Before.
The coffee was burnt. Again.
I stared into the mug like it had personally offended me, watching the dark liquid ripple as the subway rattled beneath my feet. 7:43 AM. Already late. Already tired. Already bored.
Around me, Tokyo blurred past the windows—advertisements for energy drinks, salarymen with identical suits and identical expressions, a high school girl practicing kanji on her phone. Normal. Mundane. The kind of morning I'd lived a thousand times.
My name was Takahashi Kenji. Twenty-nine. Single. Accountant at a firm that didn't know my name. I went to work, I came home, I watched Netflix until I fell asleep. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.
Sometimes, late at night, I'd stare at my ceiling and wonder if this was it. If this was all existence had to offer. Spreadsheets and instant ramen and weekends that vanished like smoke.
There has to be more.
The thought was a old friend. Familiar. Useless.
The subway emerged from the tunnel, sunlight cutting through the windows. I squinted, raised a hand to block it—
And then the world screamed.
Not a sound. Something deeper. Reality itself crying out like a wounded animal. The subway car lurched. People fell. Glass shattered.
I remember thinking: This isn't right. This isn't—
Then the light took me.