Silence blanketed the apartment like a heavy fog—undisturbed, comforting, and complete. Tucked away in a modest residential building on the quiet edge of the city, a single room stood still in the cradle of early morning.
It wasn't grand, but it had a kind of solemn neatness. The floor was a polished gray laminate, the walls a dull off-white. The furniture was minimal but functional: a wooden-framed bed tucked into the left corner, its thick white blankets gently rising and falling like waves with each breath of the one sleeping beneath. A compact bookshelf stood beside a simple closet. Across from the bed, a worn two-seater couch faced a small television, idle and dusted with disuse. The kitchen was adjacent—open-concept, with a modest refrigerator, stove, and a single long table that doubled as both dining surface and workspace.
Strangely, the bathroom door was situated directly beside the kitchen table—an awkward design flaw that no architect would brag about. But the tenant here had long since stopped caring. It was just a place to live, after all.
A faint light began to slip through the cracks of long, heavy blackout curtains. Thin slivers of gold edged across the room's surfaces—catching on corners, softening the silence.
The moment felt eternal. Peaceful. Almost sacred.
Until it wasn't.
BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.
The mechanical chirp of an alarm clock shattered the stillness like a rock through glass. The sound wasn't loud, but in the context of that silence, it might as well have been an explosion.
From the cocoon of blankets on the bed, a pale arm emerged—languid, thin, but not frail. It reached for the small wooden nightstand beside the bed and pulled the phone into the blanket like a prisoner escaping into a bunker. Moments later, the alarm was silenced.
A few seconds passed. Then, with slow, almost theatrical movement, the blanket stirred. A figure rose like a vampire resurrecting from its coffin.
The blanket fell away, revealing the boy beneath.
His name was Kage Ryujin.
Eighteen years old. Japanese. Messy black hair falling loosely over half-lidded eyes. His skin was fair but not sickly, and his expression was entirely unreadable—somewhere between drowsy and deadpan. He sat hunched, spine curved like a question mark, rubbing the sleep from his right eye with the heel of his palm. Then the left. His movements were sluggish, but not careless. Everything about him felt... muted.
He yawned once—softly, almost soundlessly—then stood. His aqua-colored pajamas hung comfortably on his lean frame, their fabric catching the morning light in soft hues. As he moved, he made his bed with absent-minded precision, smoothing the wrinkles with practiced ease. Not because he was particularly tidy, but because it was what he always did. Routine.
With a calmness bordering on mechanical, Ryujin stepped to the window. He grabbed the thick curtains and slid them aside.
Golden light flooded in.
It struck his face with sudden warmth, and he instinctively raised a hand to shield his eyes. The light cut through the early haze of sleep but failed to spark much reaction. No awe. No joy. Just a soft squint and a blink.
He stood there for a moment longer, basking in the silence again—though now broken, altered. The room was awake now, and so was he.
This was his apartment. Not rented. Owned. Paid in full.
He lived here alone.
Seven years ago, when he was just eleven, his parents died in a car accident. A split-second tragedy. A metal scream. A wall of glass. And then silence. When he woke up, there was no one left to hold his hand. No family. No comforting voice. Just the dull, beeping machines of the hospital and the sterile scent of blood and rubbing alcohol.
He should have died too. Part of him often wondered why he didn't. But he walked away from the wreckage with barely a scratch. Physically, at least.
The inheritance had been more than enough. His father had been successful, his mother smart with finances. Together, they'd left him with enough money to live comfortably through his teenage years and into early adulthood.
But money couldn't buy companionship. It couldn't replicate warmth. It couldn't bring back feelings.
Since then, Ryujin had changed. He still smiled sometimes, when necessary. Still laughed occasionally when something truly caught him off guard. But deep down, much of what made him human had been dimmed—like someone turned the volume down on his emotions and then snapped off the knob.
He wasn't cold. He wasn't cruel. He was just... tired. Of everything.
With the sunlight painting his floor and his apartment half-warm, Ryujin slipped his phone into the pocket of his pajama pants and walked toward the kitchen. He poured himself a glass of water—cool and filtered from the dispenser—and drank it quietly. No dramatic sip. Just hydration.
It was the start of another day.
A summer day, in fact—hot and bright, and the kind most teens spent out with friends or killing time online. Ryujin? He had no plans. No college yet. Just time. And games. Lots of games.
He leaned against the wall, staring at the stillness of the room again.
Nothing out of place.
Nothing unusual.
Just the beginning of what he expected to be a boring, normal day.
_____________________________
A kettle began to boil on the stove, steam curling upward like a ghost stretching after sleep. The fluorescent light above the kitchen flickered on with a soft click, illuminating the small cooking space in a sterile glow.
Kage Ryujin stood in front of the open cupboard, scanning its contents with half-lidded eyes. Cans, snacks, instant meals. His hand lazily reached for a familiar package—instant ramen, shrimp flavor. Cheap, easy, and just enough to shut his stomach up for the next few hours.
He tore the plastic with a quiet rip and emptied the dried noodles into a ceramic bowl. His movements were sluggish but precise, the product of countless mornings like this. He wasn't rushing. He had nowhere to be.
