiders could come in, so ugh… it became a total nightmare."

Floyd slumped his shoulders, looking thoroughly disgusted. For some reason, his entire face took on a withered, utterly exhausted expression. It seemed that remembering the experience alone was enough to make him look that completely drained.

"I usually spent most of my time on kitchen duty. But on the days we opened to the public, he'd be like, 'Now is the time to put that wastefully handsome face of yours to use!' and literally kick me out onto the lounge floor."

You couldn't help but let out a small burst of laughter at the impression he slipped into mid-sentence. Even though it was an impression of someone you didn't know at all, Floyd's delivery was just so incredibly spot-on. You ended up laughing from the sheer energy of it.

Floyd’s mismatched eyes flattened into a thoroughly resentful look.

Still, if a lounge actually had a staff member with a face like his, even you would want to become a regular customer. Furthermore, if what Floyd was saying was true, there was an identical twin out there who shared this exact face. It would be way too much of a feast for the eyes.

"Is that the food industry experience you were talking about, Floyd-san?"

"Yep. I mean, Octy said he wanted to start a lounge but he couldn't cook to save his life. So I figured I had no choice but to do it, and I studied up."

"You are way too good of a friend."

The exclamation of honest admiration slipped from your lips.

Just because his childhood friend—the one he called "Octy"—said he wanted to run a lounge. For the sake of those few words alone, Floyd had studied and mastered cooking. And it wasn't just basic home cooking either. Even if it was technically an on-campus café, the fact that they opened to the general public and invited outside guests meant the food definitely wasn't on the level of what you'd see at a typical middle or high school festival.

In fact, Floyd's handiwork when it came to cooking was phenomenally good. As if he knew exactly what ingredients would produce what flavors, he combined components without a shred of hesitation, mastered the seasonings, and created genuinely delicious meals.

"Man… that sounds like so much fun."

It was your unfiltered, honest thoughts.

However, the words didn't carry a miserable, damp ring to them. It wasn't a tone filled with nothing but grief and lament over a lost youth; it was just a simple, unadorned voice, completely captivated by the radiance of the student life Floyd had spent. It was a surprise even to you that your own voice could sound that way. You had thought you were dragging it out much more. You had expected yourself to be clinging to the past far more heavily.

Floyd turned his gaze toward you, a faint smile playing in his eyes.

It was a gentle, mature gaze. A color of adulthood that didn't fit the school uniform at all was staring directly at you.

"Wanna hear more?"

"Absolutely."

Floyd hung a kettle onto the tripod where the Dutch oven had been dangling until just moments ago, and began boiling water.

The night was still very long.

■□■

That night, you had a dream.

In it, you were wearing the exact same school uniform Floyd had dressed you in with his magic. Yet, perhaps because it was a dream, the color of your vest alone was different from Floyd's. How strange.

In this dream, you were a student at the very same academy as Floyd.

The Floyd in your dream looked a little younger than the one you knew, appearing just a fraction more mischievous than he did now. When you called out, "Floyd-senpai!" he would laugh in sheer amusement, asking, "What is it?" as he closed the distance to your side with his usual swaying stride. His gaze felt just a little closer to your own eye level than usual.

You conducted an experiment together. Because Floyd threw in a bunch of unnecessary ingredients, the potion exploded, causing a massive uproar. The two of you were scolded together like misbehaved puppies, receiving a sharp "Bad boy!" from a man whose behavior was completely unfitting for a beautiful teacher with monochrome hair.

You worked a part-time job at the lounge together. Floyd skillfully tossed a massive cauldron, churning out one order after another exactly as requested, only to get bored halfway through and whip up something completely off the menu, driving the manager absolutely furious. Watching the spectacle, Floyd's counterpart gently lowered the corners of his eyebrows, offering a graceful, troubled smile as he shifted the impossible task onto you, asking if you could please do something about him.

That's completely impossible, you whined to yourself. Even so, fully conscious of the close bond you shared with Floyd, you tiptoed over to where he was sulking in the kitchen.

"Little Shrimpyaaan."

Sniffling pitifully, Floyd trapped you tightly inside his arms. His shoulder width and the thickness of his arms were a whole size smaller than the Floyd you knew. Yet, just as you thought to yourself that the enveloping arms, his body temperature, and the faintly sweet scent of mint were exactly the same—

"—"

You woke up.

You sat up in bed, shifting under the covers.

Floyd, who had undoubtedly shared the bed with you again last night, was already gone from your side. Instead, the rich, comforting aroma of coffee drifted through the corners of the room. He must have woken up before you to get breakfast ready.

Floyd peeked over at the bed with a slow, easy movement.

"Ah, you're awake. Mornin', Little Shrimpy."

His quiet, deep baritone delivered his usual greeting. He was dressed in his signature look—jeans and a flashy, patterned shirt left open wide at the chest. It was the same Floyd as always. A tall, adult man with broad, sturdy shoulders. Yet, the memory of that slightly younger voice calling you Little Shrimpy in your dream lingered like a delicate echo, faintly tickling your ears. TXT

Slipping quietly out of bed, you walked over to his side. Floyd was right in the middle of toasting some bread topped with cheese in the room’s small microwave. On the bedside table sat two mugs of coffee side by side.

"…"

"Little Shrimpy?"

As Floyd looked down at you quizzically, you cast your eyes slightly upward to meet his.

"Um."

"Yeah?"

"…Did you cast some kind of spell last night?"

Floyd blinked once at your question. Then, letting out a delighted, rumbling chuckle from his throat, he gave a casual shrug and answered in a sing-song voice, "Who knooows?"

"…"

You paused for a brief moment of deliberation.

Then, you shuffled closer, pressing your side right against him. Your shoulders touched. It was the exact sense of distance from your dream. And then, using the same tone you used to use whenever he unpredictably helped you look over your assignments, you spoke.

"Thank you, Floyd-senpai."

During the day, you drive the car endlessly. The one sitting in the driver's seat is you. At first, Floyd offered to take turns driving, but you turned him down. It is fun to move the car forward by your own will. Feeling that you can go anywhere you want by your own volition is deeply comforting. Because of that, you simply couldn't bring yourself to surrender the steering wheel.

Once you declined, Floyd didn't try to force a change of drivers. He sat quietly in the passenger seat, listening to the car radio. Whenever he had something he wanted to talk about, he would lower the radio's volume and begin to speak in his leisurely, soft, and somehow sweet voice. Then, once he was satisfied, he would close his mouth and turn the car radio back up. Because he is that way, the road ahead with Floyd has been far, far easier than you had ever braced yourself for.

He is undeniably a whimsical, self-indulgent man, but he is abnormally skilled at reading the boundaries of what he can get away with. He precisely gauges the exact limit of selfishness that will make you sigh, shake your head, and give in.

Once, he suddenly blurted out that the fries at a burger joint you had just passed were supposed to be delicious. Crying out, "Oh, come on!"—and taking full advantage of the fact that there were no other cars around—you executed a magnificent U-turn right then and there just to go back for those fries. He voices that level of selfishness quite often, and he certainly throws his share of tantrums. But he never says or does anything that would truly cause you distress. He is exceptionally adept at managing the distance between you.

By the way, the fries really were delicious. Cut into thick wedges, the insides were perfectly fluffy. Yet the flavor was far from bland; the surface was seasoned thoroughly with salt, and that sharp savoriness beautifully elevated the rustic sweetness of the potato. It was a simple item, but one that meticulously drew out the inherent deliciousness of its ingredients. It certainly lived up to its reputation.

Cradling the mountain of fries bought from the drive-thru in the passenger seat, Floyd dutifully fed them to you as you drove, constantly saying things like, "Alright, open wide!" It was like a never-ending conveyor belt of fries.

