The headquarters of the Spira Daily was a warzone.

  The air, usually just thick with the smell of ink and old paper, was now electric, a chaotic symphony of frantic, shouting voices, the rapid-fire clack-clack-clack of a dozen typewriters, and the constant, hurried shuffling of feet on the wooden floor. People were running—literally running—from one desk to another, their arms laden with precarious stacks of paper, their faces a mask of pure, caffeinated determination. Journalists huddled in tight, anxious circles, jutting down notes in a furious scribble as they held rapid-fire meetings, their voices a low, urgent murmur against the surrounding din.

  In the very center of the massive, open-plan room, a giant, wall-mounted calendar served as their doomsday clock. A single date was circled in a thick, angry red, a bullseye that every eye in the room seemed to be drawn to: Tomorrow.

  The Grand Play.

  To the rest of Azul Spira, it was a day of celebration, a festival of art and culture. To the people of the Spira Daily, it was the Apocalypse, the final battle, and a grand triumph all rolled into one. It was a blink-and-you-miss-it event, a single, glorious day that would provide enough news, scandals, gossip, and high-profile sightings to feed their columns for the entire year. This was their harvest, and the pressure to not miss a single, fleeting detail was immense.

  And navigating this battlefield, with the cautious, timid steps of a mouse trying to cross a stampede, was Serra Montblanc, journalist extraordinaire (or so she called herself). She moved meekly, her small frame dwarfed by the chaos, dodging a running editor here, sidestepping a frantic copywriter there, her own expression a mask of pure, overwhelmed anxiety.

  She finally reached her destination: a large, glass-walled office at the far end of the room, the only bubble of (relative) calm in the storm. She took a deep breath, smoothed down the lapels of her slightly-rumpled suit jacket, and knocked softly.

  She opened the giant glass door, peeking her head inside. “You… you called me, boss?” she said meekly.

  Behind a desk so large it could have served as a landing strip, a man with a stern, square-jawed face and a flat-top haircut glared at her from over a pair of tiny reading glasses. He took a long, furious puff from a massive, foul-smelling cigar. On his desk, dominating the space, was a comically large, hand-carved wooden placard that read: ‘LAWRENCE LARRY LAYNEZ - I DON’T PAY YOU TO THINK, I PAY YOU TO WRITE!’

  “Montblanc!” he barked, his voice a gravelly roar that rattled the glass walls. “Get in here!”

  Serra scurried in, her notebook clutched to her chest like a shield.

  “I heard you got close to Miss Lily Pence these past few days,” Larry growled, leaning forward, his eyes narrowed to slits. “I’ve been reading your reports. Drivel! Absolute drivel! What did you find? I want something spicy! Something juicy! Give me a headline, Montblanc, or give me your badge!”

  “Oh, uh…” Serra fumbled, quickly flipping through her notebook, her hands shaking. “Well, sir, I found out she… she likes rabbits,” she began, her voice a small, hopeful squeak. “And she wears a thick, green facial mask at home. And she apparently hates exercising but still has an impeccable figure, or, uh, as she would want to be written…”

  Larry’s face, which had been a mask of impatient fury, contorted into one of pure, unadulterated rage. “That’s all?!” he roared, slamming his fist on the desk, the impact sending the giant placard teetering precariously. “Rabbits?! Face masks?! Are you writing a gossip column or a spa review?! Montblanc, do you know that you are the only journalist in this entire building without a single headline for tomorrow’s paper?!” He jabbed a thick finger towards the chaotic newsroom beyond the glass. “I asked you to stalk—I mean, investigate—Miss Lily to get a spicy scoop, and you can’t even do that?!”

  “I’m sorry, sir!” Serra shrieked, shielding her face as if expecting a physical blow. “Please, just give me another chance! I’m sure I can find something!”

