cami

A new season is getting released soon!

The only thing keeping Jabber's apartment illuminated was the harsh blue glow of his monitor. He scrolled aimlessly through Twitter, hunting for the official announcement drop.

The clock in the corner read 11:43 PM. In less than twenty minutes, he would officially turn another year older, but his own birthday was currently taking a backseat to the premiere of Gachiakuta.

He leaned in closer, a half-eaten bag of chips balancing precariously on his lap, his eyes glued to the display. On screen, Zanka Nijiku was doing exactly what he did best—looking aggressively awesome while swinging Lovely Assistaff.

God, he's so fucking cool! I wish he'd smash that staff on me...

He slammed his keyboard to close Twitter and bolted upright, yawning loudly. The bag of chips slipped and tumbled to the floor, spilling onto the carpet—but he didn't give a single shit.

Not when the first episode of the new season was airing in mere minutes!

He strode into his living room, flopping heavily onto his bean bag with his phone already in hand. He quickly cast his screen to the TV, navigating straight to the streaming site he always used, his eyes darting between the television screen and the live countdown ticking away on his phone.

He was absolutely giddy, practically vibrating with excitement. He could only hope his favorite character would get some actual, well-deserved screen time this season, instead of everything revolving around that total fatass of a main character.

Zanka Nijiku was his absolute favorite character, hands down.

Jabber had fallen head over heels for him the exact moment he was introduced back in Episode 3. Everyone else in the fandom seemed to think it was lame that the guy fought with a literal stick for a weapon, but Jabber didn't see it that way at all.

Zanka was incredibly strong, completely badass, and utterly unappreciated by the community.

Ever since that fateful episode, Jabber's life had changed forever. He became utterly obsessed, buying up every single piece of Zanka merchandise he could get his hands on. His apartment practically became a shrine, filled with everything from custom acrylic stands and rare, imported holographic badges to limited-edition character prints, custom keychains, and even a high-quality replica of Lovely Assistaff herself resting against his wall.

Eventually, the countdown hit zero straight at midnight, and right on cue, the brand-new episode immediately refreshed and popped up on the screen.

Right at that exact second, his phone began to buzz frantically in his hand—vibrating with notification after notification of birthday greetings from his college friends.

But honestly, who cares right now?! Certainly not him!

He scrambled to grab the remote he had set aside, nearly fumbling it before slamming his thumb down on the play button. The intro sequence started to roll, and he was instantly completely mesmerized, utterly locked in.

His eyes were glued to the screen, his dreads spilling forward and practically obscuring his face, but he couldn't be bothered to brush them away. He didn't want to miss a single frame, desperate to see Zanka's featured part in the new intro.

Soon enough, the intro wrapped up, the last notes of the song fading out, and he finally settled in to watch the rest of the premiere. However, as the minutes ticked by, his excitement slowly soured.

Zanka only got a pathetic ten seconds of total screen time!

When the end credits suddenly started flashing on the TV, Jabber lost it. He ripped one of his slippers off his foot and hurled it straight at the screen.

"What the hell, man!" he shouted into the empty room. He was nowhere near satisfied; he needed to see way more of him than a brief passing glimpse.

"Tch!" He flopped deeper into the bean bag, scowling at the rolling credits.

Sighing heavily, he finally hoisted himself up and trudged toward his bedroom.

Weirdly enough, his room looked completely normal at first glance. There were no posters or anime wall scrolls greeting him at the door. Instead, his desk was piled high with neat stacks of chemistry notes and laboratory printouts, sitting right next to his computer setup.

It looked like the room of any ordinary, hardworking student. But the second he pulled back his heavy blankets, the illusion shattered—revealing a giant, full-print Zanka Nijiku body pillow waiting for him.

He tossed himself under the covers, dragging the blanket up and immediately pulling Zanka into his arms. Snuggling close, he unlocked his phone and opened Twitter again, fully intending to hunt down some fresh fanart, read through reactions, and post a complaint or two about the absolute criminal lack of screen time.

He continued to scroll for a while, but finding no one else complaining about the new episode, he decided to take matters into his own hands and post a tweet himself.

Fuck this fuckass anime, and fuckass series! Zanka needs more screentime!

He continued to type out a paragraph-long complaint, but his eyes were starting to feel incredibly heavy. He hadn't even finished typing when his eyes closed completely.

His head sank deeper into the pillows, his dreads spilling messy and loose across the mattress as his phone slipped out of his hand and tumbled onto the blanket.

He was completely out.

That was... until a sudden, violent weight slammed directly into his gut.

Jabber choked, the air instantly exploding from his lungs as he bolted upright, coughing wildly.

The morning sun was blinding, but through his watering eyes and the mess of dreads tangling over his face, he could make out a dark silhouette towering over his bed.

He squinted, rubbing his eyes in utter confusion. His vision eventually cleared, and the figure in front of him became sharp and unmistakable.

His eyes widened—It was—it was—IT WAS ZANKA!

WHAT THE HELL!?

Right then, his phone—which he had dropped last night—lit up with a fresh cascade of notifications, displaying several more birthday greetings.

