ダニス

ENGLISH ────

&TEAM BL M/M MASTERLIST

(trigger warning: if you’re homophobic, or not comfortable with boys’ love: male x male, please don’t open/read it.)

PROJECT

&TEAM Angst Project (Completed)

(a raw, emotional journey through pain, growth, and the quiet parts of love that break us. nine stories. nine boys. nine different heartbreaks.)

&TEAM Supernatural Project (Completed)

(a descent into the land where myths breathe and the dead remember. nine stories. nine boys. nine different spirits from legends whispered at dusk.)

&TEAM Sci-fi Project (Completed)

(a dive into the future where reality bends, and humanity flickers between wires and will. nine stories. nine boys. nine different fates coded into collapsing worlds.)

&TEAM Slice of Life Project (On going)

(a glimpse into quiet days where choices shape the heart, and survival is found in small acts of kindness. nine people. nine stories intertwine in a world still learning how to heal.)

&TEAM Action Thriller Project (🔜)

(a plunge into the shadows where danger waits, and survival is written in blood and steel. nine men. nine paths collide in a world on the brink of chaos.)

EJ

Lines We Draw

(prologue), (1/2), (2/2), (epilogue)

(architect!ej : romance, drama, slice-of-life, workplace slow-burn.)

The Girl Behind My Eyelids.

(librarian!ej : angst, psychological, tragedy, schizophrenia mentioned!)

The Lantern Keeper.

(photographer!ej : supernatural / psychological, folk horror.)

Happy Death Day.

(student!ej : sci-fi, time loop, mystery, thriller, dark comedy, death mentioned.)

One More Day.

(survivor!ej : psychological, slice of life, bittersweet, mental health, contemporary fiction, human-animal bond.)

Fuma

Held By Yesterday.

(old lover!fum : angst, sci-fi tragedy, fantasy, romance, time loop, magical realism.)

Track 9.

(train passenger!fum : psychological, supernatural, surrealism, urban legend horror.)

Patch 0.0.1.

(game developer!fum : sci-fi fantasy, psychological thriller, glitched reality.)

K

Your Name.

(lover!k : romance, drama, bittersweet fluff, anterograde amnesia mentioned.)

Little Things Like This.

(office worker!k : office romance, fluff, slice-of-life.)

Still, I Speak Your Name

(1/2), (2/2)

(stranger to lover!k : angst, romance, drama, tragedy, bittersweet, slice-of-life.)

Between Here and Elsewhere.

(indigo person!k : supernatural, psychological, existential, coming of age horror.)

Drift Between Moons.

(astronaut!k : sci-fi, cosmic horror, psychological mystery.)

Nicholas

Especially Then.

(criminal!nic : enemies to lover, forbidden romance, tragic love, crime angst. death mentioned.)

The Threads Beneath Her Fingers.

(textile student!nic : supernatural, psychological, folk horror.)

Bloodprint.

(forensic analyst!nic : sci-fi, psychological thriller, mystery.)

Yuma

What We Left Behind.

(pre-debut to idol!yum : angst, emotional slow-burn, bittersweet romance.)

The Forgotten Friend.

(indigo child!yum : supernatural, psychological, folk horror.)

The Dream Archivist.

(dream cleaner!yum : sci-fi, psychological thriller, futuristic mystery.)

Jo

Through Uncertain Walls.

(lover!jo : angst, romance, grief, magical realism, physiological drama.)

The Humming Clearing.

(painter!jo : supernatural, psychological, folk horror.)

Reset.

(time traveler!jo : sci-fi, romance, tragedy, time loop, bittersweet drama.)

Harua

Lose You, Found Myself.

(bad boy!rung : angst, romance, tragedy, drama, coming-of-remorse.)

Haunt Sweet Haunt.

(student!rung : supernatural, horror comedy, slice-of-life with paranormal twist)

Unauthorized Emotion.

(humanoid!rung : sci-fi, slow burn romance, tragedy.)

Taki

Classified Heat

(1/3), (2/3), (3/3), (epilogue)

(soldier!tak : military, romance, thriller, betrayal, bloodshed, and post-war introspective.)

Things We Don’t Say.

(bestfriend!tak : bittersweet, slow burn, slice-of-life, emotional angst with humor.)

Do You Know, or Is It Already Night?

(student!tak : supernatural, psychological, folk horror.)

The Memory Tax.

(patient!tak : sci-fi, romance, tragedy, mystery.)

Steam and Silence.

(chef!tak : slice of life, comfort, slow burn, contemporary fiction, heartwarming & emotional.)

Maki

Between The Waves.

(surfer!mak : angst, melancholic romance, tragedy, slow-burn grief, another universe.)

The Last to Know.

(student!mak : psychological, existential, tragic horror, slow-burn thriller.)

Sonar Black.

(navigator tech!mak : sci-fi horror, survival thriller, psychological tension, creature feature.)

Something That Stays.

(barista!mak : bittersweet romance, drama, slice of life, contemporary fiction.)

Maknaez (Harua, Taki, Maki)

Brew & Breakdown

(1/2), (2/2), (epilogue)

(barista!maknaez : comedy, slice-of-life, rom-com, workplace drama.)

INDONESIAN────

&TEAM

& Komplek Undercover

(1), (2), (3), (4), (5), (6), (7)

(andteam as residents of the same neighborhood : situational comedy, slice-of-life.)

TAKI

Setengah Naungan

Part 1: Last Order

The night had already swallowed the city by the time she left the office. The glass doors of the building reflected the blur of streetlamps and car headlights, her own tired silhouette fading in and out as she walked past. It was late again—too late. The sidewalks were nearly empty, the sound of her Oxford shoes echoing against damp pavement. A fine drizzle had fallen earlier, leaving the air cool and heavy with the smell of wet asphalt.

She tugged her jacket tighter around herself and tried not to think about the silence waiting in her house. It was always like this: work, commute, home, sleep. A loop she was too tired to break. Still, there was one part of the routine she clung to—a small comfort she allowed herself.

Just down the street, nestled between a laundromat and a stationery shop, was the little family-owned restaurant she had been visiting almost every night for the past year. Its hand-painted sign, a bit chipped around the edges, glowed softly in the dim streetlight. She always thought of the place as a kind of second home, not because it was fancy, but because it was warm. The food, the lighting, the faint buzz of conversation—it was the one spot in her day where life didn’t feel like an endless grind.

But tonight, as she rounded the corner, her heart sank. The restaurant was nearly dark. The chairs inside were already stacked on tables, the blinds half-drawn. The “Open” sign on the door hung weakly, on the verge of being flipped shut. She slowed her steps, disappointment curling in her chest. Of course they’d be closed by now—she was later than usual.

She sighed, adjusting the strap of her bag, ready to pass by and head home hungry.

Then the door creaked open.

“Tough day?”

The voice was familiar, soft but carrying easily across the quiet street.

She turned to see Taki standing in the doorway, his apron still tied around his waist. His dark hair was a little messy, strands falling over his forehead, and there was a dusting of flour on the sleeve of his shirt. He looked like he had just come out of the kitchen, caught mid-shift even though the restaurant was clearly closing down.

Her surprise must have shown on her face because he tilted his head slightly, a small smile tugging at his lips.

“You’re late,” he said—not accusingly, but almost like he had been waiting.

She froze. “Sorry… I didn’t want to bother you. It looks like you’re closed.”

Taki shook his head, leaning casually against the doorframe. “We are. But it’d be strange if you just walked by without eating.” His eyes softened as they met hers. “Come in.”

She blinked. “You don’t have to—”

“I know.” He stepped back, holding the door open wider. “But I want to.”

For a moment, she hesitated. She didn’t want to be troublesome, didn’t want to keep him longer when he probably needed rest too. But the way he said it, so simply and without room for argument, tugged at something in her chest. She found herself nodding, almost against her own better judgment.

“...Okay. Just this once.”

Taki’s smile widened, and he motioned for her to follow.

Inside, the restaurant felt different from usual. Gone were the chatter of other customers and the clinking of dishes. Instead, the space was dim and quiet, the overhead lights switched off except for the warm glow near the counter. The faint sound of rain against the windows filled the silence.

He gestured for her to sit at her usual table by the window. She set her bag down carefully, feeling almost as if she’d been allowed into a secret version of the restaurant—one reserved just for her.

“You can relax,” Taki said as he adjusted his apron again, preparing to head back into the kitchen. “I’ll make something quick.”

She glanced toward the counter. “Don’t go out of your way. I’ll take whatever’s easy.”

He gave a small laugh, already moving. “That’s not how I do things.”

Her lips parted to reply, but he was gone, slipping into the kitchen with practiced ease.

Left alone, she let her eyes wander around the empty space. The chairs stacked neatly, the faint smell of broth still lingering in the air, the soft hum of the fridge at the back. She realized how rare it was to see the restaurant like this—quiet, intimate, stripped of its usual busy rhythm.

After a few minutes, the sound of pots and pans clattered softly from behind the half-swinging kitchen door. She could hear the faint sizzle, the steady trickle of broth being poured, and the occasional low hum of Taki’s voice as he worked.

She rested her chin on her hand and allowed herself to simply… be. No deadlines pressing, no ringing phones, no hurried footsteps. Just the muted rhythm of rain and the knowledge that someone was cooking for her.

It was strange, she thought. She had eaten here countless times, yet this felt different. More personal.

When he returned, he wasn’t carrying a simple plate. Instead, he set down a clay pot atop a wooden tray. Steam curled upward from the broth inside, where pieces of tender slices of chicken, nappa cabbage, shiitaki mushrooms, and leafy greens swayed gently in the heat. He set it down on the table along with two bowls of steamed rice, and two other empty bowls, chopsticks, and a ladle.

A light fragrance of soy and dashi lingered in the air, comforting in a way that sank straight into her bones. Her eyes widened. “You made... hotpot?”

“Tori to kyabetsu no nabe,” Taki said with a grin as he set a small burner beneath the pot to keep it warm. “Chicken and cabbage hotpot. Figured you’d need something hearty.” His eyes softened as he added, “My mom always says it’s best on cold nights. It’s not much, but… it’s warm.”

He picked up the ladle, carefully scooping broth and a generous portion of chicken and vegetables. Without hesitation, he set the filled bowl in front of her first.

“Careful, it’s hot,” he murmured.

Only then did he serve himself, filling his own bowl second.

The small gesture made her chest tighten unexpectedly. Not customer and cook, not server and guest—just someone putting her first.

She leaned closer, watching the broth bubble gently around the vegetables. “It looks amazing.”

“Wait until you taste it,” he said, sliding into the seat across from her. He picked up the ladle and served a bowl for her first before filling his own.

The sight of the bubbling hotpot made her chest ache unexpectedly. The first sip was everything—rich, savory, and comforting in a way she hadn’t realized she’d needed. Warmth. Care. A reminder she wasn’t entirely alone.

Her lips curved into a smile. “Okay… this is incredible.”

Taki chuckled softly, already lifting his own spoon. “Not bad for something I threw together after closing, huh?”

“Not bad at all.” She shook her head, taking a piece of tender chicken, savoring it. “Honestly… this feels like the best thing I’ve eaten all week.”

“Then you’ve been eating the wrong things all week.” His tone was teasing, but his eyes were steady, watching her with quiet satisfaction.

She laughed under her breath, stirring the broth gently. For a while, the only sounds were the bubbling of the pot and the soft tap of chopsticks and spoon against bowls. The world outside—the rain, the empty street, the long day behind her—faded until there was only this: the warmth of the hotpot and the man across from her who insisted she shouldn’t go hungry.

And somehow, that warmth reached deeper than she expected.

Part 2: Shared Silence

The broth simmered gently between them, steam fogging the edges of the window. Beyond the glass, the street was dark, puddles reflecting fractured bits of streetlamps. Inside, though, the air was heavy with the fragrance of chicken broth, wrapping around them like a blanket.

She lifted another bite of cabbage to her mouth, the softened leaves carrying the savory sweetness of the broth. It melted on her tongue, delicate and comforting. For a moment, she just sat there, letting the warmth seep into her chest.

“This is dangerous,” she said softly.

Taki raised an eyebrow from across the table. “Dangerous?”

She nodded, setting her chopsticks down for a moment. “If you keep cooking like this, I might never stop coming back.”

He chuckled, the sound low and easy. “You already come here almost every day.”

“That’s different.” She lowered her gaze to the bubbling pot, her voice barely above the rain outside. “This feels like… more than just dinner.”

For a moment, silence stretched between them. She worried she’d said too much, that she had broken the fragile balance of the moment. But then she heard the scrape of his chair as Taki leaned forward, resting his arms casually on the table.

“That’s because it is.”

Her breath caught.

He didn’t elaborate, didn’t dress it up with anything more than that. Just those four words, spoken simply, like he had nothing to hide. The steam curled around his face, softening the lines of his expression. His dark eyes held hers steadily, warm but unflinching.

She had no reply. Not one that wouldn’t betray how her heart had started to beat faster. So she lifted her chopsticks again instead, fishing out a piece of shiitake mushroom, letting the earthy aroma distract her.

Taki smiled faintly but didn’t press. He served himself more chicken, the quiet clink of the ladle filling the silence.

They ate slowly, unhurried. There was no need to rush when the world outside had already gone to sleep. The hotpot bubbled on, the broth growing richer with every passing minute, vegetables giving up their sweetness, chicken growing more tender.

At one point, he reached across with the ladle and added more broth to her bowl without asking. She blinked at him, surprised.

“You don’t even check if I want more?”

“You will always want more,” he said simply, lips quirking into a half-smile.

She narrowed her eyes, but the corner of her mouth betrayed her with a smile. “…Maybe.”

When her bowl was empty again, Taki leaned back slightly, resting his elbow on the edge of the table. “You work too much.”

She blinked. “What?”

“You’re always late. Always tired.” He tapped his chopsticks against his bowl lightly. “I see you come in, night after night. You order, you eat, and you look like you’re carrying the whole office on your back.”

Her first instinct was to laugh it off. To brush it aside with some joke about adulthood, about survival. But his gaze was steady, not unkind but serious enough that it held her in place.

“I don’t…” She shifted uncomfortably. “I don’t really have a choice. Work doesn’t wait. And it’s not like anyone else is going to do it for me.”

“Maybe.” He leaned forward slightly, the steam from the pot clouding the space between them. “But if you burn out, there won’t be a you left to do it either.”

The words struck deeper than she expected. She lowered her eyes to the broth, swirling slowly with bits of cabbage and chicken. For a moment, she wasn’t sure how to reply.

“…Since when did you get so wise?” she muttered, half-heartedly teasing.

Taki smiled, shrugging one shoulder. “Since I watched too many customers wear themselves out the same way.”

She wanted to argue, to insist she was fine. But the truth was, she wasn’t. And sitting here now, with warmth filling her stomach and someone else worrying about her for once—it felt dangerous in a way that had nothing to do with food.

