---

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A hero's gotta have a red scarf, after all.
"Huh? It's not warming me up at all. This is a bit of a problem."
Sensei, who seemed to be mistaking it for a disposable hand warmer or something, grumbled with uncharacteristic cheerfulness, grinning at me so wide I could see her teeth. She doesn't usually look this happy, this woman.
"Can't have you catching a cold, nope. You get warm too."
I tried sharing the scarf with Sensei.
The height difference was too much, though, and with a strangled "Gueh!" we both nearly suffocated.

And one more thing, an epilogue of sorts.
A few days after winter break ended and the third semester began. When I peeked into the classroom next door (I'd looked on the day of the opening ceremony too, but it seemed the person I was looking for had overslept and hadn't come), there was Misono Mayu-chan, sleeping at the back of the classroom as usual. When I tried talking to her while she was awake, she was cold, asking, "What is it?" so that was a relief. Still, what was all that about? It already feels so distant.
The sensation of my neck being squeezed remained stubbornly, and that impression had become something that wouldn't fade.
And so, "Mii-kun," more tasteless and meaningless than snow, melted away again, and the story of Lying Mii-kun and Broken Maa-chan (Temp.) is, for now, on hiatus here.
To be continued →.

What if by some very chance
『If it were a world with unbroken correctness』
What I met in a dream I don't know who wished for was:
The happiness of a false identity.

"Wake up, Ai."
I don't like being called by my first name without any frills. That's why, usually, even as a second-year in high school, I don't make the mistake of having my mother barge into my room to wake me up. Last night, though, I was engrossed in a book, and got a "Wake the hell up!" as a foot jabbed into my side, kicking me upwards. My mom is super short-tempered.
When it comes to expressing emotions, she's a straight line with no detours, a personality that sits at the pinnacle of impulsiveness. But I do wish she'd occasionally master subtler techniques, like shaking my shoulder. If this woman were skipping stones amicably with everyone at a riverbank, I imagine she’d just end up chucking the rocks clear to the opposite bank.
My futon and I slammed into the wall, never having experienced a proper separation. Only then—or rather, my eyes, which had been awake anyway—shot wide open. I’m having trouble breathing, as if rejecting the crisp early morning air.
Clutching my side, curled up like an inchworm, she extracted only the fact that her son was awake from his open eyelids and chirped, "Good morning." Her back and neck were perfectly straight—so straight you’d think not just her muscles but her very brain had been processed into a rod. This woman is liberated from all bends and distortions, sometimes even forsaken by them. A stark contrast to me, writhing on the bed, my body's axis completely unsettled.
"Your morning greeting?" Why does she have such an innocent, childlike, puzzled look on her face, this woman?
"Good morning..." I've been drilled too much, so, a greeting first and foremost.
"Yes, good morning again. Greet your father and the others, then eat breakfast, wash your face, and go to school."
Issuing a string of instructions devoid of punctuation, she quickly left the room. The sound of her walking down the hallway, the light patter of her feet descending the stairs. I could feel the faint vibrations from the hallway through the floor I was plastered against, but I, too, started to stir, knowing I didn't have the luxury of dawdling.
If I don't get ready in forty seconds and head downstairs, Mom's true temper will hit its peak and torment the whole family. The branches of that fallout don't just extend to me, but to Dad and my brother as well.
I slid off onto the pale blue carpet spread on the floor, my cheek scraping unpleasantly against it. That sensation was enough to jolt me back to bipedal motion. Standing up, I caught the smell of eraser from the writing utensils scattered on the table. Grimacing slightly, I stretched, allowing freedom to return to my limbs. Something near my stretched side was making a persistent twitching sound, like a bizarre instrument, which was a little concerning.
Patting my hair to check for what felt like significant bedhead, I pulled open the thick curtains, dust motes drifting from their upper folds. Outside, a typical autumn sky, power lines, and other such fixtures stretched before me. Fields, radish patches, persimmon orchards—it was mostly a green vista. After being momentarily dazzled for about two seconds by the pastoral, bucolic, and thoroughly country scenery, I surveyed my room, an afterimage like a marimo moss ball lingering in my vision.
“Right…” I changed clothes, haphazardly stuffed textbooks and the like into my bag, and, despite nicking my finger on the edge of some papers along the way, got ready and hurried out of the room. This habit of my limbs moving while my brain is still processing things—I’ve really picked it up thanks to Mom’s… upbringing. As for this morning’s little incident, well, let’s just chalk it up to one of her endearing quirks.
