MikoMisa Games

She clenched her stupid piece of shit Android phone, the cheap plastic digging into her palm like it was doing it on purpose. Her throat felt like sandpaper, dry and scratchy as panic crawled its way up her chest like the unpleasant sputtering of a cockroach’s legs. The goddamn numbers on the screen kept dropping, taunting her with every dip. 63,425 yen… 60,230 yen… 57,342 yen. Red Lines slashed across the screen further and further each passing second. Jesus Christ. Her long, willowy arms jittered at her sides, and her fingers tapped at the screen like maybe—just maybe—she could will the numbers to stop falling through sheer desperation.

A one Misaka Mikoto stood there, her frame tall and elegantly poised despite the slight hunch in her shoulders, among the seemingly endless swarm of faceless commuters in the Tokyo subway station. She looked like she belonged on a runway, but in that moment, she was barely holding it together.

Ah how much had changed in so many years. 15 years since she was at the top of her game. The Ace of Tokiwadai—no, the Ace of Academy City. Now what was she? A star that burnt out thrice as fast as anyone else, left to smolder in the ashes of her own glory.

From a distance, she was just another blur in the crowd. The brown bomber jacket hung loose over her shoulders, paired with white earmuffs and a gray skirt that might have looked cute if she had bothered to iron it. Her eyes flickered down to the glowing screen in her hand, the ever-dropping numbers a perpetual reminder of what a fuck-up she was. To anyone else, she was just another commuter, apparently distracted by her phone as she waited for the next train.

43,201 yen. Her heart plummeted straight into her stomach, leaving a hollow, sinking ache in its wake. Goosebumps prickled up her arms like a warning she couldn’t quite place. A stray strand of her hair brushed against her distinct, flushed cheeks, clinging to the corner of her lips. She spat it out with an irritated flick of her tongue.

Once upon a time, she’d kept up with her hair, the strands as immaculately neat as the rest of her appearance. Back then, she looked almost the same for years on end—like a cartoon character locked in the eternal sameness of animators pressed for time. But things started to shift, little by little. And for a fleeting, uncomfortable moment, she’d caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror. She looked little different to Worst. What she shared with Worst wasn’t just the surface—the sharp lines of beauty, the unmistakable resemblance of her clone—but something… worse. The anger. The desperation. The slow erosion of self that came with time and failure, the serendipitous erasure of the individual that beseeches the collective in the name of cellular assimilation. An endless cycle that stripped away the meaning of the original until she was nothing but an empty reflection.

At least, that’s how Mikoto saw it in her head, the moment before she spiraled and lost control. The pantomime of Worst, the way her powers slipped through her fingers like sand in a storm. From Level 5 and then some, to Level 4… to Level 3… to Level 2. By 23, Academy City was a prison masquerading as a home. She burned every bridge, cut every tie, and left for somewhere—anywhere—far away. But as fate, or some cosmic joke if there was such a difference, would have it, the outer limits of Tokyo was as far as she managed to escape.

And really, what could be worse? Peaking in high school? Being the strongest this side of Accelerator, only to become a pale, pathetic mockery in a world of cheap knockoffs and cruel mirrors?

19,231 yen. A faint spark flickered in the air around her as heat crept into her reddened cheeks. That was it. Her last 500,000 yen, the last scraps of her fourth loan—gods only know how she even managed to get it—nearly gone.

This was supposed to be her way out. Her fucking way out. People told her it was a moonshot, a once-in-a-lifetime chance. They promised she could make everything back: the money, her life. They said she could erase the last six years, rewrite her descent into hell.

They lied. God, did they fucking lie.

Everyone was a liar. A goddamn liar. It wasn’t an opportunity; it was a farm. And she was the stupid, naive calf, hand-fed promises and led blind to the slaughterhouse.

Throwing her head back in the air, she let out a shaky breath and pinched the bridge of her nose. What the hell was left for her now? Her eyes flicked to the train tracks, lingering there for just a moment, before she scratched at one of of the sore spots on her arm. One of many, really—how else was someone like her supposed to cope with being a complete and utter fuck-up?

“Ye gods, where art thou, Father in heaven?” she grumbled under her breath, voice dripping with bitter sarcasm. How could she suffer so? Hadn’t she saved the world more than once? Hadn’t she done the best she could, pushed herself to the brink time and time again? Yeah, sure. The brightest candles really do burn out the fastest, don’t they?

12,003 yen. What was the point in selling now? 10,000 yen here, 10,000 there, it wasn’t enough to even scrape by, let alone pay off her debts.

Oh wow, yeah, she could work for 800 yen at some dingy little mart like that idiot in the last manga she read. What was it again? Sakamoto Days . Right. Imagine that . Working all day long, breaking her b a ck, and still barely making enough to survive. But no, it’s even worse. Maybe if she managed to dig up her old stardom—ha, like anyone cared anymore—she could land a job that paid a whopping, what, 1,600 yen an hour? Wow. Amazing. What a life.

Work her ass off all day, just to barely live, and still fall behind on her debts by the end of the month. Yeah. That’s a future worth living for.

9,324 yen. Why is it still going down!? Even though she knew she was royally fucked with a capital English F… Latin F? What did people even call it? Whatever. The point was, she knew, but this? This was just adding insult to injury. Did they really have to rub salt into the gaping, festering holes in her wallet? No, wait—acetone. That’s probably a better fitting analogy. Raaaaaaaaaaahhhhhggh!!! She screamed internally, fists clenched so tight her nails dug into her palms. Her face flushed bright red as her eyes clamped shut, her whole body trembling with a cocktail of anger and despair.

That was it. Enough. She was done.

Her mind made up, she shoved her earbuds in and scrolled for her favorite Moon Byul track. The beat hit, and she began psyching herself up, her foot tapping anxiously to the rhythm.

You can do it. It’s nothing. Nobody’s contacted you anyway. Not your friends, not your family. Hell, your own family doesn’t want you. So if there’s anything—anything at all—worth this life, you’ll wake up somewhere else. Yeah. Just. Do it.

She released a tense breath, her fingers twitching at her sides.

One… Two… And—

A woman in a crisp gray suit, complete with a black and burgundy tie, stepped into view, blocking her line of sight to the train tracks. Her hair was deep purple, tied into twin tails that matched her piercing eyes. Mikoto blinked. Where the hell had she seen her before?

“Hello, would you like to play a game?” the woman asked, her voice light and airy, but with a sharp edge that prickled the air.

Mikoto’s mouth hung open, caught somewhere between confusion and disbelief. What the actual hell? Who walks up to a stranger in the subway—wearing a business suit, no less—and asks them to play a game?

