Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

1

If you asked Senku Ishigami about his ideal Friday afternoon plan, he’d tell you it was exactly what he was doing until five minutes ago: working on a new technological prototype or whatever science experiment happened to catch his interest at the time. However, it seemed the universe didn't agree with his plans, as his activities were abruptly interrupted by the thundering crash of his high school science lab door being slammed against the wall.

The silhouette in the doorway revealed his two best childhood friends, Taiju and Yuzuriha, alongside their most recent addition, Tsukasa Shishio—better known as the strongest primate in high school.

"SENKUUU!!" Taiju roared, making the test tubes rattle. "You have to drop whatever you're doing right now! We have really exciting news!"

Senku didn't even turn around. He simply kept soldering the components of his new scale-model rocket prototype.

"Taiju, your shouting is ten billion decibels above the limit permitted for human mental health," he grumbled, taking off his safety goggles. "And unless NASA has decided to fund one of my projects, I highly doubt your 'news' is more important than the burn rate of this scale engine."

"This time it's different, Senku," Yuzuriha chimed in with an apologetic smile, trying to smooth things over while holding three glossy tickets in her hand. "Tsukasa got front-row tickets for Gen Asagiri's new magic show."

Senku raised an eyebrow and glanced over at Tsukasa, who was standing in the doorway with his usual imposing serenity.

"I met Gen during a taping of his TV show that I was invited to," Tsukasa explained calmly. "I heard Taiju and Yuzuriha were big fans, so I gave him a call and managed to get free tickets to see him live today."

"Yeah, I know who Gen Asagiri is, and he's nothing more than a charlatan magician with a low-quality book!" Senku added, crossing his arms in annoyance. "I'd much rather stay here and keep working on my prototype, but you guys go ahead and have fun."

"Pleease, Senku!" Taiju begged, giving him a slap on the back that nearly knocked the wind out of his lungs. "We'd really love it if you came! You can't stay locked up in here all weekend!"

"Taiju's right, Senku," Yuzuriha added, clasping her hands together in plea. "Besides, if you come, I promise to help you with your experiments tomorrow and organize the cables in the storage room. Please?"

Seeing Taiju's insistence, Yuzuriha's sparkling eyes, and Tsukasa's calmly expectant gaze, Senku rubbed the back of his neck in annoyance, realizing he'd waste more time arguing than giving in.

"Kukuku, fine. Since you insist, I'll go just so I can dismantle every single one of his cheap tricks," Senku yielded, slipping a small notepad into his pocket. "But if I get bored in the first five minutes, I'm heading right back to the lab."

An hour later, the atmosphere in the local theater was stifling. The auditorium was packed with magic enthusiasts and fans of mentalism. Sitting smack in the middle of the front row, Senku crossed his arms, ignoring the excited chatter around him while Taiju practically vibrated in his seat with excitement.

Suddenly, the lights dimmed. A beam of purple light illuminated the stage, and amid a mist designed for dramatic flair, Gen Asagiri appeared. At nineteen years old, he already commanded the stage with an ease that bordered on arrogance, wearing his signature magician attire and sporting a sly smirk that promised to unlock the audience's deepest secrets.

His eyes scanned the crowd, pausing for a millisecond on the front row, where Senku's unusual spiky hair stood out like a beacon. The science kid wasn't even blinking, staring at him with a look of absolute boredom. Gen smiled to himself—he loved skeptics. They were his favorite part of the show.

"Good evening, ladies and gentlemen," Gen's voice echoed, impeccably modulated. "Tonight, everyone here is about to witness magic turn the impossible into possible, and how, with a little faith, even the biggest skeptic in this room will end up doubting their own senses before the night is over."

"Kukuku, what a dramatic speech just to dress up basic confirmation bias and three cheap carnival tricks. Let's see how long it takes me to dismantle every single one of your tricks, you fourth-rate mentalist," Senku thought.

For the next hour, Gen poured his all into the performance. He pulled off several optical illusions, manipulated audience members' card choices, and deduced personal details by reading their facial expressions. Taiju and Yuzuriha were left slack-jawed. Meanwhile, Senku didn't stop taking notes in his pad—recording every mechanism he could spot and every cognitive bias Gen exploited to trigger his desired reactions, deconstructing the mentalist's "magic" through sheer logic. "Basic auditory suggestion strategy," he wrote dismissively during one of the tricks he deemed particularly absurd.

Then came the grand finale, the climax of the evening.

"To wrap things up," Gen announced, shuffling a deck of cards with hypnotic elegance, "I need one final volunteer."

Gen strolled down to the edge of the stage with feline grace, fixing his gaze squarely on the front row. His eyes locked firmly onto Senku. He extended his right hand toward him, ready to invite the boy who had been glaring at him in disapproval all night to step up for the ultimate coup de grâce.

But the laws of physics and chance had other plans.

At that exact moment, the phone in Senku's pocket began vibrating with a blaring alarm he had programmed himself. It wasn't a call; it was a lab alert. It was warning him of an overload on a piece of equipment he had left running.

"Crap!" Senku blurted out, jumping out of his seat and completely ignoring the mentalist's outstretched hand just inches away. "The test engine's temperature hit critical mass! It's gonna melt down if I don't turn it off right now! I'm out!"

"Ehh?! Senku?!" Taiju shouted, reaching out to stop him, but it was useless.

"Sorry, guys! I fulfilled my promise to come for five minutes! Tsukasa, thanks for the ticket, see you tomorrow!"

Without looking back even once, Senku bolted down the side aisle, bursting through the theater doors into the night, singularly focused on saving his rocket prototype.

Back on stage, Gen Asagiri froze mid-pose, hand still extended in midair and mind completely blank for a split second. His mask of subtle superiority slipped entirely. Nobody in his entire career had ever ignored him so spectacularly. The empty seat in the middle of the front row seemed to mock him.

"My..." Gen managed to say, quickly regaining his composure with a sharp, professional smile for the audience, though his eyes remained glued to the exit. "It seems my volunteer had an urgent date with destiny. You, the big guy next to him! Would you mind stepping up?"

An ecstatic Taiju pointed at himself and ran up onto the stage, breaking the tension of the moment.

Later, as Gen was signing autographs in the lobby, his mind kept wandering back to the boy who had run off. Once the theater finally emptied, curiosity drew Gen back to the front row. There on the floor, right underneath where the strange youth had been sitting, he spotted a notepad.

It was filled with complex probability equations, flowcharts, and, scribbled in the top corner in quick ink: "Probability of real magic: 0%. Cheap tricks: 100%."

Gen let out a genuine chuckle, carefully picking up the notebook to slip it into his jacket's inner pocket.

"What a loud, interesting kid..." he whispered to himself, gazing at the page. "Pity we didn't get to introduce ourselves properly."

2

Four years flew by, and the high school science labs transformed into the university's department of science facilities. At twenty years old, Senku Ishigami hadn't changed one bit: his hair still defied gravity, he wore his lab coat like a second skin, and his obsession with research remained completely intact—now focused on projects ten billion times larger.

For Senku, university would have been paradise on Earth if not for one small, absurd, bureaucratic detail: mandatory general education courses. Having to take Research Methodology was, in his eyes, a direct insult to his intelligence. Him—a guy who had spent years designing fuel engines and analyzing chemical compounds—trapped in a class explaining what a hypothesis was? It was a total pain. He had tried to postpone it as long as possible to focus on courses he actually cared about, but graduation was approaching and passing it was an absolute requirement. Given his current academic workload and lab schedule, he had no choice but to take the class offered by the humanities department. As part of their final grade, the professor had forced them to conduct a field project based on real surveys to analyze student opinions across different faculties regarding general campus life.

And so, clutching a stack of printed surveys he considered a complete waste of paper and ink, Senku trudged reluctantly toward the main library—one of the few quiet spots on campus. The place was packed due to midterm exams. Hunting for the least noisy corner, he spotted an open table at the back surrounded by green, hexagonal padded panels. They rose high enough to offer decent privacy and had a couple of nearby outlets for charging his laptop while he worked. He hurried over before anyone else could claim it, dropped his backpack with a heavy thud, and sat down. He pulled out his computer and booted it up, fully prepared to fudge the data using pure probability statistics rather than waste time talking to strangers.

As Senku focused on filling out the survey forms—which one of his classmates had drafted and the professor had finally approved after countless useless revisions—he couldn't help but speak out loud regarding one of the questions.

"'Of the following locations, where do you study most frequently? Cafeteria, green areas, classrooms, library, gym, other...'" he read in a murmur dripping with disdain, spinning his pen between his fingers. "What an utter waste of time. This question assumes frequency implies productivity, which is a fundamental statistical flaw. Someone could spend ten hours at the gym supposedly studying when ninety percent of that time was actually spent watching a workout in progress or chatting with athletes."

"Well, actually, that question isn't meant to measure productivity—it measures habituation patterns," a voice chimed in from the other side of the green padded panel. It was soft, melodious, and dragged out the words with a light tone of amusement. "A psychologist would tell you that mapping where a stressed student's brain seeks refuge is actually quite useful, you know?"