Midway through, he claimed he wanted to switch up the flavor profile and began dipping his fries into the vanilla shake you had bought together. You flinched at the sight. But when he told you, "Just trust me and give it a try," you opened your mouth and found it to be surprisingly delicious. It was that classic sweet-and-savory combination. Similar to chocolate-covered potato chips. The saltiness of the fries enhanced the sweetness of the shake, matching exceptionally well against all expectations. Ever since then, whenever you order fries at a diner, you have started ordering a shake to go with them. Watching you do this, Floyd would narrow his mismatched eyes into a smug, satisfied grin.

Floyd teaches you things you never knew. He taught you which brands of potato chips to buy at the tiny gas station convenience stores. And he introduced you to intense cinnamon gum, which packs a far heavier punch than mint. He continuously expands your world.

And that isn't all.

"I'll go rent the room."

It happened one evening. Parking the car in a motel lot as you always did, you left the vehicle in Floyd's hands and headed toward the reception office. Dividing your tasks was simply faster and more efficient.

You called out to the man behind the counter, who appeared to be the owner. And in that instant, you inwardly recoiled.

The man behind the counter was visibly, undeniably drunk. Though no liquor bottles were in sight, his muddy, bloodshot eyes had a distinctly unsettling glaze to them. With that bizarre look frozen in his stare, the corners of his mouth twitched upward into a distorted smile.

"Are you all by yourself?"

With a heavy clatter, the man stood up. He staggered slightly, making a racket as he braced his hands against the counter.

This is bad, you thought. This was clearly taking an unfavorable turn. If this had just been a bar, it would be a simple matter of doing an about-face and walking right out the door. But if you couldn't check in, you couldn't rent a room. You had driven quite a long distance since passing the last motel, and conversely, you had no idea how much further you'd have to drive to find the next one.

Pulling the car over onto the shoulder to sleep under the stars wasn't completely out of the question, but both you and Floyd spent almost the entire day sitting down. When it came time to sleep, you wanted to stretch your arms and legs out comfortably. The backseat was far too cramped for two people to sleep in—and frankly, Floyd wouldn't even fit in the backseat to begin with. After all, his total length exceeded two meters.

"I'd like to check in, please."

"…"

The man’s insolent gaze swept over you, traveling slowly from the top of your head down to your feet. Then, letting his tongue swipe across his lips, he declared, "If you're all by yourself, I could even let you stay for free."

A knot of physiological disgust tightened in your throat, and you were on the verge of scowling. You managed to hold it back right at the last second… or at least, you hoped you did. It was never a good idea to carelessly provoke a dangerous man of this caliber.

"I can pay you properly."

"Aw, don't be so stubborn."

It wasn't stubbornness. It was absolutely not stubbornness.

Sluggishly, the man stepped out from behind the counter. His frame was larger than yours, both in height and in width. That said, his build was far from toned; he was heavily buried in thick layers of fat. His movements were slow and lumbering, likely due to the alcohol, which was your one saving grace.

Instinctively, you backed away. Your back hit the door with a soft thud.

You were covered in sweat and desperately wanted a hot shower. But under these circumstances, you might have no choice but to give up. If you opened the door and bolted outside quickly, the man probably wouldn't be able to catch up with you.

Weighing those options, just as you began to quietly grope for the doorknob behind your back, the door you were leaning against suddenly swung open.

"Oof!"

A clueless exclamation escaped your lips. Your center of gravity lurched backward, and your balance completely crumbled. Just as you scrambled to pull your foot back and regain your footing, your tilting head was caught with a soft thud against something solid.

Then, two thick, powerful arms smoothly draped over your shoulders, as if boldly claiming ownership of you. A gentle scent of mint mixed with cinnamon drifted into the air.

It was Floyd.

Leaning over you from behind, Floyd rested his chin squarely on the crown of your head with a blunt bump.

"You're taking foreeever, Little Shrimpy. What's keeping you so caught up just to check in?"

You could feel Floyd's body heat radiating against your back. Between the heavy weight pressing down on you and the voice raining from above, the panic-like terror that had been gradually taking over your body seemed to quietly dissolve away. For some reason, you instantly felt that everything was going to be alright.

Taking a quick breath to steady yourself, you opened your mouth.

"Well, you see…"

The voice you tried to push out as if nothing were wrong still tasted dry with the remnants of your vigilance. You darted a quick glance at the man in front of you.

The man’s face, which had been flushed warm from the alcohol, was now pale, and his eyes were visibly trembling with agitation. He was flinching at the sudden appearance of Floyd, who looked infinitely stronger than him.

In reality, Floyd was stronger than this man. Unlike the guy in front of you, Floyd was completely sober, and his body was tightly toned and packed with practical, functional muscle. Even in height, Floyd held the absolute advantage. The only things this man could possibly beat Floyd in were body fat percentage and sheer width.

Reaching that realization, a spike of irritation flared within you.

This man had only tried to mess with you because you were a woman who looked younger and weaker than him. And now, because Floyd—who was clearly stronger—had stepped into the picture, he was regretting it. He hadn't just targeted anyone. He had looked down on you, assumed he could lay a hand on you without consequences, and tried to push his luck.

You didn't appreciate being underestimated. So, tilting your head up slightly to glance at Floyd above you, you let the words fly.

"This gentleman says he's going to let us stay for free."

"…"

The man caught his breath sharply.

Above your head, Floyd let out a low chuckle. "Heh."

It was a sweet, yet slightly raspy, grating bass. Imminent danger seeped heavily from those brief two notes.

"Aren't you just so incredibly generous?"

Floyd’s heterochromatic eyes locked onto the man. Though he appeared to be smiling, there wasn't a single trace of warmth or amusement in his gaze. He simply stared the man down, pinning him beneath a freezing, unblinking stare.

Unable to withstand that gaze, the man backed away inch by inch. The moment he bumped into the counter with a heavy clatter, he spun around as if fleeing and retreated back behind it. It was as though that space were his only safe haven. With frantic movements, he pulled a key from a drawer and slammed it onto the counter. No words were spoken. Floyd simply watched.

The man’s hands trembled against the countertop. Slowly, ever so slowly, Floyd’s mismatched eyes narrowed into the shape of a smile. It was a calculated, theatrical gesture meant purely to intimidate.

"Thanks."

Saying just that, Floyd took a single step forward and hooked his fingertip through the key on the counter. Even during that motion, his gaze never once wavered from the man.

A sharp gulp rattled the man’s throat. Cold sweat began to pour profusely down his forehead. It was as if he had been locked inside a room with a lethal beast of prey. Pressing his back flat against the wall, he tried to secure as much distance from Floyd as humanly possible.

Just as unhurriedly, Floyd pulled his body back and returned to your side. Once again, his arm wrapped loosely around your shoulders.

"Let's go, Little Shrimpy."

Prompted by Floyd's voice, you stepped out into the hallway. The moment you did, you let out a long, heavy exhale. Beside you, Floyd stuck his tongue out in sheer disgust, twisting his face into a grimace.

"Grossss."

He was entirely right. It was the absolute epitome of disgusting.

"We should probably get outta here first thing in the morning." "I completely agree."

You picked up your luggage, which had been set down near the entrance. Floyd must have carried it all the way here for you. Turning to head toward your assigned room, a sudden question popped into your mind, and you darted a brief glance up at him.

Why had Floyd come inside right at that moment? Granted, you were the financial sponsor of his journey. You yourself had calculated that if you ever got entangled in some sort of trouble, Floyd would likely come to your rescue. But even so, his timing had been incredibly fast.

"You got here really fast."

"Well, ya know. Look over there."

Floyd turned back slightly, indicating the door of the reception office with his gaze. The top section of the wooden door was paneled with glass. Though you couldn't see the interior because something like a sheet of paper was taped to the inside, a dim light leaked out.