My older brother's room, just off the hallway, had its door wide open, its occupant absent. However, the mountains of books, valleys of books, walls of books, and even a futon apparently made of books were all slumbering within the curtain-drawn room, so I suppose it was fulfilling its duties as a room perfectly well. The scent of paper mingled with dust seeped out. Shaking off the thought, I started down the stairs. The lingering heat of September seemed to have already taken up residence indoors; the air was heavy with warmth.
Today, too, as I pedal my bike, I have a feeling I’ll be enveloped by that summer-like atmosphere, one that can’t be captured by mere numbers.
.........Ah, right, what was it? I feel like I should say something, so I'll just get it out there.
It’s perfectly ordinary, but I have a home, a family, and an everyday life.
This town is so peaceful, you’d have to go back to the age when men wore swords at their hips for a murder to even occur. I figured today, like any other, nothing newsworthy would happen, and the local news programs would be tumbleweed-quiet… but then again, yesterday there *was* a minor incident. Apparently, a female doctor working at the town’s psychiatric hospital (one supposedly exists; I hear stories, but having absolutely no connection to it, it’s mostly just fodder for jokes among friends) committed suicide. It seems she jumped from the hospital roof and died instantly.
But well, for the most part, it’s peaceful. Suicide isn’t a murder, after all.
And so, here I am, living with my family. Quite ordinarily, in fact.
“And that’s fine,” I thought, as the light streaming in through the window warmed my right cheek, and I chewed on the gum of boredom.
Of course, all the flavor had long since vanished, but to add some seasoning to it, I descended the stairs.
Today begins like this, and it will surely end without any particular incident. That’s a very good thing.
My family: Amano Ichi, Amano Misa, Amano Shiba, and me, Ai. A family of four, with two siblings—us brothers. There’s no one younger than me, and since Japan isn’t a polygamous society, it’s not like I have two mothers. Naturally.
My father holds some local-level authority, enough to have a long title like “Education Something-or-other,” and he’s a bit high-strung. He was thin when I was a kid, but recently, perhaps due to Mom constantly plying him with food, his paunch has become rather noticeable. Maybe as a result, his over-sensitivity has also mellowed out a bit.
Next, my older brother. He nearly became a shut-in during elementary school, but Mom wouldn’t stand for it. Her fervent “emotional education”—as if determined to straighten a crooked neck rather than just a personality—apparently did the trick. Now, he’s grown into a young man who attends university, merely as a contrarian. Education really is all about passion, I suppose. Though, the fact that he now actively avoids being at home undeniably hints at a bit of overkill on her part.
As for Mom, I’ll skip the description. You probably got a good idea of what she’s like from this morning’s little exchange. To add a supplemental detail, she’s currently in the kitchen, cutting up a persimmon and meticulously carving it into the shape of a rabbit. Since there isn’t much color contrast between the peel and the flesh, unlike with an apple, the ears don’t stand out much. I predict this creation will end up as a snack in my bento. Hmm… I mean, it’s fine, but… is that really acceptable for a second-year in high school? Oh well, whatever.
And as for me… I’m a thoroughly unremarkable person, having accumulated only experiences not worth mentioning. Looking at myself objectively makes me feel a bit hollow, but in truth, I don’t possess any particularly prominent personality traits that would make me resent that fact.
A destiny where a path of pure ordinariness—untainted by anything peculiar or abnormal—stretches out before and behind me. The events of this world are all determined by the interplay of will and fate. To borrow an expression that appeared countless times in my favorite books, it seems that my will, at least, desires nothing but the mundane. And that is perfectly right. I want to walk on level ground; I have no desire to grope my way through the deep sea or outer space.
I pondered such things in the kitchen while finishing off last night’s leftover curry. Naturally, I was adhering to Mom’s instructions, having greeted my family before starting breakfast. Yep, it’s mild.
“There, all done!” Mom announced, placing the rabbit-shaped persimmon on her palm to show it off. As I’d predicted, its body was composed of almost entirely one color. I’m used to her creations, so I wasn’t particularly moved, but it did make me recall the time Mom attempted to carve a strawberry that was on a birthday cake, sending bits of fruit-flesh flying across the table. If I remember correctly, the juice even extinguished the candle flames. It was a memorable scene, one that actually coaxed a wry smile from my usually stoic father.