  “Fine!” Larry barked. “One last chance! Or you are FIRED! You got it?!” He grumbled, rifling through a messy stack of papers on his desk. “In fact, let me help you. Your brain is clearly not working. Here!” He yanked a single, crumpled piece of paper from the stack and threw it at her. Serra scrambled, catching it just before it hit the floor.

  “I vaguely remembered the description of that couple you said are living in Miss Lily’s mansion,” Larry growled, leaning back in his chair, a cruel, calculating glint in his eyes. “Her ‘acquaintances,’ you called them. The young man. He seems to fit with what’s drawn and written on that paper.”

  Serra’s eyes widened as she unfolded the sheet. Her blood ran cold. It was a bounty poster. Crude, but unmistakable. The face, the messy black hair, the name. DEAD OR ALIVE. CRIMINAL AND SINNER: KUN. BOUNTY: 1,000,000,000 CAL. It was the same poster from the Ruhong region years ago, the one that had been the talk of the underworld newswires for months. And the face… it was him. The quiet, polite, and slightly goofy boy who had invited her in for breakfast. Raito.

  “Now, investigate it properly,” Larry commanded, his voice a low, triumphant purr. “If this is true, if the most wanted fugitive in Ruhong is the same man shacking up in Lily Pence’s mansion…” A slow, shark-like grin spread across his face. “We won’t just get a juicy story, Montblanc. We’ll get the story of the decade. Understand?”

  “Ye… yes, sir,” Serra stammered, her mind reeling, her gaze fixed on the impossible, terrifying paper in her trembling hands. She quickly backed out of the office, her earlier anxiety now replaced by a cold, stomach-churning dread.

  Meanwhile, in the opulent, sun-drenched living room of the very mansion now at the center of the Spira Daily’s biggest potential scoop, a synchronous, three-part sneeze shattered the morning’s peace.

  “Achoo!” “Achoo!” “Achoo!”

  Yukari, Raito, and Lily, who had been lounging comfortably on the massive velvet couch, all sniffled in unison, looking at each other with a mixture of confusion and mild irritation.

  “Here it comes,” Lily declared, her voice full of a sudden, dramatic solemnity as she sat bolt upright. She held a hand to her forehead as if sensing a great shift in the cosmos. “The journalistic fever.”

  Yukari, who had been in the middle of taking a sip of tea, nearly choked. She lowered her cup, her brow furrowed in genuine, unadulterated confusion. “Is… is that real?” she asked, looking from Lily’s theatrical pose to Raito’s equally baffled expression. “Not just a normal cold?”

  “Non, non!” Lily scoffed, her dramatic flair returning in full force as she leaped to her feet, standing atop the plush couch cushions like a captain on the prow of a ship. “‘Tis not some common ailment, my lady! This sneeze, this subtle tickle in the nasal passages, ’tis a sign! A portent! It means the play is closing! The zero hour shall befall us soon!” She struck a pose, one hand on her hip, the other pointing towards the heavens. “And thus, we must prepare!” She then looked down at her two houseguests, her expression shifting to one of profound, maternal concern. “Besides,” she added, her voice suddenly practical, “idiots get colds easily.”

  “Wha—?” Yukari’s jaw dropped. The sheer, logical whiplash of the statement was almost too much to process. “I’m not an idiot!” she protested, her own irritation flaring. “He is!” She pointed an accusatory finger directly at Raito.

  “Hey!” Raito yelped, nearly spilling his own tea. “Why did I get dragged into this?” He scrambled to his feet on the couch, pointing back at Lily. “Besides, she sneezed too! Doesn’t that mean she’s also an idiot?”

  “Insolence!” Lily shrieked, pointing back at Raito. “I would never put myself in the same category as you two commoners!”

  A perfect, three-way deadlock was established. Yukari pointing at Raito. Raito pointing at Lily. Lily pointing back at Raito. They stood there for a long, silent, and utterly ridiculous moment, three fingers locked in a triangular standoff of mutual accusation.