Senku didn't even bother peeking over the divider; he simply leaned his chair back, glancing sideways at the padded wall.

"Useful for wasting budget on useless surveys," Senku shot back with a scowl. "If they wanted real data, they'd track student foot traffic per hour using motion sensors or measure Wi-Fi bandwidth consumption in each area during crucial academic periods—like the end of the semester when everyone is frantically trying to pass a class they neglected all year. Asking people where they think they study most just gives you recall bias. It's a subjective waste of time."

From the other side of the barrier came a muffled chuckle and the soft sound of a chair being pushed back.

"A purely quantitative approach—classic science department," the unknown voice commented, seasoned with an ease that bordered on irony. "But you're forgetting that humans aren't exact algorithms. Sometimes a student's perception of their own environment matters more than mass location spikes during finals. Though, given how rigid your arguments are, I take it you aren't affected by human bias, right?"

"Don't be ridiculous," Senku replied, letting out a small laugh through his nose as he set all four legs of his chair back on the floor. "Of course I am. Even if I always try to base my decisions and opinions on tangible facts, I'm still human. The difference is that I use the scientific method to minimize bias, not to justify poorly written survey questions."

"My, a scientist with his feet on the ground. How refreshing," the voice retorted, and Senku could practically hear the smirk on the other side. "Though I still think you're underestimating subjectivity. For instance, here you are making up statistical data instead of surveying real people. Isn't that convenience bias?"

Senku had the decency to look slightly sheepish, even if his mysterious counterpart couldn't see him. How on earth had they nailed exactly what he was doing? Still, there didn't seem to be anything to gain by denying the truth.

"It's time optimization," Senku corrected, typing a couple of commands into his laptop. "Talking to a hundred people to get biased answers takes three hours. Calculating the probability of those answers takes ten minutes. The final graph will look the same to the professor, but I'll have gained two hours and fifty minutes for the lab. It's simply more efficient."

"Poor professor... but I admit your logic is dangerously practical," a amused sigh echoed from the other side, followed by the sound of heavy books closing. "Anyway, since you're optimizing time and I need a break from my master's thesis... hand over one of your surveys." A smooth, delicate white hand appeared over the top of the green panel. "I'll give you a real piece of data from the humanities department so your graph has at least a one percent honesty rating."

Senku looked at the hand waiting patiently over the green divider. With a half-smile, he took one of the printed sheets and held it up. The stranger's long, nimble fingers gripped the paper firmly and slid it over to their side of the cubicle.

For a couple of minutes, the only sound was the subtle scratching of a pen on paper. After a moment, the sheet returned the same way, swaying over the edge of the padded partition. Senku took it back, but before he could read what the master's student had written, a deafening crash echoed throughout the entire building, instantly followed by a powerful gust of wind and the roar of a thunderstorm.

The sound of pouring water wasn't coming from the windows, but from the very center of the library. Weeks of heavy, relentless rain, combined with a likely lack of building maintenance, had finally taken their toll: the roof over the central area had completely collapsed under the weight of the accumulated water.

"Attention all students!" a security guard's distorted voice blared over a megaphone amidst the surprised shrieks of the crowd. "Please evacuate the building immediately in an orderly manner! I repeat, evacuate the building!"

People, many clutching notes and papers that threatened to fly away in the gusting wind, quickly scrambled to pack their things and run, trying to avoid the areas that were beginning to flood. Unsurprisingly, the instructions weren't followed very well, and a wave of people immediately crammed into the hallways. Swearing under his breath, Senku did the exact same thing; as soon as he secured his belongings, he shoved his way into the surge of students without looking back once.

It wasn't until later, once he had managed to leave the library and reach the engineering department lab—mostly dry except for his completely soaked feet—that Senku sat down to unpack his stuff and make sure nothing had been damaged in his hasty escape. That's when he came across the survey completed by that mysterious and somewhat exasperating master's student.

He pulled out the crumpled sheet and smoothed it over the workbench. The paper had a few doodles around the margins; the "Library" checkbox was marked with a perfect cross in a shimmering purple ink, and right next to the "Other" option, written in an elegant, fluid, and somewhat dramatic handwriting, was a note: "Specifically in one of the back cubicles, arguing about the scientific method with a math-and-probability-obsessed nerd."

Senku let out a small laugh through his nose, staring at the paper drying under the lab light.

"What a ridiculous guy," he muttered, slipping the survey into his folder. "Though I'll admit his handwriting is ten billion times better than mine."

Aquí tienes la traducción al inglés, manteniendo el flujo narrativo, la terminología precisa y el tono característico de los personajes:

3

Things can change in three years, and for twenty-three-year-old Senku, the world had expanded significantly. University hallways and backpacks stuffed with crumpled notes were left behind, replaced by access badges, digital folders, and projects of a much larger caliber. The transition wasn't particularly massive beyond gaining access to far more modern and expensive equipment as part of starting his work in aerospace development facilities. Now, he spent his days and a few of his nights dedicated to developing new technologies capable of taking humanity farther than it had ever gone before, as well as observing celestial bodies and samples that could help him unravel the secrets of the universe. One could say that over time, his obsession hadn't diminished; on the contrary, his goals were now literally aiming for the stars.

It was precisely this research that brought him to the International Congress on Interdisciplinary Science, Technology, and Innovation—a massive event gathering the brightest minds (excluding its fair share of charlatans who managed to dazzle rich idiots into funding their foolishness) at the city's convention center.

The venue was immense. Distributed throughout the facilities were several auditoriums where, every hour, renowned speakers presented the industry's latest and most important discoveries. In the central area, meticulously partitioned by fields of study, dozens of booths were set up, showcasing interactive experiments and cutting-edge technological prototypes.

The place was practically bursting at the seams—teeming with scientists, professors from every discipline, moguls searching for the next big project to make them millions, and mostly students dragged along by their respective institutions.

Senku navigated the pavilions, dodging a sea of attendees in sharp suits and presentation folders. He had already checked out the new materials panels that caught his interest, managed to catch up with a few colleagues, and with an hour and a half to spare before his own presentation on synthetic fuels, he was desperately searching for a quiet spot to escape the noise and review his notes one last time.

That was how he ended up in the Behavioral Sciences Pavilion. The area was slightly sparser than the others and definitely quieter than sections where you might run into prototype engines operating at full blast. Down one of the aisles, a minimalist interactive booth caught his eye—not because of its content, but because of its structure: it consisted of a series of individual enclosed booths designed for soundproofing tests.

Seeing no one around, he assumed the exhibitors had probably stepped out for lunch. Luckily for him, one of the booths was open and completely empty. Senku didn't think twice: he slipped inside, closed the glass door—which instantly muffled the outside clamor—and sat down in a comfortable chair facing an unlit console. Letting out a sigh of relief, he powered on his tablet and prepared to read in peace.

His tranquility lasted for exactly forty-two seconds.

With a soft electronic click, the console screen in front of him flickered, lighting up in a bright blue hue. An LED light at the top, right beside a small microphone, switched from red to solid green.

"Hello, hello... testing... I thought I heard someone step into the other booth," a voice chimed in clearly through the built-in speaker, subtly muffled by the intercom's filter. "What a relief. The guys running this booth let me mess around with the controls while they grabbed lunch, but there isn't much to do if there's no one on the other side, and I was starting to get tired of my own reflection."

Senku shifted his gaze from his tablet toward the console, raising an eyebrow. The voice was smooth, melodious, and dragged out words with a theatrical ease that felt strangely familiar—though he couldn't recall where he might have heard it before, and the slight microphone distortion didn't help matters.

"If you're bored, I suggest you open the door and go find someone else to play with," Senku shot back with complete indifference, having no intention of engaging in conversation. "I have no interest in chatting with anyone; I'm just looking for a quiet space so I can review my notes. So, I'm cutting the channel." He started scanning the console, looking for a button that would help him disconnect the feed.

From the other side of the line came a soft click, followed by a muffled laugh that betrayed the stranger's utter amusement.

"Oh, my, looks like we have a tough audience today. And with quite a serious voice, if I do say so myself," the mysterious voice commented, and Senku could practically picture the sly smirk on the guy's face. "Unfortunately for you, dear neighbor, the central control console is on my side, and these buttons are far too tempting. Besides, science is all about experimenting, isn't it? Let's do a quick perception test. It won't take long. Once we're done, I promise I'll step out of the booth and let you get back to studying in peace."

Senku let out an annoyed huff, crossing his arms in front of the blue screen.

"I don't have the slightest interest in wasting time with cheap psychology games or whatever it is you're measuring here. I have a presentation coming up shortly on the viability of using synthetic fuels for rocket launches. And this is being a complete waste of time."

