The rain had been falling since morning—a relentless, heavy drizzle that blurred the city into a watercolor of cold glass and concrete.

  It seeped through jackets, crept into shoes, clung to skin.

  It was the kind of rain that wore a man down slowly—not with fury, but with quiet persistence.

  Ren Hayashi shifted the weight of the delivery bag across his aching shoulders, the day's final drop-off long behind him, each step a dull echo against the slick pavement.

  The buses were overcrowded. The trains delayed.

  So he walked.

  It was easier, somehow.

  The rhythm of footsteps against the wet ground. The hollow thud of passing cars kicking up water at the curb. The muted glow of convenience store signs painting ripples of red and blue across puddles.

  The world moved on around him—fast, loud, indifferent—and he moved with it, unnoticed.

  His phone buzzed somewhere deep in his pocket.

  Ren fumbled it out with one hand, thumb dragging across the cracked screen.

  [Notice]: Rent due next Monday.

  [Reminder]: Grocery budget running low.

  [Alert]: Happy Birthday, Ren!

  The words hung there, backlit in the gloom—small, sterile, almost cruel in their cheerfulness.

  Ren stared for a heartbeat longer than necessary.

  No rush of excitement. No plans waiting at home.

  Just another day crossed off the calendar.

  He slipped the phone back into his jacket, the cold glass leaving a wet imprint against his palm.

  A breath misted from his lips, slow and thin, before the rain swallowed it.

  At the corner, he passed the little flower shop—tucked between a rusting bicycle rack and a shuttered bookstore.

  The old woman behind the counter caught his eye.

  She smiled—a gentle, crinkled thing—and with a nod, she held up a bundle: a single lily, wrapped in plastic, drooping slightly from the chill.

  For a moment, the city noise dulled.

  He remembered trailing behind his mother’s coat as a boy, her laughter bright against the gray.

  How she always said lilies meant hope—even when she no longer believed it herself.

  Ren bowed his head slightly, stiff and awkward, and kept walking.

  By the time he reached the battered apartment building, his clothes were soaked through.

  The third step on the narrow stairwell creaked—the same way it always had, a small, stubborn defiance against time.

  At the door marked 3-B, he paused.

  A thin line of light spilled from beneath the frame—warm and steady—and faint music pressed itself against the silence.

  Ren pressed his forehead briefly against the door, just long enough to let the rain cool the burning behind his eyes.

  Then, quietly, he turned the handle and stepped inside.

  Warmth hit him the moment he stepped inside.

  Not just the physical heat—the struggling space heater humming in the corner—but something deeper, softer

  The air smelled faintly of vanilla and burnt sugar. Music played low from a phone speaker, the tinny beat threading through the tiny apartment like a heartbeat trying not to falter.

  Ren slipped off his shoes, setting them neatly by the door out of habit, and slung the delivery bag onto the worn-out couch.

  The apartment wasn’t much—a cramped kitchen tucked against a living space barely big enough for two, a single bedroom they split, paper-thin walls—but it was clean, lived-in, theirs.

  Yuna looked up from the table, a bright grin lighting her face.

  She had tied her hair back with a faded blue ribbon, and an apron hung loosely around her small frame—flour dusting the front like a badge of honor.

  Behind her, a cake sat slightly lopsided on the table, its frosting uneven but earnest, tiny candles stuck into its surface at odd angles.

  “Welcome home!” she chirped, hands spreading wide like she was announcing a royal feast.

  Ren blinked, still half in the rhythm of the storm outside.

  The rain dripped from his jacket onto the linoleum.

  He opened his mouth, but no words came—just a soft, breathless chuckle as he scrubbed a hand through his soaked hair.

  “You didn’t have to…” he started.

  Yuna crossed the distance in two quick steps, snatching the delivery bag from the couch and pushing him gently toward the small bathroom.

  "Shower first," she ordered. "Then we can eat the cake."

  He let himself be herded without resistance.

  The water that clattered against his skin a few minutes later was lukewarm at best, but it chased away the worst of the chill.

  He leaned his forehead against the cracked tile, listening to the muted hum of life beyond the door—pots clinking, Yuna humming off-key, the faint scent of instant noodles joining the vanilla in the air.

