The Cat's Eye Café looked as though it had been lifted straight from an artist's sketchbook and willed into existence by confidence alone. The European-inspired building had a triangular red-tiled roof and sat wedged between a stationery shop and a cramped DVD store that, against all logic, had survived past the turn of the century. Warm amber light glowed from inside, and the front window displayed a stylized red cat head—one eye winking, the other replaced by a gold star.
Stepping inside, the first thing to hit a person was the smell: freshly ground coffee beans, toasted caramel, and a faint note of burnt sugar. Then came the soft murmur of conversation and the gentle clink of cups and cutlery. The wooden interior added to the cozy atmosphere, its shelves crowded with tiny cat figurines that watched patrons from every corner.
Yumi sat in the far corner of the café, flipping through a paperback while sipping her coffee. Nearby, Tsukihito—still groggy from his nap—sat in his high chair, staring at the real cats lounging along the counter, clearly wishing he could join their collective laziness. Emotions radiated around him: the customers' drowsy contentment, the barista's mild frustration with a jammed machine, and the faint anticipation coming from his mother, who glanced at the door every ten minutes.
The bell above the entrance chimed. It was a long, beautiful sound that made the three separate cats lounging lift their heads at once in curiosity.
Yumi straightened.
Tsukihito looked up.
A woman stepped through the doorway with a presence so striking that even the stained-glass ornaments near the entrance seemed to tilt their colors toward her, as if welcoming an old friend.
Yuki Tsukumo had arrived.
(Tsukihito POV)
Yuki Tsukumo was about Mom's height—maybe a little taller, but not by much. What really stood out, though, was how loud she was. Really loud.
"Amazing, Yumi-chan! You've done the impossible—you've become even prettier!" she shouted, loud enough that several customers glanced over while Mom developed a faint blush. She hissed at Yuki to please shut up, but Yuki had already moved on to bigger prey.
Unfortunately—or maybe fortunately—that prey was me.
She leaned in until our noses were almost touching, studying me with bright, unblinking interest. Her golden hair smelled like peaches and cinnamon, and her emotions—sweet and bubbling—carried the scent of excitement and uncomplicated happiness.
"So this is little Tsukihito, huh?" Yuki said, already invading my personal space. "He's got your face but definitely his father's hair. Adorable."
Without warning, she poked my cheek—then, apparently deciding it was sufficiently soft, began gently tugging on it.
"Tell me," Yuki said, completely serious, "what's your type?"
'EX—CUSE ME!!??'
{Incredible. Asking a six-month-old infant about his romantic preferences. Truly, she must possess a 530,000-IQ brain—just like her student.} Witlock snickered.
"Yuki! Stop asking stupid questions," Mom scolded, swatting her arm. "Tsuki's only six months old. He can't even talk, much less know what a type is."
"I dunno," Yuki mused, pinching my cheeks like she was testing dough. "He's just the most serious baby I've ever seen. Does he even laugh?"
Mom stared flatly at her. "First of all—have you ever met other babies?"
"Uhh…"
"And second, yes. He laughs. Just… at the weirdest things. Like goldfish."
Yuki blinked slowly.
"Goldfish?"
Mom nodded, deadly serious.
"Goldfish."
Yuki sucked in a reverent breath.
"He's perfect," she whispered.
'Huh??'
I could only gape internally while Witlock cackled in the corner of my mind, muttering something about how Lobotomy Kaisen was real.
Then Yuki rummaged through her pockets and pulled out a clear rubber ball. Inside, colourful plastic fish drifted in what looked suspiciously like real water.
"A fish glitter ball?" Mom asked, already suspicious.
"My dear little junior," Yuki declared dramatically, "this is no ordinary glitter ball. This one does something special when you infuse it with cursed energy—"
A greenish-blue glow bloomed from her hand, swirling around the sphere. The air smelled faintly acrid.
{She has incredible control,} Witlock noted.
The energy seeped slowly into the ball. At first, nothing happened—until one of the fish twitched—just a stiff little jerk.
Then another twitch.
Then movement.
Then—
They swam.
