In a room that breathed mildew and shadow, a hollow-eyed man shut down his computer. His gaze skimmed a book with a black cover, night-bound and mute, and he gave it nothing.

He fell onto the bed, thoughts like rain pooling. It had been ten years since he fled the clan. He had turned eighteen—exactly.

The reason was simple, cold as iron. A decade ago, family tests stamped his IQ and strength as trash-tier—destined to be ordinary. His status plunged to the cellar, like a lab rat in a maze. No, not even equal. A white mouse could die; he could not. He was kept under soft house arrest, prettied up as “observing further developments.”

Looking back, he scoffed—how do you measure things you can’t see or touch, like “intelligence” and “strength”? It was as absurd as saying black tea makes you sleepy. His heart had gone cold and still. Father’s love, mother’s love—fine things, but they were theirs; he had none.

On his exact eighth birthday, a stranger cut open the night and pulled him out, leaving him a small stack of cash for living. He never learned her purpose, and he didn’t care; motives felt weightless, like smoke.

In the ten years after, he tried to stitch himself into society. He was a writer, a mangaka, a crossdresser in frills, a worker of many trades. Maybe he was born married to failure; none of it bore fruit.

He gave up and burrowed deep into the 2D. Under the handle “Daemonman,” he found a spine for his spirit. He found his producer waifu, found his own creed of devotion. Because of that, he loved the 2D world fiercely. He loved his goofy forum friends.

All of it would end today. He didn’t know.

He rose from the bed, drifted to the cake he’d bought. Eighteen candles stabbed the icing like tiny spears. He gave a wry smile, blew them out in one breath, and ate alone.

With each bite, he thought of Golden Wind airing in days. His bitter laugh softened into delight, like frost thawing to spring. Faintly, he even seemed to hear: “Takizawa Rola—da!!!!”

Wait.

Where did that voice come from? And a girl’s voice, at that? Dio, but feminine, saying “QED”?

His mind erupted with a dozen thoughts, then snapped to one. He whipped his head toward the bed. A steamroller burst through the wall and hurtled at him, a metal avalanche.

As the steamroller was about to hit, fear didn’t bloom. Instead, a single, stubborn question hammered in his skull:

Why is there a steamroller on the twelfth floor, damn it? Show some respect for scientists’ work, kora!

CRASH—

The steamroller slammed into him. His life ended there.