Morning came with barely a warning.
The robo-nurse had entered the room with the same stiff grace as always, its voice calm but without warmth. It announced his recovery as though reading from a checklist.
Hidesuke sat there blinking, still halfway between sleep and awareness, while the machine congratulated him on completing his "Rehabilitation and Stabilization Cycle."
"Huh?"
He ran his fingers across the side of his ribs.
Nothing.
No soreness. No bruises. Not a whisper of the pain he'd inherited. Even his legs felt solid, like they actually belonged to him.
He sat up and stretched his arms gently, half-expecting some buried twinge to remind him what he'd just survived.
But there was nothing. Just silence. Breathing. A body that no longer felt borrowed.
The nurse-bot handed him a soft card panel with his departure details printed in a glowing soft red:
| Name: Shinohara Hidesuke
| Recovery Status: Complete
| Discharge Slot: 08:40 A.M., Sep 16
| Bed Reassignment: In Progress
| Ledger Stamp: NAXIS CIVIC MEDARCH 210-VI
The name of the medical ledger sounded like some ancient cathedral database carved into memory banks. It felt too official for someone like him.
But that was that.
His bed had already been assigned to someone else. There was no lingering or warm sendoff.
In Arc Zenith, rest was a function, not a privilege. You heal, you go. That was how the system worked.
He didn't argue. There wasn't even anyone to argue with.
He stepped out of the room with nothing but the clothes the nurse-bot handed him: black pants, a plain white fitted shirt, and the long, dark coat he'd become known for.
Within twenty minutes, he was outside.
Empty-handed. No bags. No luggage. Just the hospital-issued cloak draped over his shoulders and whatever new wiring now lay inside his bones.
The medical system didn't give souvenirs. Only survival.
And now, he stood beneath the tower of Naxis Civic Medarch, neck craned slightly, arms loose at his sides.
The hospital shimmered in panels of transparent blue, like glass caught mid-glitch. Its edges were rounded, defying gravity with an elegance that made it look like it had been poured into the skyline rather than built.
A faint breeze curled around the base of the building, caressing the loose strands of his hair.
Curved walkways connected to nearby transport lanes. High above, balconies were held in place by invisible support fields that created a kind of flow in the air.
Drones glided past overhead, tiny and quick, some carrying parcels, others scanning crowds with soft glows from under their metallic frames.
The city moved like it was alive.
Naxis glowed under the light of a slowly setting sun.
The sky was brushed in pale orange and deep lilac, shadows growing longer across streets made of smooth black stone traced with soft lights.
Neon signs blinked and shifted high above as massive advertisements danced across building surfaces.
And the skyline...
Skyscrapers stretched into the orange-lavender evening, not in matching grids, but in curves.
Some were built like roots curling skyward, others shaped like blades or twisting helixes.
Their surfaces glowed with slow animations, displaying looping scenes: heroes leaping across rooftops, luxury brands framed by special effects, glowing text scrolling with countdowns and promo codes.
Somewhere in the background, music thumped gently. Urban, addictive. It sounded like rap, but less noisy. The lyrics weren't clear, but the bass settled low in his chest.
People passed him on all sides. Some were dressed in sleek corporate wear, others in loud colors with gear strapped to their backs.
A woman with silver-scaled arms laughed into a communicator on her wrist. A man with eyes that glowed faint blue held a child's hand as they crossed a bridge woven with light underneath their feet.
Everyone was busy, walking with a purpose, drifting like streams through the city's endless buzz.
He stood there for a moment longer.
His heart felt light, and not because of the breeze. There was something childlike in how he stared at it all, eyes half-wide with quiet wonder.
If he had a mirror in front of him, he was almost sure he'd see stars blinking in his gaze.
Was this what gamer nerds felt when they booted into new worlds?
The thought made his lips twitch. He shook his head gently, snapping out of it.
He realized he'd been standing still in the middle of the sidewalk, half in a daze, probably looking like a lost extra in his own life.
He mumbled a curse under his breath and started walking.
He needed to find his apartment.
Well... Hidesuke's apartment.
If this was all just some elaborate dream he was destined to wake from at any moment, then he figured he might as well play along.
Even if it was temporary.
Even if the edges frayed and the logic tilted sideways like a loose floorboard.
For now, he was Hidesuke. And that meant stepping into the role, however reluctantly.
At least, that was what he told himself.
