The memories were vivid—though a few parts felt like half-developed dreams. But he got the basics. Enough to know he wasn't exactly where—or who—he used to be.
As he stood in front of the bathroom mirror, he sighed and muttered to himself.
"Right… first thing to do after landing in another world—check the mirror."
It was something one of his otaku friends back in Homurahara always said, half-joking during lunch breaks. 'You gotta make sure you didn't become a slime, a skeleton, or some hot girl with amnesia!'
He stared into his own reflection. Still Shirou. Still him.
Probably.
His full name was Hikigaya Emiya. At least, as far as This memories told him.
He remembered that, at some point, his adoptive parents had asked him to choose between the names "Shirou" and "Emiya."
He chose Emiya.
It is a good pick. He'd make the same choice if he ever in that kind of situation.
After all, Shirou might speak of his origin—but Emiya told his story.
In this world, he apparently had no friends. That surprised him.
He wasn't exactly an extrovert, but even back in his own world, he had managed to gather a small circle of people who mattered. Rin, Saber, Sakura, Issei and … even Lancer, in a weird way.
So how had this version of him failed so hard?
He felt like he knew it—this world, this life—but the memories were too blurry to process clearly.
"Onii-chan, what are you making?"
This was his house. He remembered telling his adoptive parents that he preferred to stay here, and they had agreed.
"Just something simple," he replied.
But that was a story for another time. Right now, he was cooking something for his little sister.
She wasn't at school today. If he remembered correctly, she was planning to attend U.A. Academy—or something like that. Quite a strange name for a high school, honestly.
He placed a whole chicken into the pot, adding in a mix of familiar spices—salt, garlic, ginger, and a few others he recognized more by scent than name. With practiced hands, he sealed the lid tightly, letting the stew begin to simmer.
Next, he grabbed the rice container, scooped a few cups into a bowl, and rinsed it thoroughly—six times, just like he'd always done. The water slowly turned clear, and once satisfied, he poured the rice into the cooker and set it to cook.
You might ask—why eat now? Why bother with something so mundane in the midst of madness?
The answer was simple. No, it was human.
He needed to replenish what he had lost—mana, strength, sanity. And for that, nothing beat a warm bowl of chicken soup.
A breath escaped him."Now… we wait."
…
Forty minutes passed, marked by the steady rhythm of boiling broth and the faint ticking of a clock on the wall. The house remained quiet, a strange peace blanketing the unease in his heart.
He moved with practiced ease.
From the pot, he ladled the golden broth—its surface shimmering faintly, as if holding a small miracle. He scooped generous portions of rice, perfectly rinsed, perfectly steamed, and filled two bowls. One for himself.
And one for his sister.
He placed them carefully on a tray, setting it down on the kotatsu table. A small, ordinary gesture.
Yet somehow, in this unfamiliar world, it grounded him more than any spell ever could.
"Komachi! The food's ready!"His voice echoed lightly through the house, reaching toward his sister bedroom with just enough force to be heard but not break the quiet.
A moment later, her reply rang out—"Okay, I'm coming!"
He let out a small breath, the corner of his lips twitching upward—not quite a smile, but something close. Familiar. Grounding.
He sat down by the kotatsu, the faint scent of steam rising from the bowls. Reaching for the remote, he flicked the television on. The screen flickered to life with evening news, mundane chatter, and weather reports.
Nothing magical. Nothing cursed. Just the ordinary pulse of daily life.
He was thankful. For once, the timing had been on his side. The moment he left school had coincided with the final class, so technically... he hadn't skipped class.
Not really.
A small victory, but after what he'd gone through, he'd take it.
The familiar shhk of the sliding door opening cut gently through the room's silence. His ears caught it before his eyes did.
He turned.
And there she was—Hikigaya Komachi, standing with a hand on the frame and a mischievous glint in her eyes. Her grin was bright, as if she had just stumbled upon a rare opportunity to mess with her older brother.