Oh! He knew exactly what this was!

His amazing friends had probably pooled their money together and hired a professional cosplayer to surprise and greet him this morning! How incredibly thoughtful of them!

He had absolutely no idea how the guy had actually gotten inside his apartment, but then again, who gives a shit!

Jabber immediately let out a delighted grin at the realization. This was the absolute best thing to wake up to. He was just about to stand up, when Zanka raised his foot again and planted it firmly right back onto Jabber's stomach.

Fuck, it hurts, Jabber thought, but he is definitely not complaining!

THIS GUY WAS SO IN CHARACTER!

"Oy," a rough, incredibly irritated voice snapped from above. "Where ta hell am I, and who ta fuck are ya? Where ta hell did ya take me?!"

Jabber practically beamed at the sound of that voice, his earlier physical trauma completely forgotten. "Oh my god," he breathed, a massive, starstruck grin splitting across his face.

Zanka's eyes only narrowed at him. "Can ya fuckin' hear me?!" he glared, about to plant another kick directly into Jabber's stomach, when Jabber scrambled to the edge of the bed.

He was practically vibrating. Completely unfazed by the terrifying glare being leveled at him, Jabber couldn't help himself—he leaned in closer, his eyes scanning the collar of the uniform, trying to see how the cosplayer had managed to get the weathered fabric textures looking so damn real.

"THIS IS AMAZING DUDE!" Jabber beamed, reaching a hand out to pinch the lapel of Zanka's uniform.

Before Jabber’s fingers could even brush the fabric, a hand shot out like lightning. Cold, calloused fingers clamped around Jabber’s wrist with a brutal grip, squeezing tight enough to make the bones click.

"Ouch, ouch, okay! Shit, you've got crazy grip strength, man!" Jabber laughed, though a small wince twisted his face. He tried to pull his hand back, but the fingers around his wrist didn't budge an inch.

"Alright, boundaries! I get it, method acting! My friend told you to be aggressive, didn't he? He's a dick like that."

"Not that I'm complaining, I'd honestly love it if you kicked me again—"

Zanka didn't laugh. His brow furrowed deeper, his expression twisting into pure, dangerous confusion. "What’re ye spoutin'?!!"

He didn't let go, but Jabber’s grin didn't falter for a second. Damn, he thought, a little dazed, did they hire a literal UFC fighter for this? How much did they even pay this guy?

The commitment is insane, but he’s actually cutting off his circulation.

"Bro, seriously, you can let go now—" Jabber giggled.

Zanka suddenly released his grip, but only because his eyes swept past Jabber to scan the rest of the room. His gaze landed directly on the far wall—specifically, right where Jabber's prized, high-quality, custom-painted replica of Lovely Assistaff was resting harmlessly against the drywall.

Zanka froze. His entire expression went completely blank, his jaw tightening into a look of sheer, unadulterated shock, followed immediately by an explosive, blinding rage.

"What... is that?" Zanka demanded, pointing a trembling finger at the fake weapon. "Why do ya have her?! What did ya do to my staff?!"

Jabber rubbed his wrist the moment it was finally released, letting the blood flow back into his fingers. "Oh, that!" he said, his tone instantly shifting into a smug, boastful flex. "I paid a pretty hefty price for that bad boy online... pretty cool, isn't it?!"

Zanka completely ignored the bragging, closing the distance between himself and the wall. He reached out and wrapped his hand around the replica, his fingers running along the surface, seemingly testing the grain and feeling for the familiar texture of the wood. After a long moment of intense scrutiny, a deep frown carved into his face and he lowered it.

"That ain't Assistaff," he murmured under his breath, his voice barely audible, laced with a strange confusion.

Jabber watched his every move in absolute glee. "Dude, okay, your acting is seriously top-tier. I—"

Zanka suddenly turned and approached Jabber again, cutting him off entirely. "What kinda place is this? Who are ya?" Zanka repeated, his voice calmer this time, but carrying a heavy, quiet intensity that felt incredibly real.

Jabber only laughed, throwing his head back and completely refusing to take a single word seriously. "My name is Jabber!" he cheered, flashing a peace sign.

"Yo, seriously, where did my friends hire you from? Because I totally wanna get your information so I can—"

Zanka interrupted him again, his voice slashing through Jabber's laughter. "Hire?!" he spat, taking a menacing step forward as his fists clenched at his sides. "I don't know what ta fuck yer talkin' about, is this some kinda sick joke?! Answer my questions, damn it!"

"Nah, man! You can cut the act now," Jabber laughed, grabbing his phone off the bed with the full intention of finding out which agency his friends had used to book this guy.

But Zanka didn't look like he was playing along at all. Instead, he suddenly flinched, his shoulders tensing as if he had just picked up on a sudden, unseen signal. His head snapped toward Jabber's closet across the room. Moving with pure instinct, Zanka strode over and yanked the closet door open, only to freeze.

Resting right there, propped against Jabber's clothes, was Assistaff.

What?! Another one?! Jabber’s jaw dropped.

He stared into his own closet, his mind racing. He had absolutely no memory of buying a second replica, let alone putting it in there.

