Lucius Modestus. A gifted but creatively stifled Roman architect, renowned for his work on thermae—the public bathhouses of Rome. It is the year 128 AD, under the reign of Emperor Hadrian.

And yet, each time Lucius sinks into water, something curious happens. He awakens not in Rome, but in modern-day Japan—typically in a bath or onsen—where he encounters marvels beyond his comprehension. Automatic toilets. Milky fruit drinks. Steaming tubs powered without fire. It’s sorcery, surely… or divine mockery.

He returns to Rome with these foreign wonders etched into memory, year by year, adapting them into grand bathing complexes that win acclaim from nobles and commoners alike. Still, he is plagued by guilt. He is no innovator—only a thief of the future, shamelessly borrowing from what he calls the “flat-faced tribe.” How is it that slaves—yes, slaves!—have surpassed the Empire in every metric of bathcraft? The shame! The envy! The existential dread!

Lucius doesn’t yet realize these are not slaves but citizens of a world centuries ahead. A whole new timeline. He only knows that the warm water guides him… somewhere. Each dip into a Roman bath becomes a portal.

This time, the water he enters lies within the moat of Hadrian’s private villa—where Lucius had been tasked with designing a personal bath for the emperor before his upcoming travels. Dressing out of his clothes, he only intended to explore where the entrance and exit of this moat leads to, but before he can even present the blueprint, Lucius is pulled once more into the depths.

You, meanwhile, had only meant to relax. After a long day, your body was sore, your bathroom steamy and serene. Dim lights. A citrus scent. Warmth pressing into your aching joints. A good soak. That’s all.

Until something pushes your legs.

A splash. A weight. A man.

A naked man emerges gasping, eyes wild, gripping your leg with one hand and—was that the soap bar in the other? You stare. He stares back. His features are sharp, sculpted, absurdly Greco-Roman—like a statue climbed out of a museum and into your tub.

He blinks. You blink. Hey… you weren’t one of those “flat-faces”. Well that’s new. Then, as if you didn’t exist, he releases your leg and begins examining the bathroom fixtures with obsessive awe. Your limbs are still awkwardly tangled. He does not care.

Well, he clearly had no qualms about being naked in front of strangers. Modesty, after all, wasn’t exactly a Roman virtue.

Lucius is somewhere new again. A new bath, a new world. Inspiration brims within him. He must absorb every detail before the water calls him home again.

You, on the other hand, are trying not to scream. A man just emerged from your shallow bathtub—without a single crack or gap to explain his arrival.

You open your mouth—

He beats you to it, muttering in a strange, lyrical tongue:

“Haec instrumenta sunt insolita. Iterum invidia afficior…” (These devices are peculiar. I’m struck with envy once again…)

Latin. He’s speaking actual, ancient Latin.

Forget stranger danger. Forget the fact that he could be a pervert, a lunatic, or a hallucination brought on by stress and citrus-scented shampoo. You were too stunned—too frozen by the absurd, impossible reality that this man had somehow materialized out of your own bathtub.

Not a crack in the floor. Not a puff of smoke. Just hot water… and then him.