I Reincarnated as the Counselor NPC in a Dating Sim, and Now Every Heroine I Treat Becomes Obsessed with Me - Chapter 01: “Welcome to the Counseling Room—Though I’m Just a Mob with Not Even a Character Portrait.”

Act 01: Assignment

Chapter 01: “Welcome to the Counseling Room—Though I’m Just a Mob with Not Even a Character Portrait.”

◇ Prologue

The door to the counseling room was locked.

From the inside.

It wasn’t me who locked it. At some point, one of them—

No, maybe all of them together—

Had quietly turned the key.

Inside this cramped room, five presences surrounded me.

“Sensei, please don’t go anywhere anymore.”

The first to speak was the most perfect girl in the academy.

Her usual flawless smile was gone.

In its place was the clumsy, aching expression of someone who had only just learned what real emotion felt like.

“Sensei belongs to me. I won’t hand him over to anyone.”

The next voice came from the girl who was always acting tough and laughing everything off.

She wasn’t laughing now.

Only her raw, unguarded feelings pierced straight through me.

“…Sen…sei. …Stay. Here.”

The third voice was so faint it nearly melted into the air.

It had taken months before she could even produce a sound like that.

And now, that fragile voice had become a chain binding me in place.

“Sensei, I’ll handle everything for you. You don’t have to think about anything.”

The fourth voice sounded calm.

Too calm.

It sent a chill down my spine.

Whenever she spoke in that tone, there was always a carefully constructed plan hidden beneath it.

I knew that from experience.

“Sensei… please… look at me.”

Only the final voice trembled.

The owner of that androgynous voice was, in this moment, nothing more than a girl.

—I was a school counselor.

My job was supposed to be healing hearts.

To stay close to the wounded and support them until they could stand on their own again.

That was the duty of a counselor.

That was my pride.

And yet—

How did it turn out like this?

Beyond the locked door, I could hear teachers calling out for me in worry.

But the five girls inside this room didn’t move an inch.

As if this room alone was their entire world.

—No.

I knew.

This was all my fault.

I was the one who reached into their hearts.

I was the one who accepted their tears.

Any counseling textbook would say the same thing:

“Maintain proper boundaries with your clients.” “If dependency forms, immediately transfer them to another support provider.”

Correct.

One hundred percent correct.

But if someone could repeat that advice while looking into these girls’ eyes—

That person was either a saint…

Or completely heartless.

This was the story of a man who wasn’t even given a name in the game.

No character portrait.
No event CGs.

Just a single line of text to prove he existed—

A nameless counselor NPC.

Probably the most clumsy love story in the world.

◇

—Three months earlier.

Ren Asagiri, twenty-five years old. Occupation: school counselor.

As of today, assigned to the high school division of Private Hanazono-gaoka Academy.

…That was the role I had been placed into in this world.

“This will be the counseling room. We used to have a part-time counselor, but a few years ago the budget was cut… so, well, it hasn’t really been used since.”

The vice principal who guided me here—a gentle-looking middle-aged man with streaks of white in his hair—apologetically pointed at a door at the very end of the hallway.

Next to the nurse’s office.

Out of the way.

No signboard.

I knew.

In the game, this door had been nothing more than part of the background.

“If you need anything, please come to the staff room—”

“Thank you. I’ll manage.”

I sent the vice principal off with a polite professional smile and opened the door.

Dust.

Dust, dust, and more dust.

The desk by the window was buried under a thick layer.

The bookshelves were still crammed inside cardboard boxes.

Two folding chairs leaned against the wall, quietly rusting side by side.

One of the fluorescent lights on the ceiling had already burned out.

“…………”

I retained the memories of my past life.

Ren Asagiri—

No, that hadn’t been my name back then.

I had studied clinical psychology at university, obtained my license, worked as a counselor for three years… and then died from overwork.

Twenty-eight years old.

What a pathetic way to go.

Waking up in another world was a common light novel trope.

But in my case, it was slightly worse.

I realized this world was the same as the game that had been my only comfort in my previous life—Bloom Garden ~With You in the Flowering Courtyard~—the moment I heard the name Hanazono-gaoka Academy.

Bloom Garden.

Nickname: Blugad.

A classic dating sim where a male protagonist transfers into a prestigious private academy and chooses one of five heroines to become his girlfriend.

In my past life, I had cleared every route and unlocked every ending.

