The hum of fluorescent lights filled the office like an unwanted lullaby. It was nearly nine at night, but the logistics floor of Tsubasa Global Trading still glowed like a hive. Rows of cubicles, stacks of paperwork, and half-finished instant ramen cups marked the battlefield where Japan's white-collar soldiers fought until collapse.
In the middle of it sat Reika Hoshizaki, sleeves rolled up, dark hair tied back in a no-nonsense ponytail. Her laptop screen glared back at her sharp eyes as she muttered,
"If shipment three is delayed again, the entire chain falls apart by Friday. Do these suppliers think we live in a fantasy world?"
Across the divider, a calm voice replied.
"Technically, only shipments four and six would be affected. Worst case, a few temporary shortages. I already adjusted the risk profile."
Reika swiveled her chair toward the voice. Katsusora Minami sat neatly at his desk, glasses sliding down his nose, posture straight. His screen was a spreadsheet masterpiece — colors, notes, forecasts — arranged with surgeon-like precision.
"You always make it sound so reasonable," she said, mock annoyance lacing her tone. "Don't you ever panic? Even a little?"
Katsusora adjusted his glasses.
"Panic doesn't reduce probabilities."
Reika groaned, tossing a paperclip at him.
"You're impossible. No wonder they call you the Ice Analyst. If the office caught fire, you'd be calculating the expected loss percentage."
"…That depends on whether the servers are insured."
She laughed, leaning back until her chair creaked. "See? Impossible."
Katsusora allowed himself the faintest smile. He liked moments like this — her laugh cutting through the monotony of numbers. She was a commander on the battlefield of logistics, dragging people forward by sheer will. He? Just the cautious man in the back, making sure the ground beneath her didn't collapse.
Not that she noticed. Not that he'd ever confess.
By the time most coworkers had escaped, the two of them remained, glowing monitors their only companions.
"You should head home, Reika-san," Katsusora said. "You've been at it since morning."
She spun lazily in her chair. "What about you?"
"I'll leave once I finish this report. The audit doesn't wait."
She pointed at him dramatically. "See? Workaholic pair, that's what we are."
Katsusora looked away before she caught his gaze lingering too long. Better this way — admiration from a distance.
By the time they logged out, it was past ten. The city outside buzzed with neon, but their office street was quieter.
Reika stretched with a groan.
"Ugh, my shoulders are killing me. Why can't companies pay us in massages instead of overtime?"
"You'd still complain."
"True." She grinned. "And you'd say, 'Massage frequency has diminishing returns.'"
"Because it does."
She laughed again, and he hid his smile in the collar of his coat.
They walked side by side toward the train station, silence comfortably filling the gaps. Reika's phone buzzed. She frowned, then sighed.
"Canceled again. Figures."
"Dinner plans?"
"Yeah. My friend set me up with some guy from another firm, but he bailed last minute." She shoved her phone away with a shrug. "Guess it wasn't meant to be."
Katsusora's grip tightened around his briefcase. He wanted to say something — anything — but swallowed the words. Instead, he muttered, "Their loss."
Reika blinked, then smiled softly. "Thanks, Minami-kun. You always know what to say."
He didn't. Not really. But he wished she could see what he never dared to voice.
The pedestrian light flicked green. They stepped onto the crosswalk.
That was when it came — the roar of an engine.
Headlights blazed. A truck tore down the intersection, far too fast, horn screaming like a beast.
"Reika!"
Katsusora grabbed her wrist and pulled her close. Time fractured. The world became white light and screeching metal—
—then silence.
A stillness deeper than any Tokyo night.
Reika's breath hitched against his chest, her eyes wide. Around them, reality unraveled. Neon signs, asphalt, even the truck dissolved into glowing strands of silver and gold, spiraling upward like a vast web.
Katsusora reached instinctively. His hand brushed a thread — probabilities, outcomes, entire chains of consequence burned across it in living numbers. His analyst's brain screamed recognition, but no words came.
Beside him, Reika clutched another thread. Hers pulsed warm — routes, shipments, caravans, networks of people branching like living veins.
A voice echoed through the void, neither male nor female, as if spoken by fate itself:
"Sky that shields. Blossom that prospers. Together, weave the fate of kingdoms."
Reika's panic met his gaze, and for a heartbeat, he nearly spoke the words he'd buried for years. But before sound escaped, the threads tightened and dragged them down.
They fell.
When Katsusora opened his eyes, sunlight blinded him. Not Tokyo's gray haze, but a sky impossibly blue, clouds drifting like silk. Grass cushioned his back, wind carrying scents of earth and spice.
He sat up. Rolling fields stretched outward, stone walls rising in the distance, banners fluttering above unfamiliar towers.
Beside him, Reika groaned, blazer rumpled, laptop bag tangled at her side. She blinked at the sight of castles and farmland.
"Where… where are we?"
Katsusora's mind spun. No traffic. No skyscrapers. Just medieval spires and—
Above Reika's head, faint text shimmered in the air:
[Prosperity Web: Active]
She gasped, swiping at it. Threads of golden light stretched outward in arcs only she could see.
Katsusora glanced at his own hands. Another panel hovered before him, colder in hue — probabilities, outcomes, risks, entire lattices of cause and effect.
Their eyes met. Neither spoke.
Then Reika laughed weakly, trembling between awe and disbelief.
"…Minami-kun, tell me we didn't just get isekai'd."
Katsusora adjusted his glasses, though his hands shook. His lips curved in the faintest of smiles.
"Reika-san… it appears the risk profile has changed."