Interlude: Yumiko Miura

Yumiko Miura was a storm wrapped in silk and sunlight. Her hair—long and golden, twisted into precise corkscrew twintails—bounced with every proud step like punctuation marks on a sentence only she got to finish. Her olive-green eyes were sharp and defiant, daring the world to give her a reason to look up from her pedestal.

She wasn’t just beautiful—she was aware of it. Radiated it. Wielded it. She moved through U.A. like royalty through a peasant village: aloof, untouchable, always flanked by lesser girls drawn into her orbit by sheer gravitational dominance. Her uniform was always perfect, her posture a masterclass in practiced elegance, her tone clipped and amused when speaking to most, disinterested and dismissive with the rest. Boys were background noise. Girls were potential rivals or accessories. Teachers treated her delicately, like they knew she would one day be powerful enough to make or break careers.

And she was cold. Not cruel—at least not openly—but precise. When a boy tried too hard, she didn’t laugh or mock. She just looked at him like he’d stepped in something and then calmly walked away. That kind of disinterest did more damage than any insult ever could.

Minoru Mineta had tried. Early in the semester. He’d given her the full performance—winks, smirks, lines so sleazy they could’ve dripped off his tongue and stained the tile. Yumiko had looked at him, once, with that sharp, weary gaze, and then gone back to her conversation like he’d never existed.

She didn’t hate him. He was beneath hate. He simply wasn’t relevant.

And then the Normality took hold.

No flash. No warning. Just words, spoken from Mineta’s grinning mouth, laced with magic that seeped into the cracks of the world:

"It’s normal that you suffer from a rare condition—one where you become increasingly aroused and unable to concentrate or function properly unless you’ve had sex with a man. The relief lasts an hour for every inch."

A ripple of warped light, imperceptible to the naked eye, emanated from the twin golden studs. Reality shivered. And then—it changed.

The magic latched onto her like it had always been there. The disbelief never came. The timeline in her mind rewrote itself seamlessly, without a ripple.

Not in a bang or sudden jolt, but like a masterful seamstress pulling new threads into an ancient tapestry, the Normality found every mind it needed to touch. It updated medical minds and common sense, inserted new knowledge of women afflicted with "Persistent Penis-Responsive Arousal Syndrome." Social etiquette evolved instantly: this condition was real, rare, and taboo to speak about openly. It was a burden some women quietly bore—and if revealed, often made them targets of lecherous men who couched their predation in faux sympathy.

Yumiko Miura was one such girl. And in an instant, she remembered everything.

A whole galaxy of fresh memories exploded inside her. Not false—not strange. Just… part of her. Hadn’t it always been? The doctor's office, legs cold against the crinkly paper. The quiet, serious conversation with her mother afterward in the car. The rules. The warnings. The choices.

She remembered the first time it became too much—how the throbbing emptiness between her legs had driven her to tears, her thoughts scattering, her grades slipping, her body overheated and unbearably sensitive to the voices and movements of boys around her.

And into the empty space of "who helps her?" the world reached for something nearby. Something that would make sense.

Arakawa.

Creepy old Arakawa-san who lived next door.

He was retired. Always home. Always lingering in his garden or on his porch. A widower. Thin and leathery with a watery smile. He lived with his son’s family—nice people, quiet, polite—but everyone knew Arakawa had a habit of looking. Especially at Yumiko. She’d caught him more than once, his eyes drifting when she fetched the mail or bent to tie her shoes. Lingering. Silent.

Before the Normality, he was just that: a quiet, creepy neighbor. A minor discomfort.

But the magic didn’t see discomfort. It saw convenience.

A man with no wife. Nearby. Old enough to be discreet, experienced enough to know what to do. Still virile, but safe. Familiar. Already watching her. The threads all aligned.

And with a soft, insidious click, reality locked into place.

Now, Arakawa wasn’t just a neighbor. He was a solution. The obvious one. The one who had stepped in when her condition was discovered. The one her mother had gone to, trembling and ashamed, to ask for help, a long ago vasectomy making him the perfect option. The one who had tutored Yumiko in the rhythm of her own body, who had shown her how to take the edge off before school, how to ride out the first waves of need.

Their shared history snapped into her memories like puzzle pieces long misplaced.

Gone was the chilly gap between them. Now, she remembered whispered mornings. Bent over his bathroom counter, lips brushing his neck, his old man’s hands cupping her breasts while she moaned into his chest. She remembered his smell—cheap cologne and musty warmth. The gentle thrust of his narrow hips. His praise. His need. His possessive, quiet pleasure in her youthful body, shaped now to match his tastes.

He hadn’t taken her.

He’d helped her.

And she’d helped him right back.

Now, she didn’t question it. Didn’t flinch from the thought of him inside her. He was just part of the routine. Just another necessity, like brushing her teeth or packing her bag.

To Yumiko, it all made perfect sense.

Because thanks to Mineta’s casual, grinning sentence…

It always had.

