A man stood at the rooftop of a towering 24-story building, his eyes shut, face tilted toward the stormy night sky as if he could see something beyond the darkness. Wind howled through the city below, neon reflections shimmering in rain-slick streets. The skyline pulsed with life, yet up here, it was quiet—isolated.

His tie flapped violently in the wind, but its dramatic effect was somewhat ruined by a very prominent coffee stain.

He let out a chuckle. "What happens if I jump?"

Would some omnipotent being pause their divine Netflix binge to drop a casual, "Hey, your life is pile of shit, Wanna reincarnate?"

He snorted. "Oh, my ass. What the hell am I even saying?

This is supposed to be Truck-kun’s job."

Opening his eyes, he glanced down at the bustling city below, smirking. "You probably think I’m about to jump.

Heh...!!

Relax, I’m not that kind of idiot."

A raindrop smacked his shoulder, cold and sharp. His gaze followed its path to the sky, watching as more began to fall, a slow drizzle turning into a relentless downpour.

"Anyway, God. Where are you hiding?" He spread his arms, as if inviting a response. "I mean, it’s not like you’re too busy making sure some guy wins the lottery for the third time, right?"

Silence.

He laughed, bitterly. "You ever notice how in anime, guys like me get a second shot? They get hit by Truck-kun, wake up in a fantasy world with cheat skills, a harem, and a kingdom to rule." He ran a hand through his damp hair, sighing. "So, when’s it my turn?"

A gust of wind sent his tie slapping against his chest again. "I’m sick of bills. Taxes. And vending machines that eat my money."

The wind picked up. The city lights blurred in the rain. And still, the memories clung to him like wet clothes—unshakable, suffocating

Memories clawed at the edges of his mind—ones he had long since buried beneath layers of sarcasm and cigarette smoke.

A voice like steel and ice echoed through his head.
'God forgives,' his father had once said, blood dripping from his knuckles, a smile still tugging at his lips, 'but you still gotta take out the trash.'
Flashing lights. Horrified eyes. Sirens screaming into the night.

He had been seven. Seven years old, standing in a house that had gone eerily silent—his mother’s warmth snuffed out in an instant.

A gust of wind howled through the city, but it wasn’t loud enough to drown out the ghosts.

His fingers curled into a fist.

...Hell of a bedtime story, old man."

Police sirens had howled through the night, but by the time they arrived, the damage was already done.

Taking a deep breath, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a cigarette, placing it between his lips. Not that he could light it—not in this storm. But the familiarity of the habit was comforting—something to hold onto when everything else felt like it was slipping away.

School life?.
Anime had lied

Being on the news as "The Son of a Criminal" didn't exactly make for an easy social life.

"No one trades Pokémon cards with the mobster’s brat," he muttered. "My social circle was basically me, Goku, and the Straw Hats."

Then came science—a world of logic, facts, and equations. Something real. Something that made sense.

Until it didn’t.

Until an explosion took 82 lives.

The news called it a tragedy. He called it an unfortunate side effect.

And he had survived.

He should’ve cared more. Maybe he would’ve—if he hadn’t been the one who caused it.

And,

         Then she came into his life.

….

She had been like a falling cherry blossom, delicate yet certain. Like something pulled straight out of a dream—something that made the world feel whole again, like it was leading him somewhere, somewhere real. Somewhere safe.

Two days ago, she was ripped from this world.

Not by fate.
Not by some tragic accident.
By violence.

And guess what?

Those lunatics used my creation

Something I built. Something the world wasn’t ready for. Something they shouldn’t have had.

But the world doesn’t care about "shouldn’t," does it?

It only cares about power. About destruction.

And Maybe, that’s why—

"It’s gone now."

His voice barely rose above a whisper, yet his chest burned—not just with grief, not just with loss.

Something sharper.
More relentless.
Wrath.

He exhaled, his breath unsteady.

"People say you’re omnipotent." His eyes sharpened, cutting through the void. "So, tell me, where the hell were you?"

His lips twisted into a smile, one that didn’t reach his eyes. "Life’s a cosmic joke, huh?"

Thunder roared across the sky as if answering his challenge.

"Where the hell are you heading, YOU FKING GO—"

A blinding flash.

Time didn’t stop—it shattered.

Pain detonated through his skull, like molten iron searing into his veins.

For a fraction of a second, there was only blinding white. No sound. No breath. Just... emptiness.

Then—falling.

