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The bright sun bore down onto a vast field of vibrant green grass, its warmth as comforting as it was unrelenting, casting long shadows across the rolling land. The grass swayed lazily, stirred by a breeze that carried no scent of earth or pollen. At the center of it all, a hill rose upward smoothly.

Grimm found himself seated without warning.

There was no sensation of falling, no jolt or disorientation—simply the abrupt awareness of weight beneath him and structure around him. A chair. Before him stretched a long table, its surface concealed beneath a pristine white cloth that did not ripple in the wind. The fabric lay perfectly still, unmarred by dust or crease.

The table was filled with food—far more than was necessary. Plates upon plates of pastries were arranged with careful symmetry: cookies iced in patterns, cakes layered and decorated with meticulous detail and muffins crowned with icing. Teapots rested between them, accompanied by matching cups and saucers, steam raising upwards. Everything was excessive, but seemingly not chaotic, merely curated.

Grimm took note of his position. He was seated at the very end of the table, removed from its center. To his side were two chairs. One was occupied by a doll shaped like a hare, dressed in a purple suit far too refined for its stitched body, its glassy eyes fixed forward in perpetual attentiveness. The other held a rat—scrawnier, poorly proportioned, its form uneven as though assembled in haste or neglect.

On the opposite side sat another doll: a man with a tall hat perched at an angle that suggested something other than accident. Beside him was an empty chair, conspicuously vacant.

"Apologies for dragging you here so suddenly. But I did send a messenger."

The voice cut cleanly through the ambience.

Grimm lifted his gaze across the length of the table. There sat Alice—small and composed. She raised a teacup to her lips with refined movements, sipping as though this were an ordinary afternoon ritual. When she lowered the cup, her ocean-blue eyes settled on him.

"I don't care for your tea parties, girl," Grimm said flatly.

His attention shifted to his armored fist instead, the black gauntlet pristine. He clenched his hand slowly, listening to the creak of alloy, then released it again. The motion was grounding to him.

Alice regarded him with a unimpressed stare.

"Still haven't learned any manners, I see," she said, her tone light but filled with faint disappointment. She sighed, setting the cup down with a soft clink. "And I went through all that trouble. I had to bring your entire body into this realm. It seems I can't separate your soul from your body—how tedious."

She tilted her head slightly, studying him as if he were a puzzle that refused to come apart the right way.

"Granted," she continued, almost idly, "I did have to wait until that fairy of yours fell asleep before I could whisk you away. She's… persistent."

Grimm did not answer right away.

Instead, his gaze drifted outward, past the table, past the hill, across the vast, vigorous plains that stretched in every direction. The grass, the sky and the distant horizon—it was all too clean and complete. Too perfectly constructed.

"Change in décor?" he asked at last.

Alice's lips curved faintly. "Of course. If I'm to have visitors, I need to tidy up my realm, don't I?" she replied, as though the answer were self-evident.

Grimm leaned back slightly, his helmet tilting as he studied the sky. The blue was flawless, untainted by haze or imperfection. Clouds drifted in patterns that felt rehearsed. The sun hung in place, radiant and warm.

("Hm,") he thought. ("She calls it a realm—but what does she mean by that?")

He focused his gaze, piercing deeper than appearances. Beyond the sky, beyond the illusion of atmosphere.

("An artificial sun? Is this a pocket dimension?") His eyes traced farther still, mapping what should not have been visible. ("No… there are stars beyond the atmosphere as well.")

He turned his attention back to Alice.

"So this is a separate universe," he said slowly, "or merely a pocket dimension nested in another space?"

Alice swirled the tea in her cup, watching the liquid rotate before answering. "Nothing so undignified as the latter," she mused. "The former." She took another sip, entirely too casual for what she was admitting. "Though creation isn't my forte," she added. "Even so, I wanted a space big enough to be comfortable. Unfortunately, I can't make my realm infinite like the Nine Realms. A pity, really."

"Interesting," Grimm said.

His thoughts moved quickly now.

("If she isn't exaggerating… creating something on this scale—stars, solar systems, galaxies—would require absurd output.")

He considered, briefly, whether she could direct that power offensively. The idea lingered only a moment before his interest drifted elsewhere.

"Why have you brought me here this time?" he asked.

Alice set her cup down again and reached for a simple chocolate cookie, lifting it from a spotless plate. She bit into it thoughtfully before answering.

"Interest, of course," she said, crumbs clinging briefly to her lip before she brushed them away. "You more than anyone should understand how often interest dictates action." She glanced at him sidelong. "I've been watching you. Your actions thus far are… random. And while that alone is entertaining, there's something else I find far more intriguing."

Grimm folded his arms across his chest. "And that would be?"

"The Cheshire Cat knew you."

Grimm tilted his head slightly. "That grinning cat, I assume."