While I was lost in reminiscence, Mom was practically doing a little jig, fanning herself with a cool breeze of self-praise, muttering things like, “It’s a wonder this rabbit doesn’t hop about!” When I let slip, “Maybe it’s because it’s dead,” a leftover piece of persimmon peel came flying my way. *Splat.* It stuck to my eyeball, moist and rather unpleasantly.
Mom’s teachings are generally correct. One really should wash one’s face after a meal, right? In all sorts of senses.
And so, with preparations complete, I grabbed my shoes and bicycle key. “I’m off!” “Alright, see you later!”
I rattled open the front door and stepped out to merge with the outside world, a view where greens, blues, and whites seemed to be vying for factional dominance. From the azure sky, which gave the illusion of being at a higher altitude than in summer, a white light, faintly tinged with yellow, poured down. The moss and trees in the front yard received this natural sustenance, bowing their heads with the aid of the wind. There’s an earthy smell and a gritty sensation, like chewing sand, but it’s undeniable that nature is abundant and close at hand here, I mused, briefly admiring the scenic beauty.
I unlocked the family-shared bicycle, kept under the storm shutters out front, and pushed it by the handlebars off the property. I didn’t straddle the saddle yet. No need to burden the bike until I actually start riding it, I figured.
If I wait out front for a little while, she appears with a high degree of probability. My distant, distant neighbor, passing by the front of my house.
.........See, there she is.
A girl who, despite it being a rule so fossilized that even elementary schoolers ignore it these days, conscientiously abides by it, wearing a helmet as she rides her bicycle. Given how exceedingly rare such a sight is even in the countryside, I wonder if in the city she’d be designated an endangered species, right up there with old-school gang leaders. Or perhaps, paradoxically, one might actually have a better chance of spotting these helmet-aficionados in cities with heavy traffic. Digression aside.
Sometimes on holidays too.
And that girl is Fushimi Yuzu, the young lady of the Fushimi family, who are neighbors to us Amanos. She’s pedaling her bicycle slowly, a sleepy look on her face. She seems generally well today, too. Or rather, beyond that, she’s no different from yesterday, so there’s nothing particular to report—that was my train of thought, which led me to this rather bland description… or so it goes. But then again, we see each other almost every weekday.
When Fushimi’s gaze met mine, she rang her bell—*ding-a-ling*—as if to announce her presence. Her eyes, too, seemed to widen a little, becoming more alert. Concurrently, the rhythm of her pedaling shifted from a lazy *creak-squeak* to a more vigorous *clank-clank-clank*. She seemed to be putting in so much effort that I gave a light wave in response.
Braking just an instant before our bicycle baskets would have collided, Fushimi and her bike came to a halt, our front wheels lightly scraping against each other. Even though she should have been about to pedal off again, Fushimi took off her helmet.
"Mornin'!" First things first, a greeting.
“O-o-,” she began, then gasped as if she’d just remembered something. She rummaged in her bicycle basket, pulled out a small notebook, and performed a high-speed manual search. *Her voice is as quirky as ever*, I thought, while waiting for the “search results.” The notebook flipped open and was thrust before my eyes. And where her finger pointed, it read: “Good morning-eth.” “-eth,” I read aloud, just the distinctive ending. Fushimi nodded with satisfaction, then took out her ever-present eraser and erased the bottom stroke from the character ‘正’ written at the very end of the phrase. Our energetic Miss Makes-Things-Twice-as-Hard is in fine form today… Huh? After putting her notebook away, Fushimi suddenly tensed up.
She made two little fists and held them up in front of her shoulders. Using them as a sort of prop, Fushimi, now in what I could only describe as her ‘crimson-colored song mode,’ fully activated said function.
"A-a-a, A~i Aiii—mmm, so full of rhythm!"
“...I’m a monkey, apparently. Nice to meet you.”
Getting treated like a monkey this early in the morning. I mean, my name *is* indeed Amano Ai, but… For some reason, Fushimi dedicates herself to calling me by my first name, apparently with the sole purpose of embarrassing me. Why, I wonder?
She’s a year younger than me, but maybe it’s awkward to call someone ‘senpai’ if you’ve known them since early childhood. Nah, that’s just me trying to rationalize it. Perhaps… perhaps she actually quite likes me…? Or so I allow myself to wistfully speculate.