Zanka reached out, his calloused fingers tracing the shaft of the staff. The way he touched the wood was almost... sensual, running his palm over the familiar grain with a deep, quiet intensity as if he was reuniting with a piece of his own soul.

The second his grip locked around the center of the staff, his demeanor completely shifted. He whipped around to face Jabber, effortlessly spinning the staff in an aggressive blur that whistled through the air, settling into a low, lethal fighting stance.

The "cosplayer’s" eyes flared with a sharp, vibrant glow. Jabber's breath hitched, a laugh bubbling up in his throat as he prepared to compliment whatever insane contact lenses the guy was wearing—but the words died in his throat.

Right before his eyes, Lovely Assistaff began to change. In a flash of blinding light, the harmless wooden staff began to shift and materialize. The wood hardened into cold, heavy steel, and the blunt edges sharpened into lethal, gleaming prongs. It looked undeniably, terrifyingly real.

Jabber’s phone slipped right out of his hand, clattering uselessly onto the mattress as his eyes widened once more.

"What the fuck?!" Jabber yelled in sheer confusion, scrambling backward so fast his limbs tangled, sending him tumbling flat onto the mattress.

Before he could even try to scramble back up, Zanka lunged forward. In a flash of terrifying speed, the deadly weapon was pinned directly against Jabber's throat, the sudden wind pressure from the strike blowing his long dreadlocks straight back away from his face.

The sharp, inner curves of Assistaff’s massive, steel prongs perfectly bracketed his neck, the gleaming edges resting mere inches away from breaking his skin.

Fuck, this was SO HOT. But also... WHAT THE FUCK!

Zanka’s glowing eyes narrowed to dangerous slits, his chest rising and falling with heavy, furious breaths. "I'm not askin' this again, and if ya don't answer, yer dead! Who are ya, and where ta hell did ya take me?!"

Jabber let out a breathless, nervous chuckle, his brain completely short-circuiting as he stared up at the impossible reality standing over him.

He couldn't believe it. He literally couldn't wrap his head around it.

"You're... you're real!" Jabber choked out, staring wide-eyed at the lethal steel pressing against his pulse point. Zanka's grip only tightened in response, his scowl deepening, a second away from slicing right through him.

"Whoa, whoa, man! Calm down!" Jabber stammered, raising both hands in absolute surrender. "I swear, I had no idea how you got here either!"

"How do I know yer tellin' the truth?!" Zanka snarled, pressing the steel prongs a fraction of an inch closer, the cold metal biting dangerously into Jabber's skin.

As much as Jabber's brain was screaming that this was the most amazing, thrilling thing to ever happen to him, he wasn't exactly keen on dying just yet.

Not when Zanka was finally right here in his bedro—okay, not the time! Focus! He needed to get this lethal weapon off his neck before the guy actually took his head off.

"I'll try to explain what I think might have happened!" Jabber choked out, his voice a little strained as he tried not to swallow against the blade. "Just... just get this off me first!"

Zanka narrowed his eyes, studying Jabber for a tense, agonizing second before finally jerking Assistaff away from his neck. Jabber immediately sat up, rubbing his throat where the cold steel had just been resting.

Omg omg omg! His heart was hammering against his ribs in a wild mix of terror and absolute euphoria.

Trying to compose himself, he fixed his expression, let out a steady exhale, and stood up from the bed. "So, not to scare you or anything, but... you're not from this world!"

Being that direct definitely wasn't the smartest move, and Jabber knew it. But then again, a tiny part of him secretly hoped it might get him pinned down against the mattress all over again.

Zanka’s face instantly contorted into an expression of pure, deeply insulted disbelief. "What did ya just say? Quit messin’ around!"

"You're a fictional character!" Jabber blurted out. And, as if he needed an immediate piece of evidence to prove such an insane claim, Jabber grabbed the edge of his comforter and yanked his blankets back.

Revealed right there on the mattress was a giant, high-quality Zanka Nijiku body pillow, sporting a very vivid, incredibly detailed print of the cleaner himself.

Zanka stared at the long pillow, his brain completely stalling out for a fraction of a second as he tried to process what he was looking at. Then, the realization hit him. A furious, bright red flush exploded across his cheeks and climbed all the way to the tips of his ears.

"WHY TA FUCK AM I ON A PILLOW?!" Zanka roared.

Before Jabber could even open his mouth to explain, Zanka moved.

CHAPTER 1: GRAVITY

According to all known laws of aviation, there is no way that Zanka should be able to fly. Yet, as the pole reaches the peak of its bend and snaps back with explosive force, Zanka finds himself launched skyward.

For a handful of suspended seconds, he is weightless. Time dilates as the adrenaline surges, turning the world into a blur of motion.

High above the bar, his mind instinctively began to crunch the physics of the arc—factoring in velocity, air resistance, and the dwindling peak of his trajectory.

By his count, he has exactly seven seconds of grace before gravity reclaims its debt in the foam pit below.

Thud.

Riyo approached him, her hands coming together in a slow, rhythmic clap punctuated by a sharp whistle.

