Year 2XXX
Yokyo City never truly sleeps—it just dims to a restless glow. As you walk toward the bakery before dawn, the air tastes faintly of rain, engine coolant, and sweet dough drifting from night-shift kitchens. Neon signs buzz overhead in layers of kanji and corporate logos, their reflections trembling in puddles along cracked smart-pavement. Delivery drones hum between high-rises like mechanical birds, while street vendors boot up steaming carts beside shuttered megastores whose holographic billboards never turn off.
By the time you reach the bakery's modest storefront wedged between a repair shop and a noodle stall, the warm smell of fresh bread cuts through the electric haze, a small human promise glowing against the endless circuitry of Yokyo.
The Boy With No Direction.
Jin Kōnō lived quietly, efficiently, and without any particular burn in his chest pushing him toward greatness. Eighteen years on earth, most of them spent being above average in nothing, had sculpted him into a young man who moved through life like a ghost with a part-time apron.
He worked mornings at a small bread shop that always smelled like sweet dough and burnt sugar, and somehow—without ever intending it—he'd become the unofficial gathering point for delinquents in the area. They treated the place like an HQ.
Not because Jin was charismatic.
Not because he was strong.
But because he was… Jin.
Calm voice. Short sentences.
Assertiveness that came out of nowhere when needed.
Eyes that lingered too long on vending machines for no reason whatsoever.
And the knack of accidentally making people feel comfortable around him.
Jin never bragged about any of this.
If you asked him, he'd shrug, scratch the back of his head, and say,
"…Not my problem."
The Basement That Shouldn't Exist
On a rare off-day, Jin found himself staring at the basement door of his house—his parents' house, technically. They had vanished years ago, leaving behind paperwork that said "officially missing" and a house full of dust that didn't pay rent.
"…Might as well clean," he muttered, scratching the back of his head.
The moment he pushed open the basement door, the smell of metal and old oil drifted out. He descended the steps slowly, his expression shifting from blank fatigue to flat disbelief.
The basement was filled with machinery.
Not household machinery—weapon machinery.
Blades with built-in energy channels. Fractured casings of armored plates. Tubes, wires, fragments of unknown alloys—everything broken, scattered, disconnected.
It looked like a battlefield had died down here.
Jin stared.
"…What the hell were Mom and Dad doing…?"
He had no answer. Just the cold echo of his own voice.
He stepped around a shattered mechanical arm and noticed something that didn't match the ruin:
A clean, polished sphere sitting alone on a crate.
About basketball-sized.
Blinking slowly.
A faint pulse of soft light.
Alive—but waiting.
"…You're new," he murmured, approaching the sphere.
Then, because Jin was human, he reached out and poked the one thing clearly shaped like activation button.
The sphere chirped.
A flash of light swallowed the space.
A soft voice rang out, refined and polite:
"P.E.T SCORE Unit 1 — Link Initiated."
Jin jumped back.
"…Wait—what did I—?"
"Owner registered: Kōnō Jin."
"…No, I didn't—"
He scratched the back of his head in panic.
The light dimmed.
The sphere hovered slightly, as if nodding.
"Current level: 3. Awaiting Name designation, Owner?."
"...Designation…?". Jin stared.
"…Your name? Uh. Sphere? No. Roundy? That's stupid."
He sighed.
"…You look like a… Rosette? I guess. Like those old mechanical clocks."
There was a long, polite pause.
"…If you insist. Rosette it shall be."
Her tone carried subtle disapproval despite perfect etiquette.
"…You don't like it."
"I do not dislike it, Owner. I am simply observing your questionable naming sense."
"Great," Jin muttered. "I'm sorry about that."
The cleaning mission ended there.
The basement remained a warzone.
And Jin walked upstairs with a floating sphere that expressed disappointment through silence.
He sighed.
"…Why does this always happen to me."
Bakery Chaos, Powered by Children
A few days later, Jin arrived at the bakery for another slow morning shift. Rosette hovered behind him like an annoyed moon orbiting a thoroughly unimpressive planet.
The delinquents greeted him with lazy waves.
"Yo, boss."
"Morning, boss."
"…Don't call me that," Jin muttered, slipping on his apron.
Rosette whispered,
"You appear to have a following."
"I don't."
"They seem convinced."
"…I'm not responsible."
As the morning passed, Jin focused on bread, customers, and preventing Rosette from knocking over the product displays with her hovering disdain.
Then—
A small hand grabbed her.
A kid—maybe six years old, cheeks stuffed like a hamster, eyes glittering like treasure—lifted Rosette off the counter.
"WAAAAAAH!! IT'S A FLOATING BALL!! IT'S MINE!"
Rosette replied calmly,
"Incorrect. I am not yours, child."
The kid hugged her tighter.
Rosette's lights flickered in affront.
Jin approached slowly, sighing.
"…Hey. That's mine."
"No!! I found it!!" the kid wailed.
Rosette turned to Jin mid-struggle.
"Owner, remove the minor. Politely."
Jin knelt.
"…Listen. She's important to me."
The kid just cried harder.
Rosette vibrated in helpless irritation.
"…I'm sorry," Jin continued softly, "but crying won't change it. Give her back."
Words simple.
Tone firm.
Calm but unwavering.
Something in the moment clicked—not just emotionally but physically.
A warmth washed over the air.
Rosette glowed—soft gold pulsing like a heartbeat.
Jin froze.
"…Uh."
The kid froze.
"Is she exploding!?"
Rosette's voice grew clearer, resonant:
"Resonance detected. Score threshold surpassed."
Rosette Data Log:
SCORE Resonance:3...4..5
Level 5: Evolution, Trigger: Warmth
Light flooded outward.
When it faded—
The sphere was gone.
In its place floated a sleek cat-themed automaton: spherical, glowing ears, tail-shaped stabilizer, elegant lines of soft neon.
She blinked her golden eyes.
Her movements were fluid, refined.
"Faulty as you may be, Owner… today I, Rosette, acknowledge you as—"
A small bow.
"Master."
Jin stared.
"…Why. Why did that make me a Master."
The kid burst into renewed awe.
"SHE TURNED INTO A CAT! HEY GIVE HER BACK!! SHE'S COOLER NOW!!"
Jin lifted Rosette under one arm.
His face was deadpan.
"-_-+"
"…No."
The child wailed.
Rosette floated smugly.
The Beginning of Trouble
Jin walked home with a newly evolved, hovering cat-sphere floating at shoulder height.
Rosette spoke with prim satisfaction:
"Master, your resonance capability appears unexpectedly high."
"…Don't call me Master."
"Request denied."
Jin sighed.
Scratched the back of his head.
And somewhere in the distance—
the first threads of paradox tightened.