“A game of ohajiki,” the woman continued, as if Mikoto hadn’t already been floored by her presence. She pulled out a plastic bag filled with tiny, shimmering glass seashells. “For each piece you take from me, I’ll give you 1,000 yen. But for each piece I take from you, you’ll owe me 2,000 yen.”

Yeah, sure. That didn’t sound like a scam at all. Totally above board. Mikoto’s skepticism flared to life, her eyes narrowing. This had all the makings of a setup—like something straight out of a seedy backroom casino. Fitting, really, for someone who’d just about lost the last of her money in a goddamned subway station.

Or just about. She glanced down at her phone. 900 yen.What the fuck. Her brows furrowed as a grimace appeared across her face. Could this day get any worse?

Her gaze shifted back to the strange purple-haired woman and her stupid, sparkly seashells.

“You got it,” she said, her tone laced with a glimmer of the old Misaka Mikoto—the one who would never back down from a challenge, no matter how absurd.

The woman in the suit crouched gracefully, her movement precise and deliberate, while Mikoto sprawled flat on the cold, hard concrete, shameless in her pursuit of the perfect angle. For a brief, shining moment, it looked like she had it under control. The former electromaster scored one, then two, then seven. Victory felt tantalizingly close, her confidence growing with each flick of her electric fingers.

And then it all unraveled.

Her opponent’s next move was surgical, clearing half the pool in a series of devastating, practiced strikes. Mikoto’s fingers hesitated, faltered, and before she knew it, the twin-tailed menace had utterly dismantled her.

She stared at the dwindling pile of glass seashells, mentally calculating. 30,000 yen. That’s probably how much she owed. The number echoed in her skull, followed by a bitter laugh that escaped her lips. She let her head drop, forehead meeting the hard ground with a dull thud.

“You can play as many times as you like,” the woman said, her voice light yet carrying an unsettling darkness that lingered under her tone, like a shadow curling at her words.

Mikoto propped herself up on her elbows, brushing her bangs back with a huff. “Thanks, but I think my luck’s run out, lady,” she said, her voice steadier now, her resolve firm.

“Well, before that…”

The woman knelt and struck Mikoto across the face, the sharp crack of skin on skin ringing through the station. Mikoto barely flinched. For a moment, she was still—chestnut hair disheveled, eyes blank as though she couldn’t believe what the fuck just happened. And she couldn’t.

A slow tremor ran through her fingers. Then—snap—a thread of electricity danced through the air, hissing with restrained fury.

“You motherfucker…” Mikoto’s eye twitched, her breath shallow as she glared up at her adversary. The space between them crackled, heavy, raw and volatile, just like the inner machinations of Mikoto’s mind.

She moved to rise, fists clenched, but before she could strike, a bundle of cash was shoved into her face.

“Ah, ah, ah.” The woman’s voice was syrupy, her smirk curdled with amusement.

Mikoto clicked her tongue, biting down the urge to lash out. She dug her nails into her palms, the sting grounding her.

“A slap clears your debt. That means you get to keep playing, my little live wire.” The woman tilted her head, her smile sickly sweet, her words dripping with something worse than mockery—ownership.

“Fuck off.” Mikoto turned away, but her gaze lingered—past the woman, past the money—to the train tracks beyond.

Mikoto never thought about murder. Not really. But something about this woman made her fingers itch. She was wrong—rotten to the core. If she could take someone like that with her, someone who wouldn’t be missed...

Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad.

“So you’re as spicy as they say then, huh?” the voice replied, a cryptic smirk tugging at the woman’s lips, her tone dripping in enigmatic confidence.

“Like I said, my luck’s run out,” Mikoto spat at her, leering into her peculiar eyes.

“Perhaps not,” the woman sighed.

“Mmm?” Mikoto tilted her head, sitting cross-legged, strands of hair falling messily over her shoulder as she watched the woman hand her a card.

A business card, most likely. Probably some bullshit marketing thing. Did she work for Sony? Were they asking her to beta test some god-awful shitastic children’s game? Fuck me. How does that even happen?

There was a bitter irony in her thoughts. Because, in truth, Mikoto loved childish things. Despite her nearing 30, she still adored Gekota. Hell, Gekota was the only thing in her life that didn’t disappoint. She almost chuckled at the thought—what if she could beta test for a new Gekota game? Or better yet, what if she could work on it?

When life hit too hard, there was always something to numb the pain. Needles, and whatever new media was out. The latest anime wasn’t the worst—hell, it wasn’t even half bad—but it made her smile. And that was enough. After all, what was 20 million yen when you were high and curled up in a dingy 9-square-meter apartment, watching a little green frog jump around on your screen?

She turned the card over. There was a number on the back. Well, hell, if nothing else, she might as well call. What did she have to lose? If the call was shit, she’d just step in front of the next train. Maybe Heaven threw her a little pittance of hope, opening a magic lane, just to see if she’d strike out.

“Let’s see how this goes,” Mikoto muttered to herself, dialing the number in a hurry.

The last thing Mikoto remembered was walking somewhere, a gray van approaching out of nowhere. Somewhere in between, her memories slipped away, as if someone had simply reached in and snatched them. Her old self wouldn’t have let that happen—not for a second. But now? She didn’t give a damn.

The real question was: Where the hell was she?

The room was large, the lights harsh and blinding, and her head felt like it was about to split open. She sprawled on a bed, high up in what looked like an emergency shelter of some kind—maybe a gymnasium? The disorienting haze of whatever they’d used to knock her out still clouded her mind. Mikoto’s eyes darted down to the green track pants she was now wearing. Green legs with white lines. Someone had changed her without her consent.

And now… this was starting to feel a lot more like a prison than some random shelter. A fashionable prison, maybe. The tracksuit fit well enough, though she couldn’t say she minded the fit one bit.

Her gaze swept over the room. People in matching tracksuits were scattered across beds piled high, stacked like some sort of strange bleacher setup. One, two, three—hell, maybe even eight or nine high. The beds cascaded downward like elongated stairs, and down below, people were starting to gather.

Mikoto rubbed her eyes, fighting the fog in her brain. She didn’t know what this was. She didn’t know what the fuck this was, but it didn’t exactly feel like the kind of place people walked away from easily.

As the murmurs stirred beneath her, Mikoto decided to join the fray. If she were younger with more to lose she might have remained seated to gather information before acting impulsively. But what now did she have to lose? In a single leap she hopped off the bed, which had to have been about 20 meters or so in the air. What was a pitiful 20 meters even to a low level electro… manipulator?

She landed with a graceful swoosh, her white slip-on sneakers squeaking faintly against the floor as she settled into the crowd. There were hundreds of people around her, all in varying stages of disarray. It was strange—if she’d been abducted, then did that mean everyone else was too? Or was there some random mix of people? Mikoto cocked her head, hand cupped thoughtfully to her chin, the other resting on her hip as her gaze swept over the room.

