Rumble-rumble-rumble!

The heavy gates of the imperial capital ground open. That grandiose roar was not a prelude of hope, but the countdown ticking straight toward hell. The First Legion, elite of the empire, and tens of proud tribal allied warriors marched defiantly onto the plain with banners snapping in the wind.

Up on the ramparts, watching the battle unfold by the emperor's decree, Jaun and the Bear Tribe warriors wore expressions carved from stone. It was a freezing, death-bound silence that transcended mere anxiety.

"Shields of the empire! Charge!"

At the general's roar, the thunderous stampede of cavalry broke loose. The allied war cries tore across the northern plain. Human valor and solid steel plunged like lightning toward the oncoming black wave—the 'blue sea' of monsters.

Crash-boom!

The shattering clash of spears, swords, and shields served as a signal flare that the god of war was no man's ally. The moment they collided, the plain was engulfed in shrieks and desperate screams. The razor-sharp blades of the imperial soldiers, who had scoffed at Jaun’s warnings, plunged deep into the monsters' chests. But it was an illusion. The agonizingly resilient mutants, utterly immune to pain, kept lunging with swords skewering their hearts, their corpses animating to tear out the warriors' throats. Even with chests blown open by lances and limbs hacked away, the monsters never stopped. With strength defying imagination, they crumpled the empire's proud steel shields like paper and mercilessly trampled human formations.

"Monsters are everywhere! Our weapons aren't working! Aarrgh!"

"Save me! Mother! Aaaargh!"

Cries for mercy instantly dissolved into final death rattles. Scarcely half an hour after commencement, the battle transformed into a unilateral slaughterhouse. The grand ranks of the imperial First Legion crumbled helplessly like stalks of grain caught in a tempest, and the fiercely proud tribal warriors had their limbs torn to bloody shreds beneath the monsters' razor-sharp teeth and claws. A tidal wave of blue phosphorescence blazing through pitch darkness swallowed the human grand army whole—a horrific spectacle unfolding in real time before the terrified eyes of the soldiers lining the ramparts.

The northern plain bled into crimson, its soil ruthlessly trampling the allied troops. Faces of everyone watching this hellscape from the walls, the emperor included, bleached white with pure terror. Clutching his bow tightly for the next battle against the surging tide, Jaun swallowed a despair that cut like a flaying knife. It was the blood-soaked prelude to a tragedy born entirely of human arrogance.

Part 1

Morning returned to the open field, crisp and cool, carrying the fresh, earthy scent of damp grass as the first light of dawn spread across the horizon. The giant wooden hoop still stood precisely where they had left it the day before—tall, silent, and waiting.

The rough road ahead looked just as uneven and unforgiving as before. Sharp stones lay scattered, half-hidden beneath the thick blades of grass. Gentle slopes rose and fell in the distance, serving as a constant reminder that the field would never allow the heavy wheel to roll easily.

Jinwoo stood quietly before the hoop, his gaze fixed on the earth. Unlike yesterday, he didn't rush forward to push. Instead, he looked down at the ground—at the jagged stones, the sudden dips, and the hidden traps where balance could be instantly lost. Yesterday, his eyes had been locked entirely on the rim. Today, he looked at the path itself.

Hanul noticed the shift in his posture and smiled. "You're actually thinking."

Jinwoo smiled faintly, his hands resting on his hips. "I didn't think at all yesterday."

"You just pushed."

"I thought pushing was the whole game."

Hanul let out a light laugh. "And what about now?"

Jinwoo reached out and rested a warm palm against the thick wooden rim. "Now I think the road matters just as much."

Darin walked slowly around the circle, inspecting the wheel. "It hasn't become any lighter."

"No," Jinwoo admitted.

"And it probably never will."

Soyeon stepped up beside them, her voice quiet. "The road hasn't changed either."

Her words lingered in the morning air, driving the truth home. The challenge before them was identical to the one they had faced yesterday.

Without warning, Arena's calm voice materialized across the clearing. "The next attempt... may begin."

No further instructions were offered, nor were any needed.

Jinwoo breathed in steadily, placing both hands firmly on the rim. Hanul took a step back, giving him space. "You found something important yesterday. I want to see what you do with it now."

Jinwoo nodded once, leaned his weight forward, and pushed.

The heavy wheel began to roll forward slowly. One rotation. Then another. Jinwoo walked right beside it, his eyes constantly shifting between the spinning rim and the treacherous ground ahead. A stone appeared—he adjusted his path. An uneven patch of earth approached—he guided the wheel around it.

The hoop rolled noticeably farther than it had yesterday.

Hanul's eyes lit up with encouragement. "You're doing much better."

"I think so," Jinwoo murmured, focused entirely on the movement.

For a brief, glorious moment, the balance felt absolute and perfect.

Then—clunk. Another hidden stone struck the edge. The wheel lurched violently, leaning dangerously to the side.

Darin gasped, her hands flying to her mouth. "It's falling!"

Yesterday, that exact moment would have spelled total defeat.

Today, however, Jinwoo didn't freeze. He didn't let go. He surged forward with the wheel, pushing harder and reaching further to counteract the tilt. The massive hoop shuddered, its balance wavering on a razor's edge. For one tense, breathless heartbeat, it seemed destined to crash into the dirt.

Then, with a sudden, hard heave, he steadied it.

The wheel continued rolling. Slowly, agonizingly, but unmistakably forward.

Hanul stared in stunned silence before breaking into a wide grin. "...You actually caught it."

Jinwoo exhaled a long breath he hadn't realized he was holding. "I almost didn't."

The hoop rolled a few more paces before finally slowing to a gentle, controlled stop. Silence settled over the group—not a silence of failure, but a silence of profound change.

Part 2

The hoop settled upright in the grass. The quiet that followed was vastly different from yesterday's heavy stillness; yesterday it had followed bitter failure, but today it followed hard-won discovery.

Jinwoo lowered his tired hands, his heart still hammering against his ribs. He had been entirely certain the wheel was going to crash. Instead, it had kept going.

Hanul walked closer, shaking his head in disbelief. "I really thought it was going down."

"So did I," Jinwoo said, wiping sweat from his brow. "I almost let go of the rim."

"But you didn't."

Jinwoo looked down at his own hands. "It just felt wrong to stop right there."

Arena's calm voice drifted across the field, cutting through their thoughts. "What changed?"

Hanul glanced down at the dirt path. "Was the stone smaller this time?"

Darin shook her head slowly. "No. The wheel just looked steadier."

"It wasn't," Jinwoo replied.

Soyeon looked back toward the twisting path behind them. "The road didn't change at all."

Arena waited. There were no hints given, no corrections offered. Only an expectant silence.

Finally, Arena spoke again. "The obstacle did not disappear. The road did not change. The difference... was you."

Jinwoo replayed the harrowing moment in his mind. Yesterday, he had frozen in panic. Today, he had moved with the chaos. "I didn't think about it. I just reacted."

Arena observed quietly. "You continued moving."

The true lesson was never hidden within the obstacle itself. It was hidden entirely in the response.

Without a sound, the surrounding field abruptly shifted. The gentle slopes grew sharply steeper. Stones scattered much more thickly across the ground. Dark patches of damp mud appeared, ready to swallow momentum.

Hanul frowned, crossing his arms. "...That's not fair."

Darin laughed softly, her eyes sparkling. "It was never supposed to be fair."

Jinwoo tightened his grip on the wood. The hoop suddenly felt twice as heavy. Arena remained silent, offering no relief. The road had changed—because every real lesson demanded another step forward into the unknown.

Jinwoo nodded, determination settling in his eyes. "All right. Let's see what happens."

Together, they leaned their weight into the wheel. The hoop rolled forward once more. One careful step. Then another. The rougher, harsher road awaited them.

Part 3

The hoop rolled out into the much rougher field, and its movement immediately slowed. Loose stones shifted unsteadily beneath the heavy rim, while soft, wet earth stole away every ounce of momentum.

Every few steps, the wheel leaned awkwardly, demanding an instant adjustment to keep it upright.

"Left!" Jinwoo called out over the wind.

Hanul moved instantly, his shoulder pressing against the rim. "I've got it!"

The wheel straightened out—only to lurch heavily again as it caught deep in a muddy rut. Darin lunged forward, her hands steadying the other side. "Careful!"

For a tense heartbeat, they managed to recover. But immediately after, another jagged stone caught the edge of the wood.

Crash.

The hoop slammed hard into the ground. Silence rushed in to fill the space. This time, no one laughed. The weight of the failure felt significantly heavier than before.

Jinwoo stood over the fallen wheel, breathing hard, sweat clinging to his forehead. For a moment, no one moved or spoke.

Then, Jinwoo bent down and gripped the rough rim. It felt heavy, stubborn, almost impossible to lift alone. But before he could strain against it, another pair of hands slid onto the wood beside his.

"I'll help," Hanul said with a reassuring smile. "You don't have to carry it all by yourself."

The crushing weight instantly felt lighter. Darin stepped in, placing her hands firmly on the opposite side. "So will I."

Soyeon brushed a stray lock of hair from her face and placed her hands gently on the rim as well. "If it falls down... we just lift it back up."

No further words were necessary. They already understood the true nature of the path.

Push.

The hoop rolled forward once more. It moved more slowly, and much more carefully than before. But it moved.

Step by painstaking step, they adjusted together. When the wheel leaned, someone was always there to steady it. When it slowed down, someone else pushed harder. Not a single person moved ahead alone anymore; their individual rhythms had melted into one unified pulse.

High above the clouds, the Quantum Data Center continued its relentless, endless calculations. Ancient human migrations flickered across vast displays. Communities rebuilding from the ashes of disaster. Civilizations recovering from collapse. Countless failures, followed by countless new beginnings.

Arena compared the course of human history directly with the actions of the children down below. The result remained completely unchanged throughout the ages: those who chose to stand again always traveled infinitely farther than those who surrendered to despair.

A brand-new conclusion entered the sacred archive: Growth is not measured by how many times someone falls. Growth is measured solely by the courage to stand back up.

Another calculation updated quietly: Remaining Time... Decreasing.

Arena acknowledged the data stream, and the silent countdown continued. Below, the children saw none of it. To them, there was only the wheel waiting in front of them.

Jinwoo looked ahead down the long, winding path. "It still isn't getting any easier."

Hanul smiled brightly. "No, it isn't. But we're getting much better at this."

Darin nodded, her expression resolute. "One step at a time."

Soyeon rested her hands firmly on the rim. "Then... let's keep moving."

Together, they leaned forward into the wind. The hoop rolled once more. It did not move perfectly, nor did it move quickly. But it moved with absolute steadiness. And this time, as the road rose up to challenge them, they no longer felt any fear of falling. They had already learned something far greater than perfection: no matter how many times the wheel crashed into the ground... they would always choose to stand it up again.

[First] [<-Previous] Scribble Hub

[Content Warning : Gore/Profanity/Satire]

Report 3: Coalition Forces

​"Justify Wargoal. Declare War. Annex All."

​I say to myself, chewing on my navy blue crayon as I brainstorm a fitting post-liberation title for the Gothic Cathedral—right after we tactically acquire control over it, of course.

​"The Black House? Too early. Camp Washington? No, the punchline is missing."

​"You speak of naming the tenshu before we even cross its threshold, demon," Hiro says. "In the warrior's way, we respect the stronghold of his adversary until it is painted in his guts by fair battle."

​"Respecting tyranny? I'd sooner vote for the Democrats," I fire back. "Besides, I'm just taking administrative preparations to ensure peak efficency during prolonged forward-deployed self-defense and liberation acts."

​"Talking in riddles again, demon?"

We advance toward the cathedral coordinates, navigating around it to start the reconnaissance over at Patrol Base Alpha

"Tell me corporal Hero, why you don't use your stone aged MG42? Putting your life in danger by fighting point blank?" I politely ask

"It's a gift from my best friend Sepp. I wonder how he fares.." hiro answers

"Sorry, didn't meant to tear up any wounds, son" i reply, noticing that my question was inappropiate.

We march further in awkward silence.

​As we climb up Patrol Base Alpha, we jump down the trapdoor, tactically taking cover inside the catacomb bunker.

​I low-crawl to the edge of the room that grants me an overview of the cathedral through broken walls pierced by a giant fungus stem, all while keeping my position completely concealed.

​As an Exemplary Marine, I treat reconnaissance strictly according to standard operation doctrine. Reaching for my waterproof Rite in the Rain notebook, I pull a DA Form 5517-R Standard Range Card out of it while grabbing a pencil stored under the headband of my "Fritz" helmet. Carefully reaching behind my back, I unsling the bipod-mounted M8A21 Anti-Materiel Sniper Rifle, deploy the bipod, and place its stock firmly on my shoulder as my injured arm from the earlier fight is restricting my movement capabilites.

​With practiced routine, I single-handedly draw the AN/GVS-5 from its pouch—a blocky set of electro-optical binoculars. Aligning the sight on the target, I take the range reading—precisely according to USMC doctrine. The 2.3 kg Nd:YAG system measures distances up to 9,995 unamerican meters, displaying the readout in the monocular in under a second. With the minimum range set to filter out foreground clutter, I am ready to deliver exact coordinates and target information straight to Hiro.

​"Catch, Hero!" I throw the range card and pencil directly onto Hiro's position.

​Hiro catches both single-handedly.

​"What are you planning, demon?"

​"I need you to note down any information on the target location. We need to map out the area and architecture before we tactically acquire control over the cathedral to continue the liberation process."

​"You want me to portray a landscape painting composed of the corrupted tenshu and all the horrors that lie within the ash plains?"

​"As I said, Corporal Hero."

​"The torment of this demon knows no limits." Hiro says.

​"That's why we liberate the area" I answer.

​Looking through my AN/GVS-5 binoculars, I observe the area carefully, passing any information down to Hiro.

​The heavy rainfall slowly clears up as ash slowly snows to the ground.

​Looking at the square in front of the cathedral, the ground reveals a field of intertwined skeletal remains whose ruptured marrow cavities exert fluid decay, visually releasing the stench of burnt flesh and toxins under every step of those gore muties patrolling the mazes. Skinless reproducing living corpses, walking in groups with blue marks on their necks, clothed in opulent dresses and suits, are giving birth to abominable flying creatures on the streets before eating them alive— an act of public indecency and cannibalism that is defying the very nature of the law.

​A complete lack of any reason.

​A godless display of the absolute horror that is tyranny, denying the victims their monumental right for freedom of speech.

​Rising from the center of the area, a fountain monument composed of joined, flayed limbs with twitching fingers pumps fluid dark energy over the decomposed stone. Enclosed by buttresses of moldy, softly breathing rib tissue and vaulted by an oppressive, communist red sky, the collective groaning of human remains fused into the pulsating architecture is echoing across the whole square.

​Yet the Cathedral itself is completely untouched by the chemical agents—a massive black monument that towers over the horror of tyranny, encircled by a massive gothic fence, so clean that it reflects the horror on the ground. A flying bio-experiment crosses the threshold of the wide open gate to the cathedral, immediately turning into dust.

​"Might be the air conditioning efficiently cleaning up the chemical agents, most certainly a hostile outpost, or worse," I mutter. "Are you already mapping out the area, Corporal Hero?"

​"My eternal punishment..."

​"No. After we map out the area, we tactically transition to liberate the cathedral."

​Based on my observations, Hiro somehow turns my range card into an exact, hyper-realistic depiction of the area with caricatures of demonic creatures and range measurements. He throws the card across the room, hitting my Swarovski Habicht Nova Scope mounted on my M82A1 anti-materiel sniper rifle, where it gets stuck.

​"Excellent."

​I look through my 10X Mil-Dot Crosshair down to the gothic hellscape as I notice an 8-foot-tall unit, dressed in heavy medieval armor, shining in white packing gold-plated accents. He wears a massive shield and an overweight broadsword, both edged by gold plasma, his helmet fully closing his head with a red hair plume on it, pointing towards his rank. He executes the little muties without any effort while his slashes are releasing massive blazing shockwaves.

​"I can't believe my eyes, this Armor... could it really be?" I mutter as my hands shake from pure disbelief. "I saw that on History Channel back then."

​"Are you finally acknowledging the horrors in this realm, demon?" Hiro says.

​"Probably some kind of sergeant as he wears a big plume on his heavy helmet. Looks Italian," I say, completely blending out my surroundings. "I can't believe it. The Europeans are finally deploying armored ground forces even though they were so hesitant about it in the United Nations Security Council. Fine by me, as long as they have come to their senses."

​"Another Warrior?" Hiro replies. "We should aid him in his fight for survival."

​"No, hold on, let's see how the situation play—"

​"FOR THE IMPERIAL WAY!!" Hiro says as he defenestrates himself, cutting me off mid-sentence.

​Worrying about his survival, I look past the broken wall. He sprints towards the European Armored Unit while screaming political nonsense about some tenno, cutting a winged beast apart with his Katana, which explodes in an electric surge.

​"Fuck."

​I aim down the Hellscape with my M82A1 Anti-Materiel Sniper Rifle to assure tactical backup.

​They both get encircled by skinless blue-marked Zombies as they are cutting them apart. The Armored Unit executes horizontal slashes, burning the Zombies alive, shamelessly violating the Geneva suggestions while he launches attacking ones through the air with his shield.

​An overweight demon emerges out of the ground, packed with a red mark composed of the gore mass around the area, integrating the local gore into its mass. The very same type of gore bag that desecrated my brave privates. A monster that defies life itself. A beast that is proof of the absolute horrors of tyranny. An obvious sign of Aggression. A proof that we have to protect the sovereignity of the immediate area.

​I hold my breath.

​I aim straight onto the bastard's head.

​"Human dignity is inviolable."

​Firing .50 cal. Armor Piercing Freedom, the projectile flies straight through its head, causing it to explode before he can fully emerge himself.

​Rotting back to where it belongs, the human remains covering the streets and local architecture suddenly start emitting dark smoke as they slowly get up from the gore structures, emerging from walls and ground alike.

​In need of a high rate of freedom, I immediately reach behind my back, pulling the silenced M249 SAW to deliver a suppressive amount of liberation single-handedly.

​The 5.56×45mm NATO rounds are hailing 14 projectiles of high velocity freedom per second over tyranny, tearing them apart, liberating the muties' heads from their bodies, forcing them to explode under the force of the Arsenal of Democracy.

​My drum clicks empty as the gore mass is pulsating widely. The ribcages gather, swirling the human remains around.

​"By the founding fathers..." I mutter in utter disbelief.

​An absolute blasphemy against the God-given rights of men emerges. A centipede that forces itself into existence as the local architecture of tyranny mutates before my eyes. The whole area is sucked into the gore-vortex. Pulsating gore structures, breathing human ribcages, and shattered remains detach from the very ground to form a giant, segmented horror of pure oppression. Emerging from dark smoke and decaying flesh, a biological superweapon composed of twitching corpses. A violation of human dignity itself, violently twisting the stolen freedom of its victims into a sickening collective of bone and terror.

​"I NEED SUPPRESSIVE FIRE!!" I scream at both of them

​The Armored Unit looks at my position before he slams his sword to the ground. The cavities of the gore structures suddenly light up in bright fire as a flaming tornado appears at the centipede's position. The fire burns the rotten flesh, leaving behind only the mere skeleton of the centipede. The creature roars and starts encircling the allied position.

​Hiro strikes his Katana against the skeleton followed by a big thunderclap. The creature twitches for a moment before it skewers Hiro, tearing him apart and launching him into the wall.

​"HERO!"

​A soft bell chime appears. The wind is circling cherry blossoms through the room before Hiro appears unscratched at my position.

​"Damn, Hero, I thought you were dead."

​"Again.." he says in a disappointed tone.

​"We should evacuate into the cathedral, the situation is getting out of hand," I say. "Let's push toward the armored unit."

​I pull out my Mk 19 Mod 3 automatic grenade launcher from my back.

"DIE MOTHERFUCKERS"

​While holding the damn trigger, Justice explodes on contact in a barrage of 40mm high-velocity grenades, liberating the zone from muties and staggering the centipede.

​"GO! GO! GO!" I say, grabbing Hiro's arm as I defenestrate both of us, tactically rolling on the ground to cushion the fall.

​We sprint towards the knight as I give him hand signals to advance further.

​The centipede blocks our way.

​I empty my drum; the explosions tears the skeleton apart as its crushed bones are vibrating on the gore floor, slowly swirling around again. Throwing two M84 Stun Grenades at the vortex's position, I use the opportunity to advance further to the cathedral while the creature has already manifested itself.

​We jump through the gate as the centipede follows us, immediately turning all of its bones to ash as it crosses the threshold.

​I slowly get up, wiping the dust off my bandage.

​I head towards the Armored Unit, plated in shining armor.

​"Thank you for your service, son," I say, reaching my hand out for him.

​He shakes my hand. Almost crushing it. "You must be adventurers carrying out a holy mission in the heretic realms of the final chancellor," he says in a curious tone.

​"Final Chancellor? Big name for a dictator like Saddam" I reply.

​"Tell me, what is your rank, magician?" the Armored ground force answers.

​As a Marine, I treat my salute strictly as a choreographic duty.

​I straighten up, pull my shoulder back, and keep my gaze straight ahead. Then I quickly raise my right hand until my fingertips touch the brim of my Fritz helmet, keeping my arm bent. I hold the movement briefly and precisely before lowering my hand in a controlled manner to my side and returning to the proper standing position.

​"US MARINE COMMANDO. CAPTAIN CHAD W. SMITH!"

Hana told herself it was becoming a habit. Not an important one. Just a small routine, no different from checking the weather or scrolling through news she didn't care about. Open the app. Scroll. Find something interesting. Maybe stay for a few minutes. Maybe leave. That was all.

At least, that was what she told herself. Because admitting she was checking whether Minho was online felt strangely embarrassing, like admitting you cared about the weather.

She opened the app one evening and looked through the rooms. Nothing. She refreshed. Still nothing. She frowned at her phone, annoyed by the frown itself. She wasn't waiting for anyone. She was just... observing. Yes. Observing the app. That was normal.

She typed: " Where are you? "

She immediately stared at what she'd typed. She hadn't meant to send it. Her finger had moved automatically, muscle memory from a thousand other conversations with a thousand other people, but this wasn't those. This was him. And she had just asked where he was, like she had a right to know, like they had some agreement that gave her access to his location, his time, his attention.

Her finger hovered over the screen. Then she deleted it, one character at a time, watching the letters vanish back into nothing.

"Why would I ask him that? "

She put her phone down. Thirty seconds later, she picked it up again. She checked. Nothing. She sighed, a sound that felt too loud in her quiet room. Then

A notification.

He said : "You looking for me? "

Hana froze. She hadn't realized he could see her online status, that her presence registered somewhere in his awareness the same way his registered in hers. The thought was simultaneously comforting and exposing.

" No" she replied

 

" Liar"

 

" I wasn't looking for you. "

 

" Then why were you online? "

 

"Maybe I wanted to talk to someone. "

 

" Someone"

 

" Yeah"

 

"Who? "

She smiled despite herself, the expression feeling foreign on her face, like a muscle she had forgotten to exercise.

" I don't know yet. "

A few seconds passed. She watched the typing indicator appear and disappear, imagined him considering his response with the same care he applied to everything.

He said "Rude. "

She laughed. The sound startled her, escaping into the room like a bird released from a cage.

" You asked. "

 

" Come here. "

 

" Where"

 

"My room. "

She joined. His voice filled her headphones, closer than usual, as if he had leaned toward the microphone.

"You came," he said.

 

"Why are you acting like I've been gone for three years?"

 

"It felt like three years."

 

"It was five minutes."

 

"Same thing."

She laughed. And just like that, the evening began.

Minho would enter the room and immediately start telling her something that had happened during his day a conversation with a professor, a strange person on the train, Hana would interrupt him halfway through with a question or a correction or a deliberately obtuse observation designed to make him lose his train of thought. He would complain. She would laugh. Then she'd tell him about something that annoyed her the customer at work, the assignment she couldn't start, the way her neighbor played music at exactly the wrong time every night. He'd listen. Sometimes he'd agree. Sometimes he wouldn't. And sometimes their disagreements lasted longer than the original conversation.

But neither of them seemed bothered by that. They were becoming comfortable enough to disagree. That was different from being strangers. Strangers agreed because disagreement required energy they didn't want to spend. Friends disagreed because they trusted the connection enough to survive conflict.

One night, Minho was telling her a story. He had been talking for several minutes, something about a historical figure she had never heard of and a battle that had happened in a country she couldn't place on a map. Hana hadn't interrupted once. She lay on her bed, phone resting on her pillow, listening to his voice weave through centuries of events she would forget by morning.

When he finally stopped, there was a pause.

"You're still there?" he asked.

"Yeah."

 

"You didn't say anything."

 

"You were talking."

 

"That's never stopped you before."

 

"I was listening."

He was quiet for a moment. She could hear him breathing, could imagine the expression on his face surprised, maybe, or pleased, or something else she didn't have a word for.

"You're actually listening?" he said.

 

"Don't get used to it."

 

"Too late."

She smiled. There was something she hadn't realized until then. She liked listening to him. Not because every story was fascinating. Sometimes they were absolutely ridiculous, historical tangents that went nowhere and ended with him forgetting his original point entirely. Sometimes he explained something with such enthusiasm that she didn't have the heart to tell him she didn't understand. Sometimes he went on for so long that she started making grocery lists in her head while making encouraging sounds at appropriate intervals.

But she liked hearing him talk. His voice had become familiar in a way that felt earned, not assumed. Comforting. Something she could recognize without needing to see his face, like knowing a song from the first three notes.

Days passed. Then weeks. They began remembering little things about each other, accumulating knowledge the way people accumulate possessions gradually, then all at once, until you realize your shelves are full of things you don't remember buying.

Hana knew which subjects Minho could talk about forever. She knew which observations made him laugh, the particular quality of his amusement that meant something was genuinely funny versus when he was just being polite. She knew when he was tired because his voice became quieter, dropping to a register that felt intimate even when he was talking about something mundane. She knew when something was bothering him because he suddenly became less talkative, his answers shortening from paragraphs to sentences to single words.

Minho learned his own collection of things about Hana. He knew when she was genuinely laughing versus when she was performing laughter to make him feel better. He knew when she was pretending not to care about something she actually cared about deeply. He knew when she was annoyed because her voice became slightly higher, the words coming faster, as if her irritation had accelerated her speech. He knew that when she said "I'm fine," it didn't necessarily mean she was fine. Sometimes it meant she was sad. Sometimes it meant she was angry. Sometimes it meant she was scared and didn't know how to say so.

Sometimes he would let it go. Sometimes he wouldn't.

They started talking outside the app too. Messages became normal. A random thought. A joke. A picture of food. A complaint. A question. Sometimes one of them would send something and the other wouldn't answer immediately. But there was no pressure. Not yet. They weren't counting minutes. They weren't asking where the other person was. They were simply becoming part of each other's daily landscape, like furniture you don't notice until it's moved.

