Hiro’s consciousness drifted, weightless, as the broken cityscape of the Second Interim dissolved into the crisp air of Kyoto in autumn. Maple leaves spiraled down in brilliant shades of crimson, yellow and burnt orange, while the distant toll of a temple bell echoed through the quiet, mingling with the rustle of bamboo in the cool breeze.

  Dyong…

  Dyong…

  Dyong…

  He was young again, walking beside his grandfather on the worn stone paths of Kiyomizu-dera, the temple’s vermilion eaves framing the sky. His grandfather moved with slow, deliberate steps, hands clasped behind his back, a tweed trilby casting a slight shadow over his forehead.

  A man of few words, Hiro’s grandfather carried himself with the quiet dignity of someone who understood the weight of tradition.“In life,” he said after they finally reached a favorite bench in front of a small koi pond, “rely on yourself first. No one will come to save you.”

  “You rely on Grandmother to cook,” came Hiro’s reply.

  “Ah, yes. You wouldn’t like my tamago kake gohan.” His grandfather chuckled, the kind of laugh that carried wisdom hidden in its simplicity. “But before I met her, I relied on myself. And if she passes before me, I will do the same.”

  His father’s words surfaced next, blending with his grandfather’s. They were sitting on the front porch of his father’s home in St. Louis, frost on the ground, the sound of cars going by with bass-heavy speakers. “No one’s gonna hold your hand, son. You either figure it out, or you don’t. The biggest guy out there will fall, but it ain’t strength that breaks him—it’s time, pressure, and the cracks he didn’t see coming. Ask the Roman Empire. Ask the future of this country if we ain’t careful. Hate to say it like that. Oftentimes the world doesn’t care how strong you are, it cares how fast you get back up. Ask the right questions. Find the cracks before they find you.”

  The memory flashed back to Kyoto as Hiro’s grandfather stopped to toss a coin into the temple offering box and whispered a quiet prayer. He never asked what it was for.

  His grandfather had lived a long life, his strength rooted in tradition, in routine. But what if tradition wasn’t enough? he thought now as the vision before him swayed. What if the world didn’t crumble all at once, but cracked at the seams, slow and insidious? What if survival wasn’t just about standing alone, but knowing when to lean, when to adapt?

  The temple grounds shifted, warping. The golden hues of autumn darkened, dissolving into something harsher, colder—something real. Hiro hit the pavement, pain lancing through his ribs. The world reeled, and before he could react, a boot slammed against his chest, pinning him to the ground.

  He was back in New York City, spring of that year, the world collapsing in real-time.

  “Where do’ya think you’re goin’?”

  The man looming over him was stocky, his camo jacket torn at the sleeves. While his face was shadowed by the brim of his red hat, Hiro could see his eyes burning with a yellow intensity—super-powered, enhanced beyond human limits. A militia type.

  They had flooded into the city after the collapse—groups from Upstate and beyond, self-declared patriots wielding their newfound superpowers in the name of order, only to spread more chaos in their wake. The Gates had opened months ago. The Doom System had recently fiddled with peoples’ bank accounts. New York was devouring itself, and Hiro had chosen the worst possible time to leave his squat in search of food.

  “Easy,” Hiro told the man, raising his hands.

  The man sneered, his eyes flaring brighter.

  Bang!

  A sharp pop split the air, followed by an eruption of thick, red smoke. The boot on Hiro’s chest vanished as the man lurched backward, hacking through the haze. Before Hiro could process what was happening, a hand clamped around his arm and yanked him upright.

  “Let’s move!” a woman’s voice ordered.

  Hiro’s thoughts scrambled as he was dragged away. His chest still ached from the boot that had pinned him down, his ears rang from the blast, and the world around him felt like it had been wrenched sideways. Who—? How—? His brain couldn’t catch up, couldn’t piece together the blur of smoke, pain, and movement.

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  Then—pressure. A hand still on his arm. Urgency in his ear as the woman led him through the thickening smoke and down concrete steps. Two at a time. Their footsteps echoed through the stairwell.

  By the time they reached the bottom, Hiro was gasping for air.

