PROLOGUE — DEFYING MY FATE: RECLAIMING WHAT THE WORLD HAS STOLEN
---
The rain never asked for permission to fall. It came unannounced, like grief unbidden, soaking the asphalt streets of a city that had long lost its color. In the gray sky, thunder rumbled softly in the distance—not a roaring sound, but a low, recurring growl, like restrained anger.
The city was large, but felt cramped. Concrete buildings rose without soul, their windows dark, no lights on despite night having fallen. Perhaps their residents were already asleep. Or perhaps they didn't want to see what was happening on the streets below.
In a narrow alley branching off the main road, two figures stood. A young man with jet-black hair—not too long, not too short, just enough to cover his forehead and part of his ears. He was about seventeen, but his dark gray eyes didn't reflect that age. They were calm, too calm, like a lake deep in the forest untouched by wind. Beside him, a teenage girl with short black hair, the same eyes, but not as calm as her brother's. Her face was pale, her breath short, and her hand gripped the edge of her brother's jacket tightly.
Cellia: (Whispering, her voice barely audible above the rain) "Brother... are they still following us?"
Kyoichiiro didn't answer immediately. He leaned forward slightly, tilting his head, trying to hear the sounds beyond the rain. Footsteps. Many footsteps. Irregular, but growing closer.
Kyoichiiro: (Voice soft, firm) "Yes. They're behind us. Maybe thirty meters. Maybe less."
Cellia: (Her face growing paler, her grip tightening) "Brother... I'm scared."
Kyoichiiro turned. He looked at his sister. Cellia's face was wet—not just from the rain, but also from tears she could no longer hold back. There was fear in her eyes, but also confusion. The confusion of someone who didn't understand why all this was happening.
Why? Cellia thought, but didn't say it aloud. Why is my brother constantly being hunted? Why can't they leave us alone? We haven't done anything. We just want to live. That's all.
But she didn't say it, because she knew her brother also didn't know the answer.
---
FOUR HOURS EARLIER — INTERROGATION
Four hours earlier, the sky had not yet darkened like now. Traces of twilight still lingered on the western horizon, golden orange slowly turning to purple. Kyoichiiro sat on a wooden chair in the living room of the simple apartment he rented with Cellia. In his hand, a cup of coffee that had gone cold. Before him, a cheap television whose image sometimes flickered.
Suddenly, there was a knock at the door. Not an ordinary knock. Three times, a pause, two times. That was a code used only by certain people. People who never brought good news.
Cellia: (From the kitchen, her voice anxious) "Brother? Who is it?"
Kyoichiiro: (Standing, his eyes unblinking) "I don't know. But you stay inside. Whatever happens, stay quiet in the kitchen. Don't make a sound."
Cellia wanted to argue, but she saw her brother's face—a face usually calm, now slightly tense. Not fear, but heightened vigilance. She nodded, moved deeper into the kitchen, and closed the door halfway.
Kyoichiiro walked to the door. He didn't open it immediately. He pressed his ear to the wood, listening. Breathing. One person. Maybe two. Not rushed. Patient.
He opened the door.
At the door stood two men in black suits. No names on their chests. No badges. Their faces were flat, expressionless, like masks perfectly fitted. The man in front—taller, with short hair and cold brown eyes—pulled out an ID card. Not like an ordinary ID card. It was black, with an unfamiliar emblem in its left corner.
Suit #1: (Voice flat, professional) "Kyoichiiro Khaneo?"
Kyoichiiro: (Flat) "Yes."
Suit #1: "We're from the International Security Bureau. We'd like to ask you some questions. May we come in?"
Kyoichiiro: (Not moving, not stepping aside) "About what?"
Suit #1: (Sighing slightly, as if expecting this answer) "About your existence. About your body. About what makes you... different."
Kyoichiiro didn't answer. He just stared into the man's eyes. Searching for lies, searching for sincerity, searching for anything that could tell him whether these people were friends or enemies.
Suit #2: (From behind, his voice lower, heavier) "We don't mean to threaten. But this is important. For your safety. And for the safety of those around you."
Kyoichiiro turned toward that voice. The second man was shorter, but his build was fuller. His eyes were sharper, like someone who had seen death many times.
Kyoichiiro: (Still flat) "Wait here. I'll come out."
He closed the door. Didn't wait for a response. He walked to the kitchen.