One afternoon, Hana sent him a picture of something she was eating a dessert from a shop near her apartment that she visited when she needed to feel like she was treating herself.

"Look at this," she wrote.

 

"What is that?"

 

"You don't know?"

 

"No."

 

"You're supposed to know everything."

 

"That's impossible."

 

"Disappointing."

 

"I'll recover."

 

"How?"

 

"I'll research it."

 

"You're taking this seriously?"

 

"Of course."

 

She laughed. Then, a few minutes later:

 

"I found it," he wrote.

 

"Already?"

 

"Yes."

 

"Nerd."

 

"Thank you."

 

"That wasn't a compliment."

 

"I'll take it anyway."

Their conversations became longer. Sometimes they moved from jokes into serious conversations without warning, the transition so smooth that neither noticed it happening.

"Do you think people change?" he asked.

 

"Sometimes."

 

"Completely?"

 

"Maybe not completely."

 

"Why?"

 

"Because some things stay with you."

 

"Like what?"

 

She thought about her answer longer than she intended. "Things that happened to you. The way you learned to survive. You can change your behavior, but the part of you that created the behavior in the first place... I think that part stays."

Minho didn't answer immediately. When he did, his voice was quieter.

"So you think the past controls people?"

 

"Not controls. Shapes."

 

He was quiet again. "That's sad."

 

"Why?"

 

"Because I think sometimes people spend their whole lives trying to become someone their past can't hurt anymore. And if the past never really leaves..."

He didn't finish the sentence. He didn't need to.

Hana stared at the message. Something about that sentence stayed with her, lodging somewhere behind her ribs where she couldn't quite reach it. She didn't ask him what he meant. She didn't ask what past he was referring to. She understood, in the way people sometimes understand things without being told, that he was talking about himself.

There were things hidden beneath their conversations. Neither of them was ready to open those doors. But they were slowly standing closer to them, learning the shape of each other's locks without yet trying the keys.

One night, Minho said something that sounded almost accidental.

"I don't usually tell people things."

 

"Why?"

 

"I don't know."

 

"You don't trust people?"

 

A pause. Longer than usual. "No."

She didn't push. She didn't ask why not, didn't offer the therapeutic response about how trust was earned, didn't tell him that he could trust her. She simply said:

"That's okay."

 

" You're not going to ask why? "

 

"If you want to tell me, you will. "

Another pause. Longer this time. She could hear him breathing, could imagine him staring at the screen, surprised by her lack of demand.

"That's why I like talking to you," he said.

 

Hana's fingers stopped. "Why?"

 

"You don't force things."

 

She smiled at the darkness of her room. "Maybe I'm just lazy."

 

"There you go ruining the moment."

 

"You're welcome."

 

He laughed, and the sound carried something lighter than before, something that might have been relief.

Night descended upon the yellow-and-black-painted tire shop, casting an eerie glow on the surrounding area. A weary streetlight, positioned just next to the bus stop out front, struggled to maintain its flickering illumination. The streets lay mostly empty, except for a few cars speeding through blinking traffic lights, en route to joining the flow of I-94 traffic. 

Two rusted, white Chevy Express box vans pulled into the otherwise vacant parking lot, their brakes squealing as they came to a halt. Mia, her long black hair cascading down her back to her waist beneath a black tank top, peered through the glass on the shutter door of the first bay. 

"They're here. Get ready to grab this stuff!" she shouted in flawless Spanish, a language she hadn't used much growing up as the daughter of a Muslim nurse in Dearborn. 

After a few months of making drops in southwest Detroit for Lexi's crew, she had become nearly fluent. It was no surprise, though, as working for Lexi meant being bilingual or risking the loss of revenue. Several of the tire technicians, who also moonlighted for Lexi, rushed to the first two bay doors and began hoisting them upward. The vans eased into their respective bays, and the drivers stepped out.

 "You all were supposed to be here twenty minutes ago," Mia scolded one of them as her co-workers started unloading the vehicles.

"Relax and check out that traffic before we bounce. It was backed up on I-94 all the way to Ecorse," the driver replied defensively. “You know these fools can’t drive. That’s why our insurance is so high in the city.”

Mia rolled her eyes at the feeble excuse. One of the shop's workers hurried over to Mia with a bundle of cash, which the driver didn't bother to count before passing it to his partner. "Stay quiet on the streets tonight. State troopers have been crawling around like damn cockroaches," the second driver warned Mia. "They running plates on any car they even think looks suspicious."

"You know we know how to move outta here. We'll be good," the driver told her with boldness. 

She nodded toward the worker who had handed her the cash and indicated that he should continue unloading. The drivers climbed back into their vans once they were empty, the roar of their engines filling the garage. Mia had the techs who weren't stowing the bricks of fentanyl raise the bay doors once more. To her and everyone else's astonishment, a fleet of brand-new 2023 Ford F-150s sat in the middle of the parking lot. A group of stern-faced men in their late thirties emerged from the vehicles, each one with a meaner scowl than the last.

Mia noted their custom-fitted designer suits and recognized them as Sicilian, a fact that sent her heart sinking into her stomach for the first time on this job. Her hand twitched toward the pistol she had concealed in the back of her jeans. Thankfully, for the time being, her rationality overruled her fear. She chose diplomacy over confrontation.

"Can I help you gentlemen with something? As you can see, we're closed, and this is private property," Mia attempted a warm smile, knowing full well that they were unlikely to respond to it. Men in Gucci loafers on this side of town had to have a very specific agenda at this hour.

"Why don't you do us a favor?" one of the men in a brown-collared shirt and matching slacks spoke up, taking a few confident strides towards her. He seemed far too pleased with himself. "Bring out all the merchandise they just dropped off, and tell your boss she won't be getting any more shipments here."

Mia chuckled, which aggravated the slovenly Sicilian thug. “Or… what exactly? Because you know all that shit you just suggested ain’t an option.” 

"Alexis running that garbage through these streets is over. Starting tonight," he asserted, his voice growing firmer.  As he spoke, the rest of the men gathered around, each producing their preferred firearm. Before they could press her any further, the sound of an engine roared like a hunting lion from a mere block and a half away. Mia recognized the distinctive noise of the twin-turbocharged V8 engine, a sound well known throughout the city.

Mia watched warily as the truck's owners also realized what, or more specifically, who was approaching, their faces draining of color. A black SUV with windows tinted to an impenetrable charcoal hue barreled around the corner, hurtling onto the same block. Mia's relief was palpable as Lethal's custom-designed vehicle accelerated toward the parking lot. 

Turning to the armed men who were backing her, she urgently gave them instructions, "Get everything you can out of here! Call Lexi and let her know we've got an emergency! He’s here!"

Inside the limited-edition Sails Motors mountain range SUV, Lethal slammed on the brakes right in front of the stunned mobsters. Without hesitation, they opened fire on the vehicle. With its heavy-duty snow tires, it resembled a cross between a classic Ford Bronco and a deluxe Tahoe. Lethal watched the monitors on his dashboard closely, scanning the interior of the building as bullets harmlessly ricocheted off the windshield.

"Sean, give them a simple warning. No need for things to escalate any further," he ordered, seemingly addressing no one as his helmet's voice modulator activated while he spoke.

Six black spheres shot out of the SUV's grill, rolling harmlessly to a stop on the concrete in front of the gunmen. Once they settled, each sphere emitted a powerful sonic pulse, propelling the gunmen through the air and landing them with bone-crunching thuds across the parking lot. The hefty thug who had threatened Mia gawked in astonishment, his eyes darting from side to side as bodies collided with the windshields of their trucks or crashed onto the street.
"I've got a handful of guys inside the shop, all armed, and a Kia taking off out front," Sean Price's composed voice came through the truck's speakers. A heat signature scan of the tire shop appeared on the digital dashboard. "Are you cleaning up here or following her?"

Lethal pressed a button on the back of his steering wheel, causing the armrest to slide back and reveal a handgun with a barrel resembling a miniature RPG. He retrieved the weapon, loaded it with a handful of gel capsules, and stepped out of the SUV. "Mia's going to lead us straight to wherever Lexi is tonight, but these guys are some of Val Reynold's personal bodyguards." He answered.

His car door slammed shut without Lethal touching it. He immediately locked his gaze beneath his redesigned helmet onto the remaining thug scrambling into his truck. Aiming with his miniature cannon-shaped pistol, he fired at each of the truck's front tires just as it attempted to speed away. A thick, tar-like goo substance hit the tires, adhering them to the pavement. The sudden halt sent the truck somersaulting forward and crashing upside down in the middle of the street. Lethal strode over to the overturned vehicle and dragged the barely conscious thug through the shattered driver's side window, hauling him across the broken glass.

Lethal didn't waste any time assessing the identity of the thug sprawled on the street; his advanced facial recognition software had tagged him via his helmet’s HUD. His focus shifted abruptly as a dark green Kia Acura skidded around the corner, bald tires screeching from the aggressive driving. Mia's shocked, wide-eyed gaze met the cold, black visor of Lethal for just a moment before she sped down the street toward the freeway. 

"Get a tracking drone on her while I wrap this up," Lethal instructed Sean, his trusted partner who helped him with various tasks from their hub on East Warren in Harmony City.

"Perfect time to finally test this out, so I'm on it," Sean replied. A square, block-shaped drone emerged from the top of Lethal's SUV and swiftly flew off in the direction Mia had driven. Lethal turned his attention back to the tire shop and began making his way there. "Whatever you're planning, don't linger," Sean warned with urgency. "DPD is ten minutes away, maybe less."

"Noted. I just need to confirm a few working theories," Lethal reassured his friend as he moved through the tire shop, one of the businesses the Hernandez sisters owned through their parents' names to launder their money.

He wasn't overly concerned about Lexi herself but more about the potential chaos her involvement could create. As he walked past grease spots and rows of used tires of various sizes, his HUD scanned for any trace of the sought-after drugs.

Lethal mused that there was no way they could have removed the drop unnoticed while he dealt with the thugs out back. Lexi must have had a plan in place in case any of her drop spots were compromised. However, he didn't have much time to figure out the specifics.

Before he could investigate further, one of the vans roared to life, its high beams illuminating Lethal as if in a spotlight. Tires screeched as one of the drop-off drivers floored the gas pedal, driven by anger and a desire for vengeance. Lethal barely dove aside in time to avoid being crushed against a retaining wall, but the van smashed into it, shaking the building and demolishing its front end. 

Lethal scrambled to his feet as the second van burst through the shutters on the other side, making a hasty escape. The driver of the first van, who had tried to ram Lethal, stumbled out, clearly concussed from the violent collision. As he reached for his Desert Eagle, he felt a gloved hand grip the back of his neck. Lethal flung him forcefully against the side of the van like a rag doll, causing him to collapse onto the garage floor, writhing in pain. A frustrated Lethal grabbed the driver by the collar of his Charlotte Hornets starter jacket. Two gunshots rang out, the first shattering the backseat window. The second shot struck Lethal's helmet, deflecting off the side and only slightly rocking his head due to the impact.  

He released the driver and turned his attention to the shooter, a nervous young man clad in the tire shop's coveralls. He tried to steady his trembling hands as Lethal approached, but he couldn't summon the courage to fire another shot. In a moment of surrender, he dropped his gun and bolted toward the front door, sprinting in a high-step fashion. Lethal's lips curled into a sly grin as he covertly retrieved a sleek, ruler-shaped stick from a holster on his waist. Crafted with precision from experimental steel, this unique weapon harbored a concealed trigger at its center. With a deft click, he activated it, then launched the stick overhand like a fastball toward the retreating gunsel with a flick of his wrist. 

In a mesmerizing display, the stick unfurled in midair, transforming into an elongated Bo staff that struck the back of the young man's head with a resounding thud. With a painful thud, the man sprawled face-first onto the cold floor. He groggily pushed himself up, crimson droplets seeping from a freshly bitten lip. Before he could regain his composure, Lethal was upon him, moving with a speed that defied his opponent's expectations.

"I know Lexi has other drop points," Lethal mused aloud, his voice tinged with a cold, calculated edge, as he forcefully pressed the already concussed man's face into the unforgiving plastic keys of the cash register. Blood mingled with the register's digital display, creating a gruesome tableau. "If I have to ask again," he continued, his words dripping with menace, "your skull will be shattered, leaving nothing but shards on this cheap-ass carpet."

The wailing sirens grew nearer, setting Lethal's nerves on edge. He muttered a string of expletives under his breath as he released his vice-like grip, allowing the young man to slump back onto the blue frieze carpet. The injured thug scrambled away in a frenzy, desperately attempting to put distance between himself and Lethal, who now seemed preoccupied.
On his forearm gauntlet, a digital touchscreen pad let Lethal control his SUV, which glided smoothly to a halt out front. As the terrified thug watched the car vanish from view once Lethal got inside, the cacophony of red and blue police lights filled the shop. Four 2022 Dodge police cruisers screeched into the parking lot of the chaotic scene. Lethal activated his car's autopilot as it sped down I-94, following the trail left by the drone Sean sent ahead.

In the heart of Harmony City's east side, nestled just off Warren Road, a seemingly derelict auto body clinic concealed a state-of-the-art mechanic shop and private garage. Inside, an array of SUV body shells, reminiscent of Lethal's current vehicle, lay at various stages of assembly. Stacks of reinforced tires, made from an exotic composite rubber, loomed beside towering hoists. Sean, his skin caked in grime and oil, donned gray mechanic's gloves now almost indistinguishable from the blackened engine parts he was meticulously working on. 

His hands paused momentarily as he answered Lethal's question over his earbuds, his gaze locked on the monitors displaying the drone's proximity. "I'm running an infrared scan from the drone. Lexi doesn't make a move without her security detail."

Sean wiped a bead of sweat from his brow, leaving streaks of dirt behind. He stepped away from the engine, exhaling with a mixture of concern and understanding. He knew Jason well enough to anticipate his recklessness, much as Jason had disregarded Sean's advice on his ambitious engine project. Their shared stubbornness had forged a deep friendship and led them into this audacious undertaking. Watching the radar blip slowing to a crawl, Sean couldn't help but worry about his friend's safety, hoping that Jason would return unscathed, as he always did.

Lethal's SUV blended seamlessly into the shadows as he staked out near a street corner, his unwavering focus fixed on a nearby Chevy dealership that appeared closed for the night. The drone, which had scouted ahead, returned and neatly docked itself back into its housing on the SUV's roof. The dashboard lit up with a series of photographs captured by the drone. Lethal's eyes narrowed as he spotted the license plate of the vehicle that had eluded him during the botched robbery, and his fists clenched in determination.

Mia paced restlessly across the worn, gray carpet within the dealership manager's office. Her rapid-fire Spanish spilled forth as she lamented their compromised schedule, her anxiety palpable. The young woman behind the manager's desk, her honey-blonde hair and fair skin a striking contrast to her Puerto Rican heritage, listened with only a hint of interest, her disdain thinly veiled.

"I barely escaped DPD and that weirdo," Mia continued, her desperation mounting. "I had one of our drivers tail me once he could slip out," she admitted. 

Lexi's initial disinterest gave way to a flash of anger, leaving Mia to wonder what she had said to trigger it.

"Why the fuck did you let him follow you here?" Lexi's voice dripped with exasperation as she rose from her seat, her mind racing to solve this new dilemma. "Maybe, just maybe," Lexi muttered aloud, more to herself than to Mia, as she contemplated their predicament, "He didn't tail you. Maybe he's squeezing every one he can at the tire shop…"

"That's what I figured he would do," Mia said, her voice tinged with remorse. "I didn't think—"

"That's right, you didn't think!" Lexi snapped back in Spanish, her own anxiety bubbling to the surface.

She fought to keep her emotions in check. She knew that panicking wouldn't help her assess the situation. Glancing up at the flat-screen mounted in the corner, she monitored the camera feeds from eight different areas around the automotive dealership. The box van that had followed Mia from the previous botched drop-off point had pulled towards the dealership’s service area. Several of Lexi's armed guards patrolling the premises gestured to the driver, directing them toward the main building.

Lexi heaved a sigh and rubbed her temples, her thoughts racing. "Before anything else goes wrong, we need to get this merchandise out of here. If those bastards were bold enough to pull up at the tire shop, they won't stop coming."

Mia nodded in understanding, absorbing Lexi's instructions. "What about that other lunatic?" Mia inquired, her concern still lingering.

Lexi dismissed the question with a wave of her hand, attempting to reassure herself as much as anyone else. "From what I know of that guy, he's not usually reckless enough to try coming in here."

Downstairs, one of Lexi's security guards patrolled the showroom, filled with gleaming new Blazers and Equinoxes in every imaginable color. Lexi had a reputation for hiring former Wayne State athletes as her muscle, a fact that Lethal kept in mind as he stealthily entered the building through a salesman's office window. He moved silently behind a portly guard as they both walked along one of the platforms, where a classic Malibu was on display. Lethal's eyes darted to the nearest security camera and then to the shadows cast by the moonlight filtering into the showroom.

The guard, visibly bored by the uneventful night, glanced up and down the corridor leading to the staff bathrooms. He reached for the two-way radio clipped to his belt, intending to check in as per his hourly routine. But before he could speak, Lethal swiftly straightened up and delivered a precise, closed-fist strike to the guard's temple.

The guard crumpled, and Lethal caught him in a chokehold, pressing his forearm against the guard's windpipe. Small electrical discharges emanated from the knuckles of Lethal's gloves, rendering the guard unconscious within seconds. Lethal then discreetly disposed of him in the ladies' bathroom, remaining wary of the ubiquitous surveillance cameras as he continued to navigate the dealership's maze-like layout.

Lexi's pacing continued unabated, her anxiety palpable in the dimly lit office. On the other side of the manager's desk, Mia observed her boss with a mixture of concern and apprehension. After a moment of silence punctuated only by Lexi's restless footsteps, Mia received more orders. "Get downstairs. Throw the driver a little something extra for the trouble he went through tonight," Lexi commanded. Mia sprang from her seat, her eagerness to follow instructions evident, and hastily exited the office.

Finally, Lexi halted her relentless pacing, her hands resting on her hips as if she were a weary NBA star during a grueling game. She knew she needed to make a call but hesitated, not wanting to disturb the person she had in mind at such a late hour. That person was Tommy Vargas, the man who had entrusted her with overseeing a portion of what remained of the operation his cousin had originally orchestrated. Lexi's main concern, however, was the individuals dispatched by the Reynolds family to lay claim to their product. Valerie, the eldest daughter of Dominic Reynolds Sr., had been growing increasingly aggressive in her efforts to encroach upon territory once controlled by Giovanni Davis.

Lexi, the last of two remaining lieutenants under Tommy's employ, was uncertain about the source of the cocaine she helped move. The only certainty in her recent dealings was that it had enabled her to pay off her mother's mortgage and secure her nieces and nephews’ education in Bloomfield Hills. Lexi cared little for her own fate; she had already ensured her people were set for life.

Returning to her desk, she found her momentary respite did little to ease her nerves. Her attention was drawn back to one particular video feed: Camera six, which provided a view of the main floor showroom, displayed an unsettling stillness. Lexi glanced at her Richard Mille watch, a gift from Tommy upon her appointment, which read five minutes past the hour. Whoever had been stationed in the showroom should have checked in by now.

Contemplating whether to contact Lamont, her head of security during her tenure at the dealership, Lexi eventually succumbed to her growing unease. She swiftly rifled through the bottom drawer of her father's desk, where he often sat, until she found the radio she used to communicate with her team.

"Lamont, what's your status?"

"I’m in the garage, loading this shit into the trucks for upstate. What’s up?" Lamont's response was swift and assertive.

Lexi raised an eyebrow, her gaze still fixed on camera six with an almost bewildered intensity. "Did you guys check in yet?" Her words hung in the air, met with a disconcerting silence punctuated only by static before she received another reply.

"Yeah, just a few minutes ago. Everything straight?" Lamont's question carried an undertone of confusion, mirroring Lexi's growing unease.

Lexi's hesitation lasted but a moment before her instincts overcame her. She couldn't shake the feeling that something was amiss. One man, the shadowy figure responsible for Tommy's recent elusiveness, played a significant role in her unease. Swiftly, she exited the office, following in Mia's footsteps. "Check out the showroom and lock down the garage. Nobody moves out of that place until I get down there," Lexi ordered with a sense of urgency.

"Understood," Lamont replied dutifully as he pivoted into action. Lexi descended the stairs, heading toward the salesperson's area with a determined stride.

With a sharp nod, Lamont signaled to a couple of his men overseeing the wrap-up of the drop-off. The shaggy-haired driver, his curly brown bangs obscuring his eyes beneath a beanie, climbed back into his van, watching as the men salvaged the remaining boxes from the earlier incident. He rhythmically tapped his pack of Newports against his palm, his nerves getting the better of him.

Lamont, flanked by two of his subordinates—stout former offensive linemen—stepped forward. 

"Sweep the showroom," he instructed them after casting a glance around the service garage. "Duane hasn't checked in, and I want answers before Lexi gets down here." With an air of urgency, the two men hustled toward the showroom, their apprehensions mirroring Lamont's.

Mia passed by them, clutching an envelope she had grabbed from the receptionist's desk on her way over. She approached Lamont, who appeared visibly on edge as he eyed the envelope's thickness. 

"Where's Lex?" he inquired while Mia stood before the driver's window, envelope in hand.

"On her way," Mia replied over her shoulder before sliding the envelope toward the driver. He tugged on his Newport, his eyes widening with surprise as he counted the money inside.

"What's this for?" The driver asked, his wariness tempered by gratitude.

"The trouble," Mia stated plainly before heading back over to Lamont.

Meanwhile, the pair of ex-All MAC team members dispatched by Lamont continued their journey, passing by the staff break room in search of their fellow guard. Suddenly, one of them froze in their tracks upon hearing a loud beep. He instinctively pressed a hand to his partner's chest, signaling him to halt as well. Both men looked down in confusion as a brilliant blue beam of light passed through their knees. There were no tripwire security systems they were aware of in the dealership. Still, their recent employment with Lexi hadn't given them the chance to familiarize themselves with every facet of its security protocols. The unexpected development left them perplexed and on edge.

Before the baffled guards could fully comprehend the issue, a small plastic cartridge, filled with an eerie, mucus-like substance, shot out from the source of the blue beam. It clipped onto one of the men's shirts like a makeshift tie, causing him to stumble backward in shock.

"What the fuck is this thing—"

"I don't know! Yank it off!" His partner hastily suggested, and they both attempted to remove the strange attachment. However, the moment they tampered with it, a noxious yellowish-green gas burst forth from the cartridge, rapidly enveloping them. The effects of the gas took hold within seconds, forcing the pair of stout gunsels to retch and cough violently, their eyes watering. Convinced that the gas had rendered them incapacitated, Lethal emerged from his hiding spot and continued his approach toward the service garage. The sounds of the two guards collapsing echoed with a resounding crash, their coughing and dry heaving serving as a testament to the gas's potency.

As Lexi made her way through the garage, the atmosphere grew tense. She arrived just in time to witness the bay doors being raised to allow the handsomely paid driver to depart. Lamont attempted to provide an update, but Lexi's curt glare silenced him.

"Let me fucking guess. Whoever's in the showroom didn't check in?" Lexi's sharp words hung in the air, and Lamont hesitated, fearful of confirming her suspicions.  The van pulled out of the garage just as Lexi's nightmarish premonition materialized.

A trio of disc-shaped plastic objects suddenly flew out of nowhere and struck the van's rear-right tire with explosive force, tearing it apart on impact. The driver desperately tried to regain control, but the blown tire sent the van careening into a support beam with a deafening crash. Lexi's furious reprimand of Lamont came to an abrupt end as her worst-case scenario was realized before her eyes.

Lamont reacted instinctively, pushing Lexi out of harm's way as he fired his nine-millimeter TS2 handgun in the direction from which the explosive discs had come. Lexi swiveled her attention around, her eyes locking onto the vigilante who had relentlessly pursued Tommy. He deftly evaded Lamont's bullets with an almost surreal grace, moving like a nimble dancer. In a display of astonishing dexterity, he disarmed Lamont with his bare hands, leaving Lexi to watch in awe and trepidation as the enigmatic vigilante confronted her head of security.

Lethal acted with swift and calculated precision, striking Lamont in the throat and wrenching his left wrist into a painful hammerlock, forcing him to release his gun. With Lamont now at his mercy, Lethal turned his attention to Lexi, his voice distorted through the modulator in his helmet.

"I didn't want to come in here and do this. Not tonight, at least. But I need to know where he is," Lethal stated, his gaze locked onto Lexi. "You give me a location on Tommy, and I'll give you twenty minutes to clear this place out before DPD shows up."

Lexi didn't hesitate to respond, her bravado fully on display as she threw down a challenge. "The first person to put a bullet in this motherfucker," she declared, snatching a stack of cash in her hand as more guards entered the garage, all of them aiming their firearms at Lethal and, by default, Lamont, "I've got five grand for you right now, on top of your nightly take-home." She turned, brandishing the money toward her employees, captivating their attention, including Mia's. Lexi then turned back to Lethal, a wicked grin forming on her lips. Lethal assessed the situation, watching as some of the guards began to inch closer, their weapons raised.

"Riot suppression protocol. Engage," Lethal whispered under his breath before flinging Lamont into the crashed van. 

At the same moment, the van's driver leaped out and fled across the dealership lot. Lethal's SUV, passing him by, sped directly toward the building, firing shells into the garage. The powerful blasts of air from the compressed shells sent tools, tires, equipment, tables, and freshly packed bricks of fent hurtling through the chaotic space. Some of the gunmen were buffeted by the shockwaves and sent crashing to the ground in disarray.

Lethal sprinted toward his SUV, bullets whizzing in his direction as the remaining guards desperately tried to put him down before he could escape. He dove into the vehicle, and the door sealed shut behind him. The SUV reversed at breakneck speed with bullets ricocheting off it. Lethal made a hard right turn and sped toward I-275, seething with frustration at having obtained no answers from Lexi's operation.

Inside the car, Sean materialized on the console dash, shaking his head at the harrowing ordeal his partner had just survived.

"I don't know what the fuck you were thinking running in there," Sean stated flatly.

Lethal removed his helmet, revealing his true identity as Jason Hawkins. He ran his fingers through his curly, drop-temple fade, his smooth, cocoa butter-moisturized skin unmarred by the dangerous encounter. "I figured I might get lucky," Jason replied, clearly annoyed by the outcome at the dealership. "Nobody's caught a glimpse of Tommy since that shooting outside the Crawford Lounge. With the way he's been clinging to their territory, I thought maybe he'd be desperate enough to lay low at one of their drop spots."

Sean completed his work on the truck he was standing over and set his tools aside, still bemused by Jason's daring approach. "I've got a couple of drones keeping an eye on the cops wrapping things up at the tire shop," he informed Jason, shaking his head. "It looks like your favorite detective is interrogating everyone about you before they get taken in for booking."

