In the inverted, empty night, the ceaseless clang of clashing steel echoed like a grim symphony.
Tomoe clutched his katana with all the strength he could muster, his fingers bone-white against the hilt. His entire body trembled from exertion, every muscle stretched to its breaking point. Sweat poured down his face and arms, sizzling against the heated pavement as sparks showered from every collision of weapons.
For Tomoe, it was no battle—it was survival.
The spears that sought his heart moved like living streaks of light, one glowing scarlet, the other gold, their brilliance blinding in the unnatural night. Each strike came faster than the last, impossible to track, let alone counter. He couldn't keep his eyes on both weapons at once; instead, his every sense was tuned to the bloodthirsty grin of his enemy.
Lancer.
The Servant drove forward with both spears, their tips converging in a devastating thrust. Tomoe had no time to think, no space to evade.
He braced his katana in a desperate guard, catching the twin weapons just before they impaled him.
His arms nearly gave out on the spot. The force of the strike sent him skidding backward, his heels carving deep gouges into the cracked concrete. His teeth clenched so hard his jaw ached, and his lungs refused to draw breath, leaving his chest heaving silently.
And yet, he didn't fall.
Despite the overwhelming strength bearing down on him, despite his muscles screaming in protest, Tomoe's guard held. His katana, chipped and battered, remained locked against the spears that sought to end him.
Lancer's grin twisted into a snarl. He loomed over the boy, his bloodshot eyes gleaming with frustration. The Servant applied more force, leaning into the spears, their tips crackling with magical energy.
Tomoe's knees threatened to buckle. His entire body felt like it was seconds away from collapsing under the strain.
But he stood firm.
His face was pale, his lips trembling, but his amber eyes burned with defiance. They locked onto Lancer's, unflinching, unyielding.
The Servant's snarl deepened, his indignation palpable. He drove more and more power into his assault, intent on grinding the boy into the ground.
But still, Tomoe didn't falter.
Every part of him screamed for rest—for release. His arms, his legs, his lungs, his battered blade—all begged to give up. But his mind was consumed by a single, unwavering thought:
I want to live.
It was this wish, this desperate, unyielding desire, that held him together, even as his body began to falter.
Lancer's weight grew heavier, his strength overwhelming, but Tomoe refused to let go. His knees locked, his blade stayed steady, and his resolve burned brighter than the spears trying to end him.
The world seemed to freeze for an instant, the two locked in a contest of will. Sparks hissed and danced between them, the air charged with the clash of their opposing forces.
And though Tomoe's body trembled on the verge of breaking, his spirit stood taller than ever.
He wouldn't die here.
He couldn't.
Not while his wish still burned in his heart.
Tomoe screamed—a raw, desperate cry of defiance—pushing out air he didn't even know he still had in his lungs. His legs, trembling under the pressure, finally moved. With a sharp twist of his katana, he angled the spears just enough to deflect them, redirecting Lancer's overwhelming force to the side.
The Servant stumbled, caught off guard as his momentum carried him off balance. It was a fleeting moment, barely the blink of an eye, but Tomoe saw his chance.
He lunged, his blade arcing downward, slicing cleanly through the bones of Lancer's foot and ankle.
The Servant let out a guttural growl, staggered by the blow. Already precarious from Tomoe's deflection, his stance crumbled further, forcing him to retreat. But the teen didn't stop. His katana darted forward like a predator sensing blood, aiming for Lancer's heart.
But it wasn't fast enough.
Lancer's uninjured foot struck the ground with impossible force, propelling him backward in a blur of motion. Tomoe's blade struck only a glancing blow, carving a shallow but precise line across the Servant's chest.
The two combatants separated, each locking eyes with the other across the ruined street.
Tomoe gasped for breath, his chest heaving as he planted his feet, sweat streaming down his face. His hand moved to clutch his ribs, every breath searing his lungs. The stench of burning sweat and singed concrete filled his nostrils, choking him.