“That was amazing! Your form was perfect, Zan.“

Zanka hauled himself out of the depths of the foam, brushing his hands against his chest to clear away invisible dust.

He reached down, retrieving his trusty pole, Lovely Assistaff, from the floor.

“No,“ he muttered, his eyes fixed on the staff. “I was two seconds off.“

Riyo’s eyebrows scrunch together.

“What? Come on, man, you’re too hard on yourself. Let’s take a break—it’s only the start of the semester,“ she said, throwing an arm around his shoulders.

Zanka retorts, “Wait, let me jump just one more time.“

He shifted his weight, attempting to shrug off her hold and pivot back toward the runway, but Riyo’s grip is like iron, her persistence matching his own stubbornness.

“We haven't even had breakfast yet,“ she countered.

Zanka let out a long, defeated sigh. She was right. He had been out here since 6:30 in the morning.

Riyo had tracked him down eventually, settling into the bleachers to observe his grueling repetition.

But he was certain that if he could just get one more run—he was sure that on this next one, he would—

“Let’s get some food!“ Riyo interrupted his internal monologue.

“I heard there’s a new place that opened right beside the engineering building. They’re supposed to have the best omelette on campus.“

Before he can offer a final protest or another calculation, the decision is made for him.

Zanka found himself getting dragged away across the field.

Zanka and Riyo made their way across the sun-drenched campus, with Zanka’s vaulting pole, Lovely Assistaff, still in his hand. Its comically long bag is strapped over his shoulder like a massive quiver.

Suddenly, a harsh, scraping sound cut through the air.

Zanka stopped dead in his tracks, his heart sinking as he watched the end of his pole drag across the abrasive concrete.

His face paled at the sight of the fresh scratches marring the surface.

“Wait—Riyo, stop for a second!“

“Oh, shoot! Sorry!“ Riyo said, jumping back and raising her hands in an apologetic, “my bad“ gesture.

Zanka immediately dropped to one knee, his movements frantic yet careful as he unslinged the long carrier.

He began tucking the staff securely back into its protective sleeve, tightening the straps with a focused intensity.

“I need to go back to the dorm first,“ he muttered, checking the tip for any further damage.

“I can’t exactly keep carryin’ this around.“

Riyo let out a huff, though she leaned back against a nearby lamppost, crossing her arms with a patient smirk.

She checked the time on her phone, then tucked a loose strand of red hair behind her ear, giving him a casual shrug of agreement.

“Fine, fine, but you better be quick—I'm starving.“

Zanka rolled his eyes, a small smirk tugging at his lips. “I’ll meet you at the place. I won’t be long.“

Re-securing the long strap of the pole bag over his shoulder, he turned and began the walk toward the dorms.

Riyo watched him go, chuckling to herself at the sight of the massive bag bobbing with every step he takes.

He eventually made it back to the residence hall, though navigating the narrow corridors proved to be a chore.

He has to tilt and turn the long bag to avoid hitting the walls or knocking other students, but he managed—he always does.

Reaching his door, he slid the key into the lock and pushed it open, only to find his roommate already busy in the studio kitchen.

The tall, slim young man is hunched over the counter, meticulously assembling a 3D building model out of toothpicks.

His short black hair fell back in sharp bangs that veil his forehead and frame his striking golden eyes.

A hammer sat on the counter beside him—Zanka has no idea what he’s using it for in a toothpick build, but he’s learned not to ask.

Zanka paused for a second, caught off guard by the silent intensity in the room. “Mornin’, Follo.“

Follo jumped slightly, clearly not having heard the door over his own concentration.

He blinked, focusing his gaze on Zanka. “Oh, hey. Sorry—were you planning on using the kitchen?“

“Nah,“ Zanka replied, already beginning a slow, practiced maneuver.

He carefully made his way into the room, tilting the long pole bag at a precise angle to ensure he doesn't accidentally sweep his roommate’s toothpick building crashing to the floor.

Zanka made it to his room eventually, carefully propping his pole bag horizontally against the wall beside his bed.

He stripped out of his sweat-wicking singlet and compression shorts, swapping his athletic gear for a navy blue oversized hoodie and black baggy pants.

After clicking a pair of black studded earrings into place, he fished his phone out of one of the bag's side pockets to text Riyo.

Zanka: yo, send me the location of the place. Riyo: It’s literally right next to the engineering building. Zanka: …i have no idea where that is. Riyo: Isn’t Follo taking engineering? Zanka: oh, right.

Zanka shoved his phone into his pocket and headed back toward the studio kitchen.

He found Follo still hovering over the toothpick structure.

“Hey, Follo,“ Zanka said, leaning against the doorframe.

“Where exactly is the engineering buildin’ from here? Riyo’s meetin’ me at a new spot next to it.“

Follo doesn’t look up, his eyes fixed on a particularly structural toothpick.

“Go out the main lobby and head past the library. Take a left and just keep walking until you see a building. You won’t miss it.“

“Got it,“ Zanka muttered, already memorizing the path. “Thanks.“

Zanka made it out of the dorms, mentally retracing Follo’s directions as he navigated the sprawling campus.

It’s his second year at the university since transferring from Japan, and having only recently moved back into the dorms after summer break.

