Project Necro is an official initiative by Re:Library.

Benjamin Port’s niece, Paula Port, was a sixteen-year-old high schooler living in Queens, New York.

She stood at 150 cm, weighed 120 kilos—a short, chubby girl with thick glasses. Thanks to her late father’s influence, she loved American comics. Timid, insecure, with a double chin jiggling with fat and a face full of acne. Plenty of reasons for bullies to target her, and none to make her popular. Her grades were a little above average, but nothing that made her stand out. She walked the hallways with her head down, hugging the wall, trying not to be noticed. The absolute bottom of the school caste.

American schools have their own unspoken class system.
For girls, the top tier is what they call the Queen Bee: the cheerleaders, the leading ladies of drama club. Pretty, outgoing, natural leaders. Beneath them are their friends and hangers-on.

Idiots, half-wits, maniacs, nerds, swots—what in Japan we’d lump together as *inkyas*¹—all get shoved down into the lowest tier. They face mockery, disdain, and open discrimination. Because the hierarchy is so explicit, life here can be even crueler than in Japan.
Where Paula Port ranked in that system goes without saying.

I infiltrated her school under the guise of a janitor—a job Shiori had, quite literally, bought with a stack of cash. Wearing a cleaner’s uniform, pushing a cart with a mop and bucket, I casually followed Paula from behind. All the students were in casual clothes. Just watching that alone felt fresh.
She arrived just before the bell, eyes on the floor, trudging toward class. Just watching her made my chest ache.

*Ahh, I’d been like that once too.*
When my only friend transferred schools. When I got injured and had to quit club activities. When I dozed off in class, got scolded harshly by the teacher, and humiliated myself in front of everyone. Nothing went right. I felt like the whole world was laughing at me, and I didn’t even have the energy to be angry. I just wanted to disappear. Such were the times.

Of course, in reality, it wasn’t like that. People aren’t all laughing at you.
The truth is, no one cares about you that much. It’s just self-consciousness blown out of proportion. The “insignificant kid” doesn’t get all the attention—no one even looks your way. So really, the feeling that you’re mocked by everyone is just an illusion. The rare insults come only when someone stronger happens to feel like picking on someone weaker in passing.
Even remembering it now still hurts.

Paula, you’d be fine if you just carried yourself with a little more pride. Do you realize how rare it is to have an uncle who’s literally willing to stake his life to push you forward? Sure, it’s a twisted form of love, but it’s love all the same. You should hold your head high. I get why you want to keep looking down, though.

And that brat who just stuck out her foot to trip her—fall down and smash your own face already.
………
Damn. Praying doesn’t make her fall. Well, duh.

A moment later, as one of the other kids mysteriously stumbled, hit the floor face-first, and started crying, I walked past the pitiful sight and continued my tail. Paula entered her classroom and sat at a corner desk. I kept watch from the hallway while pretending to mop.
From what I saw of her notebook, she kept up fine in class. She even solved the teacher’s questions correctly, but she never raised her hand. When asked, “Who knows the answer?” she just shrank down, avoiding eye contact, trying not to stand out.

She had the ability, but not the confidence. Oppressed, silenced, stuck. A sad case—but an all-too-common tragedy that’s been around since forever and won’t disappear anytime soon.
Hmmm.
Honestly, giving powers to a kid like this—the kind who probably wishes, *“If only I had something I could be proud of”*—does hit me right in the sweet spot of my personal tastes. But is she really the one worth betting on, the way Mr. Port insists?
If I had to pick between Benjamin Port and Paula Port, then it’s Benjamin, no contest.

As I kept half-heartedly watching, her gray, dreary school day dragged on. After the final bell, students chattered happily about their after-school plans while crowding the lockers.
Paula hadn’t spoken a word all day. She stayed alone. Some people can live fine with zero friends, but looking at her piglet-like face, robbed of hope, I couldn’t believe she was one of them.

And then, a group of students walking somehow familiar-looking masks—actually, I think they’re cheap replicas of Amaterasu’s early model masks, came marching down the hallway.
Research on psychic powers and club activities revolving ESPs are popular worldwide, ranging from legitimate studies to childish plays.Just about every high school has some kind of “superpower research club.”
This one looked relatively serious: a well-dressed, bearded man who seemed to be their advisor handed out pamphlets and crystals to the masked students, patting their shoulders and whispering to them like some shady cult recruiter.
This wasn’t the kind of secret organization I’d wanted to build. If anything, this looked more like KKK, honestly.

