Yuuta walked away from Fiona's house with his head down and his hand pressed firmly against his swelling eye, trying to stem the pain that radiated through his skull with every pulse of his heartbeat.
He could have fought back.
The thought flickered through his mind, dim and distant, like a memory of someone else's life. He could have defended himself. Could have thrown a punch of his own. Could have—maybe, just maybe—landed something that would have made Loid think twice before attacking again.
But what would be the point?
Loid was right. Not about everything—Yuuta still didn't understand half of what had been said, the cryptic references to Japan and sacrifice and things he'd never known about Fiona. But about the core of it? About Fiona being hurt because of him?
That was true.
He was guilty.
However unintentionally, however unknowingly, he had caused pain to someone who had once mattered to him. And guilty people didn't get to throw punches. Guilty people didn't get to fight back. Guilty people took their punishment and walked away, hoping that maybe, somehow, it would be enough.
So he walked.
Down the familiar street, past the shops he'd visited a hundred times, past the neighbors who waved and then did double-takes at his bruised and swollen face. His left eye was nearly shut now, the skin around it purple and tight, the flesh puffed up like he'd been stung by a dozen bees. It hurt to blink. It hurt to see. It hurt to exist in a body that felt like it was constantly betraying him.
But he kept walking.
One foot in front of the other.
Home, he told himself, the word a lifeline in the darkness of his thoughts. Just get home. Elena will make it better. Elena always makes it better.
Behind him, Loid stood at the window of Fiona's apartment.
Watching.
Waiting.
His silhouette was dark against the glass, a figure carved from shadow and regret. His fists were still clenched at his sides, knuckles white with tension. His jaw was still tight, muscles jumping beneath the skin. His heart was still raging against the man who had hurt the girl he loved, the girl he'd protected for years, the girl he'd watched suffer in silence while pretending everything was fine.
Then his phone rang.
The sound cut through the silence like a blade.
He pulled it from his pocket.
Glanced at the screen.
His expression changed instantly—fury replaced by focus, emotion replaced by duty, the personal swallowed by the professional.
"Yes, Chief."
He listened.
His eyes narrowed.
Nodded once.
Listened some more.
"Understood. I'll be there. Roger."
He ended the call.
Stared at the phone for a long moment, the screen going dark in his hand.
Then he looked out the window again—at the empty street where Yuuta had disappeared, at the ordinary world going about its ordinary business, at the life he was about to leave behind.
His eyes hardened.
Duty calls.
He grabbed his jacket from the hook by the door.
Left the house without looking back.
And vanished into the city, swallowed by shadows and purpose and the weight of secrets he couldn't share.
Yuuta climbed the stairs to his apartment.
Each step was harder than the last.
His breath came in warm, ragged gasps that seemed to echo in the narrow stairwell. His legs felt like lead, heavy and unresponsive, barely able to lift themselves from one step to the next. His vision—already compromised by the swelling eye—began to blur at the edges, colors bleeding into each other, shapes losing their definition.
What's wrong with me?
He'd taken worse hits before. Gotten into worse fights. Survived worse injuries in the orphanage, in the streets, in the long years of learning to fend for himself.
But this felt different.
This felt like something inside was wrong.
Not just the pain. Not just the exhaustion. Something deeper. Something in his chest that felt heavy and wrong and scared.
He shook it off.
Probably just exhaustion. Stress. Not enough sleep. I'll rest when I get inside. Elena will be there. Erza will be there. Everything will be fine.
Third floor.
His door.
The familiar wood, the familiar handle, the familiar welcome that had become the center of his world.
He pushed it open.
"Elena?"
Silence.
"Elena, I'm home!"
Nothing.
He stepped inside.
The living room was empty. The TV was off, the cushions untouched, the space where Elena usually played completely still. The kitchen was empty too—no sound of cooking, no smell of anything being prepared, just the quiet hum of the refrigerator doing its endless work.
He checked the bedroom.
Empty.
The bathroom.
Empty.
The small balcony where Elena sometimes stood to watch the city.
Empty.
"Erza?"
His voice cracked on the name.
It still felt strange to say it. Strange and warm and terrifying all at once, like speaking a spell that could change everything.
No response.
Panic began to creep up his spine, cold and insidious.
Where are they?
Did something happen?
Did they leave?