"Oh ho~ You actually went out of your way to cook something beyond your usual safe zone? That's a Plus One Komachi Point! Ehehehe~"
The teasing lilt in her voice was sharp but warm. It wasn't annoying. In fact—it grounded him.
He chuckled, softly. A brief exhale, half amusement, half relief.
"Just eat. I promise it won't disappoint."
He didn't say he poured effort into it. He didn't say this meal was his anchor in a world that felt askew. But maybe she felt it, somehow.
"Oh ho, well then~" Komachi hummed playfully as she stepped over and sat across from him, her hands clasping together."Itadakimasu~"
She reached out with her chopsticks, plucked a tender piece of chicken from the bowl, and brought it to her lips.
...
The moment it touched her tongue, time seemed to pause.
Her eyes widened slightly, the flavor flooding her senses in waves of rich, deep umami—comforting yet powerful. Subtle, but overwhelming in its warmth.
She chewed slowly, savoring it longer than she meant to. Then she swallowed, blinked, and looked at him with a mixture of awe and disbelief.
"W–wow... Are you really my oni-chan?"
Without thinking, his hand moved.
Flick.
"Just eat it," he muttered, half-exasperated, half-amused, as his finger bounced lightly off her forehead.
"Hey—!" Komachi reeled back, rubbing the spot with a mock pout. "Onii-chan abuse! That's minus one Komachi point!"
But even as she grumbled, she couldn't stop smiling.Neither could he.
The warmth of the kotatsu. The steam rising from the bowls. The faint hum of the television in the background.
For a moment—however strange or surreal this world might be—this moment felt undeniably real.
Shirou took his first bite, savoring the warmth of the soup as he turned his eyes toward the television.
Then—knock knock
"Hello? Is anyone home?"
A voice, unfamiliar yet casual, echoed from the front door.
(…Someone's here.)
"Coming!" Shirou called back, setting his chopsticks down beside the bowl.
He stood, brushing his hand lightly against the kotatsu as he left the comfort of the living room. Each step toward the front door felt oddly deliberate, like turning the page of a book he didn't remember picking up.
He slid the door open.
A familiar face stood there — light pink hair in her usual hairstyle, puffed cheeks, and hands on her hips.
(Yuigahama...?)
Right. That girl. The one he saw the moment he first got here. His memory was still fuzzy, but this much was clear: she used to look at him with concern, with warmth — and his counterpart, the "him" from this world, barely acknowledged her.
"Yui? What are you doing here?"
"What do you mean what? Emiyachi, you ran out of school without saying anything!"
"Ah... yeah. Sorry about that. Something came up."
"Of course something came up. You literally had blood coming out of your mouth!" she said, voice rising a bit.
He instinctively wiped at his lips.
"Right. That."
Yui stared at him, then sighed. "Seriously, Emiyachi... you scared me."
That made him pause.
"...Sorry. I didn't mean to."
"Here."She held out a bag — his bag. The one he'd forgotten in the rush.
"You left it," she added, not quite meeting his eyes.
"Ah! Right. Thanks. I've actually been thinking about it."
Their fingers brushed for a moment as he took the bag. A simple gesture, but enough to make her blink and turn her face slightly away.
"Y-You're welcome. Heheheh..." she laughed awkwardly, voice soft and a little high-pitched. Like she was trying not to sound too happy.
Shirou glanced at the bag in his hand, then back at the girl still standing awkwardly by the doorway.
He felt like he owed her something. At least a gesture.
"...Wanna have some food? I actually just finished cooking something."
Yuigahama blinked. "Eh? Really? A-Aren't I, like… interrupting your evening or something?"
He shook his head, calm and casual."Of course not. It's already six. Might as well call it dinner, right?"
A short pause.
Then she smiled — wide and a little surprised, like she didn't expect that kind of offer from him."...Then, I'll intrude. Just a little."
--