Of course, I still couldn’t bring myself to do it. I didn’t finish off Tsurumi Mirei—I was afraid I might knock her silly or even turn her into a vegetable. So I held back.

There I stood, cradling Tsurumi Mirei in my arms, frozen for a moment. No, make that dumbstruck. I was pondering my next move while she lay shamefully unconscious against my chest.

Since I wouldn’t strike her, I might as well carry her back!

I decided to take her to that secluded little room to rest for the night.

Hold on—there was a problem. Had Tsurumi Mirei fully emptied her bladder? Sure, she’d passed out from losing bladder control, but what if she hadn’t finished? What if she wet the bed in the middle of the night?

If she woke up tomorrow to find herself in a soaked bed, then remembered yesterday’s accident… she’d kill me! After all, I was the guy who’d seen her lose control.

No way. I was too young to die. Didn’t want to kick the bucket early!

I hurried to the toilet with her in my arms, lifting her over the seat like a newborn—clothes and underwear still on, of course.

"Pee-pee time!"

I whistled softly and jiggled her gently, just like tending to a baby. If you ignored Tsurumi Mirei’s mature figure, the scene might’ve looked tender—like I was some saintly caregiver. Even I almost believed my own act!

At my whistle, a trickle seeped from between her thighs, soaking her already-drenched clothes further.

But what did it matter? They were soaked anyway. Like debts piling up—what’s one more problem when you’re already drowning? A dead pig doesn’t fear scalding water.

Thank goodness I’d thought of this. If Tsurumi Mirei woke up with a foggy memory, found a wet bed, and had her memories rush back… I’d be dead meat. She’d hunt me down for life.

Once the flow stopped, I quit whistling. Calmly, I carried her to the room she’d requested earlier.

Inside, I dropped her onto the bed. She didn’t stir. Her shame had clearly shut her brain down completely—sealed off from the world. My rough handling wouldn’t wake her.

After tossing her onto the bed, I headed to the bathroom. Wait—why do we call it a "bathroom," "washroom," or "toilet" when it’s all the same place? Never made sense to me.

Why was Tsurumi Mirei on the bed while the other seven girls slept on the floor? Simple math: 1 versus 7. One girl got the bed. Seven girls? Floor it was. Even my oversized bed could barely fit three. Seven would’ve meant human Tetris.

I went to clean up. That puddle on the bathroom floor nagged at me—it was evidence. Had to erase it. No trace of evil shall remain! Justice descends from heaven!

I grabbed a mop. One pass wasn’t enough—the stench lingered. I flooded the floor with water and disinfectant, then mopped again. Evidence: eliminated.

Now only the sharp tang of bleach hung in the air.

I checked my phone. Midnight. Class tomorrow… I was a night owl, sure, but fighting biology sounded exhausting. Better sleep.

Had I missed anything?

Door locked? Check.

Car secured? Check.

Everyone moved? Check.

Oh—dry Tsurumi Mirei’s clothes!

If her clothes were still wet tomorrow, she’d think I’d taken advantage of her. Even if she didn’t remember anything.

First, I peeked into the seven girls’ room. Turned on the AC. It was September, but we were on the mysterious 30th parallel—still sweltering. Set it to 25.5°C. Healthy temperature.

Then Tsurumi Mirei’s room. She lay exactly where I’d dumped her, damp clothes ruining her dignity.

I touched her soaked sleeve and muttered:

"Wish these’d dry instantly. A hairdryer might wake her—or set her clothes on fire. Then I’d be a flaming pervert. Hope she stays out cold…"

I turned to fetch the dryer.

But when I returned—shock. Her clothes were bone-dry. I stood there, hairdryer in hand, staring.

What the…? In the time it took me to turn around? Did quantum physics kick in? Should I blame Schrödinger’s cat?

Nah. Why sweat the weird? Others might obsess, but I don’t play by rules. Cross that bridge when I come to it. Answers would come later.

I switched on her AC, tucked her in. Lucky she hadn’t thrown up or raged—no vomit stains. Even the wet-clothes issue had solved itself. No need to undress her. No cheap novel tropes tonight.

I pictured those cliché scenes in my head… then shut it down. No use dwelling on what didn’t happen. Schrödinger could wait.

I headed upstairs to my room, killed the villa lights via smart remote, checked my phone one last time, and crashed.

…

After replaying yesterday’s chaos, Xia Chuan Yuan checked the weather. Bright sunshine. He grabbed his phone—7 a.m. Class started at 8:30, and campus was close. No rush.

Dressed and downstairs, he checked on the girls and homeroom teacher who’d crashed at his place. A night’s rest should’ve burned off the alcohol. Even if they weren’t awake yet, they’d rouse easily now—no more dead-weight zombies like yesterday. That’s what Xia Chuan Yuan figured.