Did she finally decide that I'm not worth the trouble, that the one year was too long, that—
His eyes caught something.
A piece of paper on the sofa.
Neatly folded.
Waiting for him.
He grabbed it.
Opened it with trembling hands.
The handwriting was perfect. Elegant. Each letter formed with the kind of precision that came from centuries of practice, from a lifetime of writing important documents and signing royal decrees. Erza had mastered human language faster than any mortal could dream of—another reminder that she was not, would never be, ordinary.
The note read:
---
Yuuta read it once.
Then again.
Then a third time, just to make sure his swelling eye wasn't playing tricks on him.
"You disgusting mortal, don't misunderstand the situation just because I wasn't home when you arrived.
I know you're reading this right now. And I can already imagine the look on your face when you opened the door and didn't find me here. You probably felt relieved… maybe even happy for a moment.
Don't flatter yourself.
I didn't leave.
I'm still here, and I have no intention of disappearing so easily. So erase that foolish idea of living peacefully without me.
Elena and I went to the bookstore for a while. She wanted to see the new storybooks, and I decided to accompany her. We'll be back tonight.
By the time we return, you'd better have something prepared. Don't make Elena wait, and don't embarrass yourself by pretending you're too tired to move.
…And try not to collapse from exhaustion before we get back.
Goodbye, pathetic mortal."
— YOUR DEATH.
A smile spread across his face.
It hurt—his bruised cheek protested fiercely, the swollen skin pulling tight against the expression—but he couldn't stop it. Couldn't hold it back. Couldn't do anything but stand there in his empty apartment, holding a piece of paper that should have meant nothing but somehow meant everything.
She left a note.
She told me where she was going.
She didn't just disappear.
She... she didn't want me to worry.
The warmth that flooded his chest had nothing to do with fever, nothing to do with physical sensation at all. It was something else. Something deeper. Something that made his heart beat faster and his breath catch and his mind race with possibilities he was too afraid to name.
She's still cold. Still ruthless. Still calls me pathetic.
But she left a note.
For me.
He pressed the paper to his chest, right over his heart, as if he could absorb the words through his skin, make them part of him.
Closed his eyes.
And for the first time since leaving Fiona's house, since Loid's fist connected with his face, since everything had gone wrong—
He felt something other than pain.
Hope.
He opened his eyes.
Looked at the kitchen.
At the stove with its four burners, two of which actually worked consistently.
At the ingredients waiting patiently in the fridge, in the cabinets, on the counter.
At the opportunity to do something, to create something, to show her that he was trying.
"Okay," he said to the empty apartment, his voice steady despite everything. "She gave me a chance. She let me call her by her name. The least I can do is make her a thank-you dish."
He rolled up his sleeves.
Ignored the throbbing in his eye.
Ignored the weakness in his legs.
Ignored everything except the task ahead.
Something special, he thought, his mind already racing through recipes and possibilities. Something that says 'thank you for staying.' Something that says 'I'm trying.' Something that says—
He didn't finish the thought.
Didn't need to.
The kitchen waited.
And so did he.
Yuuta surveyed his domain—the small, cramped, imperfect kitchen that had somehow become the heart of his home. Pots and pans hung from hooks. Knives waited in their block. The stove hummed quietly, ready for action.
He reached for the refrigerator handle.
Then stopped.
Froze mid-motion.
A thought crept into his mind like a thief in the night, silent and unwelcome and absolutely devastating.
Wait a second.
How did Erza get money to buy books?
He rubbed his cheek thoughtfully, his finger tracing the swollen skin around his eye, the motion automatic, unconscious.
She doesn't have a job. She doesn't have human currency. She doesn't have any way to—
His eyes went wide.
The good one and the swollen one.
"No."
He spun around so fast he nearly lost his balance.
Rushed to the corner of the living room where a small cardboard box sat beside the TV, tucked away behind a stack of magazines. His gaming console fund. Money he'd been saving for months—years, really, if he was honest with himself—to finally buy that new system he'd been dreaming about, the one that would let him escape into other worlds when this one got too heavy.
The box was there.
Still sitting in its usual spot.
Still looking innocent.
But the money?
The money was gone.
In its place sat another piece of paper.
Neatly folded.
Mockingly patient.
Waiting for him like a trap he'd already walked into.
Yuuta snatched it up.
Unfolded it with trembling hands.