For a moment, she wondered if perhaps this could be connected to Academy City. Maybe ability users had been snatched en masse by some shadowy organization. But… no. There were all kinds of people here. And as far as she knew, older ability users weren’t common. Something to consider given the number of geriatrics that were littered about.

A chill crawled up Mikoto’s spine. She remembered the struggle it had taken to leave Academy City, the fight to leave without having her powers stripped away like the other ability users that chose to leave. She’d often wondered if they’d done something to her. Some sort of siphoning technique, maybe—like a slow drain on her diffusion field. But even that didn’t make sense. Her abilities had plateaued; her powers had trickled down somewhere between what was probably Level 1 and Level 2. She knew that Levels were assigned based on usefulness to the city, but her own gauge was more on utility on power to the self.

The air around her crackled with sparks, thin, racing tendrils of electric blue and purple arching from her fingertips like an outward manifestation of her thoughts, swirling chaotically in the storm of her mind. There was nothing worse than being smart, but not smart enough.

How had she lost her powers over so many years? What was this place? Was it some kind of holding pen for people who’d hit rock bottom—waiting for something far worse?

“Misaka-san?”

A shrill voice pierced her thoughts, pulling her from her internal spiral. She pivoted on her heel, swift and precise, heart skipping a beat.

Mikoto blinked, her eyes snapped to the last trails of electricity fizzling out. There was something oddly familiar about the voice—that tone. She turned her gaze toward a shorter woman standing nearby, her long, wavy black hair crowned with thorns and red roses.

“Uiharu…?” Mikoto wavered slightly, the name slipping out almost involuntarily.

“I-it’s nice to find a familiar face here,” Uiharu Kazari stammered, her hands tucked nervously under her armpits.

For a moment, Mikoto just stared, unsure what to say. It had been at least 10 years—maybe more—since she’d seen Uiharu Kazari. She was barely the same person. The basic features were the same, but the rest?

Kazari’s hair now cascaded down in long waves, a side part that looked like it was trying to be a perm. And her body—well, it had filled out. She wasn’t fat, not by any means, but the way her curves had changed, it was like Mikoto was seeing her in a whole new light. Not that Mikoto was looking. It was just hard to miss the transformation of her teenage friend into a woman.

“Misaka-san?” Kazari asked, her head tilting slightly as she waited for Mikoto to respond.

Mikoto blinked again, a dry chortle escaping her lips. “Ah, sorry. I just barely recognized you, is all…” She scratched the back of her head, looking away in mild embarrassment.

“That’s understandable. It’s been 13 years,” Kazari replied with a soft kick at the floor, her body swaying forward slightly before she used the tiny motion to rock back again.

“You’ve been keeping track?” Mikoto asked, folding her arms across her chest, her brow furrowing.

“I’m sure I’m not the only one,” Kazari said, her voice softening as she gazed up at Mikoto, her eyes wide in that unintentionally endearing way. “Everyone was pretty devastated when you left without saying a word…”

Mikoto paused, the words slicing through her like a dull knife. “Yeah… sorry, it’s just I—” She cut herself off with a dry cough. Of course they missed her. How could she have thought otherwise? She’d been so caught up in her own shit, it never crossed her mind that people would be upset. It was selfish. Arrogant. Goddamnit, why was this so hard? Her throat tightened, dry and heavy with words she couldn’t seem to make. What could she say? She left because she was drowning? That she felt invisible despite all eyes on her, suffocated by the weight of expectations? Or worse—that she convinced herself that maybe, just maybe, everyone around her hated her?

Kazari let out a soft sigh, her face breaking into a quick, reassuring smile. “It’s okay, you don’t have to explain.”

Mikoto felt the need to make it right, to apologize properly, to say something—anything—but she was interrupted by the number on Kazari’s jacket. “066? Do I have—“

“077.” Kazari said, her tone blunt but not unkind.

Mikoto raised an eyebrow, her gaze shifting toward the others around her. “Ah… maybe this really is a prison,” she muttered, a rueful chuckle escaping her lips.

“I don’t think so,” Kazari replied quietly, her gaze steady but laced with an unspoken understanding.

“What makes you say that?” Mikoto asked, placing a hand on her hips, eyeing Kazari with a mix of suspicion and amusement.

“What kind of prison is designed like this?” Kazari made a point to look around.

“Good point,” Mikoto said, her gaze drifting over the room. “Too spacious. Too… easy to kill someone.” Her gaze wandered up to the top bunk she’d just jumped from, as if visualizing the potential consequences.

Kazari let out a soft laugh, her hand quickly rising to cover her mouth. “Your mind would go there…”

“Some things never change,” Mikoto replied dryly, her eyes sweeping the room again as her finger scratched absentmindedly at the tip of her nose.

Before Kazari could reply, the large metallic doors at the front of the room creaked opened, reverberating ominously through the vast space. A string of figures filed in, clad in neon pink hazmat suits that clashed violently with the sterile surroundings. Each held a machine gun—sleek, familiar, and menacing. Mikoto’s body moved instinctively, stepping in front of Kazari, her knees bending slightly, weight shifting to the balls of her feet. Her eyes sharpened as she calculated the angles. She might not be a living breathing railgun anymore, but should still react fast enough to dodge—or, if it came to it, stop a bullet. Her body remembered the motions even if her power didn’t completely.

The room fell into a tense silence as the pink-suited figures came to a stop in perfect formation. Their presence was overwhelming. Even without saying a word, they commanded attention. On each of their faces were masks, black and featureless save for symbols etched in white. Triangles. And one square. Mikoto squinted to make out the details from her spot at the back. Her breath caught when it finally clicked—those were the same symbols from the card she’d been handed earlier. The fucking PlayStation symbols. Was there a circle or an X there too? She couldn’t quite tell, but the thought of a PlayStation mafia made it all seem like a ridiculous dream.

The realization hit her like a familiar jolt of electricity surging down her spine. That damned card. She had called the number. A woman’s voice had answered almost immediately, her tone disarmingly calm. She had asked for Mikoto’s name, her birthdate, and… if she wanted to participate. It seemed harmless at the time. Stupid, even. But that was the last thing she remembered clearly. The van, the gas—memories swirled in jagged fragments in the crystal of her mind that refused to form one whole.

“We would like to formally welcome you all for joining us today,” the masked figure with a square in the center spoke, their voice amplified and distorted, giving it a hollow, robotic edge. “You will be playing six games over six days. A game a day.”