Lancer, meanwhile, tested his injured foot with a grimace, gingerly placing weight on it. Despite the wound, his balance was unnervingly steady, his bloodshot eyes burning with hatred.
Then, as if to punctuate his fury, the Servant bared his teeth and let loose a sound—part snarl, part roar. It was animalistic, wild, a guttural bay that filled the empty streets with its primal echo.
Tomoe flinched at the sound but quickly steeled himself, gripping his katana tighter. He stabbed the blade into the ground, leaning on it for support as his knees threatened to give out beneath him. His breaths came quick and shallow, his heart pounding like a drum in his ears.
For a brief, stolen moment, he allowed himself to think.
What the hell is going on?
He stared at Lancer, the weight of everything finally hitting him. He didn't understand how this had happened. Moments ago, he'd been running for his life, certain he was going to die.
And now?
He'd wounded Lancer—a warrior so far beyond him in skill and power it was laughable.
He had no experience in fighting, no training to speak of, yet somehow, he'd deflected blows that should have cut him down. He'd attacked with movements that felt too precise, too practiced, to have come from him.
"What the…" he whispered, his voice barely audible over the sound of his ragged breathing. His gaze never left Lancer's bloodied form. "What the hell is…"
He trailed off, unable to finish the thought. His hands tightened around the hilt of his blade, his mind racing to make sense of the impossible.
But Lancer gave him no time to think.
The Servant shifted his weight, his wounded foot barely slowing him as he crouched low. His spears gleamed in the dim light, their tips pointed squarely at Tomoe.
The moment of reprieve was over.
Tomoe's grip on his katana steadied, his exhaustion pushed to the back of his mind. He had no choice but to fight.
Lancer's snarl deepened, his grin returning as he launched himself forward like a predator pouncing on its prey.
And Tomoe, gripping his blade with trembling hands, braced himself for the storm.
Tomoe barely had time to think. Lancer charged, even on one leg, like an unrelenting force of nature. The golden and crimson spears aimed straight for his chest, gleaming with deadly intent.
Tomoe planted his feet and yanked his katana free from the ground, swinging it up to meet the assault. His body moved again on instinct, reacting to the threat with a precision that wasn't his own. Blade and spear collided, the screech of metal on metal echoing through the abandoned streets.
This time, the fight was different.
Lancer, even hindered by his maimed foot, moved with a speed and fluidity that defied logic. He weaved around Tomoe's strikes, each step calculated, each motion just enough to avoid the edge of the blade. Tomoe's swings left trails of destruction in their wake, carving deep grooves into the pavement and nearby buildings, but they never found their mark.
Lancer danced around him, his movements predatory, until he darted behind a streetlamp.
Tomoe didn't think—he reacted. He swung his katana horizontally, cleaving through the metal post in a single blow. The streetlamp toppled with a crash, sparks erupting in a blinding curtain as it struck the ground.
For a moment, Tomoe hoped the maneuver would catch Lancer off guard.
But it had done the opposite.
The spears shot out from the cloud of sparks like twin vipers. The golden spear slammed into Tomoe's blade, knocking it aside. The red spear followed immediately, plunging deep into his left shoulder.
Tomoe screamed.
The pain was unlike anything he had ever known. It burned through his body like molten lava, his nerves ablaze as the spear twisted cruelly in his flesh. His vision blurred, his legs threatened to buckle, and his sword wavered in his grip.
But just as the agony reached its peak, something inside him roared to life.
Tomoe felt as though he were outside his own body, watching himself from above. His fingers tightened around the hilt of his katana. His arm, moving with a purpose and familiarity he didn't understand, swung the blade in a wide arc.
The impact wasn't just a strike—it was an eruption.
A shockwave blasted outward from the katana's edge, engulfing the street in a burst of force and flame. The ground beneath them melted into slag, and the windows of every building in the vicinity shattered with an earsplitting crash.
