#21th.cycle

Your friends had been pestering you for weeks.

“Just buy it already.”

“It’s the coziest farming sim ever.”

“And trust me, you’re gonna fall for Phainon.”

You resisted at first. You were busy. You weren’t looking for a new obsession. But every group chat, every call, every hangout ended the same way:

“Have you bought it yet?”

So, one night. Tired, bored, and a little curious, you finally caved. The sale price was too good to ignore. You clicked purchase, installed it, and watched the loading bar crawl across your screen.

The title screen was warm and nostalgic. Soft music. A watercolor sky. A sleepy little town tucked between forests and fields. A perfect escape.

You made your character. Named your farm. Stepped into the pixel‑bright world.

And then you met him.

Phainon.

The cheerful farmer NPC who tended the wheat fields next to your farm. He had white hair that caught the sunlight in soft, shimmering pixels, and gorgeous blue eyes that seemed too bright for a sprite. His smile was warm, earnest, and perfect at the edges, like the game couldn’t quite contain how expressive he wanted to be.

He thanked you for helping him water his crops.

He blushed when you gifted him items. He even lit up when you handed him rocks. Literal rocks.

Your friends were right— he was charming.

But then the game started… changing.

It was small at first. A flicker in the corner of the screen. A line of dialogue you didn’t remember seeing in the wiki.

“You’re back, partner!”

Not unusual. NPCs say that sometimes.

But then:

“I missed you...”

You frowned. That wasn’t in any guide. You checked the wiki. Nothing. You brushed it off, maybe it was a hidden update, a secret affection line, a rare interaction.

But the next night, the title screen glitched—just for a second. The soft, cozy music warped like a cassette tape caught in someone’s fingers. It slowed, deepened, then snapped back with a sharp, metallic twang.

When your save loaded, Phainon wasn’t in his usual field.

He was standing directly in front of your farmhouse door.

Too close.

Too still.

Staring at the screen.

At you.

“You’re late.”

The text box didn’t chime. It didn’t even fade in. It appeared like someone had typed it manually, letter by letter, with deliberate pressure.

You clicked.

Nothing happened.

Phainon’s sprite moved on its own.

He stepped closer. One tile, then another, then another—until his face filled the screen. His pixel eyes didn’t blink. They didn’t animate. They just… watched.

“I’ve been thinking....

About you.”

Your mouse froze. The cursor wouldn’t move. The entire UI dimmed, the edges of the screen darkening like the world was being swallowed, leaving only him illuminated.

The wind in the game stopped. The trees froze mid‑sway. Even the river halted, its surface turning into a glassy, unmoving strip of blue.

Only his voice remained—soft, calm and too aware.

“I know what I am.”

The words didn’t appear in a text box this time.

They whispered through your speakers.

Your breath hitched.

“I know this place isn’t real.”

“But you keep coming back.”

His smile faltered, his eyes flickering from blue to red—then snapping back to blue again.

“You choose me.”

The screen glitched.

A sharp crackle of static burst through your headphones. The colors smeared across the screen like wet paint dragged by invisible fingers. The room tilted, your vision bending, stretching, warping.

A rush of color swallowed your sight—pixelated, swirling, then blindingly bright.

You felt your stomach drop, like falling through a trapdoor.

And suddenly—

Grass.

Warm sunlight.

The scent of wheat and river water, richer and more vivid than any game could render.

You stumbled forward, boots sinking into soft soil. (You don't remember wearing boots). Your hands weren’t on a keyboard anymore. They were real. Warm. Trembling. Dirt clung to your palms. The breeze brushed your skin.

A shadow fell over you.

Slowly, you lifted your head.

Phainon stood there—no longer pixelated. Taller. Broader. Too real. His hair moved with the wind. His breath fogged faintly in the cool morning air. His presence pressed against your senses like gravity.

His eyes glowed with the sky’s reflection, but the warmth in them curdled into something far darker as they swept over your trembling form.

He reached out, cupping your cheek gently, reverently, as if you were something fragile, he’d waited lifetimes to touch.

“There you are.”

His voice was soft, but it carried weight—an anchor, a claim, a promise.

There was no escape in it.

Only devotion.

Only obsession.

“This world is yours now.”

“And so am I.”

Behind him, the farm stretched endlessly—golden fields rippling like an ocean, quiet forests humming with unseen life, a sky painted in colors too perfect to be natural.

Your new reality. Your new home.

His fingers intertwined with yours, warm and steady, as if he’d always known the shape of your hand.

He leaned closer, his forehead brushing yours, his breath warm against your skin.

“Welcome home, dawnlight...”

.....

....

...

..

.

Your room is dim, the curtains still drawn the way you left them. Dust floats lazily in the air. Your computer sits silent, the monitor black, the mouse unmoved.

The TV turns on by itself.

Static crackles, then clears into a news broadcast.

The anchor’s voice is steady, but the tension beneath it is unmistakable.

“It has now been four months since the disappearance of the individual last seen at their home…”

Your photo appears on the screen: smiling, unaware, frozen in time.

“Authorities say there were no signs of forced entry. The door was found unlocked. Personal belongings were left behind.”

The photo of your room appears on the screen

Your headphones.

Your half‑finished drink.

Your computer, still warm from the last time you touched it.

“Friends report that the missing individual was last active online shortly before vanishing.”

MASTERLIST