Chapter 3
774words
The reasons are simple.
First, intense physical activity drains my energy reserves, triggering the lovely side effects of my "telepathy"—namely anemia and dizziness—much faster than normal.
Second, and worse, the field is packed with dozens of hormone-driven teenagers whose collective thoughts hit me like a mental tsunami.
"Go for it!"
"Shoot! Shoot!"
"Damn, is she checking me out?"
"God, I'm beat. Can I just fake an injury?"
For this afternoon's PE class, boys and girls split into separate groups for free activities. As usual, I found a shady spot under a basketball hoop and leaned against the post, pretending to be fascinated by cloud shapes.
This was my perfected survival strategy: minimize my presence, conserve energy, and count the seconds until the bell rings.
Today, however, this strategy failed spectacularly.
Because Kurosawa Rin stood beside me like a sentinel statue.
She wore the standard white sports tee and blue shorts, her long, toned legs drawing the attention of at least half the boys on the field. She seemed completely oblivious to this, methodically scanning our surroundings with those hawk-like eyes.
"Peripheral individuals with heart rates exceeding 120 BPM: 37 total. Individuals with body temperatures above 99.5 degrees Fahrenheit: 41. Humidity: 65%. Wind speed: 4.5 mph. Environment assessment: Safe. Suitable for low-intensity standby mode."
Her mental voice sounded like a military field report.
"Hey... don't you have something better to do?" I asked weakly. "Following me around like this is drawing attention."
I could already "hear" the barrage of jealous thoughts and wild speculations flooding from the minds of boys around us.
"My mission is to monitor you, not socialize," she answered curtly. "Additionally, according to your physical examination report, your stamina ranks in the lowest 15th percentile among males your age. Any exercise exceeding light jogging is not recommended."
...Thanks for the reminder! You even memorized my pathetic fitness scores!
I sighed, giving up on communicating with this walking algorithm.
Time crawled by, the sun intensified, and the noise around us grew louder. My head started spinning, darkness creeping into the edges of my vision.
This was bad—classic signs of anemia.
I leaned heavily against the basketball post, trying to slowly lower myself to sit.
The moment my body swayed, Kurosawa Rin sprang into action.
Her movements were so fast they blurred.
I felt only a rush of air beside me before my body suddenly became weightless as I was lifted skyward!
"Warning! Abnormal vital signs detected in monitored subject! Oxygen saturation decreasing, diagnosed as acute orthostatic hypotension! According to 'Emergency Response Regulations' Section A-3, initiating highest priority battlefield first aid protocol!"
Before I could process her thoughts, my vision spun wildly.
When I regained my senses, I found myself in the most humiliating position possible—slung over Kurosawa Rin's shoulder.
It was the classic fireman's carry—the way action heroes transport unconscious victims or cavemen drag their mates in cartoons.
My face pointed downward against her taut back muscles, my stomach pressed firmly against her shoulder, threatening to expel my half-digested sandwich.
"Hey! Kurosawa! What the hell! Put me down right now!" I struggled desperately, burning with humiliation and rage.
"Request denied. Target has lost independent mobility capability and requires immediate transfer to secure location for treatment," she announced with military authority, loud enough for half the playground to hear.
Then, just like that, she carried me on her shoulder and sprinted toward the infirmary at Olympic qualifying speed.
The entire playground instantly fell dead silent.
Whether playing basketball, soccer, or just chatting, everyone froze mid-action and stared at us in disbelief.
I could even "hear" the PE teacher's thoughts as he forgot to blow the whistle already in his mouth.
Immediately after, an unprecedented mental tsunami crashed through my mind.
"What the actual hell?!"
"No way! Did Kurosawa just fireman-carry Ayashiro like it was nothing?!"
"Is this some kind of... extreme version of a princess carry?"
"That's insane! Is this some foreign culture thing?"
"Holy shit, Ayashiro just got hauled away like a sack of potatoes by a girl..."
"Is this what they call... aggressive flirting?! That's hardcore!"
I'm officially done for.
My carefully cultivated "normal guy" reputation was, in that moment, utterly obliterated by Kurosawa Rin's "battlefield first aid."
I gave up struggling, hanging limply like a dead fish, using my last reserves to mentally scream:
"This isn't over, Kurosawa Rin!"
"Report: Target's emotional fluctuations severe, but vital signs stabilizing. Battlefield first aid protocol confirmed effective."
Hearing that coldly clinical assessment in my mind, my vision tunneled to black, and I mercifully passed out.
