There's a limit to what the human brain can endure, a fragile, flickering thread stretched taut between brilliance and obliteration. I've always understood this in the abstract—a matter of physics, biology, perhaps some cruel cosmic irony—though understanding is not the same as truly knowing.
I know now.
The sharp, splintering pain clawing its way through my skull as I plummeted through the night sky told me all I needed to know.
Teleportation isn't a superpower, not really. It's arithmetic on a knife's edge. Every shift, every displacement requires perfect, ruthless calculation, down to the smallest detail: vectors, distances, relative coordinates. A single slip in those numbers and... well, you've seen the splatter patterns on the pavement, haven't you?
And I slipped.
God help me, I slipped.
The adrenaline that had carried me through the fight was gone, replaced with a bone-deep exhaustion that pulled at my body like lead weights. My muscles refused to obey, every nerve in my body screaming like a choir of the damned. I could barely think, let alone perform the precise calculations I needed to survive.
Somewhere deep in my chest, panic roared to life, but it was sluggish, muted. Even panic required energy, and mine had long since burned away. All I could do was fall—fall through the broken night, stars blurring into streaks of light as gravity dragged me closer to my inevitable end.
And the stars were beautiful to behold.
It was almost insulting, really. That the heavens could look so serene, so utterly indifferent, even as chaos and death ran riot below. The smell of blood and burnt concrete still clung to the air, the echoes of screaming—both human and otherwise—etched into my ears like a grotesque symphony.
And yet here were the stars, oblivious. Beautiful and cold and utterly, maddeningly untouchable.
I closed my eyes against them, bile rising in my throat as memories clawed their way to the surface. The operation had been… I don't even have the words. Inhumane? Monstrous? Those words feel too small, too civilized, to encompass the carnage I'd seen. The rotting corpses, the unseeing eyes of Anti-Skill officers who looked at the dead like they were little more than garbage bags waiting to be taken to the curb. No grief. No hesitation. Just cold, mechanical efficiency.
It made me sick.
And the juveniles—those kids they called "criminals," as though that word was big enough to hold all the desperation and horror they'd been forced to endure—what about them? Were they beyond saving? Beyond redemption?
No.
I refused to believe that.
Even now, as my body betrayed me and the air grew colder against my skin, I held onto that belief. People could change. Systems could change. Justice could be more than this twisted mockery of itself. It had to be.
But if that was true, if change was possible, then what about me?
What kind of change could I bring about as a broken, falling corpse?
The thought stabbed through me, sharper than any blade. I didn't want to die. Not here. Not like this.
And not while she…
Her face flashed in my mind—soft brown hair, a warm, rueful smile that could shift to steely determination in the blink of an eye. The image was so vivid it almost felt real, like she was here with me, whispering her disappointment straight into my ear.
Mikoto.
I couldn't imagine her face twisted in grief. I wouldn't.
I couldn't leave her like this.
Something flickered in me then, a spark in the deep, dark recesses of my mind. A kind of fire I hadn't felt in what felt like an eternity. It wasn't adrenaline; it was pure, unyielding will.
I opened my eyes, stars rushing back into view, no longer cold and indifferent but impossibly bright. I wasn't dead yet.
And if I wasn't dead, I could fight.
I will not give up. I cannot give up.
My brain screamed at me to stop, to let go, to rest, but I ignored it. Pain was irrelevant. Exhaustion was irrelevant. My calculations would not fail me again.
And then—then I remembered.
The coin.
My hands trembled as I fumbled for it in my pocket, the small, insignificant weight of it anchoring me to reality. Saint Nicholas's Coin, they called it. A trinket. A rumor. A miracle.
I'd never believed in that sort of thing. Science was my faith; math, my religion. But as the ground rushed closer and death's shadow loomed large over me, I realized belief didn't matter. All that mattered was hope.
My fingers closed around the coin, clutching it so tightly the edges dug into my palm. I willed my broken mind to move, to calculate, to defy the limits of what should have been possible.
"Please," I whispered, the word tearing from my throat like a prayer. "Just this once."
And then—
Everything distorted.
I felt cold.
And then, paradoxically, hot—unbearably so. My clothes clung to my skin, soaked through with sweat and something sticky that I didn't want to think too much about. Every breath burned, every heartbeat thudded sluggishly, as though my body was running on borrowed time.
I wanted to peel everything off, to shed the layers of grime and filth, but even the thought of moving felt insurmountable.