Cellia: (Whispering, her face anxious) "Brother, they—"
Kyoichiiro: (Cutting in, his voice firm) "Don't come out. Don't open the door for anyone. I'll be back."
Cellia: (Trembling) "But—"
Kyoichiiro: (Looking at his sister, his voice slightly softer) "Trust me."
Cellia bit her lip. She wanted to say she didn't want her brother to leave, that she was scared, that all of this was already too heavy to bear alone. But she just nodded. Because that was what she always did. Nodded. Trusted. Hoped.
Kyoichiiro went out. He closed the door behind him, making sure it was locked. Then he looked at the two suited men.
Kyoichiiro: (Flat) "Let's go. We'll talk outside. Far from here."
---
They walked to a small café at the corner of the street—a place already closed, but its front glass was still intact, and the streetlight was enough to illuminate the wooden tables outside. The rain hadn't fallen yet. The wind was still warm.
They sat down. Kyoichiiro on one side, the two suits on the other. A small wooden table, painted white, peeling in several places, separated them.
Suit #1: (Opening a black leather folder in his hand, pulling out several sheets of paper) "You were born at St. Marian's Hospital, sixteen years ago. Birth weight three kilograms, length forty-eight centimeters. No complications. Mother and child healthy."
Kyoichiiro didn't answer. He just stared.
Suit #1: (Continuing, reading from the paper) "But at six months old, something strange happened. You fell from your bed—a height of about seventy centimeters. A baby your age should have cried, maybe bruised, maybe minor injuries. But you didn't cry. No bruising. No injuries. The doctor who examined you called it 'strange,' but couldn't explain it."
Suit #2: (Interjecting) "At one year old, you were vaccinated. The needle bent. Not because of the nurse's error, but because your skin couldn't be penetrated. The nurse was shocked. Your mother said maybe the needle was defective. But the same needle, when tried on the nurse's arm, went straight through."
Kyoichiiro: (Still flat, but his mind racing) They know. They've been collecting data on me since I was a baby. But from where? Who told them?
Suit #1: (Closing the folder, looking at Kyoichiiro) "At five years old, you were hit by a car. Moderate speed—about forty kilometers per hour. The front of the car was dented. But you... you just stood there. No wounds. No bruises. Even your clothes weren't torn. The driver fainted from shock."
Suit #2: (Leaning back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest) "At ten years old, you fell off a bridge. Height about eight meters. The water below was shallow—only one meter deep. You should have died, or at least been paralyzed. But you swam to the shore like nothing happened. Witnesses said your bones bent when you hit the water, then... returned to normal. Like rubber."
Kyoichiiro didn't answer. He just looked at them in turn.
Kyoichiiro: (To himself) So they know all of this. But why now? Why not before?
Suit #1: (His voice growing heavier) "Kyoichiiro, you are not normal. Your body does not follow known biological laws. Your cells don't die—or they die differently. Wounds heal in seconds. Poisons have no effect. Even... we have reports that you were poisoned with cyanide by someone we won't name. You didn't die. You just vomited a few times, then returned to normal as if you'd drunk nothing."
Suit #2: (Leaning forward, eyes sharp) "You are an anomaly, Kyoichiiro. An anomaly that science cannot explain. And anomalies like you... are dangerous. Not because you want to be dangerous. But because your very existence is enough to disrupt the balance."
Kyoichiiro: (Voice flat, unchanged) "What balance?"
Suit #1: (Sighing) "The balance of power. In this world, there are many parties—nations, organizations, dark groups—always searching for new weapons. Weapons that cannot be fought. Weapons that cannot die. And you, Kyoichiiro, are that weapon. Not because you want to be. But because your body, your blood, your cells... all of that is an invaluable asset to anyone who manages to capture and study you."
Kyoichiiro: "So are you here to protect me? Or to capture me?"
Silence. The first and second suits exchanged glances.
Suit #2: (After a moment, his voice lower) "We're here to warn you. There's a group that already knows of your existence. They are stronger than us. More ruthless. They won't ask politely like we did."
Suit #1: "They killed your father sixteen years ago. Not because your father was dangerous, but because he was too close to you. They killed your mother two weeks ago for the same reason. And they also..."
He stopped. Didn't continue.
Kyoichiiro stared at him. His previously flat eyes were now changing. There was a flash there—not anger, but something colder. Something more dangerous.
