Your demise must occur

   Owen hated his alarm clock. It wasn't the usual "I need five more minutes" kind of hate. No, this was pure, murderous loathing for the mechanical demon screaming into his ear every morning. He slapped the snooze button, missing twice before finally shutting the thing up.

Silence. Sweet, blessed silence.

He stared at his ceiling, counting the cracks like old friends. The big one running corner to corner, which looked like it was plotting world domination, was spreading. Maybe today would be the day it finally gave up and crushed him in his sleep. Probably not. Nothing ever changed around here.

The air bit at his skin as he rolled out of bed, his bare feet hitting ice-cold floorboards. Whoever invented morning classes could go straight to hell. Through his window, a slice of gray sky peeked through – the same depressing shade it had been all week. The weatherman had promised sun yesterday. Owen made a mental note to add him to his list of professional liars, right between politicians and gym teachers.

His room was a masterpiece of mediocrity. A bed that squeaked if you looked at it wrong. A desk buried under what might have been homework at some point. And his pride and joy: a wardrobe with a door that hadn't closed properly since... well, ever. The whole place had the charm of a discount furniture store's clearance section.

Owen noticed everything about this place: the mildew creeping in the corners like unwanted house guests, the way streetlight filtered through his window even in broad daylight, creating weird shadows that danced on his walls, and the cobweb in the corner that probably housed a spider with better life prospects than him. Each detail was another pixel in the high-definition image of his mundane existence.

The TV droned from the living room – something about strange aurora borealis appearing over Tokyo. Scientists were baffled, experts were concerned, and Owen couldn't care less. Another mystery that would probably turn out to be swamp gas or weather balloons or whatever excuse they use these days.

By the time he stepped outside, the morning had settled into its usual rhythm. Cars honked their displeasure at each other, creating a symphony of urban frustration. People hurried past with their heads down, already late for jobs they probably hated. A cat watched him from atop a trash can, judging his existence with typical feline superiority.

The walk to school was exactly what you'd expect. Wet streets reflected a sky that looked like someone had poured concrete over the world. Gray buildings leaning in like nosy neighbors. The bakery on the corner filled the air with the smell of fresh bread and broken dreams.

He passed the old convenience store where Mr. Tanaka was wrestling with his ancient security shutters. The daily battle of man versus rusty metal played out exactly as it had for the past three years. Owen could time his walk by it – if the shutters were winning, he was running late.

A bus rumbled past, spraying water from a puddle. Owen jumped back, but not quite fast enough. Great. Now his left shoe would squelch all day. Perfect addition to his already stellar morning.

The crossing guard at the main intersection gave him the same tired nod she always did. Owen wondered if she ever dreamed of rebellion – of just once letting chaos reign at her corner. Probably not. She seemed like the type who alphabetized her sock drawer.

School loomed ahead, a monument to educational monotony. The gates creaked their usual welcome, probably rusted in place from all the rain. Students filtered in like a lazy river, their conversations a white noise of gossip and complaints about unfinished homework.

His classroom sat exactly where it had yesterday, the day before that, and every day since the beginning of time. Second floor, end of the hall, right next to the bathroom that always smelled like industrial cleaner and regret. The door still had that chip in the frame from when Hikaru tried to prove he could roundhouse kick like Bruce Lee. He couldn't.

Mrs. Chibara's voice droned on about historical dates that would never matter to anyone outside of a pub quiz. Owen stared out the window, watching raindrops race each other down the glass. He had money on the fat one on the left.

The day crawled by like a wounded snail. Lunch brought its usual parade of mysterious cafeteria offerings and social circles that never quite intersected. Owen sat at his usual spot, watching his classmates perform their daily routines like well-trained circus animals. Yukihime would laugh too loud at whatever Itsuki said. Haruto would try to steal fries from unsuspecting freshmen. The drama club kids would rehearse with their food, turning cucumber slices into tragic props.

After what felt like several small eternities, the final bell rang. Owen packed his bag with the enthusiasm of a sloth on sedatives and started his trek home. The streets were quieter now, the city winding down like a tired music box. Streetlights flickered on, casting shadows that seemed to follow him home.

He passed the park where old men played chess, arguing in multiple languages over moves they'd been debating since the Stone Age. A group of elementary school kids chased each other around the swings, their shrieks echoing off the surrounding buildings. Everything normal. Everything boring. Everything was exactly as it always was.

Until it wasn't.

She appeared like something out of a fever dream – tall, pale, with hair so white it hurt to look at. She stood under a streetlamp, wearing what looked like rejected costumes from a fantasy movie. But it was her eyes that caught him off guard – red and sharp, like laser pointers straight to his soul.

Owen blinked hard, wondering if maybe he'd finally cracked from the sheer weight of routine. But no, she was still there, standing as still as a statue while the world moved around her. People walked past without a glance like she was invisible to everyone but him. Great. He was either hallucinating or special, and he wasn't sure which was worse.

"You," she said, stepping forward. Her voice carried like wind through crystal – clear and somehow sharp. "I've been waiting."

Owen resisted the urge to look behind him. "Sorry, the anime convention's next week. You're a bit early."

"I need you," she continued, ignoring his comment completely. "To save my world."

"Your world?" Owen couldn't help but laugh. The sound echoed off the wet pavement, bouncing between buildings like a rubber ball. "Let me guess – it's in danger and only I can help? That's original. Did you get that from a fortune cookie or a bargain bin manga?"

She frowned slightly, the expression somehow making her look even more otherworldly. "Manga? Fortune cookie? This isn’t a joke. To achieve salvation, your demise must occur."

"Wow, straight to murder. Not even dinner first? I mean, I know dating is dead these days, but that's taking it a bit literally, don't you think?"

"I am Lilith Alaric," she announced like that was supposed to mean something. The name seemed to ripple through the air, carrying weight he couldn't quite understand. "Princess of Alaric. My kingdom fell to ruin, and only you can help me restore it."

"Right," Owen drawled, leaning against the lamppost. His shoulder went through a patch of gum someone had thoughtfully left there. Perfect. "And I'm the king of Japan. Nice try, though. Did you rehearse this speech in front of a mirror? Because I've got to say, the delivery needs work. Maybe try adding some jazz hands next time."

Lilith tilted her head, studying him like a particularly interesting bug under a microscope. Her eyes narrowed slightly, catching the streetlight in a way that made them look like burning coals. "Jazz? You don't believe me."

“Nope.” Owen popped the 'p'. “Not buying it. Aliens, magic, alternate worlds—it’s all great material for late-night anime marathons, but not real life.”

“I am telling the truth,” she insisted, her voice low and serious.

"The truth?" Owen snorted. "That you're either cosplaying or escaped from a mental hospital? Yeah, I'll stick with that explanation."