While the water boiled, Ryujin opened the fridge and pulled out a carton of eggs. He cracked one with one hand on the edge of the counter, letting the yolk slip into the bowl of noodles like a golden eye. No flair. Just muscle memory.
The kettle clicked off. Steam hissed as he poured the hot water into the bowl, and the scent of artificial umami filled the air. For a moment, the room felt warm—alive, even.
Ryujin took the bowl to the table and sat down, the legs of the chair scraping lightly against the floor. He leaned over the ramen and took a long, noisy slurp, the broth splashing against his lips. A small piece of egg clung to his chopsticks, and he chewed it absentmindedly, his expression unchanged.
With one hand, he fished his phone from his pajama pocket and unlocked it.
Facebook.
Scroll.
Slurp.
Scroll again.
His feed was a blur of irrelevant posts, memes, political drama, blurry dog photos. He stopped briefly on a video of a raccoon trying to wash cotton candy, watched it dissolve in water, and moved on.
He was in a few groups, but one stood out:
"Espers of the World - Official Fan Community."
Ryujin was a longtime member. He rarely posted, but he read everything. His favorite posts were about secret areas, obscure weapons, or broken builds—especially the ones that developers hadn't patched yet. Lately, the page had been flooded with memes about a bug that made one of the game's toughest bosses moonwalk during combat. Ryujin chuckled silently through his nose.
Still chewing, he scrolled past a new post—someone bragging about finding a hidden vending machine that sold useless plush toys in-game—and took another loud sip of his noodles.
A message pinged.
[Unknown Sender]
"Want to live in your favorite game? Transfer just ¥1,000. Live the dream."
"Add ¥5,000 for hidden powers. No refunds."
Ryujin froze mid-slurp. The steam rose around his face, clouding his vision slightly.
"…What the hell is this?" he muttered, his voice groggy, barely audible over the sound of him chewing.
He stared at the message, brow slightly furrowed—but not in concern. Just mild confusion.
It was one of the dumbest scams he'd ever seen. The wording, the timing, the boldness. He smirked faintly.
"What kind of broke lunatic runs this crap?"
"Your bills must be insane if this is how you're earning."
He was about to delete it when another ping hit his screen.
[Unknown Sender]
"Not a scam. Also, my bills aren't that bad. Just efficient marketing."
His finger hovered over the screen.
"…Tch."
That one startled him—not by what it said, but by how well it matched his thoughts. Exactly. Word for word. But he didn't dwell on it. He wasn't the type to assume the supernatural just because of a coincidence. It was probably some weird scammer app reading cached data from his phone.
Still…
He sighed, put the phone on the table, and finished his ramen with a final slurp. He didn't even bother to savor the last bit of broth. Once done, he stood and walked to the sink, rinsed the bowl, and left it there. He didn't feel like cleaning. Not yet.
Phone back in pocket.
Next stop: the bathroom.
It was still weirdly placed beside the kitchen table—a design that made every guest uncomfortable. Not that Ryujin had guests.
Inside, the bathroom was as minimalistic as the rest of his home. White tile floor. A mirror above the sink. A glass shelf holding toiletries arranged with halfhearted order.
He stepped in front of the mirror and stared. His own reflection blinked back at him—dark eyes under darker hair, lips slightly parted, face completely neutral.
He picked up his toothbrush, squeezed out a strip of minty paste, and began brushing. Slowly. Carelessly.
His gaze never left the mirror.
He looked… empty. Not tired. Not depressed. Just detached—like a guy brushing someone else's teeth in someone else's body.
His free hand reached into his pocket again, and out came the phone.
Facebook. Scroll. Slurp. Rinse. Repeat.
Back in the Esper game group, someone posted a screenshot of a minor boss with the caption:
"This mf really thought he had a chance [Skull Emoji]"
Ryujin snorted once. Barely.
More hidden area. Rumors. More useless memes. The page had grown quiet lately. Updates were rare. The developers had gone radio silent. The perfect time for conspiracies and nonsense.
Then another ping.
[Unknown Sender]
"Ready to go? This time, it's not just a game."
"You've already paid."
Ryujin blinked.
"…Paid?"
Before he could even think to respond, his stomach grumbled loudly.
"Oh, right…"
His body shuddered slightly as the pressure built. Urgently.
He sighed, stuffed the phone back into his pocket, and shuffled over to the toilet after finishing brushing his teeth. With the same deadpan calmness, he slid down his pajama bottoms, sat, and let nature take its painful course.
The silence returned—broken only by the occasional tap of his thumb against the screen as he scrolled.
More memes. More shitposts. Literally.
Then it happened.
A soft hum filled the room. Faint at first—like static leaking from another dimension. The tile beneath his feet began to glow.
"…Huh?"
A magic circle unfurled under him—pale blue and vibrant green, its patterns ancient and complex, pulsing like a heartbeat. It spun slowly, runes twisting and locking into place.
He blinked, barely reacting.
"…What the—"
And then, with a sudden explosion of light and soundless puuf, Kage Ryujin vanished.
The phone dropped to the tile.
The ramen bowl stayed in the sink.