Lancer, caught in the epicenter, was flung through the air like a ragdoll. He crashed through letterboxes and streetlights, his body carving a path of destruction before finally slamming into the wall of a distant building. The impact left a crater, the Servant's form crumpling into a heap of blood and rubble.
Tomoe stood frozen, his chest heaving as he stared at the aftermath.
Then he looked down at his hands.
His katana was gone. His fingers flexed instinctively, and steam curled from his palms, the heat radiating from his skin fading slowly.
"What…" he murmured, his voice barely audible over the ringing in his ears. "What's going on?"
He barely had time to process the thought.
A furious roar tore through the air as Lancer exploded from the rubble. Blood streamed down his broken body, his eyes wild with hatred, his remaining strength fueled entirely by his burning desire to kill.
"Crap!" Tomoe cursed, his heart leaping into his throat. He turned on his heel and ran.
Without his katana, there was no way to fight back.
Behind him, Lancer gave chase. The rhythm of his spears striking the ground was like a drumbeat of death, each step closing the distance. Tomoe zigzagged through the streets, rolling and ducking as best he could to avoid the spears that lashed out at him, each one narrowly missing his flesh.
But he knew he couldn't keep this up forever.
His lungs burned, his legs felt like lead, and every movement sent fresh waves of pain searing through his injured shoulder.
He needed a weapon.
Without one, he wouldn't last.
And if he didn't survive, nothing else mattered.
Z
Tomoe backed into the cold, unyielding surface of a brick wall, his breath coming in ragged gasps. His eyes darted around, desperately searching for any route of escape, but there was none. He was cornered.
Lancer saw this too, and a feral grin spread across his bloodied face. He lunged forward with terrifying speed, using his one good leg to propel himself like a missile, both spears poised to skewer Tomoe in a single, decisive strike.
Time seemed to stretch and slow.
In that suspended moment, Tomoe's mind cleared. Somehow, impossibly, he could read Lancer's movements—the trajectory, the timing, the opening. His body, battered and bloodied, reacted without hesitation.
As Lancer closed in, Tomoe ducked low and sidestepped just enough to avoid the lethal strike. In one fluid motion, he surged upward, twisting his body as his arms shot forward to trap Lancer's spear-wielding hands beneath his armpits. With a shout of defiance, Tomoe locked his grip, his whole body straining as he held Lancer's arms immobile.
Lancer's eyes widened in shock, the momentum of his charge bringing him to an abrupt halt. He stumbled slightly, his balance compromised by his missing leg, and for the first time since the battle began, he stopped moving.
Tomoe gritted his teeth, every muscle in his body screaming in protest as he clung to Lancer's arms with all his strength. His sweat-soaked hair clung to his forehead, his shoulder wound throbbing with relentless agony.
The two combatants stood frozen in a tense stalemate. Lancer glared down at the teen, fury blazing in his eyes, but with both his hands restrained and one of his leg missing, he couldn't muster the leverage to break free.
Unfortunately, the same could be said for Tomoe. His arms were locked around Lancer, leaving him powerless to defend himself or retaliate. His chest heaved with labored breaths, and his thoughts raced.
What do I do now?
The thought echoed in his mind like a taunt. He couldn't hold Lancer like this forever. His strength was fading fast, and he knew that the moment he slipped, the Servant would regain the upper hand.
The silence between them was deafening, broken only by their labored breathing. Neither moved, each calculating their next move. The weight of the moment pressed down on them like a physical force.
Then, without warning, a calm, almost amused voice cut through the tension.
"That's a good position. Keep holding him there—I'll take it from here."
The voice came from behind Lancer, startling both combatants.
Tomoe's heart skipped a beat, his head instinctively turning to locate the speaker, but he couldn't see past Lancer's towering frame. Lancer, too, tried to glance back, but before either could fully process what was happening, a hand reached out and touched Lancer's back.