  “Anyways,” Lily finally said, breaking the pose with a dismissive, theatrical flourish. She gracefully hopped down from the couch, her earlier drama replaced by a sudden, sharp, and very serious sense of urgency. She smoothed down the front of her expensive silk pajamas, her gaze sweeping over the two of them with a new, critical, and slightly horrified light. “Thou must make sure,” she began, her voice a low, commanding thing, “that thou art garbed in thy best formal attire for the morrow. Understood?”

  Raito and Yukari exchanged a look, their earlier irritation vanishing, replaced by a shared, blank confusion. They tilted their heads in perfect, synchronized unison. “Formal attire?”

  “Yes, formal attire!” Lily repeated, her voice rising with a dawning, incredulous horror. “This is the Grand Play! The most bourgeois, most exclusive, most important social event in all of Calvenoor! Dost thou truly believe they will permit thy entry in such… such dingy clothes?!” She gestured vaguely at Raito’s simple shirt and trousers as if they were a personal affront to her very being.

  “But we don’t have any,” Raito stated simply, his voice a calm, matter-of-fact thing that seemed to shatter the last of Lily’s composure. “Or rather, I specifically have never owned any.”

  “And don’t look at me,” Yukari added, holding up her hands in a gesture of pure innocence. “I left all my formal attire back in Jinlun. Remember? Fugitive?”

  “What?!” Lily’s voice was not a shout. It was a high-pitched, strangulated shriek of pure, unadulterated panic. “Thou… thou meanst to tell me,” she stammered, her hands clutching at her perfectly styled blonde hair, “that thou possess VIP tickets, tickets that mortals would kill for, and thou hast not even considered the acquisition of formal attire?!”

  “I guess we never really thought about it,” Raito admitted with a shrug, his honesty a brutal, final blow to her sanity. “We were just here for a vacation, you know?”

  “GET OUT!” Lily roared, the sound a raw, explosive wave of pure, sleep-deprived, and fashion-conscious fury. She pointed a single, trembling, and utterly uncompromising finger towards the grand front door. “GET OUT! And do not, I repeat, do not come back until thou hast obtained thy formal attire!” And with a final, theatrical, and completely unhinged shriek, she comically, and with a surprising amount of force, shoved the two bewildered runaways out of her mansion and slammed the door shut behind them.

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  Moments later, the two of them were slumped over the counter at Cafe Neon, the familiar, comforting aroma of coffee a welcome, if slightly jarring, change of scenery. Their earlier frantic energy was gone, replaced by a profound, shared lethargy.

  Emile placed two steaming mugs of black coffee in front of them, his movements silent and practiced. “Thanks,” Raito and Yukari mumbled in unison, their voices weak, their heads resting on the cool, polished wood of the counter.

  “You’re welcome,” Emile replied, his usual gentle smile in place as he wiped down a nearby cup. The curtain at the back of the café rustled, and Mary emerged, a warm, maternal smile on her face. “Oh, you two are here,” she said cheerfully. Her smile faltered as she took in their defeated postures. “What’s the matter?”

  Yukari lifted her head just enough to look at her, her silver eyes full of a weary, profound despair. “Lily said we need formal attire for tomorrow,” she explained, her voice a low, mournful thing. “And we don’t know where to get it. She kicked us out.”

  “Oh, dear,” Mary said, her expression shifting to one of genuine, sympathetic concern. “That is definitely a one-of-a-kind issue. With the Grand Play tomorrow, most of the tailors in the city are completely booked. They have been for months.”

  “Based on my research,” Emile interjected, his voice a calm, analytical counterpoint to their despair, “the probability of you two ordering a custom-made attire today and having it perfectly ready for tomorrow is close to one percent.”

  “Not you too,” Raito groaned, letting his head fall back onto the counter with a soft thud.

  The quiet, domestic despair of the moment was suddenly shattered by a bright, high-pitched cry from the back room. “Papa!” The curtain was thrown aside, and Anise burst into the café, her small legs a blur of motion as she ran, not to her mother, but directly to Emile. He turned just in time, his gentle smile widening as he effortlessly scooped her up, lifting her high into the air before settling her comfortably on his shoulders.