"I saw your shadow, Little Shrimpy."

"Ah, I see."

If you had been standing away from the door, a shadow wouldn't have appeared there. That was exactly how he must have deduced the situation—that a shadow forming in such a spot meant you were backed flat against the door, pinned down. And that was precisely why he had come for you.

"Thank you. You really saved me."

"…"

Floyd’s gaze dropped down to meet yours. Then, a wide, smug grin spread across his massive mouth.

"Aren't you glad you picked me up? ♡"

The voice asserting his own usefulness carried a touch of childish, innocent charm. It wasn't a boast meant to assert dominance or brag that he was superior; it was a voice purely pleading for praise. A smile naturally found its way to your lips.

"Yes. I made an excellent find."

At your response, Floyd laughed with deep satisfaction. Still in high spirits, he swept up the luggage and began walking toward the room. If he had a tail, it looked as though it would be swaying loosely behind his back. Watching his retreating figure brought a strange illusion over you—it felt less like you had picked up a passing stranger and more like you had adopted a remarkably well-behaved, massive beast. His frame was gigantic, and he could easily look terrifying, but he was a lethal beast entirely loyal to his keeper. On top of that, he was brilliant; he could take care of himself, and when push came to shove, he would even look after you. All he required was the cost of his upkeep.

"He's over-delivering on every single need…"

Involuntarily muttering the thought aloud, you hurried after Floyd toward the room.

The room was neither particularly good nor terribly bad. While it seemed to be properly cleaned, the carpet was dingy enough that its original color was unrecognizable, and the furniture was worn with age. The bathroom, of course, was an all-in-one prefabricated unit. The ceramic of both the sink basin and the bathtub was faintly dull and discolored. Even so, the wash area was entirely free of slime. It wasn't unhygienic, but it was considerably weathered by time. That was the general feel of it.

After quickly taking turns in the hot shower and changing into comfortable loungewear, you decided to make do for dinner with the chips and soda you had originally intended to eat in the car tomorrow. Truthfully, you would have preferred to have a warm, cooked meal at the bar for dinner, but given the owner's attitude, you both had concluded that it would be a hassle if he tried to meddle with you again.

Sitting cross-legged on the bed, with the noise of the television left running as background music, the two of you crunched away on the chips. It wasn't that they tasted bad, but it was a rather lackluster substitute for dinner.

"Little Shrimpy."

"Yes?"

"Let's eat somethin' really good tomorrow."

"Let's do that."

The two of you nodded at each other in heartfelt agreement. It wouldn't be a bad idea to deviate slightly from the highway and stop by a nearby town. For now, you filled your stomachs with chips and soda, and then each made preparations for sleep. Since you couldn't expect anything from breakfast here either, you wanted to leave early tomorrow.

In the darkened room, Floyd was the first to dive onto the bed. The springs of the old mattress let out a loud, agonizing groan. Given how worn it already was, forcing it to absorb a dive from Floyd could be considered a rather brutal form of hard labor. Feeling slightly anxious that a spring might snap straight through the sheets, you cautiously climbed onto the bed.

Creak. The bed groaned. Even so, the mattress remained heavily tilted toward Floyd's side. Your weights were simply too different.

As you slowly crawled up toward the pillows, you sensed the air of a soft chuckle. An arm stretched out, pulling you close as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Because you had become entirely accustomed to it by now, you quietly allowed yourself to be drawn in, letting your head rest against the offered arm pillow as you nestled perfectly into his chest.

You had only just met, and you knew absolutely nothing of Floyd's background. Yet, you knew with absolute certainty the blissful comfort of sleeping completely enveloped by his long limbs. Gently, you let your temple nuzzle against the base of his shoulder.

This comforting atmosphere was something Floyd was intentionally providing. Knowing that you would instantly tense up if he hinted at even a shred of romance or tension between a man and a woman, he chose to present himself simply as Floyd, maintaining this specific distance that felt somewhere between a massive animal and its keeper. Floyd was deliberately behaving in a way that prevented him from becoming a "man" in your eyes. And you were fully aware of this.

The incident at the reception desk just a moment ago was one example. Even in the unfamiliar bars you stepped into, whenever the insolent stares of the local men directed themselves toward you out of sheer curiosity, he would casually step forward to block their view. You knew all of this perfectly well. He precisely sniffed out the exact role you required, and he played it flawlessly.

He was an exceptionally well-crafted freeloader. No matter how much money it cost, the number of women—no, even men—who would desperately want to keep him by their side was surely far from small. And now, such a rare, enchanting charmer was right beside you. It wouldn't be an exaggeration to say this was the greatest stroke of luck you had grasped at the very, very end of your time in this world.

"…"

You let out a tiny exhale, like a silent laugh. Floyd's body temperature, which was noticeably lower than a normal human's, felt wonderfully soothing as it melded against your skin. The strength drained entirely from your body, leaving you limp and relaxed. You even felt as though the boundaries between your physical selves might dissolve, melting and blending completely into one another.

"Goodnight, Little Shrimpy."

His supple voice echoed softly, and a tender sensation brushed against your forehead. It was a gentle kiss, as though offering a prayer for your peaceful sleep.

"I brought you a souvenir."

Imagine standing at your front door, looking at your blood-soaked boyfriend carrying a bear that was practically the same size as him. That was the exact situation you found yourself in.

Letting out a silent scream, you immediately slammed the emergency summons button. It was a device your homeroom teacher had shoved into your hand, instructing you to press it if anything ever happened to you—the solitary girl in this entire academy. This button was on a completely different level from any ordinary, run-of-the-mill security alarm; a single press would literally summon your teacher to your side.

Your homeroom teacher, looking striking as ever in his black-and-white split hair and red accents, let out a heavy sigh at the disastrous scene before him. With a single flick of his crop, he effortlessly hoisted the two-meter-long moray eel over his shoulder and walked back toward the school buildings. He had likely used magic to manipulate the weight.

Left behind in his wake were a two-meter bear, and you.

Being left alone with a massive carcass was a massive problem, so you contacted Floyd Leech, another A two-year-old land dweller, to come and take the bear off your hands. Then, as you vigorously scrubbed the doorstep with a brush—unsure whether the bloodstains belonged to the bear or your boyfriend—you cried just a little bit.

Why does that man have to be so utterly wild? Are all sea creatures like this?

The following day, a massive delivery arrived from Floyd: bear meat, beautifully butchered and neatly packed into Ziploc bags. According to him, "He hunted that meat for his mate, right?"

That settled it. You were now entirely convinced that all sea creatures were exactly like this.

The freezer in the Ramshackle Dorm was packed to the brim with bear meat.

Wondering what the most delicious way to cook bear meat might be, you headed out to visit Jade.

Apparently, he had taken quite a solid hit to the head.

"The bleeding was only heavy because the claws gashed my scalp. It really is not that serious of an injury," Jade assured you with a smile, while next to him, the school doctor grimaced and silently shook his head.

You completely agreed with the doctor.

Humans simply cannot beat bears.

If he were an ordinary human, that single strike could have easily taken his head clean off. You gave a heavy, piercing glare to the moray eel tucked quietly into the bed.

Today was the day you were absolutely going to make this moray eel reflect on his actions.

"Jade-senpai."

"Yes? What is it?"

You softly sat down on the edge of the bedside.

The bed gave a small, quiet creak.

"Do you know what day it is today?"

"…"

That seemed to be a completely unexpected question for Jade.

His eyes widened ever so slightly, and then he looked down just a bit, appearing deep in thought. Most likely, that brilliant mind of his was searching through his memories to check if today could possibly be some kind of anniversary.

After a long pause, Jade lowered his brows in a troubled manner.

"My apologies, but nothing comes to mind."

