Kieran Akane woke before his alarm, eyes opening to the pale gray light leaking through the blinds. Morning had a way of arriving quietly in his apartment, filtered through concrete and glass until it felt less like dawn and more like a suggestion.
He lay still for a moment, listening.
Traffic murmured somewhere below. Pipes ticked faintly in the walls. A neighbor's music bled through the ceiling in a muffled, rhythmic thump that suggested enthusiasm without coordination.
He exhaled once and sat up.
The movement came easily. He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and planted his feet on the floor, grounding himself in the familiar chill of tile.
The room was spare without feeling empty. A narrow bed. A desk with a single monitor. A chair that had been comfortable once and now understood his posture better than he did. Clothes folded with casual intention rather than precision.
Kieran ran a hand through his hair, dark and wavy, long enough to curl at the ends when left alone. He tied it back loosely at the nape of his neck, a habit formed through familiarity rather than thought. The mirror over the sink reflected a lean frame, long-limbed and quietly fit. His face held sharp lines softened by sleep, eyes the color of amethyst—unusual enough to draw comment when people noticed, alert enough to suggest he missed little.
The coffee machine protested as he turned it on. He waited, arms folded, gaze drifting toward the window as the city assembled itself outside. Buildings caught the light in uneven bands. People moved along sidewalks with purpose borrowed from schedules they didn't control.
He took his mug to the window and watched anyway.
His phone buzzed on the counter.
Jasmine: You awake or pretending not to be?
He took a sip of coffee before replying.
Kieran: That depends on how invasive the next message is.
The reply came quickly.
Jasmine: We're still on for tonight, right?
He considered it for half a second. Long enough to be honest.
Kieran: Yeah.
A pause, then—
Jasmine: That was suspiciously easy.
Kieran: I'm working on personal growth.
A laughing emoji followed, then a thumbs-up.
He set the phone down and finished his coffee. The day stretched ahead of him without urgency.
Time, he'd learned, changed depending on how you treated it. Rush it and it resisted. Ignore it and it slipped away. Leave it where it was and it behaved.
He showered, dressed, and left the apartment. The hallway smelled faintly of cleaning solution and old carpet. Someone down the hall argued with a door that refused to unlock. Kieran stepped around them without comment.
Outside, the air carried the bite of early morning. The city felt awake without enthusiasm.
He approved.
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The café near his apartment knew him well enough to stop asking questions. His usual appeared without comment. He took the seat near the wall, back protected, view unobstructed. Old habits, quietly maintained.
The chair creaked as he settled in. The tabletop bore shallow scratches from years of mugs and distracted hands. Someone had carved a symbol into the wood once and sanded it down halfway, leaving behind a shape that suggested intention without follow-through.
Across from him, two college students argued about something academic and deeply personal. Their voices rose and fell with practiced intensity. Kieran listened without trying to, the words washing over him as ambient texture.
He liked places where people forgot to perform.
The café door chimed. His attention lifted automatically, tracking movement, posture, intent. The newcomer registered as unremarkable and faded into the room.
Moments later, Jasmine slid into the seat across from him, coat half-on, hair still damp from the cold.
"You look like someone contemplating poor life choices," she said.
"I look like someone reading," Kieran replied.
"Well, now you look like someone who forgot his own birthday." She reached into her coat and produced two things: a manila envelope and a small wrapped box.
He blinked, then checked the date. A quiet chuckle escaped him. "So it is. You know I don't celebrate, Jazzy."
"That's exactly why I do." She scooted closer and slid the envelope across the table. "Open it."
He did. Inside was a neatly stacked set of documents.
Congratulations. You have been selected for the Parallel beta.
The briefing unfolded in clean blocks of text. Parallel. A fully immersive VR system. One month of continuous engagement. Persistent world architecture. No external interruption once connected.
He looked up at her. "What is this?"
"I signed us up Parallel's beta test. I got in too," she said, entirely pleased with herself. "It sounded fun, we've played almost all of the immersive MMO VR games, I figured it's time for a new one. Also, it's your birthday. You deserve something interesting."
"Thank you."
They talked for a while after that. Jasmine filled the space easily, sharing rumors, early access chatter, speculation about mechanics and balance. Kieran listened, contributing when a thought sharpened enough to matter.
Eventually, she stood and tugged his arm. "Come on. We're going to be late."
"Our lesson," he said.
"Yes, your favorite."
He followed her with a small shake of his head.
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The dojo registered as familiar the moment Kieran stepped inside. The low lighting. The spacing between pillars. The faint scent of treated wood and stone. Several students were already moving through warm-up forms, their motions practiced and economical.
At the center stood the master.
Age showed in his hair and hands, in the faint lines at the corners of his eyes. His posture remained balanced, his presence settled. When his gaze passed over Kieran, there was no visible reaction.
Recognition didn't require ceremony.
Jasmine joined him, adjusting her stance instinctively. Her demeanor shifted the moment her feet met the floor. Here, focus replaced ease.
Training progressed through established routines. Footwork drills first, steps tracing clean lines across stone. Strikes followed, delivered into open air with restraint and precision. The master corrected sparingly—pressure adjusted here, balance shifted there. Kieran's body responded without hesitation, years of repetition translating cleanly into motion.
When paired drills began, the room's energy tightened.
By the time Kieran and Jasmine were called forward, the space around them felt deliberately open.
"Go easy on me," Jasmine said lightly. "I'm rusty."
He met her eyes, expression calm. He'd heard that line before, usually right before they tried really hard not to lose.
She opened with a high feint. He read it instantly, shifting his weight as the strike passed close enough to stir air. He stepped in, forcing her to choose.
She committed.
Their forearms met, pressure snapping into place. Familiar. Controlled.
They separated and reengaged.
Footwork tightened. Angles replaced circles. Jasmine pressed him back with a sharp sequence, forcing him to yield ground while he tracked her rhythm. When he advanced, it was decisive—closing distance, disrupting cadence, guiding her toward a lock she slipped free of at the last moment.
She passed under his arm, proximity sudden. Her elbow brushed his ribs. Breath warm against his collarbone.
Awareness lingered.
She smiled and accelerated.
The exchange became a conversation of pressure and restraint. Speed met control. When she landed a clean strike to his shoulder, pulled short at the last instant, the master acknowledged it with a subtle nod.
Kieran responded by sweeping her footing and catching her before she fell, his hand steady at her waist.
For a moment, neither moved.
Her grip tightened on his sleeve.
"Still holding back," she said quietly.
"So are you."
She stepped away first.
The bout ended shortly after, though the tension followed them long past the signal.
---
By evening, his apartment felt different. Charged. Expectant.
He opened the windows, letting in the hum of the city. He straightened what needed straightening. The room looked unchanged.
That felt appropriate.
He stood before the mirror, adjusting his jacket.
"Alright," he said. "Let's see what you're all about."
The package Jasmine had given him sat on the table. Inside rested a diamond-shaped neural transmitter, no larger than his thumb.
Minimalist. Functional.
He sat, leaned back, and pressed it against the nape of his neck.
Pain flared—sharp, precise—then darkness closed in.
The room dissolved without distortion.
Awareness narrowed. Expanded.
Light returned.