The sheer scale of the grounds still feels a bit daunting.

He admittedly gets turned around sometimes; his life usually exists in a strict triangle between the athletic field, the lecture halls, and his desk in the dorm.

The transition back to campus life felt a bit quiet after the summer.

He had spent the break staying at Enjin’s place alongside Riyo and Rudo.

Rudo, the youngest of the group, was currently a high school senior with his sights set on joining them at the university next year.

He eventually rounded the corner Follo described, but his focus is broken when he nearly collided with a tall, familiar figure.

The man has long blonde hair swept up into a high, voluminous bun, revealing the navy blue undercut beneath.

A distinct scar marked his face, yet his expression remains serene.

“Zanka? Are you heading somewhere?“ the man asked, his voice soft-spoken and remarkably clear.

“Tamsy, sorry,“ Zanka breathed, steadying himself. “Was just headin’ out to meet Riyo.“

Tamsy gave a small nod, his fingers loosely wrapped around the strap of his bag.

His voice remained as calm and clear as ever, cutting through the ambient chatter of the students passing them on the outdoor walkway.

“There is going to be a club meeting later this afternoon,“ he said. “I’ve found a new place for us.“

Zanka glanced up, his interest piqued. “A new spot?“

“Mm.“ Tamsy nodded once. “An old maintenance building near the edge of campus. I heard barely anyone goes there anymore.“

His eyes shifted briefly toward the side before returning to Zanka, a flicker of something more serious in his gaze.

“We should check it out before the Raiders hear about it and ransack the place first.“

That immediately got Zanka’s attention.

He straightened up, his mental map of the campus already shifting toward the perimeter.

Zanka, Tamsy, Riyo, and Follo—along with a few others—made up a small club in the university known as the Cleaners.

They were dedicated to exploring the “forbidden zones“ of the city, investigating decaying architecture and abandoned properties.

In the club, their philosophy was absolute: leave every location exactly as it was found.

For them, “cleaning the map“ meant documenting a space's existence while ensuring the environment remained untouched and well, clean.

On the other hand, a notorious rival club, the Raiders, frequented the same restricted sites but with a completely different agenda.

Instead of preservation, they sought conquest. For them, an exploration wasn't complete without a trophy—they made it a point to scavenge or steal physical mementos from every location they breached.

Zanka exhaled a sharp breath through his nose. “What time’s the meetin'?“ he asked, his casual tone sharpening with a focused edge.

“Four-thirty,“ Tamsy replied quietly, his calm gaze steady.

Zanka gave a short, sharp nod. “Alright. Me and Riyo will be there.“

Tamsy offered a small, polite smile before nodding back and disappearing into the flow of students.

Zanka eventually made his way to the spot Riyo had mentioned.

It was a pop-up kitchen operated by students right beside the Engineering Building.

The setup was casual, outdoor tables paired with plastic chairs—but the atmosphere was lively, with the savory scent of fried eggs and sizzling bacon heavy in the morning air.

He spotted Riyo at a corner table, focused intensely on a pair of sewing scissors she always seemed to have on hand.

She was deftly maneuvering them through a linen napkin, pinning and shaping the fabric into a miniature, intricate dress.

Zanka pulled out the plastic chair opposite her and sat down. “You know you’re gonna have’ta pay for those.“

Riyo looked up, her face lighting up with delight rather than guilt. “I had to! The fabric was just too pretty.“

He supposed it was a lost cause; as a fashion design major, the world was essentially a giant textile shop to her.

“Anyway, finally!“ she added, setting her scissors down. “I thought I was actually going to die of starvation.“

Zanka let out a playful smile. “You could've just ordered first.“

Riyo chuckled, shaking her head. “Nah, man. I said we were eating together.“

The two shared a few minutes of easy back-and-forth, their laughter blending into the morning hum of the campus.

Their banter was interrupted when a student waiter, looking slightly harried in a makeshift uniform, approached their table with a notepad.

Riyo looked up, her eyes lighting up at the prospect of finally eating.

“I’ll have the loaded omelette, please,“ she started, before launching into a list of sides that seemed to grow by the second—a breakfast burrito, hash browns, and a side of spicy chorizo that made Zanka’s stomach turn just thinking about it this early in the morning.

The waiter stood stunned for a heartbeat, his pen hovering over the pad, before he regained his composure and gave a quick, professional nod.

He then turned his attention to Zanka.

“And for you?“

“I’ll just have a sunny-side-up egg, thanks,“ Zanka said simply.

Riyo blinked at him, her brow furrowed. “That’s it? After all that training?“

Zanka met her gaze with a deadpan expression.

“I’m probably just goin’ to end up eatin’ half of yours anyway.“

He didn't have to remind her; throughout the summer and the holidays at Enjin’s place, it had become a routine—Riyo would over-order in a fit of hunger, only to inevitably push the remaining half of her plate toward him once she hit her limit.

Riyo opened her mouth to protest, but then she just grinned, realizing he had already seen through her plan.

The waiter eventually retreated with their order, and Zanka rolled his eyes at her, earning a mischievous snicker in return.

