Kaede Isaki did not scream.

  That fact surprised her.

  Her body wanted to—every nerve in her firing at once, breath hitching, chest tightening like a fist closing around her lungs—but the sound stayed trapped somewhere behind her teeth.

  Instead, she froze.

  The kitchen was gone.

  Not broken. Not dark. Not damaged.

  Gone.

  Kaede’s mind raced ahead of her body, stacking worst-case scenarios faster than she could process them.

  Gate break.

  Spatial collapse.

  Illusion class demon.

  Reality overlap.

  She had heard the words in meetings. She had typed them into reports. She had never expected to see one at eye level while ordering fries.

  Her fingers dug into Hifumi’s sleeve without permission. She barely noticed she was doing it.

  This isn’t happening, she thought desperately. This is a prank. Or construction. Or—

  Someone laughed.

  That was worse.

  Kaede’s eyes flicked to the edges of the empty space. Too smooth. Too clean. No debris. No scorch marks. No warning signs.

  Without realizing it, Kaede shifted so her body blocked Hifumi from the empty space.

  Her heart started pounding hard enough to make her ears ring.

  “Kaede,” Hifumi said quietly. “We should leave.”

  Kaede nodded, because that was easier than speaking.

  They stepped back.

  Kaede counted her steps automatically—one, two, three—like she always did during drills. She knew the exits. She always knew the exits. Her eyes traced the shortest path to the door, catalogued obstacles, noted where people were clustering.

  Someone stepped too close to the counter.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  Kaede flinched and tugged Hifumi back an extra half step without thinking.

  A second later, something shifted inside the empty space—a pressure change, a ripple she felt more than saw. Air rushed inward, sharp and cold, snapping loose napkins and dragging a tray forward before stopping just short of where they’d been standing.

  Kaede’s knees nearly buckled.

  No one else seemed to notice.

  Her stomach twisted violently.

  If we hadn’t stepped back—

  Her thoughts cut off as the first siren wailed outside, long and rising, the sound that meant protocols were about to start.

  People finally reacted.

  Phones came out. Voices rose. Someone shouted for a manager.

  Kaede couldn’t look at the hole anymore. It felt like staring at something that could look back.

  Her breathing came too fast. She pressed her tongue to the roof of her mouth, grounding herself the way the counselor had taught her after the last evacuation incident.

  In. Four. Out. Six.

  Hifumi stayed close. She always did.

  Kaede hated that she needed that.

  “I’m sorry,” Kaede whispered suddenly, the words spilling out before she could stop them. “I should’ve noticed something was wrong. I didn’t—I wasn’t paying attention—”

  Hifumi shook her head. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

  Kaede laughed weakly. It sounded awful.

  “I always miss it,” she said. “When it matters.”

  Hifumi didn’t argue. She never did. She just stayed there, solid and real, anchoring Kaede to the floor while the world quietly proved it could remove pieces of itself without warning.

  Outside, emergency vehicles screeched to a stop.

  Inside, the empty space waited.

  And Kaede, trembling but standing, thought dimly that if she stopped feeling afraid, she might stop being alive.

  The kitchen snapped back into existence.

  One second: nothing.

  The next: steel counters, fryers, someone screaming.

  Kaede flinched hard enough that her heel nearly slipped on the tile.

  One of the hunters stepped out of the empty space, rolling his shoulder.

  “Minor distortion. Stabilized.”

  Minor.

  Kaede stared at the oil on the floor. At the employee crouched against the counter. At the customers pretending they hadn’t just watched reality blink.

  Beside her, Hifumi stood stiff.

  Not calm.

  Just stiff.

  Her hands were clasped too tightly in front of her. Her shoulders a little too straight.

  Kaede leaned closer. “We were about to order fries.”

  Hifumi swallowed before replying.

  “…Please don’t say that.”

  Her voice was steady.

  But her fingers trembled slightly.

  A guild officer approached with a tablet glowing faint green.

  “Names.”

  Kaede’s stomach dropped.

  “…Why?”

  “Civilian proximity report.”

  Of course.

  Paperwork.

  Forms.

  Statements.

  Internal documentation.

  Kaede hated documentation.

  Hifumi gave their names clearly.

  Her voice didn’t shake.

  But when she lowered her hand, Kaede noticed she flexed her fingers once — like she’d just forced them to move.

  As they stepped outside, the golden arches flickered faintly before stabilizing.

  Traffic resumed.

  Conversation resumed.

  Life resumed.

  Kaede didn’t.

  She stared at the building longer than she meant to.

  It looked normal.

  Too normal.

  “…We’ll need to attach the incident logs,” Hifumi said quietly.

  Kaede blinked at her.

  “You’re thinking about logs?”

  Hifumi nodded.

  “If we file it incorrectly, it’ll delay processing.”

  Her voice was even.

  But she didn’t look at the building again.

  Kaede suddenly understood.

  Hifumi wasn’t calm.

  She was focusing.

  Because if she didn’t focus—

  She might fall apart.

  “Right,” Kaede muttered. “Attachments.”

  Behind them, a hairline crack spread slowly across the front window from residual distortion.

  Neither of them saw it.

  They were already walking away.

  The city continued like nothing had happened.

  Kaede didn’t like that.

  Not at all.