A faint ringing echoed in Kaizen's ears.
At first, it felt like a dream — soft, distant, meaningless.
Then air rushed violently into his lungs, He gasped.
His body jolted upright, heart slamming against his ribs as if it had been running for miles.
Tokyo.
Sunlight spilled through thin, pale curtains, washing the room in warm gold. Outside, traffic hummed faintly — distant horns, footsteps, life continuing without him.
Kaizen stayed still, breath shallow, eyes locked on the ceiling.
Wasn't I… dead?
The memory hit him all at once.
Rain frozen midair, Manajit's body collapsing, Lyra screaming his name, Red eyes behind a mask, The gunshot.
He sat up sharply. The bedsheet slid down his chest.
His hands shook.
This room — it was wrong.
Not unfamiliar.
The cramped studio apartment, the cheap wooden desk, sketches taped unevenly to the wall. Half-finished manga panels. Coffee stains on old notebooks. A lazily spinning ceiling fan that squeaked with every rotation.
This wasn't his apartment from the future.
This was— "…No."
He stumbled to his feet and crossed the room, nearly tripping over a stack of art books. His reflection met him in the mirror.
Nineteen.
Messy black hair falling into sharp eyes, A thinner frame, No exhaustion carved into his face yet, No scars, No blood, No death.
Kaizen raised a hand slowly and pressed it to his cheek.
Warm, Real.
"…What the hell," he whispered.
His heartbeat thundered in his ears.
He searched his body desperately — chest, shoulders, head.
Nothing.
The bullet wound was gone.
The pain was gone.
But the memories weren't.
They lingered like glass lodged deep in his mind.
He laughed softly — a brittle, fractured sound.
"It was… just a dream?"
The words felt wrong the moment he said them.
His phone buzzed on the desk.
The sound made him flinch.
He stared at the screen.
[Senvidia HQ — Meeting Reminder]
September 1, 2026
Kaizen froze.
The room seemed to tilt.
"2026…?"
His fingers moved on their own, grabbing the calendar pinned crookedly to the wall.
September, Same date.
Six years earlier.
The year everything began, The year he rose, The year he lost control.
For a long moment, Kaizen didn't breathe.
Then he exhaled slowly, laughter bubbling up — quiet, almost hysterical.
"…Okay. Either I'm dead… or the universe owes me an explanation."
He walked to the window and pulled the curtain aside.
Tokyo unfolded before him — bright, loud, alive.
The same city that once made him dream.
The same city that later crushed him.
"Guess the universe wanted me to take a vacation," he murmured.
He made coffee on autopilot, the bitter smell filling the room. He scrolled through social media, fingers numb.
Old headlines stared back at him.
"Kaizen Aizawa: Prodigy or Fraud?"
"The Artist Who Divided a Nation"
The hate was still there, India's backlash, The arguments, The endless noise.
He remembered how it felt.
The pressure, The isolation, The night everything cracked.
Maybe the nightmare had been his mind screaming for rest.
A warning.
"Yeah…" he muttered, forcing a smile.
"Too much caffeine, too little sleep, and a million people telling you they hate your work. Makes sense I'd imagine a multiversal massacre."
He laughed again.
But the sound didn't convince him.
Because something inside his chest refused to settle.
That voice.
That calm, mocking whisper— Long time no see.
His smile faded.
He shook his head sharply. "Enough. Back to work, genius."
He grabbed his pencil.
The weight of it felt grounding.
He flipped open his sketchbook.
His hand moved easily at first — confident strokes, familiar shapes. The comfort of lines and shadows steadied his breathing.
Then— He stopped.
On the page, without meaning to— A spiral.
Kaizen stared at it.
His grip tightened.
Slowly, against his will, the pencil began forming a face, A girl.
Gentle smile, Familiar eyes.
His breath caught.
"…No."
He slammed the sketchbook shut and pushed it away.
The room felt colder.
Outside, Tokyo continued as if nothing had changed.
The sky was blue, The world was stable.
Or so it pretended.
Scene Shift — Somewhere in Tokyo
A small café near Shinjuku.
Rain tapped softly against the window.
Lyra sat alone, stirring her coffee absentmindedly. The warmth had long faded, but she didn't notice.
Something in her chest felt… wrong, Heavy, Empty.
As if a space existed where something important should be.
She looked up at the rain-streaked glass, brows knitting together.
"Why does it feel like…" she whispered, voice barely audible,
"…I've lost someone?"
The spoon stilled.
Outside, lightning flickered faintly across the sky.
And somewhere in Tokyo, a pencil snapped in half.
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