Kyoichiiro: (Voice low) "Hiyori. They killed Hiyori too, didn't they?"
The first suited man didn't answer. But his silence was answer enough.
---
KYOICHIIRO — MEMORY OF HIYORI
Five days before this interrogation, Kyoichiiro returned to his apartment after a part-time job at a small bookstore near the station. On the wooden table in the living room, there was a brown envelope. No sender's name. No stamp. Only his name—"Kyoichiiro"—written in handwriting he recognized.
Hiyori's hand.
He opened the envelope carefully, afraid of damaging its contents. Inside, only a single sheet of paper. Ordinary paper, with thin blue lines like school notebook paper. And on that paper, Hiyori's writing. Her writing trembled slightly, not as neat as usual, as if she had written in fear.
"Take good care of yourself, Kyoichiiro-san. My beloved. I hope you're reading this letter—for the last time."
"I'm sorry I couldn't tell you everything in person. They're watching. They're always watching. But I had to write this, because if I didn't, perhaps no one would ever tell you."
"Those who killed your father, your mother, and who will kill me—they won't stop. Not because you're evil. Not because you're dangerous. But because you're different. And the world is always afraid of what's different."
"But don't change, Kyoichiiro-san. Don't become like them. Stay who you always were—who bought me ice cream in winter, who lent me your coat in the rain, who smiled even though I knew you were tired."
"That's what made me love you. Not your strength. Not that you can't die. But because beneath all of that, you're still human. Still able to feel. Still able to care."
"Don't let them take that away from you."
"Goodbye, Kyoichiiro-san. I will always love you."
"— Hiyori."
Kyoichiiro read the letter three times. Four times. Five times. Each time, his eyes stopped at the sentence "those who will kill me."
He didn't cry. He couldn't. His body might not be able to die, but his heart had died many times over.
He folded the letter, tucked it into his pocket, and walked to the television. He turned it on. The evening news broadcast. An image of an ambulance in front of an unfamiliar apartment building. A body covered in white cloth on a stretcher. A female reporter spoke in a trembling voice: "The victim is believed to have died from gunshot wounds to the chest and hands. Police are still investigating the motive behind this murder. The victim has been identified as Hiyori—"
Kyoichiiro turned off the television.
He stood in the silent living room, with the letter in his pocket and Hiyori's image in his head. No tears. No screams. Only emptiness.
Kyoichiiro: (To himself, his voice cold) They will pay. Sooner or later.
But it wasn't easy. Because every time he tried to fight back, to search, to retaliate—they were always one step ahead. They always knew where he would go, what he would do, who he would meet. As if they could read his mind. As if they were everywhere.
---
BACK TO THE ALLEY — THE CHASE
The rain grew heavier. The black clouds in the sky no longer moved—they stood still, like spectators in a theater waiting for the climax.
Cellia: (Whispering, her voice growing weaker) "Brother... my legs can't go on..."
Kyoichiiro turned. Cellia sat on the ground of the alley, her back against the wet brick wall. Her face was pale, her lips bluish—not from poison, but from exhaustion and fear. Her shoes were soaked, her socks soaked, and rainwater streamed from the tips of her short hair like small waterfalls.
Kyoichiiro: (Crouching before his sister) "We'll rest a moment. Three minutes. Then we move on."
Cellia: (Shaking her head, tears mingling with rain) "Brother... they won't stop, will they? They'll keep chasing us until... until..."
She couldn't continue. The words were too heavy to say.
Kyoichiiro didn't answer. He just looked at his sister. In his gray eyes, something rarely seen appeared—doubt. Doubt that he could protect Cellia. Doubt that he could save anyone.
Hiyori is already dead, he thought. Mother is dead. Father is dead. Only Cellia remains. And if Cellia dies...
He bit his lower lip. Blood—a little, warm—filled his mouth.
No. I won't let that happen.
Kyoichiiro: (Standing, extending his hand to Cellia) "Come on. We don't have much time."
Cellia grasped her brother's hand. Her hand was cold, trembling, but still strong. She stood—unsteady, nearly falling, but Kyoichiiro held her.
They ran again.
Alley after alley. Turn after turn. The rain washed away their footprints, but not the footprints on their hearts. From a distance, the agents' footsteps could still be heard. Still chasing. Still closing in.
Cellia: (While running, her voice broken) "Brother... I can't... they... they're everywhere..."
