7

Déjà Vu

Chapter 7: The Story She Wrote

Denji wakes up.

The world is perfect.

He knows this because there's nothing wrong.

His bed is warm. His room is spotless. The morning light filters in just right, not too bright, not too dim. The air smells like fresh linen and something faintly sweet.

He sits up. The motions feel natural. Unrushed. His breathing is even.

He blinks.

Something is missing.

The thought flickers by too fast for him to catch.

He gets out of bed. Dresses. Leaves his room.

The kitchen is waiting for him. The table is set with fresh breakfast. Makima is already there, sipping tea, her presence as steady as the sun rising outside.

"Good morning, Denji."

Her voice is warm. Familiar. Like something he's heard a thousand times.

Denji sits across from her. He picks up his fork, takes a bite of food.

It's good.

It should be good.

His hands don't shake. His stomach doesn't churn. There is no tightness in his chest. He isn't afraid.

Should he be?

Makima watches him, her expression soft. "You're quiet today."

Denji doesn't answer right away. He chews. Swallows. Thinks.

But the thinking feels slow, like wading through deep water.

He lifts his eyes to hers. "This is real, right?"

Makima tilts her head. "What do you mean?"

Denji doesn't know.

He should know.

Shouldn't he?

The fork in his hand feels lighter. The food on his plate looks too perfect. The air is still. No distant traffic. No birds.

He sets the fork down. It makes no sound.

Denji's fingers curl against his thigh. "I had a dream," he says slowly.

Makima rests her chin on her hand. "Tell me."

Denji hesitates.

Because he doesn't remember the dream.

He tries to grasp at it, to pull the pieces together, but it slips. Like sand between his fingers.

He remembers waking up.

He remembers this.

The breakfast. The sun. The perfection.

Again.

His breath stutters. His skin prickles.

He looks at Makima.

She smiles, patient, expectant.

Denji's voice is barely a whisper.

"…How many times?"

Makima blinks.

Then she smiles.

And the world shatters.

The kitchen folds in on itself. The walls blur, ripple, peel away like paper. The ceiling stretches, twisting, warping. The sky outside is wrong. Too blue. Too vast. Too empty.

Denji falls.

Not from his chair.

From everything.

From every breakfast, every conversation, every morning spent in this perfect, looping lie.

He is weightless. Senseless. Thoughtless.

And then—

—He wakes up.

Sunlight filters through the window.

The air smells like fresh linen.

Makima is sitting across from him.

"Good morning, Denji."

His breath catches.

He looks down. His hands are already holding the fork. The food is untouched, still perfect. His chair is warm, like he's been sitting here for hours.

Denji's heart pounds.

His throat tightens.

He remembers.

But the moment he tries to hold onto the memory, the moment he tries to think—

It's gone.

A hole in his mind.

A gap in his existence.

Makima tilts her head. "Something wrong?"

Denji stares.

He doesn't answer.

Because he doesn't know.

Because maybe there was never a question to begin with.

Because maybe, just maybe—

This is exactly how things have always been.