  “Papa!” she giggled again, her small hands patting the top of his head.

  Yukari’s head snapped up, her earlier despair completely forgotten, replaced by a look of pure, unadulterated amusement. She nudged Raito, a sharp, delighted glint in her silver eyes. “Papa?” she whispered, her voice cracking with suppressed laughter. She turned her beaming gaze to Mary. “Wait, you two got married? That was fast! Congratulations!”

  “No, no!” Mary’s face turned a deep, flustered shade of red. She shook her head, her hands waving in a frantic, dismissive gesture. “I never married him! It’s just… it’s just something Emile suddenly started declaring himself as, and somehow Anise started doing it too!”

  “But Mary,” Emile said from his spot, Anise still perched happily on his shoulders, his expression one of pure, innocent confusion. “Anise said she wants me as her Papa. I was just confirming her statement.”

  “Yes, Mama!” Anise chimed in, her voice a bright, supportive echo from above Emile’s head. “Mr. Emile is nice! And he’s funny! I want him as Papa!”

  Mary just groaned, pressing the heels of her palms against her temples as if trying to ward off a migraine. “Please, don’t,” she pleaded, her voice a mixture of exasperation and profound embarrassment. “I’ve already had enough with the neighbors sending congratulatory gifts and making me the center of local gossip.” She shot Emile a weary, pointed glare. “I told you, it’s fine for you to be Anise’s secondary guardian, since she’s so attached to you, but ‘Papa’ is my limit.”

  “Then what should I do for you to admit my status as ‘Papa’?” Emile asked, his question simple, direct, and utterly blunt. “Is it ‘love’?”

  “Wha—!” Mary’s voice was a choked, flustered squeak. She fumbled with the clean glass she was holding, and it slipped from her grasp. Before it could shatter on the floor, Emile’s hand shot out, a blur of motion, catching it effortlessly mid-air. He calmly placed it back on the counter. Mary just stared, her face a brilliant shade of crimson. “What is wrong with you?” she stammered, her voice a mixture of embarrassment and genuine bewilderment. “You can’t just say things like that! What happened to you? This… this attitude is new.”

  Emile tilted his head, his expression still one of polite, genuine curiosity. “I am simply exercising my ‘free will,’ as that small blonde one told me to,” he explained, his voice calm and logical. “I am no longer bound. I want to stay here. Being with you and Anise… it produces an interesting result in my chest area.”

  “I also want Mr. Emile to be here!” Anise declared, her timing perfect. “I love him!”

  “Please, stop ganging up on me,” Mary groaned, burying her face in her hands, her shoulders shaking with a mixture of laughter and profound exasperation. She let out a long, slow sigh. “Look, Emile,” she said, finally looking up, her expression a mask of weary, affectionate surrender. “I… I already said my sorry and my gratitude. You can stay on the second floor. You can be with us. But this ‘Papa’ thing…” She took a deep breath. “I’m just not ready. Okay?”

  “Then I shall wait,” Emile replied simply, his gentle smile returning, unwavering and absolute. “Isn’t that right, Anise?”

  “Yes, Papa!” Anise giggled from his shoulders.

  “You two…” Mary sighed again, but this time, a small, genuine smile touched her own lips.

  Raito and Yukari watched the scene, their own earlier troubles completely forgotten, a matching, quiet smile on both their faces. The pure, chaotic, and undeniably beautiful familial atmosphere was a balm on their weary souls. Mary, despite her flustered protests, seemed lighter, the heavy shadows that had clung to her in the past now replaced by a bright, if slightly exasperated, warmth. And Emile… Emile, in his own strange, logical, and utterly unique way, had clearly found the stage he wanted to be on.

  Emile, as if sensing their gaze, turned to them, Anise still perched happily on his shoulders. His smile was still in place, gentle and kind. “Almost forgot,” he said, his voice a quiet, almost thoughtful murmur. “Thank you. For you two. For the memories.”