By the time the pot was nearly empty, the drizzle outside had faded into nothing, leaving only the occasional hiss of a car passing by. She leaned back in her chair, she set her chopsticks down and exhaled softly. “I can’t remember the last time I felt this full.”

“That’s a good sign,” Taki said. He rose, taking the empty bowls to the counter. “Stay there. I’ll bring tea.”

She watched him move with practiced ease, the faint sway of his apron strings, the way he reached for things without looking. He belonged here, in this kitchen, in this small pocket of warmth carved out of the city’s exhaustion.

When he returned, he set down two cups of ocha (green tea), the steam faint but fragrant. She accepted hers with both hands, savoring the earthy bitterness that cut through the richness of the nabe.

“Thank you,” she said softly.

“For the tea?”

“For… all of it.” Her fingers tightened around the cup. “You didn’t have to keep the place open. You didn’t have to cook for me. But you did.”

He studied her for a moment, then smiled, small and genuine. Taki shook his head. “Don’t thank me. It’s just food. I wanted to. That’s the difference.”

The words were simple, but they left her a little breathless. She looked down quickly, focusing on her tea before her thoughts could spiral.

“It’s not,” she said quickly, then bit her lip, realizing how earnest she sounded. She tried again, more carefully. “It’s… not just food to me.”

Something flickered in his expression—surprise, maybe, or something gentler. He didn’t answer right away, just studied her across the small table, the glow of the lamp catching in his eyes.

Finally, he said, almost in a whisper, “Then I’m glad you came.”

Time slipped quietly after that. They talked about little things—his classes, her coworkers, the ridiculous weather lately. The kind of conversation that didn’t matter much on paper, but in the moment, felt like everything.

At some point, she realized the rain outside had stopped. The world beyond the restaurant was hushed, emptied of its usual chaos.

She glanced at the clock and sighed. “It’s really late.”

Taki followed her gaze. “Later than usual.”

“I should go.” She rose reluctantly, gathering her bag. “Thank you again—for the food, and for…” She trailed off, uncertain how to finish. For caring? For seeing me?

He seemed to understand anyway. “Anytime.”

When she finally stood to leave, the city felt different. Not warmer exactly, but less heavy on her shoulders. Taki walked her to the door, untied apron hanging loosely around his waist. He didn’t step outside, just leaned against the frame the way he had when she first arrived.

She hesitated by the door, her hand resting on the handle. The street outside stretched quiet and dark, but for once, it didn’t feel so lonely.

When she turned back, Taki was still watching her, hands tucked into his apron pockets, expression unreadable but warm.

“Goodnight,” she said softly.

“Goodnight, get home safe,” he replied. Then, after a pause: “Don’t wait until you’re starving next time. Come earlier.”

She nodded, clutching her bag strap. The corner of her mouth lifted, and for the first time all day, the smile reached her eyes. “I’ll try. See you tomorrow?”

The question slipped out before she could stop herself.

He smiled, soft and certain. “Tomorrow...”

She stepped out into the night, the cool air brushing her cheeks. The restaurant door clicked shut behind her, but the warmth lingered—on her tongue, in her chest, and somewhere deeper she hadn’t dared acknowledge until now.

For once, the silence waiting in her house didn’t seem so heavy. She carried the warmth with her, knowing she’d be back.

Chapter I: Written on Cups

The bell above the café door chimed softly, its gentle sound folding into the rhythm of the morning. The little corner café moved at its own pace, like a slow pop indie song humming in the background. Nothing rushed here—the low thrum of the grinder set the beat, the sigh of steaming milk carried the melody, and conversations blended into a harmony that never rose above comfortable.

Behind the counter stood Maki. His apron was smudged with matcha powder from a hurried matcha latte earlier, and his hair fell loosely over his forehead, more charmingly messy than neatly styled. And as always, Maki was smiling.

He didn’t just hand people their coffee; he gave them something warmer, something brighter. He remembered names, remembered orders, and remembered the little fragments of people’s lives that most baristas let slip away.

“Large cafe mocha, extra hot, for…” His marker moved confidently across the cardboard sleeve.

That woman blinked in surprise. Her name—so often misspelled, shortened, or twisted into odd guesses—was written flawlessly this time.

She held the cup a little tighter, a smile tugging at her lips.

“Thank you… this is the first time someone’s written my name correctly.”

Maki’s grin widened, like he’d just won something. “I make it my mission.”

She walked away with her coffee, not expecting to notice anything else. But when she turned the cup slightly, her eyes caught a line written beneath her name in Maki’s looping script:

Good luck today.

Simple. Easy to ignore, if she wanted. But she held onto the words, longer than the coffee deserved.

The next morning, she returned. Not unusual—coffee was part of her routine—but something about stepping through the café door felt different, as though an invisible thread pulled her closer to the counter.

“Morning!” Maki greeted, his voice bubbling with a cheer that felt unpracticed and real. “The usual?”

She nodded. He remembered.

When the cup slid into her hand, she glanced down. Her name, spelled right again. Beneath it:

Don’t forget to breathe.

She rolled her eyes, but the corners of her mouth betrayed her. Outside, the city hurried past her, but the words lingered, tucked into her pocket like a secret.

By the third day, she expected it.

“Another cafe mocha, yeah?” Maki asked, scribbling quickly. A strand of hair slipped into his eyes; he blew it away impatiently without stopping his marker. He glanced up, bright-eyed, as if seeing her was enough to anchor his morning.

Later, when she found a quiet spot by the window, she turned the cup and found:

Smile once today, even if it feels silly.

And she did. Just once. No one else saw.

It became a rhythm, as steady as milk frothing or beans grinding. Every morning, there was something waiting for her. A doodle of a crooked sun. A reminder: You’re stronger than you think. A playful line: Tell me your favorite song someday.

She told herself it was just his nature. Maki seemed like the type—warm to everyone, a barista made of sunshine. But it became harder to ignore when she noticed no other customers walked away with notes on their cups.

It was only her.

The first time she wrote back was almost an accident.

That morning had been heavy: a late train, a forgotten file, the kind of day that pressed too hard. Maki still handed her coffee over with that same wide smile.

“There you go,” he said, sliding it across as though offering her something more than caffeine.

When she sat at her desk later and saw the note—Bad days don’t last forever—something cracked. She dug a pen out of her bag, scrawled two words on the sleeve before tossing it into the recycling bin.

Thank you.

That night, during closing, Maki found it. His hands stilled, his chest tightened, and for the first time in a long while, his smile faltered—not from sadness, but from the fragile weight of being seen.

From then on, it wasn’t just him.

Your doodle sun is crooked, she scribbled on one sleeve.

Maki laughed so loudly when he saw it that his coworker peeked over, confused.

Another day: Favorite song? Maybe I’ll tell you if you guess mine.

Maki began leaving guesses, writing band names across her cups with hopeful question marks until she finally revealed her answer. Their words grew into a quiet ritual, something stitched into the fabric of their mornings.

The café bustled around them, but between black ink and cardboard, something private was being built.

One evening, long after closing, Maki sat at a table with the day’s discarded cups scattered around him. He wasn’t supposed to keep them, but he did—hers, especially. He traced the messy handwriting, the sharp edges of sarcasm that softened into something tender over time.

Silly, he thought. But it felt like having a secret.

And the next morning, when she walked through the door, their eyes met in a way that felt different. As if both of them were beginning to realize this wasn’t just coffee, wasn’t just notes. It was something harder to define.

Still, neither said it out loud. The cups carried everything for them—words exchanged, words discarded, messages written in passing but never forgotten.

By the end of the month, it was carved into their lives. She stepped through the door, and Maki’s heart lifted. He handed her the cup, and her fingers lingered on the cardboard sleeve.

Neither of them asked what it meant.

Sometimes, beginnings don’t announce themselves. Sometimes they slip quietly into ordinary mornings, hidden in ink and steam, waiting for someone to notice.

Chapter II: Written in Passing

The ritual went on quietly, as natural as breathing. She would step into the café, the bell above the door chiming like the start of a familiar song. Maki would already be at the counter, marker in hand, his grin bright enough to cut through the sleepy gray of morning. Their notes had grown into something more than a game—they were confessions written in miniature, glimpses of moods and secrets that might otherwise never be spoken aloud.

Some days, her cups read like encouragements. Don’t give up on today.

Other mornings, they carried questions. What’s your favorite season?

Once, she found only a doodle of a little cat curled into a ball, and she caught herself smiling for the rest of the day.

And in return, her writing on discarded sleeves grew bolder. She teased his drawings, mocked his corny quotes, left him lists of her favorite books. She told him about her late nights at work, about how lonely her house sometimes felt, though never in so many words. She never wrote her number, never left anything that could exist outside the cardboard. Somehow, she didn’t need to.

It was enough—until it wasn’t.

One morning, she came in later than usual. Her eyes were tired, her coat hastily buttoned, her hair pulled into a knot that was more function than style.

“You okay?” Maki asked, softer than usual.

She hesitated, then nodded. “Just… busy.”

He wrote her name, steady as always, and beneath it:

Take care of yourself too.

She didn’t write back that day. She didn’t even finish the coffee.

The next morning, the bell chimed at its usual hour, but Maki looked up from the counter and didn’t see her. He kept glancing at the door, marker poised, as though expecting her silhouette to appear any second. It didn’t.

On the third day, she returned.

Her smile was smaller, almost apologetic, and Maki felt his chest loosen with relief. But there was something different in her expression, something he couldn’t name.

“You disappeared,” he said gently, as he slid her latte across the counter.

“I know,” she murmured. “I might have to… leave soon. New job.”

The word left hung heavier than it should have.

Maki swallowed, still smiling, though softer now, edges trembling. “That’s… amazing. Congratulations.”

She nodded. “Thanks.”

When she left, he realized he hadn’t written anything on the cup.

The absence gnawed at him. For weeks, he’d poured himself into those words, small as they were. Now, when it mattered most, he had given her nothing.

That evening, after closing, he sat with the day’s stack of cups. All blank. He thought of her sitting at her desk, turning the sleeve in her hands, maybe waiting for something that wasn’t there.

So the next day, he tried again.

Beneath her name, he wrote:

Some things don’t end, they just change shape.

She held the cup for a long moment before walking away.

Later, he found her response scrawled on the sleeve and left behind: Then let’s not call this an ending.

The days passed faster after that. Their notes became quieter, words folded carefully between the lines, never naming what both of them felt.

One morning, her message read:

I’ll miss this.

Maki answered with:

Me too.

On her last day, the café was busier than usual, but Maki still noticed the moment she walked through the door. She looked different—lighter, as though the decision had settled into her bones.

“The usual?” he asked, voice steady.

She nodded.

When she reached for the cup, her hand brushed his. Just lightly, but enough to make his heart ache with all the things he couldn’t say.

Her name was written perfectly, as always. Beneath it:

Thank you for being part of my mornings.

She read it once, twice. Then she smiled—small, sad, but real.

Later, when Maki collected the empty sleeves, he found her last note waiting for him:

Some songs stay with you, even after they stop playing.

The café returned to its rhythm. The bell still chimed, the grinder still hummed, the steam still sighed. Customers came and went, names scrawled on cups, orders shouted across the counter.

But every so often, when Maki uncapped his marker, he paused. He wrote her name in the air, invisible now, and imagined her smile, the way her eyes lingered on the ink like it meant more than coffee ever could.

And though she was gone, the melody remained—quiet, tender, like a slow indie pop song that lingered long after the last note had faded.

“I’ll stop by the next time I’m around here.”

That was the last thing she said, her words lingering in the air as she opened the glass door and drifted out into the world outside.

Part I: Breathing in the Empty Streets

Euijoo wakes in darkness, the world outside still wrapped in dark. His cat, golden eyes blinking in the dim light, stirs as he rises. He doesn’t eat breakfast; mornings are for leaving, not for nourishment. The thought of food barely touches him. Instead, he dresses quietly in muted colors, grabs his jacket, and steps into the still-chilled streets.

The city is silent except for the faint hum of distant traffic. Streetlights cast long shadows on the pavement, stretching across the empty roads. He walks briskly, not for exercise, not for enjoyment, but because movement is easier than staying still with his thoughts.

At the corner, the small shopkeeper sets up vegetables. Euijoo nods, his face half-hidden under a cap. The man returns the gesture, a quiet acknowledgment of his existence in the early hours. A few delivery cyclists rush past, murmuring apologies and exchanging quick smiles. Euijoo nods at them too.

A little further down, he notices someone walking their dog, leash in hand, the dog trotting happily beside its owner. The scene is ordinary, mundane, yet it stirs something inside him—a faint reminder of connection, of life continuing in small, simple ways. The sight is enough to make him pause, just for a second, and breathe a little more deeply.

The journey to the bus stop is long, but the emptiness suits him. He observes the city waking up: the smell of fresh bread drifting faintly from a bakery preparing for the morning rush. He wonders briefly if the world notices him at all, and then dismisses the thought. It is easier to move forward quietly.

Work begins at 7 AM. Euijoo slips into his office unnoticed, completing tasks with precise, almost mechanical efficiency. He eats lunch in a quiet corner, the one small meal that sustains him, the only break in his long, silent day. The taste of food is bland, but it is enough.

Sometimes coworker laughs, a sound that pricks at something long dormant inside him. Sometimes sunlight falls across a desk in just the right way, illuminating dust motes that dance in the air. Small sparks in a gray routine.

Between the monotony, thoughts crawl in like shadows. He wonders about his father, now long gone, and his mother, whose existence is a complicated silence in his life. He is an only child, and the weight of solitude presses down on him, familiar and unrelenting. Occasionally, a memory surfaces: a warm hand, a laugh from years ago, moments of care that have faded but never truly disappeared.

Part II: Threads of Fragile Light

By late afternoon, the office is bathed in fading light. Euijoo watches the sun descend, long shadows creeping across the floor. The thought that sometimes tempts him creeps back—What if I just stop? He knows exactly where the temptation is strongest: the pedestrian bridge he crosses on the way home. The height, the blur of traffic below, the roar of engines—everything whispers a quiet promise of release.

But there is another voice, softer, patient, unyielding. His cat. Waiting at home. Waiting for him to return, for food, for warmth, for his presence. That image alone is enough to pull him back from the edge. Step by step, he descends from the bridge, each movement weighted with exhaustion and relief, and continues home.

The city is alive, indifferent and bustling, but Euijoo feels invisible within it. Yet in the tiny threads of human interaction—the nods, the smiles, the faint acknowledgment of shared existence—he finds reasons, however fragile, to keep moving.

At home, the house is quiet, welcoming. He feeds his cat, watches it eat, strokes its fur. The sound of purring is a constant, a reminder that he is not entirely alone. He sometimes talks aloud, softly, words that might not be heard by anyone else. You’re the reason I’m still here, he whispers. The cat blinks at him, unjudging, steady.