"So you're a speaker and an aerospace scientist... Seems like someone's in a hurry to leave the planet," the voice said, cracking a light joke. "Though that attitude sounds somewhat familiar... But no matter, let's see if this really is a waste of time like you say. Let me guess: let's start with the obvious. If you're giving a lecture, it's highly likely you're wearing some kind of formal attire. But being someone who seems to love scientific practicality so much, I'd bet you've got a lab coat or something similar thrown over it. You seem to really enjoy running experiments, so I wouldn't be surprised if you have a few burns or scars on your hands from a failed project. You're young, aren't you? Your voice sounds like someone in their twenties, yet you're about to give a talk here, so you must be quite intelligent... but you sound remarkably uninterested in human behavior. You shouldn't be so prejudiced against soft sciences, dear stranger," they concluded, the final words loaded with a playful taunt.

Senku remained silent for a couple of seconds. A sharp, amused smirk formed on his face. Instead of simply walking away or ignoring him, he adjusted his position in the chair, rested his arms on the console, and leaned closer to the dividing wall facing the mirror.

"Nice try. To give you some credit, several of your assumptions are fairly accurate," Senku replied, his voice ringing out clear and mocking over the line. "Even so, it'd take a lot more than that to impress me, you charlatan."

From the other end, a soft gasp of dramatic, feigned indignation was heard, but Senku gave him no time to interrupt.

"Anyone with a basic grasp of statistical probability could arrive at the exact same conclusions. We're at an interdisciplinary congress: eighty-five percent of the attendees are men between twenty and thirty years old. Immediately jumping to the stereotype of a scientist wearing a lab coat with chemical burns just because I mentioned my field of work is a basic association trick—which is pretty unimpressive overall. As for being prejudiced..." Senku let out a small laugh through his nose. "It's not prejudice; it's a fact. Psychology can't predict exact variables like physics can; it only analyzes generalized behavior patterns. So your 'perception test' is statistically irrelevant."

There was a brief pause over the intercom. For a moment, only the subtle hum of the line could be heard, until Gen's voice resonated once more—this time with a tone of genuine, deep fascination.

"My..." Gen murmured, drawing out the word. "An absolute science nerd. Stubborn, analytical, and possessing a blind faith in numbers. You know? This is giving me terrible déjà vu. I feel like I've dealt with someone just like you somewhere before."

"Déjà vu?" Senku raised an eyebrow, fixing his eyes on his own reflection in the mirror as if trying to stare right through it. "I regret to inform you that coincidences are nothing more than mathematical anomalies in a random system. Your memory is just trying to force a pattern where there isn't one."

Before Gen could respond, a high-pitched, persistent beeping sounded from Senku's tablet.

It was the alarm Senku had set before entering the pavilion. He glanced at the device's screen and swore under his breath upon checking the time—time had flown by while arguing with the stranger. Now he only had half an hour left to get to the main auditorium on the opposite side of the convention center and prepare to take the stage.

"Looks like your time is up, rocket scientist," Gen's voice echoed one last time through the speaker, having caught the alarm sound through the microphone. His tone was a mix of nostalgia and amusement. "Go save the planet. Or leave it behind—whichever comes first."

"I'd ten billion percent rather launch into space today than stick around listening to your charlatan speech," Senku retorted with a smirk.

Without wasting another second, he took off the headset, set it on the console, packed his tablet into his bag, and threw open the booth door, darting out toward the main corridors to make it to his presentation on time.

Almost simultaneously in the adjacent booth, Gen let out a soft chuckle and switched off the main intercom as the booth's official staff finally returned from lunch. He exited from the opposite side of the hallway, stretching lazily. He looked toward the corridors—which were beginning to fill with people—with a spark of curiosity, trying to guess which of those backs belonged to the stubborn engineering nerd. But the crowd had already swallowed him whole.

"What an exasperating guy," Gen muttered to himself, adjusting his jacket. "Though I'll admit his stubbornness has a certain charm."

4

At twenty-five, Senku had become widely recognized as one of the most prominent scientists of modern times. Each of his projects had grown increasingly complex, which translated into a need for ever-larger investments. His desire to carry his creations to the stars required materials that were extremely difficult to come by, and that meant only one thing: capital, and lots of it. Unfortunately, if you wanted funding, you had to deal with people who possessed too much money and an even greater ambition.

The prime embodiment of that rule was Ryusui Nanami.

Senku had crossed paths with the young mogul at one of those—now mandatory—business meetings and parties he attended with the sole objective of catching a big fish willing to take a chance on him. Ryusui, fascinated by the sheer scale of his aerospace plans, had become his primary sponsor. But Nanami’s money never came for free: it always included an unavoidable invitation to his extravagant social events.

Which brought us to this moment. Ryusui had practically barged into his lab to drag him to yet another monumental party hosted at his mansion, completely ignoring all of the scientist’s protests regarding the value of his research time.

Now, Senku stood on the massive terrace of the Nanami mansion, observing the monumental party the mogul had put together with a blend of apathy and exhaustion. The place was packed to the brim: strobe lights shifting colors to the rhythm of blaring music booming through the speakers, exotic cocktail bars in every corner, waiters circling around offering drinks and hors d'oeuvres to all the guests, and a sea of attendees—a mix of actors, singers, and moguls from every industry—laughing far too loudly.

He had been trying to escape the venue for nearly an hour, but it seemed that as soon as he found the slightest opportunity, Ryusui’s butler, François, would appear out of nowhere to subtly dissuade his retreat and steer him right back into the party alongside Ryusui, who would immediately introduce him to whoever he happened to be talking to. Senku had no choice but to join the conversation. In his eyes, François was genuinely skilled at pleasing his master and also somewhat terrifying, though he’d keep that to himself, as it made slipping past his watch an almost impossible task.

With his patience scraping absolute zero, a growing headache courtesy of the blaring music, and an empty stomach from not having eaten dinner while stuck in the lab, Senku seized a brief moment of distraction when François had to attend to a famous film director. He slipped quickly through the crowd, seeking refuge inside the property.

Upon successfully stepping inside the mansion, he promptly decided to explore a bit to see if he could find the kitchen and snag something to eat directly, without having to step outside and interact with more guests. However, the Nanami estate was a veritable maze of elegant hallways, artwork, and double doors that seemed never-ending.

Guided solely by his determination and the subtle scent of food wafting through the air, he ended up opening a side door that led into a private room—a sort of reserved area for high-end pastry catering. Unlike the noisy terrace, this room was brightly lit, strangely empty, and, above all, submerged in a blessed silence that instantly relieved his headache.

In the center of the room sat a long table piled with all sorts of sophisticated desserts of various sizes, scents, and flavors. Senku walked over, meticulously inspecting them all and weighing which of the displayed sweets he could eat. He bypassed the macarons and elaborate cakes until his gaze landed on a silver platter near the end of the table. Resting on it were dense, dark-looking brownies rich in quick-absorbing carbohydrates—exactly the fuel his brain demanded to stay sharp.

Without a second thought, Senku grabbed one and took a big bite. The dark chocolate flavor was intense and top-quality, though as he chewed, he picked up a rather strange herbal aftertaste on his palate.

"Looks like Ryusui's chefs like to experiment a bit with spices, even in desserts," he muttered to himself with complete indifference.

With his stomach rumbling, he finished it off in three quick bites before grabbing a couple more, completely oblivious to the small label lying fallen on the floor beneath the table that read: "Adults Only – Psychoactive Desserts."

Senku stepped out of the room and continued his wanderings while finishing off his treats. But just when he thought he might finally manage his escape, François materialized out of thin air and subtly guided him back to the epicenter of the event—right to where the host was surrounded by people. Senku had no choice but to let himself be dragged around by Ryusui, who effusively introduced him to everyone in his path. Trapped in shallow, uninteresting conversations, the scientist could only nod reluctantly while counting down the minutes until he could leave.

About an hour had passed when Senku began feeling a bit strange. At first, he assumed the deafening music, combined with his lingering headache, was making the lights bother him more than usual. He rubbed his temples with a weary sigh and grabbed a glass of water from a waiter’s tray, convinced he just needed to clear his head. He decided to step away into a quieter corridor for a moment; that relieved the pressure in his head for a few seconds, but the strange sensation returned shortly after. The world still looked... different, as if something were slightly out of place.

That was when the distortion became undeniable. His mouth felt dry, and it seemed as though no matter how much water he drank, the thirst persisted. He swallowed out of instinct, but the coarse feeling remained. He looked down at his hands and scowled. His fingers were moving with a baffling slowness, as if there were a tiny delay between the command his brain gave and his body's response. It was barely a fraction of a second, but it was enough to make him feel detached from himself.

He attempted to analyze what was happening, just as he would with any problem. However, his mind—accustomed to processing problems and running calculations almost automatically—began to move with a agonizing clumsiness. A single thought stretched out far too long before giving way to the next, and by the time he finally managed to string together a complete idea, he had already forgotten why he had started thinking about it in the first place.

His legs gave out under the sudden heavy weight taking over his body, forcing him to lean against the hallway wall until he slowly slid down to the floor. He sat with his back pressed against the wall, trying to comprehend what was going on.

"Are you feeling alright, Young Senku?" François’s immaculate and unmistakable voice echoed right above him.

It took Senku several seconds to process the sound of the words and lift his head. The butler’s figure looked slightly blurry around the edges, as if out of focus. François stood impeccably calm, but his sharp eyes immediately swept over the scientist's countenance: his pupils slightly dilated, his gaze heavier than usual, and, above all, the glaring absence of that rigid, methodical posture that normally seemed to define his every gesture.