  The words were vague, almost nonsensical, a fragment of a thought that held no context for them. Raito and Yukari looked at each other, a shared, silent look of confusion passing between them. But in Emile’s eyes, in the quiet, steady warmth of his gaze, they saw no mystery, no hidden meaning. Just a simple, profound sincerity.

  “You’re welcome,” Raito replied, a small, baffled, but genuine smile on his face as he raised his coffee mug in a toast.

  The bustling marketplace of Azul Spira’s lower level, usually a place of wonder and excitement for the two runaways, now felt like a gauntlet of mockery. “That is tailor number fifty-three,” Raito said, his voice a flat, deadpan thing. He made a small, weary tick mark in the air with his finger.

  “Yeah, this is impossible,” Yukari groaned, her earlier defiant energy completely gone, replaced by a profound, lethargic despair. She was slumped against the ornate railing of a small canal bridge, her gaze fixed on the glittering, turquoise water below.

  Their search for formalwear had been an absolute, unmitigated disaster. The moment they mentioned “VIP tickets” and “tomorrow,” they were met with a wave of responses that ranged from polite, pitying chuckles to outright, booming, and deeply unsympathetic laughter. The city was booked. Every tailor, every seamstress, every shop with so much as a needle and thread was working around the clock on last-second alterations for their high-paying, long-standing clients. The idea of two unknown, out-of-town travelers waltzing in and requesting two full formal outfits to be made from scratch in less than twenty-four hours was, to put it mildly, absurd.

  It was the inn search all over again. A perfect, frustrating, and deeply humiliating déjà vu.

  They stood together on the bridge, a small, defeated island in the midst of the cheerful, bustling crowd. Raito’s gaze drifted down the street, past a shop selling fragrant spices, past a bustling bakery, and landed on a small, unassuming storefront. A familiar, hand-painted sign hung in the window.

  He looked at it. Yukari looked at it. Their gazes met, and a shared, silent, and deeply awkward understanding passed between them.

  “Let’s not go there,” Raito said, his voice shaking just a little.

  “Yes, let’s skip that one,” Yukari agreed, forcing an awkward laugh that was a little too high-pitched. “I think the result will be the same.”

  She shouldn’t know, Raito thought, his mind flashing back to the secret order he’d placed, the one he was supposed to pick up after the Grand Play.

  He shouldn’t know, Yukari thought, her own mind racing, her cheeks heating up as she remembered her own secret, hurried visit to that very same shop.

  They both turned away from the tailor shop, a silent, mutual pact of willful ignorance shielding them from a conversation they were absolutely not ready to have.

  “Hey, you two!” A cheerful, slightly reedy voice cut through their shared, awkward silence. “Finally found you!” A young man, his frame springy and energetic, jogged up to them, a wide, relieved grin on his face. He was one of Bob’s crew, a caravan guard whose presence was often so quiet and unassuming that he was easily forgotten.

  “Oh, hey!” Raito said, his own face brightening with relief, though his mind was frantically scrambling for a name. “It’s… uh… Olubi? Olaf? Brok?”

  “No, you idiot!” the young man snapped, his grin faltering into a look of pure, theatrical indignation. “It’s…”

  “...Primrose?” Yukari offered, her brow furrowed in genuine, if completely incorrect, concentration.

  “It’s OMAR!” the guard finally shouted, his voice cracking with exasperation. “O-M-A-R! At least he,” he gestured to Raito, “sounds close! What in the blazes is a ‘Primrose’?”

  “Right! Omar!” Raito said, snapping his fingers as if he’d known it all along. “Sorry, man.”

  “Sorry,” Yukari echoed, a small, sheepish smile on her face. “So, what do you need us for, Omar?”

  “Master Bob needs both of you back at the Sunset Inn,” Omar said, his earlier frustration forgotten, his expression now one of simple, professional urgency. He gestured back the way he had come. “He said it’s important. Let’s go.”