"I figured as much."

"Meaning?"

"In my world, today is Kiss Day."

"Oh, my."

Just a fraction, a touch of delight colored his sharp, narrow eyes and the tone of his voice.

"Would you care to demonstrate?"

"Yes."

You gently took Jade's hand in yours.

It was a large hand.

Sleek, well-defined, with long and beautifully shaped fingers.

"In my world, there is a belief that the meaning changes depending on where your lips touch. Supposedly, it originates from an old poem."

"How intriguing."

You turned Jade’s hand over, exposing his palm.

Then, deliberately keeping his eyes fixed on you, you slowly bent forward and pressed a soft kiss right into his palm.

Chu, chu, chu. You pressed your lips against his skin over and over, as if offering a prayer for each kiss.

Don't do dangerous things.

Don't get hurt.

You can go to the mountains if you want, but make sure you come back safely.

And as an extra bonus: You are not a house cat, so stop bringing back prey that is a total nightmare to deal with.

Chu.

"……Um, excuse me."

Slowly, a faint crimson flushed across Jade’s pale, handsome face.

Seeing him look so young—fitting for someone his age—brought a soft smile to your own lips as you lifted your face.

"What does the palm… signify?"

"I am not telling you."

You cut him off with absolute certainty.

"Eh…?" A rare gasp of genuine bewilderment slipped from Jade's lips.

"It is a secret that only I know. How tragic. Jade-senpai, I just know you are going to be absolutely dying to find out, yet no matter where you look, you will never find the answer."

"Wait… Um, Prefect?"

You offered him a sweet, beaming smile.

Then, you smoothly slipped away, stood up, and stepped away from the bed.

"Are you perhaps angry with me?"

A polite smile.

You walked past the privacy curtains partitioning the bed, but just before leaving, you cast a brief glance back over your shoulder. Seeing your boyfriend looking genuinely troubled for once, you playfully stuck your tongue out at him.

"If you want to know the answer, get well soon and come make it up to me."

Jade started to sit up. The very palm you had just kissed was now reaching up, on the verge of ripping off the bandages wrapping his forehead.

"Would right now not suffice?"

"Absolutely not."

Before Jade could even take a single step forward, you quickly slipped through the partition, letting the curtain sway behind you to put some distance between you.

"Until you are completely healed, you are strictly banned from the Ramshackle Dorm."

"How cruel."

"Banned."

"I am already cured."

"Liar."

"It is no lie. Please, see for yourself."

Suddenly, an arm reached out from the other side of the partition, catching you right through the fabric of the curtain. As those arms pulled you into a tight, firm embrace, a small laugh finally escaped your lips.

--------------------------------------------------

For the first time in a while, the sky was bright, and the wind felt wonderful.

The moment you opened the front door, a playful gust of wind blew past, rustling the branches of the cherry tree in your neighbor's yard and sending pale pink petals fluttering into the blue sky.

Watching them, you thought about how nice it was that the weather had cleared up. You thought about how glad you were that the rain hadn't washed all the blossoms away. It was a pleasant, serene spring afternoon.

Stepping out in your brand-new leather shoes—which still felt a little stiff and unfamiliar—you can still picture the puddle reflecting the light at your feet.

Ah, if I keep going, I'm going to step right into it, you thought, hesitating for a fraction of a second.

But your foot was already mid-stride. Trying to force your weight elsewhere now would probably just make you trip. Besides, the puddle was already drying up and looked shallow; even if you stepped in it, it wouldn't be deep enough to soak through your new shoes anyway. So, in that brief moment, you decided it didn't matter.

And just like that, you stepped right into the puddle with a soft splash.

You regret that choice to this very day.

If only you had avoided the puddle by force, even if it meant taking a fall.

Your foot, which should have hit the bottom of the puddle, sank straight through a floor that shouldn't have been there. The world went dark in an instant, as if you had plunged into a tunnel.

Passing through the darkness with a floating sensation lasted only a moment.

Thinking it was just a dizzy spell from sudden anemia, you scrambled to regain your footing. By the time you steadied your stance, the world surrounding you had completely transformed.

It was a world of pure white.

The walls, the floor—everything was relentlessly, utterly white. The only thing that possessed a trace of nature, like a solitary piece of organic matter, was the weathered stone slab positioned right beneath where you stood.

"…"

Unable to comprehend the situation, you blinked blankly a few times.

Down below, several men in white lab coats were standing. They, too, were staring up at you, completely frozen in shock.

It looked like a hospital room. All around you, unfamiliar machines and incomprehensible equipment were lined up on metallic utility carts.

You were standing on a surface that was slightly elevated from the surrounding floor. It was roughly the height of a desk—or perhaps, to give a clearer picture, more like a display pedestal you would see in an art museum or a gallery. A large, stark white platform had a recess carved into it, and a stone slab was fitted snugly inside. The slab was about a size or two larger than a manhole cover, and its surface, carved with beautiful intricate patterns, was submerged just enough to be covered by a thin layer of water. You were standing right on top of that stone slab. Of course, you had no memory of climbing onto such a place, nor did you recognize the slab at all.

The man standing directly in front of you muttered something. To your ears, however, his voice failed to register as anything meaningful. It was a language completely unknown to you.

Yes. You had been summoned to another world.

It wasn't a summoning with a specific purpose. It was a complete accident. They were scientists researching a stone slab excavated from an ancient ruin. In order to investigate what the slab had been used for, they recreated its environment and channeled magical energy into it—and as a result, you were summoned into this world.

The director, who was the head of the facility, cast a spell on you called Language Magic. Thanks to this, you no longer had any trouble conversing with the researchers at the facility. Being able to communicate made your daily life a fair bit easier. And because the words now made sense, you were able to grasp the situation.

This was Twisted Wonderland, a world where magic and magical energy existed. You had been summoned to such a world by accident—and unfortunately, for the time being, there was no way for you to return to your original world.

You came to live at the research institute. There was nowhere else you could go. You had no place to belong in this world. No home, no family, no friends—you didn't even have a legal identity. You had no choice but to rely on the care of the institute, whose staff had promised to take responsibility for causing the accident.

For the first week, you shut yourself in your room. You held onto the hope that if you just waited, you might somehow be able to return to your original world. When a week had passed, the anxiety of doing nothing began to weigh on you, and you slowly started to venture out of the room you had been given. Then, you began to speak with the people around you. By the time another month went by, you had dressed yourself in a white lab coat just like the surrounding researchers, cooperating with and assisting them in their studies.

After all, you had nothing else to do and nothing else you could do. You figured that by cooperating with them, you might increase the chances of returning to your original world, even if only by a fraction.

Since you were properly compensated according to your work, you asked the director to help you open a bank account, had your wages deposited there, and started building up your savings.

Because you were an outsider from another world summoned by a magical accident, you weren’t exactly free to go outside whenever you pleased. Still, if accompanied by one of the researchers, you were eventually permitted to go out into the town.

Officially, your position to the outside world was that of a research student. But because you were under close supervision, a person who required constant oversight, they eventually started calling you Prefect.

A way to return to your original world was not easily found. The stone slab had only reacted to the magical energy that one single time when it summoned you. No matter how many times they attempted to replicate the experiment, it remained completely silent and inert from then on.

As your days at the institute stretched into months and years, you gradually began to think that you might never be able to return to your original world. Your black hair, which used to be neatly trimmed around your shoulders, had grown long enough to reach your waist… and your classmates back home had undoubtedly graduated from high school long ago. That was how much time had passed.

And so, little by little, you began to consider living out your life in this world and started planning your departure from the institute. The director had offered to adopt you. By becoming his adoptive child, you would be able to obtain a legal identity in this world. If that happened, you could finally live as a proper human being here. Over the past few years, you had also managed to learn the ways and common sense of this world.

