"It's my first time drinking that much too..." Tashiro Kurenai let out a self-deprecating sigh. "I really was careless this time."
She offered the elegant smile of a gentle older sister, gratitude warming her expression.
"Thankfully, you found me, Akira. Otherwise, something really might have happened..."
She didn't need to elaborate. Everyone knew the risks of passing out drunk in public—the "corpse pickers" who lurked specifically for such opportunities. For a woman, losing consciousness meant losing control over what happened to her body.
Kuroha Akira shook his head, redirecting the credit to its rightful recipient.
"Miss Toshiro, you should thank Kuroo. She's the one who led me to you—passed out under that utility pole."
"Kuroo?" Tashiro Kurenai's eyes widened with wonder. "That cat really is something special... Could she actually be an incarnation of some kind of deity?"
She murmured this to herself, then suddenly straightened, grabbing Kuroha Akira's shoulder with sudden urgency.
"Oh no! My shoes! Akira, did you see my shoes? Those dark red high heels—the ones with the really thin heels!"
"Relax, they're not lost." He couldn't help a slight grimace at the memory. "I brought them back. They're by the entrance."
Recalling exactly how he'd transported those heels, Kuroha Akira felt an urge to physically stick out his tongue in disgust. Not that he had anything against foot fetishists in principle—some people's thing was definitely high heels, to the point of using them as... well, as containers for certain activities. But Kuroha Akira was a stocking man through and through. Leather against his tongue? Rough, unpleasant, and absolutely not his idea of a good time. No interest whatsoever in that particular flavor of protein injection.
"You were unconscious, completely out of it, but you kept insisting about your shoes. I told you we could come back for them later, but you absolutely refused to agree."
Tashiro Kurenai's cheeks flushed with embarrassment.
"I'm sorry... it's just that those shoes are really important to me..."
She tilted her head, curiosity overcoming embarrassment.
"So how did you bring them back?"
"Uh..."
Kuroha Akira immediately regretted mentioning the shoes at all. The method of transport was... less than dignified.
He tried to dodge, steering the conversation elsewhere.
"Speaking of which, Miss Toshiro, why are those shoes so important to you? Were they a gift from someone special?"
She shook her head slowly, a meaningful smile playing at her lips.
"No... I bought them for myself. But they do have a special significance."
Then, with the tenacity of a cat who'd spotted an open refrigerator, she circled back.
"I really am grateful you brought them back, Akira. But I'm still curious—how did you manage it?"
Damn. There was no escaping this, was there?
Kuroha Akira resigned himself to confessing his "crime."
"Miss Toshiro, please let me explain the situation. You were clinging to me like your life depended on it. I couldn't carry you on my back—every time I tried, you'd readjust and lock on tighter. Just holding you in my arms was already pushing my physical limits. Then there were the shoes—they were too big to put back on your feet, you were too unconscious to hold them yourself, and I had absolutely nowhere to hang them. No matter where I tried to tuck them, they kept falling off. I literally could not free my hands, so I..."
"So?" Tashiro Kurenai's smile was a masterpiece of calculated ambiguity—the exact expression an older sister used when teasing a younger boy about his embarrassing moments.
"So I... carried them in my mouth."
Damn. This felt like some kind of punishment game. Comparable to explaining to your parents that the strange noises from your room were just "warm-up exercises" and definitely not what they thought. Excruciating.
But despite the humiliation, Kuroha Akira straightened his back and patted his chest with solemn conviction.
"I promise my saliva didn't get on them! And I made sure not to actually bite down either!"
For a moment, Tashiro Kurenai stared at him with an unreadable expression.
Then she burst out laughing.
"Hahahaha!" She doubled over, clutching her stomach. "You carried them in your mouth! Akira, you could have just come back for them later! Why would you—hahaha!"
She wiped tears of laughter from the corners of her eyes and looked at him with a gaze that mixed affection and genuine admiration.
"Akira, you're so straightforward. That's really, really cute."
"Uh..."
Kuroha Akira's mental age was solidly in uncle territory. Being called "cute" did nothing for him—in fact, no boy truly enjoyed being called cute unless their heart had already been thoroughly magnetized in a certain direction.
Plus, as a fellow transmigrator, she should understand that his actual age was older than his appearance suggested.
