* * *
Even if he wanted to ask for help, all he had were empty hands and a body full of pain.
He could feel the unseen gazes stabbing into him, one by one.
In his hazy, dizzy mind, the young man figured—maybe this is what a frog feels like, belly up, being dissected.
“Uugh— urrghhh—!”
Something prickled in his fingertips—some bubbling force he couldn’t control, on the verge of exploding.
All he could do, leaning against the narrow alley wall, was desperately wish—someone, please—for a hand to reach out to him.
Today was supposed to be normal.
It should have been.
He wiped the drool that had trickled to the ground, then buried his head against the cold cement floor, remembering what had happened just seven hours ago.
∗ ∗ ∗
[The train is now departing. Passengers for the 6:18 a.m. train, please board now. Once again…]
Though not exactly empty, the train station at dawn lacked the usual daytime bustle.
Early commuters sat quietly, earbuds in, eyes closed, or quietly ate breakfast alone at the station cafés.
Some rushed to catch their trains, but even their footsteps felt subdued.
The pre-sunrise quiet, the faint light, the chill—it was all part of a morning anyone could find anywhere.
And the man, blending into that everyday backdrop, was no different from the rest.
“Um… excuse me. One ticket for the 6:30 train, please.”
“Yes, 6:30 train. Please head to Platform 7.”
The tired-looking station clerk swiped his card mechanically and handed over the printed ticket.
Seeing the platform number circled in red ink, the man slipped it into his pocket and made his way toward the platforms.
While going down the escalator, he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirrored wall and reflexively ran a hand through his wind-tousled hair.
Straw-colored, freckles dotting the bridge of his nose, cheeks slightly flushed—his face, with its shy expression, still clung to the remnants of boyhood.
“G-getting cold…”
He tightened his jacket as he stepped onto the nearly empty platform, the cold breeze brushing past.
This early in the morning, most people opted for the bus—only about 30 minutes to the capital—so he was alone out here, just like always.
It was a bit eerie, sure, but early mornings had their own quiet charm.
Sitting down on his usual bench, the young man habitually fiddled with his phone, then pulled out a small card from his pocket.
Black and sleek, with gold letters: INTEGRA. Next to his ID photo, the card read Xenon Pinaca.
Even though no one was watching, he smiled shyly and clutched it tightly.
He’d never thought his abilities would be useful, but to think he’d get an invitation to Central’s main branch…
It was unexpected.
His powers had manifested later than most, and they weren’t anything impressive.
In fact, they were strange.
Almost absurd.
“…Yeah. I guess if they weren’t strange, I wouldn’t have been chosen in the first place.”
Even though he was still in training and working at a probationary level, life as an Esper in the Main Central had been going smoothly for him.
He’d even received his first vacation and returned to his hometown.
Though he was only a half-Espers without a Guide, he was currently waiting for his turn with the Central’s renowned matching analyzer, which used a vast and sophisticated database.
So he was hopeful that he’d soon be able to remove the temporary control device on his ear.
There were rare cases—extremely rare—where someone failed to find a matched Guide and had to rely solely on their control device, only to suddenly run into an irregular Guide.
But the odds of that happening were about as likely as the sun rising in the west.
Rather than worry that he might never find his matching partner, the young man secretly held anticipation for the day he’d finally meet his Guide.
[And now, onto our next story.]
The large TV mounted on the ceiling was playing a typical morning news broadcast, filling the quiet station platform.
The young man, idly fiddling with a card, turned his head toward the announcer’s voice to pass the time until the train arrived.
[Renato Lanilgraff, the world’s wealthiest man and CEO of the global munitions corporation ‘Anatolia’, has pledged to donate 90% of his wealth to society on the occasion of his 75th birthday. This move is expected to accelerate his long-standing philanthropic activities. While it sets an example among global business leaders, some pacifist groups have voiced criticism, claiming the wealth was built upon selling tools of destruction….]
“Hey, mind if I sit here?”
