Itsuki practically fell out of the military van when it stopped, tumbling onto the sidewalk outside his apartment complex like a ragdoll spat out by fate. He staggered to his feet, wiping the sweat and fear off his face with his sleeve.
Home. Sweet, slightly dusty, weirdly quiet home.
"Safe," he muttered to himself, unlocking the apartment door with trembling hands.
The moment he stepped in, the silence hit him like a ghostly slap. The familiar clutter of his cramped living room greeted him—half-built cosplay props, stacks of manga, and, of course, dozens of printed-out meme job applications taped to the wall like deranged wallpaper.
He slammed the door behind him, dropped his bag on the floor, and leaned against the door, breathing heavily.
"Okay...okay...what the actual heck just happened..." he whispered, sliding down to the floor. "They showed me...me. Dead me. Future dead me. What in the unemployment line of hell is going on?"
For a brief, cursed moment, the thought crossed his mind:
Should I post this online?
"Yo guys, found my future corpse today, #CareerGoals," he mumbled sarcastically to himself. Then reality slapped him back.
"Nope. Nope. Bad idea. I'll get canceled. They'll throw shoes at my face. Big, sweaty, steel-toed ones."
He curled into a ball on the floor.
"I'm not ready for this."
The apartment was painfully quiet. Only the distant hum of the fridge filled the void. No big sister Sania tonight; she was working late at the city hospital, probably elbow-deep in paperwork or scolding interns. She always pulled night shifts these days, trying to keep them afloat.
Sania Hanabira, twenty-seven years old, the responsible one. The one who paid the rent, cooked actual meals, and told Itsuki repeatedly to "stop turning the apartment into a meme shrine."
He missed her chaotic energy.
Right now, alone in the dimly lit apartment, with only the faint flicker of the TV in the corner, Itsuki felt something he hadn't felt in a while:
Loneliness.
He sighed, standing up and shuffling toward the couch.
"Maybe I should just delete my accounts. Stop with the brainrot. Just...be normal for once."
As if answering his dramatic inner monologue, something soft and warm suddenly pounced on his back.
"GAH—!"
He screamed like a dying toaster.
"Mikan!" he yelled, realizing it was just his orange cat. "Don't scare me like that, you ginger menace!"
Mikan perched on his shoulder like some demonic parrot, biting his ear affectionately. Itsuki tried to laugh it off, shaking slightly. "Man, I'm losing it. First dead body me, now my cat's trying to eat me."
But then—he froze.
Because standing right by the kitchen doorway... was himself.
Pale, hollow-eyed, smirking like a guy who'd just read his own obituary.
Dead Itsuki.
Future Itsuki.
Still wearing the same tattered red hoodie and beige shorts from the morgue.
Still smiling that terrifying, tired smile.
"Yo," Future Itsuki said, voice like cracked vinyl.
Itsuki screamed. A full-on, air-splitting, horror movie protagonist scream.
Mikan hissed, bit his shoulder in panic, and bolted into the bathroom.
"W-WHAT THE ACTUAL — WHO — HOW — WHY AM I LOOKING AT ME?!"
Future Itsuki tilted his head, that grin never fading.
"Surprise."
Itsuki backed away, heart thudding like a war drum. "N-No... this... this is a nightmare, right? This is just sleep deprivation and stress hallucination!"
"If I were a hallucination," Future Itsuki drawled, "would I be wearing the same socks as you?"
Itsuki glanced down.
They matched.
"Oh. My. Go—"
But before he could finish his sentence, a noise shattered the silence.
Footsteps.
Outside his apartment door.
Slow, deliberate, heavy footsteps. Like someone pacing... waiting.
Itsuki froze.
Future Itsuki's grin vanished, replaced by a serious frown. "They found us quicker than I thought."
"Who's 'they'?!" Itsuki hissed, voice shaking.
The footsteps grew louder, closer, stopping right outside the door.
Itsuki grabbed Mikan, who had crept back into the room, tail puffed and growling. The cat bit his hand in protest, hard enough to draw blood, then slipped free and ran under the couch.
"Traitor!" Itsuki whispered.
The room fell silent again. He could hear his own breathing, ragged and sharp.
Then—
Ding dong.
The doorbell rang.
Itsuki jumped out of his skin.
A deep, low male voice came from the other side.
"Hello."