  When he emerged—hair damp, wearing the clean hoodie and sweatpants he reserved for "special" nights off—Yuna had dimmed the lights and arranged two chipped plates beside the cake.

  A small, battered gift bag sat beside his plate, slumping under its own weight.

  Yuna clapped her hands together dramatically.

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  "Ta-da!" she announced. "Happy Birthday, Onii-chan!"

  The candles flickered in the draft from the heater.

  The cake leaned precariously to one side.

  The music cut out and restarted with a soft buzz.

  And Ren, standing there in the dim, imperfect glow, felt something loosen in his chest—something he hadn’t realized he’d been holding onto for too long.

  He moved toward the table, a ghost of a smile tugging at his mouth.

  “Make a wish,” Yuna said, her voice softer now, the excitement shading into something a little more fragile.

  A little more hopeful.

  Ren glanced at the candles—melting too fast, dripping wax onto the cake—and then at Yuna’s wide, expectant eyes.

  He exhaled a breath he hadn’t meant to hold.

  And he blew the candles out.

  They ate the cake by the flickering light of the candles—laughing when the frosting slid off in chunks, pretending the lopsided mess was some great gourmet masterpiece.

  Yuna chattered about her latest streaming numbers, about the new expansion in Project A.U.R.A. Online, about a glitch she exploited that turned her into a walking mushroom for half an hour.

  Ren listened, smiling where appropriate, the rhythm of her voice washing over him like the familiar beat of an old song he hadn’t realized he missed.

  After a while, when the plates sat empty and the heater’s hum filled the space between them, Yuna cleared her throat.

  She nudged the battered gift bag toward him.

  Ren raised an eyebrow.

  “You already baked me a cake.”

  “And now you’re getting a present!” she said brightly—too brightly. Her hands twisted a napkin into knots beneath the table.

  "Come on. Open it."

  He tugged the bag open and pulled out the box inside—sleek, matte black, the brand name printed in soft silver along the side.

  VX-09 Iris-Link.

  The newest full-dive VR headset on the market.

  Top of the line.

  Expensive.

  For a moment, Ren just stared at it, the weight of it in his hands unfamiliar and heavy.

  “I can’t…” he began, voice rough. “Yuna, this—”

  “I paid for it,” she blurted out, cutting him off.

  Her face was flushed, eyes wide and nervous.

  “I mean... from streaming. The channel’s doing better lately. I—I saved up for months. It’s not like I blew everything on it or anything..."

  She laughed—a thin, anxious sound—and looked away, tapping the table with the edge of her nail.

  He opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

  The words caught somewhere deep, tangled between pride, guilt, and something far older and heavier.

  Three years ago, he had stood in a cold hospital corridor—hands clenched into fists in the pockets of a borrowed jacket—as a doctor explained, gently and terribly, that treatment was no longer an option.

  Their mother had smiled through it somehow, smoothing Yuna’s hair back from her tear-streaked face even as the IV machine beeped steadily behind her.

  Ren had dropped out of school the next day.

  Signed up for every part-time job that would take a boy with no degree and a hollow look in his eyes.

  Sold his gaming rig for grocery money.

  Sold his dreams for rent.

  Every plan he had made—the future he had imagined—had folded under the weight of necessity.

  Not that he regretted it.

  Not when he looked at Yuna, alive and bright and still believing the world could be kind.

  He had chosen this.

  He would choose it again, a thousand times.

  But even knowing that, something inside him ached at the thought of all the versions of himself he had quietly buried to make it happen.

  Yuna straightened her shoulders, trying to cover the crack in her voice with a grin.

  "And besides—" her voice lifted, teasing again—"I need a partner for the new world event. My chat says I’m terrible at solo runs."

  Ren huffed a soft breath, somewhere between a laugh and a sigh.

  He ran his fingers lightly over the box’s surface.

  It felt too sharp, too real—like something he wasn’t sure he deserved to touch anymore.

  Memories began to flicker in the back of his mind.

  Bright spells lighting up cavern walls.

  The low hum of friendly voices in a raid call.

  The soft glow of his old shop’s light in the main city square, potions lined up in neat little rows.

