Pretending to Be the Lover of an Esper C30

Chapter 30

“They said this year’s first half would pass quietly without any ‘drunken kids’—guess that was too optimistic.”

New Espers always get paired with a temporary Guide during their training period to prevent overloading and emotional outbursts.
And yet, at least one or two always overestimated themselves—using their powers too recklessly, bolstered by constant guiding, until they collapsed in exhaustion.

The guiding kept their surge risk low, sure, but with unsteady control and intense output, their energy waves grew unstable.
Once their stamina drained completely, they couldn’t even twitch a finger—and in the half-delirious, half-conscious haze that followed, they’d babble nonsense like drunkards. That’s where the nickname “boozeheads,” or 꽐라들 (kkwalla-deul), came from².
It wasn’t just Seoul—every branch called them something similar.

It was mostly the youngest recruits—the freshly minted adults, all brimming with overconfidence and hormones. That kind of energy always melted into recklessness.

“So—I’ll start guiding them now, then?”

Now that I understood the situation, those green kids looked almost endearing. The age gap wasn’t huge—five, maybe seven years—but compared to my early thirties, they were barely out of their teens.
Thinking about it made me smile, reminded of my old orphanage days, surrounded by younger siblings looking up to their “big brother.”

“I’d really appreciate that. That’s why I called you in such a hurry. Sorry to make you clean up our mess.”
“Oh, no worries. We all help each other out. You’ve had a rough day yourself. Leave them to me.”

Dragging over a stool, I sat by the row of unconscious Espers.
The other Guides—likely their assigned partners—bowed in apology before slipping out to handle their other duties.

Once I’d seen them off, I attached the adhesive monitoring pads to my arm and the Espers’ foreheads. Occasional groans escaped the row of barely conscious youths.
Team Leader Cha wiped her brow, her expression softening despite herself. No matter what she said, she was clearly worried for her rookies.

“I feel a lot better having you here, Guide Ji. Our senior Guides are on rotation right now… I tried a few others, but the resonance rates were too low. You’re the only upper-ranked Guide who can manage simultaneous sessions with four Espers.”
“Ah, right. The resident Guides are conserving stamina for the upcoming wave season, aren’t they?”

The facility’s recent quiet was temporary—a calm before the storm.
This time of year, when monster activity became harder to predict, field agents had to preserve energy carefully. Resident Espers and Guides rotated shifts to keep themselves battle-ready.

I wasn’t part of that rotation, since partner teams like ours operated separately—but I understood the need perfectly well.

“Ughh…”

One by one, the Espers began stirring as guiding progressed. None were fully lucid yet, though—their consciousness floated somewhere far below the surface.

“Ma’am… I’m the Pirate King…”

One kid—second from the right—slurred the declaration, barely breathing it out.

Cha promptly facepalmed. “I can’t deal with these idiots…”

They were going to get an earful once they were awake. I chuckled quietly and focused on stabilizing their energy.

Half an hour later, the session was over.

Cha clapped her hands sharply, coaxing her groggy subordinates upright. The drowsy Espers stumbled through a flurry of apologies, bowing and stammering red-faced thank-yous.

After seeing them off, I headed back to my original guiding room. The sudden emergency had eaten more time than expected, so I’d already texted Taeon to say today’s switch-search attempt would have to end early.

He hadn’t replied—but given his type, I assumed he’d seen it. No news was good news.

“You didn’t go home?”

Turns out, I was wrong.

“Oh—you didn’t see my message? I said we should wrap for the day. It’s getting late.”
“I saw it. I’m not here to insist we continue… I just wanted to know. That emergency—did you finish guiding?”
“Yeah. It was some trainees who’d passed out during drills. Drunk-mode rookies—you know the type.”

Of course he did. Recognition flickered across his face, and he nodded once.

“Anyway, it’s all okay now. Their team leader dragged them off looking ready to weep. They’ll get thoroughly scolded, but nothing serious happened. It’s pretty common during training cycles.”

He was leaning against the window now, arms folded. Unlike earlier in his turtleneck, he’d changed into the collared short-sleeved training uniform—same as mine.
The snug fabric clung to him as always, the sleeves barely containing the defined lines of his deltoids and triceps.

Honestly, that shirt deserved an apology.

“Let’s try to make up for lost time tomorrow,” I said briskly. “Feels like we’re getting closer with every attempt.”

I busied myself gathering my things, pretending not to notice him. The weight of his gaze persisted though—quiet, steady.

“Isn’t simultaneous guiding difficult?”

The question blindsided me.
My hand froze mid-motion. Thankfully my back was turned, so he couldn’t see my face.

“…Not really,” I said quickly, tidying at random just to fill the silence.

What the hell was that supposed to mean? I couldn’t tell what prompted the question. He wasn’t the type to make small talk—so maybe the reconciliation from the other night had softened him a little? Unlikely.

That talk had been a clean conclusion. We’d both silently agreed to leave it buried. No more digging, no lingering effects… at least, not for him.

“You know simultaneous guiding is the biggest factor in Guide ranking assessments,” I continued, grasping for neutrality. “But just being able to do it doesn’t make someone high-grade. The real measure is how long they can sustain it.”

For Guides, unlike Espers, ability was defined by multitasking—balancing multiple flows without collapsing yourself.
That’s what made an upper-grade Guide: maintaining several simultaneous connections at stable efficiency without compromising your physical limits.

Because of that, Centers usually assigned senior Guides as residents, where efficiency outweighed flexibility.

“On a good day, I can handle seven,” I added.

“That’s why this barely tires me. Still, precision-guiding like we do takes focus, and today’s not that kind of day. We’ll pick it back up tomorrow—I need to maintain condition.”

Snapping my bag shut punctuated the statement.

His tone hadn’t been cold enough to sound like criticism, which almost made it worse. A genuine question, nothing more.

And because of that, it unsettled me even more deeply.

“Don’t read into it,” he said a second later. “It wasn’t meant to imply anything.”
“Yeah, I know. Just clarifying.”

Maybe it really was harmless curiosity. Still—curiosity wasn’t like him. I had no idea how to respond.

“Oh—by the way,” I said, steering the subject. “They say the Wave’s close.”

He didn’t move. I slung my bag over my shoulder, glancing up.

“The Wave. It should’ve started by now, right? Some thought it might overlap with the typhoon again, but there’s talk of strong currents along the west coast. No one’s sure where it’ll start, but likely within next week—hey, Mr. Lee?”

It was the same rumor I’d overheard from Team 3’s leader—no official statement yet, but everyone knew waves of monsters would erupt soon.

Yet as I spoke, his expression shifted—a tension freezing across his face. Half-lowered eyes fixed on the floor, as always when he started thinking too hard.

“Mr. Lee?”

Worry tinged my voice. That look—so familiar. The last time I’d seen it was during the collapse-simulation training.

That was the day his mood had soured, starting the spiral that had nearly torn our partnership apart.

Oh no. It had barely been a week since we’d made peace.

Please, I thought silently, whatever this is—don’t let that switch flip again.

Footnote:
² 꽐라 (kkwalla) — Korean slang meaning “completely drunk,” often used humorously to describe someone behaving foolishly or uncoordinated after exhaustion or energy overload.