Chapter 1: Dream? Omen? Or A Revelation
April 7, 2015, Kurayoshi City, Tottori Prefecture, Japan
The summer breeze carried a faint warmth as it swept through the somewhat aged streets of Kurayoshi City.
Fourteen-year-old Shinji Ikari trudged along with his head lowered, carrying a faded canvas backpack, heading toward the place referred to as "home."
The last rays of the setting sun sparingly painted the rooftops, failing to bring any warmth and instead accentuating the gloom in the air.
As the house came into view, he spotted a familiar figure—his homeroom teacher and legal guardian, Fujiwara-sensei.
Fujiwara-sensei stood at the door, speaking to a young man in a delivery uniform, his brow furrowed and his face etched with its usual impatience.
Shinji's steps faltered, a familiar, heavy premonition settling in his chest.
As he approached, Fujiwara-sensei happened to turn his head and saw him. There was no warmth in his eyes, only the irritation of being interrupted.
In a tone bordering on dismissal, he tilted his chin toward the deliveryman and said dryly, "There, that's Shinji Ikari. You can talk to him."
Without another word, he turned briskly and pushed the door open, entering the house as if staying a second longer would be a waste.
Thud!
The sound of the door closing wasn't loud, but it struck Shinji's heart like a dull hammer.
He was used to it. Used to being treated as a nuisance, to being treated as if he were invisible.
The deliveryman seemed somewhat awkward but dutifully handed over a package. "Hello, sir. This is a letter for you, sent from Tokyo-3. Please sign for it."
Tokyo-3
The name pierced through Shinji's attempt to maintain composure like a jolt of icy electricity.
His heart skipped a beat before being overwhelmed by a surge of absurdity and anger.
Expressionless, he took the white envelope, his fingers feeling slightly cold.
The deliveryman handed him the signing pad. Shinji scribbled a few strokes, and the man hurried away, seemingly eager to escape the suffocating atmosphere.
Shinji stood before the closed door, the twilight casting a long, lonely shadow at his feet. He looked down at the envelope in his hand—it was light, as if it contained very little.
He tore open the seal and pulled out the contents—his movements freezing completely the next second.
On the coarse archival paper, his name was printed at the top, with a blurry photo in the upper right corner.
The rest of the information had been blacked out with a marker. In the blank space beside the lower right corner, a line of cold, unadorned printed text read:
"Come to me."
No salutation, no signature, no date.
Just these three words, spoken with an unquestionable tone of command—like a cold, mechanical directive, or the summons of a lofty emperor to an insignificant ant.
Each word radiated the profound coldness and arrogance unique to Gendo Ikari.
"Hah..." A short, humorless laugh escaped Shinji's throat.
It wasn't joy—it was the kind of laugh born of sheer exasperation, the peak of absurdity igniting long-suppressed fury.
He clutched the ridiculous "letter," his fingertips turning pale from the force of his grip.
Ten years.
A full decade without a single word, discarded like trash and passed from one indifferent relative to another, never paying a cent in child support, leaving him to struggle in the contempt of others and the narrow margins of survival.
And now, with just a perfunctory file and a cold command, they want to summon him back?
Why should he?!
There was something else in the envelope. He tipped it out—an ID card bearing his photo and the NERV logo.
The photo showed his younger self—a timid boy with eyes full of fear, utterly clueless about the future.
The card felt like a chilling preview of what was to come, a shackle labeled "Pilot."
The cold sneer on Shinji's face froze, his gaze turning unusually sharp, carrying a penetrating coldness that only years of experience could forge.
Without hesitation, he roughly stuffed the glaring "letter" of a file and the ID card back into the envelope. Then, spinning around abruptly, he called out to the delivery guy, who had only taken a few steps away:
"Hey!"
The delivery guy turned back, puzzled.
Shinji caught up in a few strides, shoving the envelope firmly back into the other's hand. His voice was clear, calm, even tinged with a resolute cruelty:
"Send it back. Just say—no such person exists!"
With that, he ignored the delivery guy's instantly bewildered expression and any attempt at explanation, turning directly to pull open the front door and stepping inside without a second thought. Then, with a loud "bang," he slammed the door shut, completely cutting off that ridiculous summons from his father, from fate.
Outside, the delivery guy's startled knocking and calls could be heard: "Sir? Shinji Ikari? You can't do this, it's against the rules…"
The noise persisted for a while but eventually faded away, unanswered and helpless.
Footsteps retreated into the distance, carrying the rejected "command" as they vanished into the dusk of Kurayoshi City.
Inside the entryway, Shinji leaned against the cold door, taking a deep breath and slowly exhaling.
The churning anger in his chest hadn't subsided; instead, it had settled into a deeper, colder hatred.
He changed out of his school uniform into another set of old, faded, slightly oversized casual clothes. His movements were brisk, carrying a weariness and detachment that didn't match his age.
The clatter of dishes and utensils came from the living room.
Fujiwara-sensei and his 12-year-old daughter were having dinner.
The air was filled with the smell of food, but not a trace of homely warmth.
Shinji walked over and stated flatly, "I'm going to work. I'll eat at the shop."
Fujiwara-sensei didn't look up, letting out a vague "Hmm" from his nose to acknowledge it.
His daughter, a girl whose face always bore a spiteful expression beyond her years, curled her lip at the words, rolling her eyes unabashedly and muttering under her breath, "Again… What a nuisance."
Shinji acted as if he hadn't heard, or perhaps he was already numb to it.
This kind of undisguised disdain had become routine over the years as he moved from one foster home to another. Silently, he pulled the door open, stepped out, and gently closed it behind him.
