Wind blew.
As the rain stopped the moment the man in the white suit flicked his scythe —
a casual, effortless motion —
and caught it again mid-air.
And then—
Everything vanished.
Not stopped.
Not frozen.
Vanished.
The rain.
The hail.
The snow.
The wet pavement.
The cold droplets sliding down Akira's hair.
All gone.
As if the sky had never opened.
As if the storm had never existed.
As if the world simply decided:
No. That never happened.
Akira blinked.
"Wasn't it raining…?"
he thought to himself, throat tightening.
This is bad.
He didn't know who the man was.
But hearing Akira Sato
— after the world didn't recognise him, after even Hina screamed at him like he was a stranger —
instead of relief…
gave him something else.
Something deeper.
Something primal.
"Fear."
The man inhaled.
"I can smell it."
His voice was soft.
Too soft.
Soft in the way a knife glides through butter.
"Your soul."
He stepped forward.
"You're trembling."
His footsteps echoed throughout the world —
not the street, not the ground —
the world.
Each step landed gently, almost politely.
Yet in Akira's ears…
They were earthquakes.
Shockwaves.
Tremors.
A pressure that rattled his bones and burrowed straight into the back of his mind.
Akira staggered back.
His fingers shook.
His breathing stuttered.
His heartbeat refused to pick a rhythm.
The man tilted his head.
Slow.
Precise.
Too perfect to be human.
Akira tried to swallow.
Failed.
He tried to speak.
Failed.
He tried to breathe properly.
Failed.
The scythe lowered.
Its jagged edge cut through the air like it was slicing fabric, not oxygen.
The air didn't resist.
It surrendered.
Akira felt his chest tighten further.
The man's voice came again, low and lazy — like this entire encounter bored him.
"I apologise."
Akira's breath stopped completely.
His pulse froze.
The world…
felt like it leaned away from him, as if even reality didn't want to be near him anymore.
The man clicked his fingers.
Akira flinched.
He blinked once—
and then he noticed.
"Where did it…?"
The scythe was gone.
Completely.
The man simply stood there, watching him with that blank, bored expression—
as if waiting to see how slow Akira's brain would catch up.
Akira didn't know why he did it—
maybe instinct, maybe fear, maybe something else—
but he turned around.
And a flying metal scythe was already inches from his lips.
His heart stopped.
He ducked at the very last moment as the blade hissed past his face, slicing the air open.
A sharp sting spread across his cheek where the edge grazed him—
a thin line of pain, almost delicate.
The man clicked his fingers again.
Akira rotated.
Not willingly.
Not consciously.
His body just… moved.
Like a puppet being yanked by strings he couldn't see.
The scythe spun behind him, whirling mid-air, rotating violently—
still chasing him, still hunting him, still inches from cutting him clean in two.
Akira jumped back, lungs burning, boots scraping the ground as he created distance.
But then—
A shadow washed over him.
"A shadow…?"
He looked up.
White trousers.
A perfectly pressed crease.
A polished black boot descending toward his face at terminal speed.
Akira barely crossed his forearms before—
CRASH.
Impact detonated through his bones.
A wave of force ripped across the pavement, dust exploding upward, shards of concrete snapping like brittle toothpicks.
Pain shot through his arms—raw, jagged, nauseating.
He hit the ground hard.
His back slammed the concrete, dust choking his throat.
Akira looked down at his arms.
Bruised.
Swollen.
Purple already spreading under the skin.
His hands trembled uncontrollably.
The man dropped down in front of him.
Soft landing.
Effortless.
As if gravity respected him too much to pull him hard.
Despite the tinted glasses covering his eyes—
despite the storm that had vanished—
despite everything Akira had just gone through—
The man looked…
bored.
As if all of this was inconvenience.
As if Akira failing to die quickly was what irritated him most.
As if he had somewhere else to be and Akira was making him late.
"Can we hurry up?"
The man said it casually—
as if they were waiting in line at a café and not in the middle of an attempted murder.
He picked up a napkin.
A napkin that had definitely not been in his hand a second ago.
He dabbed the corner of his mouth with immaculate precision.
"I am late for my date."
He spoke coldly.
Flatly.
As if announcing the weather.
Akira stared at him, chest heaving, arms throbbing purple.
"What the hell is your deal, dude?"
he snapped, blowing on his bruised arm as if that would do anything.
(It did not.)
The pain only pulsed harder, almost offended he even tried.
The man folded the napkin delicately—like a waiter finishing a shift he hated—and tucked it into his breast pocket.
Without looking at Akira.
Without acknowledging the carnage he'd just caused.
Without caring.
The man turned around.
Then—
snap.
But this time…
it wasn't normal.
It wasn't sharp.
It wasn't crisp.
It wasn't a simple click echoing through air.
It was slow.
Heavy.
