Downfall Market smelled like someone's last regrets boiled in gutter water.
Sora Daburu stood in line for an ice-cream stall, grinding his teeth so hard he tasted metal. he wasn't intimidating, but he radiated the specific kind of irritation that made old men mutter and children avoid eye contact.
It had been forty. Eight. Minutes.
Forty-eight minutes behind a massive idiot arguing with the vendor about something so stupid Sora was convinced evolution had taken a personal day.
The vendor, a shriveled grandma built like an old broom, smacked her scoop into the cart. The giant customer roared back, spit flying.
Sora rolled his eyes so hard they almost evacuated his skull.
"Damn it granny! Haven't I told you already? Milk produced by Vaccinated cows are NOT fresh enough!! Tch- this is why you colonizers have the worst food!."
"WHAT DID YOU SAY YOU PIECE OF SHIT?! I'LL HAVE YOU KNOW YOU MIXED RACED C#### ARE THE REASONS WHY RENT KEEPS RISING YOU ######."
Oh god.. they're fucking racist.
"Oh my god," he muttered loud enough for everyone to hear, "just pick a flavor or die. Seriously. Vanilla doesn't require a doctoral thesis."
The man glanced back.
"What was that, kid?"
Sora didn't even flinch. "I said you're holding up the entire world for a dairy crisis happening exclusively in your brain."
A few people snickered.
The vendor cackled.
The man turned beet-red.
But instead of fighting Sora, he went right back to arguing with the vendor, pounding his fist on the counter so hard the metal bent.
Sora's eyelid twitched like a detonator.
Iswear, I hope a giant hand just-
The thought was tiny. A flash.
But the emotion behind it? Rage, frustration, heat.
The air above the stall shimmered.
Sora froze.
"Wait. Wha-."
Then something enormous tore into existence, right above them.
A translucent red giant hand, steaming like it crawled out of hell's microwave.
Everyone stared.
Sora whispered:
"…oh."
WHOOOMP.
The giant hand came down like God smacking a mosquito.
The big guy burst like a tomato dropped from a rooftop — blood misted across Sora's face, chest, and shoes. The vendor screamed so loudly her dentures rattled against her teeth.
Crowd erupts.
"FAULT BEARER!"
"TERRORIST!"
"SOMEONE CALL THE GUARDS!"
"MY TUNA ICE CREAMS ARE RUINED!"
"Ew"
The hand lingered politely in the air.
Sora looked at it.
It wiggled a finger at him.
He inhaled.
Then turned and ran.
---
Downfall Market exploded into chaos behind him.
Sora sprinted through the crowd, pushing people aside, yelling:
"OUTTA THE WAAAY! HEARD THE ICE CREAMS GRANNY IS GIVING FREE SUNDAE!." Sora shouted his voice reaching the innocent bystander across the streets.
"THAT'S DISGUSTING!"
"FREE MINT PICKLE SUNDAE!"
"HOLY SHIT LET'S GO DUDE!"
What the fuck is wrong with this people. Sora quietly accepts that maybe he's truly the last normal person.
In the midst of his internal turmoil a sudden voice behind him suprised him causing ice cubes to manifest in his back.
Not so useful invisible hand!.
"There you are!"
A group of local thugs spotted him.
"There! The Fault brat!"
"Get him!"
"Boss says we tie him up and drop him in the bay!"
Sora didn't break stride.
"Tell your boss to eat my entire—AAAAH!"
He tripped over a crate of pirated toys and face-planted into a pile of illegal plush frogs. He shoved his way out, a frog stuck on his head like a helmet.
Three thugs cornered him.
One with arms thicker than a his own head, another with teeth pointing in every direction except useful ones, and a third holding a frying pan like it was a sacred relic.
"Kid," the big one said, "this is the end of the line."
Sora raised a brow.
"listen- man, I just wanted a vanilla soft serve, nothing more and nothing less-"
They charged.
Sora didn't think.
He just felt that flare — that spike — that *snap*.
The red hand appeared again.
Smaller.
Faster.
BAM! BANG! SLAP! SWAT!
Three bodies launched in three different directions like poorly thrown darts. One hit a dumpster so hard the lid snapped shut on his ankle.
Sora pointed at the dumpster guy dramatically.
