The bustling streets outside Manong Bernie’s Dominion's Best Eatery were alive with the usual afternoon bustle of the city. Neon signs shimmered against the damp pavement, their reflections glistening in the puddles left by the morning drizzle. Street vendors shouted out their last sales, the fragrance of grilled meat and roasted peanuts mingling with the soft exhaust of lively jeepneys. Motorcycles threaded through the slow-moving traffic, their headlights casting brief halos of light onto the damp asphalt. The rhythmic patter of rain against metal awnings provided a familiar backdrop to the symphony of city life.

  Above the market and food stalls, a tremendous digital billboard flickered above an intersection, broadcasting government-issued safety advisories.

  Beyond the market and food stalls, a massive digital billboard flickered above an intersection, broadcasting government-issued safety advisories. The screen flashed red as an automated voice played over the speakers: "Attention citizens: The United Dominion's curfew will be in effect at 9 PM. All minors must be accounted for and are not permitted outdoors. The federal, state, and local government bodies urge cooperation for the safety and well-being of all citizens of the great and united dominion. We ask for your consideration." The message repeated every few minutes, a reminder of the growing constraints tightening around the city.

  Above, the city’s skyline stretched in stark contradiction—towering skyscrapers gleamed coldly under the steel-gray sky, reflecting the neon haze and smog; the ruins of old tenements crumbled beneath their shadows.

  Beneath it, a group of homeless children and some adults huddled under a makeshift tent, their laughter persisting despite the hardships. A rat almost the size of a cat beside their tent. A few feet away standing by the street corner a couple of street preachers on the corner ranted about the world’s impending doom, their voice rising above the honking of impatient drivers.

  Their robes were tattered, and both their eyes burned with unshakable conviction. One waved a battered book above his head, his voice crackling and shimmering with urgency. Written within his clothes was "The shepherds are coming!".

  The other held a sign that said, "The End of Times is Here!" Written on their tattered robes but still clearly visible: "Salvation must be earned, For heaven's wrath shall fall unto the nonbelievers! The Holy War Rages On!"

  Above all, towering skyscrapers loomed, their glass facades reflecting the chaos below, starkly contrasting the crumbling old buildings beside them. The city was a paradox—both thriving and decaying at once.

  Kein stood on the cracked pavement, his gaze distant, though his mind was fully occupied. The Holy War wasn’t going so well. Across the globe, several nations had already fallen, their once-proud armies crushed beneath the "divine" fury of The Seven. The war seemed unstoppable. And yet, here, in the heart of this city—life went on. People continued to scurry about as if they were trying to drown out the thoughts of impending destruction as if it was nothing more than a rumor. But Kein knew to believe better. He had seen the signs and heard the whispers.

  “The shadows have come for the light is fading! The sins of men have drawn the sorrowful yet wrathful gazes of the heavens and its ire.!”

  The preacher spoke with devotion and foreboding to all passersby. Kein couldn’t help but smirk bitterly to himself. The shadows were not just in the heavens—they were in the streets, in the hearts of men. They were everywhere. The preacher stood on a cracked concrete island between the rushing streams of traffic, his tattered robes whipping in the wind. His voice carried over the hum of engines and the murmurs, the man filled with a fervent devotion that bled into madness.

  "The one who will bring RUIN of the false gods that ran amok walks among us! Do you think your government and its armies will protect you? The chains of law cannot hold back the reckoning! The sky shall blacken, the rivers will turn into a sea of blood, and the false idols of this world shall crumble into dust! The wrath of the true divine is coming. They are angry and will bring a burning fury at this evil world."

  His sunken eyes burned with unholy certainty as he cast his gaze upon the restless streets.