One sentence.
Three words.
Perfect, elegant, infuriating handwriting.
"Idiot mortal."
Yuuta's eye twitched.
Both of them, actually—the good one and the swollen one, in perfect synchronized fury.
His grip tightened on the paper, crumpling the edges.
His face—already bruised and swollen and generally a disaster—twisted into an expression of pure, helpless, magnificent rage.
"THAT—THAT—THAT LIZARD QUEEN! " He shook the crumpled note at the ceiling, at the universe, at whatever cosmic force had decided to make his life this complicated. "SHE STOLE MY GAMING MONEY! MY ENTIRE GAMING MONEY! DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA HOW MANY SHIFTS I WORKED FOR THAT?!"
The apartment, predictably, did not respond.
He shook the paper harder.
"DO YOU?! DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA WHAT IT TAKES TO SAVE UP IN THIS ECONOMY?! THE HOURS! THE SACRIFICE! THE NOODLES I ATE JUST TO PUT A FEW EXTRA YEN IN THAT BOX!"
Silence.
The refrigerator hummed.
The clock ticked.
The world continued spinning, completely indifferent to his suffering.
Yuuta deflated.
His shoulders sagged like someone had let the air out of them.
His arm dropped to his side, the crumpled note hanging limply from his fingers.
"What am I supposed to do?" he muttered to the empty room, his voice hollow with resignation. "She's a dragon. I'm a human with a swollen eye and zero combat skills. I can't fight her. I can't reason with her. I can't do anything."
He slumped against the wall.
Slid down until he was sitting on the floor.
Stared at the ceiling.
Felt the weight of his own powerlessness pressing down on him like a physical thing.
His gaming money. Gone.
His dreams of late-night gaming sessions. Vanished.
His carefully constructed plans for happiness. Stolen by a silver-haired thief who called him pathetic and then left a note just to rub it in.
Then—
Wait.
A thought.
A dangerous thought.
A thought that made him sit up straighter, that made his eyes narrow, that made a slow, terrible smile spread across his bruised face.
I can't fight her. I can't reason with her.
But I can cook.
He straightened.
The smile widened.
"Yeah," he whispered, the word carrying the weight of revelation. "Yeah, I can."
He pushed off the wall.
Walked toward the kitchen with renewed purpose, with fire in his heart, with the kind of determination that moved mountains and started wars.
"I'll make the most delicious, most incredible, most mouth-watering dish this world has ever seen." He grabbed ingredients from the fridge—eggs, vegetables, leftover meat. From the cabinets—noodles, broth, spices. From every corner of his small kitchen—things he'd been saving for special occasions, things he'd never used, things that were about to become weapons.
His hands moved with purpose.
His mind raced with possibilities.
"And when she comes home, starving and expecting to be served..."
He paused.
Turned to face the empty living room, the absent queen, the universe itself.
His eyes gleamed with the light of righteous vengeance.
"I won't give her a single bite until she gets on her knees and apologizes. "
In his mind, the scene played out like a movie.
Erza, kneeling before him on the kitchen floor.
Erza, her cold eyes finally showing something like regret.
Erza, begging for food, for forgiveness, for another chance.
Erza, admitting that he—Yuuta, the pathetic mortal, the gaming-money loser, the man with one swollen eye and zero combat skills—had won.
He laughed.
An evil laugh.
The kind of laugh villains laughed right before their plans went horribly, magnificently wrong.
"Revenge," he declared to the empty kitchen, cracking an egg with dramatic, theatrical flair, "is a dish best served cold."
He dumped the egg into a bowl.
Grabbed another.
Cracked it too.
"And also with noodles."
The eggs hit the bowl with satisfying splashes.
"Tonight," he announced, whisking with vengeance in his heart, "we make Unique Dish."
He stopped.
Imagined the scene again.
Himself as king, seated on a throne made of pots and pans. Erza below him, kneeling, reaching for the food, begging—
"Yeah, that's not happening." He shook the fantasy away, returning to reality. "She'd freeze me solid before I finished the sentence. Then she'd eat the ramen anyway. And probably leave another note making fun of me Infront of my Grave."
But a man could dream.
And dream he did.
---
RAMEN.
The word echoed in his mind like a battle cry, like a declaration of war, like the opening salvo in a campaign that would change everything.
Not ordinary ramen.