"How... convenient," Senku attempted to joke, but his own voice sounded strangely distant and thick to his ears. He pressed his hands against the floor and tried to stand up. It was useless. His arms seemed incapable of holding him up, as if they had suddenly forgotten how to do their job. He tried a second time, barely lifting himself a few inches before slumping back against the wall with a frustrated sigh.

"Please, do not make unnecessary exertions," François intervened, leaning down with flawless elegance to grip his arm firmly and help him up with some effort. Before moving him from the area, the butler inspected him closely with an analytical, professional gaze. "Young Senku, pardon the intrusion, but to properly assist you, I need to know if you have consumed anything unusual in the past hour."

Senku blinked heavily, trying to force his tongue to cooperate. The process of connecting his vocal cords to his chaotic thoughts felt like a Herculean task.

"Catering..." he managed to slur out with difficulty, scowling out of frustration at failing to sound logical. "The sweet room. I ate a... dark chocolate dessert. A food matrix primarily composed of wheat flour, sucrose, butter, eggs, and cocoa. Flour is... starch. A lot of starch. Amylose and amylopectin..." He knitted his brows as if solving a problem of vital importance. "Also... gluten. Though that depends on the protein percentage of the flour used."

He scowled even harder.

"It had an aftertaste... herbal. Quite peculiar. I thought whoever made them added some spice... or an infusion. No... that doesn't make sense..."

François gave a slight nod, never losing his composure for a moment. The scientist's confirmation was all he needed to know.

"I understand perfectly. You have accidentally consumed an item from the private menu that was not intended for the general public. Do not worry, there is no medical danger, but the effects will take a couple of hours to dissipate from your system. Follow me, please."

Practically carrying most of Senku's weight so discreetly that anyone watching would assume he was merely escorting him, François guided him through an adjacent service hallway. He led him into a small but luxurious guest room—a space isolated from the outside noise, furnished with oak furniture and a large, plush sofa.

After helping the scientist sink into the seat—which felt so absurdly comfortable that Senku almost forgot how to breathe for a moment—François immediately placed a large glass of ice water on the coffee table.

"One final question, Young Senku. Do you recall precisely how many portions you consumed?"

Senku closed his eyes tightly, trying to piece together the timeline in his head, but the memories slipped through his fingers like water.

"I ate a whole one... fast. Then... I took more. A couple? Three?" He raised a hand clumsily, as if he could catch the memory out of thin air, before absently patting his lab coat pockets. "I don't know. Maybe... I put them back on the platter. Or maybe I ate them."

François noted the lack of precision. That complicated calculating how much THC he had ingested, and therefore estimating how long the effects might last. Furthermore, there was a possibility that other guests had consumed them by accident.

"I see. Please remain here and sip the water slowly. I will go to the room to check the platter and confirm how many portions are missing. I must also ensure no other guest has made the same mistake. I shall return shortly."

Senku merely let out a faint affirmative sigh, sinking deeper into the cushions as he felt the world around him continue to move in slow motion.

With his usual silent stride, François closed the room door and made his way quickly back toward the room. As he walked with a somewhat disguised haste, he caught sight of a figure a few meters ahead in the hallway adjacent to the catering area.

It was the renowned mentalist, Gen Asagiri. The sharp psychologist, usually so immaculate and graceful in his every movement, sat on the floor facing the wall with a vacant gaze, staring at it as if it were revealing the secrets of the universe to him. His suit jacket was slightly disheveled, and he was still holding a small piece of the chocolate dessert in one hand, completely unaware that he was clinging to the evidence of his own intoxication.

Upon hearing the butler's approaching footsteps, the mentalist turned his head slowly. His gaze drifted off into the distance, toward a place only he seemed to have access to.

"Mr. Asagiri," François intervened, stopping before him with an impeccable bow, without losing his composure for a single second. "I am afraid that dessert is meant to be consumed in small portions. Judging by your condition, I believe it would be wisest for you to retire and rest. If you would allow me, I would like to escort you to a quieter location."

Gen blinked at an almost comical slowness before managing to focus, if only vaguely, on the butler's pristine figure. A broad, carefree smile slowly spread across his face, as if he had just recognized an old friend or remembered something immensely amusing.

"Oh, François… Don't worry, I'm perfectly..." He attempted to push himself up, only to slide right back down to the floor. "...almost perfectly fine."

After the failed attempt, Gen fell silent once more. His attention returned to the wall in front of him, as though he had found a problem in it infinitely more interesting than his current predicament.

The butler interpreted that brief silence as the ideal opportunity to step in. He approached without haste and offered a gloved hand.

"By your leave."

Without offering the slightest resistance, Gen took his hand and allowed himself to be lifted off the ground. His legs felt like noodles and his usual elegance had completely evaporated, but François held him with the same firmness and discretion he had used with the scientist minutes earlier, gently taking the piece of brownie from his hand.

The butler guided him with swift steps down the service hallway to the very same guest room. Opening the door, the dimness of the room greeted them. François settled the newcomer onto the adjacent sofa, right at the far end of the room, where the shadows of the soft lighting barely allowed outlines to be distinguished clearly.

Gen let himself sink into the cushions. As he focused his gaze through the darkness of the room, he noticed a figure across from him. His mind was still wrapped in a dense fog; the silhouette blurred every time he tried to fixate on it, preventing him from recognizing who the other occupant of the room was.

François placed a second glass of water on the table beside him and took a step back toward the exit.

"I shall leave you two in this room to rest. For your own safety and to prevent any inconvenience, I will lock the door. I will immediately inform Young Master Ryusui of the catering situation. I shall return as soon as everything is under control."

With a neat bow, the butler stepped out. The click of the door lock echoed with a definitive snap.

In the dark, isolated from the noise of the party and with their minds floating in slow motion, the two strangers were left completely alone in the silence of the room.

Several seconds passed—which felt like hours to them—in which neither of them moved. The silence grew as thick as the chocolate they had ingested.

"Can I ask you a question?" Gen said then, his voice absent, as if speaking more to himself than to the stranger across the room. His thoughts seemed to slip out of his mouth before he could stop them.

Senku remained silent for several seconds, trying to remember if those words were directed at him.

"I guess."

There was another brief pause.

"Did you come to this party because it was expected of you, too?"

Hearing the question, the scientist scowled in the dark. He remained silent for several seconds, trying to unravel the meaning behind those words. Finally, he let out a heavy sigh and rested his head against the back of the sofa.

"I came because it was necessary..." he replied, slurring his words clumsily. "A trade-off. Contacts. Funding... Research capital."

He went quiet for a moment, as if he had finished his answer. Yet, the words kept spilling out before he could stop them.

"But the cost is... too high. Spending hours pretending to care about empty conversations. You smile. You nod. You shake hands. Listening to so many shallow idiots..." He scowled with an almost childish expression. "It's exhausting."

From the dim shadow of the sofa opposite him, Gen—hidden by the room's deep darkness—closed his eyes.

"I get it..." he murmured in a slurred, almost ethereal voice that seemed to dissolve into the air. "Everyone wants something. Everyone pretends to be someone... and in the end, you end up drowning just to keep the show going."

The mentalist adjusted his position on the sofa, sinking a bit deeper into the cushions. With his cheek resting against the luxurious fabric, he kept talking.

"I came to perform... To put on a mask and say exactly what everyone wants to hear from me."

He stretched a hand out into the air, as if trying to catch the invisible threads of the conversation in the dim light.

"But in here..." he continued in a floating voice, "with time moving so slowly... it's the first time all night I don't have to guess what the rest of the world is thinking."

His lips curved into a barely perceptible smile.

"It's strangely... peaceful."

Senku didn't reply immediately. His eyes, beginning to adjust a bit more to the dark, tried to focus on the silhouette on the opposite sofa. The fog wrapping his mind kept blurring the edges, but curiosity—that almost instinctive drive that had so often led him to chase impossible answers—began to carve a path through the confusion. He wanted to know who owned that voice.

He made a Herculean effort to sit up. His muscles protested instantly, and the world seemed to tilt beneath his feet. Still, he pushed forward. He just needed to get a little closer, strain his eyes a bit more, and maybe he'd manage to make out the face of the person on the other side of the room.

On the opposite sofa, Gen seemed to mirror his movement slowly, intrigued by the sudden silence and motion.

Their gazes were on the verge of crossing, and the shadows were beginning to take shape...

The door lock released with a sharp snap, the wooden door swung wide open, and an intense beam of light from the hallway cut straight across the room.

"Ah...!" a simultaneous groan escaped both of their throats.

The sudden flash of light struck their eyes violently. Senku immediately slapped a hand over his face, swearing under his breath as his entire field of vision flooded with white spots and color flashes. Gen, for his part, covered his face with his forearm, letting out a wail and sinking into the couch to escape the glare.

"I apologize for interrupting your rest so abruptly," François's voice echoed from the doorway as he stepped into the center of the room, physically placing himself between the two sofas. "But we must act with haste. Young Master Ryusui is already aware of the situation."