Then my eyes flew open, snapping to sharp, involuntary attention.
What greeted me wasn't the blinding white of hospital lights or the imposing sterility of medical equipment. Instead, my gaze landed on a ceiling far higher than I'd expected, an ornate fixture of cut crystal and golden trim. The chandelier cast a soft, expensive glow over the room, the kind of warm lighting that whispered luxury rather than screamed recovery.
For a moment, I thought I might have woken up in a hotel — some over-the-top suite meant to flaunt excess. But as my gaze shifted, the illusion cracked.
Besides the plush bed I was lying in, sleek and state-of-the-art medical machines hummed, quietly. Their monitors blinked with rows of data I didn't have the energy to decipher, the rhythmic beeping serving as a subtle reminder that I wasn't entirely out of danger.
A metal IV stand loomed next to me, the thin line snaking down the crook of my arm where a needle had been taped in place. The clear bag of fluids above swayed ever so slightly, catching the golden light in an almost hypnotic rhythm.
It was an odd juxtaposition. The room was too opulent to belong to any hospital, yet the clinical presence of the equipment betrayed the reality of my condition. My brows furrowed as I tried to reconcile between the two.
Luxury and survival. The two didn't often mix.
I shifted slightly, the jolt of pain shooting through me sharp enough to bring tears to my eyes. My body protested every movement, every shallow breath, every moment of being alive. But the pain was grounding in its way. A harsh, biting proof that I wasn't… wherever people like me went after dying.
Carefully, I forced myself to sit up, each movement a battle against gravity and agony. The bed beneath me—far too soft, excessively plush—sank slightly under my weight. It was then that I noticed the view.
The light from the window glinted off the glass like liquid fire, spilling across the floor in golden streaks. Outside, Academy City sprawled endlessly, its nighttime skyline a jagged silhouette of light and motion.
I wasn't dead.
I was alive.
The thought felt both monumental and surreal, like a revelation and betrayal all at once. My hand reached out, almost of its own accord, to touch the bandages that wrapped tightly around my arms, my chest, my side. Whoever had found me hadn't just saved me; they'd made sure I was cared for.
Not in a hospital.
In a hotel suite.
Why?
The grandeur of the room gnawed at me. Someone had decided I didn't belong in an ordinary hospital bed, with its smell of disinfectant and the droning hum of life support machines. No, they'd placed me here, amidst the warmth of luxury and the quiet of solitude.
But why?
And how?
I should be dead. By every law of physics, by every scrap of logic, I should not have survived that fall. My body should've crumpled on impact, my cells torn apart by the Decomposer, my consciousness snuffed out like a candle in the wind.
But here I was, alive.
Alive.
My hands trembled as I touched my face, my chest, the bedsheets. Was this some elaborate delusion? A cruel dream conjured by a dying brain unwilling to let go? Or had something—someone—intervened?
The last thing I remembered was the coin. The Saint Nicholas Coin. That impossible artifact that I'd clung to in my final moments, willing it to save me, to give me a miracle.
Had it worked?
Had I gambled my life on a whispered rumor and somehow won?
A tremor ran through me, something between a shiver and a sob. The chandelier's light blurred, refracted by the tears gathering in my eyes.
It wasn't just relief. It wasn't just confusion. It was the weight of survival pressing down on me, crushing in its enormity.
Because I was alive. And that meant I had to face the questions that came next:
Why me?
Why now?
And what the hell was I going to do about it?
My thoughts, which were teetering dangerously between foggy confusion and existential dread, were interrupted by the unmistakable sound of a door slamming open. Not creaking, not sliding—slamming, as though the door itself had personally offended whoever was on the other side.
Heavy footsteps followed, their rhythm deliberate and unrelenting, like a drumbeat announcing the arrival of a storm.
Naturally, my eyes darted toward the source, and there she was.
Small.
There's no other way to describe her, really. Small in stature, small in build, but somehow commanding the kind of presence you'd expect from someone twice her size. She had the look of someone who'd walked into the wrong room and decided to own it anyway: lavender long-sleeved blouse, a plum-colored skirt with suspenders, and platform shoes that valiantly tried—but failed—to add anything to her height.
If I hadn't been so disoriented, I might've laughed. She looked like someone had raided a Victorian-era doll shop and outfitted her with a flip phone and a penchant for stomping.
But then she spoke, and any thoughts I had about her being a harmless puff of brown hair dissolved immediately.