Not the cheap instant kind he survived on during college, the ones that came in Styrofoam cups and cost less than a pack of gum. Not the sad, desperate meals he threw together when he was too tired to care and too broke to afford better.
Real ramen.
The kind that took hours to make. The kind with broth so rich it coated your soul and warmed you from the inside out. The kind with noodles perfectly chewy, toppings perfectly arranged, everything perfectly, meticulously, lovingly perfect.
"This," Yuuta announced to the empty kitchen, his voice carrying the weight of prophecy, "will be my masterpiece."
He surveyed his ingredients with the eye of a general assessing troops before battle.
Pork bones? He had some in the freezer, but not enough. Not nearly enough for the kind of broth he wanted to create.
Vegetables? Limited. A few onions, some carrots, the sad remains of a cabbage that had seen better days.
Noodles? He'd have to make them from scratch. Store-bought wouldn't do. Store-bought was for peasants, for ordinary meals, for nights when you just wanted to eat and be done with it. This was not that night.
"I need help."
He grabbed his keys.
Walked next door.
Mrs. Hayashi was in her seventies, had lived in the building for forty years, and ran her apartment like a combination of a grandmother's house and a black-market ingredient exchange. Her kitchen was a treasure trove of obscure ingredients, her freezer a museum of meats and bones saved for "just the right occasion." If anyone in this building had what Yuuta needed, it was her.
He knocked.
She opened the door.
Took one look at his bruised and swollen face.
Her eyes went wide.
"Yuuta! What happened to your—"
"Long story." He held up a hand, cutting her off before she could dive into the concerned-grandma routine that would take twenty minutes and involve tea and cookies. "Do you have pork bones?"
She blinked.
"...What?"
"Pork bones. For ramen broth. The good kind, with marrow. Also maybe some kombu? Dried mushrooms? Bonito flakes? The real stuff, not the powdered kind?"
Mrs. Hayashi stared at him like he'd grown a second head.
"Are you cooking for an army?"
"Worse." Yuuta's expression was deadly serious, his one good eye burning with intensity. "I'm cooking for a dragon."
Mrs. Hayashi blinked.
Then she laughed.
"Oh, Yuuta." She patted his cheek—the unbruised one, mercifully. "Your imagination is so vivid. You should write stories instead of whatever you do at that university."
Yuuta didn't correct her.
Didn't explain.
Didn't try to make her understand that he wasn't being metaphorical, that there was an actual dragon queen sitting on his sofa right now reading a book and judging his entire existence.
He just waited.
Mrs. Hayashi sighed, still chuckling.
"I have some things. Come in."
Twenty minutes later, Yuuta returned to his apartment with arms full of ingredients.
Pork bones—check. Enough for a broth that would simmer for hours and fill the apartment with the smell of heaven.
Kombu—check. Dried kelp, essential for that umami depth that separated good ramen from great ramen.
Dried mushrooms—check. Shiitake, specifically, because Mrs. Hayashi didn't mess around.
Bonito flakes—check. Courtesy of Mr. Yamamoto from 2B, who had apparently been saving them for a "special occasion" and decided that Yuuta's dragon situation qualified.
Various vegetables—from three different neighbors who were now extremely curious about what Yuuta was cooking and had made him promise to share.
And a bag of flour that Mrs. Hayashi had pressed into his hands with the words: "Make enough for me too, or I'll tell everyone about the time you accidentally set your kitchen on fire trying to make flambé."
Yuuta had agreed immediately.
The kitchen became a war zone.
Not a messy one—Yuuta was too skilled for that, too focused, too driven. But a focused one. A determined one. A space where ordinary rules didn't apply and only the food mattered.
He started with the broth.
The pork bones went into a massive pot—the biggest he owned, the one he'd inherited from his orphanage days—covered with cold water, brought to a rolling boil. The scum rose to the surface, gray and unappealing, and he skimmed it carefully, obsessively, until the water ran clear and clean.
Then he lowered the heat.
Added the kombu.
The dried mushrooms.
The bonito flakes wrapped carefully in cheesecloth, creating a package that would infuse the broth without leaving floaties.
"Simmer," he murmured, like a prayer, like an invocation. "Simmer for hours. Become beautiful."
The broth would take time.
Hours.
But that was okay.
He had other things to do.
The noodles came next.
