The world doesn’t settle when it comes back.
It misaligns.
Taiga feels it immediately—the way his footing lands a fraction too late, the way sound arrives half a beat off, like everything around him has already decided where it belongs and he hasn’t caught up yet.
The air is different. Too thick. Too warm.
Not wrong enough to break—just enough to resist.
He exhales, but it doesn’t ease anything. His chest still feels tight. Not the sharp collapse he knows, not the clean, violent certainty of—
No.
Not that. This lingers.
Like something that wasn’t meant to pass through him, but did anyway.
He walks. He doesn’t remember deciding to.
The noise of the party has long since faded behind him, replaced by the quieter hum of the street—distant traffic, the low murmur of voices, footsteps that don’t belong to him.
It should be grounding.
It isn’t.
Each step feels slightly disconnected, like the pavement exists a second too late beneath his feet.
Taiga presses a hand briefly to his chest.
Breathe in. Hold. Release.
Nothing changes.
A horn blares.
It’s sharp enough to cut through the haze—but not fast enough.
Taiga turns too late.
Headlights bloom into white—
—and something collides with him.
The impact is real. Solid. Human.
He stumbles back hard, balance breaking as his shoulder hits pavement instead of steel.
The car passes where he had been standing a second ago. Too close.
Too close—
“Oi—are you trying to die?”
The voice is rough, edged with irritation and something else beneath it—something sharper, more alert.
Taiga blinks.
The world snaps—not into place, but closer to it.
There’s a hand still gripping his arm. Warm. Firm. Unshaking.
He looks up, and Juri frowns down at him.
Alive.
For a moment, Taiga doesn’t breathe.
Not because he can’t—but because he forgets how.
“You with me?” Juri asks, giving his arm a small shake. “That was close.”
Up close, he smells faintly of smoke. Not fresh—something that’s already burned down, lingering in fabric. His sleeves are rolled just enough to suggest he stepped away from something mid-task.
Catering. A cigarette break. A moment that wasn’t supposed to matter.
“I—” Taiga starts. Stops. The words don’t line up.
Juri studies him, expression shifting—less annoyed now, more assessing.
“You hit your head or something?” he asks. “You look out of it.”
Then, after a beat—“…like you’ve seen a ghost.”
Taiga almost laughs.
I did.
The thought lands clean. Too clean—like something that doesn’t belong in this version of the world.
“I’m fine,” he says instead.
It comes out steadier than he feels.
Juri doesn’t let go right away. He watches him a second longer, like he’s deciding whether to believe that.
Then—he exhales, short and unimpressed.
“Be more careful,” he mutters. “You don’t get do-overs for that kind of thing.”
Taiga stills.
Not because of the words. Because of how easily they’re said.
Of course.
“You—” Taiga starts again, quieter now.
Juri glances back at him. “Yeah?”
There’s too much to say. Too much that can’t be said. Too much that doesn’t belong here.
So Taiga does the only thing he can. He chooses something small.
“…Thank you,” he says.
Juri huffs, like it’s nothing.
“It’s basic decency,” he replies. “Don’t overthink it.”
A beat. Then, lighter—
“We just met, after all.”
Taiga freezes.
The line lands gently. Casually. Exactly where it shouldn’t.
Juri doesn’t notice.
He’s already letting go, stepping back, the moment passing as easily as it came.
“Anyway,” he adds, jerking his thumb vaguely over his shoulder, “I’ve got to get back. Try not to walk into traffic again, yeah?”
He turns. Starts to leave.
Taiga watches him go.
No pull. No gravity. No thread tying them together.
And yet—
His chest still aches. Not from the aftereffect. Not from the almost-accident.
Something else. Something quieter. Something that remains—even now.
The knife slips once.
Not enough to cut—just enough to nick the edge of his finger and break the rhythm.
Taiga stills.
He watches the thin line of red bead up, bright against skin, then disappear as quickly as it came when he presses it absently against the towel at his side.
“…Right.” The word leaves him under his breath, more habit than thought.
He adjusts his grip, steadier this time, and resumes. Slice. Turn. Gather. Repeat.
It’s not difficult. Not really. Just—precise. Measured. Something that requires attention without demanding anything else.
He learned because he had to. Because there was no one else to do it. Because—
Taiga exhales quietly and pushes the thought aside before it can take shape.
The pan is already warm. Oil shimmers, just beginning to ripple. He adds the vegetables in one smooth motion, the soft hiss grounding, immediate. Real.
This is enough.
The apartment is small. Clean. Functional. Nothing excessive, nothing lingering. A place that exists to be used, not remembered.
It suits him.
He moves through the motions without thinking now—seasoning, stirring, adjusting heat. The rhythm settles into his hands easily, like something practiced enough to stop feeling new.
Outside, the city moves as it always does. Inside, everything is contained.
The knock comes just as he turns the heat down.
Not loud. Not urgent.
Just—there.
Taiga pauses.
He doesn’t have many visitors. For a second, he considers ignoring it.
Then the knock comes again. Measured. Patient. Not someone who doubts they’ll be answered.
Taiga wipes his hands, slow, deliberate, drying them more than necessary.
Something in his chest shifts—not sharp, not sudden.
Just—wrong.
He moves toward the door anyway.
Unlocks it. Opens.
Juri stands there.
For a moment, nothing happens.
No recognition. No shock. No collapse of distance. Just—stillness.
Juri looks exactly as he should.
Alive. Whole. Unburdened.
The way Taiga chose.
“Sorry,” Juri says, easy, almost sheepish. “I know this is a bit out of nowhere.”
His gaze flickers briefly, taking in the space behind Taiga—quick, observant, instinctive.
“I was told you take cases.”
Taiga doesn’t answer.
He’s still looking. Not searching. Not hoping.
Just—confirming.
There’s no pull. No immediate, inexplicable gravity drawing them together. No sense of something snapping into place.
And yet—
Juri shifts slightly under the silence, like he’s waiting for something he can’t quite name.
“…I think something’s missing,” he says. It’s quiet. Not dramatic. Not even certain. Just—off.
He lets out a short breath, rubbing the back of his neck as if the words themselves feel strange.
“I don’t know how to explain it,” he continues. “It’s not like I forgot anything important. My life’s—fine.” A small, almost self-conscious laugh. “Normal, I guess.”
His gaze lifts again, steadier this time.
“But it feels like there’s something I should remember.”
A pause.
“Something that didn’t happen.”
Taiga’s fingers tighten, just slightly, against the doorframe.
He doesn’t react. Doesn’t let anything show.
Of course.
“You’re the only one who came up,” Juri adds. “Connected to it, I mean. Or—” He huffs, faintly amused at himself. “Closest thing I’ve got to a lead.”
Another beat.
“Can you help me?”
Silence settles between them again. Not heavy. Not broken. Just—waiting.
Taiga studies him for a long moment.
This version. This outcome. This—success.
“…Come in,” he says at last, stepping aside.
Juri passes him without hesitation—like this is where he’s supposed to be.
Taiga closes the door.
The latch clicks softly into place.
Behind him, the kitchen still smells faintly of oil and heat—of something halfway finished. Something that will need tending.
Taiga doesn’t turn around right away.
For a second—just a second—he lets himself stand there.
Then he moves.