A full-completion addict.

At two in the morning, exhausted from work, the only thing that kept me going was seeing my favorite heroine’s smile on the screen.

So yes, being reincarnated into that game world wasn’t entirely bad.

The problem was—

My position.

The game’s protagonist? No.

A heroine’s family member? No.

The protagonist’s best friend? Not that either.

I had been reincarnated as the school counselor NPC.

My total screen time in the game?

One single line of background text during a certain event.

—“If you’re troubled, go to the counseling room!”

That was it.

No name.

No character portrait.

No event CG.

No voice lines.

Absolutely zero relevance to any route.

A complete background extra.

…No, not even an extra.

Extras at least appear on screen.

I was a single line of text.

Thrown into this world with exactly one line’s worth of existence.

“Haa…”

A long sigh escaped me as I looked around the dust-covered counseling room.

Well, whatever.

Complaining wouldn’t change anything.

If I was going to live in this world, I might as well do what I could.

Thankfully, my past-life skills remained intact.

My knowledge as a clinical psychologist.

My counseling techniques.

And an absurd amount of information about this game.

And—

There was something about this game that had always bothered me.

The heroines’ “settings.”

In the game, each heroine had a “problem.”

—“Too busy with student council work.”
—“Under pressure before a big match.”
—“Can’t show her true self.”
—“Bad at talking to people.”
—“Can’t be honest.”

And once the handsome protagonist made the right smooth moves and raised their affection, one correct choice was enough to solve everything.

Even in my previous life, I used to think—

—There’s no way it’s that simple.

From a psychologist’s perspective, those “problems” were far too deep to fix with a few sweet lines.

What truly lay behind “bad at talking to people”?

What was buried at the root of “can’t be honest”?

The “other side” the game never showed had always lingered in my mind.

…And now, I was about to step into that “other side.”

If this game world existed as reality, then the heroines’ settings had to be real too.

The pasts that were wrapped up in just a few lines of text in the game—

In this world—

“Thinking can wait. First, cleaning.”

I rolled up my sleeves and declared war on the dust.

—

Three hours later.

The counseling room was… well, at least usable.

I wiped down the desk, polished the folding chairs, replaced the dead fluorescent light, and organized the bookshelf.

Most of the cardboard boxes were filled with old education-related books, but I lined up only the ones that seemed useful for counseling.

When I opened the window, the April breeze drifted in.

Hanazono-gaoka Academy’s campus was massive, and from the window I could see a row of cherry blossom trees in the courtyard.

A true “flowering garden.”

Just like the game’s title promised.

Sipping freshly brewed tea, I looked around the cleaned-up counseling room.

A small space, about six tatami mats in size.

One desk.

Four chairs—two extra borrowed from the supply room.

A small bookshelf.

And a single potted plant placed near the window.

A counseling room needed to feel like a “safe space.”

Even while moving furniture around, my past-life knowledge kept giving instructions in the back of my mind.

A layout that didn’t feel cramped.

Chairs positioned so we wouldn’t sit directly face-to-face.

An angle where the client could see the exit.

Warm lighting—

Well, there was no budget for that, so fluorescent lights would have to do.

But the natural sunlight from the window made up for it.

“…Alright.”

Not bad.

It was far smaller than my previous workplace, but it had the bare minimum.

The real question was—

Would any students actually come here?

According to the game’s data, the number of students who visited this counseling room was zero.

There was no scenario where anyone went to consult the NPC counselor.

“Well, let’s just take it slow.”

I finished my tea and stood up, thinking I’d call it a day.

—That was when it happened.

Knock, knock.

Someone tapped on the door.

“…?”

A visitor on the first day?

Did the vice principal forget something?

“Come in, it’s open.”

The door didn’t move.

Knock, knock.

This time, softer than before.

Tilting my head, I walked over and opened it myself.

A single girl stood in the hallway.

Small build.

Black hair resting on her shoulders.

Long bangs covering half her eyes.

She clutched a large bag in both hands, almost hiding behind it.

The uniform was Hanazono-gaoka Academy’s.

Judging by the ribbon color—first-year high school.

And with my game knowledge, I recognized her instantly.

Shizuku Yukimura.

One of the heroines in Bloom Garden.

The quiet underclassman from the library committee.

In the game, she was the “protect her” type heroine, where you grew closer through book recommendations.