While they waited for the food to arrive, Riyo’s attention drifted back to her work.

She picked up her scissors again, meticulously trimming and tailoring the miniature dress she’d fashioned from the linen napkins.

Zanka suddenly perked up as if a stray thought had finally caught up with him. “Oh right, I almost forgot.“

Riyo looked up at him, her blades pausing mid-cut.

“I bumped into Tamsy on my way here,“ Zanka said, leaning back in his chair.

“There’s a club meetin’ later this afternoon. Apparently, he found a new spot for us.“

She immediately lit up, her eyes widening with a familiar energy.

Riyo’s hands dropped to the table, the half-finished linen dress forgotten as she leaned forward, her face lit with genuine excitement.

“Where?“ she pressed, her voice dropped to an eager whisper.

“No clue,“ Zanka said, his voice level and his face remaining a mask of stoic indifference.

He shifted his gaze toward the campus grounds, seemingly preoccupied.

“All he gave was that it’s an old maintenance buildin’ near the edge of campus.“

He leaned back, his posture relaxed, but his fingers tapped a quick, restless rhythm against the table that betrayed the calm in his eyes.

Despite his cool exterior, a sharp surge of anticipation hummed beneath the surface; it had been a long summer of waiting, and the prospect of finally heading out with the club again felt like a heavy weight finally lifting. 

“Guess we'll find out for ourselves later,“ he added, his tone flat, even as his mind began to race with the possibilities of what they might find.

After finishing breakfast with Riyo—and, as predicted, polishing off the mountain of food she couldn't finish—Zanka felt a heavy, satisfied fullness.

Since he’d only had his phone and wallet on him at the pop-up, he made a quick detour back to the dorms to grab his gear.

The hallway was quiet now.

He made it back to their room and swapped his light carry for his backpack, sliding his laptop and notebooks into their slots.

A small Siamese cat keychain, a gift from Riyo because she insisted it looked like him, swayed from the zipper pull, its judgmental little face staring back at him as he swung the bag over his shoulders.

Before heading out, he reached for the lower pocket of his bag, where his Vicks inhaler hung securely as a keychain.

He took a quick, sharp breath of the menthol scent—a familiar reset that cleared the lingering lethargy of his three-hour morning training session.

Now fully prepared, he set off toward the science building.

As a junior student majoring in physics, his schedule was notoriously dense, and today’s highlight was Molecular Physics.

He navigated through the growing crowd of students, dodging a stray frisbee near the quad without breaking his stride.

He had heard plenty of horror stories from seniors about the sheer difficulty of this specific course and the professor’s unforgiving grading scale, but rather than dreading the lecture, Zanka felt a quiet, competitive spark of interest.

He wanted to do more than just pass; deep down, there was a stubborn part of him that wanted to prove a point—to show those intimidated seniors that even an average joe like him could ace the subject with ease if they just put in the work.

Zanka eventually reached the lecture hall, his phone held loosely in one hand as he scanned the corridor.

He paused before the door, checking the polished nameplate—Room A367—Confirming he was in the right place, he slipped inside.

The room was a classic tiered lecture hall, and Zanka scanned the rows before picking a spot in the middle section, slightly off-center. 

It was the perfect spot, high enough to have a clear, unobstructed view of the whiteboard, but close enough to catch every detail of the professor’s diagrams.

He moved down the row and took a seat beside a girl with long, wavy green hair.

She was buried in a pair of oversized headphones, completely immersed in her own world, so he chose to settle at the table beside her without a word.

Zanka slid his backpack onto the floor, tucking it securely against his chair leg, then laid out his workstation.

He began by flipping open his laptop to pull up the course syllabus. He scanned the upcoming workload before placing a thick notebook directly in front of the screen, preferring paper for the complex formulas.

Finally, he set down a weathered black pencil case, fished out a reliable pen, and tucked it into the spiral binding for easy access.

He took a final look at the organized setup, ensuring everything was perfectly aligned. Satisfied, he leaned back into his chair.

Alright. Ready.

After some time, the Professor eventually entered, his presence immediately shifting the room's energy.

Despite his tall, well-built frame, he carried an approachable air that softened his stature.

With a blond mullet, a goatee, and sharp eyebrows, he greeted the class with a genuine, welcoming smile.

“Good morning, everyone,“ he announced, his voice resonant yet friendly as he set his materials on the podium. 

“My name is Gris. I’ll be your professor for Molecular Physics. This subject requires efficiency and pride in one’s work, but I promise that if you put in the effort, I will be right there with you.“

Zanka sat perfectly still, eyes fixed on Gris.

He could tell the professor was a man who took pride in his craft and respected those who did the same. 

The orientation passed in a blur, and Professor Gris immediately transitioned into the first lecture.

Zanka could already feel the familiar weight of stress beginning to pile up as his mind briefly drifted toward the heavy workload of his other classes waiting for him after this session.

Such was the life of a college student, but he shook it off with a quiet sigh.

Despite the pressure, he felt a strange sense of relief; after being away from campus for a few weeks, slipping back into his studious rhythm felt genuinely refreshing.