Behind the butler, an imposing, energetic figure strode quickly into the room, though keeping his voice unusually low so as not to draw attention from outside.

"What a mess, hahaha!" Ryusui whispered loudly, crossing his arms as he surveyed the scene with a mix of amusement and genuine concern. "My deepest apologies to you both! I didn't expect something like this to happen. For now, it's best we keep anyone from seeing you in this state!"

"If I may offer a suggestion, sir," François chimed in softly. "From what we have gathered, Young Senku consumed a larger quantity. I believe it prudent for him to remain here under observation, while you accompany Mr. Asagiri home."

"Well thought!" Ryusui agreed without hesitation. He immediately turned toward the mentalist's sofa and offered a hand. "This way, please. I'll take you out through one of the back doors and make sure you get home safely."

Gen let out a faint whimper as he was helped to his feet. His legs protested instantly, forcing him to lean more heavily on his host, who supported him patiently. Offering no real resistance, he allowed himself to be guided to the door, and once in the hallway, both proceeded carefully to avoid being spotted by the guests.

François remained in the room, securing the door behind them before approaching the table to offer the scientist a steaming cup of citrus tea.

"Drink this slowly, Young Senku," the butler instructed with his usual gentleness. "The water and some rest will do you good."

Senku blinked repeatedly, rubbing his temples as the annoying white spots in his field of vision began to clear. When he finally managed to focus his sight, the sofa at the far end was completely empty. All that remained was the untouched glass of water on the table and the subtle scent of dark chocolate lingering in the air.

The next morning, he woke up with a heavy head and an unpleasant feeling that he had forgotten something.

He sat on the edge of his bed for several minutes, replaying the previous night over and over again. He remembered arriving at the party. He remembered the chocolate dessert. He remembered the hallway, François, the room... that he had talked to someone.

He remembered fragments of sentences about expectations and the exhaustion of pretending. Every time he tried to reconstruct that part of the night, the memories dissolved before taking shape.

It was infuriating.

Hours later, Ryusui called to apologize for the incident and explain what had happened, but before he could start narrating the events, Senku told him to shut up. He really didn't care—nor did he want—to know anything about it. It was bad enough that he had made a blunder like eating something without properly verifying its contents.

He hung up the phone and sat in silence for a moment.

He considered, for a second, reconstructing the events of the previous night. However, that was no longer possible. The memories were far too fragmented to draw a reliable conclusion.

"Did you come to this party because it was expected of you, too?"

He scowled one last time, shook his head firmly, and buried the lingering fragments in his memory deep within his brain. It was better to leave things exactly as they were.

5

Senku had spent his entire life looking up at the stars, dreaming of the day he would finally reach them. Every decision, every sacrifice, and every step he had taken since he was that little boy wondering why the Moon followed him as he walked had brought him to this exact moment.

He was about to fulfill the greatest goal of his life: becoming an astronaut and setting off on an expedition to the International Space Station.

In two weeks, he and a team of scientists and specialists would board the next manned space mission. However, the road to the stars always came wrapped in training, protocols, physical and psychological exams, and finally, a mandatory quarantine for the prospective astronauts to prevent potential illnesses and ensure the entire crew reached launch day in peak condition.

Even so, a manned space mission also entailed a significant amount of public outreach and PR work. The Nanami Corporation, which under Ryusui's leadership had ventured into rocket launches, had organized a series of interviews and public appearances to introduce the crew and bring the mission closer to the public. The future astronauts had attended every single one before isolation began. Only one remained. The final interview was scheduled two days from now on a talk show hosted by none other than Gen Asagiri.

Yet, no matter how meticulous the planning, there was always the chance an unexpected hiccup would upend the entire schedule.

During a routine medical checkup conducted on the crew and support staff, a potential viral infection was detected in one of the team members. Though the diagnosis remained unconfirmed, the risk was high enough to trigger contingency protocols. To safeguard the mission, the astronauts' remaining public appearances were canceled, and the crew's quarantine was bumped up ahead of schedule.

While the prospect of a potential viral outbreak didn't particularly thrill Senku, he felt relieved to dodge the public appearances and focus exclusively on the upcoming mission. After being informed of the early isolation start, the crew was transported to their quarantine quarters. Before the protocol officially took hold, they were granted a brief window to gather their pre-packed personal belongings: clothes, books, electronic devices, board games, and anything else that would make the two weeks of virtual isolation from the outside world more bearable.

The transfer to the building where they would stay prior to launch was brief. From the outside, the place resembled an executive residence—a simple light-grey structure featuring several large windows. Positioned before a reinforced door stood two armed guards, vigilantly ensuring only authorized personnel approached and entered.

Upon stepping inside, Senku cast a glance around. The space was quite spacious, equipped with all the necessary amenities to relax whenever they weren't undergoing training, physical exams, or pre-flight prep. There was a lounge with several sofas and a TV hooked up to a console, flanked by a bookshelf stocked with various books and games. Off to one side sat a communal dining area and a basic kitchen fitted with a coffee maker, a microwave, and a small fridge stocked with snacks and drinks. Hallways led to the bedrooms—simple quarters featuring a bed, a desk, and a wardrobe for their things, each equipped with its own private bathroom. Further down lay a fully equipped gym to allow the astronauts to keep up with their training regimens.

For Senku, the days in isolation weren't particularly thrilling. Life hadn't shifted all that drastically compared to how he normally lived; his routines remained largely unchanged as he kept training, attending group meetings, and undergoing constant medical checks and reviews by the mission engineers. During one of his free rest periods, he sat at the wooden dining table reading a book from the shelf, while a few of his crewmates sipped drinks on the adjacent sofa.

"It really is a shame about the interview with Asagiri," one of the astronauts remarked, sighing half-heartedly. "Don't get me wrong, going to the ISS is the absolute best thing that's ever happened to me, but meeting Gen in person was easily in my top 10. I'm a massive fan of his work."

"You mean the guy who does magic tricks on TV?" another asked, cocking an eyebrow. "I wouldn't have pegged you for the type to watch those kinds of shows."

"It's not really about the show, honestly. It didn't use to catch my eye much either," he replied with a slight smile. "My girlfriend was a huge follower of his, though. A while back, he published a book—a sort of autobiography mixed with a confession of sorts. It wasn't a bestseller or anything like that, but she bought it the day it came out and practically dragged me into reading it with her."

"Oh, yeah?" the other asked with curiosity. "So what does someone like Gen Asagiri talk about in a confession? How many celebrities he's dated, or how awesome it is to be him?"

The astronaut let out a short laugh and shook his head.

"No, that's just it. It actually read like he was psychoanalyzing himself. He takes episodes from his life and uses them to reflect on people—why we do what we do, or why we insist on pretending everything is fine when we're falling apart inside."

He paused briefly before continuing.

"It was genuinely deep. He talked about his lowest points and how, even when he was crumbling on the inside, he had to step out into the world with a smile as if nothing were wrong... He compared it to having to put on a mask for the world. After reading it, I started seeing him differently. I looked into him a bit more and found out he holds a doctorate in behavioral psychology, plus several published academic papers. The guy is infinitely more fascinating than he lets on... and I ended up becoming a fan."

"Huh, I had no idea," the other astronaut finally commented. "From what you're saying, it actually sounds pretty interesting. Though the book sounds a bit depressing, don't you think?"

"Oh, not really. Sure, it has its somber moments, but it also has plenty of pretty funny anecdotes... My favorite is one from back when he was pursuing his master's. He writes that he had to go to his university library to work on something for his thesis. If I recall correctly, he got into an argument with someone... Honestly, I don't remember what they were arguing about exactly, but in the middle of it all, the library roof collapsed because of a storm. Nobody was hurt, though he describes it as turning into absolute chaos."

"The roof collapsed? That's insane! What happened to the guy he was arguing with?" the companion asked, letting out a laugh.

"Well, I don't know. After that, he just described how people were trying to save their stuff and sprint out of there as fast as possible. I guess he got lost in the middle of the disaster."

Senku remained motionless for a moment. Unbeknownst to himself, he had stopped reading several minutes ago. His eyes still rested on the open pages of the book, but his mind remained trapped in the conversation from across the room.

A stranger behind a wall...?

The memory hit him all at once.

Seven years ago... The library. The rain pounding against the large windows. A voice on the other side of the wall. An argument and a survey. And then, the thunderous crash of the ceiling collapsing onto the central hall, followed by the chaotic evacuation amidst the storm.

He scowled deeply.

Was the person he had talked to Gen Asagiri?

The entire exchange between the astronauts had turned out to be strikingly eye-opening for Senku. He still remembered that moment, and while he had never bothered to ask himself who the person behind the wall had been that day, discovering that it had, in all likelihood, been the so-called magician was as unexpected as it was impossible to ignore.

There was also the fact that one of his crewmates—people who shared rather similar ways of thinking to his own, based on what he had observed—spoke so highly of someone he had always written off as shallow.

As he sorted through these thoughts, another memory surfaced from a corner of his mind.

