The sound did not belong in his room, and certainly neither did the view of a blade splitting his door in half.
Keita's hand froze halfway toward his notebook, his pencil hovering over a failed entry. For a brief second, his brain tried to provide a rational explanation. Maybe the earthquake shifted the door frame. Maybe the wood had simply reached its limit.
But his door didn't crack like what a normal natural disaster would cause. It was a clean, diagonal bisect.
Keita stared. His mind performed a hard reset. There were only so many things a human brain could process at once, and "door sliced by invisible force" was currently over the memory limit.
For a heartbeat, the two halves stayed together. Then, a heavy kick landed. The top half slid down and crashed into the carpet, revealing a man standing in the gap.
He was wearing armor, layered plates of dark, weathered metal held together by red cords. He looked like he had walked out of a museum exhibition, except for the fact that he was breathing. In his right hand, he held a katana, angled slightly toward the floor.
The man kicked the remaining bottom half of the poor door, and stepped over the wreckage without hesitation. His movements were steady and controlled, as if invading a teenager's bedroom via property damage was a perfectly normal social interaction.
Keita remained on his chair, his brain seemed to be lagging.
The man looked at him. There was no confusion in his eyes, no surprise at the sight of a shut-in surrounded by manga and empty soda cans. There was only an attempt of confirmation.
"Are you Keita Sato?"
The voice was flat. It lacked any hint of aggression, which somehow made the situation significantly worse.
Keita's eyes were wide. His mouth was slightly parted, words having been prepared and then abandoned halfway. Nothing came out but a faint, pathetic wheeze.
His brain, still lagging, skipped several logical steps and went directly to the most basic form of acknowledgement.
He nodded.
It was a tiny movement, but enough confirmation to make the man raise his sword.
"I am Seijiro," he said, while his katana hung in the air. "Warrior of Lord Shinoda."
Then, with the same casual tone, announced his next words:
"My mission is to kill you."
Keita blinked. Very slowly.
Seijiro moved without warning. One moment he was a statue, and the next, he was a blur of steel directly in front of Keita.
The sword came down.
Keita didn't have time to think. His body reacted on pure, panicked instinct. He threw himself sideways, a clumsy mess of falling off his chair and across the floor.
The blade sliced through the air where his shoulder had been a millisecond before. It hit the top part of his chair with a sharp crack.
Keita scrambled backward, his palms slipping against the floor. His breath came in uneven bursts. His heart was beating so fast he felt he might die of a heart attack.
"Wait," Keita gasped. The word came out automatically.
But Seijiro did not wait. He adjusted his grip, pulling the blade from the chair, one step forward, and swung his katana again.
Keita stared at him with a wide eye, and lucky for him, his instinct still worked faster than his brain. He ducked, crawling under Seijiro's arm and bolting for the door.
On the way out, his foot hit his phone, which was lying on the ground from the earthquake. He scooped up the device, thinking it was the smartest thing a Gen Z could do in a crisis, and scrambled toward the stairs.
Realizing his prey had escaped, Seijiro quickly turned and followed Keita down the steps.
Keita forced himself to run frantically. Behind him, the footsteps started again.
They weren't hurried, nor did they stumble. Each step was heavy, rhythmic, and perfectly timed. That was the part that unsettled him the most. Seijiro was not chasing him like someone afraid of losing a target, but like someone who already knew the outcome and was simply walking toward it.
Keita forced himself forward, his breathing growing uneven as he reached the kitchen and turned in too quickly, his hand catching the edge of the counter to steady himself. The space was smaller than his room, more confined, with fewer exits. The window was there, but too narrow and too high to be useful without preparation. Something he did not have.
He turned just as Seijiro stepped into the kitchen. The katana remained in Seijiro's hand, angled slightly forward now. There was no hesitation in him, no visible reaction to the unfamiliar environment.
Keita's thoughts began to narrow down to desperate strategies.
Fighting was impossible. Escaping through the window was unrealistic. Hiding would only delay what was already happening.
So the environment had to change.
His gaze shifted and landed on the stove. The idea formed in his head. Something that would force a reaction big enough to create an escape for him.
He moved toward it immediately, his hand turning the knob quickly. A small flame appeared, flickering at first before finally stabilizing. Keita grabbed a nearby paper towel and pushed it closer, watching as the edge finally caught the fire.
The fire spread faster than he expected, the heat rising sharply as smoke began to form. It wasn't large, but it was enough. Enough to trigger something.
Behind him, Seijiro slowed.
Keita stepped back, his eyes lifting toward the ceiling, tracking what he needed to happen next.
For a second, nothing did. His hope was almost shattered, before finally…
… the alarm erupted.
The sound filled the apartment instantly. It was too loud and sudden, the kind of sound that didn't just reach the ears but pressed against the skull itself.
Seijiro reacted. The sound was too deafening for him, and he covered his ears wincing in pain as he probably felt the sound reaching his skull.
A moment later, the sprinklers activated.
Water burst from above without warning, pouring down in heavy streams and making the burning paper in Keita's hand die. The room became soaked within seconds.
The floor grew slick almost immediately. It was enough.
Keita moved. He turned and ran out of the kitchen, his steps uneven as the wet floor threatened his balance. It was amazing how the human body and its adrenaline worked in crisis. Suddenly Keita felt like a hero in an action movie.
But he had no time to be amazed by his own skill. He needed to focus on how to escape from the Samurai trying to slice his head into two.
His hand hit the wall to steady himself as he pushed forward into the living room.
Behind him, the movement resumed. Seijiro was still coming.
Of course he was.
The disruption had slowed him, but it did not stop him. Water continued to fall from the ceiling, soaking his armor, dripping from his helmet, making every movement slower but it was still terrifying nonetheless.
Keita ran towards the entrance to the garage. Behind him, the alarm still screamed and water still fell.
And somewhere within that noise… footsteps still followed.