Pain.
Not the sharp, clean pain of injury, but something fundamental—like being unmade and remade simultaneously. Ren felt his consciousness scatter across probability waves, each fragment experiencing a different moment of existence.
He was seven, being bullied for his white hair. He was eighteen, walking out of his first university class. He was twenty, watching Yui leave. He was here, now, connected to a machine that probably predated human civilization. He was—
The fragments began to coalesce, pulled together by something that might have been gravity or might have been purpose. Reality reassembled itself like a jigsaw puzzle where all the pieces had been cut from different pictures.
Consciousness returned like a gentle tide, which should have been the first warning. Death wasn't supposed to be comfortable. The Neither Mist didn't do gentle. Yet here he was, waking up in his apartment in Tokyo, morning light streaming through windows that definitely shouldn't exist anymore.
For a moment, he just lay there, disoriented. The ceiling was wrong—too clean, no water stains from the leak his landlord never fixed. The air smelled wrong too—fresh and clean instead of the mix of old ramen and existential dread that usually permeated his space.
His phone buzzed. Not crackling with eldritch warnings, just a normal notification. The screen showed dozens of messages, calendar reminders, work emails. All the detritus of a successful life.
"Babe, you awake? Don't forget we have brunch with your parents! - Yui"
Ren sat bolt upright. His apartment wasn't a disaster zone. No empty cup noodle containers formed monuments to procrastination. No scattered manga created a carpet of escapism. No unwashed dishes testified to his inability to adult properly. Everything was clean, organized, successful.
The walls held things his apartment had never seen—framed degrees (computer science, graduated summa cum laude), professional certificates, photos from company retreats and parties. In one, he stood with coworkers, holding an award. "Employee of the Year" the plaque read.
"What the hell?"
He stumbled to the bathroom, each step feeling both familiar and wrong. The mirror showed him, but wrong. No white hair—just normal black, styled in a way that suggested regular haircuts and actual grooming products. No stress lines mapping years of disappointment. No exhaustion etched into his features. He looked healthy. Happy. Successful.
His phone rang. "Mom" flashed on the screen. His thumb hovered over the decline button—muscle memory from years of avoiding these calls. But something made him answer.
"Ren? Just checking you're coming to brunch. Your father wants to discuss the promotion—VP at your age! We're so proud."
The words hit wrong, like notes in a familiar song played in the wrong key.
"I... promotion?"
"Don't be modest! Youngest Vice President in the company's history. Yui's parents are flying in to celebrate. Oh, and have you two set a wedding date yet? I know you wanted a spring wedding, but the venue Yui likes is booking up fast."
Each word was a small violence against everything he knew about his life. His mother, who hadn't called him without disappointment in her voice for three years. His father, who'd given up on him after he dropped out. Yui, who'd left him with surgical precision.
"I need to go," he managed.
"See you at eleven! Love you, sweetheart!"
The call ended. Ren stared at his reflection—this perfect version who'd made all the right choices. Part of him wanted to sink into it, accept this gift. But something was wrong. The edges of perfection were too sharp, too clean. Like a photo that had been edited until it lost all character.
He explored the apartment, finding evidence of a life he'd never lived. A closet full of suits that fit perfectly. A kitchen with actual food instead of instant noodles. A home office with dual monitors and ergonomic everything. On the desk, a framed photo of him and Yui at what looked like their engagement party, surrounded by friends he'd never made.
His phone buzzed again. A reminder: "Quarterly presentation - 2 PM. Johnson account renewal."
He had no idea what the Johnson account was.
More messages arrived. Confirmations for dinner reservations at restaurants he couldn't afford. Invites to networking events. A reminder about his gym membership—apparently, this version of him actually used it.
He dressed in clothes that fit perfectly and cost more than his real wardrobe combined. Everything felt like wearing someone else's skin. The apartment had a view of Tokyo that probably cost millions. Everything screamed success, but it was all wrong. Too clean. Too perfect. Like a life designed by committee.
Outside, Tokyo gleamed impossibly bright. No purple cracks in the sky, no sense of ending. Just a perfect city full of perfect people living perfect lives. But something was off. The sky was too blue, like someone had turned up the saturation. People walked with synchronized steps, their faces wearing the same pleased expression.
He walked to the coffee shop where Yui waited, and his heart nearly stopped.
She looked exactly as he remembered from before—beautiful, confident, everything he'd lost. But better. Her hair was shinier, her smile brighter, her entire presence turned up to eleven. She lit up when she saw him, but the expression was too immediate, too perfect, like she'd been waiting in that exact pose.
"There's my fiancé!" She kissed him, and it felt real. Tasted real. But also tasted like nothing, like the idea of a kiss rather than the act itself. "I got your boring black coffee. Honestly, how you drink that before noon is beyond me."
"Yui..."
"Oh, I talked to the wedding planner. She can fit us in Thursday to look at venues. I know you wanted to wait, but if we're doing a spring wedding—" She paused, tilting her head. "What's wrong? You look confused."
"This isn't real."