I didn’t walk across campus; I glided. People didn’t talk to me unless I let them. I didn’t smile unless I wanted something. And men? Boys? Children playing at confidence? They were entertainment. Background noise. At best, they flattered me. At worst, they annoyed me. And Minoru Mineta had been the latter since the first day of term.

I’d heard about him, of course. Everyone had. His reputation dragged behind him like a skid mark—pervy, ****, gross. One of those boys who measured worth in cup sizes and bragged about “scoring” like it meant anything.

I shot him down the first time he tried. Not even with words. Just a look—sharp, cold, and utterly dismissive. And like the bug he was, he scuttled off.

Or so I thought.

Then, today, he made his move again. Sliding in behind me while I walked to class, getting far too close. His hand brushed my waist. His voice dripped sleaze like a leaky faucet.

And then—he lifted my skirt.

My mind flickered to a dozen options. I could have elbowed him in the face. Lit him up with a flash of concentrated sunlight so hot he’d need skin grafts. Or just turned, slowly, and humiliated him with a single sentence.

But I didn’t.

Because to me… none of it was surprising.

None of it was new.

I felt his fingers graze my skin, felt the fabric shift aside, felt the cool air against bare flesh—and I didn’t flinch. Couldn’t. Because this? This was normal. A boy like Mineta getting a peek, a grope, a handful of my ass on the way to class? It wasn’t exciting. It wasn’t enraging. It was routine. Like letting someone borrow a pen and then forgetting to ask for it back.

So I ignored him. Casually. Deliberately. Sent my girls ahead with a single instruction and waited until I could shoo him away like lint.

He never noticed what was really happening—didn’t see the moment my eyes narrowed just slightly when he said it.

"Hey, Miura-san! You’ve normally got that rare condition..."

The air didn’t change. The sky didn’t crack. But my world did shift—seamlessly, as if it always had. Like a train being diverted down a new track without even slowing down.

In an instant, the memory of my condition returned. No—settled. It had always been there.

I remembered the diagnosis. The confusion. The heat that came on after too long without relief. The shame of knowing that if I went too long, I would start to stare, to ache, to need. That I’d lose focus. That my grades, my dignity, my reputation depended on managing it quietly.

And I remembered Arakawa-sama.

His fingers. His voice. The smell of his aftershave and the way his old, creaky bed shifted beneath us every morning. The affection in his touch. The way he looked at me like I was the most precious thing in the world—even when I was naked, knees pressed into his lap, his bony hands guiding my hips into the perfect rhythm. Even when I was sucking him off in the shower while his wrinkled fingers stroked my hair. Even when I moaned into his shoulder, full of him, satisfied and soft and safe.

He’d fucked me. Carefully. Intimately. And over time, I hadn’t just accepted it—I’d come to need it. Arakawa-sama gave me six hours of clarity every morning. Six hours before the hunger crept back in and I became, “dick-brained.”

I remembered, with a quiet grimace, overhearing my mother one night—half-drunk and tired, muttering to my father over dishes, “She starts getting dick-brained around hour three. It's in her eyes, you can tell.” At the time, I had hidden in her room, red-faced and furious. But it was true. Once half my time was up, my thoughts would wander. My gaze would flick instinctively to the outlines in boys’ pants. My pussy would begin to ache with a kind of twitching hunger. My focus would fray like a worn thread. It wasn’t want. It wasn’t even lust. It was need, raw and biological, like thirst or pain.

With Arakawa-sama, it wasn’t love, not quite. But it was close. We were affectionate. Trusted. Bound together by necessity and years of shared pleasure. A private little secret that nobody could ever take away from me.

So when Mineta called out that sentence—when he invoked my truth, out loud, with that smug, stupid grin—I didn’t freeze.

I didn’t collapse.

I paused.

Just a moment. A heartbeat.

This was ****.

Somehow, he’d figured it out. Maybe not everything. Maybe not the details. But he knew enough to say it out loud, to weaponize it. And if he said it again—in front of others? If the wrong person found out?

Then it would all fall apart. The secrecy. The safety. Arakawa-sama.

I’d be flooded with offers. Leers. Every scumbag within earshot would start waving their dicks at me like they were offering a bottle of water to a woman dying of thirst. I'd become a target—a charity case for every self-righteous creep who wanted to "help."

And Mineta?

Mineta would be first in line.

And if he tried—if that little shrimp of a pervert actually thought I’d ever let him touch me with that stubby excuse for a cock? He’d learn what it really meant to be humiliated.

But not yet.

I let him think he’d gotten away with it. Let him smirk and strut, like he’d won.

Because I needed time.

To think. To plan. To figure out how to shut him up—how to deal with him without drawing attention. Maybe there was something I could offer. A favor. A distraction. A compromise. Something to secure his silence.

I didn’t want to offer my body. I shuddered at the thought of it—Mineta’s awful little hands fumbling against me, his tongue, his smell. His tiny pathetic dick!

But I’d do what I had to.

For Arakawa-sama.

For myself.

Because I was Yumiko Miura.

And no man—no freak, no blackmailer, no disgusting little bug—would ever take my control away from me. Not without bleeding for it.