Chapter 9- The Sad Reality

It was the height of autumn. The air had turned crisp, and students were bundled up in their seasonal uniforms as they trickled out of school. Yor blended into the crowd, wearing his favorite scarf—the one his mother had knitted for him before she fell ill and became bedridden.

He walked quietly, surrounded by groups of students chatting and laughing as they made their way home. Yor, however, kept to himself. Since the first day of school, he hadn't made any friends. His closest friend, Ludwig, had already graduated and moved on to college—along with the rest of the friend group that Yor had only been part of because of Ludwig.

Now that they were gone, Yor was once again alone. But to help him feel connected, Ludwig had gifted him a HALO—a full-dive VR device—for his birthday, so they could play games together.

Still, it didn't bother him much. He'd never really had friends growing up. He was awkward, shy. Whenever he tried to start conversations, he ended up stammering or rambling about niche topics only he cared about. Some classmates would approach him to ask about academics, but that was it—they only came to him when they needed something.

Everything changed in middle school when he met Ludwig—an extrovert who naturally pulled Yor into his friend group. For the first time, Yor had real friends. But those days ended at graduation. He remembered feeling a heavy kind of sadness that day, but told himself, I've survived being alone before I met Ludwig. I'll just endure this last year, too.

As he walked home that afternoon, something caught his eye. A group of four guys and two girls walked ahead of him, laughing loudly and pushing each other around. One of the girls looked especially uncomfortable. While the others flirted and got handsy, she seemed tense—her body stiff, her smile forced, her eyes darting around.

They passed by Yor's street, heading somewhere further down. He hesitated. What business would they have down here? The only places past his house were old shops and a row of love hotels.

A bad feeling settled in his chest.

He kept his distance but followed.

Eventually, the group stopped outside a small motel. The girl—clearly distressed—suddenly tried to break free, but the guys tightened their grip on her arms. She struggled, panic etched across her face, but they were stronger.

She let out a scream.

One of the guys quickly grabbed her from behind, wrapping his arms around her to restrict her movement, then slapped a hand over her mouth.

"Don't be loud," he hissed. "We're just here to visit someone."

It was a blatant lie. They had planned this from the start the moment they met her. She was quiet, shy—an easy target. That's why they chose her.

"Come on, Amane," one of the girls cooed mockingly, her voice laced with a sickly sweet tone. "You'll enjoy it." She giggled seductively, watching her so-called "friend" fight to escape, doing nothing to help.

Yor's heart pounded in his chest. His hands trembled—but not from fear. From urgency.

Yor looked around desperately—there were no security guards in sight, and no time to search. But then he spotted a group of men loitering near the corner, probably in their thirties. They looked like delinquents—rough around the edges, smoking cigarettes and laughing loudly like they had nothing better to do.

But right now, they were his only shot.

Without thinking twice, he ran straight toward them.

"Someone's trying to assault a girl at the motel!" he shouted. "Please, I need help—right now!"

They turned, eyebrows raised.

One of them flicked his cigarette to the ground. "What the hell did you just say?"

Yor didn't slow down. "She's in danger! They're dragging her into Lovey Motel!"

There was a brief pause. Then the men exchanged quick glances—something unspoken passing between them—before they pushed off the wall and followed.

"Lead the way, kid," one of them said, already cracking his knuckles.

Without another word, they stormed toward the motel with heavy steps, their presence alone enough to make most people second-guess whatever they were doing.

"That's them," Yor said, pointing straight at the group.

The older delinquents—men in their thirties—turned their heads toward the younger group, their expressions darkening. Veins pulsed in their necks, jaws clenched, eyes twitching with barely contained anger. Their fingers curled like they were itching for a fight.

The younger delinquents froze. They saw the group of rough-looking men approaching—towering, scarred, and clearly dangerous. Without a word, they released the girl. The other girl, suddenly realizing the shift in atmosphere, turned pale and bolted. Both girls ran, screaming beneath the wide afternoon sky.

"That guy's wearing the same uniform as us," one of the younger delinquents muttered. He had a patchy beard—just scattered dots of stubble around his mouth. It was Harper, one of the most notorious troublemakers at school. He was already twenty, like the rest of his crew—guys who should've been in college by now, but kept repeating years because of fights, suspensions, and constant run-ins with authority.

"Isn't that Ludwig's friend?"

"Yor?!" Harper's face twisted with recognition, then frustration. His lip curled in disgust.

The older men didn't slow down.

"What the hell do you kids think you're doing?!" one of them barked, his voice loud and sharp like a gunshot.

"None of your business," Harper snapped, cracking his neck like he was ready to throw down—but he didn't dare move. He wanted to fight back, to act tough, but he couldn't. Not against these guys.

They were bigger. Older. Hardened. These weren't schoolyard punks—they were the kind of men who looked like they could snap all 206 bones in your body just for fun.

One of the older men stepped forward—the clear leader. His deep, gravel-filled voice carried weight, and his presence made the entire street feel colder.

"Behind all that 'tough guy' act," he said, staring Harper down, "I see a scared little kid who wants to run."

He leaned in close, their faces just inches apart.