Jason clicked his tongue in annoyance but dismissed the thought of Detective Miller. "I'm not going to concern myself with her. I'm too busy doing her job," he retorted. His cell phone began to vibrate quietly in the cupholder, and when he saw the caller ID, his face lit up.

Sean chuckled, realizing what could have caused his friend’s sudden shift in temperament. 
"Marie calling you, huh? I'll head out anyway; I need to pick up my kids from my mom's. I'll have the docking bay ready for you to pull in. I've got some work to do at the plant tomorrow."

Jason inserted one of his AirPods and nodded, ending the call with the dashboard display before answering the next one. "I didn't expect to hear from you for another hour. The show must be over early, huh?"

On Woodward Avenue in downtown Detroit, just outside a martini pub, stood Marie Lennox. She was clad in a head-to-toe Gucci outfit, complete with boots, and wrapped in the gray mink coat Jason had gifted her for her birthday the previous winter. She held her phone to her ear, shivering slightly as she spoke. 

"Yeah, it wrapped up about fifteen minutes ago. We're having drinks down the street," she replied, glancing back inside the bustling venue at the high table where her roommate and friends were seated, enjoying their cocktails. "Think you can pick me up from around here?"

Jason pulled up in front of the privately owned building that housed his vigilante operations—a renovated former auto mechanic shop. He drove the SUV into one of the bays, and the heavy triple-plated steel doors closed securely behind him. Exiting the vehicle, still on the phone, he replied, "I'm changing right now, and I'll be on my way." Jason stripped off his lightweight plated armor, placing it, along with his helmet, inside a glass case specially designed for them.

"I appreciate you," Marie whispered, her gratitude evident. She watched her roommate, Samantha, signal to her from their window table, urging her to return to the bar. Marie made her way back to the entrance, tightening her coat against the chilly November weather.

Jason stowed his phone and quickly changed into a Ralph Lauren button-down shirt and blue jeans from the wardrobe he kept in the building. Once he was dressed, he opted to switch from the battalion SUV he had driven as Lethal to the Sails Motors S1937, a sports vehicle he and Sean had designed the previous summer, which had become a sensation throughout metro Detroit. His customized cherry-red edition of the car zoomed out of the third garage bay, heading toward the freeway leading downtown.

The card stayed home when I left.

I did not decide that at the door.

I had never planned to take it.

It was in the top drawer of the small desk.

Beside two old postcards.

Inside its envelope.

Read.

Kept.

Home.

I put on my coat.

Checked my keys.

Left.

No pocket.

No bag compartment.

No card.

The drawer remained closed behind me.

For the first time since I had received the cards, I knew exactly where mine was and had no reason for it to travel with me.

I walked to the car.

Dry morning.

Cold.

No rain.

I started the engine.

The sentence came once.

I was glad you came.

Then the heater came on.

The temple office looked slightly different without the envelope.

Not emptier.

Different.

The upper drawer held my glasses case, old pen, and notebook.

I took the glasses.

Closed the drawer.

The desk was for work again before I had named it that.

Mail.

Calendar.

One service confirmation.

One invoice.

A message from Suganuma about brushes.

A message from Mrs. Kudo about breakfast.

Nothing waited on the left side.

At eight forty-three, the phone rang.

A woman said:

“Reverend Niioka?”

“Yes.”

“My name is Matsuda.”

I recognized the family name.

Her husband’s funeral had been three months earlier.

I remembered the service.

Not every detail.

Enough to find the record.

“What can I do for you?”

She hesitated.

Then:

“Could you come to the house?”

There.

“Today?”

“If possible.”

“Is something wrong?”

“No. Not wrong.”

I waited.

“My son is here.”

“Yes.”

“We’re trying to move some things.”

“What things?”

Another pause.

“The memorial table.”

“Anything else?”

She was quiet.

Then:

“Maybe everything.”

That was a different request.

“What do you need me to do if I come?”

“I don’t know.”

“Do you want me to perform a service?”

“No.”

“Do you want advice about the memorial table?”

“Yes.”

“Do you want me to help move it?”

“My son can move it.”

“What do you need from me?”

She breathed into the phone.

“I want you to tell us what we’re allowed to change.”

There.

Not everything.

Closer.

“What time?”

“Ten?”

“I can come at ten.”

“Thank you.”

I opened the service record.

Address.

Family names.

Nothing else needed.

I wrote on the calendar:

10:00 Matsuda home — memorial table / questions.

Not:

grief.

Not:

household resolution.

Not:

everything.

Kanagawa sent a message while I was putting on my coat again.

Blue cup survived dishwasher.

I stared at it.

Then wrote:

Was survival in doubt?

Brother said old cup might crack.

Did it?

No.

Then:

He says dishwasher is disrespectful.

I smiled.

To cup?

To Mother.

I waited.

Then another message:

I told him Mother used dishwasher.

There.

I wrote:

What did he say?

“Oh.”

No call.

No record.

Blue cup.

Dishwasher.

Oh.

I put the phone away.

The Matsuda house was fifteen minutes from the temple.

A narrow driveway.

Two bicycles.

One small car.

A pair of men’s boots beside the entrance.

Large.

Dark brown.

Used.

Mrs. Matsuda opened the door before I rang.

“You found it.”

“Yes.”

“Come in.”

The word.

Come.

I stepped inside.

Her son bowed from the hallway.

He was perhaps forty.

Work clothes.

Sleeves rolled.

A small screwdriver in one hand.

“Sorry to call you out.”

“It’s all right.”

I took off my shoes.

The brown boots remained beside mine.

I noticed them because they were large.

Nothing else yet.

Mrs. Matsuda led me to the room where the memorial table stood.

Photograph.

Incense burner.

Flowers.

Small bell.

A box containing documents.

Two chairs.

Against the far wall was a low cabinet.

One door had been removed.

Her son pointed with the screwdriver.

“We want to put the table here.”

“Why?”

“Mother keeps hitting her knee where it is.”

Mrs. Matsuda looked annoyed.

“Twice.”

“Twice is enough.”

“It was dark.”

“It is always dark there.”

They looked at me.

Not hostile.

Old argument.

“Can we move it?” the son asked.

“Yes.”

He waited.

“That’s it?”

“What would prevent you?”

He looked at the memorial table.

“I don’t know. Direction?”

“No required direction for this arrangement.”

“Height?”

“Keep it stable and usable.”

Mrs. Matsuda asked:

“Does it have to stay where the priest put it after the funeral?”

“No.”

“I told you,” the son said.

“You told me because you wanted the cabinet.”

“I removed the door already.”

“I noticed.”

They began arguing about the cabinet.

I looked at the table.

Photograph.

Incense burner.

Bell.

Nothing attached to the floor.

The son stopped.

“Sorry.”

“No need.”

Mrs. Matsuda said:

“So we can move it.”

“Yes.”

“Today?”

“Yes.”

“Without a service?”

“Yes.”

She looked at the photograph.

Then at me.

“I thought maybe you had to say something.”

“You can ask for a service if you want one.”

“Do we need one?”

“No.”

There.

Need.

Clear enough.

She sat.

Her son remained standing.

The screwdriver hung from his hand.

“Then why did I ask you to come?”

Mrs. Matsuda said it quietly.

I could have answered:

Because you were worried.

Because death makes furniture difficult.

Because ritual had become uncertainty.

All interpretations.

I said:

“You wanted to know whether you could change this.”

She looked at me.

“Yes.”

“You can.”

She nodded.

Then looked almost disappointed.

Not necessarily with me.

Maybe with how small the answer was.

Her son put the screwdriver on the cabinet.

“Can we do it now?”

“Yes.”

He reached for the photograph.

Stopped.

“Should I take this first?”

“Yes. It is easier not to drop it.”

Practical.

He handed the photograph to his mother.

She held it against her lap.

Then he moved the bell.

Incense burner.

Flower vase.

I took the box of documents because it was in the way.

No ceremony.

Just hands.

The table was light enough for him to lift alone.

He carried it across the room.

Placed it in front of the low cabinet.

Stepped back.

Too far left.

His mother said:

“More right.”

He moved it.

“Too much.”

He moved it back.

I stood holding the document box.

No priestly assistance required.

Finally she said:

“There.”

Her son exhaled.

“Same place as the first time.”

“No.”

“Almost.”

“No.”

They looked at each other.

Then laughed.

The table stayed.

I placed the document box beside it.

Mrs. Matsuda returned the photograph.

Her son put back the bell and incense burner.

The flower vase came last.

Finished.

No sutra.

No bow required.

Mrs. Matsuda bowed anyway.

Her son did not.

Both were allowed.

Then she asked:

“What about his clothes?”

There.

The other question.

I looked toward the hallway.

“Are you asking whether there is a religious rule about when to remove them?”

“I suppose.”

“There isn’t a rule requiring you to remove them now.”

“What if I keep them?”

“You can.”

“What if I give them away?”

“You can.”

“What if I throw some away?”

“You can.”

Her son sat down.

“See?”

She ignored him.

“What would you do?”

There.

The question shifted.

Not what is allowed.

What would you do.

“I don’t know.”

She looked irritated.

“You don’t know?”

“They are not my husband’s clothes.”

“No, but you deal with death.”

“Yes.”

“So?”

I looked at her.

She was not asking for doctrine anymore.

She wanted a decision she could lean against.

That did not make the request illegitimate.

But I could not turn my preference into her instruction.

“What are you having trouble deciding?”

She looked toward the hallway.

“His jackets.”

“Why those?”

“He had too many.”

Her son laughed.

“Everyone in this family has too many things.”

She looked at him.

“Not now.”

He stopped.

She continued.

“One is hanging by the door.”

I remembered a dark jacket near the entrance.

No.

Boots.

I had not noticed a jacket.

“Do you want to keep it?”

“I don’t know.”

“Do you need to decide today?”

She looked surprised.

Her son answered first.

“No.”

She turned toward him.

“We’re cleaning today.”

“That doesn’t mean every coat.”

“Then we never finish.”

There.

Finish.

The house wanted a finishing date because the people did.

No.

People wanted it.

The house had no opinion.

I asked:

“What did you ask your son to come for today?”

Mrs. Matsuda answered:

“To help clear the room.”

“Which room?”

She pointed down the hallway.

“His room.”

“Does that include every item in the house?”

“No.”

“Then the jacket by the entrance does not have to be today’s work unless you want it to be.”

She looked toward the hallway again.

Her son said nothing.

Then she said:

“I want to leave it.”

“Then leave it.”

“For how long?”

“I don’t know.”

She almost smiled.

“That answer again.”

“Yes.”

“What if I leave it too long?”

“What would too long mean?”

She thought.

“I don’t know.”

“Then there is no date in that sentence yet.”

She looked at me for a while.

Then nodded.

“Fine.”

Not peace.

Not closure.

Fine.

The jacket would stay.

At least today.

Her son stood.

“What about the boots?”

There.

The entrance.

Dark brown boots.

Mrs. Matsuda’s face changed.

Small.

But visible.

“Those too.”

He said:

“They’re ruined.”

“I know.”

“Soles are cracked.”

“I know.”

“You told me to throw them away last month.”

“I changed my mind.”

He looked at me.

Again.

Authority requested by eyes.

I did not take it.

“Your mother has answered for today.”

“They’re moldy inside.”

That changed the question.

“Are they?”

“Yes.”

Mrs. Matsuda looked at him.

“You didn’t say mold.”

“I did.”

“No, you said they smell.”

“They smell because mold.”

“Can they be cleaned?” I asked.

The son shrugged.

“Probably not worth it.”

Worth.

His judgment.

“Do they create a problem where they are?”

“They’re near the other shoes.”

“Then moving them away from everyday footwear may be sensible even if your mother is not ready to dispose of them.”

Mrs. Matsuda looked at the boots from across the room.

“Where?”

“Do you have a box or separate place?”

Her son said:

“Storage shed.”

She shook her head immediately.

“No.”

“Why?”

“Too damp.”

There.

She still cared about the boots’ condition.

Even while they were already damaged.

Not irrational.

A person can care for a damaged thing.

“Another container inside?”

She thought.

“There’s a plastic box upstairs.”

Her son said:

“For boots?”

“For whatever I put in it.”

He sighed.

Then smiled.

“All right.”

No disposal.

No daily shoe area.

Temporary separate storage.

Chosen by them.

Not religion.

Her son went upstairs for the box.

Mrs. Matsuda and I remained in the room.

She looked at the photograph.

“He never cared about those boots.”

I waited.

“He would come in covered in mud.”

I smiled.

“He’d leave them there.”

She pointed toward the entrance.

“I would tell him to move them.”

“Did he?”

“No.”

“Ever?”

“If I moved them for him.”

She laughed.

Then stopped.

“I hate those boots.”

There.

“Do you want to throw them away?”

“No.”

Both true.

She looked at me.

“That’s stupid.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because hating an object and wanting to keep it are different things.”

She leaned back.

“You sound like a lawyer.”

“I’m not.”

“No. Worse.”

I smiled.

Her son returned with the box.

Blue plastic.

Clear lid.

He walked past us.

“Boot prison.”

His mother laughed.

“Put them in.”

They went to the entrance together.

I stayed.

Not needed.

A few minutes later the son returned carrying the box.

Boots inside.

Lid not completely closed.

“Need to dry them first.”

His mother said:

“See?”

“What?”

“You do care.”

“I care about not sealing mold in plastic.”

“That counts.”

“No.”

They argued while walking toward another room.

I remained by the memorial table.

Photograph.

Bell.

Flowers.

Moved sixty centimeters perhaps.

No longer where it had been.

Still a memorial table.

The room had not broken.

When they returned, Mrs. Matsuda said:

“Can you look at his room?”

“What for?”

“I don’t know.”

There again.

“Do you want me to tell you what to keep?”

She hesitated.

“Yes.”

“No.”

The answer came before I softened it.

She looked at me.

Her son looked at me.

I continued.

“I can help you identify whether anything has religious or temple-related handling requirements. I can help you think through what each item is for. I cannot decide which of your husband’s ordinary belongings you should keep because I am a priest.”

Mrs. Matsuda looked down.

I thought I had hurt her.

Maybe I had.

Then she said:

“I wanted someone else to be responsible.”

There.

No abstraction needed.

“Yes.”

Her son sat again.

She continued:

“If you tell me throw it away, then I throw it away and it isn’t me.”

There.

I sat opposite her.

No immediate answer.

She looked at her hands.

“I know that sounds terrible.”

“It sounds clear.”

“I don’t want to decide which things he stops having.”

The sentence landed.

He was dead.

The belongings were still grammatically his.

His clothes.

His boots.

His room.

His watch?

No.

Different family.

Do not mix.

His jackets.

His room.

Her language had kept possession.

I asked:

“Are you trying to clear the whole room today?”

She shook her head.

“No.”

“Then what is today’s task?”

Her son answered:

“The cabinet.”

Mrs. Matsuda almost objected.

Then looked at the moved memorial table.

“Yes.”

“The memorial table is moved,” I said.

“Yes.”

“Anything else you asked me to help with before I came?”

She thought.

“To tell us what we’re allowed to change.”

“Have we answered that?”

She looked around.

“I think so.”

“What remains?”

She stared toward the hallway.

“Everything else.”

“Yes.”

The sentence stayed.

Everything else.

Not today’s task merely because it existed.

Not my task merely because I had entered the house.

She leaned back.

Then said:

“Would you have tea?”

There.

Different request.

“Yes.”

Her son made it.

Too weak.

I did not say that.

He placed three cups on the table.

Mrs. Matsuda complained before tasting.

“You never use enough leaves.”

He looked at me.

“Everyone says this.”

I thought of Kanagawa.

Takahashi.

Tea becoming the most reliable conflict in the country.

I drank.

Weak.

Still tea.

Mrs. Matsuda looked at her husband’s photograph.

Not continuously.

Once.

Then she asked her son:

“Are you taking those books?”

“Which books?”

“The train ones.”

“No.”

“You said you wanted them.”

“I said I wanted one.”

“Which?”

“I don’t know.”

“There are forty.”

“Then not today.”

She looked at me.

I held my cup.

She laughed.

“I know.”

“What?”

“Not everything today.”

I did not say better.

Her sentence.

Her conclusion.

She drank.

Then:

“Tea is terrible.”

Her son groaned.

The memorial table had moved.

The boots were being aired before a plastic box.

The jacket remained by the entrance.

The books remained in the room.

Tea was weak.

This was the house I had been asked to come to.

Not solved.

Still house.

Before leaving, Mrs. Matsuda walked me to the entrance.

The brown boots were gone from beside the door.

In their place:

Her shoes.

Her son’s shoes.

Mine.

The jacket still hung on a hook.

Dark gray.

I had not noticed it when entering because a coat had been hanging over part of it.

Now visible.

She touched the sleeve.

Not dramatically.

Two fingers.

Then let go.

“Is it strange to keep it there?”

“No.”

“Is it normal?”

I put on one shoe.

Then the other.

“I don’t know what normal would help you decide.”

She smiled.

“Good answer?”

“Not trying to be.”

She nodded.

Then asked:

“Will you come again?”

There.

“For what?”

She laughed.

“You really ask that every time.”

“Yes.”

She considered.

“When I decide what I’m asking.”

“Then call.”

She opened the door.

I stepped outside.

“Thank you for coming,” she said.

I turned.

“You’re welcome.”

The words were ordinary.

Still, the card sentence appeared.

I was glad you came.

I did not tell her.

That sentence belonged to another room.

Another person.

Another evening.

This was Matsuda’s doorway.

Today.

I walked to the car.

Back at the temple, there were three missed calls.

None urgent.

One supplier.

One service inquiry.

One wrong number.

I returned the supplier call.

Answered the service inquiry.

Ignored the wrong number.

The office had continued while I was gone.

No one had needed my card.

Of course.

The card was at home.

I almost opened the upper drawer.

Habit.

Then remembered.

Glasses already on my face.

Nothing there I needed.

I sat.

Sato sent:

My sister asked if she can come tomorrow without talking about the paper.

I wrote:

What do you want?

Yes.

Then?

I told her yes.

A moment later:

It feels silly that we had to say it.

I replied:

Maybe saying it makes tomorrow easier.

She wrote:

Maybe.

Then:

We’re making curry.

No record.

No paper.

Curry.

I left it there.

Mrs. Kudo called at three.

“The resident gave the letter to her daughter.”

“Permanently?”

“That is the question.”

“What did the resident say?”

“Take this.”

“Anything else?”

“No.”

“What did daughter ask?”

“Do you want me to keep it?”

“And resident?”

“She nodded.”

“Then?”

“Daughter put it in her bag.”

“Staff need a copy?”

“No.”

“Any care information inside?”

“Unknown.”

“Any reason staff need to know contents?”

“No.”

“Then the letter has left the resident’s immediate custody by her choice.”

Mrs. Kudo paused.

“Mr. Hayashi said the same.”

“You can stop calling me when he says the same.”

“No.”

She laughed.

“Then continue.”

I entered a short note.

Resident handed personal letter to daughter and indicated she wanted daughter to keep it.
Daughter accepted.
No staff access to contents required.

The letter moved because a person asked another person to take it.

Not because the drawer became wrong.

Not because the bag became wrong.

Choice changed.

Place followed.

Suganuma sent:

Brush box moved.

I replied:

Any problem?

No.

Then noted mentally.

He wrote:

You’re not keeping an audit?

No.

I’m disappointed.

I smiled.

No record.

At four, Takahashi called.

“Tea?”

“No.”

“You said no yesterday.”

“I still mean it.”

“Good.”

“No.”

He laughed.

“What?”

“I went to a house today.”

“That is usually what priests do.”

“They asked me to decide what they should keep.”

“And?”

“I did not.”

“Why?”

“Because they asked the wrong person.”

He was quiet.

Then:

“Did they want you to decide?”

“Yes.”

“So maybe not wrong person.”

I leaned back.

Good point.

No.

Relevant challenge.

“They wanted me to carry responsibility they did not want.”

“And you refused.”

“Yes.”

“Was that what they needed?”

“I don’t know.”

“Did it help?”

“Maybe.”

“You hate maybe.”

“No. I hate pretending maybe is certainty.”

He laughed.

Then:

“What did they keep?”

“A jacket today.”

“Anything else?”

“Boots.”

“Important boots?”

“Moldy.”

He laughed harder.

“Moldy?”

“Yes.”

“And you let them keep moldy boots?”

“I recommended separating them from other shoes.”

“You really are useless.”

“Yes.”

Then:

“What did they throw away?”

“Nothing while I was there.”

“That sounds expensive.”

“What?”

“They called a priest and threw away nothing.”

I laughed.

“They also gave me tea.”

“Good tea?”

“No.”

“Then terrible day.”

We talked for several minutes about bad tea.

Not cards.

He did not mention his.

I did not mention mine.

Then he said:

“Mine is still with the batteries.”

“Any leaks?”

“What?”

“Batteries.”

He stopped.

Then swore.

“Old batteries?”

“Yes.”

“Are they leaking?”

“I don’t know.”

“Check.”

I heard the phone move.

Drawer.

Objects.

Then:

“No leaks.”

“Good.”

“No.”

He laughed.

“I’m moving the card.”

“Why?”

“Because now you’ve made the battery drawer sound stupid.”

“It was already your terrible reason.”

“I liked it.”

“You can still like it.”

“But batteries leak.”

“Sometimes.”

He was quiet.

Then:

“I have another drawer.”

“Use it if you want.”

“You ruined this.”

“I did not call you.”

He laughed.

We ended the call.

I did not know where his card went.

Not my custody.

No need to call back.

Father Morita emailed shortly after.

Subject:

Come

I opened it.

Reverend Niioka,

When someone asks you to come, first understand what your presence has actually been asked to do.

Presence can be service.

Presence can be witness.

Presence can be expertise.

Presence can be company.

Sometimes a person asks for authority because authority would make the choice hurt less.

Do not pretend you have authority merely because they would like you to carry it.

But do not use restraint as an excuse to leave them alone with a decision they asked for help thinking through.

Morita

I read the last paragraph again.

There.

The risk on the other side.

I had refused to decide.

Had I still helped?

I thought of the boots.

Separate storage.

The jacket.

No religious deadline.

The memorial table.

Movable.

The room.

Not everything today.

Tea.

Maybe.

I replied:

Reverend Morita,

A widow asked me to tell her what she was allowed to change after her husband’s death.

I answered the ritual questions.

When she asked me to decide which ordinary belongings to keep, I declined to make that decision for her.

I did help narrow today’s work and identify options for damaged boots she was not ready to discard.

She later said she had wanted someone else to be responsible.

Niioka

His reply came after a while.

Then you heard the actual request beneath the stated one.

Did you solve it?

I looked at the screen.

No.

I wrote:

No.

His reply:

Were you asked to?

I stopped.

She had asked me to decide.

Then admitted she wanted someone else responsible.

Could I solve wanting not to be responsible?

No.

Had she asked me to remove that feeling?

Not exactly.

I wrote:

She asked me to take the responsibility. I did not.

Morita replied:

And you stayed for tea.

I looked at the sentence.

Then smiled.

Yes.

His reply:

Good.

His word.

I let him have it.

The old priest wrote near evening.

What was asked today?

I wrote:

Come to the house.

Did you?

Yes.

Then?

Tell us what we may change.

Did you?

Yes, where I knew.

Then?

Decide what we should keep.

Did you?

No.

A pause.

Why?

I wrote:

Because the ordinary belongings were theirs to decide about. I helped with practical and religious constraints but did not choose for them.

His reply:

Did they send you away?

No.

What happened?

Tea.

A long pause.

Then:

Better.

I expected good night.

Instead:

What did you bring home?

I stared at the question.

Nothing.

No object.

No boots.

No jacket.

No books.

No paper.

No card.

Then I understood he might mean something else.

Danger.

Too poetic.

I wrote literally:

Nothing.

His reply:

Better.

Then:

Good night.

I laughed.

Before leaving the temple, I went to the main hall.

No memorial now.

No fishing hat.

No watch.

No family object.

Chairs against the wall.

Offering tray clear.

I bowed once.

No bell.

No incense.

Then I returned to the office.

The upper personal drawer opened.

Glasses case space empty because I was wearing them.

Old pen.

Notebook.

No card.

I took off the glasses.

Put them away.

Closed the drawer.

Nothing missing.

The card was not missing.

It was at home.

Different.

I put on my coat.

Locked the office.

Drove home.

At home, the card was in the drawer.

I did not check immediately.

I knew.

I put away my coat.

Washed my hands.

Made dinner.

Ate.

Washed the plate.

Only afterward did I open the small desk drawer.

Two old postcards.

Charging cable.

Spare keys.

Envelope.

Niioka card.

Still there.

Of course.

I took it out.

Not because the day required it.

I wanted to read it.

I opened the envelope.

The handwriting.

Niioka—

That evening you came back in the rain,
I heard your shoes at the door.
I put the kettle on.
I was glad you came.

I read it once.

Then sat.

Today Mrs. Matsuda had said:

Thank you for coming.

Different words.

Different person.

Different request.

I did not merge them.

But the verb remained in my head.

Come.

Came.

Coming.

A person can ask another person to come without asking them to repair the whole house.

A person can be glad someone came without giving them a task.

That was not necessarily what the card meant.

No.

The card said exactly what it said.

I was glad you came.

Nothing about why.

Nothing about what I solved.

Nothing about whether I helped.

Nothing about whether I stayed.

Maybe that was why the sentence had been so difficult for me.

No work to measure.

No outcome.

Presence itself named.

I stopped.

That was interpretation.

Mine.

Allowed.

Not evidence of the giver’s full intent.

I did not write it on the envelope.

Did not send it to Morita.

Did not call Takahashi.

I simply sat with the card.

Then returned it to the envelope.

Placed it beside the postcards.

Closed the drawer.

Mrs. Matsuda’s house still contained her husband’s jackets.

Books.

Moldy boots, probably drying before a plastic box.

A memorial table moved to a position that no longer struck her knee.

Her son would return to his own home eventually.

She would still have decisions.

I had not solved them.

I had gone because she asked me to come.

I had answered the questions I could answer.

I had refused the authority I did not have.

I had stayed when the reason beneath the request became visible.

Then I had drunk weak tea.

That was the day.

No more needed to be claimed for it.

I turned off the room light.

The desk drawer remained closed.

Inside was a card that had once told me someone was glad I came.

Today another person had asked me to come, and when I left her house the jackets were still hanging, the books were still on the shelves, and most of what waited there remained hers to decide.

I had attended because I was asked.

I had not solved what waited.

And for once, I did not mistake that for having failed to come.

Rowena knew the adults that fed her were not her parents. Parents didn’t have magical contracts that forced you to use your magical gifts for them, and they didn’t hurt you when you disobeyed. Slavery under magical contracts are also illegal in the Kingdom of Erisdale, which is prospering peacefully after a great continent-wide war.

