Project Necro is an official initiative by Re:Library.

After returning to the hotel, I used telekinetic clairvoyance to check in on Grandmaster St. Germain. What I saw was him scuttling around on all fours across the room, poking at the carpet with tweezers and collecting fallen hairs.
What the hell, this guy is disgusting! His movements were exactly those of a pervert.
St. Germain used to be a professor of bioengineering. No doubt he’s trying to research something using hairs dropped by espers. *Damn mad scientist.*

But isn’t this kind of bad? Esper blood can fuel PSI drives, and my bones can be used as near-permanent enchanted items. From what I’ve researched, esper hair itself has no power, but if a top-level academic with massive funding and manpower were to investigate, they might find something we haven’t. No, they were bound to.

Just as I started getting uneasy, Shiori opened the minibar fridge, letting her fingers wander between the wine bottles and beer, and said:

“Are you clairvoying right now?”
“Uh, well… yeah. Guess we don’t even need mind-readers anymore.”
“It’s only readable because it’s you, Kinemitsu-san. Don’t worry—I already dispersed sodium hypochlorite.”
“Sodium what?”
“This.”

With that, Shiori lifted her skirt and pulled out a small spray bottle tucked into her garter belt, shaking it in front of me. Oh yeah, she’d spritzed something as we were leaving.

“Uh, wait—what was it? Clorine… hypochlorite, so… ClO…plus natrium? NaClO? I think I remember hearing about that in biology or chemistry class back in school.”
“Simply put, it degrades biological samples, making genetic analysis impossible.”
“Whoa, seriously!?”
“It’s also what’s used to disinfect swimming pools.”
“Oh, that stuff…”
“The effect is guaranteed. Even if he manages to collect our hair, it’ll be useless to him. In other words, St. Germain can’t get our DNA.”

Shiori’s foresight and countermeasures are too damn reliable. If I were alone, I’d absolutely have been outmaneuvered by St. Germain.
On my own, I don’t have enough brains.
On her own, Shiori doesn’t have enough strength.
But together, we’re unstoppable.

Our plan to break St. Germain’s will to turn him from a dangerous boss into one who only appeared dangerous was a success. He doesn’t exactly seem broken, but he listens to us now. He’s obedient.
Next up: Paula Port’s esper awakening event.

Americans are famous for awakening superpowers in all kinds of ways—bitten by spiders, injected with serums, succeeding in some crazy invention. Amazing.
Following those fictional precedents, I set up Paula’s awakening event.
Nothing too complicated: on a rainy day that felt just right, I smashed her bedroom window through with a pebble that would collapse dramatically at her feet, flashing with rainbow-colored lights, crumbling to dust, and vanishing without trace.

The pebble itself didn’t matter. What mattered was that something strange happened.
That way, when she awakens her power, she’ll think: *“Oh, it must’ve been because of that incident!”* Smooth foreshadowing is key.

Anyway.
Four days after the transplant, Paula’s psychic source had settled in.
She was already in a state where she could use powers if she tried, but of course Paula didn’t realize it. Hardly anyone tries to use psychic powers just out of nowhere.
Judging by the feel of the source, Paula’s power seemed to be an extremely rare type. The impression was definitely something like projecting what’s inside the body outward—but when I compared it to the database I’d built from testing thirty thousand candidates back when I was looking for Shige-jii, there wasn’t a single match. Maybe even rarer than spatial powers.

That day, Paula followed her usual routine—going to school, not saying a word, forcing two or three awkward smiles, and living her dreary gray student life. Afterward, she stopped by Uncle Benjamin’s hospital before heading home.

Benjamin, wasted away to skin and bones on his hospital bed, still managed a gentle smile at his niece’s visit.

“Welcome to my castle, Paula.”
“This isn’t your castle.”

Paula answered gruffly, dragging a chair closer and plopping down heavily. The cheap chair groaned under her weight but held. She pulled out a package of fried butter from her bag and began eating ravenously.
Zero intention of dieting. Not a trace of will to slim down.
Benjamin didn’t scold her. Instead, he weakly gestured with his chin at a school bag he’d painstakingly finished with his failing grip and trembling hands.