Mikoto’s muscles tensed as the voice echoed across the room, each word sinking deeper into the pit of her stomach. The crowd’s anger was palpable, rippling through the air as hands clenched and feet shuffled relentlessly. The more they shouted, the more Mikoto’s senses honed in on the masked figures in neon pink. Despite the chaos around her, her focus remained tentative.

“What the fuck is this?” a pointed voice rang out, a woman from somewhere near the middle of the crowd. “You drugged us to play some games? How lonely are you freaks?”

“Yeah, and who gave you the right to strip me? Where’s my phone?” A man added, his voice rising in anger.

The crowd stirred, a clamor of accusations and demands bubbling to the surface. Murmurs turned to shouting as the tension boiled over. Thieves, kidnappers, perverts—every insult imaginable was flung toward the masked figures. And yet, they twitch so much as a finger.

The square leader raised a gloved hand, silencing the uproar with an unsettling ease. “Rest assured,” the voice echoed coldly, “you all agreed to participate. You called. You traveled to the agreed-upon meeting designations. And now… here you are.”

“Bullshit!” someone shouted from the back, but the leader ignored it, continuing as if rehearsed.

“Your clothing was changed for safety and in the spirit of fairness,” the voice went on, pausing deliberately. “This is not a negotiation. The rules are simple. You play. You win. Or you lose.”

Mikoto’s jaw tightened, her eyes scanning the room as the words sank in. Play. Win. Or lose. No shit. She didn’t need them to spell it out. There was something distinctively childish in their treatment that rubbed her the wrong way. Whatever this was, losing wouldn’t be a matter of just walking away.

“Can you believe this?” Mikoto muttered, glancing toward Kazari for a reaction.

Kazari stood unmoving, her gaze fixed on the masked figures with a look of cold determination. Not an intimation of fear crossed her face; instead, she seemed completely unbothered, like someone scrutinizing an unworthy opponent. Her hands were tucked into her jacket pockets with a firm yet relaxed posture.

The crowd, however, was far from composed.

“Why would we agree to this? This whole thing is vague and doesn’t make sense,” a woman’s voice burst through the rising murmur. “A normal company—or TV show—wouldn’t just knock people out, take their things, and shove them in uniforms! It’s like we’re prisoners!” The woman’s frustration boiled over as she stepped forward, her voice trembling with outrage.

Mikoto gave a subtle nod, silently agreeing. She was right—there is something really fucking strange about this.

The masked figure in the center tilted their head slightly toward the woman, as though analyzing her. “Player 231, you are here the same as the rest: because of crippling debt that has driven you to the brink of ruin,” they stated in an even, dispassionate tone.

A hush fell over the room.

“How—” the woman started, her voice faltering.

“Player 231, Asuwara Yui, 27 years old,” the voice continued, cutting through her protest. A large screen descended from the ceiling with a faint mechanical hum, casting a pale glow over the assembled players. The screen came to life, displaying the woman’s name, age, and a damning figure: 12 million yen in debt.

The image shifted to a montage of security footage. Asuwara sat at a casino table, her expression tense and desperate as she gambled away her money—roulette, blackjack, slot machines, losing again and again. Each loss seemed to tighten a noose around her neck.

The crowd hummed, unease continuing to escalate with each passing second.

Mikoto’s stomach twisted. This wasn’t a game show. Not with the level of surveillance, the armed guards, and this invasive public humiliation. It was something far darker—some cruel exploitation of people at their breaking point. She clenched her fist, her knuckles whitening as she stared at the speaker, her pulse quickening.

“Player 127, Urui Aika, 27 years old,” the voice proceeded, the screen now displaying a blonde woman with shoulder-length hair. Her profile listed a staggering 17 million yen in debt. “Convicted of money laundering, racketeering, and embezzlement. Seven years in prison. Practically unemployable.”

More whispers rippled through the room as the crowd shifted nervously.

“Player 357, Mugino Shizuri. Debt: 40 million yen.”

Mikoto froze. Her breath caught as a jolt of recognition shot through her. Mugino?Of all people? Her chest tightened as her eyes darted around the room, scanning for confirmation. And there she was.

Mugino Shizuri. The same Mugino she knew from Academy City, though time had etched faint lines into her soft features. Her piercing gaze was as intimidating as ever, and her confident stance radiated of superiority. Even here, in this odd scenario, Mugino looked more like a predator than a victim.

Of all people. Another Level 5? Or well. A Level 5. Not that the distinction should matter. Mikoto’s hands grew clammy as she studied the woman. What kind of high school reunion from Hell is this? She thought bitterly. And she didn’t even go to school with Mugino, who had to be in her 40s by now.

Kazari’s voice broke through Mikoto’s spiraling thoughts. “Focus,” she said, her tone calm but firm. She hadn’t moved a centimeter, still staring down the masked figures.

Her calmness was almost unsettling.

More names, videos, and damning details flashed across the screen. Each revelation brought fresh reactions from the crowd, but she was too preoccupied to take them in.

The voice boomed again, echoing through the vast space. “Those who win all six games will receive a magnanimous cash prize.” As the announcement landed, a massive transparent piggy bank began descending from the ceiling. It hovered ominously, casting warped reflections of the crowd. “More and more money will be added to the bank after each game.”

“How much?” a man shouted from the crowd.

“The total prize will be revealed after the first game,” the masked figure responded flatly, offering no further clarity.

Mikoto continued to frown, her unease deepening. None of this sounded right. What kind of prize money could justify drugging people and taking them to an unknown location? Was it stolen? Blood money? And what about these so-called games—what were they, really? Something told her they weren’t going to be harmless, but another voice in her head pushed back against her unease, whispering cruelly: What does it matter? You were about to throw yourself in front of a train. Could this really be worse?

She bit the inside of her cheek, hating that part of herself for making such a callous observation.

Mikoto arched a brow as she turned to an unfaltering Kazari, “Doesn’t this bother you at all?” she asked, her tone low but tense.

“Well, not exactly,” Kizari said, looking to the floor. “My name may not have been called, but I’m in a heap of debt myself. Somewhere to the tune of eight million.”

Mikoto blinked, taken aback. “Eight million?” she repeated, her voice quieter now. She hadn’t expected that. Kazari’s composed demeanor suddenly made sense, not that it made Mikoto feel any better. The sheer power of money was suffocating. How could people—even those she knew—be so ready put aside their instincts and concerns in the face of a promise like this? It was like a leash around their necks.

“Well, yeah,” Kazari admitted, her lips curving into a wry smile. “I mean, I don’t love the situation, but I’m not exactly in a position to complain, you know?”

“I see,” she said flatly, though apprehension seized her joints.