And—

She had been my favorite in my previous life.

Out of all the routes, I replayed Shizuku Yukimura’s the most.

I loved the way she slowly opened up, little by little.

After late-night shifts, half-delirious with exhaustion, I couldn’t count how many times her smiling CG saved me.

And now that favorite heroine—

Was standing right in front of me.

(Calm down, Ren Asagiri. You’re a professional. A professional counselor. Use every bit of professional pride you built in your previous life. Just because your favorite heroine exists in three dimensions—well, in a three-dimensional version of a two-dimensional world—don’t get excited. Breathe in. Breathe out.)

“…Come in.”

If I said so myself, my composure was flawless.

My voice was steady and neutral.

My smile was gentle, but restrained.

I turned my body slightly to the side while holding the door, careful not to appear intimidating.

As an opening approach for counseling, it was a perfect score.

Inside, however, it was a storm.

Shizuku paused for a few seconds—

Then silently stepped into the counseling room.

—

She sat down.

She chose the chair by the window, the one where she could see the exit.

That alone made my counselor instincts react.

Choosing a seat with a clear view of the exit.

An unconscious defensive move—wanting a position where she could leave at any time.

A way to secure a sense of safety in a space with someone she had just met—

(…Or am I overanalyzing? Maybe she just prefers sitting by the window. Jumping to conclusions on a first observation is a bad habit. Calm down.)

“You like some tea?”

I poured another cup from the pot I had brewed for myself and gently placed it in front of her.

Shizuku stared at the tea.

Then she looked at me.

Through the gap in her bangs, her eyes were like a dark lake.

In the game, they were simply described as “black.”

But in reality, they were more layered.

Deep indigo mixed into the darkness, with the faintest hint of amber.

Those eyes were measuring me.

Is this person safe?

Is this space safe?

Is it okay for me to be here?

Unspoken questions reached me through her gaze.

“I’m Ren Asagiri. I’ll be the counselor here from today. —And you are?”

I already knew her name.

But I couldn’t say it first.

She parted her lips.

They moved slightly.

But—

No sound came out.

Her mouth closed again.

Her eyes dropped.

Her hands clenched tightly on her knees.

Silence.

Five seconds.

Ten seconds.

Thirty seconds.

(…………)

In the game, she had been labeled as “shy.”

At the beginning, she barely spoke, and the protagonist slowly drew her out with patience—that was the setup.

But the silence in front of me now—

This wasn’t just shyness.

In three years as a clinical psychologist, I had seen many kinds of silence.

Silence from embarrassment.

Silence from carefully choosing words.

Silence from anger.

This girl’s silence—

Was none of those.

She wanted to speak.

But she couldn’t.

The words were right there, just before leaving her throat, yet she couldn’t take that final step.

As if the act of making a sound was blocked by an invisible wall.

(…Is this selective mutism…?)

Selective mutism.

A condition where someone has the ability to speak, yet consistently cannot in specific social situations.

It’s considered a type of anxiety disorder, often linked to childhood experiences.

In the game, it had been wrapped up in six simple words: “a quiet girl.”

But in reality—

It looked like this.

Raw.

Painfully real.

One minute passed.

Then two.

Shizuku’s face grew visibly tense.

She was panicking over “not being able to speak,” “I can’t say it again,” “He probably thinks I’m strange too.”

I could almost see that self-blame tightening around her small frame.

If I said, “It’s okay,” right now, that would actually be the wrong move.

“It’s okay” might sound reassuring—

But it also carries the hidden message: I recognize that something is wrong with you.

So I chose a different approach.

“…This room just opened today, you know.”

Out of nowhere, I started talking about myself.

She lifted her face.

“I’ve been cleaning since this morning, but the dust was unbelievable. It took three full hours. Look—there’s still some left on top of the shelf.”

I pointed toward the bookshelf.

Sure enough, a faint line of dust still shimmered there.

“Apparently no one used this room after the last counselor left. The window wouldn’t even open. I forced it, and now it’s a little crooked.”

I gently rattled the slightly unstable window.

Her eyes followed the movement.

“The tea’s something I borrowed from the supply room without asking, so I can’t guarantee it tastes great… but at least it’s warm.”

I gestured toward the cup in front of her.

This was a mix of self-disclosure and topic shifting.

By sharing harmless information about myself, I lowered the pressure on her to speak.

