It was another perfect day for lying.
Arata Hoshigaki leaned back in his chair at a café terrace, sunlight glinting off his fake gold bracelet as he smiled across the table at his mark—
no, at the girl of the hour.
"Your aura," he said, lowering his voice like some half-baked mystic, "is… unstable. I can feel a shadow clinging to your soul."
The girl blinked, stirring her drink. "A shadow?"
He nodded gravely. "Mm. A curse. Probably from jealousy—someone around you wishes you harm."
She frowned, uncertain. "And… you can fix that?"
"Of course," Arata said, his hand already sliding into his jacket pocket. The small glass bead inside rattled a worthless bauble he bought in bulk online. "This charm will absorb negative energy for seven days. After that, I'll perform a cleansing ritual."
He smiled like a professional exorcist.
In reality, the only thing he'd ever cleansed was a wallet.
Her doubt was fading—he could see it. Just one more push.
He leaned forward, lowering his tone.
"Honestly, I don't usually offer this for free, but… you have such pure eyes. I'd feel bad if something happened to you."
A slight blush.
She looked away. "You're… surprisingly kind."
"Kind?" I grinned. "No, I'm just a sucker for pretty girls."
And just like that, she laughed—the kind of laugh that made the world seem light and stupid.
For a moment, he thought maybe, hey, today's another win.
Then the sunlight dimmed.
A shadow crossed the street—thick, wide, unnatural.
Arata blinked, glancing up.
And the sky was wrong.
Something massive was gliding far too low—metallic, roaring.
He froze. So did everyone else.
Phones came out. Someone screamed.
And then the airplane tilted—
fire flashing under its wing—
and the last thing Arata saw was his reflection in the café window, eyes wide, mouth half-open in a curse that never came out.
Sound vanished.
Then: white light. Heat.
The world folded in on itself, like paper burning from the edges inward.
Wait, seriously? I die like this? I did not even scam 2 people today…
He laughed. Or maybe he screamed. Hard to tell when you're vaporized.
Silence.
Then, darkness.
Then—
A voice.
Low, distant, amused.
"ARATA, WAKE UP YOU PUNK AND ANSWER THE QUESTION."
My head jerked up. The first thing I saw wasn't heaven, hell, or even the burning wreck of the plane—it was a chalkboard. A chalkboard.
Rows of desks. Teenagers in uniform. A teacher glaring at me like I'd just spat on his ancestors.
"...Huh?" I croaked. My throat felt raw, like I'd swallowed a fistful of smoke. "Where's the fire? The screaming? The—"
"Keep mumbling and I'll make you run laps until graduation," the man snapped.
The man in front of me—mid-forties, veins bulging—was clutching a piece of chalk like he wanted to stab me with it.
I tilted my head. "...Question? Oh right, sorry teach, I was deep in meditation."
The class snickered.
He scowled. "Meditation?"
"Yeah," I said, nodding solemnly. "I was visualizing a world where your lectures don't make me want to hang myself."
The room exploded with laughter.
The teacher slammed his palm against the desk. "OUT! OUTSIDE, NOW!"
I stretched, yawning. "Man, even in the afterlife I can't escape homework."
That earned me a few confused looks. I dragged myself up, pretending not to notice how different my body felt—lighter, younger, completely unscarred. My old self was supposed to be splattered across an airplane seat. So why was I standing here, getting yelled at by a discount Joe Biden with hypertension?
I stepped into the hallway, smirking as the door shut behind me.
Then, the grin faded.
This wasn't a dream. The school uniforms, the layout—it all looked… familiar.