Mirka was not in the mood.
After all the moaning and leaf-demonstrations, she was done playing along. Especially with Fina walking around like she was queen of hygiene, smirking like Allen had taught her the secrets of the universe—or at least the secret to a squeaky-clean cooch.
"Tch… I can clean myself just fine," Mirka muttered, glaring at nothing in particular.
She stormed off toward the riverbank with a scowl and righteous determination burning in her chest.
"Water. Leaf. Wipe," she whispered, repeating the sacred teachings like a mantra.
Unfortunately, she didn't stick around for the second half of Allen's very important demonstration: the right kind of leaf.
She grabbed the biggest leaf she could find—thick, green, and suspiciously shiny. "Perfect," she said, proud of herself.
But two wipes in, she froze.
And then came the itch.
"…Huh?"
The tingling started. Then burning. Then—
"A-AHHHH! MY CROTCH IS ON FIRE!"
