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The Port Mafia had learned—painfully, repeatedly—that nothing was ever simple when Fitzgerald sent out invitations.
It meant dressing up, enduring a four-hour speech on the supremacy of capitalism, and mentally preparing Akutagawa not to stab anyone.
But the most difficult part?
Reminding Higuchi.
Not because she forgot the events.
Not because she was scatterbrained.
No—because Higuchi had an ability.
And nobody realised it.
They all assumed Higuchi was normal.
A bit too devoted to Akutagawa, yes.
A bit too anxious, certainly.
A bit too ready to throw herself off a building if he asked, absolutely.
But normal.
Chuuya was the first to notice something strange.
Higuchi had passed him in the hallway—twice—wearing two different outfits, two different hairstyles, and both times she apologised for being late… to the same meeting.
“Are you… okay?” he’d asked, squinting.
She blinked. “Yes? Why wouldn’t I be?”
And then she hurried off, leaving Chuuya staring after her with the kind of confused dread reserved for supernatural nonsense.
Fitzgerald’s latest “casual gathering” was actually a banquet held on the 70th floor of a skyscraper lit with gold lights and a champagne fountain that cost more than Kunikida’s yearly salary.
Everyone was already gathered when Chuuya looked around.
“Where the hell is Higuchi?” he asked. “Didn’t anyone remind her?”
Everyone groaned.
Akutagawa barely looked up from his drink. “I told her. She’ll be here.”
Chuuya raised a brow. “She gets lost walking in a straight line.”
“She will be here,” Akutagawa repeated, now sounding eerily certain.
And that was when the elevator dinged.
Higuchi burst out of the elevator in a frenzy, hair flying, panting like she’d sprinted across half of Yokohama.
“Sorry—I—I thought the party was yesterday—no, tomorrow—I mean—um—did I miss it already—?”
Chuuya stared at her.
Kouyou covered her mouth elegantly.
Mori paused mid-sip.
Even Fitzgerald’s smug grin twitched.
“How did you confuse three different days?” Chuuya asked.
Higuchi froze.
Blinking.
Processing.
Trying to remember.
Her expression blurred—literally.
The air around her shimmered.
Just for a second.
Barely noticeable.
But Mori, Chuuya, and Akutagawa all caught it.
“Higuchi,” Mori said smoothly, “would you mind telling me what ability you were just using?”
She paled. “Ability? I don’t have an ability. I’m just—me.”
“No,” Chuuya said slowly, “something weird is going on. And I don’t mean your loyalty to Akutagawa. That’s a whole different intervention.”
Akutagawa bristled. “What is that supposed to—”
“Not the time,” Chuuya snapped.
Under pressure—especially from Mori’s soft, terrifying voice—Higuchi tried to explain.
“I try so hard to keep track of everything, I really do,” she said, clutching her bag. “But time gets… strange. I’ll think something happened moments ago, but it was hours. Or I think I’m late, but I’m early. Or I swear Akutagawa just said something, but he didn’t yet—”
“You see things,” Mori murmured. “Before they happen.”
“I—what?”
“And sometimes,” Kouyou added, “you forget things that haven’t happened to you yet.”
Chuuya folded his arms. “So your ability messes with time? Or your perception of it?”
Higuchi shook her head vigorously. “No! No, I promise, I don’t have an ability! I’m normal!”
But the moment she raised her hands defensively…
…everyone saw it.
A ripple.
A distortion.
A pulse like a drop of water hitting a still pond.
Mori nearly dropped his glass.
“Higuchi,” he said breathlessly, “your ability is a latent ability. Completely undeveloped. And extremely rare.”
Chuuya looked impressed despite himself.
Akutagawa stared at her like he’d never seen her before.
Mori continued:
“Temporal Misalignment.”
The spontaneous, unconscious ability to slip seconds—sometimes minutes—forward or backward in time.
Not enough to change history.
Not enough to damage the world.
But enough to make daily life absolute chaos.
“You mean,” Chuuya concluded, “she’s been time-glitching this whole damn time?”
Higuchi looked horrified. “I WHAT?!”
“Explains why she’s always early, late, or both,” Chuuya muttered.
“And why she arrives to battles seconds before bullets hit her,” Akutagawa realized.
“And why she forgets to eat unless someone reminds her,” Kouyou added.
“And,” Mori said with delight, “why every attempt I’ve made to schedule her evaluations has failed.”
Higuchi’s face grew redder with every revelation.
“So I’m not clumsy,” she whispered, “I’m… temporally misaligned.”
Chuuya patted her shoulder. “Honestly? It explains a lot.”
Akutagawa stood and approached her carefully—very carefully, like she was something fragile and volatile.
“You may possess an ability,” he said, “but you are still Higuchi.”
She brightened immediately. “Ryuunosuke-san—!”
“But you are also still incompetent,” he added.
Higuchi beamed anyway. “Thank you!”
Chuuya facepalmed.
From that day onward, the mafiosi set three reminders for Higuchi before any event.
Not because they didn’t trust her—
—but because reality itself had a habit of sliding around her like she was a loose thread in time.
And the funniest part?
Now that they understood it, they began to notice it all the time.
The slight shimmer.
The microsecond jumps.
The way Higuchi would react to something just before it happened.
She was no longer the girl without an ability.
She was something far stranger, far more unpredictable, and—according to Mori—far more valuable.
But to everyone else?
She was still Higuchi.
Chronologically challenged.
Lovably stressed.
Accidentally powerful.
And occasionally existing three minutes ahead of everyone else.