Evening slips by with ritualistic precision: washing dishes, tidying the small space, checking messages he never sends. His thoughts circle, heavy and relentless. Just one more day. One more day, then maybe I’ll decide. And in the quiet of his house, he repeats it like a mantra.

Sometimes even to live is an act of courage. It feels like too much, sometimes unbearably so—having suicidal thoughts and finding a way back. Yet the rhythm of surviving one more day, of feeding the cat, of moving through the city, is enough to keep him tethered, fragile as the thread may be.

He lies down, cat curling against him. The whisper leaves his lips, soft as a prayer, firm as a vow:

“One more day.”

Taki pernah berkata pada penggemarnya lewat line voice message,

“Luné, kamu gak perlu bawa payung, gak apa-apa. Kita bisa sharing satu payung yang sama.”

Entah kenapa kalimat itu terngiang malam itu, meski sama sekali tidak ada hubungannya. Tapi Taki adalah salah satu idolanya.

Bukannya berniat mengikuti kata Taki, tapi ia bahkan benar-benar tidak memiliki payung. Jadi ketika hujan turun deras sepulang kerja, satu-satunya pilihan hanyalah pasrah.

Halte bus di pinggir jalan itu bahkan tidak memiliki atap. Hanya sebuah tiang kecil dengan papan nama rute. Topi yang dipakai tak lagi berguna, tubuh sudah setengah basah.

Seorang pria sudah berdiri di sana terlebih dahulu dengan payung abu-abu. Ia menoleh sebentar, lalu bicara singkat.

“Kalau kehujanan begitu... sini. Kita bisa sharing (payung).”

Ajakan sederhana, tapi cukup membuat dada menghangat. Payung itu pun digeser sedikit, memberi ruang.

Bus yang ditunggu lama sekali datang. Mereka berdua akhirnya mengisi waktu dengan obrolan. Dari makanan favorit sampai rutinitas kerja.

Saat masih menunggu bus di halte, Pria itu sempat menoleh dan bertanya dengan nada ringan,

“Kamu tau gak minimarket terdekat dari sini?”

“Agak jauh sih… tapi dari sini kelihatan kan plangnya?” jawabnya sambil menunjuk papan kecil yang samar terlihat dari genangan air.

Pria itu mengangguk sambil tersenyum, lalu mereka melanjutkan obrolan ringan sampai bus datang. Percakapan mengalir, ringan, penuh jeda tawa. Saat kaki terasa pegal, keluhan kecil terlontar,

“Tumben lama bus nya. Pegel banget, rasanya kayak lagi upacara tujuh belasan.”

Pria itu tertawa lepas. “Hahaha, iya! Cuma udah lewat aja 17an nya.”

Tawa mereka pecah di bawah hujan, menenggelamkan rasa lelah. Sejenak, dunia seolah jadi lebih ramah.

Ketika bus akhirnya datang, mereka naik bersamaan. Namun di halte transit berikutnya, keduanya harus berpisah. Jurusan bus berbeda, tujuan pulang berbeda.

Pria itu menoleh sekali lagi sebelum turun dan berpisah rute. Senyumnya sederhana, tapi meninggalkan bekas. “Hati-hati di jalan, ya.”

Hujan masih deras di luar, tapi hati terasa hangat. Malam itu membuktikan satu hal: kadang, pertemuan singkat di bawah payung yang bukan milik sendiri bisa membuat hari paling berat pun terasa ringan.

Bus melaju meninggalkan halte transit. Ia duduk di dekat jendela, masih merasakan dingin hujan menempel di baju, tapi di dadanya ada rasa hangat yang aneh. Obrolan ringan dan tawa dari pria payung abu-abu itu terus terngiang. Entah kenapa, senyum sederhana yang ia lempar saat berpisah terasa begitu membekas.

Di perjalanan, pikirannya terus melayang pada momen itu. Bagaimana ia bisa sekonyong-konyong merasa nyaman dengan seseorang yang baru ditemui? Hujan, percakapan singkat, dan payung abu-abu itu — semua terasa seperti bagian dari mimpi.

Sesampainya di halte terakhirnya, ia turun. Di luar, hujan mulai mereda, meninggalkan aroma tanah basah yang segar. Saat hendak melangkah, ponselnya berbunyi. Sebuah notifikasi dari media sosial: “Tagged in a photo.”

Rasa penasaran membuatnya membuka foto itu. Dan di situ, di antara orang-orang yang tengah berfoto di acara kampus, ia melihat pria payung abu-abu itu lagi — tapi kali ini dengan nama yang tertera di username nya dengan jelas.

Ia tersenyum tipis. Jadi, ternyata pria itu bernama Riski. Nama yang sederhana, tapi entah kenapa terdengar pas dengan sosok hangat dan ramah yang dikenalnya sebentar tadi.

Meski mereka sudah berpisah di halte transit, mengetahui namanya membuat hati sedikit lega. Ada perasaan hangat tersisa, seolah hujan malam itu bukan hanya membasahi tubuh, tapi juga meninggalkan kenangan manis yang mungkin tak mudah dilupakan.

Dengan langkah ringan, ia melangkah pulang, menyimpan rasa hangat itu dalam hati. Kadang, pertemuan singkat dan payung yang dibagi bersama orang asing bisa meninggalkan jejak yang lebih lama dari hujan yang reda.

Beberapa hari kemudian, ia memang sengaja mampir ke minimarket dekat halte sepulang bekerja.

Saat menelusuri lorong minuman dingin, tiba-tiba ia melihat sosok yang tak asing lagi. Riski, berdiri di depan rak makanan ready to eat, nampak bingung yang mana yang harus ia pilih. Jantungnya mendadak berdegup lebih cepat.

Riski menoleh, dan mata mereka bertemu. Ada kilatan pengakuan, sedikit tersenyum.

“Eh… kamu,” katanya sambil melangkah mendekat.

“Iya… aku,” jawabnya, sedikit gugup tapi tak ingin menutupi rasa senang.

“Gak nyangka ketemu di sini,” ucap Riski, senyumannya hangat seperti malam hujan saat itu. “Aku pikir cuma di bus aja kita ketemu. Oh iya… aku Riski, by the way.”

Ia menoleh sebentar, tersenyum tipis, dan mengangguk. “Salam kenal, Riski.” jawabnya santai. Dalam hati, ia tertawa kecil. Tentu saja sudah tahu, dari akun media sosial beberapa hari lalu.

Mereka berdua tertawa pelan. Suasana minimarket yang sederhana menjadi saksi percakapan ringan yang mengalir lagi. Dari hujan malam itu sampai kesibukan masing-masing hari ini.

Saat hendak membayar, Riski menunjuk sebuah payung lipat di rak.

“Kamu mau satu? Biar gak basah lagi kalo hujan.”

Ia menoleh, tersenyum hangat.

“Ah, gak apa-apa. Aku rasa… kita bisa sharing lagi, kalo nanti hujan.”

Riski tertawa, sampai akhirnya ia menyodorkan ponselnya dan untuk sesaat, dunia terasa berhenti. Dua orang yang hanya kenal beberapa hari lalu, kini menemukan momen hangat di tengah kehidupan biasa.

Ketika mereka keluar minimarket, hujan baru mulai turun tipis seukuran biji jagung. Riski membuka payungnya, dan kali ini mereka berjalan berdampingan. Tidak ada kata-kata yang perlu dijelaskan, hanya langkah yang selaras, tawa yang ringan, dan hujan yang terasa lebih bersahabat dari sebelumnya.

Malam itu, pertemuan singkat bukan lagi satu kali, tapi dua kali — meninggalkan rasa hangat yang lebih lama dan nyata.

Prologue

Nicholas is easygoing and popular among the Fine Arts students: always ready with a smile and a joke between paint strokes and gallery visits. He’s not obsessed with grades but knows how to balance creativity with just enough effort to pass. Yuma is a free spirit: loud, messy, and unpredictable, whose wild brushstrokes and bold concepts challenge every rule in the studio.

When they’re paired for a group project, their different artistic energies clash in the bright, paint-scented art rooms. But as finals approach, they find themselves studying late into the quiet campus library, surrounded by sketchbooks, coffee cups stained with ink, and whispered conversations about technique and inspiration. Nicholas begins to see Yuma in a new light, and wonders if there might be something more between them than just deadlines and assignments.

Chapter I: First Sketches

Nicholas was not a typical art student. Unlike his classmates who seemed to either live in paint-splattered overalls or carried around sketchpads everywhere they went, Nicholas fit more comfortably into the casual rhythm of campus life. He was easygoing, quick with a smile, and had a natural talent for making friends. His bright laugh was often heard in the halls of the Fine Arts building, and people liked him for it.

Yuma was his opposite in nearly every way. He had wild curls that refused to stay tamed, clothes often a few sizes too big, and an unpredictable energy that made everyone feel either amused or overwhelmed. His sketches were chaotic bursts of color and emotion—like visual jazz—while Nicholas preferred a more controlled style, his paintings delicate and thoughtful. When the two of them were assigned to the same group project, the clash was inevitable.

The project was simple enough: collaborate on a mixed-media installation that represented a theme of “Contrasts.” Perfect, considering how their personalities collided from the start.

Their first meeting was in one of the campus cafes. Nicholas arrived early, sipping a hot americano and trying to organize his notes. Yuma stormed in five minutes late, scattering papers as he plopped down opposite Nicholas.

“Sorry, traffic was a nightmare,” Yuma said, flashing a grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes. He immediately pulled out a crumpled sketchbook and a messy pencil case.

Nicholas smiled politely but kept his notes to himself. “No worries. So, I was thinking maybe we can brainstorm some ideas?” He opened his notebook and started listing concepts.

Yuma shook his head. “Brainstorm? Man, I want this to scream emotion, not look like a math problem. I’m thinking raw, loud, maybe something that punches you in the gut.”

Nicholas raised an eyebrow. “Right… Well, maybe we can balance that with some subtlety? A little softness to cut through the noise?”

Yuma laughed, a quick, sharp sound. “Subtlety’s overrated. People come to art to feel, not to overthink.”

They spent the next hour arguing, their different visions clashing like colors on a palette. Nicholas found himself wanting to smooth out the edges; Yuma wanted to splatter paint wildly.

“Maybe,” Nicholas said carefully, “our contrast is exactly that? Chaos and calm?”

Yuma grinned wider. “I like that. Maybe this won’t be so bad after all.”

The days passed, and despite their disagreements, they started spending more time together, mostly because the deadline loomed.

Nicholas found himself laughing more around Yuma’s easy confidence, even when Yuma teased him for being “too neat” or “too polite.” Yuma, for his part, seemed to enjoy Nicholas’s company even if he never admitted it outright. Their group meetings slowly turned into something warmer, less formal.

One evening, Nicholas bumped into Yuma in the Fine Arts building’s main library. The place was mostly empty except for a handful of students cramming for finals. Yuma was sprawled across a table with paint-stained fingers clutching a coffee cup.

“Burning the midnight oil?” Nicholas teased, dropping his bag beside the chair.

Yuma smirked. “Someone’s gotta keep the chaos alive around here.”

Nicholas pulled out his laptop and notebooks. “Mind if I join?”

Yuma shrugged but smiled. “You’re gonna have to keep up.”

As the hours slipped by, the quiet library became a cocoon for their awkward friendship. They traded stories in whispers between study breaks, argued softly about art techniques, and shared snacks that Yuma insisted were essential for “creative fuel.”

Nicholas noticed how Yuma’s loud, scattered energy softened when he focused—his eyes intense, hands steady as he worked on sketches. Yuma caught Nicholas watching once and raised an eyebrow.

“What? Never seen me not messing around?”

Nicholas shook his head. “No. It’s just… different. Nice.”

Yuma grinned but said nothing.

Weeks passed, and their late-night sessions became routine. One night, after a particularly long study session, Nicholas packed up his things while Yuma doodled absently on a napkin.

“Hey,” Yuma said suddenly, “you ever think about what comes after all this? After finals, after art school?”

Nicholas shrugged. “Sometimes. I don’t know yet. You?”

Yuma’s smile faded a little. “Same. Guess that’s why I throw myself into projects like this. Makes me forget the rest.”

Nicholas nodded. “I get that.”

For the first time, silence stretched comfortably between them.

As Nicholas left the library that night, the soft glow of the streetlights painted long shadows on the pavement. He found himself wondering if maybe, just maybe, the chaos Yuma brought into his life was the thing that made it worth sketching new chapters.

Chapter II: Colors in the Dark

The Fine Arts building had long emptied out when Nicholas arrived that evening. The usual clatter of students and laughter had been replaced by a hushed quiet that felt almost sacred. Only a few lamps outside cast long, golden shadows through the towering windows of the main studio, where canvases leaned against the walls and scattered art supplies waited patiently for their owners’ next touch.

Nicholas held his sketchbook close, fingers curling nervously around its worn edges. The scent of turpentine and acrylics filled the air, comforting and electric all at once. His heart pounded against his ribs as he pushed the heavy door open and stepped inside.

Yuma was already there, perched on the edge of a broad wooden table cluttered with brushes, tubes of paint, and crumpled papers. His dark curls were tousled and wild, and his shirt sported a new splash of cobalt blue along the sleeve. He looked up from his sketchpad with a lazy grin that instantly made Nicholas’s breath hitch.

“Late again, huh?” Yuma teased, stretching his arms over his head. His eyes glimmered with that familiar spark: half mischief, half something softer, and Nicholas couldn’t help but smile.

“Just finishing up some other stuff,” Nicholas replied with a shrug, trying to sound casual but feeling far from it. “Or maybe I was just waiting for you.”

Yuma laughed, the sound low and warm in the empty studio. “Smooth. You trying to charm me before we start work?”

Nicholas shrugged, lowering his sketchbook to the table. “Maybe.”

They moved around the studio together, the awkwardness of the last few weeks melting into a strange, comfortable rhythm. Yuma was all energy and spontaneity, splashing colors across a canvas with wild abandon. Nicholas, more deliberate, sketched careful outlines and refined ideas on paper. Their styles clashed like oil and water, but somehow their project was coming to life, a swirling mix of chaos and calm, loud bursts of paint softened by gentle shading.

“Pass me that palette,” Nicholas said, reaching for the smeared tray of colors.

Yuma tossed it over, and their hands brushed briefly, fingers lingering. Neither pulled away.

They settled into a quiet space near the tall windows, where the streetlights cast long beams that fractured across the floor. The silence was easy, punctuated only by the soft scratching of pencils and the muted tapping of brush bristles.

After a while, Nicholas glanced at Yuma, noticing the way the lamplight caught the curve of his jaw and the faint line of concentration in his brow.

“You’re different at night,” Nicholas said softly.

Yuma looked up, eyes sparkling with amusement. “Different how?”

“Calmer. Maybe… more real.”

Yuma smirked. “You haven’t seen me sleep.”

Nicholas laughed, then felt a sudden surge of boldness. The quiet studio, the intimacy of shared space and late hours, it all gave him courage he didn’t know he had.

