"Naruto? Not again!"
The voice of Sir Dante, my editor, boss, and part-time destroyer of dreams, echoed through the office like thunder rolling across Mount Copyright.
And like the guilty criminal I was, I froze mid-sip of my 3-in-1 coffee. My soul momentarily left my body, hovered above my desk, looked down, and whispered, "You're screwed, Luna."
I slowly turned around, praying it was a false alarm. Spoiler: it was not. Sir Dante was marching toward me, clutching a stack of papers like it was Exhibit A in my upcoming trial. The manuscript. My manuscript. The one I had sneakily placed on his desk earlier, under the cover of oops I dropped this there accidentally on purpose.
By the time he reached my table, I could have sworn his nostrils emitted steam. Then the manuscript landed on my desk with the force of a Rasengan.
"What is this, huh?" he barked, veins almost forming the word why on his forehead. "I thought I told you to change that name into something else! Do you really want us to get copyright issues?"
I did what any professional writer caught in a crime of passion would do, I put a hand on my chest like a misunderstood heroine.
"Of course not, sir!" I said dramatically. "That name right there isn't even Uzumaki Naruto! It's… Azamaki Narotu!"
Sir Dante blinked. His lips parted like he was buffering. You could almost see the blue screen of death appear behind his eyes.
For a brief, beautiful moment, I thought he'd laugh. But he didn't. He sighed so deeply it sounded like the last exhale of a dying franchise.
"Miss Dimakatarungan," he said finally, his voice calm in the way that made you want to cry. "You are one of my best authors. But it's either you change this…" he tapped the manuscript like it was cursed, "…or you're fired."
Then he turned dramatically and left before I could unleash my talk-no-jutsu on artistic inspiration and the right to homage anime men with tragic backstories.
I slumped in my chair, defeated. The office was silent except for the clacking of keyboards and the faint whisper of my dignity dying.
Then came the sound of giggling. I turned and found Lance, my seatmate-slash-office-gossip-magnet, grinning at me like a cat who just saw a pigeon crash into a window.
"What?" I groaned.
"I told you you'd get yourself fired if you pushed that name in," he said smugly, flipping his imaginary long hair like some editor-version of a shampoo commercial.
I glared at him, spinning in my swivel chair like an emotional tornado. "Look, Naruto is the reason I became a writer in the first place. I just want him to exist in my novels. At least spiritually!"
Lance snorted, not even looking away from his computer. "Look, you're lucky to work here as an author. The rest of us are your editors. Your editors, Luna. Give us a break and maybe, I don't know, grow up?"
He glanced sideways with that infuriating smirk. "You still have eight other novels that need updating. Just let that Narotu dream go."
I sighed—not a sigh of defeat, oh no. I have more cards under my sleeves.
Because if I couldn't legally write Naruto fanfiction at work, then I'd find a way to become Naruto's greatest author—copyrights, editors, and sanity be damned.
The rest of the shift passed faster than a filler episode, and soon Lance and I were trudging toward the bus station. The city was buzzing, the streetlights flickering like they were also tired of existing, and rent in this area was still as expensive as my will to live which, at this point, was running on coffee and denial.
"So," Lance suddenly sneekered beside me. Yes, that's snickering with extra malice. "tomorrow's our rest day. You wanna go somewhere first? Like the bar?"
I squinted at him suspiciously. Lance was tall—annoyingly tall—and every time we walked home together, I couldn't even look him properly in the face because the sun always positioned itself directly behind his head, like it had personally chosen him as its favorite nuisance.
He looked like a heavenly idiot, glowing with main-character lighting, and I hated that for him. Because honestly, if he ever decided to dye his hair yellow, I might have to legally acknowledge him as Naruto's human reincarnation—just taller, smugger, and with a slightly better skincare routine.
Lance is 6'2". Naruto is 5'9". But hey, we could work it out. Only if he were anime.
I politely declined Lance's invitation to the bar, mostly because I didn't want to wake up the next day with a hangover and an empty wallet again. To compensate for my lack of nightlife spirit, Lance bought me street food instead, because nothing says friendship like fishballs and the illusion of happiness.
The stall was packed, as usual. Half the city apparently decided this exact moment was perfect for skewers and orange sauce that could cure sadness. Lance, being the noble and much taller citizen that he is, volunteered to line up while I waited by the side of the road.
And that's when it happened.
My eyes wandered. Just a casual glance, an innocent little visual stroll. Until, in what I can only describe as divine intervention, I saw it, across the street, glowing like a holy shrine, a stall selling Naruto merchandise.
My pupils dilated. My soul ascended. My heart whispered, "This is your calling, Luna."
Yes, it is I, Luna Dimakatarungan, 24 years old, part-time novelist, full-time Naruto enthusiast, and lifelong believer that one does not simply walk past anime merch and live peacefully afterward.
So naturally, I did what any spiritually unhinged fan would do. I didn't look left. I didn't look right. I didn't even think.
I just went for it.
One second, I was standing still. The next, I was crossing the road like it was the final mission of my life. Somewhere between step three and four, I heard a honk so loud it could summon ancestors.
The next thing I heard is Lance's screams.
"LUNAAAA!!" his voice split the air, followed by the screech of tires and my last coherent thought.
At least… I died chasing Naruto.
Everything went black right away… or maybe red.
Because when I opened my eyes again, the world wasn't the world anymore. The air felt suddenly suffocating, like someone dimmed reality's brightness setting.
Above me hung a sky which suddenly became so dark. Then I saw it.
Not the fluorescent lights of the hospital I should've been in. Not Lance's panicked face hovering over me holding fishballs like a defibrillator. No. What greeted me instead was a moon.
A familiar moon.
A blood moon.
It glowed like it had personal issues with humanity, painting the world crimson. My lips parted before I could stop myself, the name of the nightmare slipping out like a curse I'd waited my whole life to say:
"Mugen Tsukuyomi…"
And just like that, the light, red, blinding, and completely unreal, swallowed me whole.
Everything went totally black.