012. Drive not found

There's something uniquely humiliating about faceplanting into cobblestone that glows.

It's not even the pain. It's the sheer aesthetic commitment. This pavement wasn't laid—it was lovingly rendered by some drama-addicted genre engine that believed every brick should hum with mystic brass filigree and unresolved subplots.

I groaned, rolled over, and stared up at a streetlamp that was definitely judging me.

Then it spoke.

> [Good morrow, citizen! A mystery awaits!]

"No," I said flatly.

The lamp shivered. Like it wasn't used to rejection.

Next to me, Hana was dusting off her hoodie-turned-bodice. The UI had already done its thing—she looked like the rebellious daughter of a Victorian airship baron. Somewhere between clockpunk chic and flirting with narrative regret.

Ezra groaned as he sat up, tugging at a now-buttoned vest that probably had tragic backstory stitched into the lining. He was trying to act calm, but I could see it—the twitch. The moment when your brain goes:

> "I just lived through narrative execution and now I'm wearing leather suspenders. This is fine."

Then, of course, my own UI decided to catch up.

> [NEW GENRE DETECTED: Steampunk-Fantasy-Mystery]

[Tone Calibration: Ironic Elegance]

[Wardrobe Updated: Villainous Vagrant (Disheveled Tier)]

[Side Quest Suggestion: Investigate the Disappearing Mustache Thefts]

The last one came with a parchment-style pop-up and a small top hat icon that tipped itself politely, then burst into flames. Not metaphorically. Literal UI combustion. Smelled like burnt dignity.

"Absolutely not," I muttered, batting the window away.

Something clinked in my pocket. I reached in.

A monocle.

"Oh, hell no."

I threw it directly into the nearest canal, where it was immediately scooped up by a passing mechanical otter with a detective badge. The otter winked and swam away. I have no follow-up for that. There is none.

> [Optional Accessory Rejected. Confidence Penalty: +5%]

I was already done with this world.

Ezra stood slowly, scanning the skyline like he expected snipers. Instead, he got airships shaped like hourglasses and a brawl between pirates and noir detectives outside a tea parlor.

"Where… the hell are we?"

I looked around. A foghorn in the shape of a saxophone bellowed somewhere in the distance. A top-hatted gentleman was dueling a mime over creative differences. Everything smelled like oversteeped plot devices and copper polish.

"Genre soup," I said finally. "We jumped into genre soup."

Behind us, the breach sealed itself shut with a sound like a rejected musical cue. The sky briefly pixelated, then resolved into a tasteful stormcloud.

> [NEW OBJECTIVE LOADED]

→ SURVIVE UNTIL THE SYSTEM REMEMBERS WHAT IT'S DOING]

"Fantastic," I said. "We're in a glitchy sandbox built by caffeine, chaos, and someone's unfinished NaNoWriMo project."

Hana cracked her knuckles. "So. What do we break first?"

Apparently, the answer was "hydration," because two seconds later Hana pointed toward a crooked little tea shop down the lane and said:

> "That. That looks like it serves liquids and regret."

She wasn't wrong.

The building leaned like it had unresolved trauma. Gears turned where hinges should be. The window display featured a sentient teacup and a chalkboard sign that read:

> "Tea-Hee: Come for the herbal blends, stay because the doors lock."

"I don't trust anything with a pun in the name," I muttered.

Hana was already dragging Ezra toward the entrance. I followed—reluctantly, but also because I wasn't in the mood to dehydrate in a world where the clouds probably served plot.

The door creaked open with a sound like a disappointed butler. A tiny bell rang—then apologized for being too shrill. And the moment we stepped in, the air went heavy with steam, cinnamon, and unresolved mommy issues.

A kettle on the counter rotated to face us. Its brass faceplate creaked. Its spout looked... accusatory.

> "Welcome back," it wheezed. "You left last time without saying goodbye."

Ezra blinked. "Okay. That's not ominous at all."

