Drafted Into A Fairytale

“The stage doesn’t care if you’re ready. Once the lights are on—you perform.” –kyoshin 

The curtain rose. The rain fell silent.

And he stepped into the world like an actor stealing the scene.

The rain stopped when he stepped into the world.

As if the storm itself didn’t want to touch him.
Not out of disgust.

Out of fear.
Of being overwritten by the madness leaking from his shadow.

The rain chose wisely.
Humans didn’t.

One of the black-clad men lunged—no hesitation, blade aimed straight for Kyoshin’s chest.
The strike should’ve pierced his heart.
Cut the intruder right off the stage.

I saw it happen. Clean aim. Trained execution.

The kind of move you practice after a thousand fake kills.

But the blade passed through him.
Like a memory. Flickering. Too late to matter.

Kyoshin wasn’t there anymore—only a smear of intent where his body should’ve been.

Then he was again, laughing like a child playing hide-and-seek with physics.

He took off his hat—not as a threat, not even a gesture. Just a motion. Casual.

Then pointed it. A hiss.
Gas.

The attacker collapsed. No cue. Just down—like an actor who forgot his only line.

Kyoshin leaned against the wall now, spinning his cane lazily between two fingers. His posture said matinee nap, not murder scene.
He yawned.

"Third-rate acting from a third-rate play," he muttered, as if grading homework.

He wasn’t outnumbered.
They were outpaced.

Outclassed.
Out of narrative logic.

I should’ve run out of here.

But my body didn’t get the memo.
It felt… nailed to the ground.
As if invisible hands had pinned me in place, whispering in my ear:

No one leaves the scene until the director says cut.

Three more moved.
This time, with silence. Precision. Sync.
Professionals.

No wasted movement.

They came in from three angles—one high, one low, one blindside.
The kind of formation you use when you’re not planning to miss.

Kyoshin didn’t flinch.

More like he was waiting for their cues.
Like he’d seen the choreography before they even thought of dancing.

He stepped between their strikes like he was waltzing through falling rain, not knives.
One duck. One pivot. One little tap of his cane—clack—and a wrist snapped sideways with a noise like a cracked stick in a quiet church.

The others didn’t even notice until they hit the ground.
Like corpses dropping straight into coffins.

His movements weren’t just skilled.
They were wrong.

Too fluid. Too timed.
Like his limbs were obeying choreography the rest of us couldn’t hear.

The air around him even felt… off.

Thicker. Slower.
Like reality had lagged behind to catch up.

From his coat, Kyoshin pulled a communicator.

 A military one. Stolen from one of theirs.

When did he even have time to steal that?

Why was I even surprised?
Everything he touched so far had stopped making sense.

He held it up like a glass of wine.

“Hello, my dear brother,” he cooed into the speaker. “Did you miss me?”

Another knife came at him mid-sentence. He leaned back—just enough for it to miss—then stepped through the attacker like a shadow spilling into daylight.

“They seem a little grumpy today,” he mused. “Feed your dogs more protein. Or at least teach them not to bite the fourth wall.”

He chuckled. The device buzzed.

A voice answered. Calm.Cold.
Sharp enough to cut without raising its volume.

“What do you want this time, Kyoshin?”

No surprise. No fear. Just exhaustion, refined into habit.

Like this wasn’t the first time this… whatever this was… had happened.

Kyoshin’s grin widened.

“Ah, the old times. When the rules still pretended to make sense.
Good thing they dropped the act—it was getting cliché anyway.”

He appeared behind another attacker and—whimsically—tapped his shoulder.

As if to say, Your time on stage is up.

The man spun with reflex and fury.

But Kyoshin was already behind him again.
One precise knock to the neck—polite. Almost apologetic.

The man dropped.

And so did whatever was left of my common sense.
Probably cracked its head on the floor too.

“Let’s play a game, shall we?”

He swung his cane forward. A click. A hidden mechanism snapped.
Darts flew—silent, swift.
They landed like love letters signed with rejection. Perfumed in poison. Addressed to nowhere.

Three more dropped.

Each motion was polished violence.But his voice? Casual. Light. Detached.

Mine? Scattered. Spiral-shaped. Begging to be stitched to something—anything—to prove I was still there.

He was cleaning house like it was brunch.Chatting mid-murder.

The communicator crackled again.

“As long as it keeps you satisfied, do whatever you want.”

There it was.

Permission.

A shiver knifed down my spine, like someone had poured ice into my veins.

In the rain pool at my feet, I saw his reflection.
Not him. Not really.
Just fire, where his shadow should be.
Like the world had already started burning,
and only he had noticed.

------

Two final assassins moved in from behind.

Coordinated. No warning. No room for error.

Kyoshin didn’t even turn around.

As if he already knew their next move would earn them the award for Best Failed Extra.

He flicked something over his shoulder—round, black, small as a marble.

The moment it hit open air, it bloomed.
Like a flower that hated being alive.

A net cracked outward.