Kyoichiiro looked around. Cellia was right. At every alley's end, at every intersection, shadows moved. Not one or two, but dozens. They weren't just chasing from behind. They were cutting off the path ahead. Surrounding them.
They were trapped.
Kyoichiiro stopped. Cellia also stopped, her breath ragged, her eyes wide with fear.
Kyoichiiro: (Voice low, but calm) "Cellia. Listen."
Cellia: (Trembling) "W-what?"
Kyoichiiro: "I'll talk to them. You stay behind me. Whatever happens, don't move. Don't make a sound. Understand?"
Cellia: "But—"
Kyoichiiro: (Cutting in, his voice firm) "Understand?"
Cellia bit her lip. She nodded, even as tears continued to fall.
The agents emerged from the shadows. Not from one direction, but from all directions. They stood at the alley's ends, forming a circle, trapping Kyoichiiro and Cellia in the center. No way out. No hiding place.
Agent #1: (Stepping forward, his voice echoing between the brick walls) "Kyoichiiro Khaneo. You can't run anymore. Surrender, and we'll guarantee your sister's safety."
Kyoichiiro stared at the man. His face wasn't unfamiliar. The same man who had interviewed him at the café. The man who said they had come to warn him.
Kyoichiiro: (Flat) "You said you came to warn me. But this... this isn't a warning. This is a siege."
Agent #1: (Sighing) "Warnings aren't enough, Kyoichiiro. You wouldn't listen. You kept moving. Kept hiding. We had no other choice."
Kyoichiiro: "No other choice? Or orders from your superiors?"
Silence.
Agent #2: (From the side, his voice heavier) "We don't want to hurt you, Kyoichiiro. But if you force us—"
Kyoichiiro: (Cutting in, his voice cold) "Hurt me? You know I can't be hurt. At least, not by ordinary means."
Agent #2: (Smiling faintly—a smile that didn't reach his eyes) "We know. That's why we've prepared something... special."
He raised his hand. Behind him, from the shadows, a man in a white robe stepped forward. His face was masked, his head hooded, and in his hands... a rifle. Not an ordinary rifle. Its barrel was longer, more slender, with strange engravings along the weapon's body.
Cellia: (Whispering, her voice barely audible) "Brother... what is that?"
Kyoichiiro: (Silent, his eyes fixed on the rifle) That rifle... is different. There's something inside it. Something that shouldn't exist in this world.
Agent #1: (His voice flat) "The bullets in that rifle are coated with samples of your blood, Kyoichiiro. Blood we collected from your wounds—though they healed quickly, they still left traces. Small. But enough."
Kyoichiiro: (Still flat, but his mind racing) My blood. They have my blood. The defense cells in my heart will read that blood as 'self.' They won't react.
Agent #1: "The cells in your heart, Kyoichiiro, won't recognize this bullet as a threat. They'll think it's part of your body. And when the bullet pierces your chest..." He paused. "...nothing will protect you."
Cellia: (Crying out, her voice breaking) "BROTHER! DON'T—"
Kyoichiiro held Cellia behind him. His left hand gripped his sister's arm tightly, his right hand—empty—raised slightly, ready for anything.
Kyoichiiro: (To the agents) "If you kill me here, Cellia will see it. Are you willing to leave a child her age with that trauma?"
Agent #1: (Silent for a moment, then sighing) "We don't want to hurt her. But if necessary... we will."
Agent #2: (Adding) "Trauma can be healed. But a threat like you... cannot."
Kyoichiiro didn't answer. He just stared at them. One by one. Committing their faces to memory—faces he would not forget, even after death.
If I die, he thought, I will return. I don't know how. But I will return. And I will remember your faces.
---
THE SHOT
The white-robed sniper raised his rifle. The long, gleaming black barrel glinted under the wet streetlight. He aimed. Not at Cellia—at Kyoichiiro.
Cellia: (Screaming, trying to pull her brother back) "BROTHER! RUN! NOW!"
Kyoichiiro didn't move. He knew there was nowhere to run. The agents surrounded them from all sides. The only way out was to break through them—and that was impossible. His body might be strong, but he had no weapons. No magic. Nothing but empty hands and determination that couldn't be measured.
But Cellia, he thought. Cellia can still survive. If they're only targeting me, if I surrender... maybe they'll let her go.
Kyoichiiro: (Voice flat, unchanged) "Let Cellia go. Let her leave. I'll surrender."