His stomach lurched. His limbs twisted, weightless, like he had been unhooked from reality itself. The city lights blurred, then vanished entirely.

And Riku Tanaka was no longer standing on that rooftop."

 -----

Pain.

That was the first thing Riku registered. A throbbing, disorienting agony that pulsed through his entire body, like he’d just been electrocuted by a cosmic prankster with a cruel sense of humor.

The second thing? He was breathing.

That shouldn’t have been possible. He was pretty damn sure he’d been cut in half by Thunder.

His fingers twitched against something rough—stone? No. Too smooth. Too deliberate. His senses rebooted one by one, each sluggish and disoriented, like a machine coming back online after a brutal system crash.

A damp, musty stench filled his nose—old leather, sweat, and something rotting. The air clung to his skin, heavy and humid.

Slowly, he cracked his eyes open.

A cigarette slipped from his lips, tumbling to the ground.

The ground.

Beneath him stretched a massive circular pattern, intricate and glowing faintly with an eerie blue light. Symbols he couldn’t read twisted along the edges—shifting, alive.

A summoning circle?

“…What the hell?”

Riku pushed himself up, blinking through the lingering haze in his head.

The room around him was—well.

It looked like a budget medieval dungeon. Stone walls. Wooden beams. The kind of place where someone usually gets sacrificed to a dark god.

Then he noticed them.

A group of rough-looking people stood in formation—patched-up armor, ragged cloaks, weapons in hand. Swords. Spears. Maces. Classic RPG gear.

Riku’s gaze flicked sideways. A row of cages lined the wall.

Inside them? Creatures.

Not animals. Not quite monsters. Some had elongated limbs, too many eyes, disturbingly human-like faces stretched over monstrous forms. One of them, with long, dagger-like teeth, watched him with unsettling intelligence.

Ah. That explains the smell.

Riku exhaled slowly and, despite himself, grinned.

“…Heh.”

Casually, he reached into his pocket, pulled out a fresh cigarette, and placed it between his lips.

The armed men tensed.

Still in battle formation. Still watching him like he was a threat.

Riku struck his lighter.

The tiny flame flickered to life, crackling softly.

And—

They flinched.

Every single one of them.

Riku exhaled, watching the smoke drift lazily upward. He took in the scene with an almost bored expression.

Then, tilting his head back, he sighed.

“So… I’ve been isekai’d.”

His lips curled into a smirk.

“What a pain in the ass.”

Something moved.

A flicker in his peripheral vision.

A projectile—dagger, maybe? —shot toward him.

Instinct screamed at him to dodge—

But before he could even react—

A golden blur streaked past.

Steel clashed. A whirlwind of motion.

And in an instant—

The armed men were annihilated.

Riku’s brain short-circuited.

His cigarette nearly fell from his lips as he watched, horrified, amazed, and slightly turned on as the new arrival obliterated every last one of them.

A woman.

No—

A warrior.

Tall. Imposing. And ridiculously beautiful in the most terrifying way possible.

Her golden hair whipped like a banner in the storm. Polished armor gleamed even in the dim light, reflecting the eerie blue glow of the summoning circle.

And then—there was her sword.

Long. Elegant. Absolutely coated in fresh blood.

She stood there, surrounded by corpses, her weapon still humming with residual energy.

And then—slowly, methodically—

She turned to him.

Riku swallowed. Hard.

“…Uh. Hi.”

He raised a hand hesitantly, voice coming out just a little too high-pitched.

“Would you happen to know where the nearest Starbucks is? I just got here.”

Silence.

Her piercing amber eyes locked onto him. If she looked intimidating before, now she was downright murderous.

Her fingers flexed around her sword hilt.

Her expression remained unreadable, but the tension in her stance screamed:

“I am about to erase your existence.”

And then—

She moved.

A blur. The whisper of steel cutting through the air.

Riku barely had time to scream—

“WAIT, WAIT, WAIT! TIME O—”

Too late.

The blade sliced cleanly through him.

For a split second, there was nothing.

Then—

Agony.

His body split apart like a defective action figure.

His torso and legs went in opposite directions, blood spraying across the stone floor in vivid crimson streaks.

His mind reeled. His vision blurred.

Oh.
Oh, that’s bad.

The numbness came fast.

Darkness rushed in like an old friend, wrapping around him.

His last, fleeting thought before everything faded?

“…Maybe I should’ve just waited for Truck-kun.”

***