The scent of freshly ground coffee beans filled the air as I stepped into Kaffeehaus am See, a cozy little café tucked between a bookstore and a watchmaker's shop along Zürich's Limmatquai. The bell above the door chimed softly, and the barista—a woman in her mid-twenties with auburn hair tied into a messy bun—glanced up from the espresso machine.
"Grüezi," she said, flashing a polite smile.
"Grüezi," I replied, returning the greeting in Swiss German. My accent was flawless—one of the perks of Virtual Personas was instant language assimilation.
I took a seat by the window, where sunlight streamed through the glass and painted the wooden table in gold. Outside, the city moved at a leisurely pace—tourists admiring the Rathaus, locals bundled in scarves against the December chill, trams gliding past like clockwork.
A menu slid onto my table. "The usual, Herr Kaslana?"
I looked up. The barista—Lena, her nametag read—was already holding a notepad, pencil poised.
I blinked. "You remember my order?"
She laughed. "You come here every Friday. Black coffee, no sugar, and a Gipfeli if you're feeling indulgent."
Ah. Right. Psychological Invisibility didn't erase me from existence—it just made me forgettable. But regulars were harder to fade from memory.
"Just the coffee today," I said.
Lena nodded and turned back to the machine.
-Morning Coffee-
Coffee in hand, I pulled out a book—Cognitive Behavioral Therapy for Enhanced Individuals, a text I'd "written" under one of my academic personas. The words were dry, clinical, but the cover was impressive enough to deter small talk.
Across the café, an elderly man flipped through a newspaper, his glasses perched precariously on his nose. A student hunched over a laptop, typing furiously. A couple whispered in French, their fingers intertwined.
Ordinary.
It was strange how comforting that felt.
My phone buzzed. A notification from my banking app—12,300 CHF deposited from Persona #4's consulting gig. Another from Persona #7: Stock analysis complete. Portfolio adjusted.
I sipped my coffee. The bitterness grounded me.
-Walking Home-
After paying (exact change, no receipt), I stepped back into the crisp afternoon. The streets of Zürich were a mosaic of cobblestone and tram tracks, Christmas lights strung between lampposts like lazy constellations.
I took the long route, winding past the Fraumünster, its stained-glass windows glowing sapphire and emerald in the fading light. A street musician played the violin near the bridge, the notes weaving through the air like invisible threads.
I dropped a five-franc coin into his case.
"Danke," he said, barely pausing.
I nodded and kept walking.
-Return home-
My flat was on the third floor of a Jugendstil building, its façade adorned with wrought-iron balconies and ivy. The key turned smoothly in the lock, and the familiar scent of sandalwood incense greeted me.
I toed off my shoes, hung my coat, and set the coffee on the counter. The space was minimalist—a bookshelf of psychology texts, a low sofa, a desk with my laptop. The only indulgence was the gaming PC humming quietly in the corner, its RGB lights pulsing like a slow heartbeat.
I sank onto the couch and exhaled.
Silence.
No cosmic threats, no Phoenix whispers, no existential dread. Just the faint hum of the refrigerator and the distant clatter of dishes from the neighbor below.
I grabbed the gaming laptop on a table and booted up some youtube video's
I smirked. As I began watching the old youtube videos, and Music creators of old before they were popular, I decided to invest more money into bitcoin, considering the explosion it'll have I couldn't wait to see what my wealth would be by the end of the next decade.
-Dinner All for on-
By seven, hunger nudged me toward the kitchen. I wasn't a perfect cook, but I was good at my craft, Arthur's muscle memory made chopping vegetables effortless. And the comprehension skills of the Visionary pathway made thigs quite relaxing.
Sizzle. Garlic hit the pan, its aroma mingling with the simmering tomatoes. Pasta boiled beside it, the water bubbling like a geyser.
I poured myself a glass of red wine—a cheap Merlot, but it did the job—and stirred the sauce. The radio played jazz, the saxophone notes lazy and warm.
When the food was ready, I ate at the counter, scrolling through news articles on my phone.
Stark Industries announces clean energy initiative.
Snow forecast for the weekend.
Nothing urgent. .
I washed the dishes by hand, the boiling water seemingly unaffected by my transcendent biology against my skin.
-Night time memories-
A shower. Teeth brushed. No change of clothes, my outside clothes are my inside clothes, they're fashionable but so comfortable.
I stood by the window for a while, watching the city lights flicker across the lake. Somewhere out there. Somewhere, Magneto plotted, SHIELD watched, Sebastion Shaw began building, Doom schemed.
But not here.
Here, there was only the quiet.
I crawled into bed, the sheets cool against my skin. I opened my phone and grabbed and turned on a song I recorded myself, I played Binary Data IV for myself, I always had preferred having. Music play as I went to sleep and today was no different.
The last thing I saw before closing my eyes was the glow of streetlights on the ceiling, before closing the blinds and surrounding myself in darkness, it was quiet and I was content, my eyes grew heavy as I began to fall asleep.