Lucien didn't sleep that night.
Long after the encounter at the theater, he sat alone in his study, staring at the black book resting on his desk. The pages, dark and dense with arcane text, seemed to pulse faintly under the dim candlelight—as if the book itself was aware that another player had quietly entered the board.
And Elise.
His pen hovered over a fresh page, but he didn't write. Instead, he leaned back in his chair, folding his arms and letting his sharp eyes narrow as he sifted through every word she'd spoken, every glance exchanged over the past weeks.
There was something unnatural in the way she moved around him. Not as a cautious observer, or a curious stranger. Not even as a peer competing for knowledge. But as someone who had known him intimately for years—who had learned his silences, his guarded pauses, his subtle tells.
She knew him.
And that was impossible. Or should have been.
His past life had been painfully short, sculpted and monitored within the cold walls of the White Room—a crucible where very few people ever truly saw him. Among those, only two had come close enough to understand how he thought without words: Shiro and Yuki.
Shiro was an icy force, devoted entirely to the system, cold and unyielding. But Yuki—Yuki had been different. She moved with him, not merely around him. She mirrored his detachment with quiet empathy. Her eyes, sharp and unflinching, sought no answers but understanding.
Elise… Elise moved like her.
The measured precision of her steps, the calm yet unreadable posture, the way she spoke only just enough—all echoed Yuki's presence.
Lucien's breath caught slightly as he stared at the flickering candlelight. Could Elise truly be Yuki? Reincarnated, awakened, or carrying hidden fragments of memory?
The odds were staggering, but Lucien's mind refused to dismiss the thought.
And there was something else—a subtle tension beneath her composed exterior that she tried to mask but couldn't quite hide. The way her eyes lingered just a fraction longer when she thought he wasn't watching. Not fear, nor mere curiosity—but a quiet, complex attachment.
He did not voice these thoughts aloud. Instead, he stored them away, knowing his mind could be a fortress or a prison depending on what he chose to believe.
The next morning, Lucien arrived at the university archives before dawn. The familiar scent of old paper and dust hung in the air. Elise was already seated at their usual table, surrounded by stacks of books, her fingers tracing margins as though deciphering invisible codes.
"You're early," Lucien said, keeping his tone neutral.
"So are you," she replied, without looking up.
He observed her carefully—the way her body remained controlled and composed, the meticulous neatness of her handwriting, the faint crease between her brows that vanished when she concentrated.
Sliding into the seat across from her, he broke the silence. "I've been thinking about what you said. Dreams. Symbols."
She finally met his gaze, sharp and unyielding. "You too?"
He nodded slightly. "More than dreams. Patterns. Recurrences. Same images, same feelings."
A pause.
"You think it means something?" she asked quietly.
"Everything means something," he replied. "Especially repetition."
She leaned back, considering. "I wonder if it's memory… or a warning."
Lucien's eyes narrowed. "A warning from whom?"
"From ourselves," she answered, voice steady.
He studied her. The answer was too philosophical, too layered to be casual.
"Have you ever felt," he ventured carefully, "like you've lived more than one life?"
Her gaze flickered for a heartbeat—a shadow passing beneath her calm surface.
"No," she whispered, "but sometimes I feel like I'm remembering things I never lived."
The most honest answer she could give.
She stood, gathering her things. "I'll be in the lower stacks if you need me."
Lucien watched her leave—the smooth balance in her stride, the absence of wasted movement. Too familiar. Too precise.
And then her glance back at him—the briefest flicker of something unspoken. Not quite neutral. Not quite concealed.
That night, Lucien sat once more before his journal.
Observation Log – Elise:
Knowledge far beyond what a simple scholar should possess.
Familiar with terms and lore of the Theater Below.
Speaks in metaphor but strikes directly at the core of truths.
Behavior, speech, and presence align with what Lucien remembers of Yuki.
Subtle nonverbal cues hint at deep emotional undercurrents.
Likely reincarnator or someone deeply connected to the White Room or previous life.
Mask of detachment strong—but fissures may form under precise pressure.
Lucien tapped his pen against the wood, a quiet determination settling over him.
There were two possibilities:
Elise was Yuki reborn—awake or yet unaware of all she carried.
Or she was something else entirely—someone native, but no less extraordinary.
He would not confront her directly.
Instead, he would weave tension into their exchanges.
Set delicate traps of language, tone, and memory—tests only someone like Yuki would notice and evade.
If she truly was Yuki, it was only a matter of time before her carefully built facade cracked.