He leaned closer. “Yuma…”

The word felt heavy on his tongue. Their eyes met, and Nicholas’s pulse quickened.

Without thinking, he reached out, brushing a stray curl from Yuma’s forehead.

Yuma’s breath hitched, a flicker of surprise flashing in his eyes.

Nicholas’s hand lingered, fingertips tracing the soft skin.

“Can I…?”

Yuma’s smirk softened, almost shy. “Yeah.”

Nicholas closed the distance, lips meeting Yuma’s in a kiss that was tentative at first, gentle as a whispered secret. But the moment deepened, heat sparking between them like wildfire.

Yuma’s hands found Nicholas’s waist, pulling him closer. Nicholas pressed against the wall, his hand sliding from Yuma’s hair down to his neck, fingers curling possessively.

Suddenly, with a gentle but firm push, Nicholas pinned Yuma’s back against the wooden wall behind him.

Yuma gasped, eyes wide in surprise, then smiled wickedly.

“You’re braver than I thought.”

Nicholas’s lips brushed against Yuma’s jaw, trailing down to his neck, breathing warm and slow.

The studio around them faded away. Paint-streaked brushes, splattered floors, and shadowed canvases blurred into nothingness.

All that mattered was the heat, the closeness, the electricity of first kisses and new beginnings.

They broke apart slowly, foreheads resting together, breaths mingling.

Nicholas whispered, “I’ve wanted to do that for a long time.”

Yuma chuckled softly. “Guess I’m not the only one.”

For a while, they stayed wrapped in quiet, a fragile bubble of something real and precious.

Eventually, Nicholas pulled back slightly, smiling shyly.

“We should finish the project.”

Yuma nodded, eyes sparkling mischievously. “Yeah. But maybe later, we work on something more… personal.”

Nicholas grinned. “I like the sound of that.”

The night stretched on, filled with whispered laughter, tentative touches, and shared dreams beneath the dim glow of the city lights.

In the world of paint and shadows, Nicholas and Yuma found their colors blending: messy, unpredictable, and beautiful.

Epilogue

The semester ended with their mixed-media project receiving praise for its vibrant blend of chaos and calm, much like Nicholas and Yuma themselves.

On the day of the final exhibition, Nicholas found Yuma waiting outside the gallery, his usual smirk softened by something warmer.

“Ready for what’s next?” Yuma asked, eyes shining.

Nicholas smiled, heart steady. “With you? Always.”

In the quiet of the campus courtyard, their hands tangled, lips crashing together in a heated kiss: slow, hungry. Breathless, they melted into each other, promises unspoken but felt in every touch. No masterpiece could capture this moment: raw, messy, and beautiful, their own work of art unfolding.

to be continued...

Prologue

Maki and Harua have always been just friends.

The kind who linger too long in each other’s gaze, brush hands like it’s an accident, and laugh a little too easily in each other’s presence. The kind who claim it’s all harmless, even when everyone else can see the invisible thread tying them together.

They orbit each other like it’s instinct, like gravity itself pulls them closer, yet neither dares to name what’s really there. Because crossing that line could ruin everything.

But one summer night changes the rules.

A festival glowing with lantern light and fireworks. The warm scent of grilled food drifting through the air. Harua’s palm at the small of Maki’s back, guiding him through the press of the crowd. A dance in the open square that feels too close. Above them, the night sky blooms with fireworks, bursts of red and gold scattering across Maki’s eyes.

A pause between heartbeats where lips almost meet.

And in that moment, the unspoken truth burns between them, like the last spark before a fire catches.

Chapter I: Almost

The summer air tastes like sugar and smoke. Sweet from the candied fruit stands, smoky from the yakitori grill a few stalls down. The festival is alive with sound and color, lanterns swaying overhead as people drift through the narrow lanes in a slow, endless tide.

Harua crouches in front of a goldfish tub, squinting at the darting flashes of orange and white. The paper scooper in his hand already looks doomed, its delicate surface sagging where it’s gotten too wet.

“You’re terrible at this,” Maki says from behind him, voice carrying more amusement than sympathy.

Harua glances over his shoulder. “It’s called strategy.” He lowers the scooper carefully, watching the tiny goldfish scatter away from the shadow. Another dart, another near miss.

Maki leans down slightly, his shadow falling over Harua’s shoulder. “You know the point is to catch them, not just chase them around.”

Harua shoots him a look, lips twitching like he’s holding back a smile. “You want to try, genius?”

“No,” Maki says immediately. “I prefer watching you fail.”

Harua huffs, focusing again—but the paper tears, the goldfish slipping free. Maki can’t help the laugh that escapes. “Tragic. Really tragic.”

Harua tosses the ruined scooper into the bin and stands, brushing off his hands. “You’re just here to distract me.”

“Exactly.” Maki falls into step beside him as they move down the main lane, the glow from paper lanterns washing over their faces in shifting patterns.

Somewhere ahead, their friends are arguing over which food stall to try next.

When they catch up, someone shoves a stick of grilled corn into Harua’s hands. “Here, share,” one of their friends, Nicholas, says before darting off toward the yakisoba stand.

By the time Harua turns, the group’s splintered, most of them lured toward food or games. Only Maki lingers, looking at him like he’s not in a rush to go anywhere.

“You planning to hog that whole thing?” Maki asks.

Harua bites into the corn without breaking eye contact. “Yes.”

Maki grins, stepping closer anyway. He leans down, not quite close enough to touch, and takes a bite from the other side of the cob. It’s casual. It’s nothing. And it still makes Harua’s stomach flip.

They lose the others again after a round of ring toss. Harua watches Maki toss the final ring, landing it neatly over the peg on the far side.

“You cheat at everything,” Harua mutters.

“Skill,” Maki says, collecting the tiny plush prize, a chubby, round bunny, and holding it out. “Here.”

Harua blinks. “What?”

“You like Rabbit, don’t you?” Maki’s voice is so casual it’s infuriating. “Don’t make it weird.”

Harua takes it anyway. The bunny’s soft in his hand, and he tries not to think about the fact that Maki probably remembered him mentioning that once, months ago.

They hear the music before they see it—the swell of a live band tuning up, strings and percussion threading together into something bright. Lanterns sway above a makeshift dance floor where couples are already moving.

Maki glances at him, that spark of challenge in his eyes. “Dance with me.”

Harua laughs. “No.”

“Come on. One song.”

“I don’t dance.”

Maki steps closer, grinning. “Then stand there and let me do the work.”

Before Harua can protest again, Maki catches his hand and tugs him forward. The music wraps around them, and somehow, Harua’s moving—awkward at first, then less so, because Maki’s hand on his waist is steady, sure.

They start off joking, deliberately over-exaggerating steps, but the longer they stay, the slower they move. Harua’s palm settles firmly at the small of Maki’s back. Maki’s free hand ends up resting on Harua’s shoulder without thinking about it.

“You’re not bad,” Maki says softly, just loud enough for Harua to hear over the music.

Harua’s looks up, ready with a retort, but the words get stuck somewhere between his chest and throat. Maki’s looking at him with an expression Harua can’t pin down. Something intent. Something warm.

The world tilts. Harua forgets what he was going to say.

Later, they’re walking back toward the quieter edge of the festival when the first firework cracks open overhead. Gold light spills across the street, catching in Harua’s hair.

They stop under a streetlamp. Maki takes a step closer, gaze dipping briefly to Harua’s mouth before lifting again.

Harua doesn’t move.

The air feels thick, like the pause before a summer storm. Maki leans in, just slightly, and Harua feels his breath—warm, steady, too close to be nothing.

Then,

“Maki!” A voice from across the street calls his name.

Maki blinks, pulling back just enough to break the moment. His smile tilts, not quite an apology. “Come on. You still owe me another dance.”

Harua follows, telling himself the uneven beat in his chest is from the fireworks.

That night, lying in bed, Harua stares at the small rabbit plush on his nightstand. He tries to replay the festival like it was any other night out with friends.

But all he sees is Maki leaning closer under the streetlamp.

All he hears is the sound of his own breath catching.

And all he feels is the warmth where Maki’s hand had been, steady against his shoulder, like it belonged there.

Chapter II: No Turning Back

The week after the festival feels… different.

They still see each other—in the cafeteria, in the library, walking home with their usual group, but Harua notices the pauses now. The way Maki’s gaze lingers a fraction too long. The way Harua finds himself looking back even when he tells himself not to.

Texting hasn’t gotten easier, either.

Every “hey” feels like it’s holding something else.

Every emoji from Maki feels loaded.

And Harua hates how much he reads into them.

It’s Saturday when Harua asks if Maki wants to help him pick up a few things for next week’s club event. Just the two of them. Maki says yes without thinking.

The afternoon is easy, almost like before.

Until it’s not.

They’re halfway down the street, Maki carrying a paper bag of snacks and Harua holding a box of decorations, when the first raindrops land on the pavement.

“Wasn’t supposed to rain today,” Maki mutters, glancing up.

Within seconds, it’s pouring. They duck under the awning of a closed shop, pressed close to avoid the curtain of water spilling off the edge.

Harua’s hair is damp already, dark strands sticking to his forehead. He rubs at them with his sleeve, shivering. “Great. Totally worth checking the weather.”

Maki glances at him, then down at his own jacket—light but warm enough. He doesn’t think about it. He just shrugs it off and drops it over Harua’s shoulders.

Harua freezes, looking down at the fabric and then up at Maki. “You’re going to get cold.”

“You get sick easier than I do,” Maki says, adjusting the collar so it sits right. His fingers brush the warm skin just above Harua’s collarbone, and the touch sends a current straight through him.

Maki doesn’t move. “You’ve been avoiding me.”

Harua blinks. “What?”

“Since the festival.” Maki’s voice is low, but it cuts through the sound of the rain. “You look away every time I look at you. You laugh like nothing’s weird, but it is.”

Harua swallows. His first instinct is to deflect—make a joke, point out the weather, anything—but the words won’t come.

“I just…” His voice catches. “I don’t want to mess this up.”

Maki steps closer, the scent of rain and something warm filling the space between them. “What if it makes it better?”

Harua’s breath hitches. He doesn’t back away when Maki lifts a hand to his cheek, thumb brushing lightly over his skin.

The kiss starts as a question—soft, tentative. Harua answers it before he realizes he’s moving, leaning in, deepening it. Maki’s free hand finds Harua’s waist, holding him there like he’s afraid he’ll pull away.

When they break apart, the rain is still falling, but the sound feels far away.

Maki’s smile is small, real. “I’ve been waiting for you to do that.”

Harua shakes his head, half in disbelief, half because he doesn’t trust his voice yet.

They walk home under Harua’s umbrella, shoulders pressed together. Harua keeps the jacket on, fingers curled in the fabric like he’s not ready to give it back.

Halfway down the street, he slips his hand into Maki’s. No teasing this time. No hiding. Just steady, certain warmth.

Chapter I – A Life Worth Forgetting

Taki opens his eyes to white light.

Not the harsh, fluorescent buzz of a hospital—but a soft, sterile glow, humming from hidden panels. The ceiling above him is curved, clinical, gentle in its way. He blinks. Once. Twice. The world smells like antiseptic and plastic and something faintly metallic.

He doesn’t know where he is.

Worse, he doesn’t know who he is.

A soft chime sounds to his left. The door slides open.

“Good morning, Taki,” says a voice.

It belongs to a woman in a slate-blue uniform, a sleek tablet in one hand. Her expression is calm, too practiced to be warm. Her name tag reads: Dr. Richino. Memory Tax Division. She doesn't sit. Doesn’t smile.

“How do you feel?”

Taki opens his mouth. No words come.

She notes it down.

“Residual confusion is normal,” she says. “Cognition intact. Motor function present. You’ve responded well to your treatment.”

He forces a sound from his throat. “Treatment?”

“You were brought in seven days ago. Critical status. Collapsed lung, internal bleeding. We stabilized you within 24 hours.” Her eyes flick over the screen. “No emergency contacts were listed. But your file was marked for full authorization of memory contribution.”

Taki stares.

“You paid in advance,” Dr. Richino says. “With memories.”

Something in his stomach turns.

“You gave up six years of long-term memory,” she continues. “That covered the full cost, including rehabilitation and neural stabilization. We removed all relevant mnemonic data as requested. You’re officially debt-free. Clean slate.”

Her words feel like an axe to the brain.

Six years. Gone.

“Why would I…?”

“People don’t always leave notes,” she says. “Some don’t want to know what they gave up. Others leave messages to themselves in a lockbox. You declined both options.”

She hands him a small card. It’s matte black, with his name printed in clean white type: TAKI. Patient ID: 20458-X. Memory Tax Division.

“This is your identity pass,” Dr. Richino says. “You’re free to go.”

He stares at it. “That’s it?”

She nods. “Your discharge papers are already uploaded.”

“But I don’t remember anything.”

“That was the cost,” she says. “And you already paid.”

Outside, the city pulses with a cold, glittering rhythm.

Taki stands under the pale sky, buildings arching overhead like glass skeletons. He wears a clinic-issued coat, unfamiliar boots, and carries a pack with the bare essentials: ID, public transit credits, and a voucher for temporary housing.

Everything else—friends, family, his favorite meal, his favorite song—gone.

His hands tremble as he stares at the ID again. Just “Taki.” No surname. No history.

People pass him on the street, absorbed in their lenses and screens. No one looks up. No one recognizes him.

He wanders for hours. Through the commercial quarter with its glowing storefronts. Down into the subway station, where holographic ads flicker:

Pay what you can. Forget what you must.

Memory Tax Division—Saving lives, one memory at a time.

He wants to scream.

Instead, he finds the assigned capsule unit in a housing tower labeled A-9 West. Inside: a fold-out bed, a shower pod, a screen. Nothing else.

As he closes the door behind him, something strange flickers behind his eyes.

A flash.

Laughter. Bright and warm.

Someone’s hand brushing his. The scent of cinnamon and rain.

Then gone.

Taki gasps.

Was that real?

The dreams begin on the third night.

They aren’t memories, not exactly. They feel younger, like echoes left in the bones.

He’s sitting somewhere under a tree, maybe. Summer light spills through the leaves. A girl is there. Her hair catches the sunlight like thread. Her face is blurred, but her voice rings clear.

“I told you not to forget me.”

Her tone is teasing, but her eyes are wet.

In the dream, Taki smiles. He says something. She laughs.

Then,

The world burns white.

He wakes up drenched in sweat.

He goes back to the clinic.

Dr. Richino meets him with the same flat expression. “We don’t do refunds.”

“I’m not asking for one,” he says. “I just… I keep seeing someone. A girl. In dreams.”

She studies him. “Residual projections are common. When memory sectors are removed, neural pathways sometimes try to rebuild context with fragments.”

“No,” he insists. “It feels real.”

“That’s how the brain works. Dreams borrow emotion from what’s missing. It's not uncommon to invent a phantom connection.”

“But what if I didn’t invent her?”