Not the clunky, rattling motion of cheap toys, but the effortless, liquid glide of living fish. Their tiny fins fluttered like silk in water. Dull plastic scales brightened into shimmering blues and golds. They curved and swooped along the inner sphere in perfect synchrony, like a school dancing through invisible currents.
My breath caught. I couldn't look away.
The way they darted.
The way the light refracted through the water.
The tiny shimmer that ran down their bodies as they turned—
It was too smooth. Too detailed. Too alive.
Yuki watched our reactions with the satisfaction of someone unveiling a masterpiece. Mom's mouth hung open.
"Cool, right?" Yuki beamed. "The old fart from the Gojo clan gave it to me. My favourite toy as a kid. Now it's more of a trinket."
She balanced the sphere on her index finger, spinning it effortlessly. The fish swam harder, matching the rotation like real creatures catching a current.
'It looks real… too real…'
{Oh, it is,} Witlock muttered darkly. {Do you have any idea how much custom-made cursed-energy-responsive constructs cost? Whoever crafted that thing probably cried themselves to sleep. Repeatedly. This is basically a fortune sealed inside a rubber ball. Minimum two million yen.}
One of the fish did a barrel roll, righted itself, and flicked its tail with a little sparkle like it knew it had an audience.
I leaned closer without meaning to. Yuki noticed immediately and smirked.
"It's yours now, little man."
She set the ball on my high chair tray. I hesitated—then grabbed it with both hands, mesmerized.
{This is embarrassing,} Witlock groaned. {And financially obscene. Do you know how many ancient scholars died without ever witnessing craftsmanship this good? And here you are—drooling on a toy worth more than a car.}
I ignored Witlock's whining and focused on the fish. Already, their fluid movements were slowing; the shimmer faded, the arcs sharpened, and bit by bit they stiffened, slipping back into their lifeless plastic forms.
Meanwhile, Yuki slid into the booth across from Mom with the confidence of someone who believed every chair in existence was designed specifically for her. She crossed her legs and leaned forward, elbows on the table.
"So, Yumi," she said, clasping her hands, "how's life with tall and mysterious?"
Mom exhaled through her nose—equal parts fond and exasperated. "Fine. Didn't expect him to be so clingy at night, but honestly? It's more of a pro than a con. Most days."
"I bet." Yuki snorted. "Your taste has always been… eccentric. Anyway! My research is going alright. Found a few leads in Switzerland about this old American guy with zero cursed energy—"
A waitress approached with a polite bow.
"Excuse me, may I take—"
I didn't hear the rest.
Witlock cut through my awareness with a sing-song groan.
{Well, this is getting dull. Time for class, boring guy~}
The café's warm hum folded inward like someone pressing fingers into soft clay. The clinking of cups stretched into syrupy echoes. Yuki's voice thinned into a distant vibration. Even the fish in the ball smeared into streaks of color, their shapes bending like wet paint dragged across glass.
My sight trembled.
The stained-glass reflections melted into drifting ribbons of colour.
A droplet of tea slid from Mom's spoon—falling in impossible slow motion.
Then the world tilted.
Down.
Sideways.
Everywhere.
The café peeled away, like wet paint stroked backward by an unseen brush. The warm amber light cracked into shards, bleeding into black. Mom and Yuki dissolved mid-sentence, their forms unraveling into streaks of silver that spiralled into nothing.
And then—
I was lying on something that felt like ground only because my mind needed to call it something. The surface rippled like water, yet it didn't soak or splash, didn't move unless I moved first.
I glanced down at myself.
Wisps.
Mist.
My soul form, drifting around the edges.
Above me, a pale glow washed across a horizon that had no shape. Moonlight—except there was no moon. Stars hung impossibly close. Some pulsed softly, like breathing. Others blinked like watchful eyes. Others whispered without sound, their voices brushing the edges of thought.
Witlock's voice came from everywhere and nowhere at once.
{Welcome to the space between Dreams and Death,} he murmured, gentle in a way that made my skin prickle.