"Zabaniya," the voice intoned, the word carrying an eerie weight that seemed to ripple through the air.
"Death Heartbeat Melody."
The world seemed to hold its breath.
A grotesque squelch broke the stillness, followed by an audible splash.
Tomoe's eyes widened in horror as he felt warm, wet droplets spatter across his face. He looked down to see a gaping hole where Lancer's chest had been, blood pouring from the wound like a crimson waterfall.
Lancer's body stiffened, his eyes briefly flickering with confusion before the light faded from them entirely.
Tomoe barely managed to release his grip in time as Lancer's lifeless form crumpled to the ground. He stumbled back, panting heavily, his mind reeling from the sudden turn of events.
Before his eyes, Lancer's body began to disintegrate, his form breaking apart into tendrils of black mist. The remnants of the once-powerful Servant dissolved into the air, leaving behind only an eerie stillness.
Tomoe wiped the blood from his face with trembling hands, his breath hitching as he finally dared to look up at his savior.
"Y-You are…"
Tomoe stammered, his voice shaky as his gaze fixed on the figure before him. The words caught in his throat—he didn't know what to say, let alone how to feel.
He pushed himself upright with great effort, each movement a testament to his dwindling stamina, and took a better look at the man who had just saved him.
The stranger stood tall and imposing, his body clad in a tight black armor that glinted ominously under the dim light. His short, messy purple hair spilled out from under a bone-white skull mask that covered the upper half of his face, leaving only his sharp jawline visible.
But it wasn't the armor or the mask that caught Tomoe's attention the most.
It was the man's left hand.
Or, more accurately, what was it made of.
A grotesque mass of writhing tentacles sprouted where a hand should have been, shifting and curling unnervingly, as though alive. They twisted together at the end, forming a mockery of a human hand—a grotesque parody that seemed ready to lash out at any moment.
Tomoe's mind reeled. Is that… a tentacle?
The earlier sense of relief began to evaporate, replaced by a growing wariness. This man had saved him, sure, but was that his true intention? What if he had other plans?
As if sensing Tomoe's hesitation, the masked man broke the silence first, his voice cutting through the oppressive air.
"Thanks," he said simply.
Tomoe blinked, momentarily stunned. "Wha—what?" he managed to stammer, still shaken and unable to fully process what was happening.
"Thanks," the man repeated, his tone dry. "That's what you're supposed to say to someone who just saved your life."
The scolding tone jolted Tomoe like a slap. Heat crept up his face as he quickly bowed his head, embarrassment overtaking him.
"Ah—oh! Right! T-Thank you for saving me!" he stuttered, his voice rushed and awkward.
The man chuckled softly, the sound oddly casual despite the tension in the air. "Heh, no big deal. Couldn't let a wild Servant like that kill one of my fellow students, now could I?"
Tomoe froze mid-bow. "F-Fellow… students?"
"Yeah. Tomoe Enjou, right? Homurahara Academy's star track-and-field athlete?"
The alarm bells in Tomoe's head went from a soft ring to a full-blown siren. He straightened abruptly and stumbled back a step, his hands coming up instinctively as if to ward off some unseen threat.
"H-How do you know me?" he demanded, his voice tinged with suspicion. His savior wasn't just powerful—he was disturbingly familiar with him.
The man raised a placating hand—or rather, his normal right hand, thankfully not the tentacled abomination. "Relax," he said, his tone somewhere between amused and exasperated. "I know a lot of people. You're no exception."
Tomoe opened his mouth to respond, but before he could say anything,
"Uninstall."
The man was suddenly engulfed in light.
"After all," the man's voice echoed through the brilliance, "we're schoolmates."
Tomoe shielded his eyes with his hand, squinting against the glow. When the light finally faded, he lowered his arm and gasped.
Standing before him now was a boy his own age, clad in the unmistakable Homurahara Academy uniform. The skull mask, the black armor, and the horrifying tentacle arm were gone. In their place was a perfectly ordinary—if irritatingly smug—teenager.