He listened attentively, cross-referencing the PDF slides on his screen with the professor's spoken word, jotting down nuances and extra details in his notebook that weren't captured in the digital files.

Professor Gris eventually reached a slide introducing the fundamental principles of molecular interactions.

He paused, scanning the tiered hall with a sharp but expectant gaze.

“To start us off,“ Professor Gris began, his voice echoing through the quiet room, “Who can explain how Van der Waals forces dictate the structural stability of larger molecular complexes in a vacuum versus an aqueous solution?“

Almost instantly, a wave of avoidance washed over the room.

Students lowered their heads or suddenly became very interested in their blank screens, desperate to avoid eye contact.

Zanka furrows his eyebrows at the question; it was a specific nuance he hadn’t encountered in his preparatory reading.

Determined not to be left behind, he reached for his laptop to quickly initiate an internet search.

Suddenly, there was a faint rustling from the back of the hall.

A student shifted in his seat, raising one hand slightly while his other hand remained propped lazily against his cheek. 

He looked undeniably bored, his expression bordering sleepy.

He was a tall young man with light brown skin and striking, magenta eyes that stood out against his deep brown hair.

His hair was styled in incredibly long locs, messily tied back into a ponytail and decorated with shimmering golden rings.

Ten similar rings adorned his fingers, though they were too small to slide past his knuckles, resting like silver caps on his joints.

He leaned back in a baggy purple sweater and beige cargo pants.

Professor Gris spotted him immediately and called out, “Mr. Wonger, do you know the answer?“

He gave a dismissive wave of his hand, starting to answer the question with a nonchalant confidence.

“In a vacuum, those forces...“ He only managed to get a few words out—just enough for Gris to see he was on the right track—when—

THUD.

The guy had collapsed, his head hitting the desk with a heavy sound that echoed through the quiet hall.

Zanka jumped in his seat, his eyes wide with genuine alarm.

He whipped his head around, scanning the faces of the other students to gauge their reactions, expecting concern or at least a collective gasp.

Instead, he found nothing but total indifference. 

Even Professor Gris simply let out a small, weary frown before turning back to the whiteboard and continuing the lecture.

What the fuck?

Baffled, Zanka turned to the girl sitting next to him. Her oversized headphones were now lowered, resting around her neck as she scribbled idly in her own notebook.

“Hey,“ Zanka whispered urgently, gesturing toward the back of the room.

“What’s goin’ on? Shouldn’t we be takin’ him to the clinic or somethin’?“

The girl looked at him for a beat, her expression remaining perfectly calm, before she turned her attention back to her notebook.

“This isn't the first time this has happened,“ she said, her voice low and steady. “Don't worry, he's fine.“

Not the first time?

Zanka looked back once more, unable to shake his disbelief.

The student was completely sprawled across the desk, dead to the world. His thick, heavy dreadlocks had fanned out across the wood.

The students beside him continued scribbling in their notebooks.

The rest of the hall was just as calm, the scratching of pens the only sound to the bizarre scene.

Well, whatever.

Realizing he was the only one losing his composure, Zanka eventually decided to look away.

He took a deep breath, shaking off the confusion as he focused back on the board. He forced himself to find his rhythm again, his pen scraping against the paper as he resumed copying notes.

After the lecture ended, the flood of students spilled into the hallway in a chaotic current of chatter and shuffling backpacks.

Zanka lingered just long enough to pack his stuff neatly, slinging his backpack over his shoulders.

Before stepping out, he glanced back at the row he occupied, then to the back. The student was still there, completely out of it and sprawled across the desk.

Despite the shuffling noise of the departing crowd, no one had bothered to wake him.

Zanka considered it for a split second, but seeing the total lack of concern from everyone else, he decided to leave him be.

As he descended the stairs of the Physics wing, a faint frown tugged at his face, mind flashing back to that sharp thud.

Still, he pushed the thought aside. 

He had somewhere else to be.

The Cleaners’ club room was tucked away in one of the university’s older auxiliary buildings near the edge of campus.

Technically, it had once been a forgotten janitorial storage room before Enjin stepped in and unofficially claimed the space for the club’s use.

He regularly supplied the Cleaners with protective equipment and exploration gear—gloves, respirators, goggles, reflective vests, emergency kits, and other supplies they used during their excursions into abandoned or hazardous sites.

Over time, the neglected little room had slowly transformed into the club’s personal operations base.

The lights buzzed faintly as Zanka pushed open the door, greeted by the familiar scent of dust, and cardboard.

Shelves lined the cramped room, stacked with boxes of gloves, masks, and safety vests. 

“Zanka!” Riyo called out from atop a table. “Took you long enough.”

She sat cross-legged, trimming loose threads from her oversized jacket with her fabric scissors.

Beside her, August was sprawled across a stack of storage crates, his sketchbook balanced on his knee.

He was restless as ever, constantly tossing his pencil into the air between sketches.

Follo stood off to the side, using his hammer to tighten a few loose nails on one of the makeshift shelves they used to store boxes of gloves.

Near the back, Eisha sorted through medical supplies.

The freshman looked up to offer Zanka a shy smile before returning to her task of reorganizing bandages by size.