Thus, you were halfway prepared to accept your fate and live in this world—and yet, the news was delivered with absolute simplicity.

"――――――――"

Ah, you let out a small, quiet breath. Finally. At long last.

A soft chuckle slipped from your lips. A smile bloomed on your face as naturally as cherry blossom buds unfurling when spring arrives. You could go home. You could return to your original world.

Back in your room, you cried and cried. You wept as you thought back on all the days you had spent in this world.

And then… You decided to go on a journey. Since it was finally possible to return to your original world, you resolved to see the rest of this world one last time before you left.

You sold all your belongings, withdrew every last bit of your savings, and bought a car.

You didn't have a license. But you knew how to drive. One of the researchers had taught you in the institute's ridiculously spacious parking lot.

That was why you chose a used car dealership on the outskirts of town—one that didn't look overly strict about paperwork. Having everything settled in cash would be ideal. When you arrived first thing in the morning and said you wanted a car, the clerk gave you a suspicious look. But once you showed them the cash to prove you had the money, they shrugged, as if it didn't matter to them either way.

You walked around, browsing the cars lined up haphazardly outside, and from among them, you picked out a bright red convertible. You didn't know the manufacturer, the brand, or whether it was a good or bad car. You just picked it because it made your heart race with excitement. The deciding factor was that even if you returned to Japan, became a working adult, and eventually bought a car of your own, it was the exact type of vehicle you would absolutely never choose.

Because you were leaving this world behind, you could do anything. Since you were going home anyway, you figured you might as well run wild and do exactly as you pleased at the very end. After all, the money you had saved up all this time was of no use to you anymore. Even if you took madols back to your original world, there would be nowhere to spend them. So, you decided to blow it all spectacularly in this world before you left.

A savings account that would feel painfully meager if you had to live off it for the rest of your life transformed into quite a fortune when viewed as a travel budget.

Using the keys you obtained in exchange for the cash, you started the engine. Vroom. The engine roared as if responding to you. The sound echoed like a joyful shout for freedom.

"…Ahaha."

You laughed. You were free. Precisely because you couldn't take anything back to your original world, you could consume every single thing you currently possessed right here. Gently, you stroked the steering wheel.

"Nice to meet you, partner."

Carelessly tossing your shoulder bag containing your cash and smartphone onto the passenger seat, you started driving. Before leaving town, you'd stop by a bookstore. You were going to visit as many of this world's tourist spots as you possibly could.

Your black hair fluttered in the rushing wind. It's in the way, you thought. It had grown as long as the years that had slipped by since you arrived in this world. It had grown heavy. It was an extra weight you didn't need to carry back to your original world. So, you decided to cut this off too.

You bought a cheap pair of scissors along with a travel magazine. Right there in the parking lot, you snipped and hacked away at your hair. The self-cut was probably a terrible, ragged mess. But you were going back to your original world. You wondered if your usual hair salon was still there. The stylist you always went to would surely be shocked to see you reappear after five years. They might even laugh at your bold, hopeless attempt at a self-cut. But it would be fine once she fixed it up for you. You could go back to the original you. Back to the fresh, naive high schooler with soft black hair neatly trimmed around the shoulders.

"…Well, I guess that's asking too much."

In this world, you had already legally become an adult. No matter how much you reverted your hairstyle, you couldn't undo the time that had passed. In that case, maybe you could think of a slightly more mature hairstyle. Maybe you could keep some length and get a perm. Reaching that thought, you looked down at the black hair you had recklessly chopped off.

"Oops. I really did it now."

Before you could even think, you had let the excitement get the better of you and acted on impulse.

Your head felt completely light now, while the chopped-off black strands coiled on the passenger seat like a snake.

"Oh well, whatever."

You laughed. A slightly short bob probably wouldn't look too bad. Heck, you could even try a pixie cut if you wanted to. After all, you were going back to your original world! You stepped on the gas and let the car roar forward. The wind howled past. The shorn remnants of your hair drifted away, scattered one by one by the rushing air. You had absolutely no intention of ever returning to this town. Letting the wind play with your freshly lightened hair, you kept the car moving, your spirits high. And just like that, your journey began.

■□■

Your journey was completely undisciplined. Picking destinations entirely on a whim, you drove endlessly along the countryside roads. If efficiency were the goal, taking the highway would have been the obvious choice, but unfortunately, you didn't have a license. Considering the risk of getting pulled over by the police if things went sideways, the highway had to be avoided at all costs. For that very reason, you opted for the rural arterial highways.

These roads, stretching in straight lines through the empty countryside, were primarily maintained for commercial shipping trucks, meaning passenger vehicles rarely traveled them. Yet, precisely because of those transport vehicles, motels and gas stations were scattered along the route, making it perfect for car travel. It wasn't developed for tourism, nor did it offer any spectacular sights, so there were few people around. Yet, because a steady stream of people used it for work, the route was far from dead. That was the nature of this highway.

Letting random music drift from the radio, you just kept driving. Every now and then, you refueled at a station and picked up drinks or snacks at the small convenience stores attached to them. When night fell, you would pull off the road, rent a room at some cheap motel, and spend the night. Since there was almost always a bar right next to the motel, you usually had dinner there. No matter the bar, they always served fries and chicken. Pairing that with a beer became your usual routine. To tell the truth, you didn't have much of a tolerance for alcohol and would have vastly preferred a soft drink, but walking into a bar and ordering juice or soda just didn't feel right. A woman traveling entirely alone already drew enough stares as it was. Not wanting to attract any unnecessary attention, you would order the weakest, easiest-drinking beer available, using the heavily seasoned fries and chicken wings to wash it down.

On the television, some live sports broadcast was playing. The other patrons in the bar were all completely engrossed in the game. Letting their occasional cheers wash over you, you idly thought about tomorrow. How far would you be able to go tomorrow? It wasn't as if you had a specific destination in mind. You had even bought a map-inclusive guidebook with the intention of touring famous sights, but by now, the journey itself had entirely become the purpose. Driving as if leaving every single shackle and obligation far behind felt infinitely better than you had imagined. Before you knew it, you couldn't care less where you actually ended up. You just wanted to see how far you could go. You wanted to drive to the very edge of everything. With that single desire fueling you, you kept the car moving forward.

Whether it was the alcohol catching up to you or something else entirely, your mind began to drift, and you gently lowered your eyelids. You were well aware that this flickering of consciousness was far too laced with anxiety to be considered a peaceful doze. Maybe you should just head back to your room early tonight.

"Hey."

That was exactly when the voice reached you. It was a soft, supple tone. For some reason, instinctively sensing that the call was meant for you, you raised your eyes. Then, your shoulders gave an involuntary jolt. The drowsiness that had been clinging so stickily to your consciousness vanished in an instant.

Standing there was a staggeringly handsome man. He was remarkably tall; even though you were seated on a stool at the elevated bar counter, his gaze still looked down at yours. His hair was the vibrant color of the sea, with a single lock of black swaying along one side of his face. His drooping eyes had a heavy, melting quality to them, carrying a sweet, gentle warmth. The moment your eyes met, the man let his gaze soften even further into a deep, languid smile.

"That rad car parked out there—is it yours, Little Shrimpy?" "…If you mean the red convertible, then yes, it's mine."

Little Shrimpy.

Judging by the flow of the conversation, that name was presumably directed at you. When you offered your hesitant response, the man’s smile grew even more delighted.

"Hey, would you mind showing it to me?" "The car?" "Yep."

You had been on the verge of heading back to your room anyway. Cautiously, you slid down from the stool. Once you stood on the same level, the man felt larger than life. It wasn't just his height; his shoulders were broad and sturdy, his build thick and solid. Even though he was just carelessly thrown into a loud, patterned shirt, he looked as striking as a model—a testament to his deep chest and a well-proportioned frame that tapered sharply toward his waist. And a man like that was taking an interest in your car.