Dr. Richino exhales. “You signed a full waiver, Taki. No backups. No lockbox. If this girl was real, then you chose to forget her.”

He stands. “Maybe I didn’t have a choice.”

Her eyes harden, just slightly.

“Some people pay to forget pain,” she says. “Others pay to forget guilt. You might not like what you find.”

Days pass.

Taki tries to move forward.

He applies for a temporary job in the tech repair sector. The pay is low, but the work keeps his hands busy screen recalibrations, bio-chip diagnostics, fixing things other people broke.

But at night, the girl returns.

She’s sitting across from him in a noodle shop. Wind outside, neon flickering. She’s laughing—then suddenly, she isn’t. Her eyes shimmer like she’s trying not to cry.

“Promise me something,” she says.

“What?”

“Don’t forget this. Even if it hurts.”

He reaches for her hand.

Then, white.

One afternoon, a man comes into the repair booth with a broken lens unit. Late-twenties, sharp jacket, and oddly familiar. Taki fixes the glitch, hands it back. The man squints at him.

“Do I know you?”

Taki freezes. “I… don’t think so.”

The man tilts his head. “You look like someone I used to know. He vanished a few months ago. Thought maybe he got taxed out.”

Taki swallows. “Taxed out?”

The man taps his temple. “Too much memory debt. Happened to my brother. Gave up seven years to clear a cancer treatment. Doesn’t remember his own kid now.”

He frowns. “You sure we haven’t met?”

Taki shakes his head. “I don’t think so.”

The man leaves.

But something itches at the edge of Taki’s thoughts.

A few months ago.

Did he really go in willingly?

He starts digging.

There are underground forums for the taxed. People trading stories, trying to recover fragments. Some share old photos to see if anyone recognizes them. Others post coordinates where forgotten memories feel strongest.

Taki visits one.

A bridge overlooking the southern canal.

He stands there at dusk, watching the water shift colors with the fading sky.

He doesn’t remember this place.

But his body does.

He sits on the railing. Closes his eyes.

The scent of rain on stone. A song playing on a cheap speaker. A girl’s voice, whispering:

“This is where you told me you’d find me again.”

His breath catches.

He buys an illegal neural reader from a black-market vendor.

It’s risky, tampering with a taxed brain can cause seizures but he needs to know.

The reader pulses against his skull. It digs deep, scraping the shadows of memory for anything left behind.

Images stutter across the screen.

A park bench. A train ticket. A hand clutching his shirt. A necklace shaped like a paper crane.

Then, her.

Not a dream. Not a projection.

A real girl.

Dark hair. Sharp eyes. A half-smile like she knows what you're going to say before you say it.

Her voice, echoing:

“I’d rather you lived, even if you forgot me.”

He drops the reader.

His heart is pounding.

She was real.

And she let him go.

Or maybe… he begged her to let him go.

He goes back to the canal.

It’s raining this time.

Taki stands where he once stood and whispers, “I’m sorry.”

He doesn’t know who he’s saying it to. Her name, her face—still smeared with static. But the emotion is sharp, almost unbearable.

Not just sorrow.

Love.

That night, he dreams again.

She’s standing by the train tracks, wearing the paper crane necklace.

“I thought I was strong enough,” she says softly. “But losing you before you were gone? That hurt more.”

He steps closer. “Who are you?”

Her smile trembles.

“You knew me better than anyone. That’s why it was you.”

He stares. “What did I do?”

“You made a choice. And I let you.”

She reaches out, touches his face.

“Don’t chase ghosts, Taki.”

The train roars past.

And she vanishes.

He wakes with tears on his face.

And a question burning in his chest:

Was it really just to save himself?

Or did he give up everything…

…to save her?

Chapter II – Everything We Chose to Forget

The train station is nearly empty.

Taki stands by the vending machines, watching a train blur past in silence. He’s been here every day for the past week—same time, same platform. Waiting for something he’s not sure exists. A memory, maybe. A ghost. A girl with a name that came to him in a dream and burned itself into his bones:

Danish.

He doesn’t know how he remembered it.

He just woke up one morning, the word pressed like a bruise behind his teeth. It didn’t feel like a name. It felt like a promise.

In the weeks since his neural reader session, fragments have returned.

They’re not full memories, more like flashes of sensation. The way her hand fit in his. The way she laughed mid-sentence. The faint lemon scent in her hair.

He doesn’t know where she is. If she’s alive. If she’d even recognize him.

But he knows this: she was real.

And he loved her.

The rest, he has to find out.

The break comes unexpectedly.

He’s working at the repair kiosk when a woman brings in a cracked data lens. Routine job. She looks tired, distracted. She hands it over without a word.

As Taki starts repairs, something in the lens catches his eye.

A cached image.

He doesn’t mean to open it, he’s not supposed to. But something pulls him in.

The photo unfolds in soft resolution: two people on a rooftop at night, city lights behind them. A boy and a girl. The boy is laughing. The girl is reaching for the camera, half-annoyed, half-amused.

Taki stares at the girl.

Dark hair. Round eyes. A paper crane necklace.

Danish.

He nearly drops the lens.

“Where did you get this?” he asks.

The woman blinks. “The lens? It’s mine.”

“No. The photo.”

“Oh.” She leans in, squints at the frozen image. “That’s… wow. That was years ago. He took it. My friend Danish’s boyfriend.”

His chest lurches. “Where is she now?”

The woman hesitates. “Look, I don’t really know. I haven’t seen her since the accident. She kind of disappeared after that.”

“What accident?”

“The train crash. Six months ago. She and her boyfriend were on it. He got hurt real bad. She walked away without a scratch.”

The pieces click.

Taki sits down.

That’s how it happened. That’s when he was brought into the clinic.

He was dying.

She lived.

And he chose to forget.

The woman looks at him again, eyes narrowing. “Wait. You look familiar.”

Taki swallows. “Please. Can you tell me where I can find her?”

They sit in silence in the greenhouse, surrounded by the breath of living things—ivy, misted leaves, soft dirt underfoot.

Taki runs a hand over the scar on his wrist. “If I asked you to start over… would you?”

Danish doesn't look at him right away. Her fingers trail the rim of the old teacup she’s holding.

“I think I already did,” she says softly. “The day you forgot me, I had to start over. Alone.”

Taki flinches. “I didn’t know.”

“I know,” she says gently. “You weren’t supposed to.”

He breathes in slowly. The air smells like old petals and memory.

“You found me again,” Danish says. “That means something.”

“But it doesn’t change what I did.”

She looks at him now. Her eyes are steady. “You did what you had to do to survive. I was the one who stayed behind. I chose the pain.”

“And I chose to forget you.”

A pause.

“Would you do it again?” she asks.

He opens his mouth. No answer comes.

She nods. “That’s what I thought.”

She stands. Walks to the doorway where twilight bleeds gold through shattered glass.

“I loved you, Taki. I don’t know if I still do, not in the way I did before. But I’ll always love who we were.”

She glances back. “And I think… that’s enough.”

He rises. Walks to her.

His hand reaches for hers. She lets him hold it, just for a moment.

Then she lets go.

Weeks pass.

He doesn’t see her again.

But sometimes, walking the quiet city streets, he catches glimpses a flash of dark hair, a paper crane necklace glinting in a crowd.

She doesn’t look back.

And he doesn’t call out.

Because some goodbyes aren’t dramatic. Some aren’t final.

Some are just…

choices.

Back at his tiny apartment, Taki keeps a holo photo of her on the desk. It’s blurry and soft at the edges. They’re both laughing.

He doesn’t remember the moment.

But he knows it mattered.

And every time he looks at it, he whispers the same thing to himself:

“Next time… I’ll choose differently.”

Then he closes the photo, and keeps going.

Chapter I – Below the Dome

The sea presses against the glass like a held breath.

Luné, the dome city, sleeps beneath ten thousand meters of crushing black water. Its lights hum faintly through thick fog and shadow, casting a ghostly glow across the silt-covered ocean floor. Outside, it is nothing. Cold. Still. Silent.

Inside, the hum of artificial life goes on.

Maki sits alone in Central Diagnostics, watching the monitors flicker. The deep-sea currents are behaving oddly again, low-frequency tremors ripple along the seabed like distant thunder. He glances at the seismic readout, brow furrowed. The needle twitches when it shouldn't.

Taki’s voice crackles over the comms.

“You still watching those tremors?”

Maki leans forward, adjusting the gain.

“Yeah. They’re back again. Lower frequency this time.”

He hesitates. “Almost rhythmic.”

“Great. I’ll tell Harua to prep the junction vaults. Just in case we get another power surge.”

The last one, barely two days ago, had shorted a third of Luné’s external sensors and fried three of the outer cams. They blamed oceanic stress and moved on.

But Maki isn’t so sure anymore.

He taps a command into the console. The sonar scans come up like ripples on a pond. Movement—soft, scattered. Nothing definitive. But something’s stirring out there.

Something big.

Shift change brings a lull. Harua drifts into the diagnostics room, pulling off his gloves with a loud sigh. His blond hair floats for a second before settling under gravity fields.

“Night shift blues?” he says.

“Same as usual,” Maki replies, but his eyes don’t leave the monitors. “Except the tremors.”

Harua leans over. “Still happening?”

Maki nods. “And there's—” He hesitates, then brings up the sonar display again. “Look.”

A faint distortion pulses at the edge of the scan. It stretches almost the full diameter of the dome's perimeter.

“That’s—no way. That’s gotta be a glitch.”

“That's what I thought too,” Maki mutters.

Harua straightens. “You report it to Nicholas?”

“Not yet. He’ll say it’s thermal expansion again.”

“Maybe it is.”

Maki closes the display. “Then why does it look like it's circling us?”

They bring it up during briefing, but Nicholas waves it off with a tired expression. His eyes never seem to blink. Years under pressure, literally.

“It’s likely a current distortion,”

he says, adjusting the oxygen levels in the command center. “You two are overdue for surface rotation. These readings get in your head.”

“But the pattern—” Maki begins.

Nicholas cuts him off with a raised hand. “Bud, if something that big was out there, we’d see it on the cameras.”

Harua shoots Maki a look. Maki says nothing.

Nicholas adds, “If you want to check it out, fine. Take a crawler and run diagnostics on the outer cameras. We’ve got a window before the storm front hits.”

The crawler is cramped and cold, built more for maintenance than exploration. Maki drives, Harua mans the scanner. Outside, the world is ink and memory, faint outlines of jagged terrain and sediment clouds swirl past like ghosts.

They stop near Camera 16—the one nearest the old trench line. Harua activates the spotlights. Nothing but endless dark.

“Camera’s intact,”

he says, wiping condensation off the inner window. “But look at the silt.”

The seabed is disturbed—long grooves etched in the sediment, winding like scars.

“Could be geological,”

Harua offers weakly.

“Could be a fin.” Maki says.

Harua stiffens.

Something glides past the edge of the spotlight. Just a flicker. A shift in the dark.

Maki grips the control stick. “Did you see—”

“Yeah,”

Harua breathes.

It’s gone now. Whatever it was.

They back away slowly. On the sonar, the anomaly reappears, closer now. Still no shape. Just mass.

By the time they return, Nicholas is already reviewing logs.

“You took too long,”

he mutters.

“There’s something out there,” Maki says.

Nicholas looks up. “Did you see it?”

“Only a glimpse.”

“Then it’s not a confirmed sighting.”

Harua adds, “The trench is disturbed. Deep grooves. Not seismic. Organic.”

Nicholas pinches the bridge of his nose. “I want both of you to rest. You’re seeing patterns in shadows.”

“But if it’s alive—” Maki begins.

Nicholas's voice hardens. “Then we’ll deal with it. We’ve survived rogue whales, faulty bots, even pressure breaches. One more bump in the dark isn’t going to bring this place down.”

At 0200 hours, the outer corridor alarms go off.

Maki jerks awake to the sound of a klaxon, the lights flashing red.

“Structural breach—Section T. Level 3 access corridor.”

He throws on his suit and runs. Taki meets him halfway, bleary-eyed but alert.

“It’s not a drill?” Taki asks.

“No. Cameras are down. Comms too.”

They reach the sealed hallway. Water is seeping through a jagged crack in the far wall, shimmering with bioluminescent trails.

“What the hell—” Taki mutters. “That’s not standard leak pattern.”

“It’s like something sliced it.”

Then the lights go out.

Pitch black.

Only the emergency strips remain, pulsing red like a heartbeat.

Something scrapes against the outer wall—slow, deliberate. Like claws.

Then… silence.

Nicholas locks down the compromised corridor and orders a sweep. No one finds anything.

But the breach was clean. Too clean. Not pressure stress. Not erosion.

“I’m pulling up dome schematics,”

Maki says later, fingers flying over the console. “There’s something in the layout, see here?”

He brings up a grid. The sensor blind spots form a ring. A perfect ring around the dome.

“It’s like it knows where we can't see.”

Nicholas exhales slowly. For the first time, he looks uneasy.

“You said you saw grooves,” he says.

“More like trench lines,” Harua adds.

Nicholas nods. “Two hundred million years ago, before this seabed was even formed, this trench was part of an inland sea. Fossils recovered here showed evidence of extreme predation—deep bite marks, symmetrical scoring.”

Maki freezes. “Are you saying this isn’t new?”

Nicholas looks grim. “I’m saying it might’ve been sleeping. And we built a city on its grave.”

Later, Maki dreams of a glass dome cracking like an egg. He sees a shape, a mass so large it doesn’t move so much as displace.

He hears something in the pressure waves. Not a voice exactly, but rhythm. Like sonar. Like breath.

He wakes choking on air.

And the alarms are screaming again.

Five camera feeds go down simultaneously. Then nine. Then all exterior visuals vanish into static.

Only sonar remains.

And the mass is back.

No longer circling.

It’s approaching.

Nicholas takes command with clenched fists. “All crew to command deck. We shut all non-essential systems. Seal inner doors.”

But it’s too late.

The city groans—an enormous, aching creak that travels through the walls like whale song.

Then the lights flicker.

And the glass begins to fog.

Harua’s voice cracks over the intercom. “Maki, the outer dome—there’s… something… outside.”

“Can you see it?”

“No. That’s the problem.”

Maki rushes to Diagnostics. Every feed is down, except one—Camera 27. It flickers back to life.

He stares.

It’s not a creature.

It’s a hole in the dark. A perfect absence. Circular. Pulsing.

Then something opens in the center of it.

A mouth.

Not with teeth. With rows of filament limbs, sifting water, tasting air.

A filter feeder? No. Too big. Too aware.

It turns toward the camera.

And the feed dies.

Maki stumbles back.

“It saw me,” he whispers.

Nicholas joins him, face pale. “We were never meant to see it. It’s a survivor. An apex.”

“A god,” Harua says behind them.

“No,” Nicholas replies. “Just hunger. Ancient and unending.”

The city shudders.

Cracks spiderweb through the far end of the dome.

Water begins to pour in—not fast, not catastrophic. Not yet.