"—How the hell is that my problem?! If they want me to go so badly, they can just shove those medical tubes up their fucking as—"
Her voice was like a razor dipped in acid: sharp, cutting. The kind of voice that didn't just demand attention but yanked it by the collar.
She froze mid-sentence when her gaze landed on me. Her eyes— copper, round, and far too sharp for their size—widened as though she'd been caught off guard. The flip phone in her hand snapped shut with a decisive click before she marched straight toward me.
There was no hesitation, no polite consideration of boundaries. The moment she decided to approach, my personal space ceased to exist.
She stopped abruptly at the side of my bed and plopped down, entirely uninvited, before frowning in what I could only describe as critical inspection. Her gaze scanned my face with the intensity of someone analyzing a crime scene.
"May I help you?" I asked hesitantly, feeling the weight of her scrutiny settle over me like a lead blanket.
That seemed to snap her out of it. She pulled back slightly, her frown deepening into something more pointed, then jabbed a finger at me as though I'd personally offended her.
"You!" she barked, her voice brimming with righteous indignation.
I blinked, thrown off by the sheer force of her tone. "Me?"
"Yes, you!" she reiterated, as if I were the only person in the world who could possibly deserve her ire.
Her expression darkened, her round eyes narrowing into a glare sharp enough to cut glass. "Do you have any idea how much trouble you've caused me?!"
I opened my mouth to respond but immediately closed it again, unsure how to navigate this minefield. My lips pressed into a tight line as I processed her words. Trouble? Me?
Granted, I probably owed her my life—assuming she was involved in getting me to this ridiculously extravagant suite—but was it really fair to blame me for… whatever trouble she'd gone through? After all, I hadn't exactly asked to plummet to my almost-death while half my body was breaking down on a cellular level.
Still, gratitude was the least I could muster, even if the delivery left much to be desired.
"Huh," I said eloquently, my tone brimming with the kind of intellectual sophistication that only comes from having just escaped death.
Her glare sharpened, her lips curling into a scowl that could've melted steel. "Huh? That's all you have to say?"
I gave her what I thought was a charmingly sheepish smile. "Well, uh, thank you for saving me?"
She didn't look remotely placated. In fact, if looks could kill, I'd have been six feet under before I could blink. "Saving you?! Don't thank me just yet, you absolute disaster of a human being!"
I blinked again, thrown by the sheer venom in her voice. "I'm sorry?"
"Oh, you will be," she snapped, leaning in so close I could practically feel the static of her irritation in the air. "Do you know how many times I've had to deal with your weird, random spasms this past week?!"
"My… what?"
Her hands shot up, gesturing wildly in exasperation. "Spasms! Like—like your whole body jerking out of nowhere, like you're being electrocuted or something! And you're not even conscious, so it's just me, sitting there, wondering if you're gonna spontaneously combust! Do you have any idea how annoying that is?!"
I cringed, the mortification hitting me like a freight train. "I—I didn't know…"
"Of course, you didn't!" she retorted, crossing her arms and glaring at me with the force of someone who had truly been wronged. "You were unconscious! But I was awake, and I had to watch it! And don't even get me started on the noise! You'd groan like some kind of malfunctioning robot every time it happened!"
I wanted to crawl under the plush, expensive covers and disappear. "I'm really sorry."
Her glare didn't waver. "You better be. Because I swear, if it happens again, I'm going to shove a sock in your mouth and duct tape you to the bed."
I blinked at her, unsure whether she was joking or actually serious. Her deadpan stare leaned heavily toward the latter. "Uh… thank you for not doing that?"
The tiny girl snorted, flicking a hand dismissively. "You should be thanking me for a lot more than that."
I hesitated, glancing around the room again—the chandelier, the expensive bed, the sleek medical equipment humming softly in the corner. "Actually… why didn't you just take me to a hospital?"
Her head snapped toward me, her eyes narrowing into accusatory slits. "Oh, you're not grateful, are you?!"
"No, no, that's not what I meant!" I rushed to clarify, waving my hands defensively. "I'm grateful—really, I am! But… I mean, wouldn't it have been safer? There might be a potential infection with all of this…"
Her expression morphed into one of pure outrage, her hands slamming down on the edge of the bed as she leaned in. " What do you mean by that? Just so you know, I hired the best doctor in Academy City to look after you! The best! And you're sitting there, worried about infections?!"
