"You killed that Monster?"
Hellish Blizzard materialized at his side like a winter breeze—ethereal, composed, her delicate features framed by that signature short cut. Her voice carried a cool detachment that Akira suspected was partly performance. Beneath the ice queen facade, he'd bet on hidden warmth. The type who, once won over, would prove... accommodating.
"Guilty." He gestured at the wreckage. "He demolished my store. Refused to pay. I threw a hammer."
Her gaze followed his gesture to the wall—where the hammer, after passing cleanly through both of the shrimp-creature's claws and its skull, remained embedded in the brick.
"I didn't expect such a fragile shell," Akira added, mild as commentary on weather.
Hellish Blizzard studied him with new interest. His calm was genuine, not bravado. That was rare.
"Join the Hero Association."
The words were flat, but her eyes held calculation.
"That shrimp was Tiger-class. Equivalent to a B-Class Hero. You just one-shot it. That puts you in B-Class top tier, minimum."
Akira considered this. Only Tiger-level. His ambitions ran higher. S-Class or bust. And joining meant hierarchy. Subordination. Bowing to some committee's assessment of his worth.
No thank you.
"I just got settled. Not looking for complications."
Her eyebrow arched. "You're not interested?"
"Not yet." He turned to face her fully. "But speaking of ranks—you're B-Class Number One, right? Why not move up? You clearly have A-Class strength."
A flicker of something—surprise? respect?—crossed her features before she smoothed it away. She adjusted her cape with practiced confidence.
"If I move up, I want to do it right. A-Class Number One. And only when everyone in the Fubuki Group is ready for A-Class with me."
So that's the angle. "You're recruiting me."
"The Fubuki Group is a family. Supportive. United. You'd thrive."
He smiled, polite but firm. "I'll keep your card. If things change, you'll be my first call."
She held his gaze a moment longer, then nodded. The Hero Association team had already loaded the Monster's corpse. No reason to linger.
"I'll wait for that call."
The sports car swallowed her, and she was gone.
Akira surveyed the damage. Rubble. Shattered glass. His home, bisected by a crustacean's tantrum.
He pulled out his phone.
"Busujima-san? I have an unusual request. My store was just demolished by a shrimp-headed Monster."
A pause on the line.
"A real shrimp head," he clarified.
Later, in a ramen shop, Akira crunched into a piece of shrimp tempura. The irony was not lost on him.
Crunchy. Definitely shrimp flavor.
"Cheer up, Akira-san!" Suguha slurped her noodles with enthusiastic abandon, the sound completely at odds with her delicate appearance. "Everything works out!"
Saeko set down her chopsticks with more decorum. "The dojo has spare rooms. You're welcome to stay."
Akira looked up, surprised.
"On one condition." Her eyes gleamed with competitive fire. "You spar with me. Daily."
The memory of their last "spar"—that moment of entangled warmth—flashed between them. Akira didn't hesitate.
"Deal. And lunch. My treat. Just for you."
Suguha opened her mouth to protest—what about me?—but Akira cut her off smoothly.
"Weekends only. Weekdays I'm at school anyway."
"That's right!" Her pout transformed into acceptance. "Weekends it is, then!"
The repair timeline stretched to two weeks. Slow. Inconvenient. But Akira, sitting on twenty million yen, could have booked a luxury hotel indefinitely. He hadn't asked Saeko for shelter out of necessity.
He'd asked because two weeks alone under the same roof as Busujima Saeko presented... possibilities.
Man and woman. Moonlit nights. Proximity.
He crunched another shrimp, smiling at nothing.
Stranger things have happened.
Akira found himself genuinely looking forward to the arrangement.
"So, Akira-san," Suguha asked between slurps, "what are your plans for this afternoon?"
"Thought I'd explore. Been here days and haven't really seen the city."
Saeko nodded thoughtfully. "There's an art exhibition opening today. Worth visiting, if you're interested in that sort of thing."
"And you two?"
Suguha straightened, competitive fire in her eyes. "Nationals are coming up! Senior and I need to lock in serious practice. Top two spots this year—that's the goal."
"Ambitious." Akira smiled. "Good luck. When I'm back, I'll spar with you both."
The promise landed well. They parted ways at the station, and Akira found himself on a tram for the first time since arriving in this world.
The experience was... educational.
Guangzhou-Shenzhen morning rush hour levels of crowded, he noted, pressed between salarymen and students. No wonder tram scenes featured so prominently in certain genres. At this density, accidental pregnancies were practically a statistical certainty.
The art exhibition was a welcome escape from the crush. Akira moved through the galleries at his own pace, letting the paintings wash over him—some striking, some forgettable, all preferable to armpits at eye level.
Turning a corner, he nearly collided with a penguin.
A large, fluffy, absurdly huggable penguin mascot stood directly in his path. Its expression was aggressively punchable—that particular brand of mischievous smugness that begged for retaliation.
"Do you want ice cream?"
The voice emerged from somewhere inside the costume. Flat. Toneless. Profoundly un-penguin-like.
"Buy one ice cream and you can touch! And take photos!"
Akira looked down. Through the mascot's mesh eye holes, a pair of utterly expressionless eyes stared back at him.
Seriously? "That's... a marketing strategy, I take it?"
No response. Just the unwavering stare.
"Fine. Lead the way."
The penguin's handler—if such a term applied—grabbed his wrist without ceremony and tugged him forward with surprising determination. A minute later, they stood before an ice cream stall.
"Oh my! Mashiro actually brought a customer!"
The woman behind the counter—aunt, presumably—beamed at the penguin-clad girl, then turned her smile on Akira. "What can I get you, young man?"
"Two chocolate cones." He glanced at the penguin. "Also... is it really appropriate for her to be out here like this? Dressed as a penguin? Soliciting strangers?"
The aunt's smile flickered with concern. "Did Mashiro do something inappropriate?"
"She informed me that ice cream purchase grants touching and photography privileges. Which, in certain contexts, could be—"
A scream tore through the exhibition hall.
"MONSTER! MONSTER—RUN!"
The ripple effect was instantaneous. Visitors scattered like startled birds. Stalls emptied. The aunt's face went white as she grabbed Mashiro's flippered hand.
"Come on, Mashiro! We have to—"
The shark Monster saw them.
It was massive—easily three meters of muscle and fin and jagged teeth, its path of destruction marked by flung bodies and shattered stalls. Its dead eyes fixed on the ice cream stand. It charged.
The aunt pulled harder. Mashiro, in her bulky costume, stumbled. Couldn't gain traction. The shark closed the distance in seconds.
"Auntie—that customer—!"
"Never mind him! Just RUN!"
But she looked back.
What she saw stopped her cold.
Akira had caught the shark's fin-like arm mid-swing. Not blocked—caught. Like snatching a child's wrist mid-tantrum. Then, with fluid economy of motion, he pulled.
The shark Monster left the ground. Its momentum, redirected, sent it sailing over Akira's shoulder in a perfect arc. The throw was textbook—a seamless blend of leverage and timing. The creature crashed into the pavement with a bone-jarring crack and lay still.
Akira dusted his hands. Glanced at the two chocolate cones, miraculously still intact in his other hand.
Shiina Mashiro tugged her aunt's sleeve.
"Auntie... are we still running?"
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