"I came to perform... To put on a mask and say exactly what everyone wants to hear from me."

The scientist froze.

He couldn't remember where he had heard that phrase before.

Yet, for the first time since arriving at the quarantine facility, he had the uncomfortable sensation that both thoughts were pointing to the exact same person.

Senku stood up from the table without a word. He placed the book he had been holding back onto the shelf and walked back to his room at a steady pace, though his mind was racing at a vastly different speed.

He closed the door behind him and went straight to the desk. He flipped open his laptop and waited in silence for it to boot up. The second the search engine loaded, he typed a single name:

Gen Asagiri.

Dozens of results flooded the screen. He ignored the news articles, the interviews, and the TV clips, scrolling down the list until he located the book his crewmates had been discussing.

He stared at the cover for a few seconds.

Finally, he clicked Buy.

The file downloaded rapidly. Once it appeared on his desktop, he opened it and began to read.

The first chapter detailed Gen's childhood, long before the fame, back when he was merely a curious kid attempting to make sense of the behavior of those around him. The second chronicled his adolescence and the origins of his passion for psychology. By the time he finished the third chapter, the scientist had entirely forgotten the original reason he had opened the book in the first place.

Three sharp knocks on the door startled him.

"You in there? Dinner started ten minutes ago," an astronaut called out from the hallway. "If you take much longer, the others are gonna polish off dessert."

Senku looked up from the screen for the first time in hours. He blinked repeatedly, disoriented, only then noticing that the sun had already set.

"I'm on my way."

He closed the computer with clear reluctance and stepped out of his room.

From that day forward, every spare moment ended the same way. After training sessions, at the conclusion of mission debriefs, or right before bed, he would return to his room, open the book to the exact page where he had left off, and read another chapter.

Without realizing it, his initial curiosity gave way to genuine interest. He discovered a man vastly different from the persona on television: someone observant, brilliant, and strikingly honest when speaking about his own flaws.

It was several days later when he arrived at the chapter dedicated to a specific setting: The Library.

His eyes traced the narrative with growing focus, coming to a halt at the reflection written at the end of the anecdote:

"I never saw his face. Everything I imagined about him was born entirely from his voice. It was then that I realized how easy it is to construct an entire persona out of very little information..."

The scientist sat motionless. There was no doubt about it. The story was describing the exact same event he remembered.

Senku closed his eyes for a moment, reconstructing that night in his mind. He remembered having enjoyed their conversation and regretting—if only a little—that the collapsing ceiling had cut it short.

If he had simply stood up that night and peeked over the divider, he would have discovered who he was talking to. Though he wondered if that would have truly changed anything. Probably not.

His mind then drifted further back to the past—to the only time he had ever seen him. After that show his friends had dragged him to back in middle school, Gen Asagiri had simply become just another celebrity. Someone belonging to a world completely foreign to his own, to whom he never paid attention again. Yet, as the chapters of the book passed, a thought began to bother him.

This wasn't the first time he had done something like this.

He categorized people far too easily before getting to know them. A profession, a field of study, or a fleeting impression was all it took for him to decide, almost automatically, how much interest they were worth. He had always believed he gathered enough data to reach a sound conclusion, never stopping to consider how much remained outside that initial sample.

That had been, precisely, the argument in the library.

He had maintained that an individual perception carried little weight compared to a sufficiently broad and objective sample size. The stranger had insisted that the manner of gathering that data was just as important as the data itself.

He had never bothered to dig deeper. To look a little further beyond the surface.

Senku opened his eyes; he had reached the conclusion that his methodology had failed him. It wasn't a conclusion he enjoyed, but the evidence was sufficient to accept it. He closed the book for a few seconds, took a deep breath, and reopened it to the page where he had paused. If Gen Asagiri had turned out to be so different from the person he thought he knew, perhaps he wasn't the only one.

So, he kept reading.

Soon enough, he found himself absorbed in the pages once more. He pressed onward from one story to the next, though now he read them with far greater care, lingering a bit longer on the reflections that concluded each event. And just as the final pages drew near, so too did the end of quarantine. As the book reached its conclusion, the eve of the launch arrived.

The final anecdote bore a curious title:

"A Change Scented with Chocolate."

The scientist knit his brows slightly and continued reading, unaware that the coming pages would bring closure to the mentalist's story... and, in a way, to a piece of his own as well.

The chapter opened by describing one of the most exhausting weeks of Gen's life. Between meetings, commitments, and public appearances, he had barely found a moment to rest. Just when he thought he might finally enjoy a quiet night, he received a last-minute invitation to attend an extravagant private party hosted by a prominent mogul whose name, curiously, was never mentioned in the book.

Gen had zero intention of attending. However, his manager insisted it was too crucial an opportunity to pass up. Those types of events were ideal for networking and maintaining his public image.

Getting ready proved to be a total nightmare, and with a crammed schedule, he barely found time to eat before heading to the celebration.

The party, according to his account, had been exactly as expected: excessive. Too many people, too many conversations, and too many expectations. Between his accumulated fatigue and the constant demand to project an impeccable image, all he could do was put on the smile everyone expected of him and pretend he wasn't running on empty.

None of this surprised the scientist. Throughout the book, Gen had described similar situations more than once: moments when he had to appear charming, confident, and entertaining, even when all he wanted was to get away from everyone.

The narrative continued detailing aspects of that night until, eventually, exhaustion and hunger finally won out. Having had no chance to actually sample any of the hors d'oeuvres circulating among the guests, and weary of playing a role in front of strangers, he decided to slip away for a few minutes.

His intention was simple: find the kitchen, grab something to eat, and slip back before anyone noticed his absence. However, the place he arrived at wasn't the kitchen. It was a room filled with desserts.

Senku froze. A memory rushed back all at once. The party hosted by Ryusui. The endless attempts to dodge François. The massive room packed with desserts. And those brownies he had snatched several of without thinking twice.

He lowered his gaze slowly toward the screen. Was it possible? What were the odds he was reading the account of that very same night?

His pulse quickened slightly. He needed to know. He kept reading.

The book recounted how, without overthinking it, he grabbed a few of the sweets and left the room in hopes that no one had noticed his brief disappearance.

He took a few minutes to eat. Small, deliberately slow bites, stretching that brief escape as long as humanly possible before having to return to the main hall. The next thing he remembered clearly was a strange sensation. It wasn't immediate; it arrived slowly, almost imperceptibly. First, it was as if the noise began to drift away. Conversations lost their sharpness, and time seemed to move at an unnaturally slow pace. Then came the emotions.

Senku swallowed hard; it sounded like a near-exact description of what he himself had felt. His doubts began to evaporate, yielding to the certainty that no matter how slim the odds were, they were never zero.

In that moment, everything Gen had spent days trying to keep under control surfaced all at once: the fatigue, the frustration, the pressure of having to put on a smile one more time. To him, it felt as though someone had dialed down the volume of the world while cranking up the volume of his own thoughts.

The scientist slowed his reading pace. Upon reaching the book's final pages, he got the sense that Gen was no longer recounting an experience, but explaining why he had chosen to share it. That conclusion was, by far, the part that impacted him the most.

"From that moment on, my memories grow hazy. I retain only disconnected fragments of what happened next. Yet, there is one certainty that never faded: that night, I spoke to someone. For a few minutes, I was able to do so without worrying about keeping up appearances, without weighing every word, and without feeling the need to play the role I had spent so many years performing.

The next morning, I woke up with more questions than answers. I was never able to fully reconstruct that conversation, and over time, I stopped trying. The only thing that truly mattered was how I had felt while it lasted.

It was then I realized that perhaps the time had come to stop hiding, even if just a little, the person who existed behind the mask.

This book was born from that decision."

The silence that settled over the room once he finished reading seemed to grow heavier. He shut his laptop and dropped onto the bed, unable to tear his eyes from the ceiling for several seconds. Too many thoughts were racing through his head.

He turned his head toward the window. Tomorrow, he would launch toward the International Space Station. He was on the verge of fulfilling the dream he had chased since he was a kid—the goal around which he had constructed his entire life. And yet, he was already thinking about what he would do upon his return.

He made a silent promise to himself.

When he returned to Earth, he would seek out Gen Asagiri.

This time, he wouldn't let any obstacle or coincidence stand between them again.

The following day, Gen was walking toward the television network building to prepare for his show's recording. As he crossed a main avenue, a visual caught his eye. In the display window of an electronics store, several screens were broadcasting live coverage of a manned mission launching to the ISS. One half of the broadcast showed the launch pad; on the other, a reporter outlined mission details while displaying profiles for each of the astronauts making up the crew. When the display shifted to show the face of one of them, his pace slowed almost unconsciously. A man with unusual hair and ruby-colored eyes. A feeling difficult to describe washed over his chest—the strange impression that the face was somehow familiar for a reason he couldn't quite explain.

He knit his brows slightly.

He stood watching the broadcast until the countdown began. Seconds later, the rocket began its slow ascent into the sky. Gen tracked its climb with his eyes until it vanished among the clouds.

Without knowing why, he let out a faint smile.