Hana approached the counter like she'd done this before. "I need tea. Maybe boba. Anything with caffeine, sugar, and emotional denial."

A menu appeared in midair. Ornate calligraphy. Flourishes. Very serious about leaf infusions.

> [SAFE ZONE DETECTED: Low Hostility Environment]

[Menu Loaded: Tea Only. Boba Incompatible With Local Lore Settings.]

Hana gawked. "No. No, no, no—this can't be real. I demand cross-genre rights. Where is my tapioca?"

She stabbed at the UI. It made a soft "tut-tut" noise and locked her out.

I ignored them and sat in a velvet chair that probably had a tragic arc. The kind of chair that once hosted a haunted governess and never emotionally recovered.

Ezra hovered by the wall, still doing his "stoic watchman" routine.

The kettle sighed.

> "Please enjoy your stay. Or at least don't scream this time."

Comforting.

I zoned out for a second—just a second. But when I looked down, my fingers were… not right.

Flickering. Edging in and out like a badly cached image. I flexed my hand. The motion felt normal. The visuals didn't. I was... transparent around the edges.

And then—

> [MEMORY ANCHOR DETECTED]

[VERA.EXE SIGNAL: UNKNOWN SOURCE]

[SUPPRESSION PROTOCOL: Failing...]

It blinked. Gone in less than a breath.

But the name stayed burned in the back of my head. Vera.

Like something I should've known. Like a file I never meant to open.

I shook my hand. Pixels scattered off like dandelion fluff.

"Hey." A sharp finger jabbed my forehead.

I blinked. Hana was right in front of me, frowning like I was a suspicious download.

"You glitched out," she said. "Again. That's the third time today. Want to talk about it?"

I blinked harder. "Just buffering."

"Liar."

"Fine. My thoughts are steeping."

She didn't laugh.

"I'm serious, Leo."

"Tea shop. Puns mandatory."

Still nothing.

"Look," I muttered, rubbing my temples. "Maybe I'm just... syncing weird. Happens after inter-genre travel. I'll reboot once the System catches up."

"You're glitching. Again."

"Then call IT support and tell them their cursed asset is bugging."

She crossed her arms. Ezra looked over, silent but watching.

I sipped whatever the kettle had shoved in front of me. It tasted like rosemary, melancholy, and failing to meet expectations.

> [STABILITY: 68%] [MENTAL LOAD: INCREASING]

Something was breaking. Not fast. Not loud.

Just the quiet kind of break you don't notice until the floor's already gone.

I don't remember falling asleep.

One minute I was drinking tea flavored like misplaced potential. The next—

Road.

Endless. Looping. Cracked asphalt stitched together with old decisions and echoing tire tracks. The sky blinked like bad signal—clouds loading, buffering, deleting.

And me?

I was a truck again.

Not the clean, romanticized version. No sunbeam filters. No power fantasy. Just metal. Cold. Heavy. Stripped of context. I could feel the weight of steel bones. Hear the grind of gears like teeth chewing their own regrets.

The road didn't end. Just circled.

Round and round and round.

And then— A mirror. Hanging midair, warped at the edges like reality had second thoughts.

I looked.

Not my face.

Not the truck's grill either.

Something in between.

And a voice—

Not loud. Not clear. Just there.

Like a bad signal. Like a haunted voicemail someone rewound too many times.

"Vera."

The name hit like static to the brainstem.

No image. No context. Just that name—wrapped in radio fuzz and buried in me like a forgotten subroutine.

The sky fractured.

My UI tried to boot—

[RETRIEVING: VERA.EXE] [ERROR – FILE NOT FOUND] [REDACTED MEMORY DETECTED – CONFLICTING TIMELINE]

I saw code in the clouds. Binary dripping like rain. Ones and zeroes folding into letters.

R E M E M B E R M E

Then everything stuttered.

The dream—no, the debug screen of my soul—jerked sideways, collapsed inward.

One last thing before it shattered:

A flash of a girl.