  "The hidden, lost flock will seek a shepherd, a wanderer cloaked in mystery, who will carve a path through the storm. A figure neither saint nor sinner, marked by fate, destined to walk the road that none dare tread. He will stride through ruin and shadow, and where he walks, the land shall tremble. He will not lead the lost to salvation but to the truth buried beneath the bones of the old world. And when he comes, The shepherd will walk beside the lost flock and the children of man, and finally, the great Light Of Reclamation will begin.” He suddenly turned as if sensing something. His wild eyes locked onto Kein as he passed by. “Find the one who will bring ruin to us all, the deceiver” he breathed. His voice carried across the street like a prophecy unraveling in real-time. “Fallen men who claim divinity commit the gravest sacrilege! The sinner who shall steal even from a god shall meet the deceiver—oh, the deceiver—will lead us all to ruin.”

  Kein’s skepticism raced, but before he could turn away, the preacher’s wild eyes fixed on him, as though he’d sensed something—or someone—in the crowd. His words grew sharper, more focused.

  “Find the one who will bring ruin to us all!” The preacher’s hand trembled as he pointed directly at Kein. Before Kein could react, the preacher lunged forward and seized his wrist with a desperate grip. “Repent!” he hissed, his nails digging into Kein’s skin. “You!" He looks at Kein's eyes with horror of realization. "Lost Child! The shadow! The shadows gaze upon you! Repent! Return to the light before it is too late!”

  The crowd gasped, murmurs of fear and confusion rippling through the pedestrians. Some stepped back in alarm, others froze in place, wide-eyed. Two men rushed forward, prying the preacher’s hands off Kein, and shoving him back. The old man staggered but did not fall; his gaze remained locked onto Kein with unsettling intensity. “You cannot run from judgment, stolen child of the flock! The return to the light! Return to the light! For in the shadows, the gaze of The Deceiver shall fall upon you”

  Kein shook the cold, unnatural sensation from his limbs and forced himself to take a steadying breath. He refused to give in to the preacher’s wild accusations. The crowd was dispersing now, their murmurs low and uncertain. A few curious souls lingered, but most hurried away, casting quick, nervous glances at the scene unfolding.

  The holy war that the churches had declared was not going well. If it were, men like that preacher wouldn’t be growing in number. There were more of them lately, emerging from the cracks of the city like prophets of ruin, warning of fire and blood and the fall of all things. And the worst part?

  They weren’t wrong.

  Kein thought of this whole thing with the preacher as nonsense but these days as the world falls into ruin more. It became a foreboding thought. Kein quickly blended back into the mass of people, shaking his head at the absurdity of it all. But the preacher’s words gnawed at him, burrowing deep into his thoughts.

  As Kein crossed the street, his eyes caught sight of a homeless woman struggling to push a cart overloaded with scavenged junk. The cart’s wheels were lodged deep into a pothole, stuck fast as vehicles tried to maneuver around her. The woman reeked of sweat and decay, her ragged clothes soaked from the drizzle. Pedestrians averted their eyes, hurrying past to avoid the stench, while drivers honked impatiently, barely sparing her a glance.

  Kein sighed and stepped forward. Without a word, he grabbed the cart’s handle and heaved. For a moment wheels resisted before finally lurching free with a squelch of mud. The old woman blinked at him, eyes clouded with disbelief before softening into something like gratitude.

  “Salamat, iho,” she thankfully murmured, her voice hoarse from years of hardship.

  Kein merely nodded, guiding the cart safely to the other side of the one-way street.

  The woman gave him one last, almost wistful smile before disappearing into the alleys, her burden slightly lighter.

  With a small sigh, he turned and made his way toward Manong Bernie’s Eatery.

  On the other side of the street, watching the scene, Kein noticed and stopped mid-step, He was halfway across when something stopped him.

  A presence.

  The sun cast sharp shadows across the pavement, the city is alive with the usual chaos—honking cars, hurried footsteps, and vendors shouting over the hum of traffic. There, standing motionless on the opposite sidewalk, was a figure draped in sunlight. The crowd moved around them like water splitting against a rock, everyone acknowledging their existence but just walking around them and Kein saw them.

  The rabbit mask made sure of that.

