He wasn't falling anymore.
Jin's eyes opened slowly, as if they had to remember how. There was no impact. No thud. Just… stillness. The kind that didn't feel earned.
Ceiling. Blank. White. Too smooth. It reminded him of the default textures Ark used to joke about when his game builds hadn't loaded in yet.
He sat up. The bed was soft—but not his soft. The sheets were clean but anonymous. No smell. No warmth. The whole room felt like someone's vague memory of his childhood bedroom. Too perfect in all the wrong ways.
He rubbed his face, half-expecting it to glitch in his hands.
"I'm alive?" he whispered. Or was he?
The window pulled his attention. Beyond the glass: nothing. No sky. No trees. Just a flat expanse of glowing white, stretching forever.
"No way this is real…"
He stood slowly. His legs felt grounded, but the floor beneath them didn't. The air was quiet—not silent, but missing something vital. The hum of electricity? The distant sound of cars? The ache of the world continuing?
All gone.
"This isn't home."
His breath caught in his throat.
"Then where the hell—"
"You always mutter when you're anxious."
The voice came from behind him. Soft. Familiar. Jin turned sharply, heart hammering.
A girl sat on the edge of his bed like she'd always belonged there. Black hoodie. Lavender hair. Calm eyes.
It hit him all at once.
"You," he breathed.
She smiled faintly. "Took you long enough."
"You're the woman from before… On the street. You brushed past me. Called me—Kai."
Her expression softened. "Still think that isn't your name?"
He didn't answer. Couldn't. The name hadn't left him since she first said it. It clung to him like a half-remembered dream. A word that felt heavier than it should.
"I'm not Kai," he said, but even his own voice wavered.
"Maybe not here. Maybe not now. But you were."
He stared at her. "Who are you?"
She looked away, as if the answer was buried in the wall. "Mira. That's the name I remember. If it's even real."
Silence stretched between them.
She studied him, gaze unflinching. "You don't remember me at all, do you?"
"I remember…" He frowned. "Flashes. Feelings. Like déjà vu with no origin. It's not just you. It's Ark. It's that house that vanished. The dreams. My reflection moving before I did. None of it makes sense."
"You're waking up," she said. "But it's messy. It's never clean. The more you resist the illusion, the more it breaks you."
Jin sank to the floor, pressing his back to the wall. "I didn't ask for any of this."
"I know."
"I just wanted to understand what happened to my friend. Now nothing feels real. Even this place… it's like a memory of my room, not the actual thing."
"Because it is," Mira replied. "This room is a placeholder. A simulation bubble the system drops you into when it's trying to figure out what to do with you. Like an empty folder waiting for new files."
Jin stared at her, voice low. "Then why are you here?"
She hesitated.
"Because… I remembered you. Before everything fell apart. Before they took my name, my memories, my face—I remembered one thing. Your voice. The way you used to look at me like I was real, even when the world wasn't."
He swallowed hard.
Something in him trembled—not fear. Not even confusion.
Grief.
"Why do I feel like I lost something I can't name?" he asked quietly. "Like you're a wound I don't remember getting."
Mira nodded. "That's how they hide the truth. Not by erasing it—but by scattering it so deep, you can't tell the difference between memory and instinct."
He looked at his hands. They were steady now. As if part of him had stopped resisting.
"You called me Kai."
"I still see you that way," she said. "Jin is the mask they gave you. Kai is the one who questioned everything. The one they couldn't control."
"…Then why don't I remember?"
"Because remembering would make you dangerous."
He met her eyes.
For a moment, neither spoke. The room seemed to grow smaller around them.
Then the floor vibrated.
Mira stiffened. Her gaze snapped to the far wall. A hairline crack had formed, twitching like a heartbeat.
"They found you."
Jin stood quickly. "What does that mean?"
Mira's voice was grave now. "It means we're out of time."
The crack widened. A strange fog seeped in through it, pixelated and pulsing. Then—
A gloved hand slid through the wall. Smooth. Too precise. Its joints whirred like a machine trying to remember how to be human.
A mask followed—white. Unmarked.
Except for a question mark carved where a face should be.
Overseer Class Delta #•03 .
It paused.
Then tilted its head.
"Jin—Kai—whatever your name is," Mira said, grabbing his hand, "run now. Ask questions later."
The room dissolved into static.
As they ran into limbo.