“I seem to recall you wanted a bag, so I made one for you. This thing’s high quality—worth ten thousand bucks if you bought it in a store.”
“Yeah, sure.”
“It’s true. Because I’ll sell it to the store for ten thousand bucks.”

Paula gave a small laugh.

“Thanks. Make me one again next year.”
“No, I’ll be dead then. Next year, you’ll have to manage on your own.”
“Don’t say that. You’re lying about dying, right?”
“It’s true.”
“You don’t look like you’re about to die though.”

Paula chewed her fried butter noisily while eyeing the IV drip suspiciously.
True, he didn’t look like someone with only three days left to live—he was still speaking clearly. A tough old man. Normally, someone in his state would already be slipping into delirium or a coma.
But the doctor’s prognosis four days ago had been “about a week.” A few days earlier or later was possible. He could make a miraculous recovery given time or drop dead from cardiac arrest three seconds from now.

“Enough, listen to me. This is my will. Listen, and carve it into your heart.”

At Benjamin’s unusually serious tone, Paula straightened her back.
The man who had failed to be a hero on his deathbed gripped Paula’s hand weakly yet with all the strength he had left.

“Paula, inside you lies a power only you possess. Treasure it.”
“Okay…?”
“And when you’re lost, follow your heart.”
“What? Are you quoting comic books again?”

Paula snorted.
I’d do the same
*Well, okay, yeah—it’s cliché. But it’s really deep, too, Paula.*

When you’re a kid, you take those words at face value. *“Oh, so if I’m lost, I should just follow my heart.”*
In adolescence, you start overthinking. *“If a bad guy follows his heart, he just commits crimes nonstop.”* Or, *“Following my heart doesn’t raise my grades, anyway.”* Or, *“Man, what a cheesy line.”*
But as an adult, you taste the weight of those words. Duties, work, relationships, anxieties about the future—so many things tie you down until you’re losing your mind. In those moments, looking inward at what you truly want, truly feel, and following your heart really is important.
Clichés survive because they carry truths that withstand time, otherwise they would just wither away and be forgotten.

Seriously. No doubt about it. If I hadn’t followed my heart, I never would’ve started the secret organization. I’d probably have let my telekinesis rot away, grinding myself to death at some black company.

After saying all he wanted to say, Benjamin drifted off to sleep. Paula gently pulled the blanket over him and left the hospital. In the bustling streets of New York, she walked along the curb, hunched over, lost in thought.

Back home, Paula showed Aunt Maisie the bag she’d received from Uncle Benjamin, then went upstairs, locked her door, and stared at the window that had been boarded up as a quick fix after being smashed through.
After staring at the window, she touched the spot on the floor where the pebble had flown in days earlier, lifted her hand, and whispered softly:

“A power that only I have…”

*Oh no—ouch!*
*That hit an old wound!*
I did the same damn thing back in middle school—staring at my right hand on the school rooftop and muttering, *“Awaken…”* Sure, I actually had telekinesis, so it did awaken, but still—that reopened a scar I thought had healed. *Ow ow ow ow ow!*

But that’s fine.
That’s how it should be.

Believe in your own unique power. Don’t hesitate.
Benjamin believed in Paula. Now she just had to believe in herself.
And if she couldn’t find a reason to believe, I’d fabricate one for her.
Fabricate it and make it real.
If she lacked power, I’d give it to her.
That’s what I—what we are running this secret organization for.
It would be too tragic for someone to believe in themselves only to realize they had no power at all.

*Paula Port.*
*You have a superpower that belongs only to you!*

Paula closed her eyes and willed something to happen.
Then, from her body seeped out a vague, fuzzy presence, which quickly formed into a pale, limp humanoid figure standing beside her.
It resembled Paula—her excessive weight, her height, but without eyes, nose, or any distinct features. Its entire body was blurred, like watercolors bleeding on paper.

And the moment I saw it, I understood instinctively what it was.
I was speechless.

The instant the droopy flesh-colored doll’s feet touched the floor, Paula let out a piglike scream, rolled her eyes, foamed at the mouth, and fainted.
Her heavy body hit the floor with a tremendous crash. Aunt Maisie’s worried voice rose from downstairs.
I was worried too, but that was a minor issue.
*Unbelievable—could this really be happening!?*

*This girl!*
*THIS GIRL!!*
*She had **materialized** her psychic source!!!*