  Amid the moving crowd, they stood out like a glitch in reality. Porcelain-white cracked with delicate silver veins; its long ears tilted at an amused angle. The faded red markings on its cheeks curled in a way that almost resembled laughter—or maybe something sharper. The eye slits, narrow and knowing, locked onto him, it felt like the mask was smirking. But it wasn’t just the mask. The way they stood, hands stuffed in their coat pockets, shoulders tilted just enough to suggest amusement.

  Watching him.

  Kein slowed his steps, suddenly wary.

  First, an exaggerated tilt of the head. Then, they mimicked him—mocking each activity and how he had just wavered in the middle of the street, mirroring his every action in a ridiculous, over-the-top pantomime.

  The masked figure lifted a hand, waggling their fingers in a slow, deliberate wave. He felt no hostility but just rather pure mischief.

  Playful. Mocking.

  A gloved hand rose to their chin in mock contemplation, as if saying, Oh no, what do I do?

  Kein’s brow twitched. Was this some joke?

  The rabbit clasped their hands together and gave a small theatrical bow as if this was a grand performance meant only for him. Then, just as

  Kein’s stepped forward.

  A Jeepney passed between them.

  Just a blink.

  And when the street was clear again—

  Gone.

  Not into the crowd. Not down the alley. The Rabbit just... vanished.

  Kein stood for a moment, the city moving on around him, he didn’t know who they were.

  But something told him—whoever they were, he felt that this wouldn’t be the last time he saw that Rabbit.

  Kein exhaled sharply and chose to ignore and go about his day. As he weaved the street till he pushed open the glass door of Manong Bernie’s Eatery, the familiar chime of a small bell ringing above his head. The eatery was a narrow, dimly lit space warmed by the rich aroma of stews and grilled meats. The wooden walls were lined with faded posters of old action movies and boxing champions of decades past, their edges curling with time. A flickering ceiling fan whirred above, stirring the thick scent of garlic, soy sauce, and vinegar.

  The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

  He ran a hand through his black hair as he strode inside, the coolness of the place immediately soothing the ache in his muscles.

  The counter was a well-worn slab of wood, scarred with the imprints of decades of chopping and serving. Behind it, Manong Bernie stood, his stained apron hanging loosely over his stocky frame, his hands expertly flipping a sizzling adobo in the pan. The man looked like a retired gangster—broad shoulders, thick arms covered in faded tattoos, and a presence that demanded respect. His grizzled face, lined with age and old scars, barely concealed the sharp eyes that had undoubtedly seen more than he let on.

  Yet, behind him, moving gracefully between the kitchen and the dining area was his wife—an ethereal beauty so striking she seemed almost out of place in the eatery’s humble setting. Bernie said she was from the American Midwest mixed with some Latin ancestry. She's nearly a foot taller, and she seemed like twice a decade younger than her husband. She had porcelain skin, high cheekbones, and a regal bearing that made her look like she belonged to some forgotten royal lineage. Her long, silky blonde hair cascaded like silk over her shoulders, and her emerald-green eyes held an air of mystery as if she carried untold stories from distant lands. Despite the quiet enigma surrounding her past, she moved with effortless grace, treating every customer with warmth and kindness. Her mere presence elevated the eatery beyond its rough-and-tumble origins.

  She smiled at a customer as she placed down a bowl of steaming sinigang, a staple local stew of sour and savory made with tamarind, vegetables, and meat. The tables were mismatched; some metal, some plastic, their surfaces covered in scratches and rings from sweating glasses. A few old customers hunched over their meals, methodically spooning rice into their mouths as they watched the flickering television mounted on the wall. The large television screen had visibly aged from years of wear, but it was still a source of entertainment and conversation for the regulars.

  Near the kitchen window, where dishes clanked and the soft sizzle of frying food hummed, young waitresses weaved through the narrow aisles, balancing plates of crispy lechon kawali, a sort of local dish of deep-fried pork belly and bowls of steaming sinigang. Behind the counter, Manong Bernie flipped a sizzling pan of adobo, his weathered face breaking into a grin. “The usual?”

  Kein nodded, shaking the rain from his jacket. “The usual.”