At the very front of the room stood Tamsy.

A large map of the campus and surrounding districts had been pinned across a portable corkboard behind him.

Various colored pins and intricate strings already marked the previous exploration sites the club had documented over the past year.

Tamsy stood quietly before the board, one hand holding his distaff while the other carefully adjusted a pin near the map’s outer perimeter. 

The room gradually settled as the usual chatter died down and everyone’s attention shifted toward him.

Tamsy glanced back at the group, acknowledging Zanka’s arrival with a brief smile before nodding.

“Now that everyone is here,” he said softly, his voice cutting through the remaining silence, “We can begin.”

He lifted the distaff slightly, using its tip to indicate a specific section near the far edge of the campus grounds.

A red pin had been placed over a faded block labeled Old Utility District.

“I found reports about this location while cross-referencing older campus expansion records,” Tamsy explained, his voice low and steady.

“Apparently, this entire section used to house maintenance infrastructure decades ago, before the university expanded further inward.”

Zanka leaned forward slightly, his interest piqued.

Tamsy continued, “Most of the buildings there were abandoned after the city rerouted several utility lines. A few structures were demolished, but one maintenance facility still remains standing.”

Riyo perked up immediately, her scissors clicking shut. “So basically—”

“An untouched target zone,” Zanka finished calmly.

Tamsy nodded once.

“Mm, there’s more,” Tamsy added quietly.

“Students have apparently started dumping trash around the surrounding area over the years. The site’s become heavily neglected.”

At that, Follo’s expression visibly soured.

The atmosphere in the room shifted almost instantly.

That was the sort of thing the Cleaners hated most—neglect, carelessness, and places being stripped apart.

Tamsy pressed another pin carefully into the map.

“Which also means,” he said, his voice remaining level, “there’s a high chance the Raiders will eventually hear about it too.”

Zanka exhaled slowly through his nose, already feeling the familiar anticipation settle into his chest.

“So when’re we gonna be goin’?”

Tamsy closed his eyes briefly and gave a small nod, his expression remaining serene despite the tension lingering in the room.

“This weekend.”

Almost immediately, the room filled with agreement.

Riyo grinned excitedly from atop the table while August let out an enthusiastic “WOOOOOOOOO!.” 

Follo gave a quiet nod of approval, though his arms remained crossed.

Eisha, meanwhile, hesitated near the shelves of medical supplies, her fingers tightening slightly around the box she was holding.

“This place sounds kinda dangerous already…” she admitted quietly.

Riyo flashed her a reassuring grin. “That’s why we’ve got all this stuff.”

Eisha sighed softly, glancing around at the group before eventually giving in with a small nod of her own.

“…Alright. I’ll go too.”

Zanka was smiling faintly despite himself, the familiar rush of adrenaline already beginning to hum beneath his skin.

This weekend.

That gave him four days from now to prepare equipment, review the perimeter maps, reorganize supplies, and mentally brace himself for whatever might be waiting out there.

The thought alone sent a spark of excitement through his chest; it had been far too quiet lately.

Tamsy eventually shifted the discussion to routes and supplies. The formal meeting slowly dissolved after that, replaced by the comfortable, overlapping chatter of the group.

Zanka and Follo made the walk back toward the dorms in comfortable silence.

Occasionally, one of them would speak—brief comments about the upcoming excursion, guesses about what the abandoned maintenance site might look like, or mundane discussions about what they should have for dinner once they got back.

“Do we still have noodles?” Zanka asked at one point.

Follo adjusted the strap of his bag slightly. “Probably. I can check.”

The conversation faded just as naturally as it had started, leaving only the quiet evening sounds of the campus around them.

Eventually, the two made it back to their dorm.

Zanka slipped off his shoes near the entrance before immediately retreating toward his side of the room, exhaustion finally beginning to settle into his muscles after the long day.

Meanwhile, Follo moved toward the small studio kitchen.

Since it was his turn to cook dinner, he carefully picked up the toothpick building model he’d been assembling earlier—and relocated it to the coffee table before beginning his preparations.

The soft sounds of cabinets opening and utensils shifting soon filled the space.

Back in his room, Zanka’s eyes drifted toward the pole bag hanging securely along the wall beside his bed.

Lovely Assistaff.

After a moment, he stepped closer and carefully unzipped the bag, sliding the vaulting pole free with practiced gentleness.

The smooth surface gleamed faintly beneath the room’s dim lighting, its familiar weight a comfort in his hands.

Zanka ran a cloth slowly along its length, cleaning away stray dust and fingerprints before eventually reaching the faint scratches near one end.

They were the marks left behind when the pole had accidentally scraped against the concrete earlier that morning.

His fingers paused there.

The scratches were tiny—barely visible, honestly—but guilt tugged faintly at his chest.

“…Sorry,” he muttered under his breath, brushing his thumb carefully over the damaged area in a silent apology.

He ran his thumb over it once more—slow and careful—as if he could smooth scratches out of existence if he tried hard enough.

A soft breath escaped his nose as he carefully set Lovely Assistaff back into its bag.

The zipper slid closed with a muted sound.