  The subway station was abandoned and bodies littered the platform. Something rancid lingered, mingling with the unsettled dust in the air. The woman let go of his wrist and dug through her bag, eventually pulling out a flare. She cracked it, bathing them both in crimson light.

  “We don’t have long before he comes after us,” she said, her voice brimming with excitement.

  Hiro clutched his ribs, still aching from the hit.“Who are you?”

  “Monica.” She pulled down the scarf covering her face, revealing a crooked smile, one that he would never forget. “You?”

  “Hiro.”

  “Cool name. You’re basically named hero, but you’re not a super.”

  “No, I’m not. And what the the hell was that? The smoke?”

  “That? An improvised phosphorus bomb that I got from some dude who used to be military or something,” Monica said, adjusting her grip on the flare.

  “You just—had that?”

  She didn’t answer. Instead, she knelt, pressing her fingers against the floor until she found what she was looking for. “The maintenance hatch leads deeper into the tunnels. If we keep moving, we can get to the old lines, the ones that run under the East River. It’s safer there. You okay?”

  “I think.”

  “Good. Let’s go. Fuck that guy up there, and fuck the system.”

  Even after all that had just happened, that was the moment Hiro understood Monica had saved him, not because she had to, but because she chosen to. His grandfather’s words echoed through the memory: No one will come to save you. His father’s followed: No one's gonna hold your hand, son.

  But sometimes they did. Survival wasn’t just about knowing when to fight. It was about knowing who to trust.

  ###

  Hiro's eyes snapped open. His body was stiff, his breath shallow. The memories lingered, pressing against his head like a vice. His father and grandfather had advised him. Monica had saved him. They had all taught him something in their own ways, and now, for the first time, Hiro could see the lessons clearly, even in his broken state, it was so clear.

  The power of trust. The illusion of strength. The system is breakable.

  There were no rules. There was no fairness. But there was chance, there was cunning, and there was the willpower to do something that seemed impossible.

  “The system is breakable…” He whispered the words, the realization still settling into his bones.

  “Bro, you—” Bianca’s voice jolted him back to reality.

  “I know,” Hiro mumbled. And then, the smell hit him.

  Oh god. His stomach twisted as he fully processed what had happened. The aftereffects of {Terminal Lucidity} weren’t just mental—they had wrecked his body, left him raw, drained, and apparently, lacking in control.

  “I tried to take your pants off,” Bianca admitted. “Hope that’s cool. Sorry to get your consent after, or whatever, but these freaking fuzz hands can’t do anything like that so now, yeah, you’re semi-pantless—that can’t be a word—but you have other pants and underwear. I found them. But they’re kind of gross. Even Hachi was worried.”

  Hiro slowly turned his head, vision still unfocused, to see the demonic dog pacing nervously before him. Hachi kept stopping, like he wanted to rush forward, to lick Hiro’s face in some twisted form of canine comfort—yet he held himself back, waiting.

  “It’s okay…” Hiro rasped, reaching out a shaky hand. To his surprise, Hachi stepped forward, pressing a wet nose to his fingertips. “Good boy.” Hachi moved away again, tail tucked between his legs.

  Hiro gritted his teeth as he glanced at the wall, his eyes trailing from his family altar to the map he had cobbled together of the New York City subway system, pinned up like he was a madman with a mad plan. I very well could be, he thought as he pushed himself off the ground, prepared to clean as best he could.

  The Doom System wanted him to play by its rules, even if they kept changing. But if there was one thing he had learned, it was that anyone could cheat a system. Every machine had cracks, no matter how powerful. And if the Doom System was an intelligence—if it thought—then it could be manipulated.

  Hiro just had to figure out how.

  He clenched his fists, and in doing so activated the bear jaw wrapped around his wrist. It settled again. His head still pounded, but now, it wasn’t from {Terminal Lucidity}. It was from something else entirely. The right questions had always been the key. Not where the Doom System had come from, not what its ultimate purpose was, but how to break it the same way it kept trying to break him.

  And that was a question he intended to ask over and over again—until the system cracked.