Like the sound was dragging a mountain behind it.
Akira's eyes widened as his instincts screamed.
He covered his ears instantly.
"Th—the hell…?!"
Because the snap didn't stop.
It repeated.
Over and over.
Layering on itself.
Stacking.
Distorting.
Reverberating through the world like a broken speaker wired into the core of the planet.
SNAP. SNAP. SNAP. SNAP. SNAP.
Each one slower.
And somehow louder.
And somehow deeper.
Akira's skull vibrated.
The man spoke without looking back.
"I apologise. I mentioned before—"
he adjusted his cuff, voice flat, emotionless,
"—I am late for my date."
He continued calmly, as if discussing table manners:
"But as this will be the last time you breathe,"
he said,
"I'll give you the respect you earned for surviving this long."
Akira's heartbeat stuttered.
The man raised his hand slightly, letting his fingers hover.
"My ability," he explained, "is simple.
With the snap of a finger, I may teleport my body…
or any object I desire."
A pause.
"Anything in the world."
Akira's breath hitched.
He swallowed.
"Inc—… including what?"
The man finished for him.
"Including an event horizon."
Akira's stomach flipped.
His ears rang violently.
"And the sound you hear right now,"
the man continued, stepping forward through the layered, crushing echoes of the infinite snaps,
"is the impending doom of those snaps… playing forever."
Akira's arms shook violently as he pressed his palms against his ears.
"I do apologise."
The man reached for his scythe.
Lifted it.
The red ink along the blade began to drip—
thick, slow, wrong—
like gravity itself struggled to make it fall.
Akira gagged.
Warm liquid slid down his lips.
Red ink.
Pouring from his mouth.
His vision blurred.
His nerves spiked.
His body began overstimulating—
every sound, every vibration, every snap multiplying, crashing, drowning him from the inside out.
The man tilted his head slightly.
Almost curious.
"Overwhelmed already?" he asked, bored.
Akira couldn't answer.
He couldn't breathe.
He couldn't think.
He couldn't exist.
"Akira."
The man's voice cut through the crushing, looping snaps.
"Before you pass out…
I must ask."
Akira's knees buckled.
His fingers twitched, limp and useless.
"I must know," the man continued, polite—far too polite for someone about to murder him.
"Are you a fan of science?"
The words didn't register.
Not fully.
Not even halfway.
Akira's body was already shutting down.
He dropped toward the pavement, red ink spilling from his mouth in thick, dragging streams—
as if the world itself had dipped a paintbrush into him and started drawing whatever it wanted.
"The hell did you do t—"
Slllluuuurrp.
A loud, obnoxious apple juice slurp shattered the air.
Akira blinked weakly.
What is that noise…?
he thought, vision tilting, reality wobbling.
The snapping stopped.
Instantly.
The infinite echoes collapsed into nothing, erased like a notification being swiped off a screen.
The man in white clicked his tongue.
A sharp, irritated kiss of his teeth.
Great, Akira thought distantly.
He's annoyed now. Perfect.
"Here to fix your mistake, I see,"
the man said without turning around.
His tone had changed—
still calm, but no longer bored.
Just mildly inconvenienced.
Akira forced one eye open.
A girl stood behind him.
Black suit.
Red hair.
A carton of apple juice in one hand, straw in her mouth.
And she was drinking with the aggressive confidence of someone who absolutely did not belong here.
SLLLRRRRP.
Another loud sip.
Her cheeks puffed slightly as she drank.
She didn't look at Akira.
Didn't glance at the crater in the ground.
Didn't acknowledge the cosmic execution happening in front of her.
She just kept drinking.
The man sighed, adjusting his glasses.
"You always make such an entrance, Ren."
Ren took one final, painfully long slurp.
Stopped.
Pulled the straw from her lips.
Wiped her mouth with her thumb.
Then finally looked at Akira—
the half-dead man drowning in red ink on the ground—
and said, completely monotone:
"Sup, it's me again."
She waved awkwardly.
A tiny, stiff little wave.
Like she wasn't sure if this was a social interaction…
or a funeral.
"Earlier you asked if we were like the men in bla—"
SNAP.
A scythe tore through the air toward her face like a guillotine made of lightning.
Ren didn't flinch.
Didn't blink.
Didn't even look up.
She just—
SLURP…
Flicked her empty apple juice carton.
Casually.
Effortlessly.
Like tossing rubbish into a bin she'd hit a hundred times before.
It collided with the scythe mid-air.
BOOM.
A shockwave rippled outward, rattling windows, kicking up dust, and forcing the blade to drop downward instantly—
as if it had slammed into a wall made of pure gravity.
The scythe clattered onto the pavement.
Dead.
Motionless.
Ren rubbed her nose with her sleeve.
"Damn. That was my last one," she muttered, watching faint smoke rise from the crushed carton like it had just fought a war.
