Tokyo never looked uglier than it did that night. Rain hammered the streets like the city itself wanted to drown, turning every gutter into a river and every pothole into a trap. Neon signs buzzed overhead, their garish colors bleeding into the puddles, making the whole world look like some cheap watercolor painting left out in the storm.
Shinjiro Shun trudged through it all, a plastic convenience store bag clutched against his chest, full of instant ramen. It had become both an obsession and a means of survival, a bad habit in every sense. For the past three months, he had been consuming the same sodium-laden junk food, the prohibitive cost of other options leaving him no choice.
His shirt clung to his skin, soaked through in seconds. He didn't even have an umbrella with him; the last one had been left behind on a train two weeks ago. Each time he thought of replacing it, the same excuse echoed in his head—what was the point?
An umbrella cost money, and money meant food. His priorities were clear, but they chained him to the endless cycle of his soul-crushing office job. At just twenty-three years old, he already looked like a man who had lost his soul.
One could even call his life miserable: no family to lean on, and his girlfriend had left him, because he was broke, after just three dates. Still, he pushed through it all; though how much longer could he endure?
Shun stopped at the crosswalk, rain dripping from his hair as the light refused to change. What's the point? The question rose again, his heart wavering for a fleeting moment. That hesitation, small as it was, would change his fate forever.
At last, the light turned green, and he stepped forward with a heavy sigh. Yet something felt off. The world hung in suspense; rain droplets glittered like crystal chandeliers, frozen in the air. The taste of the air vanished, and the traffic light sputtered out with a dying flicker.
His lungs tightened, every breath dragging heavy, as though something were trying to wrench his soul straight from his ribs.
"What the—" The words died in his throat.
A figure stood in the middle of the crosswalk, where nothing had existed just a moment before. It was tall, impossibly so; draped in robes woven from starlight and shadow, shifting endlessly between states of matter. It had no face, yet Shun knew with certainty that it was staring at him.
"Shinjiro Shun." The voice emanated from all directions. It resonated in his bones, in his teeth, and in the marrow of his existence. "Your thread has been cut too early."
Shun's mouth moved, but no sound came out. His legs wouldn't work. The frozen rain hung around him like a prison of crystal.
"It was... a mistake," the figure continued. "The Weavers of Fate made an error in judgement. Your life was meant to continue for forty-seven more years..."
The object that resembled a head tilted, as if it were examining him. "But the thread holding your fate was severed by accident during the correction of someone else's fate. You were collateral damage to a larger design."
Those words made Shun's soul tremble uncontrollably, until finally found his voice. "That can't be. Who are you? Are you tell me... I'm dead?"
"Not quite…" the eerie voice replied. "You're caught between the cut and the consequence. We have perhaps thirty seconds before your heart realizes it should stop beating."
"No! This can't be real… Get away from me!" Shun tried to run, but his body refused to obey.
"We cannot restore your original thread," the figure continued, speaking almost nonchalantly, as if Shun weren't even there. "But we can offer compensation. How does another life sound to you? Another world... a place where the threads are still being woven."
Those words finally caught Shun's attention, calming him on the surface. Inside, however, he was torn between horror and the temptation of escaping his colorless world.
"Why should I believe you?" he asked cautiously.
"Because the mistake was ours, and the Weavers pay their debts." The void where its face should have been shimmered faintly.
Shun furrowed his brows at those words, uncertain whether to believe them or not.
"Know this: the new world follows different principles. Magic exists. Power is real. We know your desire, and we are prepared to pay. If you accept, you will be reborn, and the recompense for our mistake will eventually materialize. Trust your mind; it will be your greatest weapon."
The pulling sensation in Shun's chest intensified. It wasn't a physical pain but something deeper, more profound, as though his very soul was being unraveled.
"You have… ten seconds left," the figure said. "Choose quickly. Stay and die, erased from existence itself. Or accept the new thread and live once more."
Shun looked around at the frozen Tokyo street. Everything reminded him of his pain: a life of debt, cheap meals, and soul-crushing work that led nowhere.
Forty-seven more years of this? His heart had already decided.
"I'll go," he declared. In that moment, he said goodbye to his old world. Even if he was being tricked, even if it led to hell, it would still be better than this. He had stopped caring, ready to accept whatever fate awaited him.
The figure nodded, a gesture that made space itself ripple.
"Then let the old thread be cut, and the new one spun. Remember: trust your mind." It reached out with a hand that was more concept than flesh and touched Shun's chest.
Everything before his eyes warped, and just when it seemed the world might explode, it simply ceased to exist. Nothingness followed—vast and unexplainable to human understanding.
After what felt like an eternity, Shun sensed himself unraveling. Every memory, every experience, every moment of his life pulled apart into individual threads.
Those threads were then rewoven into something new. A pattern he could not comprehend. The pain was exquisite, the kind of agony that transcended the body and became pure information. He was being unmade and remade at the same time.
And then, only cold remained.
However, it was not the chill of death. It was the chill of a life that had yet to begin.
Time passed slowly, or perhaps not at all. Maybe a second, maybe eternity. Shun didn't know, nor could he comprehend.
Gradually, sensation returned. First warmth, then immense pressure, the feeling of being forced through something impossibly tight. Light and sound soon followed.
"He's here! Finally!"
"Congratulations, Lady Stelle! A healthy son!"
A surge of scorching flame rose in the chest of the newborn, pulling forth his first cry. He could feel everything around him: every particle of light, every strand of the mysterious power encircling him. On that day, even the sun seemed dim compared to him. He was… a child of light.