Then, he resumed his walk toward the studio.

+1

For Senku, his time aboard the ISS had been one of the most exhilarating experiences of his life. He had taken part in experiments, worked alongside specialists from different parts of the world, and, on more than one occasion, stood gazing down at the Earth from the observation cupola.

However, every mission had an end. After nearly seven months in orbit, the time had come to return.

Atmospheric reentry proved just as intense as he had been warned during training. Hours later, the capsule touched down, and the moment the hatch opened, a medical and technical team was already waiting to assist the crew. The scientist barely had time to process that he was back on Earth before being whisked away along with the rest of the crew to begin the process of medical evaluations and physical rehabilitation.

The following weeks were dedicated almost entirely to readapting his body to Earth's gravity. His days passed in a blur of muscle recovery exercises, non-stop medical checkups, and long physical therapy sessions. Little by little, every movement stopped feeling foreign, and his routine began to resemble what it had been before the launch.

Even so, in his spare moments, he continued to dedicate time to Gen. He read some of his latest articles, watched interview clips, or looked up information on the projects Gen was currently working on. The promise he had made to himself before liftoff remained intact.

Their meeting would have to wait until he was fully recovered. In the meantime, he began pulling strings so that, when the time came, that reunion could actually happen.

As he regained his strength, official commitments began piling up. Debriefs with mission leaders, technical reports, meetings with researchers, and initial coordination with the agency’s PR team marked his definitive return to life on Earth.

It was precisely during one of those occasions that the scientist subtly, yet firmly, suggested prioritizing the television network with which they had outstanding commitments for the post-flight press tour.

His justification was flawless: the sudden cancellation of the pre-launch interviews had disrupted the network's scheduling, and in a way, it was the agency’s responsibility to make up for the inconvenience as a gesture of goodwill.

The proposal was well received. After all, maintaining a positive public image and preserving cordial media relations was a crucial part of the PR department's job.

Days later, the medical team cleared the crew to resume their public schedule. The news arrived that very afternoon: the rescheduled interview would take place at the same television network where it had been put on hold months earlier.

The day arrived almost in the blink of an eye. The crew arrived at the network early in the morning to prepare well ahead of recording.

After verifying their IDs at the entrance, they were greeted by a producer who guided them into the building while laying out the day's itinerary in detail. However, Senku stopped paying attention halfway through the walk.

A few meters away, Gen was chatting with one of the stagehands. He was smiling as he listened to the crew member say something, looking momentarily detached from the hustle and bustle surrounding him.

It was the first time Senku had seen him up close.

He took a small step forward, ready to approach, if only to exchange a few words.

"Alright, that covers the tour," the producer announced, stopping in front of a hallway. "If you have any questions, you can find me or ask any member of the team. Now, the makeup crew will get you ready for the recording."

As if taking his cue, Gen bade farewell to the stagehand with a slight nod and vanished behind the door leading to the dressing rooms.

It took Senku a moment to snap back to reality. He stood staring at the door through which the mentalist had just disappeared for a few seconds until the rest of the crew began moving ahead. He then followed them in silence toward the makeup area. Before rounding the corner, he glanced back one last time.

After so many years, a few more minutes wouldn't make a difference.

From that moment on, the rest of the day proceeded without major hitches. Between makeup, wardrobe, sound checks, and final lighting adjustments, the hours flew by almost unnoticed. Throughout all the back-and-forth, he caught sight of Gen several times—always busy, surrounded by producers or technical crew members. The right opportunity to approach never presented itself, so he decided to wait.

Now he stood backstage with the rest of the crew, awaiting the signal to go live. He couldn't deny that a part of him felt disappointed. For months, he had envisioned their first exchange taking place somewhere quiet, far from cameras and spectators. He wanted to meet the person who had written that book, not the host guiding an interview off a script.

However, this wasn't the time to pursue his own interests. He had come here as an astronaut, and that was the role he had to fulfill first.

"In thirty seconds, we're live."

One of the floor managers raised a hand to count down. Senku took a deep breath, adjusted his jacket collar one last time, and when he received the cue, stepped onto the studio floor.

On the other side of the stage, Gen Asagiri was introducing his guests with a warm smile.

For him, that morning had started like any other. He got out of bed, ate a light breakfast, got ready with his usual care, and headed to the network studios.

Today, he would be interviewing the crew that had recently returned from the International Space Station. Earlier that week, his manager had informed him that the space agency had reached out to reschedule an interview originally set for before the launch, which had been canceled due to last-minute changes.

Gen barely remembered that incident. After so many years working in television, those kinds of situations were second nature. Delays, schedule shifts, logistical hiccups, or unexpected changes were part of the trade, and the production team always had a contingency plan for them.

Honestly, it struck him as good news. Now that the mission was over, the conversation promised to be much more interesting. He wouldn't have to ask what they hoped to find in space; he could ask what they had actually discovered up there.

When he arrived at the building, he fell back into his usual routine. He showed his badge at the entrance, exchanged a brief greeting with the guard, and made his way down the network hallways. He greeted several crew members along the way and paused for a few minutes with the producer to review the day's itinerary and gather extra details about the guests.

It wasn't an essential conversation. He had already researched who they were, their backgrounds, and the achievements that had gotten them there. Still, it never hurt to hear the perspective of those who had spent days preparing the segment; sometimes, a casual remark revealed a detail that hadn't made it into any report.

Afterward, he walked the set a couple of times, exchanging a few words with stagehands, camera operators, and lighting technicians before finally returning to his dressing room to finish getting ready.

Eventually, he was called back to the stage for final pre-recording tests. While assisting with production tweaks, his attention drifted for a moment toward the crew waiting nearby.

He scanned the astronauts one by one, mentally reviewing the information he had read about each of them. His gaze lingered briefly on one in particular. It was hard not to. His hair seemed to defy gravity even on Earth, and the composure of his expression stood in stark contrast to the obvious excitement of the rest of the crew. Data from memory rushed back immediately.

Senku Ishigami. His father was an astronaut too. Graduated with honors. A genius in his field. Highly respected despite being relatively young. First mission. Seven months aboard the ISS...

And almost simultaneously, another memory flashed through his mind. The morning of the launch, while heading to do that day's interview, he had passed a shop broadcasting the liftoff. That very same face had appeared on screen for a few seconds before the rocket left the pad.

The strange sensation he had felt back then resurfaced for a split second. It wasn't enough to make him stop and ponder it, so he chalked it up to having seen the face on television months ago and went back to what he was doing.

A short while later, everything was set to begin broadcasting. Gen sat at the center of the stage, reviewing his notes on the desk one last time, when an assistant quietly raised a hand to signal they were live. The red light on the main camera flickered on. The studio lamps illuminated the set, and almost out of reflex, Gen painted his face with the warm smile he had opened hundreds of shows with.

"Good afternoon, everyone, and welcome once again. As always, it's a pleasure to be with you." He paused briefly as the audience responded with applause. "Today, we are joined by very special guests. Just a few weeks ago, they returned from a nearly seven-month mission aboard the International Space Station, and today they are here to share what it was like to live through an experience that very few people in the world ever have the privilege to undergo."

He extended a hand toward the side of the stage.

"Please join me in giving a warm welcome to the returned crew!"

The astronauts stepped out onto the stage with a firm stride. One by one, they greeted Gen before taking the seats production had prepared for them.

The interview went off without a hitch. Following introductions, Gen moved on to the initial questions, alternating between the different crew members. The conversation flowed naturally; some answered with enthusiasm, while others seized every chance to share an anecdote from the mission.

There was one, however, who caught his attention in particular. The scientist with the unusual hair, Senku, his mind supplied, spoke only when a question was directed specifically at him. His answers were precise, clear, and remarkably thorough, though he rarely elaborated more than necessary. He didn't seem uncomfortable in front of the cameras; on the contrary, he gave the impression that he would rather be anywhere else than under the spotlight. Yet, something didn't quite add up.

On more than one occasion, Gen felt the astronaut observing him with unusual intensity. It wasn't the distracted gaze of someone listening to a conversation, nor was it ordinary guest curiosity. It was almost analytical, as though he were studying him with the same meticulous care a researcher applies to a sample.

With time running out, Gen posed a final question to each astronaut based on their previous answers.

"Doctor Ishigami," he said in his flawless broadcast voice, maintaining a polite smile. "We've heard about the physical challenges of the mission, but from a research standpoint, when would you say you realized that all the effort had been worth it?"

Senku held Gen's gaze for a second before speaking.

"The exact moment," the scientist began, "didn't happen during an experiment, nor when we got the results we were hoping for. It was the first time I looked at Earth from the station's cupola." He paused briefly before continuing. "From that distance, everything seems impossibly small. Borders vanish, and so do everyday problems. You come to realize that the more you learn, the more aware you become of everything you still don't know. I think that was the instant I understood all the effort had been worth it."

The answer left Gen momentarily speechless. However, his surprise lasted barely a second. With the natural grace born from years in front of the cameras, he composed his expression, smiled again, and offered his thanks before directing the final question to the next crew member.