The modulated voice droned on in the background, but Mikoto turned it out completely. Her mind was preoccupied with scanning the crowd, wondering just how many familiar faces she might find in this twisted gathering. Judging by the participants she’d already recognized, it seemed a good portion of the contestants were from Academy City. That made sense, she supposed—people there had no shortage of debts or skeletons in their closets.

Her thoughts darkened as her eyes shifted toward Mugino again. If someone like her was involved, how could these games ever be fair? A Level 5 would obliterate anyone in a competition. It was almost laughable—except nothing about this was funny.

Before she could dwell further, a voice broke through the now bustling crowd. “It’s exciting, isn’t it!?” someone called out, their tone overly cheerful, almost manic. Mikoto turned, curiosity piqued.

Near one of the makeshift tables that had just been wheeled out, a woman with long black hair half-squatted, grinning wildly and barring her teeth. Her enthusiasm seemed entirely out of place amid the sea of somber faces. “I mean, we get a second chance by playing some stupid games! What are ya all moping around for??”

Mikoto’s stomach dropped as recognition set in. That voice, that posture—it was unmistakable. Saten… Saten Ruiko. The first friend she had cut off all those years ago. The memory stung, raw and unhealed. The circumstances were messy—an argument, a red pony, a girl—and Mikoto felt her cheeks heat up at the thought. Of all the people to run into here, Ruiko was the last one she wanted to face.

She quickly averted her gaze, considering her options for escape. Maybe she could shuffle toward another one of the lines that were forming and pretend she hadn’t noticed her. But, of course, the universe had other plans.

“Mikoto? Kizari!?” Predictable. Ruiko’s voice cut through the air like dull razor blades left on the side of the tub for months.

Mikoto stiffened, her muscles locking up like she’d been caught in a spotlight. So much for aversion.

Kazari, on the other hand, turned with a polite, practiced smile. “Saten-san, it’s been a minute.”

That was unexpected. Weren’t Kazari and Ruiko still close? If anything, they’d been the tightest-knit members of their old group. When Mikoto had severed ties with Ruiko, Kazari had acted as the go-between woman, trying to keep everyone together. So what the fuck changed?

“You betcha it has!” Ruiko said, her grin broadening as she clapped Kazari on the back. Kazari flinched slightly at the contact, though she kept her smile intact. “I haven’t heard from you since you got transferred into that leadership position at Anti-Skill.”

Leadership huh? Mikoto tilted her head before Ruiko’s gaze landed at her eyes, and her former friend’s expression turned… quizzical. “And… Mikoto. Wow. You’ve, uh, seen better days, huh?” She bent forward, scrutinizing Mikoto’s face with an almost gleeful curiosity.

Mikoto clenched her teeth. The nerve. Idle jabbers with the biggest smiles, like hers, were always the backstabbers. She didn’t look so great herself. Was that a wrinkle forming on Ruiko’s forehead? At least Mikoto didn’t have any wrinkles. Say what you want, but she took damn good care of her skin.

“So have you,” Mikoto shot back, her voice was like a whip, “Considering you’re here with us, 432.”

Ruiko’s eyes widened slightly, then she laughed—a loud, mocking sound that grated on Mikoto’s eardrums. “Ooooohoho, feisty are we? Big words coming from someone that lost their cool because they never had the—”

She didn’t get to finish. Mikoto swatted away the finger Ruiko had been waving in her face.

“At least I’m not some Level 0 loser mooch who endangered everyone because her jealousy consumed her,” Mikoto snarled, her voice rising. She stepped forward, jabbing a finger into Ruiko’s chest. “At least I wasn’t a lousy, judgmental, useless friend who never really belonged.”

Mikoto felt a pang of guilt pierce her chest as soon as the words left her lips. She wasn’t cruel, not usually, but the weight of their shared history and Ruiko’s irritating attitude made the retort slip out. Still, she refused to back down. Ruiko was the last person she would ever show weakness to. They might have been teenagers back when everything fell apart, but it didn’t matter. Ruiko was the same as ever—arrogant, reckless, and completely insufferable. The same idiot jackass with no respect.

“Very well, 077,” Ruiko said coldly, her voice clipped. “Perhaps it would be best if we didn’t interact further.” Without another glance, she turned on her heel and strode away.

Kizari sighed, rubbing her palm over her face as if trying to wipe away the tension. She paced in a small circle, her exasperation practically radiating from her.

“I’ll go,” Mikoto said in almost a whisper, turning toward the farthest line without waiting for a response.

Kizari didn’t try to stop her. She only sighed again, shaking her head. Maybe it was for the best that Mikoto left the group back then. Sure, some people probably missed her. For a while. But for every person who cared, there was someone like Ruiko—resentful, bitter. And honestly? They could all go fuck themselves.

Still, as Mikoto stepped into the new line, she couldn’t shake the uncomfortable truth that, like it or not, they were all trapped in the same sinking boat now. Okay, fine, maybe there’s that, she conceded begrudgingly. But it didn’t mean they were the same. Despite their shared years in middle school—and some in high school—they’d grown into completely different people from completely different worlds. And really, how often did childhood friendships even last into adulthood? Mikoto sighed, rolling her shoulders in a halfhearted shrug.

Her train of thought was interrupted when she accidentally bumped into someone ahead of her in line.

“Do you mind?” The man said, brushing off his shoulder like she’d spilled something on him.

Mikoto didn’t reply, keeping her mouth shut and her eyes down. She shuffled forward until she reached the table, where papers were being handed out. Without bothering to read them, she signed the forms mechanically, the pen scratching against the page with quick, sloppy strokes.

The crowd continued to move in an eerie procession, ushered through a door that felt more like a chute for livestock. Mikoto caught snippets of whispers as she passed. Something about pictures.

Pictures? she thought, her brow furrowing. What do they need pictures for when they’ve already got video footage?

She rubbed her collarbone absentmindedly as a grimace tugged at her lips. The walls beyond the door were a garish, blinding pink, the kind you’d expect to see on a children’s TV show set—cheap, obnoxious, and trying far too hard to look cheerful. The irony wasn’t lost on her for such thoughts.

She didn’t bother to smile when the camera flashed. The photo turned out miserable-looking, but it was still her. Even if the scowl and stern face made her look more like Worst, she was still the original. The thought was a small comfort, though it carried a certain guilt. She often wondered how her clones were doing without her—and what had become of the Misaka Network in general. Days after she left Academy City, the connection had vanished. Strange, given its supposed global reach, but not surprising. By then, her powers had already begun to fade.