The masked students formed a procession, chanting something hard to make out as they paraded slowly down the middle of the hallway. The other students half-smiled, some showing awe, others a trace of fear, as they stepped aside.
The teachers all pretended not to see. Must be an officially approved club activity. The bulletin board said they’d been around at least two years.

Honestly, I was more interested in the amateur secret organization club than in Paula—until I saw one boy being dragged down the hallway. The masked students shoved him into an empty classroom. Other kids followed, laughing like they were heading to a show. Paula, caught in the tide, was swept in with them.
Even the electrician contractors who happened to be working on campus slipped in out of curiosity, and no one chased them out. So, naturally, I slipped in too, hiding in the corner.

“Now, we begin the school forum.”

Once the classroom filled and the door was shut, one of the masked students declared solemnly from the podium. Behind him stood a dozen others, rigid and silent. Before them, a frail boy with cracked black-rimmed glasses—clearly bottom of the caste—was made to stand alone, trembling in fear.

“Today’s topic: Is first-year student Hank Snart a psychic ? We have invited him to speak for himself.”
“I’m not a psychic! Let me go! This is just public harassment!”

Hank pleaded, almost in tears. The masked students ignored him. The spectators in the back laughed like it was pure entertainment. Even the electricians looked on as if watching a stage play, detached and amused.
*The f̲u̲c̲k̲? What is this hell? Aren’t they going too far? This is everyday life in this high school? They called it a “forum,” but that’s clearly just a pretense.*

“Hank Snart, on the morning of the 2nd of this month during math class, allegedly used psychic powers under the pretense of performing a magic trick. Based on anonymous testimony, we of the Darres Academy Psychic Research Society have, by unanimous decision, resolved to investigate this suspicion.”
“I-I don’t consent to this. Please, let me go, I’ve got a paper route to do. Please.”
“Leaving mid forum will only deepen your suspicion.”

The masked student said this with deliberate solemnity, and the pompous tone drew snickers from the crowd.
The only one who wasn’t laughing was Paula.
Her face was pale, her chubby hands clenched tight, teeth grinding as her body trembled. She kept opening and closing her mouth, trying to speak, but no words came out.

The so-called “forum” continued, though it was no more than sanctioned torment. Hank’s embarrassing mistakes at school and even stories from outside of school were dragged out for everyone’s amusement. Each time he pleaded for them to stop, the room erupted in laughter. The spectacle was nauseating.
And still, Paula didn’t move.

I don’t blame her.
Stopping bullying is no simple task.
Sometimes just saying “That’s not right” is enough to halt it—but just as often, it’s brushed aside with excuses like “We were only joking” or “Don’t kill the mood.” Worse, the one who intervenes might become the next target, adding another victim without helping the first. Especially when someone at the very bottom of the social ladder tries to defend another outcast, the outcome is almost always that way.

How many people are really capable of throwing themselves into danger to help someone else?
Even if you want to help, if you can’t act on it, it means nothing. And the truth is, the vast majority of people *can’t* act. Helping others at your own expense usually brings more pain than reward. Moments where kindness is repaid are rare exceptions.
Protecting yourself is always your first priority. Make sure *you* are safe and happy. Only then, if you have the strength left over, help someone else.

Paula stayed until the end of the so-called forum. After the meeting dispersed, she hesitantly reached out to Hank, who had been left crying alone in the middle of the classroom.

“Uh, Hank?”
“Leave me alone!”
“I, I just thought, um—”
“Shut up! Get lost!”

But her timid attempt was brushed off harshly. Unable to force her help, she drooped her shoulders and retreated.

I left as well.
God, that was rough.
Stuff like this must still be happening at schools all over the world even now—and it’ll keep happening.
I’d thought that spreading psychic powers over the years had made the world more fun, more interesting. But tonight was a sobering reminder that there are plenty of ugly things that never change.

Paula doesn’t have any special talent. She’s just another plain, unremarkable high school girl.
She has a stronger-than-average sense of justice, yes—but she can’t act on it.
Even so, after watching her for just a day, I think I understand what Mr. Port meant. Given the right push, she really *could* change.
And if Paula were to gain psychic powers—what then? Could she truly become someone different?

Convinced at last by Mr. Port’s recommendation, I implanted a psychic source into Paula as she left the school gate alone.

Shouta-kun, once an ordinary high schooler, awakened to psychic powers and revealed hidden potentials I never imagined.
Will Paula do the same? We’ll see.
Once I get back to the hotel, I’ll need to sync up with Shiori, who’s been operating separately, and plan out Paula’s awakening and her recruitment event.