Two men suddenly stepped out from a women's fashion boutique. What was striking was not only their exceptional good looks but also the fact that they had purchased the exact same style of hat.
"Buying this style was the best call. I heard that if you come to this shop, this black hat is the one to get. It's famous for designs that are elegant yet minimalist, after all."
The man with dark reddish hair spoke while holding the brim of his hat between his teeth, using both hands to tie his hair back to keep it out of the way.
"I'm not so sure; I don't have much of an eye for aesthetics," Promet replied with a smile, handing a soft-serve cone to the man beside him. "Anyway, I think my friend will like it. Want some, my friend? Consider it a small thanks for saving me some time."
The man stole a quick glance at the ice cream, shook his head, and smiled. "No need, but being treated by a celebrity is certainly a stroke of luck."
Promet was slightly taken aback. He turned to the man and asked, "What makes you think I'm famous? I don't recall having such a devoted fan base."
"Heh, anyone whose face is plastered on the front page of No Time is bound to be famous. Especially when it's from one of the year's biggest events—that horrific terrorist attack. Is there anyone who hasn't heard of it?"
The man beside Promet chuckled softly, then pulled a business card from his coat pocket. "Ah, right. I think we should know each other's names. I am Lunas, from the 'Paper of Dreams' trading company."
"And I am Promet Augustus. I appreciate you recognizing me; perhaps this is the best thing I could have hoped for after such an event a year ago."
"...Ah, I am so sorry."
Lunas suddenly grew timid, but Promet maintained a relaxed, easy smile. "It's alright, don't worry about it. Anything can happen in this world."
Promet hesitated for a moment before asking more, his hand quickly taking the card and tucking it into his pocket.
"Keep it," Lunas said, half-joking. "If you ever buy anything from the company, just bring that card. You might get a discount on the services."
"You aren't planning to scam me, are you?" Promet teased.
"Oh—"
Lunas was about to respond when a melodic, musical chime rang out from his wrist. His bracelet was glowing.
"Forgive me, it seems I have business to attend to. Until next time!"
Lunas dashed off as if his house were on fire, leaving Promet staring after him, stunned by the abrupt end to their conversation.
"Right... goodbye."
...
Promet stood in silence, watching the crowds pass him by—dozens of people with different clothes and different faces. He sighed, scratched his head, and looked down at his hand.
He dropped the business card with cold decisiveness. He hadn't even glanced at its color once. A strange, vague sensation washed over him—a wave of nausea that threatened to surface but never quite arrived.
Strange.
He had the eyes of an insomniac, yet his skin was ruddy, devoid of fatigue or wrinkles. His clothes were clean and uncreased despite being casual wear, meaning the outfit was either meticulously cared for or brand new.
However, his hair was too smooth, yet unstyled, flowing down like a waterfall. The type of person who is well-cared for but usually indifferent to their appearance. Someone of status, or perhaps someone meticulous who simply doesn't care for vanity.
His shoes were a common brand but showed no signs of regular use—not a single scratch or speck of dirt. This is a city street; there should at least be some dust. Furthermore, the way they were laced was the factory style used by shops to enhance shelf appeal. Usually, a wearer changes the lacing to suit their comfort, yet he walked with ease without ever breaking that original pattern.
That means they were either just taken out of the box, or they were custom-made for him so perfectly that the laces never needed adjustment. Or, he knows exactly how to mimic that look. The third option is unlikely; he didn't seem like the type to obsess over such trivialities, especially if he couldn't even bother to tie his hair back until it became an inconvenience.
Could someone else have tied them for him? Unlikely. People of status usually prefer to handle the final touches of their attire themselves rather than let a servant touch their shoes.
He was peculiar. He only began tying his hair after I had been looking at it for a while—perhaps to show he understood the rudeness of obscuring his face. But why didn't he do that in the shop when the salesgirl was looking?
Furthermore, he refused the ice cream. Not unusual in itself—a subconscious self-defense mechanism—but offering food is a psychological tactic to build rapport. Yet, immediately after, he brought up my fame.
No matter how handsome a face is, it's abnormal for a stranger to remember it for over a year. It could be a deep impression, but he asserted my celebrity status instantly without even asking to confirm. His speech was fluent, brisk—as if rehearsed.
Handing over the card was a distraction, just like bringing up the event from a year ago. He was trying to pivot to himself after questioning my fame. Lunas. That name was offered too quickly, as was the card. He's young; it's highly likely his life isn't actually tied to his work. And offering a 'discount'? Is this a joke?
The way he left lacked the etiquette of the middle class or nobility. His tone was casual, even after hearing the name 'Augustus'—a surname reserved for those of high status or lineage. Yet he spoke to me as if we were two commoners. This was a setup.
A calculated move. Someone of status, or someone very well-prepared, has targeted me.
Best to leave this crowd as quickly as possible.