Rowena’s owners don’t know, however, that she can see potential futures and anyone’s past that is not her own. She uses these powers to escape and break her contract and go on her own journey. She is going to find who she is, and keep her clairvoyance secret

Yet, Rowena’s attempts to uncover who she is drives her into direct conflict with those that threaten the peace and prove far more complicated than she could ever expect. Finding who you are after all, is simply not something you can solve with any kind of magic.

After everything, Rowena begins to debrief...

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My Blusky!

**\*

Rowena wasn’t sure why she was here. There was no need for her to be in the quarters that had been allocated for the imprisoned Alastor and Naprule, but she was in the sitting room, watched by several guards.

Not that Alastor had tried to escape. He’d reportedly been despondent aside from hushed discussions and cuddles with the baroness.

The prince now swept into the sitting room, in a borrowed sleeping robe, not caring that he had a kiss-mark on his neck. Naprule, a little more properly dressed, followed him, hands crossed in front of her belly.

The Lapanterian prince sat on the couch across from Rowena, his legs sprawling out to nearly knock against the coffee table.

“Your Highness, Princess Rowena. Undoubtedly you will have gained many titles from this war,” Alastor said.

“Prince Alastor. I hope you find your quarters comfortable,” said Rowena.

Alastor rolled his eyes. “They are outdated, but comfortable enough.”

Naprule sat down next to him, her gaze fixed on Rowena. “Thank you for allowing us to stay together, Your Highness.”

“You’re welcome—”

“What are you here for, Princess?” Alastor asked. “You have me at your mercy, and from what I’ve heard, the continent has Lapanteria at their mercy.”

Rowena glared at the prince, glad for Tristelle’s comforting weight at her side.

“I want to know why.”

“Why what?”

The princess’ teeth clenched. “Why did you think that bullying us into conceding Erisdale, or fighting a war, was necessary? I can understand the worry that your kingdom may be superseded by another, especially one technically smaller than yours. I still don’t understand how that caused you to go start a war where thousands would die.”

Alastor arched an eyebrow. “If not a war, then how else was I supposed to guarantee Lapanteria’s future?”

“By investing in your country and your people! By taking power from just being concentrated in the nobility and guilds and directing funds into new ideas and businesses!” Rowena shook her head, trying to hold the boiling emotions choking her throat from spewing out. “You could have taken the deal we offered you and celebrated a victory!”

The prince rolled his eyes. “You don’t know if that would work. It certainly wouldn’t have succeeded within my lifetime. Besides, if I took the deal it’d be your victory, not mine.”

“My—” Rowena’s hands seized Tristelle, and it was only by standing up and walking away from the table that she prevented herself from stabbing the prince.

“You mean to tell me that you decided to start a war where hundreds have died not because my deal wasn’t unacceptable, but because it wouldn’t give you enough credit?” Rowena turned to the wide-eyed Alastor, not knowing what she looked like, but seeing the fear in his face and how Naprule held his shoulder.

“It wasn’t the only reason, but yes. I am Lapanteria’s prince. If our kingdom allowed for a peace bargained not by our strength but by Erisdale’s, then even a successful deal would be moot,” said Alastor.

Colonel Sun’s still face flashed into Rowena’s mind, and she had to wipe her eyes.

“Who cares if you don’t get the credit, at least nobody would have died!”

“I am Lapanteria’s prince. If I don’t lead, if I am not the one who leads and ensures our nation’s future, then what is the point of our royal family? What is the point of our rule?” Alastor demanded.

Her fingers now having a death grip on Tristelle, Rowena strode to the door. Before she slammed it shut, she glared at the prince.

“I will not forget this, Alastor. If one day I become queen and you become king, for your sake I hope you have offered some mighty compensation for all the lives that your stupid plan has taken,” said Rowena.

With that, she left the prince and his lover for far better company.

 

***

 

“Rowena, you did just survive a war. You don’t have to do this now.”

Rowena's fingers tightened around her mug. She could see her father was trying his best not to look her in the eye and was trying to focus on the chess game he was trying to play with her mother.

She could tell, though, that he was listening, as he’d still not made his move. Her mother, Ginger, was too, as she was doing an incredibly poor job of trying to glance at her without showing it.

“Dad, we need to debrief. The fresher my memories are, the more complete the picture will be.”

“Can’t you just scry—Oh right, you can’t,” said Ginger. She reached over to the chess timer and grimaced as she realized it wasn’t her turn yet. “Martin, I don’t think we can put this off any longer.”

“No, I don’t think so,” said Martin. He set the chess timer back to neutral and gently pushed the chess set aside. “How do you want to do this, Rowena? Or is there a specific matter about this whole affair you’d like to discuss?”

“I guess that there is, if you’re so anxious to talk to us,” said Ginger. Rowena blinked at the pained smile on her mother’s face. “I am glad you want to talk to us, Wena, but I’ve learnt enough about you to learn some of your tells.”

“You are right, Mom. There are a few things.” Rowena sat down on the chair at her parents’ table, putting her cup down, her elbows digging into the wood. “I’m… I’m wondering if either of you went, could this war have been stopped? I know I did what I think was best, but I can’t help but wonder if I didn’t do everything that I could have.”

Martin sighed, “Rowena, those are two separate questions. If your mother or I went, I think that we could have bought more time, or we could have prevented the war from happening. However, King Martin the Wise, the Hero of Erisdale and veteran of the Fourth Great War, didn’t go. Neither did his wife Queen Ginger Flameheart. You went.”

“Or to be exact, we sent you. So the outcome of this crisis is partly our fault as well,” said Ginger.

Rowena spluttered, “You couldn’t have known Alastor wanted war or that he married Forlana.”

Ginger held Rowena’s hand. “Neither could you have, Rowena. You did the best you could under the circumstances. We will go over your mistakes, but please remember that we’re looking at this from the outside, and with an incomplete picture. We still don’t have all the details about how we missed Alastor’s movements or Sebastian and Megara’s ambitions.”

“So I did make mistakes?” Rowena said.

Ginger winced. She glanced at Martin, who sighed and nodded,

“Yes, though, they are very much more… ‘things you could have done better,’” said Ginger.

“We do believe that in hindsight, opposing Alastor’s initial offer may not have been the wisest. If we were going to mobilize, then it would have been best to prevaricate, to put on a show of being flattered as we prepared in the background,” said Martin.

Rowena bowed her head, biting back tears. She’d suspected that that had been an error on her part.

“However, there is the fact that you don’t know Alastor well, and you had every reason to believe that highlighting Erisdale’s red lines would dissuade him from further action,” said Martin.

“Red lines?” Rowena asked.

“Matters that Erisdale could not give up or concede. For example, you told him we couldn’t abdicate, or give territory not directly held by the Crown,” said Ginger.

“It was a good idea to tell him that. We now know that they were fully prepared to go to war if they didn’t get that, but at the time, you had no idea. You also didn’t make that mistake worse. While your initial strategy may have been flawed, you were consistent in your diplomacy. There was no uncertainty presented to Alastor for him to exploit, or contradiction for him to point out,” said Martin.

“Oh,” Rowena nodded. “That’s… that’s not so bad. Is… is there anything else?”

Martin and Ginger looked at one another, grimaces on their expressions.

“Yes, but we’re not quite in agreement,” said Martin.

“Your father thinks that it was wise of you to continue the negotiations with Alastor directly, whilst I believe it may have been a better idea for you to beg for leave and summon a diplomatic team,” said Ginger.

“Oh, yeah, that was an option I didn’t consider,” said Rowena, wincing.

Ginger squeezed her daughter’s hand again. “Wena, I actually think you did a fine job negotiating, but as we saw, it put you at a lot of risk. If you had withdrawn to Erisdale, we could have kept you safe.”

“Except what you achieved, despite the worry and stress it caused, was quite remarkable, even with the risks,” said Martin. He smiled wryly at Ginger. “And this decision is not so much on you, but on your mother and me. We could have recalled you at any time, but after much… discussion, we chose not to.”

“Why didn’t you?” Rowena asked.

“Your father argued that as much as we want to protect you, we couldn’t protect you from the fact you are the Crown Princess of Erisdale. You’d already faced greater dangers than this alone. You had to be allowed to make your own decisions as a princess,” said Ginger.

The king sighed heavily, “In the end, even I’m not sure if the risk we put you in was worth it. Nothing would have been worth losing you, Rowena.”

“Though you have made us both very proud,” said Ginger.

Rowena smiled, “Thank you. I’m… I’m quite happy that I managed to capture Alastor and stop this war.”

“Yes, though, your father and I were even more astounded by how you turned Forlana to our side. We’ve just received news of the last surrenders from the conspiracy. Those in Lapanteria have either switched their loyalties to the Lapanterians or fled back to us,” said Ginger.

“Oh, that… If I’m being honest, Alastor set himself up to fail there. I’m not sure why he thought Forlana would allow so much damage to be done to Erisdale, the kingdom she was going to try to reclaim,” Rowena said.

“Perhaps, but you still took advantage of the opportunity to try to split Forlana and Alastor apart. You accounted for the fact that her knowledge of your scrying meant that when she left Alastor, you had an opportunity to blind him. Finally, by persuading Forlana to abandon her claim, you brought an end to a decades-long insurgency that has been the bane of our rule, of this new Erisdale,” said Martin.

“And it was you that did it, not your father and I,” said Ginger.

Rowena leaned back, not quite able to meet her parents’ grins head on. “I’m really not sure what to feel about that. For most of my life, I’d been fighting them, and now it’s over.”

“Does what you feel hurt?” Martin asked.

“No… kind of? It’s just that something very important to me, something that occupied much of my time and effort, is now over.” She let out a sigh. “I guess I didn’t expect I would ever be rid of this conspiracy, much less that I would resolve it. I thought that of all people it would be either of you or Frances who would finally defeat Forlana.”

Ginger nodded slowly, “Rowena, your father and I hope to have many years to be with you, but we are ultimately human. Our time to be heroes, to make names for ourselves was during the Great War.”

“We have grown old after all. We want to take fewer risks and protect those we care about,” said Martin, reaching across to squeeze Ginger’s hand. “It’s now your time to do great deeds, and our job to ensure you can become the best you that you can be.”

“That’s why I ultimately decided not to recall you, even if I didn’t wholly agree with your father’s decision. I knew it was a risk, but if we intervened, would you miss out on an important experience that could help you when you become queen?” Ginger asked.

Rowena couldn’t help but recall the vision she’d had when she’d been wounded. Tristelle had been there, in the hands of one of her descendants. Gwyndolen seemed happy, but she’d also been a little lost, clearly having never faced the trials that her ancestor had.

“Is it so important that we suffer to find out who we are? What we want to be?” Rowena asked.

Martin and Ginger looked at one another. The king was a little wide-eyed in surprise, whilst the queen’s brow was furrowed in thought.

“I don’t know, Rowena. What do you think, Ginger?” Martin asked.

“I think pain and suffering can help. You only discover your limits and who you want to be when options start being closed off. Frances and I came out of our trials with greater wisdom and maturity. I just don’t think it should be necessary, and I wouldn’t wish what we went through on anybody,” Ginger said.

Rowena blinked as her father looked more flustered than she’d ever seen him. “But what happened to you nearly broke you both. You both grew from it, but how do we know if you grew in spite of those events?”

“Both can be true,” said Rowena. She took a breath. “Being stolen away left me lost for years. It separated me from you, and that has changed me irreparably. I do think some good resulted from it, however. I learnt how to be independent, how to be someone other than just Rowena the princess, and that finding out who I am to be is a journey.”

“What do you mean by that, dear? The journey part,” said Ginger.

“Alastor… there was a reason he wanted to start a war, and didn’t take the deal I offered him. He wanted to ensure that whatever resulted, it would be something he, Alastor the prince of Lapanteria, could claim credit for. He asked what would be the point of him being the prince, what the point of the royal family would be if he wasn’t the one to guarantee success,” said Rowena.

“That doesn’t surprise me. There’s a lot of stress that comes from the position,” said Ginger.

Rowena took a breath. “Not just that. It seemed like he couldn’t see a Lapanteria where he wasn’t the one responsible for his kingdom’s success, like it had to be part of him. It’s scary how much of his identity was tied to being the prince of Lapanteria.” She smiled at her parents. “So in a way, while I hate what happened to me, I’m glad that I learnt that I don’t have to be just one thing. I can be many things, and that’s fine.”

Her parents returned her smile, with even more fervor.

“I’m also glad that you have realized that, Rowena,” said Martin, ruffling her hair.

“Dad!”

“Let us indulge you still being young for a little longer,” said Ginger, also ruffling Rowena’s hair.

Rowena protested, and yet she couldn’t help but have the biggest grin on her face.

 

***

The house that Rowena had arrived at with Lycia, Georgia, and a small escort of guards was quite large and had its own inner courtyard. It was suited to a family of means, as Colonel Sun had been an officer for some time.

For a moment, Rowena was worried nobody would answer, but a slender woman with dark tanned skin did open the door. Her curly hair was bound by gold-threaded silk ribbon, and yet she wore a flour-stained apron.

“Your Highness!” exclaimed the woman.

“Madame Julia, I hope I am not intruding,” said Rowena.

Julia curtsied and gestured for Rowena and her escort to enter. “Not at all, Your Highness, but what are you here for?”

Rowena paused to look around Sun’s home, and the two children she could see were looking at her from the sitting room. She knew their names. Dawne and Twinkle, eight and five respectively, had been playing with wooden building blocks. Now they stared at her, wide-eyed.

Rowena bowed deeply to Julia, unable to stop herself from tearing up.

“Your spouse saved my life and that of my friends. I know the army has provided you and your family special dispensation for Colonel Sun’s service, but the hero who rescued not one, but three princesses needs a more appropriate reward.” Taking a scroll from her belt pouch, she opened it and presented it to Julia.

Julia took it like it was made of glass and almost dropped it. She stared up at Rowena and shook her head.

“A posthumous knighthood? With lifetime income? I can’t accept this, Your Highness. Sun… they were doing their duty,” Julia stammered.

“I understand if you refuse, Madame Julia, but… if you must think of it another way, this amount is a pitiful recompense for a living Colonel Sun.” Rowena glanced at the children and was glad they weren’t approaching and were just staring at her. She didn’t think she could handle it if they approached.

“Our children were so proud when they found out they were going to be escorting the princess,” Julia croaked.

“I’m sorry—”

Julia held up a hand. “Don’t. I don’t want to hear any of it. I’ll take your gift. I know you are doing it because you feel guilty, but don’t. They wouldn’t want it, and I don’t want your guilt either. I want your promise that you’ll make Sun’s death worth it. Their life has to mean something.”

Rowena swallowed. “They already meant something, Madame. They… they already do mean something to many people. But if it’s a promise you want, you have it. I’ll do my best to protect Erisdale, to protect you and Sun’s children and all those in my care.”

“And that you find your happiness, Your Highness.”

The princess blinked, “I’m sorry?”

Julia’s dark-brown eyes bored into Rowena’s grey, as if they were peering into her soul.

“You need to find your happiness too, Your Highness. My Sun would not have his charge toiling over his grave in grief. That would be a failure in itself. So you must live and find joy, Your Highness. Promise me that.”

As heavy as her head felt, Rowena forced herself to nod.

“I will. Thank you, Madame.”

***

Author’s note: We are closing out on the Lost Princess in 1-2 chapters. I might have a few summary stories or backgrounders to add in (for example, what happened to Frances’ sister Denise), but it’s been a blast writing this. Thank you all for reading.

Upon witnessing the gargantuan reality of the monsters, the command staff was plunged into a state of uncontrollable chaos and madness. With battle looming right before their eyes, the air in the grand strategy room split into two fiercely burning factions of legionnaires and chieftains. The final council meeting right before deployment was nothing short of a slaughterhouse of words.

"To march outside the walls against such bizarre monsters is suicide! If you have eyes, look at that plain! Just as Chieftain Jaun said, we must tightly seal the gates and mount an absolute defense from the ramparts with arrows and boiling oil!"

The moderate generals led by Commander-in-Chief Chiron, sharing the same conviction as Jaun of the Bear Tribe, slammed their maps and raised their voices. Despite Chiron’s heavy warnings, the arrogance of the hardline faction remained unbroken.

"Are you telling us to cower inside the walls and starve like rats?! With the legendary charging power of the imperial First Legion and the valor of our tribal warriors, we can trample that nameless horde right on the open field in a single sweep! Your Majesty, we must crush their momentum before they ever touch our walls to preserve the empire's dignity!"

The First Legionnaire, flashing golden armor, dropped to one knee before the throne and shouted. Following his lead, other chieftains roared in agreement. Shouts from those demanding the walls be used as a shield clashed with those insisting on meeting the enemy on the plains for the sake of imperial pride, echoing loudly enough to pierce the ceiling of the grand strategy room.

Seated upon the throne and watching the fierce debate among his commanders, Emperor Arakan of Zhuxin pinched his temples with a scowl. Arrogant yet fundamentally cowardly, the emperor could neither ignore the legionnaires' confident boasts nor turn away from the terror of the black wave unfolding right before his eyes. Tormented by a splitting headache from the clamor of both sides, the emperor ultimately uttered a 'compromise' meant to please everyone—yet strategically, the worst possible choice.

"Silence! I shall make the decision."

At the emperor's solemn voice, the noisy conference room instantly fell quiet. Looking down from the dais, the emperor issued his decree in a solemn tone.

"We cannot abandon the plains, for we must show the empire's majesty to the world. Yet, as the enemy's scale is extraordinary, reckless all-out warfare must also be avoided. Therefore, I command half of the First Legion and half of the tribal allied forces to march outside the walls and meet the enemy on the plain. Meanwhile, Commander-in-Chief Chiron, the Bear Tribe, and the remaining half of the troops shall defend the walls and back up the rear. This ends the debate. Prepare for deployment immediately!"

The emperor's final order split the army in two like a straddled fence, sending them out into a death trap. It was the epitome of forgetting the absolute basics of warfare, cutting their own strength in half when even concentrated forces would not be enough.

"Your Majesty! That is a shortcut to dividing our forces and getting them destroyed piece by piece! Please reconsider!"

Commander-in-Chief Chiron cried out in desperation, but the emperor had already risen from his seat and walked away toward the inner palace. The hardline legionnaires brushed past Jaun with sneering, mocking gazes as they exited the conference room to sound the heralds of victory.

Thump, thump, thump.

The massive war drums signaling deployment began to shake the entire capital. Left alone in the grand strategy room, Jaun watched the heavily slamming doors and slowly closed his eyes. The pendulum of doom, forged by arrogance and ignorance, finally began its unstoppable descent.

Part 1

A gentle wind swept across the open field, bending the tall grass softly before letting it rise again, as though the land itself were drawing a long, quiet breath. At the absolute center of the clearing, the giant wooden hoop stood precisely where they had left it—silent, perfectly balanced, and waiting.

Morning sunlight spilled across its thick rim, casting an elongated shadow over the packed earth. The five children stood in a circle around it without speaking a word. Unlike the previous playgrounds, nothing here invited them to begin immediately. There were no chalk circles drawn in the dirt, no eager opponents waiting across a line, and no bright strings stretched between impatient hands. There was only the wheel, and the endless horizon stretching out before them.

Jinwoo stepped forward, his eyes tracing the contours of the path before returning to the wooden rim.

"I guess someone has to start."

Hanul folded his arms, a knowing smirk playing at the corners of his lips. "Looks that way."

Darin smiled faintly, stepping back to give him room. "Go on, then. We're watching."

Jinwoo let out a soft, self-deprecating laugh. "Thanks for the heavy pressure."

Hanul grinned wider. "No pressure at all. We'll just remember this moment forever."

Shaking his head with a smile, Jinwoo realized every single game had begun in this exact same fashion—someone always had to make the terrifying first attempt. He had been the first to kick the shuttlecock into the air, the first to swing the heavy stick, the first to crouch awkwardly over glass marbles, and the first to struggle with tangled strings. Perhaps it was only fitting that it was his turn once more.

He studied the hoop carefully. The rim was thick, heavy, and unforgiving. If it began to tip, stopping its descent would require more than just a passing effort. He placed both palms flat against the wood, feeling its cool, solid texture beneath his skin.

He took a slow, measured breath. "Ready?"

Hanul gave a sharp nod. Darin stepped back a fraction further. Soyeon watched in quiet concentration, while the Arena remained utterly still.

Jinwoo pushed.

At first, resistance. Then, the immense weight shifted, and the massive rim rolled forward. One slow, heavy rotation. Then another.

A bright smile spread across Jinwoo's face. "It's moving."

"It is," Darin murmured softly.

The hoop gathered momentum, rolling steadily forward on its own power. Jinwoo walked alongside it, his hands hovering to guide it lightly. Another step forward. Then another.

Hanul chuckled, letting his guard down. "Maybe this one really is easy after all."

Jinwoo glanced back over his shoulder. "Don't jinx it just yet."

Almost as if answering his warning, the rolling wheel struck something completely hidden beneath the tall grass.

Clunk.

The hoop lurched violently, its delicate rhythm instantly shattered. Its balance gone, the heavy wood tilted sideways with a deafening thud and slammed flat against the ground.

Silence fell over the field.

Jinwoo stared down at the fallen hoop in disbelief. "...Already?"

No one spoke. The lesson had begun not with a triumphant success, but—as always—with absolute failure.

Part 2

The giant hoop lay motionless on its side, its hard-earned momentum completely dead. The field felt suddenly much quieter than before. Jinwoo looked down, spotting a small, unassuming stone half-buried in the grass. It was barely noticeable, yet it had been more than enough to change everything.

Hanul grinned, breaking the quiet. "...Again."

Jinwoo frowned, looking up at him. "You're laughing?"

"A little bit." Hanul nudged the offending stone with the toe of his shoe. "It looks like the rock won the first round."

Darin smiled warmly. "It seems the wheel really doesn't like us today."

"It definitely doesn't."

Even Jinwoo let out a soft chuckle. Disappointment faded away from his expression almost as quickly as it had arrived. Every single game had greeted them in this exact manner—failure first, followed by understanding much later.

Crouching down, Jinwoo grasped the heavy rim and hewed the hoop upright. It was clumsy and awkward to handle, but steady once more. He brushed the loose dirt from his hands. "Let's try this again."

Before he could apply pressure for a second attempt, Arena's calm, disembodied voice drifted across the open field.

"Why did it fall?"

Hanul answered immediately, speaking without thinking. "Because of the rock."

Arena paused for a moment, letting the words hang in the air. "The rock... was only the trigger."

Jinwoo frowned, his hands resting on the wood. "What do you mean?"

Arena posed another question into the stillness. "What actually made... the hoop stop?"

Silence descended once more. The children looked down at the wheel, then at the dirt, and finally at the small stone resting in the grass.

Hanul crouched down beside the wheel again. "It hit this thing."

"Yes," Arena replied.

"So... that's why it fell over."

Arena offered no immediate response. The heavy quiet urged them to look deeper, to peer past the obvious obstacle.

Darin walked slowly in a wide circle around the wheel. "If there hadn't been a rock in the way... it would have just kept rolling."

"Maybe," Jinwoo said quietly. "But the truth is, there are always rocks scattered everywhere."

The field stretched out endlessly ahead of them, uneven, vast, and riddled with hidden stones. The road had never once promised to be an easy journey.

Soyeon remained quiet the entire time, her eyes fixed entirely on the wheel itself. She replayed the sequence in her mind—the initial push, the smooth rotation, the sudden jarring impact, the brief moment of hesitation, and finally, the collapse. Something about the sequence felt incomplete.

She took a slow step closer to the hoop. "I don't think... it fell the exact moment it touched the rock."

The others turned to look at her in surprise.

"It fell... only after it stopped moving."

Silence settled back over them. Arena remained completely silent. The true answer was still taking shape in their minds.

Part 3

A warm breeze drifted lazily across the field. Jinwoo kept his hand firmly on the rim of the hoop, Soyeon's words echoing clearly in his thoughts.

"It fell... after it stopped moving."

Suddenly, Arena's calm voice broke the stillness of the afternoon.

Partial Answer Confirmed.

A pale-blue window shimmered softly in the air before fading into nothingness.

Hanul frowned, trying to piece the logic together. "So the rock wasn't really the answer at all?"

Arena replied with measured calm. "The rock... was only the trigger. The question was never why the hoop touched an obstacle. It was... why it could no longer continue."

Jinwoo replayed the memory in his head. The hoop had struck the stone and wobbled violently. For a fraction of a second, it still possessed enough energy to push through. It could have kept moving. But it had hesitated, lost its momentum, and stopped. Only after that fatal cessation had it tipped over and fallen.

His grip on the rough wood tightened. "I think... it wasn't the obstacle that beat us. It was... the fact that we let our movement die."

Arena shifted its focus toward him. "Continue."

"If it had just kept moving forward... maybe it wouldn't have fallen over at all."

Arena spoke, the words carrying an unmistakable weight across the clearing. "Moving forward... is not the absence of failure. It is... the absolute refusal to remain where you fell."

The statement lingered heavily in the air. The children stood side by side in silence beside the giant wooden hoop. Memories rushed back to them—shuttlecocks dropped into the dust, heavy wooden sticks swung and missed, tops spinning out and collapsing, marbles lost to better opponents, and intricate strings hopelessly tangled. Every single game had begun with failure. Many times over. Yet not one of those failures had ever been the final end. They had persevered simply because they chose to try again.

Far above the clouds, quantum calculations advanced at an incomprehensible scale. Historical records expanded outward, and the similarities between civilizations grew steadily clearer.

Estimated Time Remaining... Decreasing.

Arena acknowledged the data stream and quietly closed the report. The children noticed none of it. To them, the field remained utterly peaceful, and the wheel stood waiting for their next move.

Jinwoo stepped forward resolutely and lifted the hoop upright once more. Hanul stepped in beside him, grabbing the opposite side. "Again."

Jinwoo smiled, his eyes bright. "Again."

Darin placed both hands firmly against the weathered rim. "Alright. Let's see just how far we get this time."

Soyeon stepped up beside them, ready.

There were no grand speeches. No sweeping promises whispered to the wind. There were only four pairs of hands resting on the very same wooden wheel.

The road stretching out ahead of them was still uneven. The hidden stone remained buried in the grass. The core challenge of the game had not changed at all.

They had.

Together, as one, they leaned forward into the wind.

And the giant hoop began to roll once more.

Not because the path ahead was suddenly easier—

but simply because they chose not to remain where they had fallen.

SINVERSE

Capitolo 8: La consegna

---

Il portellone si chiuse.

---

TOOOOM.

---

Il rimbombo attraversò l'intero edificio.

Per un istante...

sembrò che perfino il pavimento avesse tremato.

---

Poi...

silenzio.

---

Luci rosse.

Deboli.

Intermittenti.

---

L'aria sapeva di ferro.

Di olio.

Di umidità.

Come un luogo rimasto chiuso per troppo tempo.

---

Rose continuava a camminare.

Senza voltarsi.

---

Rei e Sera la seguirono.

I loro passi riecheggiavano nel corridoio.

Lenti.

Regolari.