Then again, if her feelings are merely at the ‘older-brother-figure-from-the-neighborhood’ level and I’m just being conceited, I’d genuinely want to dig a hole and bury myself. So, I don’t dare take any concrete steps to find out. Hmmm, hmmm. Inner conflict.
“A~i, A~iii… Whee, aaa-la-la-leee,” she continued, her ‘human audio system’ apparently suffering repeated malfunctions and on the verge of breaking down completely. Maybe I should throw her a lifeline, help her reel her consciousness back to a healthier state.
"Well, shall we head to school?" We attend the same high school. Even at our age, it’s a sort of pseudo-group commute.
"A~i!"
*A-Ai,* I thought. She crisply put her helmet back on with both hands, adjusting its position with a little *shhk-shhk* sound.
Her demeanor somehow brought the term ‘preschooler’ to mind, so I couldn’t resist teasing her a bit. “Got everything you need?” If I actually asked, I bet a reversible red-and-white gym cap would pop out of her bag.
My "A-Ai" had unintentionally become an affirmation. Being called by my first name so unreservedly like this, rather than in a way clearly meant to get my attention (whether sweet or curt), felt even more embarrassing somehow.
End of teasing. We’ll call it a draw due to mutual awkwardness. I straddled my bike and started pedaling, the wheels turning with a *creak-creak*. On these country roads, you rarely see cars other than those parked in driveways, so there’d be no issue riding abreast with Fushimi instead of single file… However, Miss Fushimi, ever so diligent about protecting her head, properly observes traffic rules and rides in pursuit behind me. She’s such a good-natured girl, it wouldn’t be surprising if she suddenly developed a core of steel. Though, because of her voice and peculiar way of speaking, her classmates seem to keep her at a bit of a distance. Yet, she does seem to attract quite a lot of attention from the boys… Well, I can’t say I don’t understand why.
I mean, she’s blessed with remarkable development, the kind you rarely get to behold, even among second-years. No, I won’t specify *where*. Some things are best left unsaid, as the proverb goes. Right then, let’s smoothly glide past this topic and maybe I’ll describe the scenery instead.
Let’s see… Private houses. Fields. Fish hanging out to dry. Patches of scraggly grass. A yellowish-green maple tree dreaming of autumn foliage. Zero exhaust fumes—a veritable eco-dream street. Leisurely clouds stretching long and thin. Contrails left by silvery dragonflies—no, airplanes. Man, this is hardly any different from riding my bike alone. The only real difference, I suppose, is the slightly louder whirring of wheels behind me.
It’s not like we’re actually conversing. Or rather, even if I try to initiate a conversation, Fushimi just whips out her notebook and shows me a written reply, which is a bit hard to read. I’ve even strained my neck before from turning around too often.
Hmm, but thinking about it that way, this is a rather strange commute to school.
Fushimi and I are in the same school club, so it’s not particularly odd that we wake up about an hour earlier than regular students to head out for morning practice. However, the fact that the two of us go to school together so… companionably, doesn’t feel like something I can just brush off as ‘perfectly ordinary.’
Every morning, I wait for Fushimi in front of my house, and if I happen to seriously oversleep or if she’s up unusually early, Fushimi waits in front of *my* house. “No, that’s just ‘cause we’re neighbors…”
[I scratch my cheek, as if to broadcast to some unseen entity out there in the world, “Yes, I am perfectly aware of various things, thank you very much!”]
See? That’s why I’m saying I’m being overly self-conscious! Honestly, I really am.
And with such thoughts, I arbitrarily chewed on gum flavored with wholesome love and comedy as I made my way to school, so the story goes.

“Hyaah!” With a fighting spirit far exceeding anything seen in her after-school practice drills, Ebihara Kanae, clad in her gym uniform, leaped. Twisting her body in an absurdly complex manner mid-air, legs whipping, she demonstrated an extended defiance of gravity as she glared at the opponent’s goal, then sent the soccer ball flying.
Ebihara, a volley shot. Her physical prowess is so impressive I sometimes think she’d achieve greater things in a different sport. But while I stood there marveling, the ball rocketed into the goal—an area marked out with white tape on the wooden wall—which creaked under the impact, rattling the windowpanes.
While another girl on the team stomped on the rebounding, bouncing ball to stop it, Ebihara thrust her right fist skyward with a triumphant “Shaaa!” cheering louder than anyone else.