"That's what you get for trying to beat up a hungry man!"
He sprinted off again.
Running through alleys, over rooftops, smashing through drying laundry like a red-stained raccoon.
Sirens began blaring across the district.
He stopped in an abandoned industrial zone, panting, wiping blood off his chin.
"Okay," he said out loud, "cool. Great. Love that. Totally normal day. I'm definitely not having a mental breakdown. No sir."
He straightened up.
Then something metallic clinked above him.
Sora looked up.
A man stood on a stack of rusted shipping containers.
He looked like a Japanese hobo who cosplayed Tyler Durden at thrift stores:
* Red leather jacket with one sleeve missing
* Sweatpants stained with something definitely illegal
* Hair that fought gravity and won
* A toothpick he held like it was a divine relic
* A Hawaiian shirt with weird dicklike patterns
He stared down at Sora with the disinterest of a man watching a pigeon fall into soup.
"You made a lot of noise, kid."
Sora frowned. "no shit Sherlock, what's next? You're gonna tell me you used to post edits of Tyler durden on TikTok and unironically called yourself a sigma male.?"
The man smirked.
"Fair."
He hopped down — landing nearly silent, absurdly graceful for someone who looked like he ate expired noodles for breakfast.
Up close, he smelled faintly of cigarettes, sewage, and weirdly… citrus shampoo?
He inspected Sora briefly.
"Projection-Type Fault. Weird. Haven't seen that since the Yamayasu Incident."
Sora shrugged. "Okay cool, what the hell is a Projection-Type Fault and who the hell are you?"
The man leaned in, eyes sharp.
"Tarou."
Sora squinted.
"Just… Tarou? Like a brand of cheap snacks?"
"Kid, I'm standing here in sandals and a jacket that's older than your bloodline. Do I look like someone who gives a damn about brand names?"
Sora snorted.
"…fair."
Tarou tugged his toothpick out of his mouth and pointed it at Sora's forehead.
"You've got a Fault. And that means you're screwed."
"Pretty sure I was screwed before the magic hand," Sora replied.
Tarou grinned. "Yeah. But now you're *officially* screwed."
He tapped Sora's forehead.
"You awaken a Fault? Government labels you a threat. A terrorist. A walking disaster."
"I mean," Sora said, gesturing to the blood on his clothes, "they're not *entirely* wrong."
"Don't be a smartass. You killed a guy because he annoyed you."
"Hey, I didn't *order* the hand. It just showed up."
Tarou shrugged. "That's worse. No control. No stability. You're a walking emotional landmine."
He started walking deeper into the shadows between the containers.
Sora didn't follow yet.
"Why are you telling me all this? Doesn't look like you're the neighborhood guidance counselor."
Tarou didn't look back.
"Because most rookies piss themselves, cry, or beg for help."
He turned his head slightly.
"But you? You mouthed off at armed thugs, crushed three guys like flies without flinching, and immediately started talking shit again."
Sora blinked.
"…thank you?"
"It's not a compliment." Tarou said. "It means you're either fearless… or too stupid to know when you should be scared."
Then he pointed his toothpick toward the alley.
"Come on, kid. Before the real hunters show up."
Sora hesitated.
"…And if I don't?"
Tarou finally looked back — and for a moment, his expression shifted.
Not the lazy, greasy hobo vibe.
Something older.
Colder.
The kind of presence that made rumors whisper and criminal empires tremble.
"If you don't come with me, Sora Daburu," he said softly, "you're gonna die before sunset."
The weight of his words settled like ash.
Sora swallowed.
"…Alright, fine. But only because I still haven't eaten ice cream."
Tarou smirked.
"Good. You can cry about that later."
Sora jogged after him.
"Wait—how do you know my name?!"
Tarou's grin didn't fade.
"I know everybody worth knowing."
Sora snorted.
"Wow. Flattery from a homeless uncle."
Tarou ignored him.
And somewhere behind them, Downfall Market kept screaming.
Because this was the day Sora Daburu awakened.
The day he became a Fault Bearer.
And the day a middle-aged disaster man in sandals decided he might be worth saving.
Or weaponizing.
Or both.
---
"Damn it! He lied to us! There's no free pickle sundae!."
"Dude, really? Pickle? Everyone knows that mustard ice cream is the best."