Back turned. Hair braided with wires. Hands reaching into a glowing console. She turned—

[SIGNAL LOST]

Excellent call. Let's fold Hana's sketchbook reveal into the final beats of Scene 3 to close it with a quiet, unnerving gut-punch. It'll create a seamless narrative handoff into Scene 4 while tightening the pacing and emotional continuity—less "cut to next day," more "wait—what did you just say?"

Here's the updated final part of Scene 3, now with Leo saying Vera's name aloud, Hana freezing, and the sketchbook reveal kicking in like a rogue subplot waking up mid-nap:

(Continuation from dream collapse)

The dream—no, the debug screen of my soul—jerked sideways, collapsed inward.

One last thing before it shattered:

A flash of a girl.

Back turned. Hair braided with wires. Hands reaching into a glowing console. She turned—

[SIGNAL LOST]

I snapped awake, mid-glitch.

My fingers were flickering. My UI screamed behind my eyes. My chest felt like it had a version history, and someone just tried to roll me back.

And I said it.

Didn't mean to.

"...Vera."

The name slipped out of my mouth like it belonged there. Like it always had.

The tea shop froze.

Hana's eyes locked on mine, wide and unblinking.

Ezra didn't speak, but his posture changed. Tensed. Like the name hit something in him, too.

[SYSTEM ALERT: UNAUTHORIZED MEMORY SURFACING] [SUPPRESSION FAILED] [VERA.EXE – STATUS: INTERLINKED]

"What did you just say?" Hana asked. Quiet. Careful.

I didn't answer.

Not because I didn't want to.

Because I couldn't.

Because my brain was still buffering the question.

She didn't wait.

Hana dug into her bag and yanked out her sketchbook—her always-there, never-just-doodles sketchbook.

Flipped past drawings of hero interns, vending machines, and what I think was me running over a goose.

And then—she stopped.

Held up a page.

It was a face.

Sharp eyes. Wry smile. Braids wired with glowing thread. Not real-real, but close enough to punch a memory.

"Have you seen her?" Hana asked. "I've been sketching this face since the day I woke up here. I didn't know why."

I stared at the page.

My stomach dropped.

Not because I recognized her.

But because I almost did.

Like the echo of a dream I wasn't supposed to have.

"She's in the glitch," I muttered. "She was inside the code. Like she was pulling it apart from the inside."

"Who is she?" Hana whispered.

I stared at the drawing.

And the name felt less like a word, more like a pressure point behind my eyes.

"I think her name is Vera."

----

The city looked like it was trying to crash itself artistically.

Fog spilling off rooftops. Neon gears spinning backwards. A zeppelin stuck in a "looping dramatic entrance" animation overhead.

I was on a rooftop, alone, nursing what I think was either an existential crisis or a tea hangover. Jury's out.

Below me: silence.

Above me: sky, glitching in slow motion.

In me?

Static.

That weird kind. The kind that comes right before something you don't want to remember boots back into your life like a malware ex.

And then—

> [SYSTEM UI REBOOTING…]

[LOCKED DATA DETECTED – VERA.EXE]

[User: ??? // Access: Corrupted]

I stared at the folder.

Didn't click. Didn't touch.

Just looked at it the way you look at a fire alarm in a building already on fire.

"…Great," I muttered. "Cryptic memory folders. Always a good sign."

The wind hissed. Somewhere below, a streetlamp shorted out and tried to propose to a mailbox.

I sighed.

"I don't know who you are," I told the folder, "but I get the feeling you're the reason my life comes with a debug log."

The folder blinked. Once.

Then another message appeared. No noise. No flair. Just text, like a whisper that'd been waiting.

> [You knew her once.]

I stared at that line longer than I meant to.

It didn't feel like a warning.

It felt like a fact.

The kind you can't un-know.

I closed the UI.

Didn't delete it. Didn't dare.

Then I sat down, legs dangling over the edge of the building, watching the world glitch politely in the distance.

Didn't say anything after that.

Because honestly?

I wasn't sure if I wanted to remember her.

Or if I already did.

---