The words slipped out before he could stop them. Yui paused, confusion flickering across her face before being replaced by that perfect smile. But the transition was visible this time, like watching someone change masks.
"What isn't real, babe?"
"This. You. Everything." He stepped back, really looking at her for the first time. "You left me. Said I wasn't trying, wasn't living. That I was just existing."
"Don't be silly." But her smile was too fixed, like someone had painted it on. "Why would I leave my successful fiancé? You're everything I ever wanted."
That's when he saw it. The tell. Real Yui had a tiny scar on her left hand from a childhood accident—she'd tried to pet a stray cat and learned why strays don't like sudden movements. This Yui's hands were flawless. More than that, they were identical—left and right perfect mirrors of each other.
"You're not her."
"Of course I am!" But cracks appeared in the perfection. Her movements became slightly mechanical, like a video game NPC caught between animations. "I love you, Ren. We're happy. You're happy. Why question happiness?"
"Because happiness without truth isn't real."
The world flickered. For just a moment, he saw through the illusion—purple mist pressing at the edges, reality straining at the seams. The coffee shop wasn't real. The other customers were mannequins going through the motions. Even the light was wrong, coming from everywhere and nowhere.
Then perfect Tokyo reasserted itself, but weaker now. Like a TV with bad reception, the image kept trying to stabilize.
"Come on," not-Yui said, taking his arm. Her grip was too strong, too insistent. "Your parents are waiting."
He let her lead him, morbidly curious about how deep this illusion went. The restaurant was exactly the kind of place his successful self would choose—upscale but not ostentatious, the kind of place that served foam on things that shouldn't have foam.
His parents sat at the best table, looking proud instead of disappointed. They stood when he entered, and the wrongness of it made his stomach turn. His mother actually hugged him—not the stiff, obligatory embrace he knew, but something warm and genuine. His father clapped his shoulder with actual affection.
"There's our star!" His father—who'd barely spoken to him in years—beamed. "VP Kisaragi. Has a nice ring to it."
"Tell us about the Peterson project," his mother urged. "Revolutionary AI applications, the news said? Your father's been bragging to everyone at the club."
His father, bragging about him. The impossibility of it made the illusion waver.
Ren sat numbly as they talked about achievements he'd never achieved, praised work he'd never done. The food arrived—perfectly presented, probably delicious. It tasted like nothing. Not bad, just... absent. Like eating the memory of food.
"The expansion into the European market was brilliant," his father continued. "Using the blockchain integration to—"
"Stop." Ren set down his fork. "This is wrong. All of it."
His parents froze, not like people pausing, but like someone had hit the pause button on them. Their faces still smiled, but nothing else moved. Not even breathing.
"I need some air," he said to the frozen tableau.
Outside, Tokyo continued its perfect charade. But now he noticed the patterns. People walked in loops, having the same conversations. A businessman passed by talking on his phone: "Yes, the quarterly reports look excellent." Thirty seconds later, another businessman, same phrase, same intonation.
Birds flew the same routes repeatedly. Even the clouds moved in predictable cycles, like someone had created a twenty-minute loop of "perfect day" and set it to repeat.
"It's beautiful, isn't it?"
He turned to find himself. Another Ren, wearing a lab coat over an expensive suit, looking tired but satisfied. This version had everything—success, confidence, the kind of presence that commanded respect.
"The life you could have had," other-Ren continued, gesturing to the perfect city. "Every correct choice, every seized opportunity. No failures, no disappointments. No white hair or cosmic responsibility."
"It's fake."
"Is it? Or is it more real than the disaster you actually lived?" Other-Ren gestured to the perfect city. "Look around. Everyone's happy. Productive. Fulfilled. No one's crying into cup noodles at 3 AM wondering where their life went wrong."
"That's because they're not real people. They're props."
"And what makes you think the people in your 'real' life are any different? Your parents, disappointed props. Your ex-girlfriend, the prop that left. Your professors, props that failed you." Other-Ren's smile was sharp. "At least these props care about you."
"The real ones cared too. They just... I disappointed them."
"Exactly! Here, you don't disappoint anyone. Here, you're everything you were supposed to be." Other-Ren pulled out a tablet, showing statistics. "Look at your life metrics. Happiness: maximized. Success: optimized. Relationships: perfected. Why choose suffering?"
"Because suffering is real. This?" Ren gestured at the perfect city. "This is a screensaver. Pretty, but empty."
"Reality is overrated. Ask anyone who's lived it."
"You're right. Reality sucks. It's messy and painful and full of failures." Ren thought of his actual life. The failures, the loneliness, the cup noodles and disappointed parents. "But it's also full of unexpected moments. Like an elf warrior believing in you when you don't believe in yourself. Like an ancient princess becoming a friend. Like finding purpose in the last place you'd expect."
Other-Ren's expression darkened. "You'd choose them over this? People who barely know you over a life where you're loved and successful?"
"They know me better after a few day's than this illusion ever could. Because they know the real me. The failure who tries anyway."
"Then let me show you what you're choosing."
Perfect Tokyo shattered like a glass painting dropped from a great height.