When he did, my brain took a second to accept that it was him.

Renji Fujimoto looked like he’d lost a wrestling match with his own laundry. His shirt—once white, I think—was wrinkled enough to suggest he’d slept in it, possibly on the floor. The buttons were mismatched, skipping one entirely so that the hem sat lopsided over jeans that had clearly seen better years, not just better days. His hair stuck out in three different directions, as if he’d tried to tame it with water, then given up halfway. There was an actual coffee stain on the sleeve, a ring-shaped reminder of a mug that probably wasn’t even washed before reuse.

If I’d been in my own body, I would’ve stepped back, maybe coughed into my hand just to put a barrier between us. In Kairi’s, the reflex was different—her body didn’t recoil. It just blinked once, tilted its head slightly, a subtle assessment. But I was screaming internally.

Had I eaten breakfast? I couldn’t remember, but if I had, it was currently in danger.

I forced myself to focus on the manga in my hands, pulling it out like a shield. "Renji Fujimoto?"

"Yeah, that’s me," he said, smiling with the easy, careless warmth of someone who hadn’t noticed or didn’t care that his outfit was a biohazard. His voice was deeper than I’d expected, tinged with exhaustion but not unpleasant.

This... was the man whose panels could break a reader’s heart in twelve pages flat. The one who balanced absurd comedy with gut-wrenching tragedy like it was breathing. The one Kairi—sharp, sarcastic, emotionally fortified Kairi—had actually called "amazing" without irony.

Kairi’s body stayed still, but in my head, I was muttering,

You’re lucky I’m in someone else’s skin right now.

* * *

"What are you thinking right now, Kairi?"

The sudden inquiry cut through the silence like a knife. Selene’s voice, calm but pointed, dragged me back to reality.

All at once, the rent-free replay of my past experiences inside my head dissolved, blown away by her abrupt question. My mind, which had been comfortably drifting, snapped back into sharp focus.

"No, nothing... dear Magician."

The words slipped out before I could think them through.

It was, admittedly, too much to call her Selene. After all, she never truly was Selene to begin with—just a construct, a piece of the greater illusion. And perhaps that was the point. Perhaps I understood, more than I wanted to admit, what this cocky Archmage once claimed: that consciousness itself was nothing more than an illusion.

If that were true, then what stopped someone—anyone, maybe even me—from creating another "consciousness"? As if by playing god, you could manifest new lives, new psyches, out of nothing.

"Uh, Magician? Is that what you call me now instead of Selene?"

Her tone carried a teasing lilt.

Oh, for goodness’ sake. Apparently, she still carried that old habit of questioning names, even into this new form. Some things never changed.

"Yes," I replied flatly. "From now on... you are the Magician archetype."

"Persona."

I couldn’t help myself. I always wanted to say that. The word rolled off my tongue with a thrill.

Yes—Persona. As an avid Sh** M*g*** T*n*** historian, it always sounded ridiculously cool to utter something like that in a serious context. My inner nerd was delighted.

Anyway. My focus returned to the task at hand. So far, I had only designed cards for "Selene" and "Helena." That was progress, sure, but there was still someone missing. Inevitably, my thoughts drifted toward the next candidate.

Azalea Rosella Lovecraft.

She was the logical destination.

But how should I define her? How should I label her?

That was the challenge. She was clingy, sometimes unbearably so, yet she could turn distant and cold in the next breath. That hot-and-cold rhythm was a clue, a pattern. It offered a great hint for the archetype I needed to craft.

The Lover. Perfect.

Yes, that was it. The archetype fit perfectly.

Just as I was about to commit to forming the new card, another interruption by a certain specific card intruded on my concentration.

"And what about me, Your Majesty?"

I froze.

...Wait. What? Majesty?

Interesting. A new title. Perhaps I should play along, appear detached, and lean into the theatricality. Detachment, after all, was second nature to me. I was already halfway there.

"You may consider yourself as..."

I paused for dramatic effect, then finished:

"The Trickster."

Perfect. Absolutely perfect.

"Oh my... that’s such an honor, Your Majesty."

I almost rolled my eyes. This whole "Your Majesty" charade was starting to get under my skin. Clearly, my knowledge of Helena wasn’t flawless—if I had nailed her completely, she wouldn’t be mocking me with this incessant royal treatment.

"Well, well, Kairi," she pressed further. "Or should I say Your Majesty now?"

"Don’t say it to belittle me," I shot back, my eyes narrowing into a sharp glare.

"No! Don’t misunderstand, Your Majesty. We surely honor you with our deepest and most sincere respect."

Her words dripped with exaggerated politeness.

This... yes, this sounded exactly like Selene.

And yet, something was off. The Magician archetype felt too artificial. It wasn’t truly Selene anymore. The resemblance was uncanny, yes, but the subtle differences were beginning to show. At first, it had been difficult to separate one from the other. Now, though, I could see the cracks forming.

"Sure," I muttered. "Anyway, both of you, please be quiet."

They nodded in unison, silent at last. Their obedience felt deliberate, almost calculated, as though they had already learned to anticipate my real intentions.

And hell yes—silence is loud. Deafening, even.

With the distractions gone, I returned to my work.

Later on, I formed a new archetype.

The Lover.

I began the process meticulously, starting with her name. I wrote it from scratch, letter by letter, because I despised recycling old templates. This was to be something original, wholly new, untainted by borrowed frameworks.

She would be a new entity, free from the interference of others’ designs.