The villa still smelled faintly of miso and egg, the warmth of Athena's earlier cooking lingering like a memory. Morning sunlight filtered through the paper-framed windows, spilling across polished wood. Phoenix sat slouched at the table, tea growing cold in his hand, eyes unfocused.
The replay gnawed at him: stained glass exploding into fragments, a sky split open by wings, feathers black as ash raining down. A cathedral breaking apart under light too sharp to belong.
Not theatrics. Not coincidence. The first crack in reality.
The door creaked. Athena stepped inside, carrying a tray balanced neatly on one hand. She had changed—her soft cardigan replaced with a light blouse tucked into a high-waist skirt, a thin jacket draped over her shoulders. A ribbon pinned back her braid, giving her a tidy, almost maternal air. Casual enough for the market, graceful enough to turn heads.
She set the tray down: skewers glazed in sweet sauce, senbei crackers, and a chilled can of beer sweating beads of condensation.
Phoenix blinked. "Beer? This early?"
"You looked like you needed it," Athena teased, eyes glinting as she slid the can toward him. "And besides—by the time you notice the clock, it's already noon."
He let out a breath somewhere between a laugh and a sigh. Anchor wife vibes, calm and grounding. She always did that—walk in, rearrange the air, make the room behave like it belonged to her.
Phoenix cracked the can open, fizz sharp against his nose, bitter taste cutting through his haze. "You're way too relaxed."
Athena poured herself tea and sat opposite him, posture perfectly casual. "Because this is normal. Isn't it?" Her tone was steady, almost playful, as though she were indulging him.
Normal. The word scraped his throat raw.
So I'm the only one who remembers.
---
By midmorning, Athena tugged at his sleeve with mock sternness. "Come with me. The pantry's empty. And if you keep sulking here, you'll rot." She pressed the basket into his hands. "You can at least carry this."
Phoenix blinked at the weight, then gave her a weak smile. "Slave labor, huh?"
Athena smirked faintly. "Call it rent."
She pushed open the gate, sunlight spilling across the street.
---
The market sprawled like a tapestry unraveled—centuries colliding under the same sun. Hovercars glided on blue rails above streets clogged with horse-drawn carts. A bard strummed an electric guitar beside a monk intoning sutras. A dwarf hammered iron at a forge built directly into the side of a modern café.
Phoenix stared openly. "Adapt? Sure. As if seeing dwarves sell cabbage is normal," he muttered under his breath.
Athena glanced back, brow arched. "You're mumbling again."
"Nothing," he said quickly, forcing his mouth into something like a smile.
She carried her basket like she owned the street, vendors calling greetings as she passed. A butcher waved, a florist offered blossoms, even a smith paused to bow. Athena moved through the chaos like it was her second home, humming softly.
Phoenix tried to match her pace, but every corner hit him with fresh dissonance. Manga racks stacked beside western comics. An elf merchant selling glowing crystals beside a pharmacy advertising holographic painkillers. Schoolchildren chasing a griffin balloon while a priestess sprinkled incense over them.
This… this is everything I've ever read, played, watched—stitched into one city.
His chest tightened. None of it belonged together, yet here it was, woven seamlessly into daily life.
That was when he saw it.
A poster slapped against a cracked wall, half-covered by flyers.
Fallen Seraph Cult Gathering – Midnight.
The sketch: black wings unfurled behind a shattered sun.
Phoenix froze. His breath caught sharp. Zariel.
He remembered raid strategies, countdown timers, guild chatter through headsets. Memories of a game that shouldn't exist here. Yet the name leapt off the paper like prophecy.
Around him, people walked by without sparing it a glance. A woman tugged her child past, a delivery man balanced boxes on his bike, no one caring about the ominous wings staring back.
Phoenix's grip on the basket whitened. Why is it only me?
---
Athena tugged him away, pulling him to a stall where skewers hissed over charcoal. She bought two and handed one to him. "Eat. You look like a ghost."
He bit in. The smoky-sweet meat anchored him momentarily. Children's laughter, sizzling grills, clinking coins—it all blended into one.
Then the crowd stilled. Heads tilted upward.
A massive screen above the plaza crackled alive, static bleeding into a shaky feed.
Breaking: Idol Concert Disrupted by Celestial Phenomenon.
The footage rolled: stage lights swaying, the roar of fans, then a sudden burst of radiance above the performers. Wings of light flared, drowning the cameras.
The anchor's voice wavered: "Lead performer of the Starlight Divas, Miu Shiromine, reassured fans no one was harmed."
Her voice slipped through faintly in the clip—soft, trembling, but still carrying that idol shine: "Please, everyone stay calm! We'll keep singing!"
The plaza erupted in chatter. Teenagers squealed, waving glowsticks at the screen. A group of men shouted, "Miu-chan, you're an angel!" Laughter rippled through the crowd, some dismissing it as spectacle.
But Phoenix stood frozen, skewer trembling in his grip.
Miu Shiromine.
The name tolled through his chest like a bell. A face he'd seen in videos, songs replayed during sleepless nights, now alive, speaking, radiant under impossible wings.
The skewer slipped from his fingers, clattering against the cobbles.
His chest burned. This wasn't coincidence.
She's here. She's real.
The villa, the snacks, the bustle—all blurred. For the first time since waking, the weight of inevitability pressed down mercilessly.
This world wasn't just cracked. It was stitched together from every fragment he knew.
And if Miu Shiromine existed here… what else was waiting?