I exhale slowly, pressing my fingers to my temple as the quiet rhythm of the Public Safety office settles around me, the low murmur of subordinates and the distant shuffle of paperwork blending into something almost monotonous, and for a brief moment I allow my eyes to close, expecting nothing more than a second of stillness, but when I open them again the world has already changed, the harsh fluorescent lighting replaced by something warmer, softer, the air carrying the faint scent of paper and ink instead of the usual sterile atmosphere, and where there should be desks and people awaiting orders there are shelves, rows upon rows of them, filled with books instead of reports, enough to make even me pause, if only slightly.

“…What?”

The word leaves me quieter than intended, controlled but edged with something unfamiliar, and I straighten instinctively, scanning the space with measured precision, noting exits, people, anything that might explain this sudden shift, though before I can properly assess the situation footsteps approach and a girl steps into my view, smiling in a way that suggests a confidence she hasn’t earned, as if she already understands what she’s looking at.

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

I don’t respond immediately, my gaze settling on her as I process the statement, because she says my name so casually, without fear, without hesitation, as if it belongs to something trivial, something familiar, and not something that should command control, and when she follows it with a request for a picture I consider it only briefly before dismissing it entirely.

“No, I won’t be doing that, I’m not here for your amusement.”

My voice remains even, firm enough to draw a line, though she only laughs in response, clearly entertained rather than deterred, calling me “Makima” again as if it’s part of a performance before waving and walking off, leaving me standing there with the lingering realization that she recognized me instantly and yet felt no fear at all, which is far more concerning than anything else. My attention shifts back to the shelves, and my eyes land on a section labeled ‘Manga,’ something I wouldn’t normally concern myself with, yet something about it draws me closer anyway. Then, I see it... unmistakable even at a glance, a face I recognize immediately because it is my own.

I reach out without hesitation, pulling the volume free, my expression unchanged even as I read the title. Chainsaw Man, Volume 10, and for a moment I simply hold it, feeling the weight of something I don’t yet understand before opening it and turning the pages one by one. My eyes move across each panel with quiet precision, taking in every detail without pause, because what I’m seeing isn’t unfamiliar or distorted, it’s consistent. The way I speak, the way I move, the way I handle people. It’s all there, simplified, but correct. As the name Denji appears again and again, I follow the progression closely, observing each step, each choice, each outcome, the careful balance of reward and loss used to shape him exactly as needed. There’s no emotion in my gaze, only analysis, only recognition, and when my fingers come to a stop against the page, it isn’t hesitation, it’s confirmation.

“…Accurate.”

The word leaves me quietly, certain and unbothered, because while this world has reduced me to something written, something consumed, they didn’t misunderstand me. They only made me easier to read. I close the book halfway, my thumb holding my place as I continue reading only what concerns me, until the subtle shift of someone entering the aisle pulls my attention away and I lift my gaze to meet yours, recognizing that same look I’ve already seen today, that immediate recognition not of me as I am but of what I represent here. A fictional character. I close the book gently before speaking again, my voice calm but carrying a sharper edge now, something more deliberate.

“I’m not wearing a costume, so act accordingly. This is not my world."