{Here, time and space are more of a suggestion than a rule. Don't fall into anything—everything is deeper than it looks.}
'Where are you, Witlock?'
{I'm everywhere, but if you want something to look at…}
Shadows gathered in front of me, folding into a vaguely humanoid silhouette until a figure made entirely of darkness stood there.
{Here I am.}
'Why do you look like a teenage me? And why are you wearing a toga?'
{Irrelevant. What is relevant… is the agenda!}
He struck the infamous Gojo pose—back arched, one hand pointing at me, the other raised dramatically overhead. If Gojo were made of shadows and questionable decisions, this would be him.
I chose to ignore him. Instead, I pushed myself upright, my hands sinking through the ground like it was made of rippling shadow-water. When I finally stood, the world stretched infinitely in all directions, the horizon shifting subtly every time I blinked.
A breeze brushed past me.
Except… there was no breeze.
{Good. You're stable enough,} Witlock said, his voice echoing as if bouncing between walls I couldn't see. {Or—stable for you, anyway. Soul forms are delicate. Like soggy paper. Or wet bread. Try not to crumble. It would be embarrassing.}
'Wow. Thank you for the emotional support.'
Witlock chuckled, the sound wrapping around me like drifting smoke.
{Let's begin.}
He clapped twice. The world quivered and then reshaped itself into a hazy illusion of a train station—misty, hollow, made of faint blue light. We were at the center. And in the middle stood another figure, but this one wasn't blurry.
He was sharp. Detailed. Realistic.
Black Italian suit. Cold eyes. Calm posture.
John Wick.
John. Wick.
{First lesson: Fading.}
The construct-Wick scanned his surroundings… then froze.
His outline dimmed. Blurred.
And then—
He vanished. Clean. Silent. Effortless.
{In human terms,} Witlock said, {Fading is that moment in movies where an assassin vanishes the second a bus passes. No flash. No sound. Just—gone from your brain.}
Wick reappeared, walking briskly toward an exit. We didn't move, but the world moved with him, like a treadmill of reality adjusting around us.
{You're not invisible. You're just… not noticed. You step into the blind spot of existence. Reality decides you aren't important enough to register.}
'I have to gaslight reality?'
{Exactly! Very proud of you.}
The scene shifted angle. Wick paused, drew a gun from his breast pocket, cocked it, then—eyes closed—blurred again.
But this time he didn't disappear.
He moved.
A streak. A smear. A whisper of presence shifting across the station in less than a heartbeat. Not teleportation—more like slipping through a crack in the world itself and stepping out somewhere else.
{Sliding is Fading plus movement. Much harder. You're hiding not just while standing still, but while doing something. The top assassins use it to walk past guards, bypass traps, even sneak up on people staring directly at them.}
—BANG—
A gunshot rang out. Wick, visible again, slid to another position, leaving behind faint ripples that vanished instantly. The station's crowd erupted into screams.
Witlock clapped. The illusion shattered, dissolving into drifting fragments of blue before collapsing back into the void around us.
{Any questions?}
I swallowed. My soul form wobbled slightly.
'So… does this make me invisible to everything?'
{Not quite. You turn invisible to organic constructs—anything living, basically. But tech? Cameras? Drones? Nope. That's why assassins use custom EMP-cloaks to fry camera feeds. Sorcerers, though, use special talismans that coat them in a uniform layer of cursed energy so cameras see them like cursed spirits. But almost no one bothers learning Fading or Sliding. Too difficult. Too annoying. Too humbling. Also, almost no one alive knows how to craft those talismans anymore.}
'And I'm supposed to learn this? As a baby?'
{Your body is a baby. Your soul is not. Besides, babies learn the fastest. Your brain is basically slime—it absorbs everything. Perfect for imprinting instinct-level techniques. Now—try Fading.}
He floated closer.
{Close your eyes. Empty your mind. Think of not being here.
Picture an empty doorway.
A vacant alley.
You are Nothing.
No eyes can see you; all glances slide off you.}
His voice sank deeper into the air, vibrating through the space between spaces.