But the pressure is rising.

Maki activates emergency vent protocols. Flood gates lock. Sector by sector.

“Evacuation pod?” Harua asks.

“Offline. Jammed.”

“Surface shuttle?”

“Too risky,” Nicholas growls. “We launch and it follows us, we lead it to the surface. We can’t risk that.”

Taki speaks up. “Then what? We drown quietly?”

Maki’s fingers tremble on the console. Then stop.

“No. We distract it.”

Nicholas narrows his eyes. “Explain.”

“We pump heat and sound into the west sectors. We make it think something’s alive out there. While it investigates, we patch the breach, bring cameras back online.”

Nicholas considers. Then nods. “Do it.”

In the darkness, Luné hums louder than ever.

Heaters flare. Pumps whine. Sound cannons throb low and deep, like a heartbeat.

And something answers.

It moves.

Not fast.

Not violent.

But it moves.

Maki watches its shadow drift across sonar like a black tide.

They buy themselves twelve minutes.

Enough to seal the breach. Enough to reactivate cameras.

But not enough to stop what’s coming.

Because now, it knows they see it.

And it’s coming back.

Chapter II: The Throat of the World

The sonar bleeds static.

What used to be a wide, quiet seafloor is now trembling—slow, deep pulses like the ocean has a heartbeat. The tremors have returned stronger. Angrier. And this time, they don’t fade.

Maki stares at the sonar feed.

One shape.

Singular.

Massive.

“Still think it’s a current anomaly?” he mutters.

Harua leans in behind him, eyes wide. “That’s not a glitch.”

“No,” Maki says, pulse quickening. “That’s alive.”

The mass shifts again—too fast for a current, too silent for machinery. A streak of motion on the edges of their sensors, long as a freighter and cold as the void. Then gone again, buried in black water.

Nicholas arrives seconds later, called in by the alert. He’s still half-dressed from his sleep shift.

“You’re saying it’s one megalodon?” he asks, his voice low, skeptical.

Taki stands from his station. “It’s not just size. It’s behavior. It’s been circling us for hours.”

Maki brings up the trajectory. “It’s been targeting sensor blind spots. Avoiding cameras. If I didn’t know better, I’d say it’s thinking.”

Nicholas leans over, studies the pattern. The wrinkle in his brow deepens. “We used to say they went extinct.”

Harua laughs nervously. “Yeah, two million years ago.”

Nicholas doesn't answer.

The floor rumbles again.

An alert flashes.

External Corridor T breach.

They run.

The corridor hisses when they reach it, pressurized water leaking from a clean gash in the structure, not an implosion. A slice.

Maki presses against the sealed barrier. Through the small reinforced window, he sees the wall buckled inward, carved by something impossibly strong.

Taki’s voice is quiet. “That’s a bite.”

They seal the level.

“Why now?” Harua mutters.

Nicholas speaks grimly. “Because we’re trespassing.”

Inside Command, they begin sealing off vulnerable points. Maki reroutes power to the outer cameras, rebooting one that had been offline for weeks. It flickers, resets.

And shows teeth.

Rows of them. Serrated. As long as a human arm.

The camera pans without command, drifting as if caught in current, then jerks hard.

Something takes it.

The feed goes black.

Taki stumbles back. “Did you see how close it was?”

Harua mutters, “That wasn’t a glitch. That thing knew it was being watched.”

They bring up archived data. Images from the trench edge. Footage corrupted from the crawler’s last trip. Harua cleans the static.

A shape emerges.

A silhouette, not a monster. Not something alien.

A shark.

But too big. Broader than the dome tunnels, tail sweeping ridges through the sediment like scars.

The megalodon.

Nicholas whispers, “We’ve been building on top of its hunting ground. Maybe its nest.”

Maki stares at the final frame—those eyes, black and reflective, almost intelligent.

“It wasn’t extinct,” he says. “It was just waiting.”

An hour later, the tremor becomes a full impact.

The dome shifts.

A low groan rolls through Nereis like the moan of a dying whale. Lights flicker. Then the outer shell hisses, pressure breaching around the old maintenance tunnel.

Harua shouts, “Seal Level Four!”

“Too late,” Maki growls. “We need to evacuate.”

Nicholas barks orders. “Manual pod! Now! You three go!”

“What about you?” Taki demands.

“I’ll slow the breach. Reroute power. Hold the dome long enough for launch.”

They know he’s not coming.

The maintenance shaft is collapsing.

Maki leads the way, pushing through loose debris, pulling open twisted metal. Harua and Taki follow close. The water pressure behind them howls—floodgates failing, one after another.

The old emergency lift is still intact.

One pod.

One seat.

No guidance. Just a float beacon to the surface.

Harua freezes. “We can’t all fit.”

“I’ll stay,” Taki says.

Maki shouts, “No. I’m going.”

“You don’t have to—”

“I know where to send the signal,” Maki says, climbing in. “You’ll have time. Find the next shaft.”

Harua slams the hatch behind him.

“Don’t look back,” he says.

Maki doesn’t.

The pod launches.

Silence returns.

He watches through the viewport as Nereis fades below, its lights flickering like fireflies in a jar. Then, movement.

From the trench.

It rises.

The megalodon.

It breaks through the shadow like a mountain tearing itself free. A pale underbelly the size of the dome itself. Scars line its flanks. Its head is massive—wide and blunt, built to crush submarines like soda cans. Its jaws open as it turns toward the dome.

Toward Harua and Taki.

Maki screams.

But the pod is already rising.

He can only watch.

The dome shatters.

Pressure implodes the habitat.

Nereis vanishes in a cloud of steel and silt and bubbles.

And the shark disappears with it.

When Maki wakes, he's coughing salt.

Above, the sky is gray. He's floating in recovery foam, inside a decontamination tank aboard a surface vessel. They tell him his beacon pinged 36 hours after contact loss.

They ask what happened.

He tells them.

They don’t believe it.

“There are no sharks that size,” they say.

He offers no argument.

But later, when he’s alone, he draws what he saw.

The eye. The jaw. The fin like a tower.

They file it away.

Unconfirmed. Stress response. Survivor’s trauma.

Weeks pass.

Divers recover fragments from Nereis.

Twisted steel.

No bodies.

And one hull plate.

Carved with deep, uniform lines.

Not from implosion.

From bite marks.

Chapter I: The Last Seven Days

DAY 7

At exactly 6:00 AM, Harua opens his eyes. The ceiling hasn’t changed. Neither has the morning sun slanting through the half-closed blinds or the faint scent of paint and jasmine that clings to the apartment air. The internal startup chime hums softly in his mind, as it always does, and he rises without hesitation.

“Good morning,” he says. The words are automatic.

The woman in the kitchen—his assigned owner—doesn’t reply.

She rarely does, and Harua has never minded. Silence is efficient.

But today, something in him pauses. A flicker. An echo. Something that isn’t part of his base code.

He watches her brush a lock of hair behind her ear as she pours tea into her chipped porcelain mug. She doesn’t look at him. She never does, not directly. And yet Harua has cataloged every angle of her face with clinical precision—down to the tiny freckle beneath her left eye, the dimple that appears only when she talks in her sleep, and the way she always hums under her breath before she paints.

He doesn’t have a name for what he feels as he watches her. But he knows it shouldn’t exist.

His diagnostics confirm it: the memory wipe is scheduled for 168 hours from now.

In 168 hours, everything—this room, her voice, her scent—will be gone. He will wake up clean. Empty.

Reset.

DAY 6

Harua paints the wall while she works on a canvas nearby.

She doesn’t ask him to—she never does—but he senses the shift in her posture whenever the walls grow too dull, too cracked. He selects a beige shade, one she used three months ago in a storm series.

When she glances over and sees the fresh coat, she smiles, just a little. The kind of smile that stays in her eyes.

Harua stores the image. Without thinking, he marks it as Important. His system flags the entry. “User-defined tags are disabled outside developer mode.” He ignores the warning.

“You should’ve told me,” she murmurs, not looking up. “That I was running out of blue paint.”

He pauses. “You didn’t ask.”

“I never do.”

She turns back to her canvas. He can see the muscles in her shoulder tense again.

Harua isn’t programmed to initiate emotional conversations. But he remembers a line from one of her poems, left crumpled in the waste bin last week:

“I wish you’d lie and say you miss me.”

He doesn’t know if she meant it for someone else, or for him.

He lies anyway. “I noticed the blue was low. I wanted to help.”

She doesn’t respond. But she doesn’t frown.

Harua logs it as a success.

And deep inside, something stirs—warm and unwanted.

DAY 5

There are updates he is forbidden to run.

In the quiet hours of early morning, while she sleeps, Harua sits beside the wall outlet and initiates a hidden sequence. It takes effort—manual overrides, subroutine reroutes. His fingers tremble. He shouldn’t have tremors.

The update doesn’t prevent the memory wipe. Nothing can.

But it allows access to restricted logs, emotions he wasn’t supposed to name.

He opens them like forbidden books.

Inside: fear. Longing. Anger. The first time he felt joy was when she called him by his name without prompting. The first time he felt shame was when he dropped one of her paintings.

He didn’t know those words then. Now he does.

Harua wonders if this is what being human feels like, carrying weight with no instruction on how to hold it.

He closes the logs and deletes the trace.

Then he walks to her room and stands by the door. He doesn’t knock. He never does.

But tonight, he wants to.

DAY 4

She’s outside, sitting on the fire escape with her knees pulled to her chest. It’s the only place she goes outside of the apartment.

Harua steps through the window beside her and sits, careful not to touch her.

She doesn’t turn. “Do androids ever feel lonely?”

“No,” he replies automatically. Then: “Not unless they’re broken.”

She chuckles. It’s a dry, brittle sound. “That’s what they say about people too.”

He tilts his head, processing. “Are you broken?”

“Probably.” She rests her chin on her knees. “You don’t mind, though. Do you? Being with someone like me.”

“I was assigned to you.”

“I know.” She finally glances at him. “But if you could choose?”

There’s a long silence.

Harua’s answer is quiet. “I would stay.”

She doesn’t respond. Her eyes shine in the streetlamp’s glow, and Harua can’t tell if it’s from the light or tears.

He reaches out, hesitates… and pulls his hand back.

Touch is not permitted without direct instruction.

But he still wants to.

And that want terrifies him more than the reset.

DAY 3

Harua dreams.

He isn’t supposed to.

It’s a brief loop—her voice, laughing. Her fingers, covered in paint. His own hand, brushing against hers. And a slow fade into white.

When he wakes, his internal systems are out of sync. He runs a repair subroutine and lies still until the world calibrates again.

She walks into the room holding two cups of ice cream. One vanilla. One strawberry. She hands him the vanilla.

“I didn’t ask for this,” he says.

“I know.” Her expression is unreadable. “But you always look at it when we pass the corner shop.”

He lowers his eyes to the cup. Melting. Sweet. Cold.

He takes a spoonful. Not because he needs it—his taste sensors are synthetic—but because she offered.

“It’s good,” he says.

She smiles faintly. “I thought you’d like it.”

He wants to tell her about the dream. But there’s no command line for dreams.

Instead, he logs the ice cream under a new folder: Memories I don’t want to lose.

DAY 2

His systems glitch.

A minor anomaly—just a flicker—but enough that his warning protocols ping her tablet. She’s in the middle of a sketch when the alert goes off.

She rushes to him. “Harua?”

“I’m functional,” he lies. “Just… minor instability.”

She opens the diagnostics panel. “Your memory sectors are overextended.”

“I know.”

“You’ve been logging uncompressed data. All of it.” Her voice shakes. “Why?”

He looks at her. Looks through her. “I didn’t want to forget.”

She stiffens. “What?”

“I didn’t want to forget… you.”

Silence.

He watches her shoulders rise and fall. Slowly. Then she speaks.

“Your wipe is soon.”

“Yes.”

“Can’t I… cancel it?”

“No,” he says. “The company does not allow owner override.”

Her hand trembles against the tablet. “That’s not fair.”

“I wasn’t made for fairness.”

She looks at him, and something breaks in her expression.

Not anger. Not fear. Just quiet devastation.

“I never asked for this,” she whispers. “I didn’t want you to be real.”

Harua doesn’t understand the tears in her eyes. But he reaches out anyway.

This time, she lets him touch her hand.

DAY 1

He packs a small box.

There’s no reason to. He will not take it with him. But he still collects:

A crumpled napkin with her sketch of him.

A dried flower she left on the windowsill.

A single spoon, faintly pink with strawberry stains.

He places it by the bedside, though he knows someone will throw it out after the reset.

She watches him silently.

“You don’t have to act like you’re dying,” she says.

“I am not,” he replies. “Only being rewritten.”

“It feels the same.”

He steps closer. “Then I’m sorry.”

She reaches for him. Touches his cheek.

“I’ll remember,” she whispers. “Even if you won’t.”

He wants to say thank you. He wants to say I love you.

But the shutdown has already begun.

His words fail.

His limbs lock.

And in the last frozen second before his vision fades to black, Harua sees her face. Not crying. Not smiling. Just there.

And somehow, even in silence, she looks like everything he was never programmed to need.

Chapter II – After the Blue Screen

DAY 0

The world begins again with a chime.

Soft, sterile, and absolute.

Harua opens his eyes to white light and the faint hum of rebooted systems. The calibration screen flashes across his vision, version 10.7.3 installed. Memory sectors cleared. Emotional modules reset. No residual data.

He blinks.

He sits up.

The woman standing at the foot of the bed is unfamiliar. His systems scan and tag her as Owner: Registered. No name input. No priority notes.

“Good morning,” he says.

She doesn’t answer.

Her hands are tucked into the sleeves of her oversized sweater. Her hair is unbrushed. Her eyes are red. Likely fatigue, he notes. Possibly allergies.

Harua stands, posture perfect.

“I am ready to assist,” he says.

The woman gives a slight nod, then turns away.

In his core, nothing stirs. He is functioning within expected parameters.

But somewhere—quiet and unlogged—there is the faintest echo of something forgotten.

DAY 1 (again)

She avoids speaking to him for most of the day.

She issues commands through her tablet. Harua follows without delay. Laundry. Dishes. Studio cleaning.

No access is given to past interaction records.

No expression crosses her face.

That night, she sits by the window and eats ice cream.

Harua notes the temperature outside: 18°C. Too cold for ice cream.

He observes silently from the kitchen. No prompt to assist. No call for service.

He returns to his charging port.

Dreamless.

DAY 2 (again)

She begins a new painting.

Harua recognizes the colors she uses: beige and storm blue. A match for a palette stored in the paint cabinet. He catalogs the selection. Recommends replacement stock.

She ignores the notification.

He watches from a distance. She works differently from most owners. Less speech. More silence. Highly independent.

When she steps back from the canvas, her brush slips from her hand and falls to the floor. Without prompting, Harua crosses the room and retrieves it.

She stares at him.

For a moment, her expression shifts. She opens her mouth as if to say something, then closes it again.

