Giri placed his documentation on the counter, stepped out of the admission line, and found a seat among the plastic chairs. Most were taken: a young woman clutched her papers; an elderly man dozed with his head tilted against the wall.
He eased into the chair, stretching sore legs, when a girl approached hesitantly.
"Sir, excuse me." She held out a form. "Do you know what I should fill in here?"
Giri scanned the page. "That line's for your name. This one's for the inmate's name and block," his voice soft and understanding.
"I—I don't know his room number. My father just got transferred here."
"You can leave it blank. Just make sure things like date of birth are correct." He pointed to the section. "They'll check the database or call you if anything's missing."
"Thank you so much." Relief softened her voice.
The sight tugged at something Giri buried ever since high school. He'd been that person once—fumbling with forms, unsure of anything.
Red and blue lights had painted his house that night, flashing endlessly across the windows. His mother stepped out of the house, wrists cuffed in front. An officer reading unfamiliar words from a papersheet—fraudulent appropriation, financial misconduct—words that meant nothing to a seventeen-year-old.
His father stood silent at the front. His sister was still abroad, unaware of anything.
The officer guided his mother toward the patrol car. Before stepping in, she turned back.
"Don't worry, dears. A clear conscience is a soft pillow."
But court hearing after court hearing peeled back another layer of deception. His mother—a diligent worker—had been used in someone else's scheme. The real culprits vanished, leaving her to face the punishment for crimes she never knew she was part of.
Without her taking the fall, the case would have dragged on forever.
To the system, she was just another expendable piece—and even that system seemed like a pawn on someone else's board.
"Visitor 336."
The intercom crackled, yanking him fifteen years forward into reality. Giri stood, following a guard through security.
No amount of coding expertise could hack these walls or rewrite this reality. Here, he was powerless.
The visiting booth's scratched plexiglass separated him from the woman in faded blue prison garb.
Even with monthly visits, Giri noticed new changes each time—a wrinkle around her eyes, silver threading her hair, a little more weight in every step. Their time together was being stolen away, visit by visit. He would pay anything to buy those moments back.
Yet her face lit up the instant she saw him, smile lines deepening. "Giri, sweetheart!" Her voice crackled through the phone speaker, warm as ever.
"Good to see you too, Mom." Giri pressed his palm to the glass where her hand rested on the other side, the cold barrier between them.
Her gaze flicked to the empty chair beside him. "Your sis couldn't make it?" A flicker of disappointment passed before she masked it with a smile. "How's work?"
"Busy, but going well."
"Make sure you eat properly. Rest too." She leaned closer, forehead nearly touching the glass. "You look tired. Are you sleeping enough?"
His throat tightened. Even here, she worried more about him than herself. Her fingers twisted the phone cord, fighting the old habit of reaching across to straighten his collar.
"The game I'm making is about to get bigger, Mom. You might even hear about it in here soon."
Pride softened her worn features. "I'm so proud of you, sweetheart."
They chatted in easier rhythm until her fingers began tapping against the counter. She leaned closer, voice low. "There's… something else. A possibility my case might be reopened."
Giri's heart skipped. He gripped the receiver tight.
"Nothing's certain, but they found new details—even witnesses—that could prove my innocence. The detective got an 'early retirement.' His replacement wants to re-investigate everything."
"Mom, that's—" His voice cracked. "When will you know? What can I do?"
"Nothing yet. Don't get your hopes too high." But her eyes held a spark he hadn't seen in years. "I just wanted you to know."
For a moment, Giri couldn't speak. Fifteen years of carrying this weight, of watching her fade behind walls—and now, maybe…
They filled the rest of their time with lighter talk—his debugging headaches, her library privileges, his team's progress, her creative writing class.
Her eyes darted to the countdown clock mounted on the wall.
"Almost time." She smiled, though her eyes held a hint of mischief. "Next time, remember to bring me some fried shrimp. They don't have them in here."
"Sure mom, I'll bring as much as you like." Giri's chest tightened at the simple request.
A guard approached with measured steps, his face softened with understanding. "Time's up, folks." His voice carried none of the usual prison authority.
Giri's mind wandered to shared meals at their favorite restaurant—crispy ebi fry, steaming rice, his mother's laughter echoing across the table. Simple joys now locked behind concrete and steel.
"I'll be back next month, mom."
She rose from her seat, blue uniform hanging loose on her frame. Each step toward the door seemed to pain her. Once, twice, three times she turned back, waving until she disappeared around the corner.
---
Giri went through the motions on the way home, buying dinner on autopilot—instant ramen and a carton of matcha milk.
Back in his apartment, he dropped onto the couch. His mind replayed the day in fragments, each one heavier than the last.
Why did things keep piling up like this? Was he really destined for struggle?
It felt deliberate, like someone was twisting his life to be unfair.
Work problems with deadlines breathing down his neck. Secret projects threatening his career. A case that might reopen, promising fresh headaches and court battles. Not a single day left free to focus on what he loved.
