He was still wrestling with the question of whether he was even alive anymore when someone appeared out of thin air directly in front of him.
The figure shot forward like a cannonball, and the monster that had been looming over Killian was hurled backward through the fog, crashing into the rubble with a sound like a collapsing building. It did not get up.
From where Killian stood, he could make out the silhouette of a man. Broad-shouldered, unhurried. A brown beard framed a face that carried the kind of calm that came not from peace, but from having seen too many things worth fearing and choosing not to flinch. His brown hair fell loosely around his jaw. Over a white shirt and a worn brown vest, he wore a long black cloak that billowed behind him, its back marked with a large white clover emblem stitched at the center. Brown trousers. A wooden staff gripped in both hands, the base resting lightly against the ground.
Killian stared.
He had not expected to find anyone in this broken, fog-eaten world. He had not expected to find much of anything.
"Who is that?" he murmured, more to himself than anyone.
Then he shook the thought loose and cupped both hands around his mouth.
"HEY! OVER HERE!" His voice cracked with desperation. "CAN YOU HEAR ME? PLEASE, HELP!"
The shout carried clearly through the still air.
The man did not move. His posture remained straight, his attention fixed on the spot where the monster had fallen. Then, slowly, his gaze shifted.
Yellow eyes. Glowing faintly, like embers that had not quite gone out. They found Killian and stayed on him for a moment, neither warm nor hostile, just distant. Vaguely disinterested, the way someone might glance at a stray cat they had no intention of feeding.
Then he looked away.
"Hey!" Killian called again, waving both arms. "Hey, I'm talking to you! Do you know what this place is? Do you know what's going on?"
No response.
Before he could call out a third time, the sound of running footsteps reached him from across the park. He turned. A group of people was sprinting toward him through the haze, weaving around the chunks of broken concrete that littered the ground.
Behind him, the mysterious man had already moved. He drifted toward the fallen monster with slow, deliberate steps, crouched, and pulled something from the wreckage. It caught the light as he lifted it, a small glimmering object, a gem of some kind, smooth and bright even in the grey air.
Then he was gone. A burst of yellow light pulsed from where he had stood, and the space he had occupied was empty.
Killian stared at the fading glow for a second longer than he should have. Then the approaching footsteps pulled his attention back.
"HEY! OVER HERE!" he shouted, throwing one arm high and waving it.
There were five of them. Three men, two women, all moving fast. They slowed as they reached him, stopping just beneath the shadow of the Eiffel Tower, its iron legs planted in earth that had no business holding them.
One of the men stepped forward. He carried himself with the quiet authority of someone accustomed to making decisions and living with them.
"What are you doing out here?" he asked, his voice level but firm. "This area is dangerous."
Killian opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.
"I, um." He rubbed the back of his neck. "Honestly? I'm not entirely sure."
The man's eyes narrowed slightly. "You're not sure."
"I know how that sounds." Killian pressed on before the silence could swallow him. "What I do know is that I woke up in the underground train station over there, which already doesn't make sense, because the last thing I remember is, well." He paused. "Dying. I got hit by a train."
A beat of silence.
"Dying," one of the other men repeated flatly.
"I know."
"You're saying you died."
"I know how it sounds."
The man crossed his arms and gave Killian a look that made his skepticism very clear without requiring words.
"Maybe he has amnesia," one of the women said. Her voice was gentler than the rest of them. She looked at Killian with something closer to concern than suspicion. "It would explain why his account is so scattered."
"I'm not scattered," Killian said, a little defensively. "I'm telling you exactly what I remember. I was in Tokyo. That's where I live. But then I woke up here and there's an Eiffel Tower in the middle of what used to be a park, and there was a monster, and none of this makes any sense." He looked between them. "Can someone please tell me what is going on?"
The first man exhaled slowly through his nose. He looked like he was deciding how much to say.
"I don't know what happened to you specifically," he said at last. "But I can tell you this much. The world as it was is gone. Things are very different now." He glanced briefly at the ruins around them, then back at Killian. "We have a camp nearby. Come with us, and I'll explain everything properly once we're somewhere safe."
Killian let out a long breath. It wasn't the answer he wanted, but it was the only one being offered, and right now an explanation later was better than nothing at all.
"Alright," he said. "Yeah, okay. Thank you, seriously." He managed something close to a smile. "I'm Killian, by the way. Killian Sinclair. And you are?"
The first man gave a short nod. "Takamichi Yamada."
He was compact and solid, with short straight brown hair and the kind of quiet muscle that came from use rather than vanity. A black vest sat over his shirt, practical and undecorated.
Beside him stood another man who had not spoken yet. He was striking in a way that seemed almost unfair given the circumstances, sharp-featured and composed, with black hair and an all-black outfit that managed to look deliberate rather than grim. A gold chain hung around his neck, a small heart-shaped pendant resting against his collarbone.
He looked at Killian the way someone might look at an unexpected obstacle in a hallway.
"I have no interest in introducing myself to a stranger," he said.
Killian blinked. "Oh." He glanced at Yamada. "Okay then."
Yamada gave the man beside him a brief sideways look that communicated mild irritation with the efficiency of long practice.
"His name is Amura Shiki," he said. "Don't take it personally. He's like that with everyone."
"Right," Killian said carefully. "Good to know."
Amura said nothing. He looked back toward the direction they had come from, apparently done with the conversation.