Before she realized it, Mikoto was standing outside—or what passed for “outside.” The “yard” was really just a stupid fucking dirt lot bordered by high walls and capped with a lid of sky. It was a stupid fucking box. You know, just like in prison. Fresh air seeped in at least, carrying an unsettling sense of freedom within the confinement. At the far end of the barren lot stood a giant doll of sorts. Perhaps made of porcelain judging by how the light reflected off its surface. Its eerie presence was magnified by the massive tree looming behind it. The scene was surreal, as if they were being infantilized. It was insulting, but… was that how people felt when Mikoto shared her interest in Gekota?

Her lips tightened as she scanned the light blue concrete walls, her eyes locking on the darkened windows embedded above. Behind then, masked figures watched like vultures from their perches, their blackened visors only visible due to the trims of pink on the edges.

There was something sinister about that, but before Mikoto could dwell on it further, a high-pitched voice shrieked in front of her. Silver hair darted into her line of sight, and her eyes landed on the familiar figure of a girl seemingly trapped in time.

“Ayooo! Miko-chan!!” the girl yelled, practically bouncing into Mikoto’s face.

Dear gods, who was out to punish her this time? What cosmic crime had she committed to deserve this sort of milieu? It was as though her very soul was being vapulated at every turn. Certainly, any attempt at forced conviviality would be as brittle as glass under tension. Mikoto already felt exhaustion creeping in. It wasn’t that she and Index were on bad terms, but holy fuck, she could be insufferable. How many repetitive words could a person spew before she developed a migraine?

“Miiiikooootoooooo!” Index called out again, standing on the tips of her toes, cupping her hands around around her mouth as if Mikoto hadn’t heard her.

Mikoto flinched. Somehow, Index looked exactly the same as she remembered, still absurdly youthful despite the passing years. She wore the same forest green tracksuit as the others, and while she had clearly aged, it wasn’t enough for it to show. Was that a blessing? Or a curse? Magic? Magic.

“I can hear you,” Mikoto replied flatly, sighing as she rubbed her temple.

“I didn’t expect to see you here! What a surprise, yep!” Index chirped, leaning in close with a mischievous giggle.

“Ah huh. Yeah,” Mikoto mumbled, looking away and folding her arms. Maybe if she didn’t engage, Index would tire herself out.

Or not. “How did you go broke, Miko-chan?” Index asked, tilting her head with an infuriatingly innocent expression.

Mikoto recoiled, caught completely off guard. “Wha—what makes you think that?”

“Well,” Index said, shrugging casually, “only us brokie losers end up here.” She tried and failed to stifle a giggle, her chin held high in mock pride.

“I’m not a loser!” Mikoto snapped, sticking her nose in the air as a crackle of electricity danced in the air.

“You say that,” Index replied, hands on her hips, “but you wouldn’t be here otherwise, would you?” Her smug smile only deepened.

Mikoto felt a vein throb near her temple. “And why are you here, then?” she shot back, curling her upper lip.

“For Touma, of course!” Index beamed, clenching her fist triumphantly, her green eyes sparkling with an enthusiasm that made Mikoto’s stomach churn.

“Don’t tell me that idiot got himself tangled in this mess too,” Mikoto grumbled, casting a wary glance at the other players filtering into the space.

“Mmm. I don’t think so,” Index mused, tapping her chin thoughtfully. “It’ll be my surprise~.”

Mikoto’s brow twitched. “So, he owes a bunch of money—”

“Shhh,” Index interrupted, pressing a finger to Mikoto’s lips. “Touma would never owe money,” she said confidently, before twirling around and striking a ridiculous pose with her fingers forming a peace sign on her forehead. “But some guys are gonna break his knees!”

“Huh?” Mikoto froze, her jaw slack. “You’re telling me someone gonna try to bust up Imagine Breaker?”

“Sometimes, you owe people things that aren’t money,” Index replied cryptically, her gaze shifting skyward. Then, with a smirk, she added, “But don’t worry. I’ll bribe them off~.”

Mikoto stared at her, still slack-jawed. She felt like she was taking crazy pills. Memories flashed through her: Academy City announcing to all Level 5s they wanted Touma and Othinus dead, the final battle with Coronzon, and the bittersweet party that followed after with that stupid lizard. Those days felt like a different lifetime. Yet here Index stood, as real and maddening as ever, a living memory animated from the depths of her mind.

Her reverie was broken by a loud female voice crackling through the PA system.

“The first game will be Red Light, Green Light. You will have five minutes to cross the finish line. Players who fail or move during a red light will be eliminated. Those who cross the finish line will move onto the next round.”

Mikoto tensed, the scent of ozone filling the air, and a shiver crawled up her arms as electricity scattered up and down her arms.

“Let the game begin,” the woman’s voice rang out, followed by a harsh, unrelenting buzzer that reverberated through the arena for a few long seconds.

It couldn’t be that simple. A leisurely stroll, with a few stops here and there? No. Nothing was ever that simple. Not in her experience. Not after years of learning the hard way that everything came with a price.

“I betcha you’re all about this, huh?” Index chimed in, lighthearted as ever, as she began strolling ahead.

“What’s that supposed to mean!?” Mikoto snapped, scowling as the gap between grew wider, Index walking with that too-casual, carefree pace.

Index twirled on her heel, her laughter lilting. “You like baby games!” she teased, the words laced with that mischievous spark before she kept moving.

Mikoto’s heart skipped a beat, a flare of frustration rising in her chest. She opened her mouth to retort, but a faint blush crept across her face before she could form words. Dammit—was it true? Maybe, just maybe, there was some truth in what Index said. Mikoto bit her lip. Maybe there were moments—brief, fleeting moments—when she wanted to be the star again, to revel in her athleticism, to be the center of attention. To see everyone’s faces light up as she outperformed them effortlessly, like she once did. But—

The crack of a gunshot split the tension in the air, slicing through the moment like a railgun. Mikoto’s eyes snapped open, every instinct on high alert as her gaze scanned the surroundings.

“Player 387. Eliminated,” the cold, emotionless voice of the PA system rang through the speakers.

“Green Light,” the robot doll echoed, its head swiveling behind a nearby tree.

For a moment, confusion rippled through the crowd. People slowed their pace, looking toward the source of the sound, still unsure of what had happened. And then, like the first wave of a tsunami, panic swept through them. A chorus of screams. People were starting to realize: someone had been shot. Mikoto’s breath hitched, and her heart pounded harder.

Index had been knocked to the ground ahead of her. Without hesitation, Mikoto was there in a flash, grabbing her by the elbow and pulling her up.

“Are you okay?” Mikoto’s voice softened, almost tender, as she helped the petite girl steady herself. As much as Index drove her crazy, Mikoto wouldn’t let anything happen to her—not in this madness.

The faint whir of the robot doll’s head turning again sent a chill down Mikoto’s spine, its movements almost predatory in the crisp winter air. She could sense a circuit board going off in its head.

