RIN'S POV
They say your twenties are for "findingyourself."
At twenty-six, I found a crooked latte art, an unpaid electricity bill, and — most inconvenient of all — a coffin.
My name's RinTakashima.
I work part-time at a cramped little espresso joint called Cafe Tokyo, which is less "aesthetic haven" and more "rent extractor with a milk-steaming problem." It sits squeezed between a stationery store that swears it's still 2005 and a salon that smells perpetually of burnt popcorn. The decor's a single ficus plant with commitment issues. The only fancy thing about my life is the price of the rent.
I am, as a rule, late.
On the morning in question, the clock glared 9:07 at me like a judge ready to sentence. I should have been at the counter at nine. Of course I wasn't. Of course I careened through Shibuya like a guilty otaku trying to dodge eye contact at Comiket and spectacularly clipped a guy on the sidewalk.
Forehead to chest. Classic.
He was tall. Silver hair that looked like it had never met a bad hair day. Pale eyes that could probably freeze small things for fun. He looked down at me the way some people look at spoilers in book comments: with patient amusement.
"Accepted." He said, like I'd just applied for a membership and gotten in.
He smirked the kind of smirk that means a secret and a terrible pun are coming. I muttered "weirdos everywhere" and bolted, muttering my life choices, but I didn't get far before Tohru gave me the death stare for being five minutes late.
Tohru is my manager and my personal reminder that punctuality is a personality. He's the same age as me and somehow wound up being competent enough to manage my life and my paycheck. He greeted me with a grin that screamed "I saw you trip" and an eyebrow that screamed "again."
"You're late." He said.
"I was attacked by a charming silver-haired weirdo." I offered.
Tohru made a face like I'd handed him an expired coupon. "Tall, smug, suspiciously handsome?" He asked.
"He looks like an insurance fraud." I said.
"He looks like a lunchtime idol." Tohru corrected. "He's been here every day."
"He asks for me by name?" I sputtered. My brain did its best to file stalker under "things to avoid."
"That's loyalty." Tohru said, polishing a counter like he was sanctifying the floor panels.
The thing about the silver-haired guy — Nao, as I later learned he called himself— was that he had a seat by the window and the posture of someone who considered a cafe his throne.
He ordered the same thing every time: a latte, no sugar. He paid with the calm of a man who had never known a late fee. He smirked when our eyes met. He smirked the way someone smirks before they say something that will ruin your day or change your destiny, whichever comes first.
I wanted to ignore him. I failed.
He slid a book across my counter like a challenge and like a passive-aggressive library fine. Leather cover. Gold-embossed title:
TheGeneralandHisLovers.
"A gift." He said.
I laughed. Maybe it was a nervous laugh. "You tracked me down to hand-deliver lightnover? That's creative stalking."
"Not stalking." He corrected, smooth as a smear of espresso. "Guiding."
"Guiding? Is this going to be one of those cringe 'life coach' things where you tell me to 'manifest' my bills?" I deadpanned.
"No." He said, voice soft enough for you to forget you should be afraid. "Finish the story, and your wish will be granted."
I should have thrown the book back at him. I should have called some kind of mental health hotline for being propositioned with a destiny. Instead, curiosity — caffeinated, stubborn curiosity — made my fingers twitch toward the cover.
Books have a smell that does things to my brain. Old-paper-ink smells like a portal to excuses for avoiding sleep.
The title should have been a red flag. Instead it felt like a needle.
I touched the gold letters, and the ceiling hummed, and the cafe and Tohru and the fluorescent hum all dissolved into light. Not the poetic "I had a vision" light. The "someone unplugged reality and poured a spotlight down my throat" kind of light.
There was a pressure behind my eyes and the counter slid away. My hand was on the book for a second — and then the second collapsed.
I woke up to wood. Coldwood.
The kind of compact, claustrophobic wood that apologizes for being a coffin by not saying anything at all. Panic is best measured in stupid, immediate thoughts.
Mine: This is a terrible place to nap.
Second: I am not dead. I am 26 and have rent due.
Third: If this is a new form of immersive theater, where are the exit signs?
My hands scrabbled. Smooth sides. No nails. No light. My breath came sharp. The air tasted like old cellars and mildew and very bad decisions.
"Oh, hell no." I whispered.
If anyone had told me that my twenties would include transmigration, demons, politics, and an accidental harem, I'd have said, "Cute. But no."
I liked my life's problems small and manageable: coffee stains, late trains, online arguments about whether villains were secretly sympathetic. I did not sign up for destinies with gemstones and siege warfare.
And yet here I was, in a box that did not belong to any rent agreement I knew.
Outside — somewhere, not here — someone was smiling. Somewhere, probably enjoying his latte, Nao's smirk existed in the world like a curse with very nice cheekbones.
Operation: No To Harem
Status: Initiated.
SuccessRate: Dubious.
SurvivalInstinct: Very Much On.
I sat up.
The wood creaked.
The world tilted.
I got out of the coffin because, honestly, what other option did I have? And because if I didn't, Tohru would kill me with "I told you so" and I'd rather die fighting a demon lord than hear that smug laundry-list of management truths.
So I pushed open the lid...