Though, now that he thought about it, he wasn't sure if other transmigrators experienced the same phenomenon. Maybe Miss Toshiro had been twenty-four both before and after transmigration. In which case, he was technically her senpai in terms of life experience.
His own tragic end—dying from overwork at a black company—made Kuroha Akira want to offer some perspective.
"How should I put this..." He chose his words carefully. "Miss Toshiro, I used to be a miserable person too. Tormented by work until I literally died. It's what brought me to this world, but it wasn't exactly voluntary..."
He felt this was enough context. She should understand his meaning. Dying from overwork wasn't a glorious achievement—it was a cautionary tale.
"I don't have the right to interfere with your life choices," he continued. "But if you ever feel like you genuinely can't hold on anymore... I think giving up is also a valid option."
Advising someone to quit their job was inherently irresponsible, so Kuroha Akira tried to phrase it as gently as possible.
Every corporate slave dreamed of freedom. So why didn't they act? Simple: losing your job meant losing your livelihood.
Sure, quitting felt amazing—for about a week. Then what? Move back in with your parents? Live off their pension?
Only people with backup plans, with safety nets, with options could afford to resign. Most ordinary people didn't have a second option. The game of life didn't offer extra choices to those who needed them most.
Tashiro Kurenai listened silently, her expression calm and composed.
She didn't actually need guidance. She wasn't lost.
"I understand what you're saying, Akira. Thank you." Her voice was soft but certain.
But gratitude warmed her features. In this world, so few people genuinely cared about her well-being. Only the Kobayashi family companions—this strange collection of housemates—actually paid attention to whether she lived or died.
"I'm just not ready to give up yet," she admitted. "I haven't gathered enough courage. But when I do... I think I'll get through this."
She knew her own situation best. Tashiro Kurenai wasn't avoiding solutions—she just recognized that some problems couldn't be solved overnight. People needed time to change, to prepare, to build the strength needed for transformation.
Her gaze shifted, focusing on the young boy nine years her junior with new interest.
"Speaking of which, we live together, but we've never really talked properly, have we? Akira, what did you do before?"
Kuroha Akira understood immediately: she was asking about his past life.
They were both transmigrators. His former job wasn't a secret worth keeping.
"I worked at a game company. Low-level cog in the machine, basically."
"Making games? That's amazing!" Her eyes sparkled. "You must need a pretty high degree for that."
"It's fine... A degree just gets your foot in the door. Once you're actually working, nobody cares which university you graduated from. They only look at whether you can do the job."
"Still impressive though." A hint of self-deprecation crept into her voice. "My academic background isn't great—I only graduated from vocational college. Do you look down on women with vocational degrees?"
It wasn't self-pity, exactly. More like testing the waters. Preemptively deflecting potential judgment.
"I don't have academic discrimination," Kuroha Akira replied simply.
"Hehe." A genuine smile broke through. "You're pretty mature, then. I've met plenty of people who looked down on me for my education level."
"Well... why would you care what those kinds of people think? They're just self-important scum, the lot of them."
Tashiro Kurenai's eyes widened with theatrical admiration at his bluntness.
"Wow... Akira, you're so free-spirited..."
Then her smile turned knowing, warm. She extended her arms toward him.
"Older sister likes that about you. Come here—give me a hug."
"..."
His mental age was not young. He was practically an uncle in spirit.
But.
Who didn't love a hug from a beautiful woman?
A hug it was.
Kuroha Akira stepped forward and let Tashiro Kurenai embrace him—this time while she was fully sober, and she'd initiated it. Completely legal. Entirely proper. No possible misinterpretation.
Waking up early had its perks. First, the visual appreciation. Now, direct physical confirmation.
Hmm...
Round. Smooth. Substantial. Soft.
The only drawback was the lingering smell of alcohol clinging to her skin.
But still.
What was wrong with a man appreciating large breasts? It wasn't a choice—it was an irresistible primal urge etched into the very fabric of human biology!
At that moment, cradled in Tashiro Kurenai's warm embrace, Kuroha Akira experienced a minor revelation.
He'd always considered himself a leg man. A butt man, primarily. Those were his established preferences, his acknowledged territory.
But right now, pressed against Tashiro Kurenai's chest, feeling that soft warmth...
Maybe breasts weren't so bad after all.
Maybe they were actually pretty great.