"I'm just saying…"
She cut me off with an indignant scoff, throwing her arms in the air as if I'd personally insulted her entire bloodline. "Do you have any idea how much this is costing me?! The bed, the machines, the doctor—I spared no expense! If you'd been dumped into some overcrowded hospital, you'd be getting stitched up by some intern still learning how to hold a scalpel!"
I winced at the mental image. "That's… fair, I guess."
"Damn right, it's fair!" she huffed, crossing her arms and glaring at me again. "You're lucky I didn't just leave you there to die after all the trouble you've caused me."
"Right. Lucky," I muttered, sinking further into the bed as her tirade continued.
"And for the record," she added sharply, "if you try pulling this whole 'unconscious spasming freak show' again, I'm billing you for emotional damages."
"Noted," I said weakly, resisting the urge to bury my face in the pillow.
Taking a tentative breath, I decided to steer the conversation in a safer direction. "Uh… so, what's your name?"
She froze, her glare momentarily giving way to something resembling confusion. Then she scoffed, tossing her hair back with dramatic flair.
"Mugino Shizuri," she said, as though the name should have been immediately recognizable. "And don't you forget it."
"Mugino," I repeated, trying it out on my tongue. "Right. Got it."
Her eyes narrowed. "What about you? Got a name, or should I just keep calling you 'That Spasming Idiot'?"
Despite myself, I sighed softly. "Shirai Kuroko."
Mugino snorted "Figures."
Figures? What was that supposed to mean?
Before I could ask anything further, Mugino stood abruptly, brushing imaginary lint off her skirt like she was shaking off crumbs of an inconvenience. The sharpness in her movements suggested that this was not just a casual gesture but a signal of authority—hers, of course.
Her voice cut through the lingering silence, confident and unapologetic. "Since you're already awake, you know you owe me big time for this."
The emphasis on big time was almost insulting. Almost.
I had already expected something like this. It was Mugino, after all—someone who, I quickly deduced, was not the kind to do things without some kind of benefit dangling on the other end. And while it wasn't inherently wrong to want compensation for saving someone's life, it did leave a distinctly bitter taste in my mouth.
I mean, sure, I owed her. That much was undeniable. But was I wrong to feel like this whole situation was teetering on the edge of transactional opportunism?
Of course, this was not the time to start moralizing about altruism. I had bigger concerns—like figuring out what exactly had changed about me and whether the dull ache in my side was going to burst into something worse.
So, I took the high road, suppressing my irritation with what I thought was impressive composure. "That I can do," I replied smoothly. "But for now, can I ask about my phone? I need to contact someone."
Mugino's gaze followed my gesture as I nodded toward the table, where my phone sat innocently, untouched. She pointed to it with a nonchalant flick of her finger. "It's right there."
I blinked at her, waiting for her to elaborate. She did not.
Instead, she raised a brow at me, her expression dripping with the kind of expectant impatience that made my stomach twist.
Oh.
Oh.
She wasn't serious, was she?
She wanted me—someone fresh out of what was probably the most physically traumatic week of my life—to get up and retrieve the phone myself.
"Well?" she said, her tone ringing with a pointed impatience that could chip glass.
I bit back the groan rising in my throat. Was she really just too lazy to pass me the phone? Or was this some kind of test, some way of establishing dominance?
For a fleeting moment, I entertained the thought of refusing out of sheer spite. But the dull throb in my side quickly reminded me that I was in no position to pick unnecessary fights.
So, despite the ache that flared through my body, I swung my legs over the edge of the bed and attempted to stand. It was a mistake. The pain tore through me like jagged glass, forcing me to collapse back onto the mattress with an undignified thud.
Mugino's expression remained unimpressed, her lips curving into a faint smirk that I wanted to wipe off her face with whatever leftover strength I could muster.
"Really?" she drawled, indifference facing in her voice. "That's the best you've got?"
The irritation simmering beneath my skin reached a boil, but I swallowed it down. Instead, I glanced at the phone, calculating the angle. If walking was out of the question, then there was always another way.
Teleportation.
It wasn't the most responsible decision—given my current state, overexerting my brain could end disastrously—but I reasoned that moving in small distance shouldn't strain me too much.
Focusing my gaze on the phone, I began calculating. The numbers and coordinates flowed effortlessly through my mind, almost unnaturally so. For a moment, I wondered if my post-recovery haze was just making things easier to ignore, but then I realized something was off.
The phone disappeared from the table and reappeared directly in my hand.
