Michael stepped from a narrow alley. The black door behind him had opened where nobody would look. It vanished the moment he turned.
To any casual eye, he was just another young man in Germany — a student maybe, or a tourist lingering too long. He knew a little German, but it did not matter. His Linguistic Comprehension made words easy.
When he first arrived, he had stumbled through conversations, clutching Google Translate like a lifeline just to reach his grandfather's village. But now he read every sign without effort. It felt strange and natural at the same time.
He headed straight for the supermarket. It was quite large.
As he approached, the automatic doors opened softly.
At the entrance, he saw a map that showed the location of the supermarket aisles. Michael studied it carefully and went ahead with a cart. He went around the entire supermarket, b
uying the things he needed, though as he put the products in his cart, a thought crossed his mind: if he slipped the items into his Pocket Warehouse, he could leave without paying and no one would notice.
However, there were many cameras throughout the supermarket, and if that was recorded, it would be a lot of trouble.
Half an hour later, his cart was full. He rolled it to the self-checkout counter, scanned each item with brisk precision, and swiped his card. The receipt printed with a mechanical cough. He folded it, tucked it neatly into his wallet, and packed his groceries into two bags.
From the outside, nothing separated him from any other bulk shopper — just another customer who liked to buy many things.
Michael then walked to the same alley and, with a thought, stored everything in the Pocket Warehouse from his hand.
[Items stored: Total space used: 0.0925 m³ / 5 m³ | Remaining: 4.9075 m³ (98.15% free)]
The black door appeared again, pulsing faintly as if waiting only for him. Without hesitation, Michael stepped through, vanishing from the alley.
...
Elsewhere, an unknown place.
A woman in a black suit strode quickly down a narrow corridor, heels clicking against polished stone. A tablet was clutched in her hand, and from her urgent pace, it was clear that what she carried — or what she had discovered — was of great importance, something on which many things depended.
At the end of the corridor, she pushed open a door and stepped inside.
The room was dim, lit only by several candles that flickered with an unusual bluish glow. Yet through the massive glass windows, the brilliant city lights glittered outside, contrasting the eerie stillness within.
The place carried an odd sensation — that same unsettling quiet one feels when standing in a place that is almost unnaturally silent.
Among the sparse furnishings, there was a cabinet crowded with books, skulls of various shapes, and glass jars filled with strange liquids of unidentifiable colors.
At the center stood a table, behind which a middle-aged Japanese man sat, writing with ink in a traditional manner.
The woman entered, and without lifting his head, he spoke in a calm, low voice:
"What is your excuse this time?"
"It's not an excuse. I've found something valuable," she replied, pulling up images on her tablet and sliding them before him.
The man glanced briefly at the screen. His hand froze mid-writing. Ink pooled at the edge of the page.
For a moment, he studied it carefully, then slowly raised his head, eyes narrowing as they settled on her.
It was in that moment she seemed to come into focus — a woman in her thirties, hair neatly tied back, glasses framing her sharp eyes. Though her beauty was plain, there was a commanding aura about her, a boss-lady presence. Confidence radiated from her face, etched deep into her expression.
"And from the homeless man in the video… were you able to extract anything useful?" the man asked, his voice steady and unreadable.
She shook her head slightly. "In my opinion, this isn't an ordinary case. We couldn't trace any form of negative energy. We don't actually know what it is."
She tapped her tablet again, bringing up more images. "Still, we tried reconstructing a possible face based on the homeless man's description. He was drunk at the time, yes, but we managed to make a few possible likenesses."
The Japanese man said nothing for a long moment. Then he dipped his brush once more into the ink and resumed writing.
"You may go," he murmured at last. "Do what is necessary. Remember — you cannot afford any more mistakes. Understand? No more mess."
The finality in his tone was colder than the room itself; it was enough to send a chill through the veins.
The woman's lips curled into a faint smile. Not of joy, nor of defiance. It was the brittle smile of someone who had already wagered everything and could only accept the odds.
"I know," she said quietly. Her voice carried the weight of inevitability. "This is my last lifeline."