Flour on the counter, a small mountain of it. A well in the center, like a crater in a white landscape. Eggs—fresh from Mrs. Hayashi's secret stash, the ones she kept for special occasions—cracked and poured into the hollow. A splash of water. A pinch of salt. A tablespoon of kansui, because real ramen noodles needed that alkaline kick.
He mixed.
First with a fork, slowly incorporating the flour into the eggs. Then with his hands, when the mixture became too stiff for utensils.
He kneaded.
Worked the dough with the heel of his palm, folding and pressing, folding and pressing, building the gluten network that would give the noodles their characteristic chew.
Sweat formed on his brow.
His arms ached.
His swollen eye throbbed in protest.
He didn't stop.
The dough came together under his hands—smooth, elastic, alive in a way that only handmade food could be. He could feel it responding to his touch, could sense the transformation happening at a molecular level.
He wrapped it in plastic.
Set it aside to rest.
"Two hours," he told it, his voice firm with authority. "Be ready."
The dough, naturally, did not respond.
While the broth simmered and the dough rested, Yuuta prepared the toppings.
Chashu pork—pork belly, rolled tightly and tied with kitchen twine, seared in a hot pan until golden brown on all sides, then transferred to a pot with soy sauce, mirin, sake, and enough sugar to balance the salt. It would simmer for hours, absorbing the flavors, becoming tender enough to fall apart at a glance.
Soft-boiled eggs—cooked exactly seven minutes in boiling water, shocked immediately in an ice bath to stop the cooking, peeled carefully under running water so the delicate whites didn't tear. Then they went into the leftover chashu liquid, to marinate overnight, to develop that perfect jammy yolk and savory exterior.
Menma—bamboo shoots, sautéed in sesame oil with a touch of chili, until they were fragrant and slightly crisp.
Negi—green onions, sliced thinly on a bias, because that's how professionals did it, because the angle affected the texture, because details mattered.
Nori—toasted over an open flame until crisp, then cut into perfect rectangles with a sharp knife.
He worked in a state of flow.
The world outside the kitchen disappeared.
There was only the food.
Only the process.
Only the love he was pouring into every single element.
---
The bookstore was warm.
Not the temperature—that was perfectly controlled by the air conditioning humming quietly in the corner, maintaining the kind of environment that kept pages from yellowing and customers comfortable. But the atmosphere was warm. Soft lighting cast golden pools across wooden shelves packed with colorful spines. The gentle rustle of pages turning created a constant, soothing whisper. The occasional cough of someone lost in a story, the soft footsteps of browsers moving through aisles, the distant sound of a coffee machine in the attached café—all of it combined into something that felt almost like home.
Erza stood in the center of it all like a painting that had come to life, like a dream that had somehow wandered into reality.
She wore one of the dresses Yuuta had bought her—a flowing white garment with delicate violet embroidery along the edges, the fabric light and elegant against her skin. It moved with her like water, catching the soft light and scattering it, making her look like something from another world.
Which, she supposed, she was.
It was the first time she'd worn something that was truly hers in this world. Not borrowed. Not found. Not the clothes she'd arrived in, which were beautiful but carried the weight of another life. This was new. This was chosen.
The first time she'd worn something he had chosen for her.
She should have felt strange about that.
Should have felt... something.
But all she felt was right.
The dress fit perfectly. Moved perfectly. Felt perfect against her skin, like it had been made for her—which, in a way, it had. It was as if Yuuta had reached into her mind, pulled out her exact preferences, her precise measurements, her deepest aesthetic desires, and brought them into existence without ever asking a single question.
How did he know?
The question surfaced again, as it had a dozen times since she'd discovered the bags.
She pushed it away.
Concentrated on the books.
Erza was reading a book on human financial systems when the realization hit her.
She'd picked it up almost randomly, drawn by the title—Personal Finance for Beginners—and the thought that she should probably understand how money worked in this world. After all, she was going to be here for a year. Possibly longer, depending on... things.
The book explained currency. Exchange rates. Inflation. Savings. Investments. The difference between wants and needs.
And as she read, numbers began to form in her mind.
Numbers that didn't make sense.
She calculated.
Re-calculated.
Calculated again.
Yuuta's rent.
Yuuta's utilities.
Yuuta's food expenses.
The clothes he bought—seventeen dresses, dozens of outfits for Elena, all of it quality, all of it expensive.