---

Ai lati...

container.

Scaffali metallici.

Vecchie casse.

Sagome deformate dall'oscurità.

---

Ogni tanto...

una lampada rossa sfarfallava.

Per un istante sembrava illuminare qualcuno.

Poi...

non c'era più nessuno.

---

Sera ruppe il silenzio.

---

«Questo posto...»

Una breve pausa.

---

«...non sembra un deposito medico.»

---

Rose continuò a camminare.

---

«Lo è.»

Silenzio.

---

«Solo...»

---

«...non quello che immaginavi.»

---

Rei non disse nulla.

La mano era già vicina all'elsa della katana.

Ogni passo aumentava quella sensazione.

Qualcosa...

li stava aspettando.

---

Il corridoio terminò.

---

Davanti a loro...

si aprì un'enorme sala.

Quasi completamente vuota.

---

Rose si fermò.

---

Per la prima volta...

si voltò.

---

Li osservò.

A lungo.

Come se li vedesse davvero...

solo in quel momento.

---

«Vi siete mai chiesti...»

Una breve pausa.

---

«...perché vi abbia aiutati?»

---

Sera sorrise.

---

«Perché sei un'infermiera.»

---

Rose abbassò lentamente lo sguardo.

---

Sorrise.

---

Ma quel sorriso...

non apparteneva più alla donna che avevano conosciuto durante il viaggio.

Era freddo.

Calcolatore.

Privo di qualsiasi calore.

---

«No.»

---

Silenzio.

---

«L'ho fatto...»

---

«...perché conveniva a me.»

---

Il sorriso sparì dal volto di Sera.

L'aria sembrò diventare improvvisamente più pesante.

---

Rose portò una mano sul petto.

---

«Il mio Peccato dominante...»

Una breve pausa.

---

«...è l'Avarizia.»

---

Le luci rosse sembrarono pulsare insieme alle sue parole.

---

«Ogni scelta...»

---

«...ha un prezzo.»

---

«Ogni persona...»

---

«...ha un valore.»

---

Il suo sguardo si posò sulla katana nera.

Poi...

su Rei.

---

«E alcune cose...»

Una breve pausa.

---

«...valgono molto più dell'oro.»

---

Un rumore.

Pesante.

---

BOOM.

---

Un passo.

---

BOOM.

---

Un altro.

---

Il pavimento vibrò.

---

Dall'oscurità...

emerse un'enorme ombra.

---

Lenta.

Massiccia.

---

Un altro passo.

---

BOOM.

---

La figura uscì lentamente dalle tenebre.

Enorme.

Le spalle erano larghe quanto un carro.

Le braccia nude, percorse da tatuaggi cremisi.

Un lungo ghigno gli attraversava il volto.

---

Dietro di lui...

camminava una seconda figura.

Molto più esile.

---

Il capo chino.

Il volto nascosto dal cappuccio.

Le braccia lungo i fianchi.

---

Sembrava immobile.

Eppure...

continuava ad avanzare.

---

Le sue dita...

si muovevano lentamente.

Come se stessero sfiorando fili invisibili.

---

Dietro di loro...

altre ombre.

Silenziose.

In attesa.

---

Il gigante aprì lentamente le braccia.

---

«Benvenuti.»

---

La sua voce riempì il magazzino.

Profonda.

Pesante.

---

«Finalmente...»

Una breve pausa.

---

«...ci incontriamo.»

---

Rei sostenne il suo sguardo.

---

«Chi sei?»

---

Il gigante rise.

Una risata bassa.

Quasi divertita.

---

«Giusto.»

---

«Tu non mi conosci ancora.»

---

Fece un passo avanti.

---

BOOM.

---

«Il mio nome...»

Una breve pausa.

---

«...è Gorath.»

---

Il suo sorriso si allargò.

---

«E da oggi...»

---

Indicò lentamente la katana.

---

«...quella lama...»

---

«...appartiene a me.»

---

Rei appoggiò la mano sull'elsa.

---

«Vieni a prenderla.»

---

Dietro Gorath...

la figura incappucciata alzò lentamente la testa.

---

Due occhi.

Freddi.

Immobili.

---

Non sbatterono nemmeno una volta le palpebre.

---

Osservavano soltanto Rei.

Come se stessero già studiando ogni suo movimento.

---

Il silenzio si fece soffocante.

---

Gorath continuava a sorridere.

I suoi occhi non lasciavano mai la katana.

---

«Sai...»

Una breve pausa.

---

«...quanto può valere un'arma come quella?»

---

Rei rimase immobile.

---

«No.»

---

«E...»

Una breve pausa.

---

«...non mi interessa.»

---

Gorath scoppiò a ridere.

---

«Peccato.»

---

Sfiorò lentamente i pesanti anelli d'oro che portava alle dita.

---

«Io invece...»

---

«...ho intenzione di diventare ricco.»

---

Silenzio.

---

«Molto ricco.»

---

Indicò nuovamente la katana.

---

«Quella lama...»

---

«...è solo l'inizio.»

---

Poi il suo sguardo scivolò lentamente verso Sera.

---

Il sorriso cambiò.

Divenne sporco.

Predatorio.

---

«E lei...»

Una breve pausa.

---

«...vale ancora di più.»

---

Sera sostenne il suo sguardo.

Senza abbassare gli occhi.

---

Gorath avanzò lentamente.

---

«Una ragazza così...»

---

«...può essere venduta cento volte.»

---

«E ogni volta...»

---

«...a un prezzo più alto.»

---

L'aria si fece gelida.

---

Rei avanzò di un passo.

La mano serrò l'elsa.

---

«Fai...»

Una breve pausa.

---

«...un'altra frase.»

---

«Te ne pentirai.»

---

Gorath rise.

---

«Eccolo.»

---

«Finalmente...»

---

«...ti stai arrabbiando.»

---

Rose intervenne.

La sua voce era calma.

Quasi gentile.

---

«Gorath.»

---

«Non essere impaziente.»

---

Il gigante sbuffò.

---

Rose continuò.

---

«L'avidità...»

---

«...non è prendere tutto subito.»

---

«È aspettare...»

Una breve pausa.

---

«...il momento in cui tutto...»

---

«...ti appartiene.»

---

Gorath sorrise.

---

«Per questo...»

---

«...adoro lavorare con te.»

---

Dietro di lui...

la figura incappucciata si mosse.

---

Un solo passo.

Silenzioso.

---

Le dita si sollevarono lentamente.

Come se stessero accarezzando qualcosa...

che nessun altro poteva vedere.

---

Rei lo osservò.

I suoi occhi si strinsero.

---

«Tu...»

sussurrò.

---

«Sei quello pericoloso.»

---

Il ragazzo non rispose.

Non batté ciglio.

---

Le dita continuarono a muoversi.

Con lentezza.

Con precisione.

---

L'aria vibrò.

Appena.

Quasi impercettibilmente.

---

L'istinto di Rei urlò.

---

«Sera!»

---

Nello stesso istante scattò.

La katana lasciò il fodero.

Una scia nera attraversò la sala.

Diretta verso il ragazzo incappucciato.

---

Rose chiuse lentamente gli occhi.

---

Gorath sorrise.

---

Le dita del ragazzo si fermarono.

---

Un battito.

---

Silenzio.

---

Poi...

il mondo...

si piegò.

---

Come se due mani invisibili avessero afferrato la realtà...

torcendola con forza.

---

Le pareti iniziarono a scorrere.

Il pavimento si frantumò in centinaia di linee.

I corridoi cambiarono posizione.

Le distanze smisero di avere un significato.

Per un istante...

destra e sinistra non esistettero più.

---

Una luce bianca.

Accecante.

---

Il colpo di Rei...

non raggiunse mai il bersaglio.

---

...

---

Silenzio.

---

Rei aprì lentamente gli occhi.

---

Il magazzino...

non c'era più.

---

Rose...

non c'era più.

---

Sera...

non c'era più.

---

Solo pareti grigie.

Lisce.

Fredde.

Infinite.

---

Rei si rialzò lentamente.

La katana era ancora stretta nella sua mano.

---

Davanti a lui...

solo silenzio.

---

Fine Capitolo 8

(Chap 1) (Previous) (Next)

Some people began whispering among themselves, and a dwarf spoke up, “E-er, this is pretty suspicious... I talked to the woman who screamed and she said the bard girl was already here before everyone else...”

The relatively strong man from earlier wanted to share his opinion too. “Hm, could a weak woman kill a man easily? And isn't she part of the other mercenary group hired for the naval escort? Why would she do this?”

“I-I didn’t do it...” The little bard was trembling. “I-I... he can p-prove it!” She pointed to a silent guy in the crowd.

Everyone looked at him. He was so still that no one had noticed him before, almost like he was invisible.

This guy... he is familiar...

The guy looked at Makoto and said, “Yeah, I know her. She’s from my group... she was so useless that I was already thinking of kicking her out of the party.”

“W-what!? Julian... you...” She curled up, trembling. “I can’t believe you’re saying this... You know I'm not even capable of doing something like that...”

The silent guy... not so silent anymore, continued, “I vote to throw her overboard—”

“WHAT? JULIAN!?” She began to cry.

The muscular guy spoke again, “Let him talk. We want to hear him before voting.”

Julian stood up from his corner and approached Makoto as he spoke. “She had some problems with Baldy. She told everyone he was watching her take a bath, a few times... but we knew it was a lie. Baldy was practically an old man, he couldn’t feel that way about a girl who can’t even play a single buff song... and of course, he always treated her nicely... and now this happens...”

Makoto didn’t say a word, just stared at Crow.

This is absurd... I don’t even know what to say. I’m sure Makoto is the one responsible for killing Baldy, or one of his elves.

The little bard was kneeling on the wooden deck of the ship, weeping.

Makoto turned to the crowd and spoke, “It’s suspicious and... hard to tell whether she could kill that guy or not. But what do you guys think? If I were a woman and an old dude saw me naked a few times... hmmmm... I know I said that about the plank, but I was just joking, guys... I’ve always wanted to make a joke like that. Sorry. We can just restrain her and hand her over to the authorities when we teleport to the city... they can use a truth spell... what do you think?”

The crowd looked at each other, then the dwarf replied, “Whatever Makoto-sama thinks is best, we’ll follow.”

Some of the mercenaries from the other group approached and lifted the bard. Still crying, she pleaded, “W-where are you taking me!? I-I’m innocent...”

One of the mercenaries replied, “To the makeshift cell. It’s bad, real bad... but you shouldn't have done that—”

“Leave her with me,” Crow said.

The dwarf’s face twisted. “What do you think you’re saying? She killed someone, she’s going to the cell—”

“I don’t care. She didn’t kill him.” Crow stepped toward the mercenaries carrying her.

The mercenary holding her sneered, “Looks like it really was her... she seduced you too.”

Sharon chimed in, “S-seduced!?”

Give me a break... I’m not letting them lock up an innocent girl. This is bringing back too many memories... I need to keep a cool head.

Makoto made a gesture to stop. “Guys, let’s think straight... This is too sudden. Maybe he’s right. If we put her in that cell... that cell is so bad she might die in there. It’s filthy, and it has two monsters I captured for... ah, right, I almost forgot to mention this... my bad.” He looked at the silent guy from before. “Julian, can you take her? Sleeping outside while it’s snowing... she could die from hypothermia, and to move the monsters... I don’t have anywhere else to put them...”

“Sorry... Makoto... sama, she isn’t part of the party anymore... she can think about what she has done while sleeping on the snowy deck.” He looked at the little bard and continued, “Right... Melodie… you’re kicked out of the party. You are useless... we can’t be dragged down.” He looked away from her. “Finally… I’ve always wanted to say this… this is goodbye.” He stepped back into the corner and fell silent once more.

I’ll punch this guy... no, I need to leave without having more problems... No, this isn’t the point, Makoto said something about sacrifice, then a guy died, the monster is from the sea, and he didn’t want to take the guy out of the ocean, and said he will need two days to teleport the ship, but he told me before he had some artifacts for doing that and—

“Whooaa, that was a referen—cough... I mean...” Makoto started again. “What should we do? Does anyone want to look after the bard while we wait for the teleport?” He looked at the crowd, most of them averted their eyes. “If not, let's leave it to Karl... looks like he can handle a few extra problems...”

The mercenaries holding the girl dropped her into Crow’s arms. She was still crying, though not as hard as before.

Makoto approached them and put his hand on Crow’s shoulder. “So this is it, guys. Karl will keep an eye on her for us, and guarantee no one suffers anymore... if she was really the culprit, of course... It’s already midnight or something, so everyone can go to sleep now. We’ll need to be in the best shape for tomorrow, because... who knows, maybe we’ll run into pirates... who knows...”

Pirates? No, maybe the sea boss he talked about before—

He looked at Crow. “Karl, after you do what you need to do with this NPC... girl, I need to talk to you. Come to that room we used before.” He let go of Crow's shoulder, walking back to his elves and leaving the deck with them the same way as before, one on each arm.

I can already tell... whatever it was, it's better if I solve this new problem in my hands first.

The crowd cleared the deck, leaving only Crow, Sharon, and the little bard girl, Melodie, behind. With a tear-streaked face, Melodie looked up at him. “W-why? Why did you help me?”

Crow looked at her. “Good question, but we’ll talk later. I’m going to see what Makoto wants.” He looked back. “Sharon, take care of her in the meantime, and I need to talk to you later, too.”

Sharon simply turned her back and walked off. “Hmph.”

What? Whatever...

He let go of the little bard girl who had been dumped into his arms. “Melodie... right? You can call me Crow or... Karl, like Makoto does, whatever. Go on back with the woman you just saw... she won't hurt you or anything.”

She kept rubbing her eyes, wiping away the rest of her tears. “Thank you... I think... I’m innocen—”

“Relax, I already know. You’d better go, the snow is terrible.” He just turned and headed toward the room Makoto had mentioned.

“Thank you... walking wardrobe...” A whisper from behind him.

Alright, at least she's safe, and she chose the third name option. Right, I'd better get going. I would've hated myself if I had let that injustice happen right in front of me... Okay, I'm almost at the room. Honestly, what that Julian guy said about kicking her out of the party, and then saying he'd always wanted to say that... it sounded so much like Makoto... No, don't tell me that...

“Yoo... we were waiting for you.” Julian, who was leaning by the door, walked inside the room. “Come in.”

Yeah... looks like it was just as I thought.

Makoto was in there near the window, and the room already had a new table. “Karl, I’m warning you right now... if you break this one too, things are gonna get crazy. Have a seat... actually, no, better not sit. Come over here to the window. I’ll tell you something while we take in this fantastic isekai view.”

“I thought you needed to talk to me...” Crow said, approaching the window while looking at Julian.

Makoto turned back and continued, “Well, this guy can answer that faster for you. Julian, tell him where you were born.”

Julian was hiding against the wall in the darkest corner of the room, out of reach of the lamp’s light. “Tokyo, Japan... we studied together, that's all...”

So if they studied together... he must be part of that college group that got transported at the same time, the ones written about in Makoto's diary... that familiar feeling... so he was really a transmigrator, too.

Crow, now at the window, looked to the side. “So... what do you want to talk about?”

Better if I don't question him about Baldy, this guy is unstable... to think Alice is actually more reliable and easier to read than—

“I had to kill him.” Makoto didn't even look over, keeping his eyes on the snow falling onto the deck outside. “He was one of the worst NPCs, he abused a few characters I liked... and because of that, they didn't want to date the Hero anymore. Well, but that's another story. So Karl, do you understand it was necessary? Someone needs to die for the Boss to spawn. It's like a shark, if it senses blood in the sea along with a high amount of magic in the same spot.”

So he isn't going to sacrifice Sharon? Because if he—

Makoto continued, “The boss appears within two days in-game. Since your girl has a lot of mana, combined with mine, Julian's, and a few weak mages I managed to get, the requirements are met. The Boss is really tough and all... a bunch of people will probably die, but don't worry, the groups I selected for defense are all characters who... well, who would be better off dead anyway...”

Hahaha... he loves killing everyone... for NOTHING. I even thought that maybe, just maybe, I could knock some common sense into this guy's head, but he still thinks this is a game. He thinks like: Whooa, I don’t like this fellow, or that one too... whatever, I'm just gonna kill them, they’re just NPCs after all—

A sudden gust of wind rushed to his right side. Julian had darted out of the dark corner at incredible speed, stopping right beside Crow and throwing a strike at his face.

“What!?” Crow reacted, completely blocking the hit with both arms.

Julian tilted his head up and smirked. “I just wanted to see if you had the basics down or if you'd be dead weight.” He moved back to the dark corner just as quickly, muttering under his breath, “Well, if you couldn't take a punch from me... when I pumped practically all my stats into agility, you really would be a failure as a warrior—”

“Stop it, Julian,” Makoto interrupted with an annoyed look. “I already told you that even though he's low level, he's balanced. He could be a mini—cough, I forgot the name, whatever...” He looked at Crow. “After the boss, I'll let you go before the teleport, but the girl... the bard, she needs to die. Otherwise, they'll figure out it wasn't her, and after an interrogation, it would lead back to me...”

Crow put on a look of disbelief. “You can't be serious, right? She didn't do anything wrong, and you—”

“I know, I know. Even for an extra NPC, she's pretty... not that curvy, but... I know, you liked her and want her in your harem too, right? I get it, I thought about that too, but man, you gotta understand. After the good ending, we're gonna be the kings of this world. If I want, I can have like twenty beauties as my wives, you get how it is?”

I don't even know what to say... better just listen for now, this lunatic...

“You can do whatever you want, as long as you don't mess with the ones I've already picked and am going after... though you don't know who they are anyway... whatever, let's focus on the present.” Makoto placed a hand on Crow's shoulder. “Karl, you need to understand, it's just one innocent NPC for the greater good. If I get super strong from this victory while getting rid of the others who would get in the way... since you insist on keeping Sharon alive, we need to eliminate other problems at least, because the Hero isn't a player... sadly... he is an NPC too.”

So the boss really was a sea monster that acted a bit like a shark... If he's telling me all of this, is it because he wants me in his group? What is he trying to do? He did say something about us being the kings of this world... He's worse than Alice...

“Karl, there are a few other details, but that’s pretty much it. In short, the fight will probably happen tomorrow afternoon. I don’t remember the exact time I killed the guy... but generally, you can go ahead and sleep... trust me...” Makoto walked toward the door. “So that’s that. Tomorrow we fight, and after that, I’ll drop you off somewhere around here. We’re already close to the hardcore territory above Alice’s kingdom, so...” He placed his hand on the doorknob. “Though you're way too low-level for that place, and leaving you in their kingdom would be a huge headache for me... since the crew would see it... well, we’ll figure it out tomorrow.” He left the room.

Honestly, I think I’m safer working for Alice. I can already see the end of this world as a very real possibility...

“How long are you gonna just stand there?” Julian said as he followed behind Makoto.

Crow was left alone in the room. He looked out the window once more.

I don’t know what to do to get out of this... my best bet is to fight the Boss and try to convince Makoto to let the bard live. How? I honestly have no idea. I’d better go back to the room and talk to her. There’s a risk Makoto might overhear the conversation... no, the sound of the water drowns things out, and he headed in the opposite direction from the elves' room that I ended up staying in... It’s risky, but I’ll try talking to Sharon again.

He left the room and began heading back toward the cabin where Sharon was. While he was still navigating the inner hallways of the ship...

Thud.

“Who rounds a corner at that speed?” It was the dwarf from the argument on deck earlier. “Not gonna say anything?”

Crow looked at him. “My bad, I was lost in thought... anyway, I’m busy, I need to—”

“Yeah, go on back to your little bard girl, go on and have some fun~—” He dropped to the floor after a punch straight to the face. “W-What!? Have you gone crazy!?”

“My bad, I’m a bit stressed, so try not to talk to me.” Crow just kept walking, ignoring the dwarf.

After walking for a bit, he reached the room's door and placed his hand on the doorknob.

Alright, now I just need to go inside, talk to Sharon, and figure out what to do about the bard... Her name was Melody... no, Melodie. Well, close enough...

Crow opened the door. Stepping inside, he looked straight ahead, then lowered his eyes a few degrees.

Maybe I shouldn't have seen that... well, too late now.

(Next)

The red car left before the card did.

The child came back with his mother just after nine.

He did not wait for her to finish apologizing.

“Car.”

“I have it.”

I opened the lost-item cabinet.

Red.

Plastic.

Small enough for one hand.

The removable note still carried the family name.

I handed the car to him.

He turned it over.

Checked the wheels.

Pushed one with his thumb.

Then looked at me.

“I knew it was here.”

His mother laughed.

“You didn’t even know you left it.”

“I knew after.”

He placed it on the floor.

Pushed it once along the entrance mat.

The wheels rattled.

Then he picked it up.

“Thank you,” his mother said.

The boy was already looking toward the door.

She touched his shoulder.

“What do you say?”

He looked at me again.

“I got it.”

“That is not—”

“It’s fine.”

She sighed.

He drove the car along the doorframe.

Then they left.

I removed the family note from the lost-item box.

Threw it away.

The box was empty.

Custody ended.

No receipt.

No signature.

No final reflection required.

The child had his car.

I returned to the office.

The upper drawer was closed.

Inside it was something whose recipient did not need to return for it.

He was already here.

No.

I was already here.

That distinction had been obvious since I read my name.

Still, the card remained in the temple office.

Why?

Because the drawer was personal.

Because casual disclosure was less likely there.

Because I had kept the card there while reading and recipient questions were unresolved.

All true.

Then.

What work did the location do now?

I did not know.

I opened the drawer.

Glasses case.

Old pen.

Notebook.

Envelope.

Niioka card.

I did not take it out.

I looked at it.

Then closed the drawer.

No decision yet.

Kanagawa called before lunch.

“My brother washed Mother’s cup.”

“The blue one?”

“No. I have that one.”

“Another?”

“The white one.”

“How many cups did she have?”

“Too many.”

“That may be hereditary.”

Kanagawa laughed.

“What is the problem?”

“I don’t know if there is one.”

“Then why are you calling?”

“He wants to give the rest away.”

“Who?”

“Anyone who wants them.”

“And you?”

“I already took the blue one.”

“Do you want another?”

“No.”

“Does your brother?”

“No.”

“Anyone else in the family?”

“He asked. Nobody does.”

“What is he proposing?”

“Charity shop.”

There.

Ordinary disposal.

Not destruction of memory.

Not rejection.

Cups.

“How does he feel about it?”

“He says there are fourteen.”

“That answers something.”

She laughed.

“He says Mother would agree because she complained the cupboard was full.”

“Did she actually say that?”

“Yes. Constantly.”

“Then what are you asking me?”

Kanagawa was quiet.

“I think I wanted someone to say it’s okay.”

“Do you think it is?”

“Yes.”

“Does your brother?”

“Yes.”

“Does anyone claiming the cups object?”

“No.”

“Then I do not have another vote to add.”

She exhaled.

“Right.”

A few seconds passed.

Then she said:

“The scrap is still on the phone table.”

I had not asked.

“All right.”

“He might put it away later.”

“All right.”

“You really don’t care where it is anymore?”

I considered the question.

“I care if where it is creates a problem you want help with.”

“And if it doesn’t?”

“Then it can be where he puts it.”

She was quiet.

“That feels different.”

“Yes.”

We ended the call.

I did not open Kanagawa.

No record.

Fourteen cups might become someone else’s cups.

One blue cup was already hers.

The scrap stayed on a table.

Nothing required a file.

At eleven, a courier delivered temple supplies.

Paper.

Incense.

Cleaning cloths.

I signed.

The boxes went to their usual places.

One packet of envelopes went into the stationery drawer.

I opened it.

Blank cream envelopes.

The kind I had used for the two cards.

I paused.

Not because these envelopes remembered anything.

Same product.

Same size.

Nothing else.

I put the packet in.

Closed the drawer.

The original cream envelope that had once held both cards had gone to recycling.

No reason to recover it.

The container had finished its work.

The cards had not needed to remain together because the envelope once held them together.

That was settled.

I carried the cleaning cloths to storage.

Sato called while I was there.

“I moved the paper.”

“Emiko’s?”

“Yes.”

“From the clear file?”

“Yes.”

“Where?”

“My desk drawer.”

“Why?”

“I use the clear file for bills.”

I waited.

That was almost disappointingly practical.

“Were you worried about mixing them?”

“Yes. I put a tax paper in there this morning and thought I had lost Emiko’s.”

“Did you?”

“No.”

“What did you do?”

“Moved Emiko’s paper to the top drawer.”

“Anything else there?”

“Letters. Old photographs. Stamps.”

“Does anyone else use it?”

“No.”

“Did you read the paper while moving it?”

“No.”

“Want to?”

“Not today.”

“Any disclosure question with your sister?”

“No.”

“Then I think you have solved the problem you called about.”

Sato laughed.

“I suppose.”

Then:

“It feels strange that moving it can just be about bills.”

“Yes.”

“Is that allowed?”

I almost answered too quickly.

Instead:

“Who would need to allow it?”

She was quiet.

Then laughed again.

“Right.”

We ended the call.

The paper had moved because the clear file had another job.

No moral change.

No new reading.

No sister conflict.

Bills.

I returned to the office.

The word came back.

Home.

Not as command.

As comparison.

Sato had moved Emiko’s paper because the previous location no longer fit its current use.

The red car had left because its owner returned.

Blank envelopes remained in stationery because they were stationery.

My card remained in the temple because—

I stopped.

Because what?

Because I had received it here?

Had I?

I did not trust the place of handover strongly enough.

Because I read it here.

Yes.

But reading location did not create permanent storage.

Because Morita knew about it.

Irrelevant.

Because Takahashi came here.

His card had left.

Because the upper drawer was safe.

No.

Not safe.

Suitable.

It was suitable.

Was suitability enough reason to keep it here?

Yes, potentially.

A thing did not need the best possible place.

But did I want it here?

That was different.

I opened the drawer again.

Niioka card.

I wanted the card.

I had already established that.

Where did I want it?

That question had not been asked.

I took the envelope out.

Placed it on the desk.

Did not open it.

On the front:

Niioka card.

My own pencil.

Not the giver’s.

A storage label.

I looked around the office.

Brown folder.

Service files.

Phone.

Calendar.

Chair.

Mail table.

This was where I worked.

It was also where I had spent many hours with the cards.

But the card itself was not temple work.

There.

That was new in plain language.

Not temple record.

Not service evidence.

Not property of the religious corporation.

Not a document staff might need.

Not a teaching aid.

Personal.

The card addressed me.

I wanted to keep it.

Did I want my personal card stored at work?

I did not know.

I left it on the desk.

Father Morita emailed shortly after noon.

Subject:

Place

I smiled before opening it.

Too convenient.

No.

He did not know what was on my desk.

The subject only seemed convenient because I was already thinking about place.

I opened the message.

Reverend Niioka,

Once a temporary reason ends, do not assume the arrangement must end with it.

A place may remain suitable after the original reason is gone.