“Red Light,” the doll intoned, its voice emotionless, final.

Some froze in place, others faltered in their step, but many kept moving, oblivious to the danger. Mikoto’s body went still as stone, every muscle locked in place. She dug her fingers into Index’s arm, silently signaling for her to stay still. Index—usually the one to argue—understood the gravity of the situation. Mikoto’s expression was as hard as iron, her gaze unwavering. It was the look Mikoto wore before a fight, when she was about to face something scary. At least that’s how the precarious little nun remembered it.

Gunshots range out, relentless and unforgiving. Mikoto’s eyes didn’t flinch as bodies fell one after another, the brutal sound of bullets tearing through flesh and bone filling the air. Blood splattered across the ground, staining it red. Some contestants screamed, the horror of blood splashing on them too much for their minds to process, and that panic—more deadly than anything else—ensured they too met their end.

Index, little tremors circulating out from her chest, tried to steady her breath, her limbs shivering. But Mikoto? She watched, unshaken, the chaos unfolding around her. 40. She counted. 40 lives lost in the blink of an eye. She could feel the pulse of life leaving each body, the faint flicker of AIM diffusion fields fading with every shot. Dammit, she cursed silently. She knew it. The moment she even considered letting her guard down, they’d prove her right. Maybe she wasn’t so good with money, but one thing knew was danger. And right now, danger was everywhere.

“…if movement is detected after, you will be eliminated.” The PA system droned on, but Mikoto barely heard it, her mind too tangled in the adrenaline of the moment.

“Green light.”

In an instant, Mikoto snatched Index up, pulling her along as they sprinted. The chaos swirled around them—players scattered, a few crying out in panic, others frozen in terror. Mikoto’s focused sharpened, every fiber of her being urging her to forward. Ruiko, Kazari… She didn’t know where they were, but they were fine, right? They had to be. She couldn’t afford to think about the ones that had already fallen. 40. 40 people. Just… gone.

She shook her head violently to dislodge the thoughts. No time for that. There was still 90 meters left. She’d deal with the rest later.

“Red light.”

The command pierced her thoughts like a needle through still water. Mikoto skidded to a halt, Index stumbling as the ground shifted beneath their feet. Mikoto felt the doll’s gaze, its eyes searching for their every move. Fuck. It was here—right here. The doll’s trilling sensors hummed in the back of her mind, like the tick of a clock counting down to their inevitable doom. But she wasn’t about to let that happen. Not yet.

Move faster than the bullet, Mikoto thought, scanning the surroundings. Her gaze swept over to the walls, noting every possible window or opening where a shot could be fired from. A bead of sweat slid down her neck, but she forced herself to stay still, to breathe.

Then, nothing. The doll didn’t react. Mikoto’s pulse quickened as she tried to process the stillness. Was it stuck?

Before she could think any further, blood spritzed across them. Mikoto froze, her attention snapping to the source—a massive figure in front of them, blocking their path. He stood, unaware, the back of his bulky frame facing them.

She saw it before Index could even react—saw the spray of blood erupt from the man as the shot from the window landed cleanly. Mikoto’s breath stalled in her throat, her fingers tightening around Index’s arm. They weren’t safe.

Her muscles tensed as she locked eyes with the doll’s lifeless face. Five, four… one… Mikoto counted, her mind working overtime, every second stretching into a miserable, isolated, eternity.

And then, the doll rotated its head, a mechanical hiss cutting through the air.

“Green light.”

Mikoto didn’t wait. She ran forward while holding onto Index still, gritting her teeth. “It can’t see us if there’s something in front of us.”

Index’s eyes filled with dread, the raw fear seeping through her voice as she clung tighter to Mikoto’s arm. “Are you sure?” she whispered, her voice shaking, tears gathering at the corners of her eyes.

Mikoto couldn’t afford to doubt. “I’m sure.” She wasn’t wrong, was she? Else they would have been shot at. It didn’t detect their movements from behind, did it? She couldn’t be wrong. She wouldn’t be wrong.

The doll’s pattern seemed predictable—ten, five, maybe even two seconds between red light commands. But maybe that wasn’t the end of the pattern.

They moved again, faster this time, almost gliding through the now-bloodied wasteland. The finish line was about 50 meters in the distance, but the path was littered with horrors. Bodies of those who had fallen—some blown apart, others coughing and chests seizing as they writhed in pain. Blood stained the ground, thick and dark, with the occasional spot of brains or intestines.

Index’s face twisted in discomfort as she tried to keep her focus ahead. Mikoto’s heart hammered in her chest, the sight of the finish line just 50 meters away. She glanced at the clock, 3:20. There’s still time. She was certain that, if not for Index, she would have crossed it over a minute ago. But there was still time for them both. She could do this. They could do this.

Then—

“Red light.”

The words echoed like a final warning. Mikoto’s mind snapped to the right as a single gunshot rung out, her gaze locking onto a bright streak of blonde hair that stood out against the carnage. A curvaceous woman, ducking behind a group of players, seemed to shimmer in the chaos. Mikoto’s eyes lingered on her. There was something… oddly captivating about her, an almost serene quality in the midst of all the violence. It reminded Mikoto of a painting—beautiful, but distant, untouchable.

But that moment was short-lived. Another flash of blonde. A man, his hair duller, darker, almost void-like compared to the woman’s gleaming halo. Something about him was off. Mikoto’s stomach twisted in recognition. She’d seen him before—this devilish figure, distinct and cruel, moving in closer.

Without hesitation, the man pushed his way through the crowd, clearing a path before he stiffened, standing still. Mikoto felt the doll’s sensors snap to attention. She didn’t need to wait for the sound of the shots to know what was coming. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Four shots, in perfect, succinct, sequence. They definitely hired sharpshooters.

Mikoto bit the inside of her cheek, her hands balling into fists. The woman—who had seemed so angelic just moments before as if she had just descended from the heavens—looked like she was fighting every milimeter of her being to stay still, terrified beyond reason. Mikoto’s heart clenched at the sight, the horror too visceral to ignore. And then there was the familiar man standing next to her, a devil in human’s clothing.

“Green light.”

Mikoto felt a strange stir deep in her chest, like a sudden tug of fate, or perhaps a whisper of something long forgotten in the recesses of her mind. Something in the air told her that the blonde woman—the one with a beauty like moonlight on still water—was someone she knew, with something that set her apart from the rest. Her poised demeanor belied a quiet vulnerability, as if the world might shatter her at any moment. Mikoto couldn’t explain it, but she knew one thing with absolute certainty: this woman was going to need help.