Outside, the sky had grown even gloomier than before, with lead-gray clouds pressing low and the wind turning colder.
Shinji looked up at the sky and sighed inwardly. This damn weather was just like his life—never any hope of clearing up.
"Bastard Gendo Ikari!" he cursed under his breath, his voice low but filled with hatred and contempt.
This hatred didn't come from nowhere.
Over the years, he had been passed from one relative's home to another, like an unwanted piece of old furniture.
The Fujiwara household was merely the latest stop. Those so-called "guardians" always had "burden" and "encumbrance" written in their eyes.
After the Second Impact, the world lay in ruins with a devastated economy—who would willingly take on an extra mouth to feed?
Legal and moral pressures forced them to provide a roof over his head and barely enough food to survive, while his school fees were largely covered by the government's meager subsidies.
What they offered was the "minimum subsistence guarantee," not a shred of warmth.
It was only later that he realized the source of all this suffering—the man who gave him life yet completely abandoned him, Gendo Ikari, had been too stingy to even pay the most basic living expenses! At age ten, he accidentally overheard his relatives' complaints and curses, uncovering this cruel truth.
That man, his father, held nothing but a purely "instrumental attitude" toward him.
He didn't like Shinji, and even... hated him.
Shinji once naively believed he wasn't good enough, but it was during that long "dream" that he fully understood the root of that hatred: Gendo hated him for taking away the love of his mother, Yui Ikari! This twisted possessiveness and jealousy made the father view his son as a thorn in his side.
Paying living expenses? That would mean acknowledging paternal responsibility, admitting the bond of blood.
This was precisely what Gendo Ikari was most unwilling to do.
A decade without contact, summoning him with a cold command via a tattered file—he was deliberately severing the last pitiful connection between father and son, reducing Shinji to a mere "component" that could be discarded or picked up at will.
Inferiority, lack of love, deeply ingrained self-negation... These shackle-like personality traits of Shinji were the bitter fruits of Gendo Ikari's long-term "emotional abandonment" and material deprivation.
This was also why Shinji, standing on the bleak streets of Kurayoshi, felt such profound hatred surging within him.
He hated that man—hated his coldness, selfishness, distortion, and how he destroyed the most basic dignity and warmth Shinji should have possessed as a human being.
Because he "knew" all of this. He wasn't just the 14-year-old, bullied boy Shinji Ikari.
He was a transmigrator.
Or rather, he felt like one.
It all felt too vivid to be a dream, yet too absurd to prove.
In that "dream," he was born in a peaceful country called "Japan," into an ordinary yet loving family.
He attended school and grew up like any ordinary child, with parents who cared for him and an older sister who loved to ruffle his hair.
In that world, he first encountered an anime titled Neon Genesis Evangelion.
When the boy who shared his name and had the same pale face and timid eyes appeared on screen, he felt a tremor deep in his soul.
He saw "Shinji Ikari" receive a letter from his estranged father at age 14 and naively travel to the unfamiliar Tokyo-3;
He saw him forced to pilot the massive purple mecha Evangelion, fighting terrifying "Angels" in fear and agony;
He saw him move into Misato Katsuragi's messy yet vibrant apartment;
Witnessing the complex bonds of pain and longing woven between him and the fiery pride of Asuka, the doll-like mystery of Rei Ayanami; witnessing the "Human Instrumentality Project" that ultimately points toward humanity's destruction and rebirth...
In that world, he seemed to have received heaven's mercy, observing the script of his originally tragic fate through a prolonged viewing, while simultaneously experiencing another life—one wrapped in love, ordinary yet enough to "heal a lifetime."
There, he completed his undergraduate and graduate studies, cared for by an older senior, and had just been hired by a promising company.
He vividly remembered the moment he received the job offer—overwhelming joy made him eagerly call home, listening to his parents and sister's excited and proud congratulations on the other end, feeling his heart filled to the brim with happiness.
"Dad, Mom, Sis! I made it! From now on, I..."
Just as he was excitedly sharing the good news and dreaming of the future, the world before him spun and blurred without warning... The next second, he jolted awake from a cold, narrow desk.
Fine beads of cold sweat dotted his forehead, the lingering echoes of his family's joy still seeming to ring in his ears, yet before him was already this dim, musty-smelling small room in Kurayoshi City.
Over twenty years of warm, happy "dreaming" came to an abrupt halt.
He had become 14-year-old Shinji Ikari once more.
Possessing nothing, living under someone else's roof, having just torn up the cold summons his father sent via tattered newspaper.
He stood on the gloomy street, the direction of the fast-food restaurant where he worked glowing with faint neon lights.
Behind him was the closed, indifferent door of the Fujiwara household; ahead lay a night where survival had to be earned through cheap labor.
And that whirlpool named Tokyo-3, named Evangelion, named destiny—because of his refusal today—was quietly deviating from the "script's" trajectory.
What would the future hold? He didn't know. Was that "dream" an omen? A revelation? Or merely an illusory comfort woven by a desperate mind?
The only thing he was certain of was that he was no longer that manipulable boy who could only say "mustn't run away."
He had tasted what it was like to be loved, he had seen the script of fate, and burning in his heart was a profound hatred for Gendo Ikari.
That returned file was the first stone of rebellion he had thrown at that cold world, at that cold father.
The wind swept up fallen leaves on the ground. Shinji tightened his thin old coat and took a step toward the neon lights.
He was going to be late for work, and survival was the only real proposition at this moment.
As for what waves the returned "order" would stir? For now, he was unwilling to think about it, and powerless to do so.
He only knew that this time, he had chosen not to obediently walk toward that predetermined, tragic future.