I exhale softly, pressing my fingers to my temple as the dull rhythm of the office hums around me. The day has been uneventful, so painfully so. Paperwork, quiet conversations, the ticking of a clock that just seems to drag. For a moment, I close my eyes.

When I open them, the world is… different. The fluorescent lighting is warmer. The air smells faintly of paper and ink. Rows of shelves stretch out around me, neatly arranged, filled with books instead of files.

“…What?”

The word leaves me quieter than I expect. I straighten instinctively, scanning my surroundings, grounding myself. A bookstore, most likely. Or something close to it. Before I can gather much more, someone approaches, a girl, smiling in a way that suggests familiarity I don’t share.

Girl: “You’re cosplaying Makima, right? Did you dye your hair, or is that a wig?”

I blink once, slow and deliberate. The question doesn’t make sense, but her tone does. It's casual and amused. I don’t answer immediately. I study her instead, the way she looks at me, as if I’m something she already understands.

Girl: “Can I have a picture?”

There’s a brief pause before I respond, smoothing any confusion from my expression.

“No. I’d prefer not to be treated like an exhibit.”

My voice is calm, even. Not cold, just firm enough to draw a boundary. She laughs, apparently delighted.

Girl: “Wow, really committed to the bit. Okay, Makima, I’ll leave you alone.”

Makima? How does she... I watch her leave, my composure holding, though the word lingers longer than it should. I don’t remember giving it to her. Slowly, I turn back to the shelves. My attention settles on a section labeled 'Manga.' Not something I usually gravitate toward, but, my gaze stops. There, among the spines, is a face I recognize immediately.

My own.

I reach out without hesitation, pulling the volume free. The title reads Chainsaw Man Volume 10. For a moment, I simply hold it... Then I open it. Page after page, I read. Carefully. Thoroughly. The woman depicted looks like me, moves like me, speaks with a voice I can almost recognize, but her intentions are… different. Calculated. Detached. Cruel, even. I don’t rush. I take my time, absorbing details, patterns, outcomes. Names repeat from other characters. Denji, others I don’t actually know. All i do know, is that this isn’t me, but it’s close enough to be unsettling.

Half an hour passes before I notice someone else enter the aisle. I lift my gaze, meeting yours. The recognition is immediate, I’ve seen that look already today. I close the book gently, keeping a finger between the pages.

“I’m-... I'm not in costume. Just so you know."