Except it wasn't me that teleported.
The object moved, not me.
Mugino let out a soft, thoughtful hum, her posture shifting as her eyes narrowed in intrigue. "Hmm," she murmured, tilting her head slightly. "A teleporter, huh?"
I barely registered her words. My focus was elsewhere. Something about the act of teleporting had felt… off. It wasn't unpleasant—on the contrary, it had felt smoother, more intuitive than ever before.
But that was the problem.
Teleportation had always required deliberate, precise effort—a mental strain that left my brain buzzing with residual static. This time, the calculations had come as naturally as breathing, as if my body had been rewired to accept the process without resistance.
Staring at the device in my palm. My fingers curled around it instinctively, but my mind was already racing. That wasn't how my power worked. I was the one who teleported—my body, my being, not the objects around me. This was… new.
A shiver ran down my spine. I wasn't sure whether to be thrilled or horrified by the change. On one hand, it was undeniably useful. On the other, it raised unsettling questions about what had happened to me during my near-death experience. Powers didn't just change like this.
Not without cause.
It freaked me out.
Not enough to show on my face, of course. But internally, I was spiraling. This was new. Uncharted. And, dare I say it, slightly terrifying.
Still, there was a tiny, undeniable part of me that was… excited. If this was an upgrade—a sign that I was edging closer to Level 5 territory—it could change everything.
But I couldn't get ahead of myself. Not yet.
Mugino was still watching me, her expression unreadable. I decided to test the waters. "You seem… interested."
The first thing I noticed was the way her brow quirked upward, a smirk teasing at the corner of her lips. It was the kind of expression that made you instantly question whether you were in for a compliment or a thinly veiled insult. "Teleportation, huh?" she mused, the smirk spreading. "Maybe I'll keep you around. Could be fun to have my own teleporting minion."
I blinked at her, dampened brow lifting as I tried to decide whether her tone was playful or deadly serious. Knowing my luck, probably the latter. "Minion?" I repeated, half incredulous, half resigned.
"Yeah," she said breezily, ignoring the obvious skepticism in my voice. She gestured vaguely, like she was already picturing her glorious future with a loyal teleporter at her beck and call. "You might even be useful for once. And who knows? If you're lucky, you could help me make a name for myself."
The smug look she wore was almost impressive in its audacity. I couldn't decide if I'd been graced by some divine fortune or if this entire situation was karma's idea of a very bad joke. Maybe both. Either way, I did the only sensible thing: I ignored her entirely, turning my attention to the phone hovering in front of me.
Let her ramble about her hypothetical "team." Whatever grandiose delusions she had about herself were not my problem—at least, not yet. What mattered now was checking in with the people I'd been away from for an entire week. Missing persons were declared missing after just 24 hours, maybe 48 if the circumstances weren't suspicious. A week was practically a lifetime.
The holographic screen flickered to life beneath my fingertips, and I found myself hesitating as my gaze fell on the familiar word: onee-sama.
My breath caught, and before I knew it, a smile crept across my face. Just seeing her name on the screen was enough to spark a warmth in my chest, a bubble of giddiness that I hadn't realized I'd missed. Mikoto. How long had it been since I'd seen her smile? Since I'd heard her voice? My thumb hovered over the call button, anticipation and nerves colliding in a way that made my stomach flip.
"Ew."
The disgusted voice snapped me out of my reverie, and I startled, glancing to the side to see Mugino watching me with a mix of horror and amusement. Her nose wrinkled like she'd just caught a whiff of something unpleasant.
"What?" I asked defensively.
"You were drooling," she said flatly, pointing at my chin.
My face burned, and I swiped at my mouth with the sleeve of my—admittedly very soft—pajamas. "I was not!"
"You absolutely were."
Before she could say anything else, I hit the call button, hoping to save myself from further embarrassment. The holographic display blinked, indicating the call was connecting, and I held my breath, waiting for the familiar voice that I'd missed so much.
But instead of Mikoto's scolding or worried tone, I was met with the dull monotone of an automated system.
The number you have dialed is currently unavailable. Please try again later.
The words were a gut punch. Mikoto never turned her phone off—not unless she was actively fighting or something catastrophic had happened. She wouldn't ignore my call either… would she?
Mugino's voice broke through my spiraling thoughts. "So, did they answer?"
I glanced at her, feeling the weight of her expectant stare. Her hand rested on her hip, her posture practically dripping with impatience. "Busy line," I said simply, trying to sound more casual than I felt.