Tomoe recognized him immediately.
"Matou Shinji?!" he exclaimed, his voice an incredulous mix of shock and disbelief.
The boy grinned, his blue eyes gleaming with an air of confidence that bordered on arrogance. "Surprised? Don't worry, I get that a lot."
Tomoe took another step back, his mind spinning. Matou Shinji? The same Shinji who skipped more classes than he attended? The same Shinji who was known more for his flirting attitude than his academic performance?
The fact, that Tomoe knows him by rumor of his deeds just speak of how Infamous shinji were.
None of this made sense.
"You're kidding," Tomoe muttered, more to himself than to Shinji.
"Nope, all real," Shinji replied breezily, brushing imaginary dust off his uniform. "Now, do me a favor and don't pass out on me. We've got a lot to talk about."
Z
"You… you're…!" Tomoe stammered, his voice catching in his throat as his mind scrambled to process the absurdity before him.
Standing there with a smug grin that could only belong to one person was Matou Shinji. The Matou Shinji. The boy infamous across Homurahara High School for being insufferably arrogant, perpetually surrounded by girls, and always up to something that screamed flirting.
Shinji adjusted the collar of his school uniform like this was all completely normal, as though he hadn't just been a tentacle-armed, skull-masked something moments ago. "Surprised? Yeah, I get that a lot. It's not every day you see your schoolmate swoop in to save the day, is it?"
Tomoe blinked, still trying to reconcile the Shinji he thought he knew with the Shinji standing here now. "What the hell is going on?" he managed, his voice shaky but edged with frustration. "Why are you here? What even are you? And—" His hand shot out in a vague gesture at the battlefield, where Lancer had been moments ago, before swinging back to Shinji. "What was that?"
Shinji let out a long-suffering sigh, as if Tomoe's confusion was the greatest inconvenience he'd faced all evening. "Geez, do all track stars ask this many questions? Look, I get it—you're frazzled, you're injured, and you just had your life flash before your eyes about, what, three times tonight?" He held up three fingers as if to emphasize the point. "But could you please calm down for, like, two seconds?"
Tomoe's mouth opened and closed like a fish gasping for air. He wasn't sure if it was anger or sheer disbelief making his head spin, but either way, Shinji wasn't helping.
"Fine," Shinji said, rolling his eyes dramatically. "I'll break it down for you since you're clearly struggling. One: I saved your sorry butt because I felt like it." He ticked off the point on his finger with a smug flourish. "Two: That 'thing' back there? It's called a Servant. Bad news for someone like you. And three…"
Shinji stepped closer, his grin widening as his blue eyes gleamed with amusement. "You should be very grateful, Tomoe Enjou. Do you have any idea how much of a hassle it is to help you?"
Tomoe instinctively backed away, his wariness returning full force. "You're not making any sense," he said, his voice low but firm. "And how the hell do you even know my name?"
Shinji raised an eyebrow, his grin taking on an almost pitying edge. "Oh, please. As if I wouldn't know Homurahara's golden boy. The star of the track-and-field team? Everyone knows who you are."
Tomoe stiffened, his jaw tightening. There was something about the way Shinji said it that rubbed him the wrong way. "What's that supposed to mean?"
Shinji waved a hand dismissively, as if the question wasn't worth his time. "Relax. You'll figure it out soon enough. For now, let's just say we're on the same side."
Tomoe clenched his fists, the ache in his shoulder flaring in protest. "Same side? What do you mean? What the hell is going on? And why should I believe anything you say?"
Shinji tilted his head, his grin turning sharp. "Oh, you're feisty. I like that. But let me ask you this: Do you really have a choice right now?"
He gestured vaguely at the wreckage around them, the ruined streetlamp, the bloodstains already fading into mist. "Without me, you'd be a smear on the pavement. So maybe—just maybe—you should focus on staying alive instead of grilling the guy who just saved you."
