I Want To Marry Her

Crow lounged outside a convenience store, stretched out in the heat of the afternoon sun. A patch of shade gave just enough relief to keep him from melting. The air was thick and drowsy, steeped in asphalt, grilled street food, and the perfume of blooming trees.

Above, clouds drifted across an endless sky—lazy, unhurried, like they had nowhere better to be.

He swirled his cheap iced coffee. The cold pressed against his palm like a tiny relief. Random thoughts floated along with the breeze: his guitar's new strings that felt too tight, the can of tuna he left for the stray cat outside his apartment, and the guy who bought six packs of cotton swabs for whatever reason.

He noticed the little things—the rustle of leaves, sunlight winking off passing cars, the distant hum of people that didn’t mind him. Even the vending machine that had rejected his coins as if it had a grudge.

All of it… small. Unimportant. But that was the charm. This kind of nothing kept him suspended in a cozy, soft limbo, where he didn’t have to feel too much.

— • —

The night before was nothing extraordinary.

He climbed the stairs like his legs were made of stone, his body heavy from the gig. It had gone well—a warm set of soft rock classics to which the crowd swayed. Their playlist did not reek of rockstar energy; more like serenade hits for the lovely ladies—his kind of show.

Guitar back on the stand. Leftovers reheated. He took dinner standing up, staring into the glow of the microwave. Shower, quick and hot. Sleep was all he wanted. Just silence and darkness.

But he couldn't sleep.

The post-show caffeine he had kicked like a mule. He lay there for hours, blinking at the ceiling while his brain kicked into overdrive. Thoughts clashed and collided, like some messy internal beatboxing session he couldn’t shut off.

Eventually, he gave up. Rolled over. Turned on his PC. Reached for his old, battered arcade controller—the one that still clicked perfectly, even after years of battle.

Arena of Blood and Steel 3 booted up.

Start Game. Character Select.

“Are you ready for a flashy beatdown?!”

His fingers moved before he even thought.

Jabs. Kicks. Parries. Combos. Muscle memory just took over. The screen blurred into movement as he steered his fighter through match after match.

One loss. A win. Another loss.

His win rate crawled. Slow. Painful. But at least it was something. Something to drown the noise in his head.

“Finally…” he muttered after a narrow victory, rubbing his eyes.

35%. Not great. But fine.

Maybe that was enough. She always smiles after a loss anyway.

Even so, he groaned in frustration as he reached for his phone, more out of habit than curiosity. He loaded his browser and typed the exact words he always searched for.

Kanno Hinata tier list ABS3.

The screen lit up with results: tier lists, forum debates, patch rankings that never seemed to settle, Tier D, Maybe B, usually lower.

He sighed. “Seriously. Do the devs hate her this much?”

His chair creaked beneath the weight of disappointment as he leaned.

He’d tried other characters, streamed his attempts to get good.

But no matter what, he always circled back to her, and the chat roasted him consistently for his stubbornness.

There was something about Kanno Hinata—the way she demanded you learn her, trust her style, and commit to timing instead of button-mashing.

She didn’t let you coast. She made you earn it.

Crow didn’t know when it started—this weird loyalty. But every time she struck, every time she grinned with that rough, taunting voice clip, it felt like she was saying:

"You’re not perfect. So what? Try again."

She wasn’t a power fantasy. She was proof that trying—even when it hurt—was still worth something.

He sat there a little longer, scrolling aimlessly through tier lists and fan ratings... before his mind drifted again.

What if Kanno Hinata were real?

What if she kicked down his door, told him to pack a bag, and dragged him into something loud, chaotic, and beautiful with a cheeky smirk? Stargazing at 2 A.M., unplanned road trips. Dumb arguments over snacks.

She’d punch his self-doubt in the gut and grin while doing it. They’d bicker over who pays for lunch, then split fries anyway.

They’d laugh too loudly in places that were too quiet. And for once, he wouldn’t feel like the weird one for wanting more than ordinary.

With a quiet chuckle, he shut down the PC and glanced at the clock.

4:03 A.M.

It was stupid. Of course it was. He wasn’t delusional enough to think a video game character could spice up his mundane life.

But the feeling she gave him—that maybe someone like her could exist—it made things a little easier to bear.

At the very least, someone real who'd show him there's much more to this than he ever knew.

The sky outside was softening—no longer black, but not yet bright. A strange, pale shade of blue the world wears before it finally sets into motion.

And to the ceiling, he whispered:

“Guess I’ll just marry her in my dreams.”

— • —

A sharp HONK sliced through the afternoon haze. A taxi flew past. Crow blinked himself back into the real world and rubbed his face.

Then—buzz. His phone vibrated.

“Hello?” he answered, casual and groggy.

“Dude! Don’t tell me you’re napping again,” came Dylan’s voice, warm and familiar.

Crow stretched with a groan. “It’s not even late. Soundcheck’s at six, right? It’s barely two.”

“Yeah, but you say that, and then you're back to power naps. Did you practice the new song?”

Crow sipped his coffee. “If playing it a hundred times counts as practice, I’m overqualified.”

“Alright. Please don’t stress Mel again.”

“She won’t. Chill vibe tonight, I swear.”

“Great, you always pull off anyway. After that, let’s hit Arena. Blow off some steam.”

That got him grinning. “Sure, like always.”

“Just don’t be late.”

“I’ll be there.”

He ended the call and slipped the phone into his jacket pocket. The sun was still warm on his skin, and the world was still slow and distant.

He exhaled. Eyes closed. Ready to find a new excuse for his tardiness.

And then—

CRASH.

Glass detonated into countless shards. Crow shot upright, nearly spilling his drink.

He spun just in time to see someone fly out of the convenience store’s shattered panel, as if kicked by a titan.

The figure twisted midair, skidding across the pavement before landing in a crouch—arms locked in a tight guard.

Her hood fell back.

And Crow’s entire world flipped inside out.

"KANNO HINATA!?"