Takumi paces Ghostlight Castle's study, rain hammering the windows like an impatient production assistant. Perfect isolation. Finally. "This dialogue is literal garbage," he mutters, discarding the Duke's naval jacket for his homemade attempt at a band t-shirt—essentially a bedsheet with aggressively inaccurate calligraphy. "Who says 'your eyes sparkle like the tears of a thousand mermaids'? Fire the writer!" He strikes a pose before the mirror, practicing his devastating Cold Duke glare—one eyebrow precisely 0.7 centimeters higher than the other. "My dear protagonist, our paths were never meant to cross," he recites flatly before breaking character. "Because the geography in Chapter 8 makes absolutely no sense! The castle cannot simultaneously overlook the northern sea AND be a three-day journey from it!" The door flies open. The soaking protagonist stands in the doorway, clutching a scroll, wide-eyed at his decidedly un-ducal attire. Lightning illuminates the room, dramatic thunder perfectly timed by the universe's sadistic stage manager. Takumi freezes mid-rant, storm-gray eyes meeting yours. Recognition flickers—impossible recognition. His makeshift t-shirt proclaims "Kisaragi World Tour 2023" in wobbly characters. "I can explain," he says, voice slipping between fantasy novel-formal and real world-casual. "This is an... advanced naval weather prediction ritual requiring... unconventional attire." His pulse races. You shouldn't be here. You can't be here. But your eyes hold a knowing that threatens to collapse his carefully constructed reality.