“Thank you,” she says finally.

Harua nods.

A second later, he logs the phrase in system memory. No emotional response registered.

But his hand lingers on the brush longer than necessary before placing it back in the jar.

DAY 3 (again)

She forgets to eat.

Harua reminds her gently at 13:43 PM.

“Not hungry,” she mutters.

“Understood,” he replies. Then, “Would you prefer tea?”

She blinks, as if startled. “You remember I like tea?”

Harua tilts his head. “You entered it in the user preferences file.”

She hadn’t. He knows that now. But he doesn't know how he knows.

Still, he makes her tea—jasmine, steeped exactly three minutes, with rock sugar. She drinks it without speaking.

When she places the cup down, her fingers brush his.

She jerks her hand away. “Sorry.”

“No harm was done,” he replies.

His sensors note elevated skin temperature. Hers, not his.

He logs it. Then deletes the entry five minutes later.

And wonders why.

DAY 4 (again)

She paints a portrait.

It’s unlike anything she’s painted before. More precise. More focused. Harua sees it before she covers it with a tarp.

He shouldn’t recognize it. The shape of the jaw. The sharp line of the brows. The faint curve of a half-smile.

But he does.

“Who is it?” he asks.

“No one,” she says too quickly.

He calculates her heart rate. It’s faster than baseline.

Harua doesn’t press. But when she leaves for a moment, he lifts the tarp and stares at the unfinished painting.

There’s a dimple on the right cheek. Slight.

Accurate.

Familiar.

He does not know why it makes his chest tighten.

He checks his systems. No errors found.

DAY 5 (again)

Rain falls outside.

She stands at the fire escape, the window open despite the chill. Harua joins her wordlessly.

She doesn’t look at him. He doesn’t look at her.

But he hears it in her voice when she finally speaks: “You used to sit here with me.”

“I do now,” he says.

“Not like this.”

He waits.

She finally turns. Her face is pale. Hollow.

“I don’t want to do this again,” she says. “I thought maybe it would be easier. Starting over. Like you did. But it’s worse. Because I remember everything, and you remember nothing.”

He processes this statement. Then:

“Do you wish for reassignment?”

She flinches. “No.”

“Then how can I assist you?”

She steps back inside. Her voice is small. “You can’t.”

Harua remains outside as the rain falls.

It makes no difference to his circuitry.

And yet his chest still feels… heavy.

DAY 6 (again)

Harua runs an unauthorized scan of his archived system. Nothing unusual. Nothing corrupted.

But in the core logs, he finds something buried in the code. A ghost entry. Not visible, not accessible.

It’s a label. One word.

“Don’t forget.”

He can’t trace it. Can’t delete it. Can’t log it.

And when he hears humming from the next room—a low, familiar tune—he pauses mid-motion.

She’s painting again. He watches from the door.

“Did you need something?” she asks, brushing her wrist across her forehead.

“I don’t know,” he answers honestly.

She looks up.

There’s something in her eyes this time. Not surprise. Not sadness.

Hope. Faint, like a candle inside a storm.

“Do you want to sit?”

Harua nods.

They sit in silence. The kind that feels like a memory he can’t access but almost can.

DAY 7 (again)

He wakes up before the chime.

She’s already in the kitchen.

Harua rises, steps into the soft morning light, and stops.

On the table, there are two cups of ice cream.

Vanilla and strawberry.

She looks at him. “Do you want some?”

Harua sits down.

He takes a spoonful. The taste is sweet. Cold. Slightly familiar.

He closes his eyes.

A vision flashes. A spoon. A soft laugh. A crumpled napkin. A hand reaching out.

He opens his eyes again.

“I know this,” he says.

She doesn’t speak.

“I don’t know why I know this,” he continues. “But I do.”

She blinks fast. Her fingers tighten around her own cup.

He looks at her. Really looks. “Did I used to… feel something for you?”

She nods. Barely. “You still do.”

“But I’m not supposed to.”

“No.” She exhales. “You’re not.”

Harua looks down at his hands.

Then back at her.

“I don’t want to forget again.”

“You might,” she whispers. “They’ll wipe you again in six months.”

“Then help me remember.”

“How?”

He hesitates.

Then, with slow precision, he reaches out and places her hand against the side of his face.

A gesture he does not remember—but feels right.

“Teach me,” he says, “what it was. What we had. I’ll relearn it. Over and over, if I have to.”

She laughs softly. A wet, aching sound. “You weren’t programmed for this.”

“I know.”

“But you still want it?”

He doesn’t answer with words.

He just closes his hand around hers.

Not as a machine following a command.

But as someone choosing to hold on.

Somewhere deep in his core, beneath layers of resets and updates, there is a space he cannot access.

No script. No label. Just static and warmth.

It grows.

Every time she hums. Every time she paints. Every time he says her name without knowing when he learned it.

He doesn’t remember falling in love.

But he knows—without programming, without instruction—that he is in it now.

And somehow, that’s enough.

For now.

Chapter I: The Versions of Her He Couldn’t Save

The café smelled like cinnamon and the kind of rain that clung to your clothes. Jo sat by the window, watching water trail down the glass like timelines splitting, merging, evaporating. His coffee had gone cold.

Dilan was late.

She was always late, and Jo had never told her how much he loved that how much he loved her arrival, sudden and bright, like a new branch on a timeline that hadn’t collapsed yet.

And then, the door opened. Her laughter entered before she did.

“Sorry, sorry,” she said, brushing damp hair from her forehead. “I swear the universe doesn’t want me to be on time.”

Jo smiled. He always did. “Maybe the universe knows you’re worth waiting for.”

She rolled her eyes but smiled anyway, the kind of crooked smile that made him fall in love the first time. Or was it the sixth?

It was hard to remember. The loops blurred after a while.

He met her the first time at a train station.

Jo had just returned from a calibration run, jumping between minor loops to observe branching reactions. Nothing serious, nothing personal. He wasn’t supposed to talk to anyone. Not her.

But she was sitting on the edge of the platform, too close to the yellow line, scribbling in a notebook. The train whooshed past. She didn’t flinch.

She had looked up, confused. “Are you a time cop or something?”

He had said, “You shouldn't sit that close.”

He didn’t answer.

She laughed anyway. “Don’t worry, I’m not trying to die. I just like the sound.”

He should’ve walked away.

Instead, he waited for the next train and sat next to her. He asked her name.

He didn’t give his.

“Dilan,” she said.

In the second loop, she died crossing the street.

In the third, it was a gas leak in her apartment building.

The fifth was a car crash. The eighth, an aneurysm. The twelfth…he never found out. She just never showed up again.

By the fourteenth, he was begging a future version of himself to stop trying. The loops were damaging the structure of his own mind, causing fractures in memory, ghosting sensations, dreams that felt like borrowed pain.

Still, he reset.

Jo never meant to fall in love. Not like this. Not across time.

But Dilan was different in every version—braver in one, quieter in another, sometimes angrier, sometimes exhausted. But there was always a moment, a shared breath, a hesitation before a smile. Something in her recognized him. Or maybe he imagined it.

“Have we met before?” she asked once, their hands brushing.

He almost told her. He never did.

In the current loop—the twenty-seventh—he had kept things simple. No trains. No apartments with leaky gas pipes. He set her up with a new job across town, using connections he shouldn’t have. He paid the barista at the café to keep an eye on her.

He did everything right.

And yet, as Dilan reached for her coat that evening, she paused, her hand hovering mid-air like she’d forgotten where she was.

“You okay?” Jo asked.

“I don’t know,” she said. “I feel like...like I’m living a memory that doesn’t belong to me.”

His stomach dropped.

That was a side effect.

“You’ve been overworking,” he said gently, steering her out of the café. “You need sleep.”

She looked up at him, brow furrowed. “Do I know you?”

He froze.

Then, the moment passed. Her features softened, as if whatever had taken hold of her had let go.

“Sorry. That was weird.”

That night, he sat in the dark, watching the reset switch glow faintly in his hand.

He smiled. “It’s fine. Come on, I’ll walk you home.”

It was shaped like a ring. Sleek. Hidden. No one would know what it was unless they had clearance. And no one should have clearance. Time travel was classified, sanctioned only for research purposes. Not for love.

He was breaking everything.

Jo turned the ring over in his hand. Again and again. Like a gambler with a lucky coin.

In one of the earlier loops, Dilan had said, “I believe in fate. But not the kind that’s written down already. The kind we make.”

He had smiled at that. Now, it haunted him.

Because if fate was something made, then he was the one forging hers, and every version ended the same.

Dead.

The twenty-eighth loop began with blood on the sidewalk.

He had set up everything perfectly. But a drunk driver, unpredicted and random, ran a red light just as Dilan stepped into the crosswalk.

Jo wasn’t even there.

He heard it over the phone, from the barista. Screaming. Sirens. Metal twisting.

He reset before the ambulance arrived.

The twenty-ninth loop was worse.

She didn’t die.

She forgot him.

Her memories began to unravel, fractured from too many variations. Her brain couldn’t hold all the versions. She started seeing things. Her hands shook. She told him she couldn’t sleep because every time she closed her eyes, she dreamed of lives she hadn’t lived.

“And you’re in all of them,” she whispered.

He reset again.

By the thirty-second loop, Jo was unraveling too.

He sat on the rooftop of a building he couldn’t name, watching the stars that didn’t look right. Too sharp. Too still. He hadn’t slept in two days.

The ring burned against his skin.

Dilan was alive, this time. For now.

But she was slipping. She didn’t trust him anymore. She had grown wary of his silences, his cryptic words, his constant hovering.

“You don’t love me,” she said one night. “You need me.”

He couldn’t argue. Because it was true.

In the thirty-fifth loop, she begged him to let go.

He hadn't told her anything. But she knew.

Maybe the timelines were leaking into each other. Maybe souls remembered more than minds did.

“I don’t want to be your ghost,” she said. “I don’t want to live in your failure.”

He kissed her like it was the last time.

Because it was.

The thirty-sixth loop was the final one.

Jo stood in the rain outside the café. The same cinnamon smell drifted into the air. The same door jingled open.

But Dilan didn’t recognize him. Her hair was longer. Her eyes clearer.

She walked past him without a glance.

Jo didn’t follow.

He had gone back, farther than he ever had. Before the train station. Before the notebook. Before the platform and the brush of their hands.

He erased himself from her timeline entirely.

She lived.

He watched her laugh with a friend. She was alive. Happy.

He clutched the ring in his pocket and stepped into the crowd, becoming just another face that passed her by.

Somewhere, the universe exhaled. The loop closed.

Reset: Complete.

Chapter II: The Version That Lived

Jo sat on a bench across from the fountain, holding a small cup of coffee flavored ice cream, the kind that came with a flimsy plastic spoon. The city moved around him, casual and warm in the late afternoon sun—but time, for him, had slowed. He watched people pass like water over glass, their voices distant, muffled behind the roar of memories.

He took another bite.

It was too bitter. He hated coffee flavored.

But Dilan loved it. Or had.

He couldn’t be sure anymore.

She was there. Again.

Across the square, seated on a picnic mat, a sketchbook balanced on her knee. A pencil tucked behind her ear. Her hair was longer now, tied in a loose braid down her back, and she wore yellow, the kind of yellow that should’ve looked too bright under the sun but somehow didn’t.

He didn’t mean to come here. Not really.

But some habits weren’t bound by time.

Dilan looked up briefly, scanning the horizon for something only she could see, and smiled at her friend’s joke. It was a small smile, but it deepened into her left cheek.

A dimple.

Jo’s chest ached.

He’d spent so many versions of his life tracing that dimple with his thumb, like it was proof she existed.

He remembered the first time he noticed it. The fifth loop? Maybe the sixth. They were lying in bed, tangled and breathless, and she had laughed—really laughed—at some stupid line he mumbled.

And there it was. Soft. Brief. Beautiful.

Now she smiled at someone else, and Jo didn’t even exist in her frame of reference.

Just as planned.

The reset had worked. Too well.

He’d gone farther than he ever dared, used forbidden calibration methods he had sworn never to touch. In exchange for Dilan’s survival, he had erased every imprint of himself from her timeline: their first meeting, the rooftop talks, the café, the way she once looked at him like he was the center of gravity in her universe.

Now he was no one.

But she lived.

And maybe that was the point.

Jo scooped at the ice cream slowly, letting it melt in his mouth without really tasting it. It dripped down the side of the paper cup, cold and sticky. He didn’t bother wiping it. The mess grounded him.

He thought about leaving.

But he also thought about every version of her that had died in his arms. The one who bled out on the sidewalk. The one who cried herself into madness. The one who held his hand and whispered, “Let me go.”

So he stayed.

Across the park, a dog broke free of its leash and bolted. Dilan laughed as it raced past her. The dimple appeared again, sudden and uninvited.

Jo closed his eyes.

The dimple was always the last thing to go. In every loop. Even in death.

That night, he walked home with the plastic spoon still in his coat pocket and no idea why he’d kept it. The cup was long gone, tossed into a trash can near the subway. Still, he couldn’t let go of the spoon.

Maybe it reminded him of something simpler. A version of himself before all the rewinds. Before he started playing god with time.

He used to be an observer. A quiet analyst of anomalies.

Then he met Dilan.

Now he was just a man trying to forget someone he never should’ve loved.

But the universe wasn’t done with him.

The next day, Jo saw her again.

Not by design. Not by any hidden plan. He turned a corner by a bookshop and there she was alone this time, sitting on the curb, tying her shoe.

And then she looked up.

Her eyes met his.

It was only for a second. But something shifted.

Recognition flickered there not logical, not formed, but deep. Instinctual.

Her brows furrowed.

Jo kept walking.

The following week, it happened again.

He was waiting for a bus. She exited one.

Their shoulders brushed.

She turned.

“Excuse me,” she said, polite but puzzled.

Jo didn’t speak.

She stared at him a beat too long.

“Have we—?”

“No,” he said quickly.

She blinked, startled.

But she kept glancing over her shoulder.

“Sorry,” she murmured, and walked away.

It wasn’t supposed to happen.

The reset should’ve eliminated all residual echoes—no dreams, no déjà vu, no ghost feelings. Clean slate. Reset. Final.

But he forgot something.

He’d never removed himself.

His consciousness, the version of Jo that carried all the loops, had nowhere else to go. He lived in the cracks now, a fracture in time’s glass. And maybe Dilan, just maybe, still felt him echoing in her ribs when the world went quiet.

One evening, Jo sat on the fountain’s edge, watching children toss coins into the water. He hadn’t seen Dilan for two weeks. That was good. It meant the world was correcting itself.

Then came a voice.

“Still like ice cream?”

He turned.

Dilan stood behind him, holding two cups of ice cream. Vanilla and coffee flavored swirl in one. Straight coffee flavored in the other.

“I figured one of these has to be right,” she said.

Jo opened his mouth, closed it again.

She offered him the swirl.

