CHAPTER 2: Event Inundation

Mika and I were just about done trudging home from our post-school FamilyMart detour. 

"Home. Nothing beats it," I muttered, fumbling with the lock on the gate.

"If only it hadn't taken you forever to pick your diabetes inducing chocolates," I added.

"Excuse me for having standards," Mika said, right behind me. "There’s a world of difference between mint truffle and mint vanilla.”

“Spare me the info-dump.”

Shoes off.
Lights dimmed.
Familiar stillness.

“So… are we alone again?” Mika asked, glancing around like she expected some spectre lingering about to say otherwise.

“Yet again,” I said, collapsing onto the couch.
“Last postcard from my parents was stamped in Indonesia.”

“They sure do an awful lot of traveling,” she muttered. “You sure they’re not secret agents or something?”

“They'd be terrible secret agents, their parenting style would far outweigh that though. It's like they're perpetually honeymooning for all of eternity while I fend for myself here."

“Romantic,” Mika said flatly. “And deeply irresponsible.”

She flopped down beside me, legs tucked under like a cat loafing itself. The tote bag in her lap rustled invitingly.

“You do realize,” I said, scoffing at it, “if you eat those liqueur chocolates now, you’re not making it past question one.”

“It’s called comfort food,” she replied, tearing one open, “you wouldn't get it."

“Yeah sure, instead I get to tutor a sugar-drunk gremlin.”

“You love it.”

“I tolerate it.”

I tried not to smile.

I failed.

"Alright," I said, sitting upright, “no more delays. Let’s actually get something done today.”

“I was born ready.”

“See, you probably tell that lie to yourself every time, right?”

She was about to deck me in the shoulder. Then stopped once I winced in anticipation.

"Dork." She stuck her tongue out at me.

"Mathematically inept." I shot back.

To her credit though it didn't stay that way for long, something clicked tonight.

Mika actually focused.

She would write something down on the page, actually paused to think about it.

Good enough for me.

For once, I didn’t feel like I was coaching a fish how to climb a tree.

“Alright,” I said after checking her last problem, “Three in a row, that's... three more than last time!”

“I know, right?” she beamed. “I’m kind of the best at this sort of thing, aren’t I?”

“You’re a noob learning the ropes at best, let's not be rash.”

"I'll give you a rash."

"What does that even mean, Mika?"

For a moment, it was quiet—earned quiet.

Then—
BZZZ—BZZZ—BZZZ.

Her ringtone shattered the moment.

She was already moving, panic-mode activated, stuffing everything back into her bag like the clock was ticking down to a final boss.

"That’s my mom," she said in a sheepish frenzy, grabbing her phone mid-ring. "I told her I’d be home before sundown and we're already way past that point already."

"You didn’t even finish your drink."

She glanced at the half-empty peach soda on the table and waved it off. “Keep it. My parting gift to you. And maybe toss the wrappers. Or build a shrine. Your choice, goofball.”

"There's no way in hell I'm indirectly kissing you via peach soda."

She zipped her hoodie halfway, tied her hair back in a lopsided rush, crammed the last of her pencil case into the bag and fumbled with her shoes. “Ugh—where’s my charger—wait, never mind, I got it.”

“You got everything?” I asked, watching her scramble like she was disarming a bomb.

“Everything,” she said, puffing out short breaths. “Probably.”

“Try not to die.”

“I make no promises!”

She bolted out the front gate, disappearing into the dark like a fugitive from bedtime justice.

“Seriously!” I called after her. “Try not to die!”

Her arm shot up from the shadows ahead, a tiny thumbs-up was lit up by the streetlight.

I sighed, turned back toward the couch—
—and saw it.

Her worksheet.
Sitting there.
Finished. 
Neatly folded.
Left behind.

I blinked.

Then I picked it up like it was something fragile.

She’d actually done it.

Not perfect, maybe. But hers.
Her progress.

And now I was holding it.

⊹˚₊‧──────────────‧₊˚⊹ ⟡ ✧ temporal jump ✧ ⟡ ⊹˚₊‧──────────────‧₊˚⊹

10:46 p.m.
The game began.

War of Fate: 1407

Boss-rush time. No tutorial (didn't need it). No walkthrough (definitely didn't need it). Just 200+ epically hellish and evil monsters with layered hitboxes, waiting for me to slash ‘em all down in record time.

I didn’t just play War of Fate. I dissected it.

I didn’t just learn patterns. I became patterns.

No-hit runs. Frame-perfect inputs. Cancel window abuse. My current PB was 1:14:22, any%. 

By 11:30 p.m., I had sliced through five bosses in one continuous streak.

By 12:07 a.m., I reset a boss fight four times not because I died—because I hesitated once and added two seconds to the clock.

By the time 1:13 a.m. rolled around I was done.

I shut everything down.
Lights off.
Monitor black.
My body felt like jelly.

Then, a buzz.

It was a message.

From Eiji.

A photo. His arm in a splint, flexing dramatically. His leg half visible in the corner, also wrapped.
Caption:

“story incoming. I’ll be back Monday. not dead.”

I blinked at it.
Stared longer than I meant to.

Then typed back:

“Damn, looks like it hurts. But would it kill ya to at least elaborate even slightly?”

Read. No reply.

Figures.

My brain wouldn’t shut up.
Even with everything turned off, it felt like I was still mid-fight—hands twitching, heart pacing itself to imaginary boss music.

Mika actually made progress tonight. That worksheet? Kind of legit.
Eiji was half-mummified, being deliberately cryptic about it.
And somehow… I was still here, alone in a house full of static.

I kept thinking about inputs. Combos. Where I could shave seconds.
Where I hesitated.

I didn’t want to hesitate anymore.

Eventually, I got up.

A few choice bits of the floor creaked as I made my way to the bathroom.

I clicked on the nightlight with a tired finger.

Water.
Cold washcloth.

I looked up.

And froze.

There.
In the mirror.

A face.

Not mine.

Eyes: crystalline blue.
Skin: pale white.
Hair: black and white, shaggy at the ends.

A girl.

Watching me.