And if it never did?
Then this game was far more complex than Lucien had imagined.
To be continued…
Long after the encounter at the theater, he sat in his study, staring at the black book on his desk. He hadn't written in it since the evening of the invitation, but now the pages seemed to hum with anticipation—as though aware that another player had stepped onto the board.
And Elise.
His pen hovered over a fresh page, but he made no mark. Instead, he leaned back in the chair, folding his arms across his chest. His expression was neutral, but his mind sifted through every word Elise had spoken, every look she had given him over the past few weeks.
Too knowing. Too timely. Too precise.
It wasn't just her perceptiveness—it was how she moved around him. Not as an academic peer, not as a stranger trying to figure him out, but as someone who already knew him. As though she had studied his patterns for years. As though his silence and detachment were familiar instead of strange.
She knew him.
But that was impossible—unless she was someone from before.
His life before this had been short. Structured. Monitored. The White Room.
There were very few people who truly knew him there.
Among them, only two ever managed to get close enough to understand how he thought without needing words: Shiro, and Yuki.
Shiro had been colder than he was, driven and loyal only to the system.
But Yuki…
Yuki had been the only one to move with him, not around him. The only one who mirrored his detachment with quiet empathy. She was silent in a way that didn't seek answers, only understanding. Her gaze during training sessions was sharp, but never judgmental. She never flinched.
And Elise… Elise moved like her.
Same step precision. Same calm posture. Same ability to say just enough.
He stared at the candlelight flickering across the wall.
Could Elise be Yuki?
Reincarnation wasn't foreign to him anymore. But the chances… the alignment… it would be absurdly improbable.
Unless fate—or something deeper—was pushing pieces together again.
And there was something else—something he didn't want to name.
The way Elise looked at him sometimes, when she thought he wasn't paying attention. There was no fear. No curiosity. Only a quiet, unreadable intensity. As though she wasn't just observing, but remembering.
Not recognition.
Attachment.
He didn't draw conclusions recklessly. But even he couldn't deny the possibility anymore.
The next morning, Lucien entered the university archives earlier than usual. Elise was already there, seated at the table with several books spread out in front of her.
"You're early," he said casually.
"So are you," she replied without looking up.
He walked to the far side of the table, observing her posture. Relaxed. Controlled. She made notes quickly but precisely—her handwriting unusually neat, disciplined.
Lucien slid into the seat across from her.
"I've been thinking about what you said. Dreams. Symbols."
She looked up now, studying him.
"You too?"
He gave a slight nod. "More than dreams. Patterns. Recurrences. The same images, again and again."
She tilted her head slightly. "You think it means something?"
"Everything means something," he replied. "Especially repetition."
She paused, as if weighing a response.
"I wonder," she said, "if it's memory... or a warning."
Lucien raised an eyebrow. "A warning from whom?"
"From ourselves."
He narrowed his eyes, just a fraction.
That wasn't an ordinary answer. It was too philosophical. Too sharp.
"Have you ever felt," he said slowly, "like you've lived more than one life?"
Elise looked at him for a long moment. Something flickered in her gaze.
"No," she said softly. "But sometimes, I feel like I'm remembering something I never experienced."
A non-answer. Or perhaps the most honest one.
She stood. "I'll be in the lower stacks if you need me."
Lucien watched her walk away. Smooth, balanced steps. Minimal motion. No wasted energy.
Too familiar.
Too much like Yuki.
And something unspoken passed through her last glance—a flicker of something not quite neutral. Something too carefully hidden to be dismissed.
That night, Lucien returned to his notes. He began a new section.
Observation Log – Elise:
Knowledge exceeds expected parameters.
Familiar with Theater Below terminology.
Speaks metaphorically, then cuts directly to truth.
Behavioral alignment with Yuki (White Room)
Possible reincarnator? Identity: likely Yuki
If not, under influence of knowledge/pathway exposure
Repeated non-verbal cues indicate deeper emotional undercurrent
He tapped the pen against the edge of the desk.
There were two possibilities:
Elise was Yuki—reborn, awakened, or unknowingly carrying fragments of memory.
She was a native of this world—but not ordinary.
He would need to confirm.
Not through confrontation. Not through questions.
But through tension. Triggers. Memories. Subtle traps of language and tone only someone like Yuki would notice—and avoid.
If she was truly Yuki, it was only a matter of time before her mask slipped.
And if it never did...
Then she was something else entirely.
To be continued...