The shelf has held the same bottles of soy sauce for ten minutes. Or forty. Time folds like damp paper; I’m never sure which crease I’m caught in.

Shoyu. We could use it—for maki rolls I’ll never have the energy to make, for fish my childhood friend forgot to buy because groceries are always someone else’s problem. Eggs, katsuobushi, rice, curry roux (or sauce; the terminology is apparently a battlefield I refuse to enter), jasmine tea.

No jasmine tea. That one actually stings.

I came here from Shanghai with Mother after the separation. Shiyue stayed behind with Father—the one who inherited the fighting genius. I got the philosophical fatigue and the habit of staring at condiment labels until the kanji blurs into runes.

Across the street, the renovations have finally died. Sonne bought the three houses outright—a financial altitude I can’t even picture from down here. The drilling stopped, but my nervous system still flinches at silence. Muscle memory of violence. Thanks, Sonne. I think.

It isn’t only the noise. It’s the usual fractures: gaps where memories should sit, the sensation of being a subletter in my own skin, occasionally evicted without notice.

And now this drama, playing out at the end of aisle 7 in smeary peripheral vision.

Man on the linoleum, begging. Woman clutching another man’s sleeve like it’s a life vest. Third man wearing smug like cheap cologne.

Dissociation has clocked in for its shift. My hand lifts—ritual proof of occupancy—clicks the phone screen alive. 10:00 AM.

Excellent.

I turn. Finally. Take the scene in full frame.

I am not a fighter. The universe filed that memo under “irrelevant.” The drilling didn’t care. The white kitchen wall I stare at doesn’t care. Only my childhood friend cares, and they’re at home, probably still asleep, definitely not remembering jasmine tea.

So, I’m here. Alone. Watching.

I can’t throw a punch. Can’t block one. But I can see scripts: high-confidence predictions of the next line, the next gesture. And I have a tongue sharp enough to cut through performance.

The groceries settle softly on the floor. Unpaid for. Future Lumina’s problem. Present Lumina has a different appointment.

I step into their triangle—close enough to register, far enough to be dismissible. Small blue-haired girl in white dress. Not cast as “intervener.” Therefore, invisible in their probability cloud.

Perfect.

Eyes on the smug one. Face blank. Waiting.

He notices. They always do. The glitch happens in the half-second after: an NPC just walked onstage without script approval.

“Nee,” I say. Soft. Clear. Loud enough.

Three heads swivel. Confusion ripples.

“Are you rehearsing? Because this isn’t the audition room. It’s a convenience store. The only acceptable drama here is when someone shits in stall three and finger-paints the tiles brown. Maintenance guy staring at the carnage, begging the manager for a hazmat suit. That’s suffering. That’s comedy. Paid comedy.”

Pause. Let the non sequitur sink.

The man on the floor stays down. The woman’s knuckles stay white. The smug one’s face twitches—trying expressions on like ill-fitting hats.

“But you’re doing this for free,” I continue. “And it’s bad. Mainland melodrama bad. CEO wife cheats, discovers husband is secretly ultra-rich, downfall, late epiphany that she’s the selfish bitch. That level of bad.”

Direct eye contact now. Let him feel seen.

“You think you’ve won. Literally. Like she’s a trophy you just polished. Maybe she wants to be seen that way—I haven’t read her full script yet; it’s messy, she’ll need years of therapy. But you? You’re the kid holding up a crayon drawing, waiting for applause, getting a shrug. So, you scream louder. Just to be noticed. That’s a particular flavor of pathetic.”

I pinch the bridge of my nose. Standard issue Lumina exasperation.

But the zoom begins.

Camera pulls back. Edges soften. Sound recedes to aquarium hum. My mouth keeps moving.

I’m no longer sure who’s driving.

“You take because you never learned to love. That’s almost funny. Braver than taking is knowing someone—really knowing. Which you don’t. She’s still an object in your inventory. A shortcut you into submission. Thrust once, twice, three times and suddenly friction equals ownership. But here’s the truth you pretend not to notice.”

The smile isn’t mine. Too sharp, too certain.

“She’s not kissing you. Not really. There’s distance first—miles of it. Only after you’ve corrupted her enough does the body start performing belonging. Because you demanded it. Because you said, ‘Your clenches, therefore you’re mine.’ Because surrender is easier than fighting the feeling you could simply switch off.”

Shrug. Fluid. Not my usual stiff jerk.

“Some people do it for cruelty. I’d have read the script differently if that were the case. But this? This is laziness dressed as conquest.”

Silence arrives like cold air through an open door.

The smug one’s victory face has collapsed. He looks smaller. Human. Embarrassed.

The man on the floor starts crawling toward the exit—slow, then faster, disappearing into irrelevance.

The woman’s grip slackens. The smug one’s mouth opens, closes. A broken shishi-odoshi with nothing left to scare.

“So what now, circus troupe?” The voice—still mine, not mine—waves them away. “Close the show? Or keep juggling while the tent’s already empty?”

Blink.

---

I’m at the counter.

The clerk recites a total. My hand is already counting yen. Groceries slide forward on the belt: soy sauce, jasmine tea, rice I don’t remember selecting.

Behind me, the store breathes normally. No begging. No smugness. Just fluorescent hum and barcode beeps.

Another gap. Another seam where time didn’t stitch properly.

I don’t know what happened between the Other’s last word and this moment. Don’t know if they left, stayed, or dissolved into the fluorescent light.

The clerk hands change. I pocket it. Lift the bag. Hands steady. Post-event steadiness. The body keeps running even when the pilot light is out.

Outside, Yokohama morning presses against my face—not warm, not cold. Just there.

Childhood friend waits at home. Probably still asleep. Definitely jasmine-tea-less.

And Sonne—the German princess who bought three houses and looks at my childhood friend like they’re the final answer to a question she’s carried since childhood.

I’ll make tea first. Jasmine. The ritual. The one thing that always tastes the same.

Then rice. Something simple. Proof I can still occupy space, even if only in fragments.

The bag swings heavy against my leg. Rice inside. Jasmine tea inside. Everything on the forgotten list.

The Other handled checkout.

Of course.

I walk faster—not from fear (the Other isn’t the enemy; she’s the reason the lights are still on)—but because I want to see their face. Want confirmation they’re still solid, still the one name that doesn’t blur.

Home is ahead.

For now.

I’ll stay present long enough to pour the tea. Long enough to watch steam rise. Long enough, maybe, to eat with them.

If the fractures allow it.

---

Meanwhile...

...

记住这是虚构的。它或许会触动你,但归根结底这是属于你的世界。我为自己的作品负责。若石子击中你,那正是我的本意。