  It was a past that was sealed away behind three years of survival.

  Yuna leaned forward, elbows on the table, chin in her hands.

  "You always said the world was bigger when we could dream inside it," she said softly.

  For a moment, all he could hear was the rain against the windows—steady, unchanging.

  And underneath it, the faintest echo of a different sound—the distant, long-forgotten login chime of A.U.R.A. Online.

  He met Yuna’s gaze.

  "...Thank you," he said simply.

  Later that night, when Yuna had drifted into sleep—curled up on the couch in a tangle of mismatched blankets, one hand clutching the hem of her sweater like a child clinging to a dream—Ren sat alone at the kitchen table.

  The apartment had settled into a hushed stillness.

  Only the faint buzz of the heater and the slow, persistent patter of rain against the windows remained. The city outside blurred into darkness—buildings dissolving into shadows, neon signs bleeding color into the storm.

  The box sat in front of him.

  Untouched.

  Waiting.

  Ren stared at it for a long time, elbows resting on the table, fingers steepled beneath his chin.

  It wasn’t just a gift.

  It was a question.

  Do you still dare to hope?

  He exhaled slowly, the air thin in his chest.

  His hand moved almost on its own, tracing the edge of the box with a light, hesitant touch.

  The cardboard yielded under his fingers, smooth and foreign against calloused skin shaped by years of labor.

  He closed his eyes.

  Memories flickered to life, sharp and unbidden.

  The hum of magic thrumming through his veins as he cast spells from the safety of a windswept cliff.

  The glow of potion bottles lining the shelves of his old shop, each label carefully inked in his own hand.

  Laughter crackling through his headset as friends celebrated another hard-fought victory—his name called out in joy, not just duty.

  A world where he had mattered.

  A world he had willingly walked away from, trading wonder for necessity.

  And underneath it all—the hospital corridors.

  The smell of antiseptic and the sterile beep of machines.

  His mother’s hand, paper-thin and trembling, squeezing his once before the world swallowed her whole.

  The promise he had made at her bedside, not aloud but deep and sure:

  Protect Yuna. No matter the cost.

  And he had.

  He had chosen work over dreams. Bills over ambition. Exhaustion over hope.

  He had laid down every piece of himself on the altar of hardship—and had asked for nothing in return.

  Until now.

  Ren opened his eyes.

  The helmet gleamed faintly within the box—a crescent of polished steel and tempered glass, sleek and unblemished, untouched by the weary world he lived in.

  It didn’t belong here.

  Not in this tiny, aging apartment filled with secondhand furniture and too many memories.

  And yet—

  It was here.

  Given with love, carved out of Yuna’s own sacrifices, a bridge between who he had been and who he might still become.

  His gaze drifted to her sleeping form—small, peaceful, breathing softly under the patchwork quilt.

  Alive.

  Because he had chosen to endure.

  Maybe now it was his turn to choose something more.

  Slowly, with hands that trembled despite himself, Ren lifted the helmet free.

  It was heavier than he expected—not oppressive, but solid, substantial, as if it carried the weight of all the choices he had left behind.

  He turned it in his hands, the dim kitchen light sliding across its curves like liquid silver.

  His reflection warped across the surface—a stranger caught between two worlds.

  For a long moment, he simply sat there, heart hammering against the quiet.

  Then, with a breath he didn’t realize he was holding, he set the helmet down, adjusted the fit over his head, and leaned back into the chair.

  The world around him dimmed.

  The rain.

  The heater.

  The creak of the apartment settling into the night.

  All of it faded into a distant hum, like echoes of a life he was slipping free from.

  [Initializing—Project A.U.R.A. Online]

  The text bloomed before his eyes, soft and luminous against the dark.

  A single, crystalline chime followed—a sound so pure it cut straight through the layers of exhaustion and hesitation he hadn’t even realized were strangling him.

  He closed his eyes.

  For the first time in years, he wasn’t thinking about bills or shifts or empty refrigerators.

  He was thinking about open fields, distant cities, magic coiling at his fingertips—dreams he had long thought lost.

  The last thing he thought before the world went white was simple and small, but fierce in the way only old hopes could be.

  Maybe, just maybe, it wasn’t too late to find himself again.