Philip opened the door to the apartment — or rather, the absurd penthouse Seravion had bought for him. It was so big it could fit a zoo, a restaurant, and still have enough space left for a volleyball court. Okay, maybe he was exaggerating, but he'd been poor his whole life and this was the first time he'd ever seen an apartment this huge.
Rosalind stepped inside slowly, wide-eyed, as if she had entered the home of a foreign prince.
Philip, however, could only think:
I need strategy. Information. A plan. I have to figure out how far the story has progressed. I need to get details out of her without sounding like a psychopath interrogating a victim.
But before he could come up with any halfway convincing lie, Rosalind let out a deep breath — the kind that comes right before a question too serious for the time of day.
She turned fully toward him, pressing her back against the wall, and asked:
"Who are you?"
Philip froze.
"…Hi?"
"Heir…" She clasped her hands together, nervous. "I never had a childhood friend. Never. Not when I was little, not afterward. You… you just appeared today. Out of nowhere. As if you'd always been there. But I don't know you."
Silence.
Heavy.
Awkward.
Professionally humiliating.
Philip blinked twice, like his brain was rebooting.
Seravion, you useless idiot. You absolute incompetent. I asked for a cliché, not a plot hole! How can you make me her 'childhood friend' and forget to PUT THE DAMN MEMORY IN THE GIRL?!
He opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.
Rosalind stared at him with that vulnerable expression of someone who desperately needed a truth — any truth.
"So…" she pushed gently, cautious. "Who… exactly are you?"
Philip took a deep breath and stared at the ceiling, whispering a short, sincere prayer:
Seravion, if you can hear me, drop dead right now. Do me a favor and die.
But unfortunately, nothing happened.
Before he could invent any minimally coherent nonsense, Rosalind took one step forward. Her expression shifted — fear disappeared, replaced by something more… calculated. Determined. Almost glowing.
"Are you a transmigrator like me?"
Philip froze.
Completely.
As if someone had cast a paralysis spell.
A single lonely gear creaked inside his mind:
…what do you mean, transmigrator?
Rosalind continued:
"You came from another world too, didn't you?" She pressed her lips together. "Because no one here talks like you. No one acts like you."
Philip opened his mouth. Nothing came out. Only the hollow mental echo of pure despair.
No. NO. NO. Seravion, you celestial donkey, you didn't notice THE DAMN PROTAGONIST WAS ALSO A TRANSMIGRATOR? That is literally your only job!
Rosalind took another step, even closer now, her gaze steady:
"I… I thought I was alone. I thought I was the only one who came from outside. You… you came too, didn't you?"
Philip raised a finger, trying to make a sound — any sound — but his brain was still processing the new information with the speed of a 1998 computer trying to open a 4K video.
I'm so much more screwed than I thought…
In the end, his voice came out as a hoarse whisper, completely honest, completely defeated:
"…goddammit, Seravion, you really are useless."