"Show me the driver's face," Michael demanded, stepping closer.
The Curator sighed dramatically, pulling out his phone again. "Fine. But you're gonna wish you stayed clueless."
He tapped the screen. The hologram reappeared, frozen on the gloved hand tossing the glowing vial. With a flick of his finger, the Curator zoomed in—past the glove, through the SUV's half-open window, into the shadowed face of the driver.
Michael's breath hitched.
Black robes. Hollow eye sockets. Ink-stained hands.
Saeko.
The sorceress from Aiko's world—the one who'd sent assassins to kill her. Her eyeless face stared coldly from the hologram, lips twisted in a faint smirk as she sped away from Michael's mangled body.
How?
His mind reeled. Saeko existed in Aiko's feudal-Japan-style realm. Yet here she was, driving a modern SUV in his world. The timelines didn't match. The realms didn't match. Unless…
"She crossed over," Michael muttered, more to himself than the Curator. "She's from Aiko's realm, but she came here. Why?"
The Curator snorted. "Oh, it's worse than that. She didn't 'cross over.' She's native here."
"What?"
"Saeko's what we call a Dual-Realmner—born in two worlds at once. Rare. Annoying. Like a weed that grows through your neighbor's fence and trashes your lawn." The Curator swiped the hologram away. "Her body exists in both realms simultaneously. Hurt her here, she's fine there. Kill her there, she's still sipping margaritas here. Get it?"
Michael's prosthetic hand clenched, blades screeching against each other. So Saeko could attack Aiko in her world while plotting against me in mine. The accident hadn't been random—it was a coordinated strike. But why him?
"What's her goal?" he asked, struggling to keep his voice steady.
The Curator rolled his eyes. "Power. Duh. Higher-realm bigshots hired her to tag your juicy anomaly soul. That vial?" He pointed at the frozen hologram of the glowing liquid. "Pure Celestial bait. They wanted to turn you into a monster-magnet, to serve whatever dark reasons they might have."
Michael's stomach churned. He was a lab rat in a cross-dimensional game. But Saeko had failed—he'd survived. Which meant…
"They're still watching," Michael realized aloud.
"Bingo. And you're ruining their fun by not dying." The Curator leaned against the wall, examining his nails. "So here's the deal: Go home, live a boring life, and they'll think their serum hasn't worked. Keep playing hero?" He nodded at Michael's hidden arm. "That shiny new limb's gonna be the least of your problems."
Aiko's face flashed in Michael's mind—
Could he walk away?
No.
He'd spent his life fighting—for meals, for scholarships, for a future. Aiko was fighting the same battle, just in a world with more swords and fewer diners. Abandoning her now would make him no better than his deadbeat dad.
Michael met the Curator's gaze. "How do I stop them?"
The man groaned. "Ugh. You're one of those."
"Tell me."
"Or what? You'll stab me with your edgy arm?" The Curator waved a hand, and the steel door behind him creaked open. Cool night air rushed in, carrying the distant wail of sirens. "Newsflash, hero: This isn't a manga. You don't 'train hard' and beat the final boss. These are gods you're pissing off. You. Will. Lose."
Michael's prosthetic flared to life, molten runes casting hellish shadows on the walls. The blades elongated, serrated edges humming. "I've lost before. Still here."
The Curator stared at him, then burst out laughing. It was a harsh, grating sound—like a saw on bone.
"You're hilarious. Okay, fine."
The Curator's laugh died as quickly as it started. He straightened his tie, eyes glinting like polished coins. "Alright, Cobb. You want to play hero? Let's talk business."
He snapped his fingers, and the steel door slammed shut behind him. "But first—meet the team."
A section of the wall hissed open, revealing a hidden elevator.
Inside stood two figures.
The first was Mason, arms crossed over his barrel chest. The second was Jane whom Michael hadn't seen properly before—early twenties, her black hoodie drowning her frame, fingers flying across a holographic keyboard projected from her wrist.
"Jane," the Curator said, jerking a thumb at the woman. "Our resident genius. Mason you've met. Say hi, kids."
Jane didn't look up. "Hi."
Mason grunted.
Michael's prosthetic arm hummed, but he forced the blades to stay sheathed. "Team? You mean the people who've been stalking me?"
"Stalking implies we're not getting paid," Jane muttered, still typing. "Call it… proactive asset management."
The Curator strolled to the center of the room, hands in his pockets.
"THE STORE's purpose is simple: clean up interdimensional messes. Like when a rookie—" he shot Michael a look, "—summons a dragon during a livestream. Or when secret societies try to merge realms. Basic stuff."
Michael's jaw tightened. "Secret societies?"
Jane flicked her wrist, and the hologram shifted to show security footage—a masked figure in a black robe placing glowing vials in sewer grates, subway vents, even a daycare's sandbox.
The symbol on their sleeve matched Saeko's claw-and-rose crest.
"We've tracked 7 essence dumps this month," Jane said. "Each vial's a Celestial lure. More monsters, more chaos. Their endgame?" She zoomed in on a map lit up with red hotspots. "Overload the Mortal Realm until it cracks. Then? Party time for higher-realm freaks."
Michael's stomach dropped. "And Saeko's their delivery girl."
"Bingo," the Curator said. "But here's the kicker—" He pulled a Fanta from thin air, popping the tab. "You're not just another victim. That vial she hit you with? Meant to turn you into a walking portal."
Mason finally spoke, voice gravelly. "Accident was a test. See if your body could handle the essence."
"And?" Michael asked.
"You lived," Jane said. "Which either makes you lucky or a bigger threat than Saeko's bosses planned. Either way, they want you dead."
Michael flexed his invisible fingers, feeling the prosthetic's presence coiled beneath his skin. "So I'm a failed experiment?"
"Or a successful one," the Curator said. "Depends who's asking."
The pieces clicked. Michael's accident. Aiko's sudden "rescue" by the game. The dragon attack. All threads in the same rotten thread. He looked at the Curator.
"You said use me as bait. How?"
Jane and Mason exchanged glances.
"Glad you asked." The Curator's grin widened. "We will let you keep living your normal life. Let them send their worst. And when they do—" He patted Mason's arm. "—The Store squashes 'em."
Michael recoiled. "You want to paint a target on my back?!"
"Already is painted, kid," Mason growled. "Dragon fight was your first audition. They'll keep coming. So either hide in a bunker or let us control the narrative."
Jane's keyboard clattered. "Option B gives you a higher survival rate. Also—" She pulled up a graph. "—increased chances of locating Saeko's base. Which, math says, is your samurai girlfriend's only shot at surviving the game."
Aiko's face flashed in Michael's mind. "How does Aiko factor into this?"
"Saeko's dual-realm. Hurting her here won't matter if we can't do a thing to her in the other realm. If we find her base in this world… your girlfriend storms her HQ there. Two-front war. Maximizes chaos."
Michael stared at Jane. This wasn't just about him anymore.
"And if I say no?"
The Curator shrugged. "You die. Aiko dies. World goes boom. I retire to Bali. Everyone loses but me."