A bright, light voice cut through the stiff tones of the news anchor and drew the young man’s attention.
Her long, wavy crimson hair reminded him of red wine, flowing down over her chest, and her eyes, the same striking color, sparkled with mischief.
Thick lashes, bold lipstick, and the trench coat barely hiding a generous chest—she was the type of woman who’d turn heads without even trying.
Clad in shiny high heels and fishnet stockings that most people wouldn’t dare to wear, she sat down without even waiting for a reply, crossing her long legs with a casual elegance.
Didn’t… even sense her approaching…
Staring blankly at her, the young man was caught off guard by her sudden appearance.
He wasn’t just a civilian—he was an Esper.
Even if his senses had dulled somewhat due to the temporary control device, there was no way he shouldn’t have noticed such a flashy entrance.
He must have been too focused on the TV.
“You’re an Esper, aren’t you?”
“W-What? Uh… Yes… H-How did you… know?”
With her elbow resting on her knee and her chin in her hand, she leaned in with a flirtatious smile. Reflexively, he confirmed it.
When he stammered his question, she simply pointed to his ear with those deep, wine-colored eyes of hers.
“The control device. Kind of obvious.”
As she leaned closer to whisper, a subtle hydrangea scent wafted toward him.
The fragrance didn’t quite match her sultry, seductive vibe.
The young man thought it was oddly out of place.
As she swept her shimmering hair back over her shoulder, he pushed away his stray thoughts and focused on her words.
The control devices used by Espers were almost indistinguishable from regular piercings.
In other words, normal people shouldn’t be able to tell them apart.
Yet this woman immediately figured out its function just by glancing at it.
Maybe he was just being paranoid—but then again, Esper instincts rarely missed their mark.
“Why’re you looking so scared? I haven’t done anything to you. Yet.”
Her crimson eyes curved into a smile.
“Y-Yet…?”
Her words made him question his ears.
‘Yet?’
That implied she was planning to do something.
When he didn’t get an answer, she casually patted his back—a gesture usually reserved for close friends.
Instinctively recoiling, he showed clear discomfort, but she didn’t seem the least bit bothered.
She just kept smiling.
“…….”
An awkward silence settled between them, and the young man felt an urge to get up and leave.
Quietly slipping the card in his hand back into his pocket, he started rubbing the screen of his phone, waiting for the right moment.
The train wasn’t far off now—hopefully she’d go her own way once it arrived.
Crunch.
Just as he was thinking that, a sharp biting sound came from beside him.
It wasn’t quite like a snack, too dense for candy.
At first he ignored it, but the repeated sound gnawed at his curiosity.
Eventually, he glanced sideways.
“You know… that control device means you haven’t found your Guide yet, right?”
There was a strange delight in her voice that he hoped—desperately—was only his imagination.
She licked her lips, smudged with dark lipstick, in a slow, snake-like motion, like a predator savoring its next meal.
He knew it was rude to judge someone he just met, but she reminded him of a venomous serpent, fangs poised to strike.
After speaking, she elegantly pulled a cigarette from the inside of her trench coat with fingers painted red, like something out of a film.
The lighter clicked, the cigarette caught flame, and she exhaled with practiced ease, smoke curling into the air like it was all part of a scripted scene.
That’s how seamless her movements were—like a performance.
But this wasn’t TV.
The sweet, smoky scent mixed with hydrangea was invading his lungs.
When the unpleasant smell made him wrinkle his nose, she looked at him with cigarette still in hand and asked:
“Sorry. Don’t like smoking?”
Her apology was as hollow as the smile on her face.
As if to prove the point, she blew a puff of smoke directly into his face.
Smoking in a public space was one thing, but blowing smoke at someone else’s face—where had she learned manners like that?
Eyes stinging, he shut them tightly and prepared to speak up.
Anyone would be justified in being angry.
But ironically… even though he knew he should be angry, the feeling just wouldn’t come.
It wasn’t that he wasn’t angry—he just… didn’t have the strength to be.
* * *
