The Game Breaker

The silence swung shut with a whisper.

Lightning flashed. For one fractured second, Jazz’s face was a mask of carved shadows—all sharp angles and unreadable hollows.

“I don’t have a son.”

Rain struck the stained glass in a sudden downpour, fracturing the light into prismatic tears. They shimmered in Misha’s eyes as he froze mid-step.

“I knew it.” His smile was a razor-thin performance. He landed on his heels, already turning away—

“If there is,” Jazz’s voice cut through the rain’s white noise, “I don’t remember it.”

Misha’s shoulders tensed. His head bowed, just enough to hide the way his lips twisted—something between a grin and a grimace.

“That’s why we should share our memories,” he said to the floor, “before taking another step. At least… what fragments we have left.”

Chrono flopped onto the couch, boots kicking up ash. “Do you remember much?” A pause. “Or just think you do?” Rider’s voice slithered beneath theirs, seamless as a second heartbeat.