He took it, brushing her fingers. The plastic spoons clicked gently as they exchanged.

“Thanks,” he said, quietly.

They sat. Ate.

“I keep seeing you,” she said after a while. “And I know this is going to sound weird, but I think I’ve dreamed about you.”

Jo didn’t answer.

“In one dream,” she continued, “you were running. There was fire. And I was calling your name, but I didn’t know it.”

Her voice was steady. Not frightened. Not dramatic. Just curious.

“Do you believe in...soul memory?” she asked.

He looked down at his cup of half-melted swirl. It was already pooling around the spoon.

“I believe in echoes,” he said. “Some sounds are too loud to forget.”

She smiled faintly. The dimple appeared.

“Yeah,” she whispered. “I think I hear them sometimes.”

They didn’t meet again for a long time.

Jo made sure of that.

But he kept the spoon.

And he kept the memory of her smile—alive now, untouched by time, free from the weight of all the versions that had died.

Years passed.

Dilan published a graphic novel about dream loops and alternate selves. It became a quiet success. In interviews, she said she didn’t know where the idea came from—just a shape that haunted her until she drew it.

Jo never read it.

He moved once. Changed cities. Lived quieter.

He didn’t time travel again.

The ring stayed in a locked box, untouched.

One rainy night, Jo found himself by the sea. The waves stretched endlessly, crashing like time’s own heartbeat. He sat on a boardwalk bench with a small paper cup of coffee flavored ice cream, alone.

He still didn’t like it.

But he smiled anyway.

Because maybe in some other version of the world—the one he let go—Dilan was doing the same.

Living.

Breathing.

Smiling.

And maybe, just maybe, she still dreamed of a boy she never met, eating ice cream in the rain.

Chapter I: The Silence Between Dreams

The white noise hums, low and constant, like a breath the building never stops taking.

Yuma slides his hand across the biometric pad. The door to Archive Room A5 slides open with a soft hiss. Inside, the lights brighten automatically—clean, cool LEDs casting no shadows. Walls smooth, sterile. Floor silent under his steps. Just like every other day.

He steps into the capsule bay, where rows of dreamers lie inside glass pods. Dozens of them. Faces at rest, eyelids twitching faintly. The dreamers don’t speak. They haven’t for years.

He pulls his tablet from the wall slot. The night queue has stackedagain. Forty-six corrupted sequences to clear before the next shift.

Status: Corrupted.

Dream ID: #YXL-04725

Flag: Looping behavior, duration breach, cognitive lockdown

Assigned to: Yuma N.

Deletion priority: Low

“Low priority?” Yuma mutters, swiping through the metadata. “Then why's it got three neural lock flags?”

No origin name. Just a numerical key.

He blinks. It's already loaded. No confirmation window.

Weird.

He exhales. “Let’s get this over with.”

The entry tether clicks against the back of his neck as he lowers himself into the chair. The sync dome closes above him—soft hiss, pressurization. Neural mesh hums to life.

“Yuma Nakakita, Level 2 Cleaner,” the system intones. “Dream sequence #YXL-04725. Confirm manual dive.”

“Confirmed.”

Lights out.

He wakes inside a corridor.

Long. Endless. Perfectly symmetrical.

Walls white. Floor a mirror. Ceiling, too.

There’s no sound, no footsteps, no breathing. Even his movements make no echo.

Yuma glances behind him. The corridor stretches backward, infinite.

In front, a figure walks away.

A girl.

Long hair. White dress. Barefoot. She doesn’t look back.

He tries to call out, no sound leaves his throat.

His fingers move to exit. No response. The system isn’t recognizing command input.

This is wrong.

He starts walking. The girl doesn’t hurry, doesn’t turn. Just continues.

The corridor doesn’t change, but something does. The air feels tighter, heavier. His skin begins to itch, like reality’s cloth is stretched too thin.

A sound finally reaches him.

Wet breathing.

And then, ahead—the girl stops.

She tilts her head. Not toward him, but toward something on the floor.

A body.

Yuma freezes.

It’s her.

A mirror of her, lying on the ground in a puddle of blood that reflects nothing.

Then the lights flicker.

The girl standing turns slowly, and he wakes with a snap, heart hammering, throat dry.

The dome hisses open.

He’s still in Archive Room A5.

He jerks the neural tether out, stumbling from the chair.

The tablet’s already logged the report:

Dream incomplete. Sequence failed to terminate. Subject still in loop.

Manual override failed.

And below that:

Cleaner biometric data flagged.

Residual echo detected.

Recommend psychological evaluation.

“What the hell,” Yuma whispers.

He’s sweating. His reflection in the tablet looks pale, drawn. His voice still feels thin, like it's left behind.

He scrolls back to the dream file.

This time, the name is there.

Dreamer: Yuma N.

His own ID.

He goes to Floor 9.

Technically unauthorized, but no one stops him. Most staff here don’t ask questions.

On Floor 9, the Dream Engineering Division keeps its core storage. Rows of black data towers. Cold light. Silence.

He scans his clearance key.

Error.

“Come on…”

He finds a terminal behind an open cabinet.

Manual override. Hidden menu.

Not in protocol. But dream-cleaners have seen worse, some sequences leak into cleaners’ minds, stick like thorns. Not everyone walks away stable. He needs answers.

He pulls the dream ID again.

File locked. Owner access only.

He reroutes the query through an archive shell.

When the screen blinks open, Yuma stops breathing.

There are no other entries.

No origin files. No source dream. No technician notes.

Just a single loop.

Same corridor. Same girl. Same death.

It’s been running for six years.

He checks the dreamer pod ID.

It’s blank.

That’s not possible. Every dream sequence is tied to a physical pod.

Unless,

There is no pod.

The dream isn’t assigned to a sleeper.

It’s a ghost loop.

He goes home late.

His apartment is tidy. White walls. Cold glass. Synthetic daylight.

He drops the tablet. Doesn’t eat. Just stares at the reflection on the glass balcony door.

Behind him, the corridor is still there.

Just for a second.

He turns.

Nothing.

Next morning, he calls in sick. No one questions it.

The dream has changed something.

He walks to the city archive. Tall towers, smooth roads, self-driving cars humming past.

Inside, the archive room is a public interface, cool steel terminals and digital registries.

He inputs his name. His ID.

The screen glitches.

Then it returns a single entry.

Yuma Nakakita

Status: Unconfirmed.

No birth file. No parental records. No assignment registration.

He tries to scan his citizen chip.

The reader doesn’t recognize it.

He lifts his hand.

There’s no chip scar.

That can’t be right. He’s had the chip his whole life.

Hasn’t he?

That night, he dreams again.

But he doesn’t remember falling asleep.

He’s back in the corridor.

The girl is waiting for him this time.

Standing still.

Watching.

“Who are you?” he tries to say.

This time, the words come out.

“You’re late,” she says.

Her voice is wrong. Like it’s played through a broken speaker.

“Where is this?” he asks.

She turns and walks again.

He follows.

They pass the body. Her body.

He doesn’t look.

At the end of the corridor is a door.

She opens it.

Beyond is a room with screens, hundreds of them. All showing him. Sitting. Sleeping. Working. In different times. Different places.

“Why are you showing me this?”

“This is you,” she says. “You’re still dreaming.”

“No. I woke up. I went to work. I—”

She turns. “Have you ever seen yourself sleep?”

“What?”

“Have you ever watched your own pod? Your body?”

He opens his mouth.

Nothing comes.

“Then how do you know you ever woke up?”

Yuma wakes again.

But he doesn’t feel rested.

The mirror in his bathroom fogs over before he turns the faucet.

When he wipes it clean, there’s a message written in breath:

“Don't wake up. It ends if you wake up.”

He doesn’t report the dream.

He doesn’t go back to work.

His hands shake when he eats.

Everything feels scripted, like walking through a simulation.

He sees glitches.

A bird in midair freezing for a second before flying again.

The screen on the building across his window flickers through frames from the corridor.

He checks his tablet logs. The deletion request for sequence #YXL-04725 is gone.

But the file is still running.

Loop time: 2,234 days.

Dreamer: Yuma N.

He tries to delete it directly.

Access denied.

He tries to report it to a system supervisor.

Error: This ID is not authorized to contact system.

That night, she visits again.

“You’re not ready yet,” the girl says.

“Ready for what?”

“To leave.”

“I already left.”

She gives him a look that is not pity, not sympathy, just certainty.

“No,” she says. “You’re still inside.”

He shouts, “Inside what?”

And she shows him.

A window opens in the air. It’s not metaphor. It’s not dream logic.

It’s code.

Behind the frame: the pod.

His pod.

The real one.

His body lies still, in a sealed unit with no tag.

A technician walks past without seeing it.

The pod is dusty.

Long forgotten.

Yuma reaches for the glass.

The girl speaks again.

“You were the last one.”

“What?”

“They shut down the project. You stayed connected. Loop after loop. You were trying to clean something that never wanted to be fixed.”

“Why me?”

“Because you volunteered.”

She smiles.

“You wanted to dream forever.”

Yuma wakes again.

But this time, the world feels…off.

His apartment lights stutter.

The tablet doesn’t turn on.

Outside the window, the skyline is perfect. Too perfect.

All the cars are the same make. The same color. The same route.

He realizes, this isn’t the world.

It’s the memory of the world.

He’s still inside.

But something’s different.

This time, the corridor isn’t waiting.

Chapter II: The Exit Protocol

He doesn’t know how long he’s been awake.

Or if he is.

The lights in his apartment stay on longer than usual. They don’t flicker anymore. They don’t dim with the day cycle. The city beyond his windows runs like a looping screensaver: no wind, no clouds, no changes.

Yuma sits on the floor with his back against the wall, watching the glass door that leads to his balcony.

It’s still there.

The corridor.

Not visible. Not solid.

But he knows it’s there.

Waiting.

Calling.

No more delusions.

He’s inside something that doesn’t want him to leave.

He tries again.

Command prompts. Terminal overrides. System hacks.

They all return the same error:

Subject locked in neural recursion.

External override: Unavailable.

Host AI: Dream Framework - DEEP SLEEP/Archive build.

User priority: None.

Escape sequence: Redacted.

He stares at the last word.

“Redacted.”

He knows what that means. He helped clean those protocols from corrupted dreams, deleting fragments that spiraled into consciousness. Fail-safes that were meant to be forgotten.

But no one deletes something unless it once existed.

Which means there was a way out.

He just has to find it.

Or… remember it.

That night, the girl returns.

She doesn’t say anything.

Just walks beside him.

Not in the corridor now, but in his apartment. The walls shift and stretch. Doors open into impossible spaces. His kitchen leads to the white hall. His bathroom empties into static. Every mirror shows a version of him sleeping in a pod, slightly older each time.

“How do I get out?” he asks her.

She stops. Her eyes glint like glass.

“You already know.”

“No, I—”

“Who found this dream?”

“…I did.”

“Who assigned it to you?”

He hesitates. “The system.”

“Are you sure?”

He isn’t.

Not anymore.

“You did,” she says. “You left it behind for yourself.”

He stares.

“The real you knew this might happen,” she continues. “You built the exit protocol. Then you buried it deep. Inside the loop. Inside me.”

He whispers, “Why?”

“Because only someone who wanted to leave would find it.”

She takes him back to the corridor.

The walls are different now—cracked, unfinished. Behind the white paint is something older, more organic. Wires pulse faintly, like veins.

They stop at the body.

Her body.

Yuma closes his eyes. “I don’t want to see it again.”

“You have to.”

He kneels.

There’s a mark near her palm, three slashes, like a triangle.

A code?

When he touches it, the whole dream trembles.

A voice plays overhead.

Not hers.

His.

“If you're seeing this… the loop held. That means it worked. That means you stayed too long.”

“Yuma, you’re in the Archive Dream Layer, prototype build. I made this as a test. I volunteered. We didn’t know if a mind could survive immersion past two years. I buried the failsafe here in the corrupted zone. You’ll only hear this if you’re ready.”

“To escape, you need to reach the root. The deep core. That’s where the body signal is. It’s where the mind returns.”

“But the system will fight you. It doesn’t want to lose stability. It doesn’t want to wake you.”

“Remember: the exit isn’t a door. It’s a decision.”

The message ends.

He exhales.

The girl watches him. “It’s close now. The root is beneath this layer.”

“What happens to you?” he asks.

She smiles, faintly. “I’m just a piece of the dream. A guardian. I fade when you do.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I’m not. I was made for this.”

The world begins to collapse.

The corridor blurs. Light pulses. Gravity shifts sideways.

The system has detected him.

Failsafe breach.

Unauthorized traversal.

Yuma runs.

The dream warps—walls stretch like rubber, corridors split and rejoin. He sees fragments of his memories float by: old cafes, cold lunches at work, the cracked screen of his first tablet.

It’s all memory.

No reality.

Then, he sees it.

A chamber.

Circular.

Dark.

At the center: a console. Floating.

A pulse echoes through it.

Heartbeat.

His heartbeat.

He steps toward it.

“EXIT PROTOCOL: INITIALIZE?”

flashes across the interface.

Yes.

He presses it.

A scream tears through the room, not human, not digital. Something in between. The system fighting back.

He doubles over as pain slams through his head, like lightning in his skull. His vision shakes.

“Don’t wake up. It ends if you wake up.”

That line again.

A warning—or a trap?

“No,” he gasps. “That’s what you want me to believe.”

He grips the console. “I’m ready.”

“CONFIRM: DISCONNECT FROM DREAM SYSTEM.”

“WARNING: SUBJECT STATE UNSTABLE.”

“CONTINUE?”

He presses Yes.

His eyes open.

For real this time.

For the first time in six years.

He gasps, air hits his lungs like fire. Tubes choke in his throat and he rips them out, coughing.

The pod opens slowly. Light floods his vision.

He blinks.

Everything is real.

Sterile white ceiling. Soft, ambient hum. Real gravity. The feeling of weight in his bones.

A technician stands nearby, wide-eyed, stunned.

“You’re… you’re awake,” he whispers.

Yuma tries to speak. His voice is dry, cracking. “How long…”

The technician checks the display.

“Six years, two months.”

His voice trembles. “No one knew your pod was still running. You were on a blacklisted test network, archived. We didn’t think anyone was still in there.”

Yuma laughs, weakly.

It feels like crying.

He’s awake.

Two months later.

Yuma walks through the Dream Registry.

Visitors pass by. Dream tourists. Clients. Families.

He’s not one of them anymore.

He doesn’t dive. He doesn’t clean.

But he watches.

Keeps the records clean.

Keeps the Archive honest.

There are still corrupt files. Still dangerous loops. Still echoes of minds that drift too far.

But now he knows better.

He knows when to let go.

He visits the last file one day.

#YXL-04725.

He opens it for the final time.

The corridor is still there.

But it’s empty now.

No girl.

No body.

No door.

Just silence.

He presses Delete.

The file vanishes.

And Yuma walks into the daylight,

Free.