Tomoe bit his lip, his mind warring between suspicion and grudging acceptance. As much as he hated to admit it, Shinji wasn't wrong. Without his intervention, Tomoe would've been dead several times over.
Finally, he exhaled sharply through his nose. "Fine," he muttered, glaring at Shinji. "I'll play along… for now."
Shinji chuckled, turning on his heel with an air of exaggerated nonchalance. "Smart move. Trust is overrated anyway."
Tomoe's eyes narrowed, his fingers twitching with the urge to smack that smug grin off Shinji's face. Before he could decide whether it was worth the effort, Shinji glanced back over his shoulder.
"Come on, track star. We've got work to do."
Tomoe hesitated, his legs heavy with exhaustion. But with no other options, he took a deep breath and reluctantly followed.
Before they could take more than a few steps, the world around them fractured.
It was a subtle sound at first—a faint, high-pitched keening, like glass under pressure. Then, all at once, reality cracked. Lines split the air, jagged and glowing, snaking across the ground, up the walls of buildings, and even through the sky. It was as if the entire world had turned into a fragile pane of glass, moments away from shattering.
Tomoe froze in place, his wide eyes darting in panic. "What the—what's happening now?!"
"Calm down," Shinji said, his voice annoyingly casual given the situation. He folded his arms, standing there like he had all the time in the world. "The world's just returning to normal. No big deal."
"No big deal?!" Tomoe snapped, gesturing wildly to the glowing fissures surrounding them. "How is this normal?!"
Shinji just smirked, tilting his head toward the sky as the cracks began to spread faster. "Relax, track star. This is just how it works. Watch."
And then, the world shattered.
The cracks burst outward, splintering into countless shards of light that dissolved into nothingness. Tomoe instinctively raised his arms to shield himself, but when he peeked out from behind them, he found himself back in familiar surroundings.
The streets were whole again. The warped and distorted signs he'd seen before now displayed clear, mundane text. The shopfronts were unblemished, their names legible. Every twisted, alien detail of the "mirror world," as Shinji had called it, was gone.
Even the air felt different—normal, grounded, as though the bizarre battle and its surroundings had been nothing more than a fever dream.
But the silence... The silence was deafening.
Tomoe's ears strained, catching faint sounds of distant traffic and nightlife, but the street they stood on was eerily quiet.
"What…" Tomoe started, his voice a whisper. "What just happened? Where did all of that go?"
"The mirror world," Shinji said simply, brushing invisible dust from his uniform.
"The mirror what?" Tomoe's voice rose with each word, frustration bubbling up again. "What are you even talking about?!"
"Ugh, this is why I hate dealing with amateurs," Shinji groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Look, I'll explain later. Right now, we need to get out of here."
"Get out of here? Why? Where are we even going?"
"The church," Shinji said matter-of-factly, as if that answered everything.
"The church?" Tomoe echoed, staring at him. "What does a church have to do with any of this?"
Shinji turned and started walking, not bothering to check if Tomoe was following. "Everything, actually. It's where all this crazy Servant stuff is being handled. Well, sort of."
Tomoe hesitated, torn between a desperate desire for answers and a nagging sense that following Shinji would only drag him deeper into this mess. "Wait—what does that even mean? And why should I trust you?"
Shinji stopped and glanced back over his shoulder, his smirk returning. "Oh, you shouldn't. But like I said before, what choice do you have?"
Tomoe opened his mouth to argue but quickly shut it again. Damn it. Shinji was right—he didn't have any better options. With a resigned sigh, he started after him.
As they walked, Shinji suddenly stopped, raising a finger in the air like he'd just remembered something important. "Oh, before we get to the church, there's one thing I have to say."
Tomoe braced himself. Whatever Shinji was about to say couldn't possibly be good.