  Bernie grunted in approval and returned to his cooking, his movements quick and precise. Kein barely had time to be seated when a familiar voice chimed in. “You need to eat more, Kein.” Grace, the ever-watchful, beautiful wife, and waitress ambled toward him with a knowing look. She held her notepad out of habit, though she already knew his order by heart.

  Kein smirked. “I’ll try, Auntie Grace.”

  She said. "Call me Ate Grace, say "ah-tay", since I'm no more than a decade older than you to be called an Aunt".

  Kein sneered. “I’ll try, Aun-tay Grace.”

  Grace arched an eyebrow, leaning in slightly. “That’s ‘Ate,’ pronounce it as 'AH-TAY' and not ‘Aun-tay,’ but I’ll let it slide this time.” She gave him a pat on the head, clearly enjoying the banter. “But really, you’ve been looking too thin. You need to take care of yourself more.” Kein chuckled, half-heartedly. “Sure, I’ll eat more. After all, your husband makes a great meal, right?” He glanced at Bernie cooking skillfully at the back of the kitchen. Around the intricate, yet cozy restaurant, the familiar warmth and low chatter from other patrons comforted him. From the kitchen’s small window, a young waitress peeked through, watching Kein with barely contained excitement. Her co-worker nudged her playfully, whispering something that made her cheeks flush. Kein, oblivious, rubbed his temples as he scanned the restaurant.

  The place was alive tonight. Regulars filled the tables, bowls of steaming rice and rich stews clinking against plates. A group of men near the TV cheered as the basketball game neared its climax, their laughter and jeers filling the room. The walls, adorned with faded posters of local celebrities and vintage Coca-Cola advertisements, gave the place a nostalgic charm.

  A large handwritten sign near the counter read: “No Credit, No Exception.”

  Near the television mounted on the eatery’s wall, a group of regulars sat hunched over their meals, their voices lowered in hushed gossip.

  “Did you hear about the break-in at one of the Makati's mayor’s estates?” one man muttered, glancing around as if afraid someone might be listening.

  “A mayor? That’s nothing. The vice governor’s mansion was hit last week,” another chimed in, slurping his soup. “Whoever’s behind this, they’re professionals. No alarms, no witnesses, just gone like smoke.”

  An older woman, wiping her hands on her apron, leaned in. "Good. Those bastards deserve it. They’ve been stealing from the people for years. Someone finally turned the tables on them." “I heard they took something more than just money. Documents, valuables—things the rich don’t want anyone to see.”

  A younger man scoffed, shaking his head. "Serves them right. They hoard their wealth, build their mansions, and leave the rest of us to rot. If someone’s out there making them sweat, I say let them." “It’s getting worse. High-profile targets, no leads. You think it’s just thieves or something more?”

  Before the conversation could continue, the television flickered, drawing everyone’s attention as the screen cut to a news broadcast.

  The young waitress finally emerged, carrying Kein’s meal. Their eyes met for a brief moment, and she offered him a bright smile. He returned the gesture with a polite nod, but before any words could be exchanged, the crowd’s excitement turned into confused murmurs as the TV screen flickered.

  [BREAKING NEWS - United Dominion Network]

  A news anchor appeared, her face tense. "Good Afternoon, I’m Sarah Smith, and we interrupt your regularly scheduled programming on United Dominion Network for urgent coverage of a catastrophic event unfolding live in Jakarta City. "

  “The continuing coverage of the escalating war in Indonesia. The situation has taken a dire turn. Reports indicate that the opposing forces have deployed what some witnesses describe as a ‘demonic entity.’ We take you to our field correspondent. Rafael Young, giving a live report.”

  The chatter died down. Kein turned to the screen, everyone felt discomfort and churning at the scenery.

  The screen shifted to a shaky camera feed. Standing in a chaotic street, visibly shaken as debris and smoke fill the background. A reporter, clad in a bulletproof vest, crouched behind a broken-down military vehicle. Behind him, soldiers scrambled into defensive positions, their guns trained on a massive distant smoke.