  Raito and Yukari exchanged another look, this one of pure, unadulterated relief. A new direction. A new purpose. Anything was better than the hopeless, humiliating tailor hunt. With a shared, grateful nod, they quickly fell into step behind the young, and finally remembered, caravan guard.

  A quick walk later, they arrived back at the familiar, welcoming courtyard of the Sunset Inn. The earlier chaos of Bob’s merchant preparations was gone, replaced by the inn’s usual, quiet afternoon lull.

  “Oh, you two are here!” Bob’s voice boomed from the inn’s lobby. He stood in the doorway, his massive frame a comforting, familiar sight, his face wreathed in his usual cheerful smile.

  “What do you need us for, Bob?” Raito asked, stepping inside, his gaze sweeping the empty courtyard. “Omar said it was urgent.” He looked around. “And where did he go? He was just with us.”

  “Of course it’s urgent!” Bob declared, his voice full of a mock-seriousness, though his eyes were twinkling. “You two,” he said, wagging a thick finger at them, “forgot your clothes for tomorrow!”

  He reached behind the reception counter and pulled out two large, elegantly wrapped garment bags, holding them up with a triumphant flourish. He handed one to Raito.

  “Here you go, kids,” he said.

  Yukari, her curiosity piqued, leaned over, trying to peek inside the bag Bob was handing to Raito. But Bob, with a surprising, almost paternal strictness, held up a massive hand, blocking her view.

  “Ah, ah, ah,” he chided, his grin widening. “No peeking. Tomorrow, dear. You’ll see it tomorrow.”

  Yukari just pouted, but a genuine, warm smile quickly replaced it. “Fine,” she conceded, her voice full of a quiet, profound gratitude. “Thank you, Bob. Really.” She looked from the bag to the giant merchant’s kind face. “You saved us again.”

  “I figured you two wouldn’t keep tabs on something like that,” Bob chuckled, his voice a low, happy rumble. “So I deliberately had these made first, right when we arrived. A little gift from me. Hohoho!”

  “Thanks, Bob,” Raito said, his own voice thick with a heartfelt sincerity as he took the bag. “We don’t know what we would do without you.”

  The simple, honest words seemed to be the final straw for the giant merchant. His cheerful smile faltered, his lower lip began to tremble, and his eyes welled up with a sudden, overwhelming flood of emotion.

  “Oh, you two…” he sniffled, the sound a low, rumbling thunder. He opened his massive arms, his face a mask of pure, unadulterated, and slightly teary affection. “Come here.”

  He lunged.

  Raito and Yukari, seeing the impending, bone-crushing embrace, reacted with the synchronized, lightning-fast instinct of two people who had been through this exact scenario before. They bolted.

  “Thank you, Bob!” Raito called out, his voice a panicked, breathless thing as he scrambled backward out of the inn’s doorway. “But we would really like to be in one piece for tomorrow!”

  “See you tomorrow, Bob!” Yukari echoed, her own voice full of a strained, laughing terror as she sprinted after Raito into the safety of the courtyard.

  They ran, leaving the giant merchant frozen in the lobby, his arms still outstretched in a hug that would never be. He stood there for a long, silent moment, his expression one of pure, baffled rejection.

  He turned slowly, his shoulders slumped, his eyes still shimmering with unshed tears, and looked at the only other person in the room. Mila was leaning against a far wall, her arms crossed, her face a mask of perfect, stoic indifference as she polished her greatsword, pointedly ignoring the entire, chaotic exchange.

  Bob’s face crumpled.

  “Mila…” he cried, his voice a great, booming wail of pure, unadulterated, and utterly theatrical despair. “They’re in their rebellious phase!” He collapsed into a nearby chair, which groaned in protest under his weight, and buried his face in his massive hands, his shoulders shaking with great, gulping sobs.

  Mila just let out a long, slow, and deeply weary sigh.