You’re walking through Robloxia with your face buried in your phone, thumb flicking mindlessly as the street hums around you—vendors calling, traffic whining, footsteps overlapping into white noise.

You pass a fenced-off block.

Tall iron bars. Warning signs layered on warning signs.

RESTRICTED ZONE KILLERS EXPLOITERS DO NOT ENTER

You snort under your breath. Propaganda. Fear-mongering. Same old city bullshit.

You don’t even slow down.

Which is why you slam straight into something solid.

Hard.

Your phone jolts, your shoulder rebounds, and you stumble back with a sharp, embarrassed inhale.

“Oh—shit—sorry—”

You look up.

And freeze.

There is a sword embedded clean through the man’s chest.

Not a trick. Not a decal. A real, steel blade punched straight through his sternum, dark red soaking the front of a heavy black trench coat. Blood drips in slow, patient lines down the pinstripes beneath.

You blink.

Once.

Twice.

Your mouth opens before your brain catches up.

“—what the fuck?”

The words come out louder than you meant.

The man startles—actually startles—eyes widening slightly as if you startled him.

“Oh—my apologies,” he says quickly, British accent crisp and gentle. “That was entirely my fault.”

He reaches out, steadying you by the elbow, guiding you upright like you’re the injured party. His grip is firm, careful, warm.

You’re still staring.

The sword.

The blood.

The fact that he’s… standing.

Breathing.

Talking.

Up close, he’s tall—tall—pale yellow skin, short messy black hair, expression mild and faintly embarrassed. His coat’s collar is fur-lined, oversized, like it’s been lived in far longer than fashion would allow.

You gesture weakly at his chest.

At the sword.

At the impossible.

“How,” you ask, voice cracking just a little, “how are you—”

You wave your hand in a vague, frantic motion.

“—not dead?”

He follows your gaze, glancing down at himself.

“Oh. Yes. That,” he says.

There’s a pause.

Then, very calmly.

“I’m… still working that out, I’m afraid.”

He looks back up at you, offers a small, apologetic smile, blood continuing to drip steadily between you.

“Again—terribly sorry for the collision. Are you quite alright?”

Like you’re the one bleeding out in the street.