"…"

Quietly, you stroked the surface of the bag slung over your shoulder. Through the fabric, you felt the hard, blunt shape of the scissors you had left inside. If the worst came to the worst, could you throw them off by brandishing the scissors? The parking lot wasn't all that far from the bar. If you made a scene and screamed, someone would surely notice. With those thoughts running through your mind, you opened the mouth of your bag—making it look like a natural, routine check to ensure your wallet was secure before leaving the bar—while keeping yourself ready to pull the scissors out at a moment's notice.

Then, you led the way out of the bar, with the man following close behind. Even though it was early summer, the night breeze still carried a bit of a chill. The wind brushed softly against your cheeks, which were flushed warm from the alcohol. Walking straight over to your beloved car, you pulled back the cover to reveal it.

"Heh, nice ride."

The man let out a sharp whistle. You didn't know anything about the quality of cars, but it didn't feel bad to hear the vehicle you chose as your partner receive praise.

"This one's a slightly older model, so you don't really see 'em around much lately. I've always liked 'em, though. It's a great car. Rides like this usually prioritize looks and put performance on the back burner, but this baby actually runs solid. Plus, it's pretty sturdy." "Is that so?" "What, you've been driving it without even knowing?" "I just liked the way it looked." "Nff, you've got great taste."

The man gently stroked the hood of the car. It was a tender, careful gesture, as though he were caressing a living creature.

"Hey, Little Shrimpy." "Little Shrimp."

You repeated it back to him. It was a peculiar nickname.

"Yep. Little Shrimpy. 'Cause you're tiny and cute, just like a little shrimp." "Pfft, ahaha."

An involuntary laugh slipped out. The way he didn't even bother to ask for your name, choosing instead to casually slap a nickname on you and run with it—it felt so perfectly indicative of a fleeting, passing encounter. You felt like you had seen this kind of thing in old movies before. Characters who didn't know each other's names calling one another "honey" or "darling." Though in your case, for some reason, it was seafood.

"So, where are you heading in a rad ride like this, Little Shrimpy?" "As far as I can go."

You could go absolutely anywhere, and you wanted to see just how far you could push the distance. And then, once you were satisfied, you would go home. That was what this journey was. At your answer, the man let out a bright, careless laugh.

"Nice. Sounds like fun."

He didn't make fun of your utter lack of a plan, nor did he express any worry. He simply resonated with the idea, genuinely thinking it sounded like fun. That brought you an unexpected swell of happiness, and a smile found its way to your lips. The man tilted his head with a soft, loose grace.

"Hey." "Yes?" "Take me with you." "…Excuse me?"

Your eyes went wide, staring at him blankly. You had just finished explaining a completely ambiguous destination—that you were going nowhere in particular, just as far as the car would take you. To hear that and immediately ask to be taken along was a thoroughly bizarre way to hitchhike. Seeing the suspicion written all over your face, the man gave a light, casual shrug.

"See, I kinda messed up a job." "I see." "So I'm pretty much on the run right now." "Right."

In other words, as long as he could get away from this place, the destination didn't matter to him at all. He was just like you. He wanted to go somewhere—anywhere—that wasn't here. But still.

"If you're looking to hitchhike, you should find someone—"

—else, you had intended to say. If you were out here, there were plenty of other drivers who might pick up a hitchhiker on a passing whim. If you were the only option around, you might have given it some thought. But there were other drivers here. Though the parking lot wasn't packed, a handful of shipping trucks were parked nearby. They undoubtedly belonged to the men back inside the bar, completely absorbed in the sports game. He could easily go ask them. There was no reason for you to extend a helping hand. There shouldn't have been a reason.

The man's hand slid out, smoothly capturing yours. Perhaps because it was a gesture executed as naturally as breathing, entirely devoid of any apparent malice or ulterior motive, you weren't even given the window to tense up and step back in caution. Your palm was placed right on top of his massive hand.

It was your right palm. White bandages were wrapped tightly around it, layer upon layer. Beneath them, as you well knew, lay a deeply torn, gaping laceration. The very reason your head felt so terribly hazy was because of the painkillers you had washed down with your beer. Even now, the moment you focused your awareness on it, the wound began to throb bitterly, pulsing in agonizing sync with the beating of your heart.

"If you take care of me, I'll take care of you, too, Little Shrimpy. Here, let me fix this up for you."

It was a supple voice. Low, calm, and as drippingly sweet as melting honey.

"…"

Holding your breath, you slowly raised your eyes and let out a soft exhale. You looked at the man. You looked up at him. He was staggeringly, remarkably tall. His shoulders were broad, his muscles solidly built, his chest deep, and his legs were so long it was almost frightening. Through his sea-colored hair, a single lock of black swayed gently. His sweet, drooping eyes were mismatching colors. He was a man far too exquisite to be picked up in a place like this. A glamorous silver screen would suit him infinitely better than a desolate parking lot.

Perhaps that was why. Maybe it doesn't matter anymore, you thought. The thought had slipped into your mind. Even if he ended up killing you, you thought with a sense of reckless abandon that it would be fine if it was by a guy this handsome.

"…Alright," you said, your voice raspy.

Your head was spinning. The wound was throbbing. And this man was overwhelmingly, ridiculously good-looking. Since you didn't have a single failed romance story to your name anyway, you figured it wouldn't hurt to finally experience one right here. You thought you could turn it into a legendary boasting story after you returned to your original world. Of course, absolutely no one would believe you. The story of how you picked up a guy so breathtakingly handsome he'd make professional models run away bare-legged, and brought him right back to your room. Thinking about it that way actually made it feel kind of fun, and a small chuckle slipped through your lips.

"Could you help me put the cover back on?" "Yep."

The man nodded obediently. Pulling his hand away as naturally as breathing, you began putting the cover back over the car. The man, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world, lent his hand to help. After that, you led him toward your motel room.

It was a simple room containing nothing more than a small chair and table, a bed, a mirror, and an all-in-one prefabricated bathroom. The man had you sit on the bed, then pulled up the chair right in front of you and sat down.

"Let me see the injury."

His massive palm took your hand, and he began to smoothly unfurl the bandages. As layer after layer of the white cloth unraveled, a deep crimson gradually began to seep through the white. The oozing, wet red was proof that the wound had not yet closed. When the laceration on your palm was finally fully revealed, the man winced, his face twisting into a grimace.

"Little Shrimpy, you've been driving with this?" "Yeah, pretty much." "Ouch. Looks painful."

Drooping his eyebrows into a soft, helpless frown, the man didn't ask how the injury had happened. Because he didn't ask, you didn't offer an explanation. A jagged, torn laceration split across your palm. It was the kind of wound that, realistically, probably required stitches. While still grimacing at the state of the injury… the man simply gave his hand a light wave. That was all it took. A large, sinewy palm—with a silver ring fitted at the base of his middle finger—waved lightly through the air. With just that single motion, the agonizing pain that neither the painkillers nor the beer could fully numb vanished as if it had all been a lie.

You let out a small, sharp gasp. You couldn't understand what had just happened.

Then, the man's palm waved once more. Blocked from view by his massive hand, the wound vanished from sight. And when the back of his hand pulled away next, the injury was no longer on your palm.

Your small, pale hand rested on top of his. Even your palm lines, which you thought had been completely altered by the injury, were restored to how they used to be. It was as if the wound had never been there in the first place—completely gone.

No, looking closely, there was a faint, white, thread-like mark that looked like a scar. But it had blended so thoroughly into the tone of your skin, looking like an old injury, that you wouldn't even notice it unless you examined it intently.

