The ride to the hospital was a blur.
Ren barely remembered how he got there—whether it was on foot, train, or taxi. His legs moved on instinct, lungs burning, throat dry, heart hammering in his chest like it was trying to escape.
He couldn't stop replaying the moment.
Kenji's scream.
The flash.
His avatar collapsing.
The screen going black.
He had seen glitches in The Game before. But this—this wasn't a bug. This was real.
When he burst into the hospital lobby, the receptionist startled, but he didn't stop. He knew the way. He had been here once before—when Kenji had his first health scare months ago after collapsing at work. That time, it had just been exhaustion.
This wasn't that.
Room 3B.
He rounded the corner so fast he nearly slipped. When he got to the door, he froze.
Kenji's mother, Yumi Sato, stood just outside, holding herself like she was about to fall apart. Her eyes were puffy, cheeks stained with tears, hands gripping a tissue that had long since torn from being twisted and wrung out.
She saw him—and for a moment, said nothing.
Then, softly: "He's stable. But he won't wake up."
Ren's stomach dropped.
"He was just playing his game," she whispered. "I brought him tea, told him to sleep soon. He smiled. Said he just wanted to finish something with you." She choked. "I left for a second and when I came back... he was just—collapsed. Still wearing the headset. Eyes open, but gone."
Ren's mouth was dry. "Can I see him?"
She nodded silently and stepped aside.
He entered.
The room was too white, too clean, too quiet.
Kenji lay in the bed, tubes connected to his arms, a heart monitor beeping steadily beside him. His chest rose and fell with the help of the oxygen mask. His skin was pale, his lips colorless.
But he looked peaceful.
Like he was just sleeping.
Ren walked to his side and sat down slowly. His knees felt weak. He couldn't believe what he was seeing—what he wasn't seeing.
"Ken…" he whispered.
He reached out and gently placed a hand over Kenji's.
Cold.
Still.
Ren's chest tightened.
This was his fault.
He should've logged off sooner. He should've seen the signs—the files, the syncing percentages, the glitches, the cube, the red sky. Something had gone wrong and they both knew it, and Ren had let it keep going.
Because they were winning. Because it felt important.
Because Kenji didn't want to stop.
"I'm sorry," he said softly. "I should've pulled us out. I should've said no."
The machines beeped steadily in response. No twitch. No breath that wasn't forced.
The doctors didn't have answers. No trauma. No stroke. No damage to the brain or body. His vitals were strong. His heart was fine. His brain activity was normal—but... off. They called it a coma.
But Ren knew better.
Kenji was still in there.
Somehow, The Game hadn't just crashed. It had taken him.
He remembered the log—Subject KS-03. Neural Sync: 92.1%.
Was that what had done it? Had they gone too deep?
He sat there for hours, not moving. Just listening to the soft hiss of the oxygen and the heartbeat monitor.
Kenji didn't move.
When the nurse came in and gently reminded him to go home, he nodded blankly.
But in his mind, something was already forming.
He knew where this started.
And he knew where he had to go.
Back to Kōto City.
Back into The Game.
To finish what they started.
And bring his best friend back.