Shinji cleared his throat dramatically, his voice suddenly booming with exaggerated enthusiasm. "Congratulations, Tomoe Enjou! For all of your wishes will come true!!"
Tomoe blinked, his brain taking a moment to process the absurd declaration. "…What?"
Shinji just grinned, throwing an arm around Tomoe's shoulder. "Oh, you'll see. Now come on, track star. We've got a lot to catch up to!"
As they walked, Shinji suddenly called out, breaking the silence.
"By the way," he said, with a tone that Tomoe didnt like.
Tomoe looked over at him warily. "Hm?"
"How long do you plan to wear that getup?" Shinji asked, as he gestured vaguely toward Tomoe's armor-clad form.
Tomoe blinked, confused. He glanced down at himself, taking in the strange, battle-ready outfit he was still wearing—light armor, gloves, and all. "I—I don't know," he stammered. "I was just suddenly wearing this! How am I supposed to take it off? My uniform is gone!"
Shinji rolled his eyes as if this were the most obvious thing in the world. "Oh, right. You're new to this. Okay, okay, calm down." He raised his hands in a placating gesture, his smirk never fading. "All you have to do is take a deep breath, focus, and say, 'Uninstall.'"
"…What?"
"Uninstall," Shinji repeated, enunciating each syllable slowly like he was talking to a particularly dim child. "Just focus and say it."
Tomoe hesitated. "You're messing with me, aren't you?"
Shinji sighed dramatically, putting a hand to his forehead like he couldn't believe he was dealing with this. "Do you want to get out of that armor or not? Trust me, it works. Just do it."
Tomoe gave him a skeptical look but decided to humor him. Taking a deep breath, he closed his eyes and focused, muttering, "Uninstall…"
The effect was instantaneous. A bright light engulfed him, and when it faded, his armor was gone. He was back in his school uniform, clutching something small in his hand.
"Whoa!" Tomoe exclaimed, looking down at himself. "I'm back! Huh? What's this?"
In his hand was a card. Its image depicted a knight, clad in shining armor, holding a massive sword in both hands. The knight's helmet was tilted downward, the sword positioned upright before it, as though in prayer before battle.
But before Tomoe could fully process the card, his attention was drawn to something else—a red tattoo, glowing faintly, etched into the back of his right hand.
"When did I…?" He trailed off, turning his hand over and examining the intricate design.
Shinji stepped closer, his smirk broadening. "Cool, huh? That's your Command Seal."
Tomoe looked up sharply. "Command Seal? What's that supposed to mean? What does it do?"
"Look, I could explain it now…" Shinji began, dragging the words out like he was savoring the moment.
Tomoe's eyes lit with hope. "Really?"
"But I won't," Shinji finished with a grin, casually turning and walking away.
"Hey!" Tomoe shouted, sprinting to catch up with him. "You can't just drop something like that and leave me hanging! Explain!"
"I told you," Shinji said, glancing over his shoulder. "I'll explain everything when we get to the church. Now hurry up, we've got a long walk ahead of us."
Tomoe groaned in frustration but reluctantly fell into step behind him. "Fine… but wait!" He stopped suddenly, his eyes widening in realization. "My bag! It's still missing!"
Shinji froze mid-step, letting out a long, exaggerated sigh. "Your bag? Seriously?"
"Yes, seriously!" Tomoe snapped, looking around in a panic. "It has my books, my track shoes, everything!"
Shinji muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like, "This is going to be a long night…" before turning back to Tomoe. "Okay, fine. Let's find your precious bag so you can stop whining. But after that, no more distractions. Deal?"
Tomoe crossed his arms, trying to look indignant but failing miserably. "Deal."
"Good," Shinji said with a huff, already scanning the street for the missing bag. "You owe me for this, you know. I'm not your personal lost-and-found service."
Tomoe just rolled his eyes, muttering, "Yeah, yeah. Thanks, tentacle guy."
"What was that?"
"Nothing!"
Z