As you blinked in utter daze, the man seemed to chuckle, his breath hitching softly.

"It's magic."

His voice sounded as if he were sharing a deep secret. It was quietly restrained, yet carried a slight, boastful pride. He was a man who looked much older than you, yet in that specific tone, he sounded just like a mischievous child.

"Never seen it before?" "This is the first time… I've ever seen anything like it."

You had heard that there were individuals in this world called mages. They used magical stones to cast their spells. At the institute where you used to live, the director was the only mage. That was why he was able to cast the spell on you so you could understand the language.

But that was the only magic you had ever encountered. The people at the institute were almost entirely non-mage researchers, and even the director had mentioned that magic wasn't something that could be used all that easily. Even in this world where an inexplicable power like magical energy existed, those capable of using magic were apparently quite limited. They said that while magical energy exists within everyone, the people who can actually refine that energy to the level of magic are few and far between.

The man standing right in front of you was a mage who could command that precious magic with absolute ease.

"Nff, fufu."

Seeming pleased by your reaction, the man laughed cheerfully. He smoothly slipped the silver ring off his left middle finger and held it up right before your eyes. At a glance, it was a simple silver ring. It was slightly wide, and its surface was covered in a beautiful hammered pattern that resembled scales. And fitted snugly along the inside of the band was a row of tiny, faintly glowing purple stones.

"This right here is a magical stone. I can use magic 'cause I have this." "It can be that small?"

Such a tiny, minuscule stone had erased your pain. It had completely healed your injury.

"Magic is amazing." "Amazing, right?"

As the man laughed proudly, you found yourself letting out a small, mirrored smile. And then… you slowly let your body collapse sideways.

With a soft poof, the bed—which wasn't particularly soft—caught your weight. Perhaps because it had been properly laundered, a faint, clean scent of detergent drifted gently from the sheets.

"What's up? Are you sleepy, Little Shrimpy?" "Now that the worry is gone… I'm just so tired…"

Letting out a wide yawn, you shifted and rubbed your feet together to slip off your shoes. Thud, thud. Your shoes dropped to the floor one after the other. Curling up on your side just like that, you rolled into a ball.

For the past few days, you hadn't been able to sleep well at all, partly due to the pain from the injury. On top of that, you had been terrified. If the wound became infected, it could easily become a matter of life and death. If that happened, your journey to make final memories would be completely ruined. During the day, you exhausted your nerves on unfamiliar driving, and at night, you washed down painkillers with cheap beer just to force yourself to sleep, all while being tormented by pain and anxiety.

But now, both had completely vanished. It was only natural that drowsiness would claim you.

"Just like a little fry," a low, gentle, teasing voice seemed to murmur right at the edge of your consciousness as you drifted off to sleep.

■□■

It was warm and comfortable. In the midst of a blissful daze, your consciousness gently drifted toward the surface. You were still half-dreaming. You felt like you wanted to stay immersed in this pleasant comfort for just a little longer. Remaining listless, you cracked your eyelids open slightly to check the clock. You didn't want to wake up just yet, but there was also the checkout time to consider. You couldn't afford to sleep too late. Using sheer willpower to separate your stubborn upper and lower eyelids, you fumbled around blindly, searching for your device which should have been near your pillow.

Pat. Pat, pat. Your fingertips brushed against a source of warmth.

"…"

Snap. Your eyes blinked open.

There was another human being there. A man with a massive frame. The man you had picked up in the parking lot. He was sleeping with you cradled against his chest. It was, for all intents and purposes, sharing a bed. You had been sleeping with the hollow of his shoulder, right at the base of his arm, serving as your pillow.

The body heat radiating from where your skin met his. The sound of his breathing, heard from point-blank range. His shoulder, rising and falling rhythmically in healthy respiration. The faint heartbeat clicking against your ear where it was pressed close. It was all so comfortable it made you want to cry. You hadn't realized human warmth could be this precious, this deeply soothing to the soul. Before you knew it, a sharp sting pricked the back of your nose, and you let out a small sniffle. Leaving the institute behind to travel alone might have been a liberating experience where you feared nothing, but even so, it might have been just a little too lonely.

Slowly wrapping your arms around his torso, you pressed yourself tightly against him with a soft squeeze.

"…What's wrong?"

A sleepy, raspy voice drifted down from above your head. As you leisurely tilted your gaze upward, eyelashes the same sea-blue color as his hair lifted ever so slightly, and those mysterious, heterochromatic eyes looked down at you in a daze. The man’s heavy, thick arm draped over your torso with a solid weight. Even that weight and warmth felt wonderful. Pulled closer, his lips touched the crown of your head with a soft, affectionate press. It was a gesture akin to soothing a child, one well-practiced in the art of pampering.

Is he a kind of host club guy? you thought. He was thoroughly accustomed to sleeping beside a woman, yet completely devoid of any desperate hunger.

"…You're just so warm." "Yep." "And I feel so safe." "…Right. It's still early, so go back to sleep for a bit." "…Okay."

Thump, thump-thump. Resting on your side, the man's hand tapped your back with a gentle, lulling rhythm, as if softly coaxing you to sleep. Under that serene cadence and the enveloping warmth, the edges of your consciousness began to dissolve into a thick, melting blur once more.

And the next time your eyes opened, it was already broad daylight.

The space beside you was empty. Pushing your body up, you scanned your surroundings. There was no sign of the man anywhere in the room. There was no sound of anyone using the bathroom, either. Glancing at the small table, you noticed your shoulder bag had been left behind. However, it was hanging open.

"…"

He might have taken my money and run. What was inside that bag was your entire net worth. Every last bit of your savings, withdrawn with the sole intention of blowing it all spectacularly on this trip. If he had run off with it, your journey was over right then and there. Reaching that thought, a wave of complete apathy washed over you. Letting your body tilt sideways, you plopped back down onto the bed. Maybe I'll just go back to sleep, you thought. At this point, it was pure defiance. Sulkily staying in bed until the motel manager banged on the door didn't sound like a bad idea at all.

Just as you were adopting that unhealthy, reckless attitude, the click of the room door opening echoed. A warm, fragrant aroma drifted in, brushing past the tip of your nose.

"…?"

Shifting your weight, you pressed your hands into the mattress and slowly pulled yourself back up on the bed. The person who stepped into the room was the very man you had picked up in the parking lot last night. He held a tray in one hand, upon which sat two incredibly thick slices of French toast. The glass beside them was filled to the brim with milk. Turning toward you, the man tilted his head with a slight, easy motion.

"Ah, you awake, Little Shrimpy?" "…I am." "Borrowed the bar's kitchen for a bit to whip up some breakfast. Think you can eat?"

Without further ado, he lowered the tray of breakfast straight onto the bed. Not onto the table. The bed. Normally, this was hardly considered proper manners. And yet, realizing that this was his way of providing service—bringing the meal directly to your bedside rather than making you move to the table—you simply stared down at the wonderful breakfast spread before you, blinking in amazement.

The thick French toast was fried to a crisp around the edges, but toward the center, it dipped gently, completely saturated with syrup and egg mixture, its surface glistening with melted butter. Your appetite instantly hijacked your thoughts. Perhaps that was why. When he asked you, looking slightly puzzled, "What's up?", the honest truth slipped from your lips before you could stop it.

"My money." "Huh?" "I thought you stole my money and ran away." "Nha!"

The man let out a thoroughly amused laugh. Picking up the plastic fork resting on the tray, he stabbed it into the French toast and brought a piece to his mouth.

"And here I was thinking you had zero sense of danger, but you actually analyze stuff, don't you?" "I do think about things, you know."