Akira, half-conscious and drowning in red ink, stared in disbelief.
Did she just…
stop a weather-erasing weapon…
with juice trash?
The man in white exhaled sharply.
Not angry.
Not surprised.
Just… irritated.
He lifted his foot—
and stomped.
Once.
Hard.
The pavement cracked beneath his shoe.
"I'm going to be late for my date," he said, voice cracking.
"You people are so selfish."
Akira squinted through a blur of pain.
"…is he…?"
A tear slid down the man's cheek.
Ren pinched the bridge of her nose.
"Crying again?" she sighed.
It wasn't mocking.
It was the tone of a babysitter whose toddler just head-butted a wall for attention.
The man sniffled aggressively.
"You ruined everything," he muttered.
His voice wobbled.
"You always ruin everything."
Ren crossed her arms.
"Well, I'm sorry—" she said lightly,
"—I can't let you have this one."
She smirked as she cracked open a bottle of water.
…
Where did the water bottle come from?
No one knows.
Do not ask questions you do not want answers for.
"That shouldn't take THIS LONG!" he snapped, wiping his tears with the back of his knuckles like a furious, overpowered toddler.
Akira watched them argue—
two cosmic-tier monsters bickering in the middle of a ruined street—
while he lay half-dead in a puddle of his own red ink.
He blinked once.
Slowly.
He was certain he was in a state of death…
while also in heaven…
and hell…
simultaneously.
A paradox of misery.
The man wiped his tears.
"I can't let you get away with this."
His voice cracked into a scream.
He snapped his fingers—
once, twice—
then again and again, faster, angrier, unhinged.
SNAP. SNAP. SNAP. SNAP. SNAP.
Multiple scythes erupted into existence mid-air.
Five.
Ten.
Twenty.
Akira stared up at them, vision swimming.
"…what now…" he muttered weakly.
One scythe shot straight for Ren.
Ren lifted her hand.
crack…
Then—
CRUMBLE.
The scythe disintegrated into dust.
Another spun toward her.
CRUMBLE.
Another toward her.
CRUMBLE.
She was breaking them one by one without even changing expression.
A different blade flickered—
then vanished—
and reappeared behind Akira, aiming for the back of his skull.
The man shouted:
"This is what you ge—"
…
…
…
Akira's ears rang.
He heard three sounds.
Ringing.
Explosions.
Something else—
something he couldn't place.
Then—
Silence.
Absolute silence.
His whole body trembled.
But he didn't know why.
He didn't want to look.
He was too afraid to look.
No more scythes were coming.
Ren spoke.
Her voice was cold.
"He should have listened."
Akira forced himself to turn toward the man.
His breath caught.
The man in white had holes clean through his body—
dozens—
each one leaking red ink in slow, heavy droplets.
Ren had shot him.
Shot him so fast Akira hadn't even seen her move.
The man staggered, choking on ink, trying to form one last complaint—
one last insult—
but nothing came out.
He collapsed to his knees.
Akira's voice broke as he whispered:
"Who the hell are you people…"
The man's pristine white suit began to distort—
fading—
unravelling—
as if the world refused to remember it.
Threads dissolved in real time.
Fabric melted into air.
The suit vanished entirely—
leaving behind a baggy black T-shirt.
Plain.
Cheap.
Human.
The corpse hit the pavement.
Ren's red hair blew in the faint breeze.
She removed her tinted glasses with two fingers—
casual, slow, almost bored.
It revealed eyes that were nothing like her voice.
Cold.
Green.
Unblinking.
They locked onto Akira.
He felt his stomach drop.
She wasn't smiling anymore.
Ren slowly lifted her hand.
For a moment, Akira expected more apple juice.
Another carton.
Another stupid, harmless object breaking the laws of physics.
But instead—
The woman was holding a black revolver.
Sleek.
Heavy.
Tainted by smoke.
Its metal tinted like it had been dipped in shadow.
She cracked the cylinder open with one thumb.
click.
Then, without hurry—
without emotion—
without even glancing at Akira—
she reloaded the barrel.
One bullet.
Two.
Three.
Each one slid into place with a soft metallic whisper.
As she snapped the cylinder shut, a thin stream of smoke escaped the vacuum-sealed chamber—
curling upward like the last breath of something that had already died.
Akira stared.
He didn't understand how a weapon so simple could feel more horrifying than scythes, teleportation, reality distortion, or event horizons.
But it did.
It absolutely did.
And Ren never broke eye contact with him as she holstered it.
Those green, frigid eyes.
Eyes that made him realise—
He wasn't saved.
He was just next.
Akira's brain buzzed, scrambled beyond repair.
And as he trembled under Ren's cold green stare,
one final thought drifted across his mind like a dying spark:
Maybe… the snapping wasn't the thing he should've feared.