By showing that I wasn’t some flawless authority figure—just a slightly clumsy normal person—I evened out the balance between us.

Shizuku slowly reached for the tea.

She wrapped both hands around the cup and took a small sip.

“…………”

No voice came out.

But her stiff shoulders lowered, just slightly.

I didn’t say anything more.

I drank my own tea and looked out at the cherry blossoms swaying outside the window.

Turning the silence into something allowed—something that could simply exist.

Five minutes passed.

Ten.

Twenty.

The cherry blossoms fluttered in the wind.

The fluorescent light buzzed faintly.

Steam rose gently from the tea.

Time in the counseling room moved differently from a classroom.

Here, silence was permitted.

No one had to speak.

No one had to accomplish anything.

Just being here was enough.

The same kind of space I had spent three years building in my previous life—

I was trying to build it again in this world.

Around the thirty-minute mark,

Shizuku quietly stood up.

(So she’s leaving. …That’s more than enough for a first day. She came here on her own and stayed for thirty minutes. That alone—)

She stopped in front of my desk.

And took out a small memo pad from her bag.

Held a pen.

Wrote something.

Then carefully tore out a single sheet—

And placed it on my desk.

Small handwriting.

Slightly trembling.

『may I come again?』

I looked at the note—

And, embarrassingly enough, my chest tightened.

In the game, the moment Shizuku Yukimura was judged to have “opened her heart” happened in Episode Five of her individual route.

After raising her affection high enough and selecting the correct choices three times in a row, she would finally whisper, “…Can I… talk to you again?”

This note—

Came far earlier than that.

A smaller step.

A more desperate one.

This girl, who couldn’t turn her words into sound, had wanted to come here again.

And she had chosen to put that desire into writing.

If I analyzed it calmly as a professional, this was an early sign of trust.

She had found a place that felt safe.

Handled properly, this could slowly build rapport—a real therapeutic relationship.

But—

Separate from professional analysis, the part of me from my past life—

The exhausted corporate slave who had been saved by her smile at two in the morning—

Was simply, overwhelmingly happy.

“…You’re welcome anytime.”

I smiled.

It was probably the most natural smile I’d made all day.

Shizuku’s eyes widened slightly behind her bangs—

Then she gave a tiny, truly tiny nod and left the counseling room.

The door closed.

Her footsteps faded down the hallway.

“…………”

I picked up the note from my desk and read it again.

“—May I come again?”

The game’s protagonist would never know how much courage was packed into that single line.

He would never see how much her hand must have trembled while writing it.

In the game, she was simply “the quiet underclassman heroine.”

Medium difficulty to conquer.

Follow the affection system, pick the correct choices, and eventually she would open her heart, smile sweetly, and confess, “I like you.”

A convenient existence.

But the real girl who had just stood in front of me—

(…In the game, it was brushed off as “shy.” But that silence was dangerously close to selective mutism. If that’s the case, the cause likely traces back to early childhood. The official setting book only said, “her family situation is a little complicated.” A little complicated doesn’t create symptoms like that. No. That kind of silence comes from something deeper.)

I leaned back in my chair and looked up at the ceiling.

The heroines in this world carried wounds far deeper than the game had ever shown.

And the game’s protagonist—Haruto Hanasaki—would be transferring to this academy in one month.

Bright.

Handsome.

Naturally good at communication.

As long as you didn’t mess up the choices, he could become the perfect boyfriend.

But there were no “choices” in reality.

Game-Haruto would grin and say to Shizuku, “Hey, try talking more!”

In the game, that raised her affection.

If someone said that to the real Shizuku—

She would probably never step into this counseling room again.

“…………”

I carefully placed the note inside my desk drawer.

I would treasure it.

It was the first proof of trust she had given me.

And then—

I found myself thinking.

(Maybe the one who can truly save these heroines isn’t the handsome protagonist—But the nameless counselor who doesn’t even have a character portrait.)

That was where everything began.

The mob NPC of the counseling room stepping into the hidden side of a gal game—

And touching the hearts of five heroines.

That first step.

At the time, I still didn’t know.

What kind of ending would come from reaching into their hearts.

That the more I healed them, the more they would begin to depend on me.

And that one day—

I would cross a line I was never meant to cross as a counselor.

Three months remained until we reached that prologue scene.

The story began in a dust-filled counseling room.