Alice nodded, a small smile forming. "The very same." She leaned back in her chair, eyes never leaving him. "It's most odd. He isn't like other beings—you could call him stagnant, or perhaps a constant variable. And yet the name 'Grimm' sparked familiarity in him."

Her gaze sharpened, her eyes pressing down heavily.

"The other Alices know you too," she continued quietly. "When I spoke to them, they recognized your name without hesitation." She leaned forward just slightly now, her voice lowering. "So tell me," Alice said, "just who are you, Grimm?"

Grimm merely cupped the chin of his helm, the heavy alloy resting against his gauntlet as he leaned into the gesture.

("Interesting,") he thought. ("So there are those in this realm that know me? But I wonder how that's possible. I have no memory of this realm as a whole—no battles, no crossings, no engagements. Nothing.")

The absence bothered him less than it should have. After a brief pause, Grimm let the thought go entirely. His shoulders lifted in a small, almost careless shrug.

"I am no one of importance," he said at last, his tone dismissive without effort. He made a vague motion with one hand, waving the subject away as though brushing away dust. "Why some may know me is beyond my understanding. Perhaps 'Grimm' is simply a common name in this realm."

Alice watched him as he spoke, her expression unreadable.

"Hm," she murmured softly, leaning back slightly in her chair, the wood beneath her creaking. "You undervalue your part, Grimm." Her fingers tapped idly against the armrest, once, twice—an absent rhythm. "Though it vexes me," she continued, a faint irritation slipping into her voice, "that I do not possess these memories of the other Alices."

For just a moment, something cold passed through her gaze, something that was piercing and dissatisfied. Then, almost instantly, her eerie blue eyes latched back onto him, bright, as though the irritation had only sharpened her curiosity.

"Still," she said, her tone smoothing out again, "initially I wished to meet you because you reminded me of Ddraig." A pause. "But you turned out to be… more interesting."

Grimm gave a quiet, almost inaudible hum. "I don't particularly see it," he replied. "I am a simple man, girl."

Alice did not laugh. Instead, she studied him more closely now, her head tilting just slightly, like one might inspect a flaw in an object.

"The Keepers of Order," she said slowly, "and those others seem to think otherwise." She shifted, resting an elbow against the table and letting her cheek settle into her palm. Her posture was relaxed, but her eyes never left him. "I wonder," she added, voice softer, "where your journey shall take you."

("These Keepers of Order again,") Grimm thought. ("And who are these 'others'?")

The confusion piled up, layer upon layer, but rather than intrigue him further, it dulled his interest. There was little value in chasing things that lay entirely beyond one's scope of knowledge.

"You waste your interest," he said at length. "I am… hm." He paused, as if selecting the proper phrasing were mildly inconvenient. "What would be the best words… ah. Right. I am merely 'going with the flow,' so to speak." His gaze shifted back to her, unreadable beneath the helm. "You should know I have no grand plans. I am fueled only by curiosity."

"Oh, I'm sure you'll acquire 'ambition' yet," Alice mused lightly. "Though that lacking attitude in itself is intriguing enough on its own." Her fingers traced a slow circle against the tabletop. "Still, I find myself curious as to what makes you function, Grimm."

("Hm. This is getting dull,") Grimm thought. ("I assumed this girl might be interesting. Instead, this bores me.)

His interest waned visibly now. He clasped his gauntleted hands together over his lap, the alloy giving a muted sound as it met. Crossing one leg over the other, he settled back into the chair with the attitude of someone preparing to wait out an inconvenience.

"Suppose meaning would be quite nice," he said evenly. "Even so, I have no desire to pursue it. My life as it is… is fine."

Alice's head tilted slowly.

"Fine," she echoed softly. "Merely fine?" Her voice held something almost gentle. "Would you not seek more than mere meaning? A goal? A purpose?" She leaned forward slightly. "Or perhaps something more mundane. Friendship. Familial bonds." A pause, her eyes unblinking. "Perhaps love."

"Those all sound dull," Grimm said, waving the notion away without hesitation.

"Hm…" Alice narrowed her eyes, not in anger, but in careful thought. "I see." Her gaze drifted momentarily, unfocused, as if looking through him. "Perhaps that is why so many hold an interest in you. I suppose you are something of a blank slate."

"I don't particularly care," Grimm said. He rose from his seat, the chair legs scraping against the grass as he stood. "This has become dull. Do not bother me again. I find you uninteresting."

For the first time, Alice's expression changed sharply.

Her smile slipped away completely, vanishing as though it had never existed. Her eyes narrowed, not wide with rage, but thin.

"My, my," she said quietly. "How rude." She straightened in her chair, her gaze locking onto his tall frame with unsettling intensity. "That is no way to speak to a lady so suddenly."

There was a pressure in the air now, it was not forceful, but it was present—like the moment before something breaks.

"It might make me quite angry."

"Is that so?" Grimm replied calmly.

He cracked his neck once, the sound crisp, as he looked down at the small girl before him.

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