This was our morning practice. In our Kendo Club—blessed with a spacious, dedicated training hall grandly named the “Judo-Kendo Dojo” (a title entirely unsupported by any actual achievements in either art)—the members diligently united, day in and day out, in their own uniquely misguided forms of training. Since thirty percent of the floor space was tatami-matted and the Judo Club had long since disbanded, we had free rein of the place.
…Well, it’s not like any of us are truly serious kendo club members, anyway. Especially since the summer tournament ended and the upperclassmen—thoroughly brainwashed by the deadly serious training regimen of our resident demon coach—all graduated or quit. Being indoors also offers the favorable condition of being largely out of the teachers’ sight. However, anticipating this, our faculty advisor does occasionally pop in for a patrol, so we haven’t grown lax in our vigilance. I still feel like something is fundamentally wrong with this whole setup, though.
But, putting all that aside, soccer that *isn't* actual practice is fun. Baseball is fun, too.
Ebihara Kanae—who was appointed captain of the girls’ side despite being only a first-year (or rather, precisely because there *are* no second-year female members; they all lost their motivation and quit when our coach transferred schools)—was the prime instigator, the one who’d pipe up with “Let’s play baseball!” or “Let’s play soccer, dudes!” She was also the one who’d liberated the balls from the gym equipment storage room. She’s pointlessly overflowing with dynamic energy, dashing around the dojo more than anyone else. And, wouldn’t you know it, she also boasts the highest athletic ability. If we hold an elimination tournament amongst ourselves, it’s usually either Ebihara or Sugawara who comes out on top. Biwashima often makes it to the end too. Me? No chance.
The soccer ball is kicked back to the center of the dojo by a rough visual estimate, and the game resumes. Our opponents are the boys’ team, led by Sugawara Michizane, captain of the boys’ Kendo Club. I’m playing on the girls’ team, led by Captain Ebihara. It’s not that I’m particularly trying to pass as a girl, mind you. It’s just that only two second-year male members remain: me and Sugawara. Unlike our other former clubmates, who were brimming with the gung-ho spirit of “I’m off to find opponents stronger than myself!” we, it seems, were more of the “We just want to chill comfortably in our low-stakes dimension” persuasion.
So, given our situation, us two remaining upperclassmen were divided, one to each team. I lost at rock-paper-scissors, so I was “registered” as a player for the girls’ team. Frankly, it’s hard to get a pass. Why? Because I feel like my presence unnecessarily inflates expectations. A lone boy—and an upperclassman, no less—amongst the supposedly “delicate” girls (not that any of them actually *are*, but, you know, for the sake of appearances). If I weren’t a key player, it would seem like some kind of elaborate lie, yet the truth is, I don’t actually contribute much of anything.
Consequently, I’ve arbitrarily concluded that the wisest and safest position for me is to become one with the air at the edge of the dojo.
Incidentally, when our positions are reversed—that is, when Sugawara is on the girls’ team—he shows no such restraint. He’s the type of person who can actually live up to the surrounding expectations (which undoubtedly include a fair bit of admiration for Sugawara’s general perfection—the guy is popular, after all) and effectively utilize his limbs. He possesses the talent of a protagonist. A well-rounded, fulfilled kind of talent, at that. It’s the genuine article, not something one can cultivate. Not everyone is cut out to be the protagonist of a story. If a ‘farmed’ version would suffice, there’s always the method of ‘being flawed,’ I suppose.
Digression aside… Well, that’s why, as a mere supporting character, it’s not so much my feet but my easily-redirected gaze that tends to move, and I often find myself glancing over to the side. Because there are two female students over at the edge of the dojo.
Sitting on a stack of six or seven gym mats piled in a corner of the dojo for P.E. use, Biwashima Yagoto looks thoroughly bored. Leaning forward with her chin propped on her knees, she’s tracking the ball’s movement with an expression of weary resignation.
Unlike the other girls, she hasn’t changed into her gym clothes; she’s still in her school uniform. Well, this one rarely participates anyway.
Despite being in the middle of the game, I found myself watching her for a moment, and our eyes suddenly met. Biwashima piped up, “Did we exchange greetings today yet?” When I replied, “Not yet,” she bowed her head and said, “Good morning, Senpai.”