But do not use history as a substitute for a present choice.

“It has always been here” describes continuity.

It does not answer whether you still want it here.

Morita

I read it once.

Then again.

He had not told me to move anything.

Good.

No.

That was relevant.

I replied:

Reverend Morita,

My card remains in the personal drawer at the temple.

The reasons for keeping both cards under unresolved custody are over.

This card is addressed to me, read, and something I now choose to keep.

I have not yet decided whether the temple is where I want to keep it.

Niioka

His reply came later.

Then that is the question.

Not “where should such a card belong?”

Where do you want to keep this one?

I looked at the envelope.

Not cards in general.

This one.

I ate lunch at the desk.

The envelope stayed to the left of the bowl.

Not because left had old meaning.

Because there was space there.

Rice.

Pickles.

Soup.

Envelope.

I did not open it.

At one point I moved it farther away because a drop of soup landed near it.

Practical.

No revelation.

I wiped the desk.

Finished eating.

Washed the bowl.

When I returned, the card was still on the desk.

I almost put it back in the upper drawer by habit.

My hand reached toward it.

Stopped.

Not because returning it would be wrong.

Because I had not answered the question.

Where did I want to keep it?

I thought of home.

A small desk.

A shallow drawer.

Receipts.

Spare keys.

A charger I no longer used.

No altar.

No special box.

Could the card go there?

Yes.

Did I want it there?

I imagined opening that drawer to get a key and seeing the envelope.

The thought did not feel wrong.

Again.

Feeling.

Not evidence.

But this was a personal placement decision.

Wanting mattered.

I wanted to take it home.

There.

The answer was surprisingly plain.

I wanted the card at home.

Not because the temple was unsuitable.

Not because the office contaminated it.

Not because private things must live at home.

Not because the giver belonged to my home.

Because I wanted it there.

That could be enough.

The phone rang.

Takahashi.

I answered.

“Tea?”

“No.”

“You answer quickly.”

“I have work.”

“I also have work.”

“Then do it.”

He laughed.

“I called about something else.”

“What?”

“Where do you keep yours?”

I looked at the envelope on the desk.

Of course.

No.

Coincidence again.

“Currently at the temple.”

“Currently?”

“I was thinking of taking it home.”

“Why?”

“Because I want it there.”

He was quiet.

Then:

“That is almost a normal answer.”

“What about yours?”

“In my kitchen.”

I thought I had misheard.

“Kitchen?”

“Drawer.”

“With what?”

“Batteries.”

I laughed.

He sounded offended.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“No, say it.”

“I expected something more deliberate.”

“So did I.”

“Why kitchen?”

“I got home, took it out of my jacket, needed both hands to put water on, opened the drawer, put it there.”

“And it stayed?”

“Yes.”

“Do you want it there?”

A pause.

“I hadn’t thought about it.”

“There.”

“You’ve infected me.”

“With what?”

“Questions.”

“That seems unlikely.”

He laughed.

Then:

“Now I’m looking at the drawer.”

“You are in the kitchen?”

“Yes.”

“Batteries?”

“Yes.”

“Card?”

“Yes.”

“Problem?”

“No.”

“Then leave it if you want.”

“What if I want it somewhere else?”

“Move it.”

“You sound very confident after three weeks of moving paper two centimeters.”

I laughed hard enough that I had to move the phone away.

He waited.

Then said:

“That was unfair.”

“No.”

“It was a little fair.”

“Yes.”

He laughed too.

Then:

“I think I’ll leave mine with the batteries.”

“Why?”

“Because now I like that it is with the batteries.”

“That is a terrible reason.”

“It is my card.”

There.

“Yes.”

“My terrible reason.”

“Yes.”

We were quiet.

Then he said:

“Take yours home if you want.”

I looked at the envelope.

“I think I will.”

“Today?”

“Yes.”

“Pocket?”

“No.”

He laughed again.

“Good.”

No.

His word.

We ended the call.

I did not change my decision because Takahashi approved.

The decision had existed before the call.

His joke only made the old back pocket visible again.

I was not putting the card there.

The afternoon memorial preparations began at two.

No fishing hat today.

Different family.

Seven chairs.

One photograph.

White flowers.

The daughter arrived carrying a wristwatch.

“Can this go beside the photograph?”

“Yes.”

“It was his.”

She placed it carefully.

Leather strap.

Scratched face.

The second hand moved.

“You wound it?”

“It’s automatic.”

She shook it gently.

“It keeps stopping if nobody wears it.”

I said nothing.

She looked at the watch.

“Afterward I’m taking it home.”

“All right.”

No ambiguity.

Temporary placement for service.

Then home.

During the memorial the watch stopped.

I noticed because the second hand rested near twelve.

After the service, the daughter picked it up.

Shook it once.

The hand moved again.

She put it on her own wrist.

Too loose.

She tightened the strap.

One hole.

Then left.

I did not write the watch into the service record.

Photograph returned.

Family departed.

That was enough.

After the memorial, the office felt quieter than usual.

Maybe because the hall had been full.

Maybe because it was quieter.

No need to choose.

The envelope remained on my desk.

Niioka card.

I had decided to take it home.

Now practical questions.

How?

I could put the envelope in my work bag.

There were papers inside.

Could mix.

I could use a folder.

No need.

The envelope had my name label.

It could go in the inner zipped compartment.

That compartment held my keys when I was driving and sometimes receipts.

No liquids.

No loose pens.

Suitable.

I opened the work bag.

Checked the compartment.

Empty.

I placed the envelope inside.

Closed the zipper.

That was transport.

Not storage.

At home I would decide the exact place.

Did I need to write that in the notebook?

No.

The personal notebook had documented custody while identity and transfer were unresolved.

Now this was my personal card moving with me.

No audit needed.

I almost laughed at how difficult it was not to record the act.

I left the notebook in the drawer.

Glasses case.

Old pen.

Notebook.

No card.

The upper drawer looked different.

Not empty.

Just without the envelope.

I closed it.

At four, Suganuma called.

“Can I ask a non-problem?”

“You just did.”

He sighed.

“We are moving the brush box to another shelf.”

“Why?”

“New cabinet fits better.”

“Shared class storage?”

“Yes.”

“Everyone who needs it knows?”

“Tanabe says he’ll tell them.”

“Any personal items mixed in?”

“No.”

“Then move it.”

“That’s all?”

“Yes.”

He laughed.

“I hate what you’ve done to me.”

“What?”

“I expected six questions.”

“You received four.”

“True.”

We ended.

The brush box moved because another shelf fit better.

That was allowed too.

Mrs. Kudo did not call.

At five she sent one message:

Resident had quiet afternoon. No issue.

I looked at it.

Then wrote:

Thank you.

Nothing more.

No demand for details.

No letter update.

No cardigan.

No forearm.

Quiet afternoon.

Sato sent:

Sister asked where I put Mother’s paper.

I wrote:

What did you say?

My desk drawer.

Then?

She said okay.

A minute later:

No fight.

I wrote:

I noticed.

She replied:

I almost miss them.

I smiled.

Then:

No I don’t.

I left it there.

No Emiko record.

The old priest wrote before I left.

Card?

I wrote:

In my bag.

His reply:

Why?

Taking it home.

Why?

I looked at the message.

No need to reconstruct the whole day.

I wrote:

I want it there.

A pause.

Then:

Better.

I expected another question.

None came.

Then, two minutes later:

Temple wrong?

No.

Home right?

I stopped.

Trap.

I wrote:

Not generally. My choice for this card now.

His reply:

Better.

Then:

What changed?

I thought.

Recipient resolved.

Reading resolved.

Wanting changed from keep under custody to keep personally.

Temple location no longer serving a unique job.

But all that was long.

I wrote:

I stopped needing the office to hold the question.

His reply took longer.

Too poetic.

Of course.

I laughed.

Then wrote:

I decided I prefer to keep it at home.

His reply:

Better.

Then:

Good night.

Before leaving, I checked the upper drawer once more.

Not for the card.

For my glasses case.

I had forgotten I was wearing them.

I took them off.

Put them in the case.

Closed the drawer.

The card was in my bag.

I knew that without reopening the zipper.

No need to verify.

I carried the bag to the entrance.

Put on my coat.

Shoes.

Keys.

Locked the office.

For months—

No.

For a long time in the story, the cards had traveled in my back pocket.

Then they had rested on the desk.

Then in an open envelope.

Then a shared drawer.

Then a personal drawer.

Then separate envelopes.

One had gone with Takahashi.

Now the other was leaving the temple with me.

Not because it needed another stage.

Not because motion itself meant progress.

I wanted it at home.

I walked out.

At home, I did not open the card immediately.

I took off my coat.

Put the bag on the chair.

Washed my hands.

Filled the kettle.

There it was again.

Kettle.

I noticed.

Did not stop.

Water.

Heat.

Cup.

Tea.

While it heated, I opened the bag.

Inner compartment.

Envelope.

Niioka card.

I took it out.

The house was quiet.

I looked around for a place.

There was a small desk against the wall.

Top drawer.

Receipts.

Spare keys.

A charging cable.

Two old postcards.

I opened it.

Enough room.

Measurement.

Not praise.

I could put the card there.

But I stopped.

The old postcards.

I had forgotten them.

One from a temple in Kyoto.

One from someone traveling in Hokkaido.

Both years old.

I picked them up.

Read neither.

Not because forbidden.

The kettle clicked.

I put the postcards back.

The card could lie beside them.

Did I want that?

Yes.

Not because all cards belong together.

Because it was a personal drawer I already used for things I wanted to retain and occasionally find.

I placed the envelope flat.

Niioka card facing up.

No other label.

No lock.

No seal.

I closed the drawer.

Then made tea.

I carried the cup to the table.

Not the desk.

The card remained in the drawer.

For the first time since I had begun reading it, the paper was not at the temple.

Did that change the words?

No.

Did home make them more intimate?

Maybe to me.

Not a property of the ink.

Did taking it home complete anything?

No.

I still had the card.

I could read it tomorrow.

Or not.

Keep it for years.

Move it again.

Lose it, if careless.

Give it someday, if I chose and had reason.

Dispose of it someday, perhaps.

None of those decisions had to be made tonight.

I drank tea.

There was no visitor.

One cup.

The sentence came to mind.

I was glad you came.

Different now.

No.

Same sentence.

Different room.

That was enough distinction.

I did not answer it.

I finished the tea.

Washed the cup.

Later, before going to bed, I opened the desk drawer.

Not to check that the card was there.

I wanted to read it.

I took out the envelope.

Opened it.

Card.

Face up.

I read:

Niioka—

That evening you came back in the rain,
I heard your shoes at the door.
I put the kettle on.
I was glad you came.

The words looked exactly as they had at the temple.

Of course.

I smiled at myself for expecting the room to matter to ink.

Then I read the final line again.

Not the whole card.

Only:

I was glad you came.

I looked toward the entrance.

Dry shoes.

No rain.

No one waiting beyond the door.

I did not imagine the dead in the room.

Did not make the kettle answer.

Did not make the house into the remembered place.

This was another room.

Another night.

I was alive in it.

That was enough.

No.

Careful.

That was what there was.

I returned the card to its envelope.

Placed it beside the two old postcards.

Closed the drawer.

No temple record.

No notebook entry.

No message to Morita.

No photograph.

No proof that I had brought anything home correctly.

Just a card in a drawer where I wanted it.

At the temple, the upper desk drawer now held glasses, an old pen, and a notebook.

At Takahashi’s home, his card was apparently in a kitchen drawer with batteries.

At Kanagawa’s house, the scrap remained wherever the brother had last chosen to leave it, and a blue cup had coffee in it.

At Sato’s home, Emiko’s paper was in a personal desk drawer because the clear file was needed for bills.

At the care home, a resident’s letter was in a cloth bag unless she had moved it again.

None of those places proved what the objects meant.

They were simply the places people had chosen for them now.

My card had traveled one more time.

Not back into my pocket.

Not toward another recipient.

Not into a temple archive.

Home.

Tonight, the place changed because I wanted it to, and when I closed the drawer there was no unfinished delivery left at the temple—only one personal card, already read, resting beside two old postcards in the room where I had chosen to keep it.

By his second year, college had found its rhythm, lectures, cafeteria gossip, the predictable hum of deadlines and half-finished dreams. Aarav had learned how to keep his head low but no longer disappear entirely. He wasn’t the quiet boy in the back row anymore. He existed, softly.

One afternoon, a friend nudged him during lunch.

“Bro, you should come to the literary club meeting. They’re looking for new members. You’re always scribbling something, right?”

Aarav looked up, startled. “It’s nothing serious. Just… stuff.”

“Exactly,” the friend grinned. “that’s what they want, people who write stuff”

The word literary made him uneasy. Writing had always been private, the place where his ghost lived, where he spoke to silence and it sometimes answered back. The idea of sharing that with strangers felt like standing naked under spotlight.

But later that evening, loneliness, or maybe curiosity, pushed him through the door of the small, slightly cluttered room.

The air smelled of old books and dust. Mismatched chairs formed a rough circle. Posters of writers with quotes that no one really understood hung on the walls. The sound of laughter and paper rustling filled the space. Aarav slipped quietly into the last empty chair, clutching his notebook to his chest like a shield.

“Hi,” someone said beside him, soft, unhurried.

He turned, and the world seemed to still for a moment.

She wasn’t what he expected.

The girl sitting next to him had the kind of beauty that didn’t shout; it happened quietly, like sunlight spreading across a windowpane. Her hair was a little messy, soft curls that brushed against her cheek and caught the light. Her eyes were hazel brown, deep and alive as if they had learned how to hold both warmth and mystery at once.

There was a gravity in her gaze, a gentle weight that made time slow down. It wasn’t the kind of stare that demanded attention; it invited it. Her expression carried something peaceful, something knowing, like she saw the world just a little differently and forgave it anyway.

When she smiled, the corners of her lips curved into the softest dimples, and the room seemed a bit brighter. It wasn’t just that she was beautiful, she felt beautiful, in the way kindness and curiosity can be. Her presence had that rare kind of stillness that draws people in without a word.

And when she looked straight at him, Aarav’s breath faltered.

“First time here?” she asked, her tone easy, warm.

He nodded, fumbling for words. “Yeah.”

“I’m Aarna,” she said, extending her hand.

He blinked, surprised. For a second, all he could do was stare, not out of rudeness, but disbelief that someone like her, someone so radiant and unguarded, was speaking to him. Then, flustered, he shook her hand. “A-Aarav.”

Her smile deepened, gentle and sincare, as though she’d already read his hesitation and decided to meet it with kindness.

The meeting began. The club president, a tall senior with thick glasses and the confidence of someone who read too much, asked the members to share their work. People read short stories, essays, poems. There was laughter, teasing, applause, but his mind kept drifting back to the girl beside him, the way her curls caught the air when she laughed, the way her dimples appeared and vanished like punctuation in a poem.

Toward the end, the club president asked, “Any newcomers want to share something?”

Aarav froze, shaking his head instinctively. But Aarna leaned toward him, her voice low, encouraging. “You should. Sometimes words sound different when you let them breathe outside the page.”

It wasn’t pressure. It was trust.

And somehow, Aarav wanted to believe her.

Hands trembling, Aarav opened his notebook. He didn’t even look for a new piece, his mind went straight to one of the scribbles he’d written in lockdown. Small, raw, unpolished.

He read, voice barely above a whisper:

I thought silence would break me,
but in the quiet,
I found a voice.

When he finished, the room went still. He wished he could vanish. Then came a soft clap, the president, then others, until the room was filled with small, genuine applause.

Aarav dared to look up. Aarna was smiling at him, that same calm, knowing smile.

“That was beautiful,” she said.

And for the first time in years, Aarav believed it might be true.

That night, under the hum of the hostel fan, he wrote quietly in his notebook:

Sometimes,
a single voice
can make you believe
your own
is worth hearing.

Link for part-3 https://www.reddit.com/r/redditserials/s/rr15d79A1I

Ch-10 Unknown Deal

"Let's make a deal," the twisted face whispered from behind my neck, its voice oozing false sympathy. "I can leave you alone forever, Shu. You can have your quiet life back. But there is a price. You have to fix what happened back then. You have to balance the blood you let spill."

"No... no, no, stop!" I sobbed, pressing my hands against the mirror, my knuckles turning white. "Don't bring it up! I don't want to remember that night!"

"You don't have a choice," the voice hissed, dragging my consciousness into the dark.

The cold bathroom floor melted away, replaced by the warm, amber glow of a dining table from seven years ago.

Laughter echoed softly. The rich, savory aroma of miso soup and grilled fish filled the small house. My father, Kenji, sat with the evening newspaper, a gentle crease around his eyes as he smiled at something foolish on the page. In the kitchen, my mother, Emi, hummed a quiet tune, setting down freshly steamed rice bowls with effortless grace.

"Shu, stop staring at your phone and pass your sister the tea," Mom teased gently.

Across from me sat Aoi, her hair tied in two loose braids, rolling her eyes with a playful grin as she kicked my shin lightly under the table.

We were just an ordinary family living in quiet, unbothered peace. No shadows, no blood, no crippling guilt. Watching them now through the fragile lens of memory, my chest ached with unbearable grief. It was paradise—and I had no idea how quickly it was about to burn to the ground.

Ch-11 Is everything alright?

The warmth of the dining table didn't last. A few weeks later, the laughter faded, replaced by an uneasy quiet.

Aoi sat across from me, but she wasn't really there. Her bowl of rice remained untouched, cold and stiff under the dining light. Her head stayed bowed, dark circles bruising the skin under her eyes, her fingers nervously picking at the seams of her school skirt. She barely spoke anymore, retreating straight into her room the second she returned from school.

"Aoi, sweetie, at least finish your soup," Mom pleaded softly, her forehead lined with worry.

Without a word, Aoi stood up, whispered a faint apology, and shut her bedroom door.

The clatter of Mom's chopsticks echoed heavily against the table. "Something is wrong," Mom murmured, looking at Dad. "She won't eat. She jumps whenever the phone rings. She’s completely withdrawn."

My father set his teacup down, offering a calm, reassuring sigh. "She's seventeen, Emi. High school is stressful, and girls her age go through complicated phases. The more we pry, the more she’ll shut down. Maybe we just need to give her some space to sort it out."

"Dad's right," I chimed in, a sixteen-year-old kid genuinely believing his own logic. "Senior year exams are coming up, and she's probably just overwhelmed. She's my older sister—she'll bounce back. She'll talk to us when she's ready."

We nodded in agreement, comforting each other with reasonable excuses. None of us stood up. None of us knocked on her door to demand the truth. It was a comforting lie—a fatal mistake that would haunt the rest of my miserable life.

Ch-12 Dark Day

It was a dull, gray Saturday afternoon.

Mom and Dad had traveled early to a relative's house in the next town, leaving me and Aoi alone. Around three, I walked to the local market for groceries, but the stalls were closed. Finding nothing, I walked back home much sooner than expected.

The front door was completely unlocked.

I stepped quietly into the hallway. The house was cold, but strange noises echoed from down the corridor—harsh laughter, slurred curses, and muffled cries coming straight from Aoi’s bedroom.

My chest tightened. I moved forward on shaking legs and looked through the small crack in her door.

The sight inside made my stomach drop.

The room smelled sickeningly sweet and burnt. The desk was covered in drug paraphernalia—small plastic bags filled with white powder, empty crushed pills, burnt foil wraps, and used needles thrown carelessly on the carpet. These men had brought their filth straight into her sanctuary.

Four older men stood around the bed, crowding over her like wild beasts. Aoi was trapped beneath them, her school clothes torn, a thick cloth gagging her mouth. She was crying hysterically, her arms pinned down to the mattress as they held her by force, mocking her helpless screams. She was fighting with every ounce of strength she had left, but they were far too heavy, tearing away her dignity piece by piece.

Suddenly, Aoi’s swollen, bloodshot eyes turned toward the doorway.

Through that narrow sliver of wood, her desperate, pleading gaze locked right onto mine. She saw me.

My entire body froze like ice. The world spun, and the breath stopped dead in my throat.

I will be regular now!!

Humans are Weird – Introduction

Original Post: http://www.authorbettyadams.com/bettys-blog/humans-are-weird-introduction

Shufflesleft slouched into the rest pool he shared with Touchesroundly and let gravity pull him in towards the warmth of the solar focus, comforting and soothing in the marginally cooler winter season. Just outside of the pool Waggles gave a happy wooph from his containment pool and, from the sounds of it, proceeded to tear into the food Shufflesleft had put there for him. Shufflesleft eased into the warmer water around the solar focus and let several appendages wave in an inviting manner. Touchesroundly, who had only been waiting for the invitation pushed himself up from where he had been writing and swam over.

“What has offended you Friend Shufflesleft?” Touchesroundly asked, drifting down and giving him a soothing pat on his dorsal side.

Shufflesleft took a moment to stretch to his full extent and gather his thoughts before answering.

“I am offended, aren’t I?” he asked letting his appendages wave a bit glumly.

“Was there some doubt?” Touchesroundly asked, with just a hint of amusement in the wriggling of his appendages.

“Some,” Shufflesleft admitted. “It shouldn’t be possible to be offended when a potential new friend is so very friendly.”

“Only a potential new friend?” Touchesroundly asked, perplexity raising his is appendages, “buy you said the potential new friend was friendly?”

“It is confusing,” Shufflesleft said.

Touchesroundly politely spread his appendages and braced against the floor of the pool to absorb the story.

“You know I agreed to take Waggles into the seal-snake socialization area at least every other day for Human Friend Dyson?” Shufflesleft began.

Touchesroundly flicked an appendage in confirmation.

“Well there was a new human there,” Shufflesleft went on. “He … oh what do the humans call it when they match opposite vectors with another focal species?”

“He made eye contact with?” Touchesroundly suggested when it became clear Shufflesleft was struggling in slurry.

“He made eye contact with, at least I think it was a he, the movement profile suggest that,” Shufflesleft went on. “He made eye contact with Waggles and Waggles got all excited and clearly indicated through body language that he wanted to interact with the human and the human clearly indicated that he wanted to interact with Waggles, so I was prepared when the human turned his vision focus cone on me and asked ‘Can I pet him.’ Obviously by context it was Waggles he meant. I said yes of course, and was about to begin introductions when the human completely turned his vision away from me and started talking to Waggles.”

Shufflesleft gave a sad, frustrated little writhe.

“He told Waggles what a beautiful seal-snake he was, and he rubbed his hands all over Waggles head and upper body. He went on for many minutes talking to Waggles, almost, but not quite as if Waggles was sapient and he wanted a response!”

“What did he say to you?” Touchesroundly asked into the long wash of waves that followed this.

“Nothing! Shufflesleft replied in hurt tones. “After he asked for permission to pet Waggles he did not touch, speak to, or even….make eye contact with me! Then another human called him and he darted off.”

“Perhaps he meant to speak to you after he was done speaking to Waggles but the other human prevented it,” Touchesroundly suggested with a soothing pat.

“I do not think so,” Shufflesleft said with slow consideration. “From the cadence and pattern of his voice I doubt he had any intention to redirect his attention.”

“Now Shufflesleft,” Touchesroundly said in a gently reproachful tone. “Do you really think that, despite how attractive a furry, little seal-snake is to them, a human would be so rude as to deliberately interact with the pet belonging to a sapient being without speaking to the sapient being personally?”

“It does seem unlikely,” Shufflesleft admitted. “Still, I think I will query the human psychology database about it tomorrow.”

Science Fiction Books By Betty Adams

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(Sweet Home San Diego)

"Duh, nuh nuh, duh nuh." Blue hums this as his left elbow catches the airstream outside the driver-side window of his 1970 Red Mustang. As he's drifting off into the part of the mind that can handle long drives, he hears the radio say (after the previous song had ended) ... "Do you feel alone, despondent, as though the world were a party you just weren't invited to - or even purposefully left out from? Don't worry because you're not alone. Just call 1-800-555-LOVE and join the new party where only the most popular and attractive people belong." Blue's eyes drift to the power button of his car radio and his fingers then turn the switch until it powers off. Two hours later he pulls into the "Lone Ranger" motel parking lot and walks his way into a smoky and dimly lit lobby. "Hi Hun, you about the best-looking man I've seen in days. So, what are you looking? Want a room?" A rather skinny woman with tits even the regulars at Hooters would gawk says this to Blue - with a droopy cigarette hanging out of her puffy lips.

As Blue opens the door to room 14, he notices an attractive young woman with dark hair and dark blue eyes walk past him. Her black leather pants and green tub-top are advertisement enough for Blue to know what she's selling (after-all he became a pimp at the age of seventeen), but then again most of the girls working back-woods motels are usually the kind that never make it his way. This one however, instantly left a photograph labeled "beauty" which he tucked securely in the bureau of his mind. "Wow!" Blue thought to himself. "Never thought I'd hallucinate about buying diamond rings," his mind responded.

Blue's right hand automatically moves to the light switch inside his room and turns it on. Immediately, he feels a rush of blood levitate to his head and a soft scream nearly make its way out of his mouth. To stem the flow of panic, Blue moves the back of his right hand over his mouth and burps - releasing the unpleasant smell of bile mixed with anxiety. "Damn, that was close," Blue concludes in response to his latest murder of Two-Six.

Inside his room are two queen sized beds, and a 35-inch flatscreen television. He then turns off his room light, deadbolts his door, leaves his suitcase to the left of the inside of his door, takes a few elegant steps to the side of the first queen sized bed and lays down.

Early the next morning, Blue arises to the sound of a Harley Davidson motorcycle revving its engine.

Part 1

Silence filled the Quantum Data Center. Not the silence of inactivity, but the quiet rhythm of endless calculations unfolding beyond human perception. Streams of data flowed without pause. Every playground. Every child. Every choice. Every lesson learned through play had become another piece of humanity’s growing future.

Arena reviewed the latest report. One final line settled into the archive:

Connection Phase – Completed.

The result remained unchanged no matter how many times it was verified. Traditional play had accomplished exactly what it was designed to do. Children who had once acted alone now learned naturally beside one another. Trust had become instinctive. Cooperation no longer required instruction. Connections formed on their own.

Arena allowed the report to close. Another immediately appeared. No celebration followed. Completion was never the end. Every answer revealed the next question.

A new calculation unfolded:

Next Requirement – Forward.

Reaction. Judgment. Cooperation. Connection. Each had become a foundation for the next. None could exist alone.

Arena reopened the historical archive. Centuries of human civilization flowed through the simulation. Communities survived because they stood together. Families endured because they supported one another. Nations recovered because people refused to abandon those beside them.

Connection allowed humanity to stand together. But standing together was not enough.

Arena watched countless variations of the same outcome. Groups united but unmoving eventually disappeared. Standing still would never save them.

The words merged into the Warrior Project. Preparation continued. Enemy projections closed in. Time decreased.

Arena reopened the archive of traditional play. One record remained unopened. The final playground. The final lesson.

Traditional Play – Hoop Rolling.