That this wasn't about curiosity. That it wasn't some quiet ache to catch a glimpse of the home belonging to the character his sister had loved with near-religious reverence.
The one she talked about like he was more real than half the people she worked with.
The one she used to call "my boy" whenever a streamer slandered him on a tier list.
No. This definitely wasn't about Lily. Or nostalgia. Or anything delicate.
It was just… method acting.
Yes. That.
That was easier to swallow.
But the truth had always been messier than excuses.
He had come to understand something deeply strange about his current predicament: the memories weren't all there.
Though his mind had fused with whatever remained of Hidesuke's original self, the information nested in that connection didn't come as a download. It came in fragments.
Conditional and selective.
He couldn't access everything at once. The data didn't surface until it was provoked.
It needed proximity. Contact. A trigger.
And that point had been proven in blood after that scum bastard, Strade.
He hadn't remembered the man's history until he saw that perfect, practiced smile on television.
Until a voice, a face, a scent of antiseptic and something colder yanked memory from behind the curtain and forced it to the front.
Interaction had unlocked it.
So maybe—just maybe—this place, this house, this quiet corner of the game world his sister had loved, still carried a piece of the original Hidesuke. Something waiting in silence, caught in digital dust.
He couldn't say what. But he could feel it.
He sighed and raised his hand, pulling open the Finances tab on his interface. It responded instantly. Like muscle memory passed down from someone else's fingers.
Under "Hero Welfare Assets," one item blinked at him:
| Address: Zone-L, Arcline Building, Unit 17A.
| Details: Subsidized housing provided by the Hero Corporation.
He stared at it.
Free housing.
That stopped him harder than any weapon would have.
Growing up, a "decent apartment" had always lived in the realm of fantasy, reserved for families with inherited leases and no water damage.
Back on Earth, the idea that a job—any job—might hand you a place to live had been absurd. Maybe even laughable.
But here? Even a forgotten, throwaway hero got keys to something that resembled a home.
He didn't know whether to feel grateful or insulted.
Still blinking at the thought, he resumed walking.
His boots made soft contact with the pavement as he navigated a city that was too clean, yet already pulsed under his skin like something half-remembered from a dream he used to believe in.
Around him, life moved in synchronized blur.
Holographic kiosks beeping for attention, neon signs scrolling digestible headlines, drone couriers weaving overhead like flocks of digital birds.
Above it all, the billboards towered.
Faces. Poses. Smiles so wide they could've been carved.
One screen displayed a silver-haired man tilting his head as he sipped from a glowing blue bottle.
> "Hydrate with Aquawhizz."
Another showed a woman mid-flight, her hair caught in artfully-rendered wind. The cape physics were immaculate.
Then came the biggest one yet.
Skull icons danced in the corners. Flame emojis burst in patterned staccato.
A girl—punk-goth with gravity-defying twin pigtails—grinned down at the city like she ruled it.
Her eyes gleamed neon pink. Her pupils were skulls. And next to her image was a message written in eye-catching fonts:
> "Are you ready to rock?"
> "Vote Mistaria – Uprising Female Hero of the Month / Sept 30"
Hidesuke let out a long breath. Not because he was tired. But because this world never missed a beat in selling itself.
So this was heroism.
Branding. Endorsements. Popularity metrics wrapped in visual filters and catchphrases.
Not duty. Not courage.
Performance.
And if someone like Strade could thrive in this world, plastered in lights and grace and empty conviction…
"Absolutely ridiculous," he muttered, the words brittle with irritation as they scattered into the chilled evening air.
A pale fog followed them, curling from his lips in soft spirals that disappeared into the night. The cold bit at his face, sharp and indifferent, as if mocking the heat behind his words.
He turned away from the billboard before his disgust could really sour into something uglier.
Eventually, the looming glint of a subway entrance curved into view.
Glass doors parted with a hiss as he approached, revealing a long descending ramp lit with soft blue veins of light that pulsed in rhythm with something deeper beneath the city's bones.
Above the archway, digital maps hovered in clean, rotating tiers.
Naxis was divided into twelve zones, labeled A through L.
He was in Zone-B.
His destination was Zone-L.
He studied the digital route layout until he found what he needed. A prompt blinked underneath the line number, cool and efficient:
> NEXT TRAIN TO ZONE-L ARRIVES IN: 00:42
He exhaled again and stepped onto the ramp, slipping into the line that had already begun to form behind the glowing rail.