She rolled her eyes. "Does that mean you're done?"
"Not yet," I replied, already navigating back to my contacts.
She groaned, throwing her hands in the air like my persistence was personally inconveniencing her. "Fine. Hurry up, though. Some of us have better things to do."
I ignored her and started dialing again, this time selecting my father's number. If anyone would be worried about me, it would be him. The phone rang once. Then twice. Then three times.
It kept ringing.
I tried again, this time with Uiharu's number. Then Saten's. Even Shokuhou's number.
Nothing.
Every call went unanswered, the line either busy or unavailable. The more calls I made, the more the worry clawed at my chest.
Mugino must have noticed my growing unease, because she was watching me with a curious tilt to her head. "What's with the face? You look like you just saw a ghost."
"None of them are answering," I said, my voice quieter than I intended.
Her brow arched, and she smirked again, though this time it was tinged with something sharper. "Maybe they're just avoiding you. Can't blame them, really."
I didn't dignify that with a response.
Finally, I reached the last name in my contacts: Konori-senpai. If anyone would pick up, it would be her. She was my senior, my mentor, the person I could always rely on.
My thumb hovered over the call button for a moment, hesitation gnawing at me. What if— No. That thought was absurd. If I couldn't trust her, who could I trust?
I pressed the button.
The dial tone rang once. Then twice. My stomach churned with each passing second. When the click came, signaling the line had connected, I nearly dropped the phone in my haste.
"Hello?"
Her voice—steady, familiar, real. Relief surged through me like a crashing wave, and I clutched the phone tighter, as if holding onto her voice could anchor me.
"Konori-senpai!" I blurted, my voice louder than intended. "It's me! Shirai! I—"
"Who is this?"
The words stopped me cold.
"...It's me," I said again, slower this time, my voice dipping into a half-laugh. "Shirai Kuroko. Your junior. You know, from Judgment?"
There was a pause on the other end of the line. A long, heavy pause. When she spoke again, her tone carried a thread of cautious confusion.
"I'm sorry… who?"
The world tilted. I gripped the edge of the bed, my knuckles whitening.
"It's me," I repeated, forcing the words out through a throat suddenly too tight. "Shirai. Kuroko. From Judgment. You're my senpai. We—" I stopped, trying to quell the rising tremor in my voice. "This isn't funny, Konori-senpai."
"I'm not trying to be funny," she said, the suspicion in her tone deepening. "And how did you get this number? Are you some kind of telemarketer?"
"What?!" The denial burst from me, sharp and desperate. "No! It's me! Shirai Kuroko! Your junior! From—" My voice cracked, and I swallowed hard. "From Judgment!"
Her voice grew colder, a sharp edge slicing through my frantic explanation. "Judgment? I've never been part of that organization. Frankly, I think it's a waste of time."
Her words hit me like a physical blow, the air rushing out of my lungs as if I'd been punched.
"No," I said, shaking my head even though she couldn't see me. "That's not right. You're in Judgment. You're my senpai. You're—"
"Listen," she interrupted, irritation replacing confusion. "I don't know who you are, or why you're calling me, but this has gone far enough. If this is some kind of prank—"
"It's not!" I cried, panic threading through my voice now, sharp and uncontainable. "Konori-senpai, it's me! Kuroko! You have to remember me!"
"Why would I?" she shot back, her tone dismissive. "I don't know anybody named Shirai Kuroko."
The line disconnected, and the dull click resounded in my ears like a gunshot. I stared at the phone screen, the blinking call ended notification mocking me, the bright glow too harsh in the dimly lit room.
For a moment, I just sat there, staring at the phone as if willing it to undo what had just happened. My reflection on the screen stared back, pale and wide-eyed, the phone trembling in my grip.
"It's me," I whispered to myself, the words catching in my throat. "It's me…"
But it didn't matter.
My hands trembled, and the phone slipped from my fingers, landing on the bed with a muted thud.
I don't understand.
My chest constricted, my breaths coming shorter and sharper as the weight of it all began to crush me. My fingers curled around the blanket, trembling harder now.
No one knew me.
My world—the people I trusted, the life I'd fought so hard to build—was unraveling before my eyes.
The thought raced through my mind, relentless and consuming. This didn't make sense. It couldn't make sense.
I was supposed to be the one drowning in messages and missed calls, my inbox overflowing with questions and worries about where I'd been. But instead… nothing.