Agent #1: (Shaking his head) "The contract doesn't cover negotiations, Kyoichiiro. You've already been designated as an elimination target. Not capture."
Kyoichiiro: "Then you'll kill me in front of my sister?"
Agent #1: (Silent)
Agent #2: (Speaking, his voice heavier) "We'll give her money. Enough for years. Enough to forget."
Kyoichiiro: (Smiling—a bitter smile, a smile he had never shown before) "You think money can replace a brother? You think money can erase the memory of a brother dying before her eyes?"
No one answered.
Cellia cried. Her sobs were soft, restrained, as if she didn't want to show her fear. But her body trembled violently, and her hand gripping Kyoichiiro's arm felt like she was holding onto something about to disappear.
Cellia: (Whispering, her voice hollow) "Brother... I don't want... I don't want to be alone..."
Kyoichiiro looked down at his sister. Cellia's face was wet—rain and tears mingling into one. Her gray eyes—just like his—no longer sparkled.
Cellia, Kyoichiiro thought. I'm sorry. Your brother couldn't... protect you.
He clenched his fist.
Kyoichiiro: (To the agents, his voice firm) "Let Cellia go. Let her leave. Or I'll... I'll—"
He didn't finish the sentence. Because there sentence. Because there was nothing he could threaten with. Nothing he could offer.
Agent #1: (Sighing) "I'm sorry, Kyoichiiro. This is beyond our control."
He nodded to the sniper.
The sniper pulled the trigger.
There was no sound—the silencer worked perfectly. Only the hiss of cut air, and a fraction of a second later, the bullet pierced Kyoichiiro's chest.
Right through the heart.
Kyoichiiro felt it—not pain, but emptiness. As if something had been pulled out from within him, something that had kept him alive all this time. He fell. His body couldn't stand. His legs went limp, his arms limp, his entire body felt like wet cotton.
Cellia: (Screaming, her voice shattering the night's silence) "BROTHER—!"
She caught Kyoichiiro before he hit the ground. Her small body—much smaller than her brother's—tried to hold up a weight too heavy for her. They both fell to the stony ground, wet from the rain.
Cellia: (Holding her brother, her hands pressing on the wound in Kyoichiiro's chest—blood flowing through her fingers) "DON'T... DON'T LEAVE ME... PLEASE..."
Kyoichiiro: (His voice weak, barely audible) "Cellia... run..."
Cellia: (Shaking her head hard, tears falling onto Kyoichiiro's face) "NO! I WON'T GO! I WON'T LEAVE YOU!"
Kyoichiiro wanted to say that he was already dead. That there was no point staying here. That Cellia had to survive—for both of them, for Hiyori, for their mother and father. But his tongue wouldn't move. His vision began to blur. The sound of the rain faded.
Cellia, he thought, I'm sorry. Your brother failed again.
But at the edge of his consciousness, he felt something. Warm. Soft. Like someone stroking his forehead.
Gentle Voice: (From a distance, or from within his own mind) "Not yet, Kyoichiiro. There is still something you must do."
Kyoichiiro: (In his mind) Who...?
Gentle Voice: "You'll know in time. For now... sleep. Rest. Next time, you will wake in a different place. A different world. And you will begin again."
Darkness.
---
CELLIA — ALONE
Kyoichiiro didn't move. His chest didn't rise and fall. His eyes were half-open, but there was no light within them.
Cellia: (Still holding her brother, her voice hoarse from screaming and crying) "BROTHER! WAKE UP! BROTHER, I'M SCARED! DON'T LEAVE ME ALONE!"
No answer.
The agents began to leave one by one. Their footsteps faded, swallowed by the rain. The white-robed sniper lowered his rifle, turned, and disappeared into the shadows.
Only Cellia remained.
She still held her brother. Still hoping this was only a dream. That soon her brother would open his eyes, smile, and say, "I was just joking, Cellia. Let's go home."
But her brother didn't wake up.
The rain didn't stop.
And Cellia was alone.
In her hands—still pressing on the wound in Kyoichiiro's chest—the blood began to dry. Cold. No longer warm.
Cellia: (Whispering, her voice hollow) "Brother... I won't leave. I'll stay here. Waiting for you. Until you wake up."
But Kyoichiiro wouldn't wake up. Not in this world.
Elsewhere, between worlds and worlds, a new journey began.