Tendrils of electric current laced the pattern like living veins.

The two were caught.

Mid-step. Mid-breath. Mid-everything.

They spasmed. Screamed. Fell.

Kyoshin exhaled, slow and lazy through his teeth.
The breath floated visibly—white mist in warm air
.It curled upward like a story’s final line,
or smoke from a fairytale that had already burned.

No sweat on his brow.

No blood on his sleeves.
Not even a scuff on his coat.

And me?

I just stood there.
Like a lousy actor who forgot his lines.
Mid-scene. Mid-scream. Mid-something.

Watching reality fold around this man—like the script itself had surrendered and handed him the pen.

His rhythm didn’t match this world.
Not the pacing.
Not the gravity.
Not the rules.

I was certain of one thing.

This man wasn’t an enemy I could fight.

And worse—
He wasn’t even trying.

“Now then,” Kyoshin turned to me with that grin again—full of too many teeth and not enough reason.

“Hiiro-kun, wasn’t it?”

I stiffened.

A pulse kicked against my ribs. Hard. Like it wanted to run even if I didn’t.

No one here should’ve known my name.

He spun his cane in one hand, casual as a street magician.
Then leaned forward, one hand outstretched like he was inviting me on a Sunday stroll—through a minefield.

“So,” he said, “Wanna play a game?”

I didn’t answer.
He didn’t wait.

“Not that you have a say in it,” he added. “You did promise to help her, didn’t you?

If she was ever in trouble.

How noble.
How loyal.
How tragically predictable.”

My chest tightened.

I took a step forward before I noticed.

“What…?”

He tilted his head.
Like a doll with a cracked neck.

“You know who I mean.”

He didn’t say her name.
He didn’t have to.

But before I could respond—before the weight of that name could settle—
my eyes drifted.

To the pavement.
To her.
The girl.
My neighbor.
Still there. Still dead.

Her head lay a few feet away, eyes open to a sky that didn’t look back.

Her hand was outstretched—like she was still reaching for something.
Like maybe someone would take it and undo what had happened.

She was asking me to fix it.

To rewrite the scene.

I didn’t.

I couldn’t.

I just stood there.

Like a corpse attending its own funeral.

My stomach lurched, like it wanted out of my body.

“We should… I can’t just leave her here,” I said.
The words caught in my throat.
They sounded too ordinary for what I was seeing.

“She was—she didn’t do anything.”

The words fell flat in the air.

They didn’t change anything.
Just hung there.
Like props from a script no one was reading anymore.

Kyoshin followed my gaze and let out a low whistle.

He shrugged. Lightly. Almost annoyed.
Like the topic had derailed his monologue.

“Oh, her? A shame. Really.

She saw things she shouldn’t have.
A few of my dear colleagues were on the job
.Standard protocol.
Wrong place, wrong time. Unlucky girl.”

I stared at him.

“You’re telling me she died because… just because she saw something?”

He nodded.

His hat dipped with him.

“She saw assassins at work.

That tends to go poorly for the audience.”

My fists clenched.

Part out of horror.
Part out of something colder.

Kyoshin sighed theatrically.

“You can stand there and mourn her if you like. Stare at the corpse. Maybe write her a poem.”

His voice softened—mock sympathy melting into a blade.

“But it’s not your time that’s running out, Poet-kun.”

I looked up.

He smiled.
“It’s hers.”

That was the hook—not the girl at my feet, not the blood.

The other one.
Emiha.

He dangled her name like a key.
Not said aloud. Not needed. Just the weight of her implied behind every word.

He took a single step forward—exaggerated, deliberate, theatrical.

“Congratulations, kid,” he said, arms spread like a magician after an impossible trick.
“You’ve been drafted into a fairytale.”

Then, a wink.

“No take-backs.”

He turned and walked off, twirling the cane, hat somehow back on his head like it had never moved—like reality had reached out and edited itself to suit him.

I looked down at his shadow.
It flickered. Faded. Reappeared.
Then slithered forward—coiling ahead of him like it already knew the path.

My legs didn’t move. Not at first.

Like the floor was holding a vote on whether I belonged in this scene.

But I moved anyway.
And I followed.
Not out of trust.
Not even hope.
But because the story had already started.

And whether I liked it or not—

he had cast me in it.

___________________________

Kagame Jin’s Commentary:

The stage has shifted, hasn’t it?

The first blood has been shed, and with it Act I begins to truly move. The gears are turning now, steady and unstoppable. A director has entered, carrying not a script but a burning one—every page crackling forward whether we’re ready or not.

From here, every step matters. Every shadow, every glance, every choice is a thread being pulled. And you, dear guests, are seated where the mirrors overlap—able to see angles even the players might miss.

So tell me… from your seat, what do you see in this scene? A tragedy beginning? A play too sharp to be called fantasy? Or perhaps something else entirely.

---

✨ Host’s Call: Share your angle, your reflection. The story moves faster when more eyes catch the light.