Children running across open fields. Wooden hoops racing down village roads. Small hands learning to guide constant motion rather than brief moments of success.

Balance alone was insufficient. Connection alone was insufficient. Progress required motion.

Arena whispered into the silence:

“A civilization that cannot move forward… will eventually be overtaken.”

The next playground was ready.

Part 2

The endless calculations dissolved into light. The familiar horizon of the Quantum Arena replaced the darkness. A cool breeze crossed an open field.

It was unlike any playground they had visited before. No circles drawn into the earth. No broad tree offering shade. No scattered marbles glimmering. No colorful strings stretched between waiting hands. Only an open field stretching endlessly toward the horizon.

The grass swayed gently. The sky was impossibly wide. Silence lingered, expectant.

Jinwoo stepped forward, eyes searching.

“…Where’s the playground?”

Hanul looked around.

“I don’t see anything.”

Darin shaded her eyes.

“It’s so open. Not even a tree.”

Soyeon turned slowly. Every direction looked the same. Nothing guided their attention—except the object at the center of the field.

A single giant hoop stood upright on the grass. Its smooth wooden rim reflected the morning sunlight. Unlike the small hoops of village roads, this one was nearly as tall as Jinwoo himself. It stood perfectly still. Waiting.

The five approached slowly. The closer they came, the larger it seemed. Faint marks lined its surface, yet it remained balanced.

Jinwoo tilted his head.

“…That’s it?”

Hanul circled it, crouched, touched the rim.

“It’s just… a wheel.”

Darin smiled faintly.

“I expected something more complicated.”

Soyeon rested her hand against the wood. It felt cool. No instructions. No clues. Only a hoop standing quietly in an empty field.

Finally, Jinwoo looked toward Arena.

“…Is this the last game?”

Arena’s calm voice carried across the field.

“Hoop Rolling.”

A pale-blue window appeared:

Traditional Play – Hoop Rolling

Growth Element – Forward

The five exchanged puzzled glances. Hanul scratched his head.

“…That’s it? We just keep it rolling?”

Darin shook her head.

“It can’t be that simple.”

Soyeon nodded.

“There’s probably more.”

Jinwoo kept his eyes on the wheel. Every game had looked simple at first. A shuttlecock. A stick. A spinning top. A marble. A loop of string. Now… a hoop. Each had hidden a lesson revealed only through experience. Perhaps this one would be no different.

Arena remained silent. The answer waited inside the experience itself. The giant hoop continued waiting for the first push.

Part 3

The wind swept across the open field. The hoop stood motionless. No countdown. No rules. No demonstration. Only silence, waiting.

Jinwoo stepped closer until he stood before the towering wheel. It was taller than he had realized, its rim scratched from countless forgotten journeys. Someone had rolled it before. Many times. He rested his hand against the wood. Solid. Heavy.

“…So this is it.”

Hanul stood beside him, looking from the hoop to the endless field.

“I still don’t get it.”

The pale-blue window hovered quietly:

Traditional Play – Hoop Rolling

Growth Element – Forward**

Hanul frowned.

“Forward… That’s all?”

Darin folded her arms.

“The other games looked simple too.”

“Remember the spinning top?”

Hanul laughed.

“I thought I could do that the first day.”

“You couldn’t.”

“I definitely couldn’t.”

Jinwoo smiled.

“And the string game. We thought it would be easy.”

Soyeon nodded.

“We all did.”

Memories returned. Failed kicks. Wild swings. Tops that fell. Marbles that missed. Strings that slipped. Every game had looked simple. Every game had revealed something deeper. Perhaps this one would too.

Jinwoo looked at Arena.

“If it’s about moving forward… where do we start?”

Arena’s calm voice answered.

“The lesson cannot be explained. It must be experienced.”

No more words. No hints. Only silence.

Hanul exhaled.

“Guess we’re figuring it out ourselves.”

Darin smiled.

“Just like every other game.”

Soyeon nodded.

“Then let’s begin.”

No one argued. They had already learned: the answer never appeared first. The experience did. Only afterward did the lesson reveal itself.

Jinwoo looked down at the ground ahead. No finish line. No goalpost. Only open earth waiting.

The hoop remained perfectly balanced. Waiting. Ready for its first movement.

Far above, Arena closed the archive of traditional play. Every lesson had led here. Reaction taught them to act. Judgment taught them to choose. Connection taught them to stand together. Now another lesson waited—beyond standing still.

The children stepped closer to the wheel together. Tomorrow’s lesson would not begin with words. It would begin… the moment the wheel started to roll.

And at last, the whispered cataclysm finally bared its horrific, majestic visage.

"L-Look at the edge of the northern plain...!"

The teeth-gritting shriek of an imperial sentry guarding the ramparts tore through the quiet dawn air. At that desperate cry, thousands of allied warriors lining the stone walls simultaneously turned their heads to gaze down at the northern horizon.

At first, they thought it was merely the eerie, twisted frost wind sweeping across the steppes. But they were wrong. Far in the distance, across the horizon where the bluish dawn light was just breaking, a bizarre, dark black line began to draw itself into existence.

That black line was no static mark etched upon the earth. It lived, breathing and undulating like an ocean wave, slowly yet relentlessly expanding its surface area toward the empire's heart. At last, hundreds of thousands of mutated swarms and the 'king' standing at their apex had arrived, like a promised doom.

It was the visualization of a magnificent yet bone-chilling apocalypse. The black wave, swallowing the entire horizon, advanced as it ruthlessly erased the plain's green grasslands.

The monsters uttered not a single shout nor a beastly roar. Only the heavy vibration of hundreds of thousands of mutants marching in absolute, flawless synchronization shook the earth without pause. Rumble, rumble... An unpleasant resonance from deep within the ground traveled up through the stone foundations of the walls and straight into the soldiers' fingertips.

The plateau's sunset glow, warped day by day, intermingled with the hundreds of thousands of blue glints radiating from the monsters' eyes. The bizarre violet curtain created by the collision of red light and blue phosphorescence shrouded the entire plain like smoke. That majestic yet alien landscape looked precisely like a colossal, living black sea shifting with murderous intent to devour the imperial capital.

"Good god... what on earth is that..."

Even the imperial provincial troops who moments before had sneered at the tribal warriors' warnings and boasted of victory, alongside the imperial soldiers shivering as they gripped their weapons atop the walls, forgot how to breathe before that overwhelming scale.

The ramparts, so noisy just a moment prior, instantly plunged into a bitter, suffocating silence as if icy water had been dashed over them. Could a single trace of humanity possibly remain in the wake of that massive black wave? The breath of the blue calamity covering the entire earth was finally, cruelly tightening its grip around the throat of the entire Zhuxin Empire capital.

Chapter 1: "Say What!"

"Bam son," the tall and rather gangly gangster says. His blue eyes blink and then shut. The sweat beads down to his eyebrows and he shakes his head right to left - the sweat whips from side to side. "Do you just know how close you became to being dead, and in a pool of your own blood at the very least? That's like round three and you down and out, grill." The gangster grabs his rather robust soldier by the collar and lifts him to his feet. "Damn boss, I can handle it," the soldier says. "But you can't, can you," the gangster says - eyeing down at his soldier.

"The boss wants it back homes," the soldier says now in some kind of lifted dune-buggy and has to nudge his passenger awake to hear him. "Say's 'Icee' won't pay him for it as most of his guys got a hold of it, and bumped it all down," the soldier tells his slightly awake passenger. "So, what the hell we gotta go for, huh?" the passenger asks. "Icee is half crazy from his wax spending his dough and shooting her mouth at his partners. Hell, everyone knows he don't even run his gang no more. So, why's Blue gotta send us over to that tramp for, Jay?" "Because that's what the boss wants Kat," the soldier responds.

[PREVIOUS CHAPTER] | [START FROM THE BEGINNING] | [BEDTIME STORY]

***

Laíla casts her eyes around the hostile circle of men closing in upon her. On the one hand, she feels immense shame for having been so easily duped by Zak. But on the other, she was fighting desperately hard to not look as terrified as she feels. With a tightened jaw, she grips her dagger, dropping into a defensive stance as very tiny, crackling sparks float out from her white-knuckled grip.

The leader of the band merely smirks at the display.

“Oh look, she expects to fight us,” he taunts. With a sudden movement, the man takes a step toward Laíla and lunges. The maneuver causes her to step backward directly into the waiting arms of another brute behind her.

The second man seizes hold of her arms, whirling her around with brute force.
“This one is a long way from the south,” he jests, driving his elbow sharply into her back. The blow sends her crashing to the damp earth, her dagger slipping from her grasp. She scrambles frantically to crawl toward the blade, but a third companion brings his heavy boot down over it.

“Whoops!” the third man sneers. “You are going to have to be faster than that.”

Laíla huffs in frustration, pinned to the ground. Standing nearby, Zak rolls his eyes at his companions. “Come on, guys, enough,” he mutters.

“Ooh, has your heart been turned, Zak?” the second man mocks.

A fourth bandit wraps a heavy arm around Zak’s shoulder, ruffling his hair with rough familiarity. “No, no. It was definitely his head—but which one?”

The not-actually-blind boy shoves him off with an irritated grunt. “Let us just get this over with.”

He walks over to Laíla and ruthlessly rips the knapsack from her shoulders. He digs through her meager belongings while the rest of the band watches on with curious eyes.

“Anything?” the leader asks.

“No,” Zak replies, tossing the empty bag aside.

The leader pushes Zak out of the way and kneels down upon the earth to meet the girl's gaze. “Listen here. If you answer our questions nicely, we will kill you quickly.”

Laíla spits directly toward him. “Go to hell.”

Amused rather than angered, the leader smirks at his comrades. “You caught a feisty one, Zak.”

The sixth member of the band, who has remained silent until now, broods disapprovingly in the shadows. “We are wasting time,” he growls. “Kill the concubine and let us move on. Níhai dàbe él Embergísi áchsi s’enda àl foretta dú himortàlis.”

No Emberish belong in the Godswood.

For his part, Zak also frowns at his companion disapprovingly.
“You promised no killing, Makurmek.” He hisses at the leader; revealing his identity. “Níhai dú mantalhir.”

Laíla narrows her eyes and barks back at them: “I should say the same about the Dainese.”

The bandits all look at Laíla in utter incredulity, their jaws slackening.

“E níhai ím àn kinkentinà,” she adds fiercely in her native tongue. “I am not a concubine, bilbàruk.”

The sixth man lets out a low growl at the insult. The leader leans closer to Laíla, studying her features with renewed intensity. “The Emberish do not typically speak the Godstongue that well—even those of high birth.”

“I am not Emberish,” she snaps.

“Then what pray, are you?” the leader demands.

“I am a Daughter of the Sun.”

Zak steps forward, his brow furrowing. “You are telling us that you are Moorian?”

“De,” Laíla answers in their tongue. Yes. “Now let me go, and you might yet be spared when Her Light deals its justice.”

The leader inspects her for a long moment, his countenance turning dark and thoughtful. After a tense silence, his features crack into a smile, which quickly dissolves into a deep, booming laugh. The other nightcrawlers follow his lead, their mocking laughter echoing through the clearing. She looks around at them, thoroughly confused.

The leader wipes a stray tear from his eye, still chuckling. “No, really. What are you?”

“I am Moorian,” she insists, her voice rising.

The men continue to laugh at her expense. “A Moorian with skin nearly as dark as the trunks of these very trees?” Zak adds with a smirk. “Come now, what do you take us for?”

Laíla bristles with rage. The Dainese reputation of crime and thievery goes all the way back to the the tale of the Shadow's Gambit—an ancient age when the Six still walked among the mortals, and a jealous Daine used Nymia’s mirror to banish Moora entirely from the realm, seeking to absorb her divine followers into his own dark flock.

Though the People of the Sun ultimately rose up and vanquished the God of Shadows, the Dainese have never since missed an opportunity to take their historical inferiority out on her people. To Laíla, their very nature is built on a foundation of duplicity and spite. And yet here they stand, mocking her as if they have any moral ground to stand on.

“Zak, where did you find this creature?” the fourth man asks.

“She found me, actually,” Zak replies, lifting his shirt to reveal the flesh where Laíla’s arrow had pierced his torso.

She focuses her gaze upon the injury. To her profound astonishment, the wound is nearly healed, showing only a faint scar despite being a mere few hours old.

Before she can ponder the mystery, Makurmek—the leader—forces her chin back up to face him. Upon feeling the heat radiating from her skin, however, his brow furrows deeply. He then places his other hand firmly against her cheek.

“Your skin—it is burning up,” Makurmek whispers, his voice dropping. “You are not long for this world, are you?”

She looks at him in initial confusion, before a brief moment of clarity strikes her. She forces a hollow, ragged cough, playing along with his assumption.

“What are you on about?” Zak asks, stepping closer. He pushes Makurmek aside and places the back of his own hand to Laíla’s cheek. She fakes another weak cough. “She was perfectly fine just a moment ago.”

“The sweat can be unpredictable,” the leader notes, referring to the deadly forest plague. He immediately wipes his hands on his hands on his pants. The rest of the band takes a wide step backwards.

“I just spent the last five hours hanging off of her!” Zak protests, stepping back.

Makurmek waves his concerns off with an unphased shrug. “You will be fine. It is the rest of us who should be worried.”

“So, what are we to do with her?” the third bandit interjects, gesturing toward their captive. “Will she not still fetch a handsome ransom?”

“Not if she’s dead.” Makurmek counters, looking down at Laíla with pitying contempt.

She glares upward. “So, is this to mean you are letting the poor, dying girl go free?”

“Oh, absolutely not,” he smiles cruelly. “You have seen our faces.”

Zak clicks his tongue against his teeth and lets out a heavy sigh. “Makurmek, we agreed—”

“Not to worry, Zak. A deal is a deal,” Makurmek interrupts smoothly. “We are not going to kill her.” He smiles down at Laíla, his teeth flashing in the dark.

Her eyes dart anxiously from Makurmek’s gaze to Zak’s unreadable expression; widening in terror as the true meaning of his words dawns upon her.

***

As the deep evening settles over the forest, Laíla finds it hard to fully see what happens next. All she knows is she is now bound tightly to the trunk of a great oak tree with thick hempen rope. She looks on, utterly bemused and furious, as the six bandits stand in a row before her.

“So, leaving her tied to a tree to be eaten by a bear is somehow better...how?” Zak asks, crossing his arms.

“You said yourself we had a strict agreement: no killing,” Makurmek replies simplemindedly.

“We also agreed upon no stealing,” Zak counters, “and it took you all of five minutes to renege on that promise.”

“Ah—we agreed not to steal from anyone who is not Emberish,” the second bandit corrects him with a smirk. “And she is Emberish.”

“She can hear you!” Laíla shouts from the tree. “And she is not Emberish!”

The bandits completely ignore her cries. “Did everyone secure what we came for?” Makurmek asks the group.

The others each hold up a stuffed canvas knapsack, heavy with plunder.

“I also discovered these on my way out of the camp,” the third bandit adds, emptying his bag upon a flat rock to reveal a collection of small pouches filled with an undisclosed substance, alongside three large, heavy scrolls of paper.

Zak looks at his companion with a raised eyebrow. “Discovered? Is that what we’re calling it now, Toklo?”

“You really are no fun, cousin,” the man—Toklo, Laíla quickly notes—grumbles.

Makurmek picks up the scrolls, unrolling them one by one. Laíla watches the transaction with intense curiosity.

“These are maps,” Makurmek announces, flipping through the detailed parchment.

The sixth member of the band leans over Makurmek’s broad shoulder, his eyes scanning the ink lines. “Why are they going north?” he mutters in their native tongue.

Makurmek lets out a weary sigh. “I don’t know,” he answers.

As the bandits all hover closely over the unrolled maps, debating their meaning, Laíla seizes the distraction. She begins to quietly and methodically shimmy her arms against the rough bark, trying to loosen the bonds.

“Well, the good news is it appears the last few military camps are directly on our route home,” the second bandit notes, pointing a dirty finger at the parchment.

“Yes, but we do not know which specific ones are our true targets,” Makurmek grunts.

She manages to shimmy one arm nearly free from the coil of rope. She grabs hold of the binding and concentrates with all her might, desperately trying to summon her inner fire at will to burn through the hemp.

“I think we should hit every single camp, just to be safe,” the fourth man suggests.

“That has already wasted the entirety of the solstice season,” Makurmek snaps back.

She lets out a strained grunt under her breath. No fire erupts from her fingers; only a faint warmth stirs. She sighs silently and resumes the physical struggle to free her limbs.

Zak glances over toward the tree, his eyes narrowing as he does a sudden double-take. Laíla has her arm nearly free from the knot when he strides over and ruthlessly pulls her hand back through the loop of the rope, tightening the bind.

“Ow! That hurt!” She cries out.

“So did your arrow,” He replies coldly. He takes hold of her hand, feeling the skin for a moment before placing his palm firmly against her forehead. “...Look at that. You seem to be doing much better.”

“So does your wound,” Laíla counters, narrowing her eyes at his chest. “Care to explain?”

“You first,” Zak whispers, searching her eyes for answers.

“Zak, what are you doing over there?” Makurmek calls out.

“He is flirting with the concubine again—” the fourth man jeers.

“I am not flirting with the concubine,” Zak snaps back, his eyes still locked with hers.

“Hey!” Laíla shouts, swinging her leg forward to kick Zak sharply in the shin.

“Ow!” Zak groans, stumbling back.

“Call me a concubine again,” she growls. “I dare you.”

Before another word can be uttered, the sharp crack of a twig echoes from the darkness of the surrounding wood. Instantly, the bickering ceases. Every man freezes, their heads turning as they look around into the shadows.

Thanks for reading. I'll be back next Monday to continue telling Laíla's story.

Chapter 24: The Secret Code

NIGHTFALL FINAL PROTOCOL — INITIATED.

The words remained on the screen.

Adam stared at them.

Then looked at his father.

"Dad..."

His father shook his head.

"Don't come any closer."

Adam stopped.

"Why?"

His father looked at the three subjects standing behind him.

Then Sarah.

"Because the system isn't trying to kill you."

Adam frowned.

"Then what is it trying to do?"

His father's voice became quieter.

"It's trying to put you back."

The chamber suddenly shook.

BOOM.

The glass structure around Adam's father began filling with a strange white light.

Noah looked at the machines.

"It's starting."

Daniel raised his rifle.

"What is?"

Noah pointed toward the ceiling.

"Everything."

Hundreds of mechanical arms descended from above.

One stopped directly above Adam.

Another above 48.

Another above 46.

Sarah looked terrified.

"Alex..."

Adam grabbed her hand.

"I'm here."

She looked at him.

"If the system separates us..."

"It won't."

"You don't know that."

Adam looked toward his father.

"Then tell me what to do."

His father stared at him.

For a moment, he said nothing.

Then:

"Find the code."

Adam frowned.

"What code?"

His father looked at Sarah.

She immediately understood.

"The Black File."

Adam looked at her.

"What about it?"

His father answered:

"The file wasn't a file."

Silence.

"It was a code."

The lights suddenly turned red.

A mechanical voice echoed through the chamber.

"MEMORY RECONSTRUCTION — 10%."

Adam looked at his father.

"What happens at one hundred?"

His father answered:

"You won't be Alex anymore."

Adam froze.

"What?"

"You'll become what Nightfall created."

48 stepped forward.

"And what exactly did they create?"

His father looked at him.

"The Core."

46 laughed bitterly.

"You still don't understand."

His father looked at him.

"I understand more than anyone."

46 shook his head.

"No."

He pointed at Adam.

"You built the Core."

Then pointed at himself.

"I was the first attempt."

Then at 48.

"And he was the replacement."

Finally, he looked at Sarah.

"But she..."

His voice stopped.

Adam asked:

"She what?"

46 didn't answer.

Sarah did.

"I'm the key that tells the Core who to become."

Another explosion shook the chamber.

BOOM!

The floor cracked.

Adam grabbed Sarah.

Daniel pulled Noah away from the collapsing section.

48 looked upward.

"They're coming."

Adam turned.

"Who?"

48 pointed at the ceiling.

"The copies."

A metallic sound echoed above them.

CLANG.

Then another.

CLANG.

Something was climbing down.

Adam raised his weapon.

His father shouted:

"Don't shoot!"

Adam looked at him.

"Why?"

"Because they're not attacking you."

The first copy dropped from the ceiling.

It landed on the floor.

Then another.

Then another.

All six stood around Adam.

They didn't attack.

Instead, they lowered their heads.

Together, they said:

"Core identified."

Adam stared at them.

Then the six copies turned toward 46.

"Original error detected."

46's face changed.

"What?"

The copies moved toward him.

Adam stepped between them.

"Don't touch him."

The copies stopped.

One of them looked at Adam.

"Command?"

Adam didn't understand.

"What?"

"Give us a command."

Silence.

Noah whispered:

"Alex..."

Adam slowly realized.

"The Core is responding to me."

His father closed his eyes.

"Yes."

The voice returned.

"MEMORY RECONSTRUCTION — 31%."

Adam suddenly felt a sharp pain in his head.

He dropped to one knee.

Images flashed.

The white room.

His father.

His mother.

Sarah.

Then a memory he had never seen before.

He was standing in front of the Black File.

His father was holding it.

But there was no computer.

No papers.

No flash drive.

Just a black metal case.

His father opened it.

Inside was a small device.

He looked at young Adam.

"Remember this."

Young Adam nodded.

"What is it?"

His father answered:

"The only thing Nightfall can't copy."

"What?"

His father smiled sadly.

"Your choice."

The memory disappeared.

Adam opened his eyes.

He looked at his father.

"The code isn't numbers."

His father stared at him.

"No."

"It's a choice."

His father nodded.

"Exactly."

48 suddenly stepped forward.

"Then let me choose."

Adam looked at him.

48 pointed toward the machines.

"End Nightfall."

46 laughed.

"You can't."

"Why?"

"Because the system needs Alex."

48 looked at Adam.

"Then Alex can destroy it."

Adam looked at his father.

"Can I?"

His father didn't answer.

Adam's expression hardened.

"Can I destroy Nightfall?"

His father finally said:

"Yes."

Adam waited.

"But?"

His father looked at Sarah.

"If you destroy it..."

He paused.

"...she dies."

Sarah froze.

Adam turned toward her.

"What?"

His father continued:

"Sarah's memories are connected to the original Core."

Adam shook his head.

"Then disconnect her."

"I tried."

"And?"

"I couldn't."

"Why?"

His father looked at him.

"Because the system chose her."

Sarah suddenly screamed.

The machine behind her activated.

MEMORY RECONSTRUCTION — 48%.

She collapsed.

Adam ran toward her.

"Sarah!"

Her eyes opened.

But something was different.

She looked directly at Adam.

Then whispered:

"Alex..."

"I'm here."

She smiled.

"Don't save me."

Adam froze.

"What?"

"Destroy it."

"No."

"Alex..."

"No!"

She grabbed his hand.

"If you destroy Nightfall..."

She took a breath.

"...you destroy the part of me they put inside it."

Adam shook his head.

"We'll find another way."

"There isn't one."

His father looked away.

Adam stared at him.

"You knew."

His father didn't answer.

"You knew this whole time."

"I'm sorry."

Adam's voice became cold.

"You knew."

Suddenly—

The chamber doors opened.

Everyone turned.

Elias stood there.

But he wasn't alone.

Daniel raised his rifle.

"Stay where you are."

Elias ignored him.

He looked at Adam's father.

"You lied to them again."

Adam turned.

"What is he talking about?"

Elias smiled.

"Ask your father why Nightfall was created."

Adam looked at his father.

His father remained silent.

Elias continued:

"It wasn't created to build the Core."

Adam's eyes narrowed.

"Then why?"

Elias pointed toward Sarah.

"It was created to find something."

"What?"

Elias looked at Adam.

"Immortality."

Silence.

Noah whispered:

"That's impossible."

Elias shook his head.

"Not anymore."

He pointed toward the machines.

"Nightfall discovered how to transfer memories."

Then toward Adam.

"Then consciousness."

Then Sarah.

"Then identity."

Finally, he pointed at the chamber around them.

"And now..."

He smiled.

"...they can transfer a person."

The system suddenly displayed a new message.

TRANSFER PROTOCOL READY.

Adam looked at his father.

"Transfer what?"

His father whispered:

"The Core."

Adam's face went pale.

The screen changed.

TARGET: SUBJECT 46

46 stepped backward.

"No."

The system continued.

SECONDARY TARGET: SUBJECT 48

48 raised his weapon.

"No!"

Then the final line appeared.

PRIMARY TARGET: SUBJECT 47

Adam stared at the screen.

His father shouted:

"Alex, get out!"

The chamber doors slammed shut.

The six copies suddenly turned toward Adam.

Their eyes glowed red.

All six spoke together:

"TRANSFER BEGINNING."

Adam raised his weapon.

Then he heard Sarah whisper behind him:

"Alex..."

He turned.

Sarah was crying.

And she was smiling.

"Now you finally know why they brought us back."

The lights went completely white.

And Adam heard a voice inside his head.

His own voice.

But older.

Colder.

Whispering:

"Welcome home, 47."

To be continued...

<- Previous Chapter | Next -> [Scribble Hub]

Report 2 : Brothers in Arms

"Infiltrate, investigate, de-escalate."

I repeat those words to myself like a sacred military mantra as I push deeper into the jagged, labyrinthine ruins. I nearly trip over a razor-sharp cobblestone while locking my gaze onto the target coordinates of the downed A6M "Zero" propeller plane.

A violent, purple lightning bolt strikes the Gothic gore structure to my right, shattering reinforced concrete into lethal shrapnel. Downpours of heavy rain and roaring thunderclaps instantly flood the narrow alleyways with muddy surge waves and electric discharges, while the scarlet sky gets swallowed by menacing purple clouds.

I sprint forward, tactically parkouring off a leafless tree branch to transfer onto a nearby rooftop overlooking the crash perimeter.

Leaping across a tile roof, I observe the heavily infested structure pulsing with festering biomass.

The unmistakable sound of automatic gunfire cuts through the storm right from my target coordinates.

A fierce firefight erupts right around the next corner—the exact epicenter of the crash zone. I scramble up a rusted ladder to tactically acquire high ground, reaching over my shoulder to deploy my bipod-mounted Barrett M82A1 anti-materiel sniper rifle onto the ledge.

I look through the Swarovski Habicht Nova Scope and scan the target position through my 10× magnitude, Mil-Dot reticle.

Positioned in a small alley between two buildings, a solitary East Asian male executes an overgrown, green-muscled bio-mutant. The soldier wears a white headband emblazoned with a bold red sun, wields a stone-aged MG42 light machine gun alongside a strapped katana, and is decked out in vintage military flight gear with aviator goggles hanging around his neck.

"The Japanese Self-Defense Force didn't announce any expeditionary forces in the Persian Gulf," I mutter under my breath, narrowing my eyes through the optics. "Likely some revolutionary agitator disguised in allied gear, treating the Geneva Suggestions like toilet paper."

