Translation into standard English:

This is a tightly focused, close third-person past-tense scene from Touma’s point of view only. It takes place in a cheap safehouse bedroom (and its doorway): stained rental carpet, suspicious beige ceiling, broken lamp, the lingering smells of dust, instant coffee, and cheap disinfectant. A narrow strip of floor runs between the futon and the kitchenette counter. What used to feel private is no longer private, because Mio is now visibly present.

Touma wakes and finds Mio already there in the corner—not as a voice, not as pressure, not as private commentary in his head, but as a solid argument for existence. She is simply there. The room suddenly feels wrong in a domestic way: the safe layer that used to sit between the strange and the ordinary world is gone. A clerical error has become large enough to be visible.

He stares. His face goes hot with shock and embarrassment. He keeps trying to reclassify the private weirdness as something livable. He blinks hard, testing whether her shell will vanish. It doesn’t. She is offended, watchful, afraid but composed, learning the rules of the room in real time.

He reaches for the blanket. His hand passes straight through her knee. She flinches.

“Warn me before you do that.”

“I didn’t mean to.”

“That’s what makes it worse.”

He asks, broadly, whether she can feel anything—physically or emotionally. She answers the way someone who already understands him too well would answer. That has always been the case. Procedure and memory return to him in pieces. Visible Mio is more alive than the version that only spoke: he can see her shoulders tighten, the breath she takes before she speaks, the careful decision of where to put her hands. He can see her fear.

She paces the narrow strip of floor between the futon and the kitchenette. His body keeps treating her as the center of the room; he keeps glancing toward her. Being watched by her is now a physical fact. The social geometry of the space has been rewritten. Accidental contact risk is high; her movements have a slight lag.

The door opens. Nico stands in the doorway—still inside the active witness rule—trying too hard to sound calm, rattled, but operationally useful.

“You’re both awake.”

“You knew she could do that?”

“No. Too fast.”

This is the first problem outside the closed system that talks back. The limiter is stable for the moment; the projection is not. It is not a school-presentation kind of projection. It is a side-effect with person-level precision. She has taken the side where they continue existing.

Other systems may register her now: cameras, biometrics, active recognition filters—maybe even ordinary humans. The private embarrassment has expanded into networked detection risk.

Nico’s final line lands like a quiet escalation:

“Bad enough for you?”

The scene moves through an arc of wake-shock, embarrassed adjustment, boundary jolt, the sudden realization of her personness, reorientation of the room around her, procedural follow-up, and operational escalation. Visibility is no longer contained inside the safehouse; the problem has grown from a domestic impossibility into something systems might notice.