The gaming money she'd taken.
The total.
Her eyes widened.
This idiot.
This absolute, complete, infuriating idiot.
He's spending like there's no tomorrow.
Like money grows on trees.
Like he doesn't have two extra people to feed and clothe and house for an entire year.
A rage began to build in her chest—not the cold rage of battle, but something hotter. Something almost like... frustration.
Does he want us to starve?
Does he want to end up on the streets?
What the hell is he thinking, spending like this when he barely makes enough to support himself?
She gripped the book tighter.
What kind of fool—
Then she stopped.
Froze.
A thought crept into her mind, unwelcome and undeniable.
Wait a second.
Why do I care?
The question hit her like a physical blow.
Why does it matter if he spends too much?
Why does it matter if we starve?
I'm here to judge him. To decide his fate. To possibly end his existence.
Why do I care about his finances?
Why do I care about his well-being?
Why do I—
She slapped herself.
Not hard.
Just enough.
The sharp sound drew stares from nearby customers, but she didn't notice. Didn't care.
Stop it.
Stop thinking about him.
Stop caring about him.
He's nothing.
He's pathetic.
He's—
Her thoughts spiraled into silence.
She took a breath.
Moved to the next shelf.
She moved through the aisles slowly, deliberately, her violet eyes scanning each spine with the intensity of a general studying a battlefield. But this battlefield was made of knowledge—and knowledge, Erza had learned long ago, was the most powerful weapon of all.
She pulled a book from the shelf.
Read the description.
Replaced it.
Pulled another.
Her collection grew in her arms—history books, economics texts, technology manuals, novels from authors she'd never heard of. Every genre. Every subject. Everything that might help her understand this strange world and the people who inhabited it.
Other customers noticed her.
How could they not?
She moved like royalty, even in a bookstore. Her silver hair caught the light and scattered it like diamonds. Her face was untouched by time—flawless, ageless, inhumanly beautiful. Her dress flowed around her like water, like clouds, like something that shouldn't exist in the ordinary world.
People stared.
Whispered.
Wondered if she was a model, an actress, someone famous who had wandered in off the street.
Erza ignored them.
She was used to being watched.
Used to being whispered about.
Used to existing in a world where everyone wanted something from her and no one just... let her be.
But one thing was different today.
One thing had changed.
He bought me this dress.
The thought kept returning, unbidden, unwelcome, impossible to banish no matter how hard she tried.
He chose it for me. Thought about what I would like. Spent his money—money he barely has—on something for me.
Why?
She didn't understand.
Didn't want to understand.
But the dress felt different because of it.
Warmer.
More alive.
More hers.
"Mama! Mama!"
Elena's voice cut through her thoughts like a knife through silk.
Erza looked down.
Her daughter stood beside her, clutching a book almost as big as her head—a colorful thing covered in pictures of dinosaurs and stickers and all the things small children loved. Her violet eyes were wide with excitement, her wings fluttering slightly, her tail wagging like a puppy's.
"Mama, look! DINOSAURS!" She shoved the book toward Erza's face. "They're like dragons but with no magic! And they're extinct! And they had NAMES! Long names! Can we get it? Can we? CAN WE?!"
Erza studied the book.
Dinosaurs.
Large, extinct creatures that once ruled this planet.
Educational, in a sense.
Acceptable, as children's entertainment went.
"We'll see."
Elena's face fell so dramatically it was almost comical.
"But MAMA—"
"I said we'll see."
Elena pouted magnificently, her bottom lip sticking out, her eyes going wide and wet.
But she kept holding the book.
Erza approached the counter.
Her arms were full—stack after stack of books, seventy-eight in total, towering so high that she could barely see over them. They were a monument to her curiosity, her determination to understand this world, her refusal to remain ignorant.
She set them down with a thud that made the cashier jump.
The young man behind the counter stared.
His eyes went from the pile of books to Erza's face and back again, taking in the impossible load, the effortless strength, the absolute lack of strain in her expression.
"Ma'am..." He swallowed hard. "Are you sure you want to purchase all of these?"
"Is there a problem?"
Her voice was ice.
Pure, distilled, absolute ice.
The cashier shivered visibly.
"N-no, ma'am! No problem at all! I was just—I was thinking—how will you carry them home? They're very heavy, and—"
He smiled.