  A war-torn battlefield filled the screen. Soldiers in heavy armor stood among the wreckage, their rifles raised. The insignia on their uniforms marked them as part of a Southeastern Asian military force—one of the strongest in the region.

  Smoke billowed in the distance, obscuring the shapes of toppled buildings and crushed war machines. The reporter’s voice was tight with panic.

  “This is—” He coughed, smoke filling his lungs.

  "This is Rafael Young, reporting live from Jakarta City, Indonesia! The ground is shaking beneath my feet as an enormous... creature—and there’s no other way to describe it—has emerged from the northern part of the city. It’s massive, well over about 35 feet tall, and it’s moving through the city area like a force of nature. About less than an hour ago, one of the member countries of the ASEAN Defence Pact was attacked and is currently under siege. I repeat. The country is under attack. The defense forces are—” He coughed, waving away the thick smoke. “—are engaged in heavy combat with a hostile entity! We’ve already witnessed an entire battalion destroyed in a matter of minutes! This—this is unlike anything we’ve ever seen!”

  A deafening roar cut through the chaos.

  The reporter flinched but forced himself to continue. “This country's capital will fall if the other pact members don't send immediate reinforcements! The military might of the country is trying to engage and buy time for an evacuation! My God, they—”

  “The situation has escalated beyond containment. What we are witnessing now—”

  The reporter gasped. “It’s... it’s one of them.”

  The camera shifted wildly. A deep metallic groan echoed through the feed as something massive moved through the destruction. The soldiers opened fire, but their bullets barely seemed to register.

  Then, something inhuman stepped into view.

  A figure loomed in the distance, its silhouette monstrous against the burning building.

  The camera zooms out, showing the silhouette of the massive creature in the distance, its body shifting unnaturally as it stomps forward.

  Its massive frame, a grotesque fusion of shifting flesh and jagged steel, pulsed with unnatural energy. Veins of molten light coursed across its monstrous hide, illuminating its twisted form in the infernal glow of the burning city. Its elongated, featureless head cocked to the side as if savoring the terror radiating from the soldiers before it. Then, with a guttural growl, it struck.

  The ground trembled as the beast lunged. A single swipe of its massive claw sent a tank hurtling through the air like a discarded toy. Soldiers screamed as they were lifted off their feet by the sheer force of the shockwave, their bodies flung like ragdolls against crumbling walls. Another explosion erupted as an overturned truck’s fuel tank ignited, engulfing the street in a roaring fireball. A tank fired a shell—the explosion engulfed the figure for a brief moment, but as the dust cleared, the monster remained unscathed. Now, it was nothing but wreckage. Crushed armored vehicles smoldered, their twisted metal skeletons strewn across the ruined landscape. The camera feed shook violently as the reporter and crew scrambled for cover.

  The ground quaked beneath its stride, steel, and concrete crumbling like sand. Soldiers shouted orders, but they might as well have been whispers in a storm. Explosions erupted around them, sending debris cascading like deadly rain.

  The cameraman barely had time to curse before the shockwave sent him sprawling. His footage jittered wildly before refocusing on the reporter, who clutched his microphone with white-knuckled desperation. The soldier’s gunfire rattled in the distance, barely making a dent in the monstrosity advancing toward them. The reporter’s words died in his throat as a massive claw pierced through his chest. Blood splattered across the camera lens. His lifeless body hung for a moment, impaled like an insect before being flung aside like refuse. The cameraman let out a strangled cry and stumbled back, the camera shaking wildly as he turned to run.

  Too late.

  A blur of motion. A sickening crunch.

  Too late.

  A monstrous foot crashed down, the last thing the lens captured before the feed went static for a second. Then, the camera was lifted, yanked from the ground by the creature’s immense clawed hand. The footage steadied, now facing the thing that held it. The monster leaned in close, its molten eyes burning through the screen. Its jagged maw twisted into something resembling a grin. The camera lay tilted, cracked but still recording. A nearby gas station erupted into flames, the inferno rising behind the towering behemoth like a vengeful god’s wrath. Flames clawed at the sky, thick smoke rising like the breath of a dying beast. There stood One of the Seven Deadly New Gods.