Minutes later, once all remarks were concluded, he addressed a few closing words to the audience and wrapped up the show.

"And that is all for today's show! Thank you so much for joining us. See you next week!"

The camera's red light went dark.

"And... we're clear!" a staff member announced.

The quiet tension that had held the studio vanished almost instantly. Conversations broke out among the technical crew while production members exchanged congratulations. A brief round of applause swept the set—more an acknowledgment of a job well done than a celebration.

Gen stood up and thanked the astronauts once more for accepting the invitation. He exchanged a couple of quick comments with the producer before heading toward the dressing rooms. He would barely have time to change and get ready before his next commitment. Behind him, he could hear several staff members approaching the crew to ask their own questions and snap a photo or two. He hoped they weren't in too much of a rush. He knew his team well and knew some of them, especially the newer hires, could be a bit pushy when chatting with guests.

He let out a soft chuckle picturing the scene, particularly in the case of the more reserved scientist who clearly didn't seem comfortable being the center of attention.

Gen opened his dressing room door, placed the script on the vanity, and let out a long sigh. The weight of the day was beginning to settle on his shoulders. He slipped off his suit jacket and unbuttoned his collar while mentally reviewing his remaining schedule.

Just as he finished wiping away his makeup, a series of soft yet firm knocks echoed from the other side of the door.

"If that's production with the viewership metrics, tell them I'll review them tomorrow~" he chimed in his usual melodious tone, not bothering to turn around just yet.

The door opened and closed again with a quiet click.

"Excuse me..."

The voice made Gen look up into the mirror. It was the scientist. He stood by the door, one hand still resting on the handle as if trying to decide whether he should have walked in at all.

"I didn't mean to bother you."

Senku trailed off and fell silent, looking at him as though searching for the right way to begin. Several times he looked ready to speak, but no words left his lips. For a few seconds, the only sound in the room was the low hum of the vanity lights.

Finally, he exhaled in resignation and held up the book he had been carrying at his side. The volume, slightly worn from use and repeated readings, was unmistakable. On the cover, the title of the autobiography Gen had published years ago was clearly visible—the very book in which he had recounted, between the lines, strange and memorable encounters with a stranger.

Gen froze. His gaze drifted down to the book before slowly returning to the astronaut's face.

"So... are you a fan?" he asked with a playful smile to cut through the awkward silence. "You don't need to be so nervous, you know. If you wanted an autograph, all you had to do was ask."

He grabbed a pen from the vanity and stepped closer with an outstretched hand, expecting the scientist to hand over the copy.

Senku looked at the book, then at the pen, and finally met Gen's eyes once more.

"I... didn't come for an autograph," he said with an edge of discomfort. "I think... you wrote about me."

Gen's smile faltered for a split second. He blinked a couple of times, trying to wrap his head around what he had just heard.

"What...?" he murmured, his tone shifting to something far more serious. "What do you mean?"

"I know it sounds crazy... but there are two stories in that book that are about me."

For a second, Gen thought he had misheard. It was so wildly improbable that there had to be some misunderstanding. Perhaps the scientist had found similarities with an anecdote. Maybe it was a coincidence, or some kind of joke. Yet, studying his expression, Gen realized he wasn't joking.

Gen took a step back, leaning lightly against the edge of the vanity as he set the pen down with a faint click.

"Forgive me if this catches me off guard, Doctor Ishigami, but the whole situation feels... surreal, to put it lightly. Could you explain why you're so sure?"

Senku remained silent for a moment longer, as if assembling the right words to explain himself without sounding like a lunatic or a stalker.

"There are two anecdotes in your book. One is roughly near the middle, and the other is near the end. I was there for both of them. We never actually saw each other—at least, not properly. But the situations are identical." He offered a brief, almost incredulous smile. "There's no way we ever would have figured it out if I hadn't decided to read this book and you hadn't decided to write it. This level of coincidence is so statistically impossible that it almost feels like a cosmic joke."

Gen stared at him in disbelief. They say once is a fluke, twice is a coincidence. But if there's a third time... a pattern starts to emerge. If the scientist was telling the truth, the universe possessed a rather questionable sense of humor.

"Alright..." he finally replied. "Then tell me which moments they were. How can you prove you were actually there?"

Senku gave a slight nod.

"The library."

Gen knit his brows slightly.

"I was the person you argued with about the surveys. I was trying to estimate the results using a statistical model instead of filling out every single response. You told me that numbers could never fully replace human perception." He paused briefly. "Then you grabbed one of the surveys... and a few minutes later, part of the roof caved in."

The mentalist let out a deep breath, followed by a dry, incredulous laugh that bubbled up purely out of reflex. He ran a hand through his hair, slightly messing up the immaculate styling done for the broadcast, and looked the scientist up and down once more. So he really was that library nerd.

"Unbelievable..." he muttered, marveled by the irony of it all. "The genius who just came back from orbiting the Earth turns out to be the same arrogant guy who tried to solve surveys with statistics."

He shook his head with an amused smile.

"Though, thinking about it... I can't blame you too much. I drew my own conclusions after that chat, too." He looked at Senku once more before continuing. "And the second time?"

"And the second time..." Senku continued, taking a step toward the center of the room without taking his eyes off Gen, "was at Ryusui's party."

He paused briefly.

"I found the dessert room, too. In fact, I got there before you did." He offered a subtle smile. "I don't remember much from that night. Just fragments. I know they ended up taking me to a room so I could recover, and that later they brought someone else in. I never knew who it was... until I read this story. Then I realized that other person... was you."

That confession completely disarmed him. The last trace of skepticism vanished from Gen's face. His eyes widened slightly, and for a moment, total silence fell over the room.

That night.

Of all the stories the scientist could have brought up, he had picked the exact one that had altered the course of his life. The very experience that had driven him to write the book and, unknowingly, had made it possible for the two of them to be standing face-to-face right now.

Gen took a moment to pull himself together. He checked the clock on his vanity; time was running out, and his manager would be coming for him shortly. He turned his gaze back to the astronaut.

"I suppose the evidence is clear enough that I can't really deny it," he sighed. "So what's the point of all this, then? I don't suppose you came all the way here just to reveal this and walk away, or am I wrong?"

Senku let out a low, almost bashful laugh, breaking the tension that had filled the room.

"No. You're right. The truth is... I came to say thank you."

Gen blinked, bewildered.

"Thank me?"

"For writing that book." Senku looked down at the copy in his hands, a smile touching his lips. "If you hadn't written it, I would have kept believing that night was nothing more than a hazy memory. I never would have known that the person I talked to actually existed."

Gen stared at him, trying to comprehend why finding that out was so important. Up until now, it seemed both of them had been living quite peacefully, completely oblivious to having crossed paths before. As he tried to make sense of it, Senku's voice cut through his thoughts.

"And I probably would have kept holding the wrong impression of you. For years, I thought you were just the persona you put on for the public. But after reading your book... I realized I can be too quick to judge people's character and dismiss them without giving them a chance."

Gen smiled with a warmth he rarely showed in front of the cameras. He never could have imagined that those pages, written solely out of a desire to be honest with himself, would end up shifting someone else's perspective like this.

Senku looked at him and smiled back in the same way before continuing.

"Though I have to admit, I wasn't entirely wrong. You're still a second-rate magician and a charlatan... just surprisingly with more degrees than I thought."

Gen let out an indignant huff, though the wide grin spreading across his face immediately betrayed any attempt to fake offense.

"Hey now, what a way to ruin a sweet moment..." he protested through laughs. "Though I suppose that's the closest thing to a compliment I'm ever going to get out of you, Doctor Ishigami."

"Please... call me Senku."

Gen opened his mouth to reply.

Right at that moment, several loud knocks rattled the door.

"Gen! We have to leave for your next appointment right now!" his manager's voice called out. "And the space agency team is looking for Doctor Ishigami! If he's with you, let us know!"

Senku and Gen glanced at the door, then turned to look at each other.

"Dear manager! Doctor Ishigami is right here with me, don't worry! He just stopped by for an autograph and we got distracted talking!" Gen called back. "Don't worry, we're coming right out!"

Their time had run out, but the atmosphere between them was entirely different from what it had been minutes ago. The awkwardness had given way to an unexpected sense of familiarity.

"Looks like the real world is calling us back," Gen murmured with a resigned smile.

He picked up the pen from the vanity and, without asking, took the book from Senku's hands. Flipping to the first blank page, he wrote a few lines with a quick, elegant flourish. He then closed the book and handed it back.

"See you around, Senku."

Before Senku could answer, Gen slipped out of the dressing room to join his manager. Just before stepping past the threshold, however, he turned his head to throw back one last smile and a playful wink.

Senku stood still for a few seconds, holding the book in his hands. Finally, he stepped out of the dressing room to rejoin his crew. He didn't open the book immediately; he waited until they were all back in the vehicle taking them back. Only then did he rest it on his lap and slowly turn to the first blank page.

The moment he finished reading the inscription, a sudden laugh escaped his lips.

Inside was a phone number and a handwritten message:

"Let's not make our next meeting another bad joke from the universe ;)"