A hopeful smile.
The smile of a young man who thought he saw an opportunity, who thought a beautiful woman might be impressed by his concern, who had no idea what he was dealing with.
Erza's eyes narrowed.
"You," she said quietly, her voice dropping to temperatures that should have flash-frozen the air between them, "disgust me."
The cashier's smile froze.
His face went pale.
"If you are tired of living, you pathetic disgusting human, I will end you beautifully. Quickly. Painlessly. You won't even have time to regret your existence."
The cashier's mouth opened.
Closed.
Opened again.
Nothing came out.
"I—I—no, ma'am, I wasn't—I didn't mean—I was just trying to be helpful—" The words tumbled out in a panicked rush.
"The total."
He stammered out a number, his hands shaking as he scanned book after book after book.
"Eight hundred forty-seven dollars and thirty-two cents, ma'am."
Erza paid.
Without blinking.
Without commenting.
Without acknowledging that this was more money than Yuuta made in a week, more than he had in his entire savings account, more than he could afford to spend on himself in a year.
She simply produced the money—his money, she realized with a small pang—and placed it on the counter.
Then she grabbed the books.
All of them.
Lifted them like they weighed nothing, like they were feathers, like the laws of physics were merely suggestions she chose to ignore.
Walked toward the exit.
Customers stared.
Jaws dropped.
A woman who looked like a model, who moved like royalty, who dressed like she'd stepped out of a fashion magazine—she shouldn't have the strength of a warrior. Shouldn't be able to carry seventy-eight books with one arm. Shouldn't exist.
But Erza did.
And she didn't care what they thought.
"Mama! Mama, wait!"
Elena ran after her, tiny legs pumping, still clutching the dinosaur book.
"Mama, please? Please please please?" Her voice was desperate, hopeful, heartbreaking. "I'll be good forever! I'll eat all my vegetables! I'll never help Papa when you hit him! I'll—I'll—I'll do ANYTHING! PLEASE?"
Erza didn't slow down.
"We don't have money for dinosaurs, Elena."
"But it's not for dinosaurs! It's for ME! And KNOWLEDGE! Papa says knowledge is important!"
"Papa says a lot of things."
Elena's face crumpled.
Tears threatened.
"Ma'am!"
The cashier's voice called after them, shaky but determined.
Erza turned.
He was holding the dinosaur book, his hand trembling slightly, his face still pale from their earlier interaction.
"You can... you can take it. For free." He swallowed hard. "Since you bought so much. It's—it's store policy. For our best customers."
Erza's eyes narrowed.
"Are you flirting with me again?"
"NO!" The cashier's voice cracked with panic. "No, ma'am, I swear! I just—I felt bad for the little girl—and I was inappropriate earlier, and I'm ashamed—I saw your ring—"
He pointed.
At her hand.
At the ring she always wore—her mother's ring, passed down through generations, the only thing she had left of her family.
"You're married, right? I shouldn't have—I'm sorry."
Erza froze.
Married.
The word echoed in her mind like a bell tolling.
Married.
To Yuuta.
To that pathetic, kind, impossible mortal.
Images flashed through her mind, unbidden and unstoppable.
Yuuta smiling at her across the dinner table.
Yuuta calling her "my queen" with warmth in his voice, not fear.
Yuuta making food, buying clothes, tending to Elena, standing between her and a lion, bleeding for their daughter.
Yuuta looking at her like she mattered.
Like she was more than a queen.
Like she was a woman.
Her heart beat faster.
Her lips curved.
Just slightly.
Just enough.
"Mama?" Elena tugged her sleeve, her voice small and confused. "Mama, are you okay? You're making a weird face."
Erza's expression snapped back to cold, back to controlled, back to the mask she'd worn for centuries.
"I'm fine."
She took the dinosaur book.
Handed it to Elena.
"Thank you," she said to the cashier.
It was the closest she'd ever come to politeness in this world.
The cashier gaped.
Erza walked out.
---
Elena bounced beside her, dinosaur book clutched to her chest, stickers and crayons and joy radiating from every pore.
"Mama! Mama! Thank you thank you thank you! This is the BEST DAY EVER!"
Erza said nothing.
But her hand—the one not carrying seventy-eight books—rested on Elena's head.
Just for a moment.
Just long enough.
---
To be continued...