No one answered my calls. Not Mikoto, not Uiharu, not even Saten.They were supposed to care. They were supposed to be there for me.
A hot flush of panic spread through my body, my breath hitching. My lungs felt too small, too tight, as if the walls of the luxurious suite were closing in. My fingers gripped the bedsheets, trying to ground myself, but it felt like I was falling all over again, this time into a void I couldn't calculate my way out of.
My mind raced.
Was I dreaming? No, the pain in my side was real.
Was this some kind of prank? Mugino didn't seem like the type for such elaborate schemes.
Was I… erased? Replaced? Had something happened to me while I was unconscious, and no one bothered to tell me?
Konori-senpai didn't know me.
This couldn't be real. This had to be some kind of mistake, some cruel joke.
"Hey."
A hand gripped my shoulder, startling me out of my spiraling thoughts. My eyes snapped up to Mugino, her expression sharper than I'd seen before, her mouth set in an uncharacteristically grim line.
"Hey," she repeated, shaking me lightly.
"I..." My voice was thin and shaky.
Mugino's voice cut through the growing fog, sharp and wary. "What's with you? You're shaking like a damn leaf."
I barely heard her. My vision blurred as panic clawed at my throat. My breaths came faster, shallower, like I couldn't get enough air.
Her voice sharpened, irritation bleeding into concern. "Hey! Don't—don't do that hyperventilating crap on me!"
Something touched my shoulder—firm, grounding. Mugino's hand. I flinched but didn't pull away, the warmth of her palm cutting through the spiraling chaos in my head.
"Oi, teleport girl," she snapped, her tone harsher now, like she thought yelling would snap me out of it. "Breathe, damn it. You're freaking me out."
Her words hit like a splash of cold water, grounding me just enough to force a gasp of air into my lungs. My hands clutched at the bed sheets as I tried to steady myself, the tremors in my body refusing to stop.
Mugino crouched in front of me, her face a mix of irritation and unease. "What the hell's going on? You looked fine five seconds ago, and now you're—what, breaking down? Over a phone call?"
"I…" My voice cracked, barely a whisper. "They don't know me."
She blinked, her brow furrowing. "What?"
"They don't know me!" The words burst out, sharp and desperate. "Konori-senpai—none of them were answering my call! They're not answering! It's like I don't exist to them anymore!"
Mugino's frown deepened, her gaze narrowing as if trying to piece together a puzzle she hadn't asked to solve. "Look, I don't know what's going on, but freaking out about it isn't gonna help, got it? You're alive, and you can deal with whatever this is. Later. Not when you're about to pass out again, genius"
"I…" My voice wavered, the tremors in my body intensifying. I felt untethered, adrift in a reality I didn't recognize.
Mugino's hand pressed harder on my shoulder, steadying me with a surprising amount of strength. "Alright, alright. Get it together. Losing your shit isn't gonna solve anything."
Her blunt words, strangely, were more effective than any soothing platitude could have been. I sucked in a shaky breath, grounding myself in the weight of her touch.
But then I did something stupid.
Driven by the mounting panic clawing at my chest, I reached up and yanked the IV needle from my arm in one swift motion. The sting was sharp, but I barely registered it as I ripped off the monitoring electrodes on my chest and started pulling myself out of bed.
"Whoa, whoa, what the hell are you doing?!" Mugino shouted, grabbing my arm in alarm. "Are you insane? Sit your ass back down!"
"What does it look like I'm doing?" I muttered, my voice steadier now as I removed the other monitoring apparatuses attached to my body.
"Uh, I don't know—committing medical sabotage?" she snapped, standing abruptly. "Are you completely stupid? Do you have any idea how much it cost to get all this crap set up?"
I met her glare with one of my own. "I can't stay here. Not like this. Something's wrong, and I need to find out what it is."
"Something's wrong all right. Like your damn brain," she shot back, arms crossing. "You're still recovering! What are you even gonna do? Run out into the city half-dead and hope for the best?"
I flinched, but her words had done their job. My fingers stilled, the last of the wires hanging limp in my lap.
"I'm sorry," I muttered, my voice shaking as I avoided her eyes. "I'm sorry—thank you—but I can't stay here."
Before she could stop me, I focused, my mind honing in on the calculations with eerie ease. The next instant, the world blurred and shifted.
I teleported.
The last thing I saw before the world warped was Mugino's stunned, furious expression.