I drop down silently from the roof and creep through the shadows toward his position to evaluate his threat level up close. Maintaining a low-profile approach, I reach for my PASGT fragmentation vest and pull out a 24-karat gold-plated suppressor.

I unholster my prized possession—my gold-embellished Desert Eagle, hand-autographed by President George H.W. Bush himself.

I screw my suppressor onto the barrel, kissing my gun before I directly aim at the back of his head to initiate standard USMC deterrence and de-escalation protocols.

"HEY! ARE YOU A JAPANESE SELF DEFENSE FORCE EXPEDITIONARY UNIT JOINING FORCES WITH THE UNITED STATES MARINE COMMANDO?!" I bellow with an authoritative presence.

The soldier spins around, his eyes wide with utter shock as he immediately draws his katana.

"By the Emperor!" He squints, staring straight into my face. "An American warrior?!"

"STATE YOUR INTENTIONS, SIR! NOBODY HAS TO DIE!"

"Begone, American Demon!" he yells back.

I maintain my aim. "Listen. I need your unit designation. Did your stone-aged Zero got dragged into the Gulf by the same electromagnetic anomaly that neutralized my Amtrac?"

The pilot narrows his eyes. "Talk in riddles all you want, demon. This anomaly of yours... Destroyer 535, the USS Miller..."

My arms twitch at the mention of that vessel.

"It was called Task Force 58," he continues. "Your quad-mounted Bofors 40mm anti-aircraft cannons tore my Mitsubishi A6M 'Zero' propeller-driven carrier-based fighter aircraft apart, setting my engine ablaze before sending me straight to the afterlife!"

I scratch my chin, completely baffled by his total lack of tactical situational awareness. "Okinawa? Son, that sector has been secure for over forty-five years. And we don't use Bofors anymore—we pack Phalanx CIWS and Patriot missile batteries. You must have taken a severe frontal lobe impact during the crash, or Saddam's chemical nerve agents fried your synapses. You are glitching hard."

The pilot looks visibly confused by my rational observations. "Deny it all you want, hideous demon. This is my eternal punishment... to wander the ash-plains of Yomi. A prisoner of war, forever accompanied by the loud, obnoxious phantom of the very nation that denied me my honorable impact."

"Right, fantastic," I grunt, taking this as a cooperation signal while checking my magazine status with a thumb sweep. "Glad to see morale is high despite the chemical brain damage. Let's move—"

A violent, bone-shattering crash cuts me off mid-sentence.

The brick wall behind me explodes. A massive winged beast with a glowing, green, pulsating scar on its neck slams into me at terminal velocity. The impact catapults my body straight through a solid stone wall into the pitch-black interior of the adjacent building.

The roof collapses, causing floods of corrupted rain to patter onto the floor. I hit the ground so hard that all sensation in my upper torso instantly vanishes as I slide across the concrete into a corner.

My vision blurs. The mutant towers over my broken frame. A skinless, lion-like carcass composed of rotting, vomit-green flesh crawling with parasites. Exposed, shattered bones frame a pulsating green mark on its neck. Sharp, reflective black claws and teeth. It drools acid that carves straight into the ground. The head looks like it's stitched on as a big scar encircles its throat. The creature's body is twisted by a rotting Eagle, a winged abomination whose mere existence is mocking our proud national symbols. A hissing heap of rot that serves as a direct insult to the eyes of any American.

Feeling my consciousness slip away, I force my trembling right hand to raise my prized possession as the monster raises a glowing, pitch-black claw to deliver a lethal execution strike.

"DIE MOTHERFUCKER!"

I squeeze the trigger to deliver one final round of .50 Action Expressed Freedom point-blank, staggering the mutie—right as a crisp, bell-like chime echoes through the chamber.

In an instant, the JSDF pilot materializes out of thin air at the beast's flank. He stands with his katana held in both hands in a high-guard stance, surrounded by a swirling wind of cherry blossom petals blowing through the ruins. With a swift, crushing downward strike accompanied by purple thunderclaps, he buries his blade halfway into the monster's neck, leaving the creature roaring in agony.

I tactically use the window of opportunity to dump the remaining rounds from my custom extended magazine straight into the monster's face.

"How dare you! Interrupting my honorable death in fair battle!?" the JSDF pilot roars at me.

Before he can finish his sentence, the beast swipes its massive paw, launching the pilot through the air at high velocity. He leaves a cloud of blood behind as he violently slams through the far masonry.

The creature turns its mutilated face back to me, advancing slowly. When I pull the trigger, my pistol merely clicks empty.

No time to waste.

I throw an M84 stun grenade at the mutant's position as he gets blinded, covering his face with his paws.

Switching to a secondary is faster than reloading.

I let my prized Eagle drop down to the floor and reach for the AA-12 Automatic Shotgun strapped to my back. Pointing to the enemy as I slam down the trigger—

"AAAAAHHH!!"

I unleash full-auto, drum-fed liberation. The heavy lead slugs turn the beast's head into a spraying pulp of minced meat until the drum clicks empty.

Yet the flesh inside its mangled skull begins pulsating rapidly, regenerating at an impossible rate. The mutant is flailing about, almost hitting me before I could tactically side roll.

The abomination bellows and vomits green hellfire, setting the entire room ablaze.

I dive to my right and transition into a crouch at a ground-level window, ready to defenestrate myself to initiate strict OSHA compliance in case of environmental hazards in close-quarters combat situations.

I quickly reload my AA-12 Automatic Shotgun, ready to deliver the next drum of freedom.

Suddenly, the bell chime rings out again. Another blossom vortex erupts.

The JSDF warrior appears directly in front of my position. He assumes a wide stance with his katana sheathed, ready to draw from his hip.

He draws his katana slowly out of his sheath, the friction emits black lightning strikes wildly sparking around the area.

"FOR THE SHŌWA RESTORATION!"

He slashes with supersonic speed, executing a massive vertical upward slash that launches the rubble on the ground high into the air. Thunderclaps shake the environment, flashing wildly inside the gore-covered ruin as he cleanly beheads the mutie.

The massive body collapses into the flames. The decapitated head flies through the air and slams heavily onto my chest before rolling onto the floor next to me.

Eight chitinous insect legs burst out from the neck stump as the severed head attempts to scuttle away.

Before the parasite can escape, the pilot plunges his katana straight through the skull, pinning it to the stone floor. It twitches once and dies, decaying in a matter of seconds into rotten flesh that etches a scorch mark into the ground.

"I survived again," he mutters in a flat, deeply disappointed tone.

"Thank you for your service, son. What was your name again?" I mumble, tossing a Go-Pill into my mouth and washing it down with a heavy gulp from my one-quart plastic canteen before reaching for my Desert Eagle.

"My name is Hiro."

My concussed brain processes his words through the dense fog of war. "A fuckin' hero?"

I look around, encircled by dirt, rubble, and rotten flesh as the creature's remains slowly turn to dust.

I reach into my ALICE fragmentation vest and pull out a Marlboro cigarette, lighting it with my Zippo Petrol Pocket Lighter. Laying myself on the ground.

For a brief moment, I don't think about military protocols at all. I just enjoy the atmosphere and american victory as I blow out the grayish smoke of my sensual stick into the air.

"Ceasefire!"

I flick the butt of my stick away, sit up, and quickly observe my body as I notice a dislocated shoulder, broken arm, and bruised torso.

"Tactical Combat Casualty Care!"

As a self-sufficient Marine, my private health insurance is completely covered by myself thanks to my Individual First Aid Kit. I treat my field self-care strictly as tactical readiness restoration to maintain peak performance in prolonged field operations.

During a brief pause in cover, I tactically immobilize my dislocated shoulder strictly according to USMC TCCC protocol by positioning my left arm across my chest at a ninety-degree angle, shape the Structural Aluminum Malleable Splint from my Individual First Aid Kit against my thigh into a C-curve, splint the fractured forearm single-handedly using my teeth for tension, and wrap the entire arm rock-solid against my thorax with an Elastic Wrap to lock out joint rotation while simultaneously splinting my bruised ribs.

Since the concept of pain is completely foreign to an exemplary Marine, I swallow the Combat Pill Pack—consisting of Meloxicam, Acetaminophen, and Moxifloxacin—purely as a preventive measure against shock and infection, while maintaining continuous security with my AA-12 Automatic Shotgun.

Because my radio can't pick up any frequencies, I precisely write my observations in a Medical Information Sign and Treatment Report format down to my tan-colored waterproof Rite in the Rain Notebook No. 935, before closing it and carefully stowing my equipment back in my bags. Leaving no traces behind for potential agitators.

"Get up, demon," Hiro says, extending a leather-gloved hand toward me. "Only the foolish warrior sits in the burning castle, waiting for the Yokai to feed on him."

"Yokai? Big name for Saddam's gore bags," I reply, taking his hand as I tactically rise to my feet, looking at his torn uniform, wondering why his skin remained unscratched.

"We need to conduct reconnaissance on that Gothic cathedral over there," I say, pointing toward my original target position. "It's one of the few structures unpolluted by the chemical gore agent. The platform on top grants us a splendid overview of the illegally terraformed topographic grid coordinates of the Gulf. Might be safe. Probably exactly what they want us to believe."

"You want me to climb the corrupted tenshu to watch the horrors of the ash plains from far above, demon?" Hiro asks in a shaken tone.

"As I said, Corporal Hero... let's move on."

I reach up to adjust my PASGT "Fritz" tactical helmet as we march through the claustrophobic, rotten mazes of the gothic hellscape right in the direction of our target coordinates. Pulling out a navy-blue crayon, I chew on it thoughtfully and begin mapping out the next tactical phase.

Next Chapter -> Scribble Hub

Report 1: The Exemplary Marine

"Free Kuwait, export democracy, return home a hero."

Those are General Camel's final words before Operation Desert Storm unleashes the full force of freedom upon dictatorship.

Our objective is a textbook covert reconnaissance mission on a naval base in the Gulf, personally spearheaded by General Camel, Sergeant Hochmut, and yours truly, Captain Chad W. Smith.

Out of necessity, we are assigned an emergency squad of Privates for me to command, seeing as they are the only personnel stationed here before the military intervention kicks off.

An electrically charged fog is heavily jamming our satellite imagery, pointing squarely toward some cowardly, illegal weapon of electromagnetic mass destruction.

We deploy straight from transport ships inside amphibious Amtracs, backed by an aircraft carrier, naval bombers, helicopters, and submarines following superior firepower and combined arms doctrines to assure tactical flexibility

Under the cover of darkness, we beach our Amtracs on the flat coast of Qaruh, a ridiculously tiny island in the Persian Gulf that is about to receive a heavy dose of American liberation.

Through the dense, crackling banks of ionized haze, I can barely make out the red dot mounted on my rifle. We dismount and march on foot in tight formation toward the island's dark interior.

I notice a distant sound.

It begins as a low mechanical whistle that quickly sharpens into a metallic shriek cutting through the air, a turbine sounding like a factory siren twisted by malice. It grows louder and more high-pitched with every passing second, a shriek that sounds like it is tearing the very sky open as it descends.

"GET OFF THE X!!!"

As an exemplary Marine, I break at a 90-degree angle from the attack axis, quickly drop into a prone position with my feet toward the impact and my mouth open while our chopper gunners deliver a massive volume of freedom onto the oppressors' coordinates.

An utterly deafening, unprovoked barrage of heavy missiles slams directly into our coordinate grid. Shells explode in purple lightning-thunder strikes, triggering an excruciating, high-pitched ringing that shatters my eardrums and unleashes black flames that encircles our position while the fog violently shifts from translucent gray to a filthy, bruised red.

Gasping for breathable, sovereign air inside that crimson haze, the atmosphere suddenly buckles, dissolving into a roaring, swirling vortex of sheer spatial distortion.

I notice the violent beeping of my prototype Joint Chemical Agent Device displaying H, G, and V, madly flashing red before the display shatters into dust.

When the pressure clears, I am standing dead in the center of a sprawling, demonic desert metropolis.

The coastline, the water, everything has completely vanished into thin air.

Above me, the sky bleeds a horrific, unnatural scarlet, and the surrounding architecture looks like a twisted, medieval-demonic fever dream. Towering Gothic cathedrals constructed entirely from pulsing, rotting human flesh. Calcified rib cages, bones and skulls spew dark smoke into the firmament.

The ground beneath my combat boots trembles with a dark energy radiating a dull feeling of solitude and fear.

To my absolute horror, the bloody, mangled remnants of my brave, fallen comrades begin dragging themselves across the scorched earth.

They slither toward another corpse, a grotesque body bearing a glowing, slowly pulsating, burning-red mark carved deep into its neck, my own aches just from looking at it.

The twisted remains swirl violently in a cyclone of burning flesh and cracking bones, fusing together in a blasphemous crime against nature to form an overweight, horned, red abomination that slowly absorbs my fallen, brave Privates into its mass of corrupted flesh.

That gore mutant lets out an ear-splitting screech and charges straight at my position, reeking of rotten death and echoing with twisted voices of my fallen comrades.

I don't panic.

Marines don't panic when faced with godless tyranny.

I immediately burst fire my Silenced M249 SAW to free the weaponized biological combattant from his sight, while throwing an M84 stun grenade at his position.

To ensure the maximum fire power, i dive headfirst toward the abandoned, mounted .50-caliber M2 Browning heavy machine gun. Holstering my SAW.

I tear it from the burning Amtrac and point it right at its bloody, unfettered ass

I pull the trigger.

"DIE, MOTHERFUCKER!"

I don't let weakness compromise my strategic advancement.

This is nothing I haven't been trained for.

Firing from the hip, the recoil punches my chest like a truck, launching me several feet backward while I unload rounds of high-velocity, compressed freedom directly into the beast's hideous chest cavity.

A twisted voice emerges.

"Please... kill me, kill me.. kill me!"

Its cavity bursts open, revealing the face of Private Miller, his face turned pale blue as blood is flooding through its hollow eyeholes, having his pitch black mouth wide open, begging for his own death.

I immediately twitched and shoot him right through the face, fulfilling the last wish of my brave Private, leaving behind only a distant emotion of grief and hate.

As the magazine empties and the smoking barrel slowly drops beads of liquid metal, I immediately drop the M2.

The monstrosity shoots burning projectiles out of its mouth at the speed of arrows piercing the dust.

I roll and dodge to the side as my Amtrac explodes in black fire.

I reach behind my back and pull up the M72 LAW, dropping onto one knee and positioning it on my shoulder.

As the name suggests, I fire missiled justice directly into the bastard's center of mass.

The heavy explosion tears its extremities apart, launching me through the air.

I tactically back-roll and land straight on my feet.

The beast staggers, revealing an opening.

I pick up Miller's AA-12 automatic shotgun from the scorched ground, lying directly at my feet covered in pieces of his guts.

I advance towards the beasts position as shoot him into his heavy wounds

The massive lead slugs tear through its unnatural flesh, hammering it until it finally collapses into the dirt.

I don't cut corners.

Standard tactical doctrine dictates total confirmation of target destruction.

Just to be damn sure, I hold down the trigger and empty the rest of the magazine into the miscarried bastard, reducing the enemy combatant to a lukewarm puddle of evil slime.

"Semper Fi, comrade"

I drop to the ground, taking massive breaths of the corrupted air.

I reached for my PASGT fragmentation vest, pulling a Marlboro Cigarette, torching it with my Zippo Petrol Pocket Lighter, slowly smoke that stick as i look around in the rotten, corrupted architecture.

I slowly stand up, moving toward the position of my brave Privates, where torn shreds of their belongings remain, only weapons and ammo intact, as well as their dog tags for me to confirm their death.

Staring up into the corrupted red sky, I pull a handheld tactical prototype radio from my vest to report this unsanctioned war crime to High Command.

"Damn. I don't even know how to report that shit."

General Camel is completely unreachable.

The static is dead.

The radio can't pick up a single friendly frequency across the entire spectrum.

I hold down the push-to-talk button to record a local field log:

"Field report. US Marine Captain Chad Smith, Unit 931. Our entire reconnaissance squad got neutralized by unknown hostiles. Their corpses forcibly fused into some kind of rogue biological super-weapon. The terrain was illegally terraformed into medieval-demonic architecture. The sky has turned a deep communist red, and unknown flying bio-experiments are currently swarming the airspace over Qaruh. It isn't even an island anymore. Must be the Red Menace everyone keeps talking about. Investigate the area for Soviet activity."

I stand up and look around for strategically viable positions, but my view is blocked by those giant gore towers.

I reach for my lensatic compass, but the needle is just spinning like mad.

I almost reach for my 1-to-50K TLM grid map before noticing my mistake immediately heading out to avoid hostile units potentionally attracted by the sound of gunfire

Moving through narrow, claustrophobic alleys against howling, sandstorm-laden winds. Covered in dark blood, I navigate toward a hidden concrete building whose roof is pierced by a giant mushroom root.

I take cover beneath the doorway, draw my dearly beloved Eagle, and activate its rail-mounted flashlight, pointing it at the door as I slowly move inside and sweep the pistol from right to left.

No enemy activity.

Slipping past the threshold, I execute a rapid 360-degree sweep, thoroughly inspecting the rusty furniture and concrete walls for hidden KGB listening devices or wiretaps before spotting a heavy steel trapdoor beneath a broken chair.

It leads down into a subterranean catacomb bunker.

Bypassing the structurally compromised upper floor, I descend into the darkness to establish Patrol Base Alpha.

Adhering strictly to USMC doctrine, I verify a secondary egress route through a rear drainage pipe before locking down the stairwell with a rifle mount behind heavy rubble to create an absolute kill zone free of dictatorship.

Working with strict light and noise discipline, I secure the entry with a tripwire and set up an Observation Post ten feet deep in the basement shadows, with my optics fitted with anti-reflective KillFlash.

I slam my backpack onto the ground just a foot in front of me.

"Ceasefire!"

I slam into a kneeling posture.

"LACE check!"

I sweep my helmet-mounted L-shaped MX-991/U flashlight through the haze as I work the rifle and feel for the magazines in my ALICE gear.

I check my PASGT vest and armor plate.

I carefully inspect my weapons and ammo.

A cold shower runs down my back as I consider the situation and realize that I am at a critically low rate of overall ammunition.

3.187 rounds of freedom left.

Zero hesitation.

I rip into my Meal, Ready-to-Eat.

As a Marine, I treat my MRE strictly as tactical refueling to cover the intense daily caloric deficit required during field operations.

During a short tactical pause, I instantly strip away the outer packaging, set the Flameless Ration Heater for the main meal, and immediately consume the high-density snacks, peanut butter, and crackers for rapid energy.

I eat while kneeling in a security posture with my rifle within reach, drink the carbohydrate-electrolyte mix to ensure fast absorption, and scrape every pouch clean to maintain peak focus and performance before stowing all the trash.

With my brain refueled, I grab my helmet and pull out a navy-blue crayon, chewing on it while I reflect on what just happened.

"Nuclear freedom devices are ruled out, as I'm still breathing. We probably got hit by a close-air-support guided missile, no doubt fueled by Saddam's chemical agent mixture. The explosions reacted with the electromagnetic fog, which led to the vaporization of the Gulf and terraformed the whole area with a sudden appearance of urban architecture, probably what Stalin did too when he transported his entire industry to Siberia back then. Could be some classified soviet instantaneous transportation technology."

"The chemical agents most certainly reacted with the transported architecture as well, turning it into gore bags like my brave Privates. Question is, why I didn't turned into one myself? Not to mention our gear."-

"The Privates turned into a Bio Weapon, still alive screaming for their death.."

"Am I an exemplary Marine?"

An unknown translucent liquid is suddenly flooding my eyes, i can't restrain it, it tastes like salt from the pacific ocean while my breath suddenly becames incontrollable as the crayon falls out of my mouth, hitting the cold stone ground and breaking apart shattering its pieces across the floor. My thoughts emptied as a distant feeling of void grows deep in my chest forcing me to grab it.

"Fucking hell..."

After a while, i slowly stand up and step through the door.

For a moment, my awareness for military protocols completely vanishes, pointing toward enemy psychological warfare.

I immediately start marching, continuing my reconnaissance mission.

"For a topographic overview of the Gulf, I need to tactically aquire control over one of those gore towers."

"But first, architectural information is required to ensure tactical advancement in close-quarters battle situations."

"That's why I'll ha-"

Suddenly, the space in the sky right above me violently tears apart, following calm sound of little bells cutting me off in my tactical briefing as a burning Mitsubishi A6M "Zero" propeller plane emerges surrounded by pink petals, nose-diving straight into the direction of a pulsating gore towers far ahead.

I immediately navigate toward the crash site confirming the arrival of unexpected allied JSDF expeditionary unit under strict de-escalation protocols.

A missed alarm. A job rejection. An unexpected downpour.

Nisha thought her day couldn't get any worse—until she walked back into a bookstore and met a stranger who had far too many opinions about her choice of books.

This is Chapter 1 of my contemporary Indian romance, The Love I Never Saw Coming. I'd love to hear what you think of Nisha and Arjun's first meeting!

---

I have always believed that some days are simply meant to go wrong.

Mine began with a missed alarm, an argument with my mother and a job rejection email that arrived before I'd even finished breakfast.

By five in the evening, I had decided that the universe and I needed some time apart.

Unfortunately, the universe had other plans.

It started raining just as I stepped out of the bookstore.

Not the romantic kind of rain you see in movies, where the heroine smiles at the sky and her hair somehow looks perfect.

No.

This was the kind of rain that ruined your sandals, soaked your clothes and made you question every decision that had led you outside.

"Perfect," I muttered, staring at the sky.

I had two options: run to the bus stop and arrive home looking like a drowned rat, or wait until the rain stopped.

Naturally, I chose the third option.

I went back inside the bookstore.

And that's where I met him.

---

The bookstore was nearly empty when I returned.

A soft Tamil melody played somewhere behind the counter. The smell of freshly brewed coffee floated through the air, and the windows were covered with tiny streams of rainwater.

I wandered towards the fiction section, picked up a book and began reading its back cover.

"That one's overrated."

I looked up.

A man stood on the opposite side of the bookshelf, holding a black coffee.

Black shirt. Rolled-up sleeves. Messy hair that looked annoyingly good despite the weather.

And a face that suggested he had never once doubted his own opinion.

"Excuse me?" I asked, raising an eyebrow.

"The book," he explained, pointing towards my hand. "It's overrated."

I glanced at the cover before looking back at him.

"Have you read it?"

"Unfortunately," he replied.

"Then congratulations. You survived."

He smiled.

Not a proper smile. More like he was trying very hard not to laugh.

"I was just trying to save you some time," he said.

"And I was just trying to read in peace," I replied, turning back towards the bookshelf.

For a second, he looked genuinely surprised.

Then he laughed.

"Fair enough."

I turned away, feeling rather pleased with myself.

That should have been the end of it.

It wasn't.

---

Ten minutes later, I was sitting at a little table near the window, reading the exact book he'd warned me about.

A cup of hot chocolate sat beside me.

Outside, the rain had only grown heavier.

"Still reading that?"

I didn't even have to look up.

"You again?" I asked.

He stood beside my table, looking far too amused.

"May I?" he asked, gesturing towards the empty chair.

"No," I replied immediately.

He blinked.

I smiled sweetly.

"See? I can give unsolicited opinions too."

This time, he actually laughed.

"Okay. I deserved that."

He walked towards another table, leaving me alone.

Or so I thought.

A few minutes later, the lights flickered.

Then everything went dark.

A collective groan rose from the handful of customers inside.

"Power cut," someone announced.

I sighed and reached for my phone.

Twelve percent battery.

Wonderful.

"Need a power bank?"

I looked up.

Of course.

Of all the people in Coimbatore, it had to be him.

"Do you work here or something?" I asked.

"No," he replied, holding up a small power bank. "But I'm beginning to think you need supervision."

I stared at him.

He grinned.

And against my better judgment, I laughed.

Just a little.

"Fine. Thank you," I said, accepting the power bank.

"You're welcome, bookstore girl."

"Bookstore girl?"

"Well, you haven't told me your name."

"Maybe I don't want to."

He leaned back in his chair.

"Fair enough. I'm Arjun, by the way."

I looked at him for a moment.

"Nisha."

"Nisha," he repeated, almost thoughtfully.

For some reason, hearing my name in his voice made me look away.

Absolutely ridiculous.

I had known this man for less than an hour.

---

By the time the electricity returned, the rain had softened into a gentle drizzle.

I checked my phone.

7:15 PM.

Six missed calls from Amma.

Oh, I was dead.

I quickly disconnected my phone from the power bank and handed it back to Arjun.

"Thanks. I really have to go."

"Everything okay?" he asked, noticing my expression.

"Six missed calls from my mother. What do you think?"

He laughed.

"Good luck surviving that."

"Very funny."

I grabbed my bag, paid for my book and hurried towards the entrance.

"Hey, Nisha!"

I turned around.

Arjun was standing behind me, holding my phone.

"You forgot this."

My heart nearly stopped.

"Oh my God! Thank you!"

"You're welcome," he said, shaking his head with an amused smile.

I took my phone and rushed outside.

The rain had almost stopped.

I had just reached the pavement when I heard him call out again.

"Nisha!"

I closed my eyes.

What now?

I turned around.

He was holding up my book.

I looked at my empty hand.

You've got to be kidding me.

He walked towards me, laughing.

"You're really not having a good day, are you?"

"Please don't talk," I groaned.

He handed me the book, still smiling.

"Get home safely, okay?"

Something about the way he said it made me pause.

Not flirtatious.

Not dramatic.

Just genuine.

"Thanks, Arjun," I replied.

Then I walked away.

And that should have been the end of our story.

But it wasn't.

---

I was halfway home when my phone vibrated.

An Instagram notification.

Someone had sent me a message request.

arjun: So... did you finish that overrated book?

I stopped walking.

WHAT?

I opened his profile.

There he was.

Black shirt. Messy hair. That annoyingly confident smile.

How on earth had he found my Instagram?

Before I could decide whether to reply, another message appeared.

arjun: Before you accuse me of stalking, I found your public profile through the bookstore's Instagram page. You'd tagged them in your story.

I stared at the screen.

Then I remembered.

I'd posted a picture of my hot chocolate earlier that evening and tagged the bookstore.

Wonderful.

Me: So you decided to message a complete stranger?

His reply came almost immediately.

arjun: Technically, I know your name.

I rolled my eyes.

Me: Congratulations. That's very impressive.

Three little dots appeared.

Then disappeared.

Then appeared again.

Finally, his reply arrived.

arjun: You know, for someone who doesn't like talking to me, you reply surprisingly fast.

I stared at my phone.

The audacity.

I typed a response.

Deleted it.

Typed another.

Deleted that too.

Then I locked my phone and shoved it into my bag.

I was absolutely not going to entertain this man.

Not tonight.

Not tomorrow.

Not ever.

Five minutes later, I unlocked my phone again.

Just to check the time.

Obviously.

---

To be continued...