“Isn’t the ball supposed to be your friend, Senpai? You two have been pointedly ignoring each other for a while now, it seems,” she quipped, delivering a multi-layered piece of sarcasm with casual flair. As always, she’s the type to impudently make light of her seniors. Some of the guys seem to find that charming, apparently. I sometimes cynically wonder if, being such a weak Kendo Club and thus getting struck far more often than we land any hits ourselves, we’ve inadvertently become a breeding ground for masochists. As for yours truly… nah, not particularly.
“I’m a kendo club member, you know. Longer implements fit my hand better,” I retorted.
“Ah, of course. Senpai *is* particularly skilled at sacrifice bunts, isn’t he?” Biwashima said. “Speaking of which, Kawana was recruiting for the softball club. Since you’re already gracing the girls’ team with your presence, why not make a natural land-bridge over to their club as well?”
Biwashima, her silver tongue even more polished today. Perhaps finding her own remark amusing, she let out a small chuckle, legs flailing as she drummed her heels against the mat.
For some reason, this girl really loves to pick on me. Am I being treated as the designated ‘easy-to-tease’ character here?
Ignoring the “carbonated-drink girl,” still fizzing with provocative bubbles, I shifted my gaze towards the “healing-type, natural-spring-water girl” instead. If I don’t insert some kind of buffer material in between, my established senior-junior dynamic with Biwashima might just get completely subverted.
Next to Biwashima, sitting rather compactly with about a person’s width of space between them, is Fushimi (though, in truth, she’s not “compact” at all, primarily in a way that verges on sexual harassment). She actually participated in morning practice once, right at the beginning. But ever since she attempted to kick the ball at her feet, whiffed completely, executed something resembling a failed backward somersault, and slammed the back of her head onto the floor, she’s been relegated to observer status. Honestly, I imagine she must find it terribly boring, yet she dutifully shows up for club activities. *Does she have some hidden objective?* I sometimes find myself worrying, though it’s entirely none of my business. I mean, *I’m* only playing soccer out of sheer inertia myself. Still, the ball really isn’t coming my way. I feel like I’ve been stuck in right field in a Little League game. “Well, at least balls are flying towards our own goal,” I was thinking, tracking one with my eyes, when one truly did come rocketing over. The ball, mankind’s supposed friend, slammed head-on into our side’s goal. We’re talking tens of kilometers per hour here; if that had been a car, it would’ve been at an impact level guaranteed to send human innards flying. “Whoa, it blasted right through the net!” one of the club members joked. Our goalie, a junior girl named Hayashizaki (so close, just one ‘tree’ short of being a ‘forest’), showed absolutely no inclination to stop the ball with her body, merely cowering and watching. The kicker was one of the junior male members, Kaneko, I see. He’s one of those guys who’s stuck somewhere between being a protagonist and just another face in the crowd of supporting characters. Sort of neither here nor there, a position similar yet subtly different to my own half-baked existence. Oh well, it hardly matters. It’s just that I feel I can vaguely sympathize with his particular brand of anguish, that’s all.
The boys’ team’s goal is the wall itself, while the girls’ team uses the two-door entrance to the Judo-Kendo dojo. Ebihara had declared it perfect because it was already roughly goal-shaped. Ooh, the doors are creaking from the aftershock of that impact.
Ebihara, having trotted over to the goal to retrieve the ball, made a detour to go tease Biwashima. With a leering, unnervingly soft smile—as if her facial muscles had completely relaxed—she dashed over to the piled-up mats. Wow, Biwashima’s look of utter annoyance is quite picturesque. Fushimi, on the other hand, wears a troubled expression rather well.
“Heeeey, Biwasshimaaa!” Ebihara called out. “You join in too! The girls’ team is short on players, y’know!”
“No way, it’s too much bother,” Biwashima retorted. “Besides, this is the Kendo Club, and—”
“Nyaah, nyaah!” Ebihara chanted, completely ignoring Biwashima’s protest and with a complete lack of context or connection to anything, all while humming bullyish taunts and lightly batting the ball *thwack, thwack* repeatedly at Biwashima. Biwashima, making no attempt to hide her irritation, muttered, “So annoying,” and deflected the balls with a scowl. She batted them away again and again with the back of her hand, but Ebihara showed no signs of letting up. “Captain, you’re being seriously damn annoying, you know—” Every club member present, with the sole exception of Ebihara herself, registered the palpable rise in Biwashima’s ire, simmering beneath her deceptively flat, frank tone.