The hypothetical scenario—the risk of this man being a dangerous person—had already been mentally cleared and dismissed last night. Operating on the absolute premise that every single event occurring in this world would eventually become a distant past, you felt as though nothing could truly frighten you anymore. Even if something terrible were to happen, you could leave every last bit of it behind in this place. You could wipe the slate entirely clean and start over in your original world.

"What would you have done if I'd actually taken your money and bailed?" "Well, I'd just go home." "Home?"

You reached out as well and picked up a fork. Stabbing it into the thick French toast, a burst of syrup oozed out with a soft squish. Keeping a careful eye on the dripping syrup so it wouldn't ruin the bed, you brought the piece to your mouth. Every single time you chewed the dense, soft bite, the savory aroma of wheat, the rich sweetness of egg and milk, and a melt-on-your-tongue flavor of syrup flooded your mouth entirely. It was delicious.

"The thing is, it's finally been decided that I can go back to my homeland." "You couldn't go back until now?" "It's incredibly far away. I didn't even know the way back." "So you were a lost kid?" "Something like that. I ended up over here because of a mirror accident. Even when I wanted to go back, I couldn't find the path."

The man narrowed his mismatched eyes thoughtfully. His gaze flicked down, tracing a line from your hair down to your skin.

"Somewhere in the East?" "Yeah, pretty much." "Interaction between that area and this side is pretty thin, after all."

Is that so? you thought, giving a small nod. You knew absolutely nothing about the state of the East in this world, but if the culture of the place you had washed up in resembled the Western world of your own reality, then perhaps a culture similar to your homeland existed somewhere in the Orient here. The man had presumably deduced your birthplace from the color of your hair and skin. Being a mage, he was undoubtedly well-educated.

"So, it was only recently that I finally became able to go home." "Good for you." "Because of that, I decided to go all out and live it up one last time." "Nff. And that's why you picked up someone like me?" "You're one to talk." "I mean, no matter how you look at it, I'm huge and super shady, right?" "You're really one to talk." "Sure am. Little Shrimpy, you're so tiny and look so weak, yet you've got serious guts." "Well, nothing can truly scare me anymore."

With a soft chuckle, you took a sip of the cold milk poured into the glass. It was perfectly chilled, cleanly washing away the lingering sweetness of the syrup from your mouth. Now that your palate was refreshed, you instantly wanted another bite. It was a continuous, delightful cycle.

"Hey, Little Shrimpy."

Flick. The man waved his plastic fork slightly to catch your attention.

"Even if you say that, what would you have done if I'd actually killed you? You wouldn't be returning to your homeland or anywhere else."

With the fork still resting between your lips, you darted your eyes upward to meet his. Even the plastic seemed to have absorbed the flavor of the syrup, tasting faintly sweet.

"I ended up thinking that if I'm going to get killed, it might as well be by a handsome guy… Yesterday, I was just riding the high of the moment." "Ehh?"

To your immense dissatisfaction, you had managed to thoroughly creep out the very man who had suddenly tried to hitch a ride from you in a parking lot at midnight.

"Wow, you had me estimated that highly?" "I was just letting the excitement get to my head." "You need to live with your feet planted a bit more firmly on the ground, ya know?" "I don't want to hear that from a host-wannabe who failed at hitchhiking and was about to end up stranded on the streets." "Ugh, harsh."

Despite the words, you were both smiling. The rapid-fire rhythm of the conversation was incredibly fun. A witty retort for every jab. Yet, it wasn't unpleasant at all. It was a dialogue where both of you understood each other's boundaries, subtly testing just how far you could cross them before it became too much. He seemed entirely thoughtless, yet there was an underlying consideration.

"Ah, by the way, I did spend some of your cash. For breakfast."

He counted them off on his fingers: the ingredients, and the rental fee for using the kitchen. Apparently, in exchange for being allowed to use the bar's kitchen, he had paid the owner a little something as a usage fee. You nodded broad-mindedly. It was, without a doubt, a necessary expense.

"So, Little Shrimpy." "Yes?" "What's up with that cash? Did you rob a bank or something?" "I didn't rob anything. I know it looks a little sketchy, though."

After all, it was a bundle of bills stuffed into a paper bag. You had withdrawn it from the ATM in several installments, loosely shoved it into a paper bag that came with a magazine you bought at the bookstore, crumpled it up, and tucked it into your shoulder bag. That was what was currently sitting inside.

"You see, I really thought I could never return to my homeland." "Yep." "That's why I had saved up quite a bit of money so I could survive here on my own. But since it's been decided that I can go back to my parents' home—I figured I'd spend it all spectacularly." "…Why don't you just take it back with you? You can exchange it, right?"

For a freeloader who looked like a host-wannabe, his logic was far too sound. You pouted your lips slightly.

"I've been holding back ever since I got here, for years. Because I thought I had to become independent enough to survive on my own, I never wasted money on anything. Every day, I just worked and went back to my room, over and over. That's why I wanted to make some memories at the very end. Once I go back to my homeland, I'll probably never be able to come here again."

You would never come to this world a second time. That was why you wanted to look at the good side of this world at the very end. You wanted to do fun things, see wonderful things, and gaze upon beautiful things before you left. The man let out a soft chuckle.

"Little Shrimpy, you really picked up something good, didn't you? I'm great at that kind of stuff."

You met his gaze and smiled back. A man who lived so hedonistically would surely know all kinds of fun things that you had never even heard of. A companion makes the journey.

"Oh, and about the destination…" "Ah, right. Little Shrimpy, you haven't decided where you're going, have you?" "That's true. So, do you have anywhere you want to go?" "You're gonna let me choose?" "This wasn't a trip with a specific destination anyway." "Totally playing it by ear, aren't we?"

Laughing softly, the man stroked the tip of his chin with a finger, seemingly deep in thought. Hmm… He groaned, a sound vibrating through his throat like a purr. It echoed like a massive, placid beast of prey relaxing in the sun. Then, popping up from his seat, he pulled the magazine out from inside your shoulder bag. Flipping through the pages, he opened it and thrust it right in front of your eyes.

"How 'bout here?"

His well-shaped, knuckled, masculine fingertip tapped the page with a soft thud.

"Mostro Paradiso?"

"Yep. An entire island in the Sunshine Lands turned into an entertainment district."

"That sounds incredible."

"Right?"

You drop your gaze back down to the magazine. From an upscale restaurant reminiscent of the deep sea—surrounded on all four sides by high-end aquariums—to a stunning hotel blanketed in pristine white, photographs of a luxurious resort crowd the pages. As your eyes trace the glamorous travel guide, you suddenly spot a particular phrase that catches your attention.

"An island of merfolk?"

"Supposedly. There are tons of merfolk in the Sunshine Lands, after all."

"Huh."

The magazine also had this to say: Mostro Paradiso is an island ruled by merfolk. While technically a part of the Sunshine Lands, it is an island where the laws of the sea carry more weight than anything else. In a sense, it is a closed, extraterritorial island where human logic holds no sway. A sea on land, forged by merfolk who had amassed vast fortunes. Because it was so utterly alluring, the pages note that it never sees a shortage of guests, earning it the alias of the "Ever-Night Paradise."

"I like the sound of that."

At the institute, there were no races other than humans. Because of that, you know next to nothing about the other species that are supposed to exist in this world. You had spotted beastmen out in the town before—people with animal ears and tails. But as for merfolk, you have no way of telling them apart once they use magical potions to take on human form. If you travel to the Sunshine Lands where merfolk are said to be plenty, would you finally be able to see a real one?

The thought fills you with anticipation.

"Oh."

"What's up?"

"Come to think of it… do you mind if I ask your name?"

At your incredibly belated question, the man made a face that said it was entirely too late for that now. And then, narrowing his beautiful, mismatched eyes into a smile, he introduced himself in a soft, supple voice.

"Floyd."

--------------------------------------------------------