  The creature’s clawed foot stomped into the frame, sending tremors through the pavement. It crouched, its immense form blocking out the inferno, and reached down. A massive hand grasped the camera. Sparks flickered along its jagged fingers as it lifted the device close to its face. The image is distorted and static, creeping along the edges of the frame. Then, in a voice that resonated like the tolling of a funeral bell, the creature spoke: “I am One of the Seven. Kneel before us humans! For we are divine or DIE. ”

  The voice was layered—deep, inhuman, a fusion of screams and whispers, as if a thousand voices spoke as one. The camera vibrated with the sheer weight of its presence.

  “We Are The Seven New Gods. And WE will bring deliverance unto this corrupt world.”

  The broadcast cut to black.

  The restaurant fell into stunned silence. Even Manong Bernie, who rarely took his eyes off his cooking, stood frozen, spatula in hand.

  Static.

  The flickering screen above the counter cast eerie blue light across the hushed crowd. Plates of half-eaten food sat abandoned, forks frozen mid-air, steam still rising from untouched bowls of rice. The news anchors on-screen were at a loss for words, their faces pale under the studio lights. They exchanged glances, their carefully rehearsed composure cracking under the weight of what had just been broadcast to the world.

  Then, someone screamed.

  The restaurant erupted into chaos. Chairs scraped against the tiled floor as people rushed for the exit, panic rippling through the cramped space. A man clutched his head, muttering prayers under his breath. A mother held her child close, shielding his eyes from the now-blackened screen. Some remained frozen in their seats, unable to process the horror they had just witnessed.

  “Dios ko… they are all dead,” someone whispered. “With this attack on the neighboring country, our U.D.A. will try to fortify the farthest western states. Things are heading to war against them.”

  “The holy war is getting closer,” a man in the back muttered, his voice grim.

  “The Dominion won’t be able to hold off joining the holy war much longer?”

  A woman scoffed, shaking her head. “You think The Asean Defence Pact will fall also? They’re the military alliance pact made up of Asia's southeastern grid. The New Gods just attacked one of their capital.”

  “That thing just tore through a whole battalion like they were made of paper,” another argued. “Do you think walls and guns are gonna stop them?”

  A blonde older man wearing a red Hawaiin shirt leaned forward, his voice carrying over the rising panic. “It doesn’t matter how strong our United Dominion is. They’re coming. The question is—” he glanced at the blackened screen, his voice dropping to a whisper “—will we kneel? or give the new gods the middle finger?”

  Silence settled over the room once more, heavier than before.

  It reminded them of the mortality of the war that was happening outside of the country. It's only been over a year since the global war began, and so far, the news says that one-third of the continent of Africa, some countries in Asia, and Europe have fallen into their hands. The New Gods and their followers haven't attacked larger countries with a formidable defense alliance. This marked a turning point in The Holy War.

  The eerie silence was disrupted by sirens wailing in the distance. The sky had yet darkened the city, but everyone had witnessed the dawn of a chaotic new era—one "judged" by the so-called new gods who had once been human.

  The news broadcast crackled with ominous updates, leaving the crowd in the restaurant simmering with a quiet unease. Kein felt it in the air—the tension thick, like a storm waiting to break. As people murmured anxiously about the latest reports, he distracted himself with the mundane: waiting for his food. It wasn’t that he didn’t care, but it was easier to ignore the chaos when you were just trying to survive, one meal at a time. He shifted his gaze toward the window, where the restaurant manager’s children were playing. They were seated at a small table, absorbed in their little world of toys: miniature tanks, tiny ships, and brightly colored magnets scattered around. The magnets caught his attention, their simplicity laced with a strange fascination. He leaned over, nudging a few towards them.

  “Hey, mind if I join?” Kein asked, a smile on his face.

