After botching my lucky perv plan on the packed train, I wandered aimlessly to the station's shopping street. I checked out clothes, browsed random stuff, poked fun at that adult shop again, and killed time before heading home.
It was getting close to dinner, so I swung by the supermarket for some bentos or ready-made food. People assume living alone means you can cook? That's nonsense. Some supermarkets slap discount stickers on stuff near closing, and there's always a 24-hour convenience store. I don't see the point in buying ingredients and cooking just for myself. Weighing the time spent prepping and cleaning, it's not worth it in my book.
Sure, I get that nutrition might suffer a bit. But I'm not a baby or a toddler—I'm a high schooler with a mostly grown body. No need to stress over it. If cooking's your hobby, that's different. Being able to cook beats not knowing how, obviously. But when it's about me doing it? Nah, too much hassle. I'm lazy and clumsy—cooking's way too hard for me.
By the way, in this world, feeding a guy home-cooked food is a big dream for women. Lots of them are good at it, or so I hear. But actually showing off those skills? Rare as hell. Getting praised for it is an even crazier long shot. That's probably why Natsuki and Ms. Fuyuhara get so hyped about eating with me.
Anyway, I left the supermarket with a bag of discounted food—20% off or half-price stickers on them. The sun was dipping low by then. Walking through the busy shopping street, I figured I'd head home before it got too dark. Then someone called out from behind.
"Hm? Miyagi, is that you?"
I turned around. Ms. Fuyuhara stood there with two other teachers. "Oh, hey, teachers? What're you doing here?" I asked. They didn't look like they were shopping with coworkers. Ms. Fuyuhara was in her usual red tracksuit—nobody wears that for personal errands, right? The others I didn't know well, but I think they were guidance counselors for different grades.
"What're we doing? What about you?" Ms. Fuyuhara shot back. "We told you at the last homeroom before the break—there's been a weirdo around here lately. Boys shouldn't hang out near the station too late."
Oh, right. That's why this crew's together. Now that she mentioned it, I vaguely remembered her saying something like that. Back then, I was half-listening, thinking bring it on or whatever, so it didn't stick with me. All three had "Crime Patrol" armbands on.
"Listen, Miyagi," she said. "Get home before it's late. It's spring, but the sun's setting fast. It'll be dark soon." As we parted, she leaned in and whispered, "Tomorrow's Friday, got it?" I grinned and nodded.
After splitting off, I walked the familiar route to my apartment, watching the sun sink into the evening sky. I thought about what she said. "A weirdo, huh," I muttered. She didn't call it a "suspicious person," just a "weirdo." That's a weird choice of words. In my past life, "suspicious person" usually meant someone dangerous—maybe hurting people or stealing stuff. But "weirdo"? That sounds… different. No one's been attacked or robbed around here, or she'd have said so.
I mulled it over, digging into my old-world know-how. In a normal place, a "weirdo" lurking around might be a perv. A guy flashing people or something creepy like that. But this world's flipped—women outnumber men big time, and the rules are stricter about stuff between genders. So if it's not a guy… "Wait, a female perv?" I said to myself.
I kept thinking. If a woman was grabbing guys or making moves, wouldn't the teachers call her "suspicious" instead? That'd imply real trouble, like physical stuff. But they didn't. So maybe… "An exhibitionist?" I guessed. Yeah, that fits. A woman showing off, not touching. In this world, where sex crimes get hyped up way too much, a lady bold enough to mess with a guy directly would be rare. Unless she's totally nuts, she's not risking that. Showing off from a distance, though? That tracks.
Still, if she is nuts, I could get stabbed or worse. As a wannabe player, I've got to play smart, not reckless. Maybe I was overthinking it because of that warning. The streetlights stood spaced out, still dark, not yet flicked on. Then, from one of them, a shadow stepped out, blocking my path. About ten meters away, I'd say.
I tensed up on instinct, but the shadow just stood there, staring at me… I think. Hard to tell—sunglasses and a mask covered their face. They wore a long coat, too warm for spring, and gripped the hem with one hand. Sketchy outfit, and that hand position screamed what might come next.
Still, I couldn't just ask, "Hey, are you the weirdo?" What if they're just some random passerby who loves long coats in spring, gets cold easy, and has allergies? That'd be rude as hell. Low chance, sure, but nothing's 100% in this world. Better to play it cool and watch.
I'm not hoping for anything, mind you. Just being careful to avoid a sad misunderstanding. Definitely not hoping.
"…" I stood quiet.
"…" So did they.
This sunglass lady didn't budge. Maybe there's some perfect distance for flashing that a rookie like me doesn't get? I wondered. Then she finally moved. Her gaze—through the sunglasses—darted right, left, then checked behind her. No one else around. Just me, the prey, dead in her sights. Prime timing, even to an amateur like me.
Her pale, thin fingers twitched at the coat's hem. Here it comes! I thought.
I'm not running or hiding! Like I'm about to see a holy statue, I opened my eyes wide, ready to take in the dazzling sight with every fiber of my being.