There are worlds layered on top of the human one.
Some are bright and holy. Some are drowned in blood. Others were never meant to be understood at all. They are separated by distance, by logic, by time — and yet, they are connected by something fragile. A thread so thin it can barely be called real.
When a being dies in another world, there is a chance — impossibly small — that their soul slips through that thread and is reborn in the human world. One in a million. A mistake. An anomaly.
Most never realize who they were. Some feel it in their dreams. Others see it in reflections, hear it in voices, or feel it in their bones when danger approaches. A few begin to awaken.
Tokyo does not notice them. Tokyo never does.
This is a story about those anomalies — the ones who slipped through. Second-year students. Orphans.
Strangers to one another. Each carries the echo of a god, a monster, or something older than both.
They walk the same city. They breathe the same air. They pretend to be human.
And somewhere in the city, someone is watching — waiting for the moment they remember who they once were.
Some awakenings are gentle. Others burn. And some are silenced before they can begin.
This is not a story about heroes. It is a story about what remains when divinity is forced into human skin.