  The crowd had descended into a low hum of nervous chatter as the horrific news clung to the air like a foul stench. Kein sat at a corner table, waiting for his food, his fingers tapping nervously against the worn tabletop. Outside, the wind howled, but inside, the warmth of the restaurant offered a strange sense of calm amidst the chaos creeping throughout the world. His thoughts wandered, but his eyes couldn't help but drift over to the children of the restaurant's manager, sitting by the window, their laughter and carefree play a stark contrast to the unease around them.

  The kids were absorbed in their toys—little tanks, ships, and scattered magnets. One of the children waved a small tank in the air, pretending it was firing, while another carefully aligned ships in a miniature battle. Kein leaned forward, his gaze softening. He hadn’t seen kids play like this in ages—so full of innocent wonder.

  A small grin tugged at the corners of his lips. He reached out to grab a handful of magnets from the pile beside him, flicking them together and apart in quick succession.

  "Hey, watch this," he said quietly, leaning over to the group of kids. They turned, their eyes wide with curiosity.

  With a slight flick of his wrist, he made a magnet hover briefly between his fingers, the tiny force of his hands manipulating the invisible field. The children gasped, eyes following the erratic dance of the magnet.

  "It's like a little magic trick!" one of the children giggled.

  Kein chuckled softly. "Magnets are incredible. They're not just toys; they're potential weapons. Ever heard of a railgun?"

  The kids looked at him, confused, so he explained further, his voice lowering as if he were letting them in on a secret.

  "A railgun uses electromagnetism to launch projectiles at incredible speeds. Imagine launching something faster than sound, using nothing but magnets."

  One of the kids' eyes widened in awe. "Like a supergun?"

  Kein grinned, "Exactly. A weapon you can’t see but feel when it hits."

  As the laughter from the children died down, their attention briefly returned to their toys. But the atmosphere in the room had shifted. The air grew heavy as if something was about to happen.

  Then, without warning, the door clicked shut behind him. The soft hum of the restaurant’s lights seemed to dim as if the atmosphere had shifted. For a brief moment, the clatter of silverware and the quiet hum of conversation stopped. Even the children paused, turning their heads.

  Kein felt it first—the subtle, almost imperceptible change in the air. Someone had entered. His instincts prickled, and he glanced over, his eyes narrowing as a man entered the restaurant.

  Dressed in an outfit that seemed completely out of place—a sharp, tailored suit that belonged to another time, another world—the newcomer stood in the doorway. His smile was warm, yet something was unsettling about it, something that didn’t quite fit with the moment. He looked around, eyes scanning the room like a man lost, though his gaze was too confident, too sure, to truly belong.

  He wasn’t in a hurry. He didn’t seem frantic, as one might expect from someone caught in the chaos around the world. No, this man was searching for something, or perhaps someone.

  Kein watched him closely, his heart picking up pace. There was something about this stranger, something that made Kein uneasy.

  The man’s gaze finally landed on the children by the window. He smiled at them, but there was an odd glint in his eyes—a gleam that sent a chill down Kein’s spine. Then, his eyes flicked around the room again, as if trying to make himself at home, though there was no real comfort in his presence.

  The restaurant fell into a strange stillness, a collective pause as if everyone, knowingly or not, had already begun to suspect that this was no ordinary visitor. His smile stretched wide, polite yet wrong, like a mask carved onto his face. Kein stiffened. Something about him gnawed at the edges of his nerves.

  "Excuse me," the man said, his voice smooth and rich, like someone accustomed to being listened to.

  “I’m terribly sorry. I seem to have gotten a bit lost. A stranger recommended this place... but I don’t think I’m in the right spot. A bit of a mishap on my part,” the stranger chuckled, though the sound didn’t quite reach his eyes.

  His words were naively odd, and his smile never wavered. And for a moment, it felt as though the air itself was holding its breath, waiting for the next move. Something wasn’t right about this man. Something far more dangerous than he could explain.

  Kein felt a strange pull and couldn't shake the feeling that being involved with that gentleman was like tempting fate. But fate was always fickle. And yet, Kein knew in his gut—this was no ordinary man.