"You're still heading into this life, kid," he said quietly, "but we're already on our way back."

Then, with a slow, deliberate motion, he reached into his vest and pulled out a handgun. He didn't raise it—he just held it up and kissed the side of the barrel.

"Colt," he murmured. "Got this off a guy I killed last summer. He had the same eyes as you—arrogant. Pretending to be something he wasn't."

His eyes narrowed.

"I don't want you to end up like him. So why don't you take your boys… and run."

"Let's go," Harper muttered, shooting Yor a glare filled with rage—like he was silently vowing to get even.

It started in November. From that day on, Harper made Yor his target—and the bullying never let up. Day after day, all the way through December. A full month of torment.

Harper would steal Yor's bag and dump it into the boys' bathroom—right into the toilet bowls that looked like they hadn't been cleaned since the dawn of time. The stench would cling to his books, his clothes, even his skin.

Sometimes, Yor came home with bruises on his face. Harper and his gang would follow him after school, wait until he was alone, and corner him in dark alleys or behind buildings.

Once, Yor tried to record the attack. He thought if he got proof—anything—he could show someone. But they noticed the phone halfway through. They took it from him and smashed it to pieces right there on the pavement.

Now, he didn't even have a phone. He walked home in silence. No music to drown out the noise in his head. No messages. No one to talk to. Just the echo of his own footsteps and the ache in his chest.

He worked long hours at his part-time job, trying to save up for a new phone. Not just to replace the broken one—but so he could reach out to his friends. Maybe ask if they wanted to hang out. Go to the arcade. Play those old racing games and forget the world for a little while.

He didn't expect much. Just a few minutes of distraction. A few minutes where he wasn't alone.

But even with everything he was going through—the bruises, the silence, the heaviness that never quite left his chest—he always told himself: It's nothing.

There are people out there suffering more than me, he'd think.

So why should I let it consume me?

It was a quiet, stubborn kind of strength. The kind that doesn't look like much from the outside. But it was the only thing keeping him from falling apart.

There was no help waiting at home, either. His family was barely scraping by. His father, once a fisherman, had been fired after getting caught in a scandal—he'd been selling endangered fish on the black market. The evidence was undeniable.

Instead of using the money to help Yor's bedridden mother see a doctor, his father wasted it on bottles of liquor and packs of cigarettes.

Yor used to beg him to stop. He used to cry and plead. But eventually, he gave up. Now he just watched from the doorway as the man lay there day after day, sinking deeper into the stained cushions of their couch, killing himself slowly while pretending nothing was wrong.

Yor hated him for it.

Not just for the drinking. Not just for the money wasted.

But for making Yor feel like he was the only one still trying.

The only one still holding things together, even as everything around him fell apart.

After logging out of Deimos Online, Yor slowly took off the HALO.

The device, shaped like a sleek, silver circlet, looked simple—almost delicate—but it was anything but. It was his only escape, his only link to Ludwig, to a world where he didn't feel so powerless.

Reality hit the moment the game ended.

He was no longer in the vast fantasy world where he could cast spells, fight monsters, or laugh beside a friend.

He was back in their crumbling, termite-ridden wooden house—its walls thin, its silence thick, and its air always heavy with the scent of smoke and cheap liquor.

Yor sat quietly beside his mother, who lay deep in sleep, her breathing shallow but steady. The glow of the moon slipped through the cracks in the wall, brushing against her pale, unmoving face.

After a moment, he stood and stepped out of the room.

His father, lounging on the sofa like always, barely turned his head before speaking.

"Yor, you got a hundred sen?" his father called out from the couch, eyes glued to the TV. "I'm getting cigarettes. I'll pay you back when I get a job."

Yor reached into his pocket and silently pulled out two hundred sen, handing it over without a word.

It was payday yesterday. He'd expected this.

If he didn't give his father money, the man would take it out on their mother—neglecting her even more, sometimes not even bringing her food.

So Yor handed it over.

Sometimes, he even hoped the cigarettes would kill him faster. Let him rot in his vices. Let him disappear.

"Two hundred?" his father said, glancing at the coins. "Thanks. Can you add more? Kinda want to pair it with some beer and maybe fried chicken."

"No," Yor said, his voice cold. "I'm saving up for Mom."

His father scoffed, not even looking away from the screen. "Her? She's dying. That's her fate. Doctor said three months. No point wasting money on a lost cause."

Yor didn't reply.

From behind, a tiny pair of arms wrapped gently around his waist.

It was Sera—his little sister, only three years old, almost turning four in January. She clung to him silently, her face pressing into the fabric of his shirt.

"Yor. The money."

His father's voice cut through the room like a knife. Flat. Expectant. Demanding.

Yor didn't reply.

He kept his eyes on the wall, jaw clenched, breath held.

Then came the sound he dreaded—slow, heavy footsteps creaking across the floor. The kind that made the boards groan. The kind he could feel through the soles of his feet.

Sera's arms tightened. She sensed it too.

She didn't say a word, but she slipped behind him, hiding, peeking out with wide, frightened eyes.

Yor's heart pounded.

And in that moment, as his father closed the distance—something in Yor snapped.

All he saw was black.