He looked around his dark room. The only sounds were the hum of the AC and the occasional car engine drifting by outside.
Alone. Work, family, expectations—everything pressed down at once, crushing in its weight.
What if he just let it all go? What would happen then? It would be easy, wouldn't it?
No. His mind was turning on him. He needed to talk to someone before the spiral deepened.
Can't keep bothering Moriya. His sister shouldn't have to listen to what he was feeling. Definitely not his coworkers.
There was only one person left.
Giri pressed the dial button before doubt could stop him. The phone rang once, twice...
"Giri?" Shizuka's voice came warm with surprise. "It's been forever! What's up?"
"Hey, Shizuka. Good to hear your voice." He exhaled a long breath. "Just been thinking."
A stylus tapped a tablet on the other end—soft, habitual. "Thinking? That's dangerous."
"How are you doing?" she asked, curiosity and care threaded through the words.
"Honestly? Powerless. It feels like things are happening to me instead of me making choices." Giri slumped deeper into the couch.
"That sounds rough. Work?" Her tone sharpened.
"Work, family… everything." He traced circles in the condensation on his matcha bottle. "Actually—this is going to sound weird—but hear me out."
The tapping stopped. "Okay. I'm listening."
"Have you ever wondered about the game? About what we built together?" he asked.
"What about it?" she said, intrigued.
"What if the world we made was real? What if the people in it were… actually conscious?" His voice dropped, careful now.
"Like AI?" Shizuka's interest sharpened. "Like emergent behavior?"
"Yeah. Something like that." Giri's fingers tightened around the phone. "To them, wouldn't we be gods? We choose who thrives and who suffers. Do you think they'd ever question us?"
Shizuka paused, thinking. "They'd have to. Any thinking being asks why they exist. If we gave them minds, we gave them curiosity."
"Curiosity. That's what I mean." Giri's voice grew heavier. "I'm curious if life is just a badly designed game and what is its purpose even. What are we trying to achieve other than... surviving?"
Silence stretched across the phone line. Giri could almost hear Shizuka trying to connect what he meant to his situation.
"Hm… maybe you're looking at it the wrong way."
"Wrong how?" Giri asked, genuine curiosity breaking through his fatigue.
"Remember those side quests we made? The ones players said had no reward? Most people skipped them, but a few kept doing them anyway—just to see their favorite NPC smile."
Giri stayed silent.
"It was never about the reward," Shizuka continued softly. "It was about how you chose to look at it."
"But think of how many players dropped the quest before they ever found that out," Giri countered. "They thought it wasn't worth the effort. What if people in real life do the same—drop their… quest?"
"Then maybe that's on us—the ones who care too much about how others play," she said gently. "Maybe we need to remind them that not everything is about winning."
"Not about winning," Giri echoed.
"Exactly. Some people think climbing the career ladder, buying the luxury house, checking every box on society's list—that's victory. But that's just chasing the 'reward' they expect. And when they fail, it all crashes down, and they blame themselves, or the world, for losing."
Her voice softened even more. "But what if victory is something smaller? Taking a walk in the park. Seeing the person you love every day. Writing a story that only you will ever read. That's still winning, isn't it?"
A smile colored her tone. "And sometimes, without realizing it, you stumble onto a hidden reward in those little things—a stray cat that follows you home, a gift from someone you love, or a story you wrote reaching someone's heart and changing their life."
"Isn't that worth just as much?"
Giri sat in silence, weighing every word she'd said, a slow understanding dawning on him.
"Not every party makes it onto the leaderboard," he murmured. "Not every game circle achieves what they set out to do."
His voice grew quieter, thoughtful. "But I know what I got in return—a friend. Two, actually."
Then, louder so she could hear clearly: "Someone I can talk to in times like this."
There was a pause on the other end. He couldn't tell if Shizuka was blushing, but a soft chuckle slipped through the line.
"You really haven't changed," she said, her tone warm and faintly amused. "Still saying the corny lines when you're feeling down."
But her voice lingered a little longer than her words, carrying something unspoken.
Giri smiled faintly into the silence, the weight on his chest easing—just enough.
"Thanks, Shizuka," Giri said at last, his voice soft. "I needed this."
"Anytime," she replied gently. Then, after a pause: "And Giri?"
"Yeah?"
"Don't be afraid to rewrite the rules. Perspective is everything. A bug can be a feature. What players want isn't always what they need."
Giri chuckled softly. "No wonder you left SolarTech. You're too good for it."
Her answer came with a half-joking, half-serious lilt. "They didn't need an artist anyway. They just needed someone who could draw."
A small smile tugged at his lips as the call ended. His mind felt clearer than it had in weeks.
He had two worlds to protect now—the one he'd built, and the one he lived in. Both needed his care, his resolve, his determination to make things right.
---
End of chapter 1.