After a few questions, Hiratsuka Shizuka had pieced together the situation between Tanaka Masao and Yukinoshita Yukino.
He'd stumbled upon the Service Clubroom by chance and issued a request for help with weight loss.
It was a perfectly reasonable story, and Shizuka found no cause for suspicion. It was just that this weight-loss request... was going to take quite a long time.
Hiratsuka pinched her chin, her gaze shifting thoughtfully between Masao and Yukinoshita.
From what she'd gathered, the plan was a long-term one—six months, maybe even a year long.
'Spending that much time together, their feelings are bound to deepen. And this Masao kid… he might not look like much now, but what if he's a late bloomer? Shed all that weight, and he could turn out to be a handsome guy.'
The scenario unfolding in her mind felt a little too convenient.
One simple request would solve Masao's health issues, address Yukinoshita's loneliness and difficulty in making friends, and who knows? It might even take a step further and directly solve both their "lifelong matters."
By all accounts, it was a happy prospect. So why did it irritate her so much?
The more she thought about it, the more it grated on her.
Watching Yukinoshita diligently supervising Masao's training, the air in the clubroom suddenly seemed thick with the cloying scent of budding romance.
Her imagination, fueled by a touch of bitterness, conjured a scene from a year later: a slim, handsome Tanaka Masao and Yukinoshita Yukino, together in the Service Clubroom.
She, Hiratsuka, would walk in, only to be met with a frosty glare from Yukinoshita.
"Hiratsuka-sensei," the girl would say, her voice dripping with disdain, "must you interrupt our time alone?"
Jealousy is a cruel mirror. Shizuka knew she could never accept such a future, but she was at a loss for how to prevent it.
She couldn't very well forbid two students from dating just because she was single—that would be petty beyond words.
She lingered in the clubroom a while longer, and as she watched, an idea struck her.
This whole "training" business actually looked kind of fun.
"Hey, Yukinoshita," she called out. "Let me have a shot at training Masao for a bit."
The boy in question, on the verge of collapse, managed a weak protest.
"H-hey, Hiratsuka-sensei, I'm not a toy, you know."
"He's correct," Yukinoshita affirmed coolly. "We are in the middle of a club activity. Please do not interfere."
"Interfere?" Hiratsuka shot back, indignant. "I'm the supervising teacher of this club! I have every right to participate!"
Yukinoshita considered this for a moment. She was nothing if not logical, and it was a valid point.
"I suppose that's true. Very well."
Watching the two women come to an agreement over him, Tanaka Masao pointed a trembling finger at his own chest.
"H-hey! Don't I get a say in this? I'm the one being trained!"
"You are free to refuse," Yukinoshita stated, her tone flat.
"You are free to refuse," Hiratsuka echoed, cracking her knuckles with a suggestive smile.
It was the same words, from two different people, carrying vastly different meanings.
Masao instinctively hunched his shoulders. The reputation of the "Iron Fist" Hiratsuka was well-known throughout the school.
"T-then… please go easy on me, Hiratsuka-sensei," he stammered, his voice frail from exhaustion.
The combination of his timid plea and his hefty, 200-pound frame created a distinctly unappealing picture.
Hiratsuka shuddered. "Ugh, don't be so gross about it."
Yukinoshita ignored Masao's dramatics and addressed Hiratsuka with a serious voice.
"Hiratsuka-sensei, please take this seriously."
—
And just like that, Tanaka Masao's brief respite was over. He now faced the full, terrifying enthusiasm of Hiratsuka Shizuka.
"Coming one after the other… no one can handle this," he muttered under his breath, despair washing over him.
"Stop mumbling and get over here!" Hiratsuka barked.
"Listen up. Nothing but strength training will just give you dead weight. You need to move, use your whole body! That's how you build real, functional strength and agility. Here, I'll show you the basics of a proper punch."
She dropped into a practiced fighting stance.
Hesitantly, Masao mimicked her, raising his arms.
"Good. Now, you throw your fist like this—!"
Before he could even process the movement, Hiratsuka's fist was already flying toward him.
'This is it!' he thought, squeezing his eyes shut and bracing for the impact.
A firm pressure landed on his stomach, followed by a wave of… barely noticeable discomfort.
He cracked an eye open. Hiratsuka's fist was planted squarely in the cushioning of his abdomen. The pain was negligible.
"Hiratsuka-sensei," he blurted out without thinking, "did you skip lunch today?"
Rage.
A terrifyingly sweet smile spread across Hiratsuka's face as a dark aura seemed to emanate from her.
She had pulled that punch, holding back significantly for his sake. But to be accused of being weak? Unforgivable.
"Oh, you want a real one?" she purred. "Fine. Catch!"
She pivoted her right foot back, putting her whole body into a solid, powerful punch that landed on Masao's stomach with a thump.
The layer of fat on his belly jiggled from the impact. It was a strong hit, and Masao certainly felt the sting. But to his own surprise, he found himself… largely unaffected.
'Why?' The answer came to him a moment later.
His predecessor, the original Tanaka Masao, had been a victim of prolonged, physical bullying. Unlike the social isolation Yukinoshita might have faced, he had endured real beatings, especially during middle school when his peers were growing stronger and had little restraint.
This body, layered with fat, had developed a surprising resilience—a unintended form of conditioning, like the brutal training for a martial art's iron body techniques.
He sighed inwardly. 'A silver lining, I guess. But I'm sure the previous Tanaka would have traded this padding for a single friend in a heartbeat.'
Understanding the situation, he realized a strategic retreat was necessary.
'Better to play along than to enrage her further'
He staggered backward, fell to his knees, clutched his stomach with both hands, and put on a show of being in agony.
"Auuugh! The pain! It's unbearable!"
—
An eerie silence fell over the room.
Because he had paused for those two-and-a-half seconds while lost in thought, his delayed reaction—staggering back and clutching his belly—seemed unnatural.
Combined with his loud and clearly faked wail of pain, the performance was entirely unconvincing.
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