{Now fade.}
-----------------------------------
{What the FUCK was that? I told you to fade, not to stand out more!}
"I'm trying!" I hissed back. "Maybe give me instructions that aren't just spiritual bullshit!"
We'd been here a while. Long enough for me to fail a hundred times at Fading. I'd imagined dissolving like mist, slipping into the background, turning into one of those faint afterimages you get after staring at a lamp too long—but nothing ever happened.
This time, I tried something new: cursed energy. Negative emotions powered it, and God knew I had plenty of those—stress, frustration, the urge to strangle a ghost. All I had to do was wrap that negativity around me and ease myself into invisibility.
Instead, the opposite happened.
The air around me sharpened, heat prickled across my skin, and I felt… brighter. Like someone had flicked a spotlight on me.
Witlock smacked the back of my head and immediately launched into Nagging Mother Mode.
{You inflated your presence. You basically waved a neon sign saying "look at me" to the spirits out here. If there were any half-asleep ghosts nearby, they're awake now. Well done.}
He clapped—slowly, sarcastically—and turned away.
"Stop congratulating me for things I did wrong!"
{Then do it right. Do better. Khonshu chose you for a reason.}
"You know, maybe it'd be helpful if you showed me what it feels like instead of screaming at me!" I snapped.
He spun around so fast I swore he'd gotten whiplash.
{Alright. Hold still. I'm going to show you what the sensation feels like. Don't fight it.}
"Every time you do something, it's always something awful."
{That's because you have trust issues. Now hush.}
His hand pressed lightly against my sternum—cold, but not the shivery kind. More like… weighted fog. When his fingers sank deeper, something inside me loosened.
Like he'd found a dimmer switch wired to my spine.
For a single, fragile heartbeat—I dipped.
My edges blurred.
My breath flattened.
The world stopped acknowledging me.
And then—snap.
Everything slammed back at once
Hard.
I gasped, heart kicking into fifth gear. "W–Witlock—what was—what—did I just DIE?!"
Witlock clapped once, delighted.
{No! What you did was fail spectacularly. Again!}
"That wasn't failing! I faded! A little! I think! I definitely faded!"
{Yes, but then you panicked like a startled pigeon and ruined it. Dramatically.}
"I panicked because you unplugged my SOUL!"
{I dimmed you. Briefly. And you didn't explode or vomit, so stop bitching. Now—again. Before your adrenaline ruins it.}
He floated back, hands raised like a coach about to blow a whistle.
{Remember the sensation before you freaked out. Not the dying part—the quieting part.}
"I hate this lesson."
{Good. Hate sharpens the senses. Again!}
I tried. And again. And again.
Eventually—finally—I faded for a second or two.
Holding my breath helped. No idea why.
Witlock clapped.
{Okay. That's enough. You're too mentally tired to continue.}
"I–I'm n–not."
{Yes, you are. You're stuttering, and your soul form is kneeling.}
I looked down—and yep. Kneeling.
"…I wondered w-why you were taller-r."
{I should bring you back before you have a mental breakdown.}
He tapped his chin.
"W–WHAT??"
Reality snapped back so violently my vision fizzled like someone had shaken a snow globe filled with nerves. The café rushed in—warm lights, cinnamon steam, clattering cups.
The café reappeared around me—warm lights, clinking cups, cinnamon and burnt milk.
And Yuki—holding me like a dropped kitten—froze mid-sentence.
"—and then the monk said the chickens weren't even his—"
She blinked. "—Oh! He's awake!"
Before I could defend my dignity, she leaned in and booped my nose.
A dignified boop.
Surgical, even.
My brain caught up slowly.
The café clock read 4:45.
I'd been gone fifteen minutes.
Fifteen. Minutes.
But I'd spent hours with Witlock—walking through impossible streets, failing questionable lessons, apparently nearly losing my mind.
My stomach flipped.
Witlock's presence thinned behind my thoughts, like smoke seeping under a door.
A whisper, dry and amused, curled behind my ear:
{Next lesson: how not to die when everyone starts noticing what you are. Or maybe Sliding.
Who knows~.}
My heart sank straight into my shoes.