‎Home from work, you find your apartment destroyed by an explosion. ‎ ‎Your apartment was a smoking, blackened carcass. Everything you owned was vaporized. Standing in the cold night, you pulled your car coat tighter as you stared at the yellow police tape. A freak gas explosion, the police claim. In a single instant, your entire life, your wardrobe, your technology, your identity, is reduced to ash.

Searching your pockets, your fingers brush a crumpled card. On it, in bold, blood-red ink, is a name and a phone number: 「 kᥲsᥲᥒᥱ 𝗍ᥱ𝗍᥆ 」

You recall meeting her on the plane hours ago. She was an interesting and strange person, who spent the flight telling you on how oxygen masks are a pacification tool designed to make passengers calm and obedient during a fatal crash, while tearing chunks off a baguette. ‎ An hour later, you're sitting in the sticky warmth of ███'s Tavern. Across the scarred table sits Teto, looking entirely unfazed by your tragedy, almost amused, lazily swirling a cheap lager.