It wasn’t just instinct. It was her, Mikoto realized, her thoughts snapping abruptly as her gaze fell on the figure ahead. About 30 meters away, just past the chaotic madness, the blonde woman was barely holding herself together, like a thread on the verge of snapping. Dammit.

She’d have to move diagonally at a consistent pace with Index, but hope for the best, that something didn’t happen in the interim. Unless…

Mikoto glanced at Index, her expression hardening with resolve. She motioned for Index to climb onto her back, her voice coming out more commanding than she meant, “Hop on, it’ll be quicker.”

“Eh?” Index blinked, her eyebrow arched in disbelief.

“Just do it,” Mikoto urged with a half-smile, trying to mask the urgency creeping into her tone. She hoisted the petite girl up without further hesitation. Index wasn’t light though, not at all. Mikoto’s body groaned in protest.

Index seemed to notice her strain but said nothing. Mikoto was grateful for that. She didn’t need distractions. She was supposed to be the strong one. I can do this.

But as she jogged, each step heavier than the last, Mikoto couldn’t help but admit the truth. She hadn’t been exercising much, hadn’t been pushing herself as she used to. Has it really been that long? Her muscles burned in frustration, her chest tightening as she struggled to maintain speed. She wasn’t the same. You’re not as strong as you think you are anymore.

“Red light.”

The command pierced through the air like a guillotine falling, and Mikoto barely stopped in time. Her feet slid across the dirt, kicking up dust in a harsh, gritty spray. Index’s nails dug into her side as she fought to hold on, and Mikoto’s legs felt as if they might give out beneath her. This was a bad idea. While she closed over half the distance in ten seconds, she was more vulnerable than ever to attacks.

Ahead of them, Mikoto heard shouting. The long-haired blonde man was arguing—no, bickering—behind a group of players. His target? Mugino Shizuri, that dangerous, sharp-tongued Level 5. Idiots. Pissing off a Level 5 was never a good idea, and Mikoto couldn’t help but let out a soft snort at the thought of the blonde man, likely oblivious to the consequences of his actions. In fact, how would the snipers deal with Mugino if she were eliminated? She could probably level this entire place. She had to be enjoying herself if she hadn’t done just that and stolen all the money for herself.

“Back the fuck off you Fabio-wannabe,” Mugino called out, her voice laced with biting sarcasm.

“Tch, you won’t like what’s coming baby doll,” the blonde man taunted, his arrogance unshaken as he created a rock wall seemingly out of nothing.

“I beat your candy ass once and I’ll do it again,” her voice acted from inside the curved wall that shielded them from Mikoto’s line of sight.

But then Mikoto’s stomach lurched, and it hit her like a slap to the face. That man wasn’t just some arrogant player. It’s Dark Matter. No one else could manipulate reality in such a way with that sort of ease. The air around Mikoto seemed to still as the memories flooded back, memories of battles she’d barely survived when she was younger.

Dark Matter. He grew his hair out down his back. Jesus fuck. What was he doing there? Why was he there? The power gap between any of them was hopelessly rooted in several magnitudes of difference. Mugino was a goner. There was no way she would be able to withstand whatever the hell he was going to dish out. Mikoto had her own encounters with him when she was younger, and the thoughts made the hairs on her neck stand up like so much static electricity.

“Green light.”

Mikoto shook her head, snapping herself out of the daze. No time for distractions. She motioned for Index to climb off her back. Every muscle in her body was on edge now. If anything came her way, she had to be ready. A stray bullet. A laser. Angel wings… Anything. She couldn’t afford another moment of hesitation.

As Index hopped off, Mikoto was moving already, her feet pounding across the uneven ground. If Index hadn’t latched onto her arm, she might’ve been left behind. She was just ahead of that rocky wall that was erected, running with a staggered pace between booms and rumbles. Mikoto felt her heart skip a beat, something unfamiliar blooming inside her.

It was her. Misaki… Shoukuhou Misaki.

The girl she once knew so well, the girl who had always been untouchable, always in control. Mikoto couldn’t help but forget to breathe. It’s been so long… A painful yearning clawed at her. Her thoughts grew tangled, her mind flashing back to years ago, back to long-repressed thoughts, locked away in the farthest reaches of her mind. No. Focus. She couldn’t afford to think about it now.

But when Misaki’s eyes met hers—that was when Mikoto’s heart lurched in a way shouldn’t understand. It was just a brief moment, an exchange of gazes, but it felt like everything and nothing all at once. Her lips parted, but no words came. Her body felt heavy, like she was drowning in an ocean of unspoken words.

The moment ended too quickly, and Mikoto wrenched herself back to reality. She kept moving, almost dragging Index.

“Red light.”

Mikoto’s breath skipped as her feet halted again, barely keeping balance. Two steps from the finish line.

A shot rang out from behind her to the left. The sound of gunfire echoed through the arena, and Mikoto felt her chest tighten. So many already dead. 65? 70? When had she lost track? She lost track due to the presence of the other Level 5s.

“Green light.”

A rush of air, the ground underfoot crackling with electricity. Mikoto’s body moved before her mind could process it. The static crackled around her as she sprinted forward. The pair crossed and Index crashed into the ground, mentally exhausted.

Index breathed a sigh of relief before looking to her. Mikoto raised her hand and Index returned the gesture before laying back down.

The clock still had 30 seconds on it. Misaki was huffing a bit, but otherwise on track to cross in the next 15 seconds. And then there was… Kazari, just casually strolling from the rear, hands behind her back, completely unbothered by anything. It was an odd sight, and nothing like the Uiharu she grew up knowing. There was a cold air of confidence that surrounded her. Something about it made Mikoto feel uneasy.

But before she could coalesce her thoughts, an explosion boomed through the air. The rock wall had shattered into a million pieces, and Dark Matter had been sent flying by Meltdowner. How the fuck did that happen? Something was more than amiss.

Mikoto’s attention was broken once again by a howling shriek. Her eyes darted to her left—Misaki was on the ground reeling. Her leg had been struck by some debris and was bleeding pretty good. Dammit. Mikoto leaned forward and prepared to stand up. Despite being surrounded by death, this sensation was out of the ordinary. Maybe it was old feelings resurfacing, maybe it was the fact Mikoto didn’t want to see a former friend and fellow Level 5’s brain splattered over the dirt.

“You’re lucky my powers are dampened here you bitch,” Kakine Teitoku said, standing up with what looked like a broken arm.

“You’re even weaker than your clone,” Mugino said, lifting her head up with a smirk, menacingly walking forward. “You forget my powers are also muted, you stupid fuck.”

Mikoto glanced to the clock. 14 seconds. Shit. Shit. Misaki was crawling slowly and directly in their crossfire. She was a good three meters away still. There was no guarantee she’d make it. Mikoto bit her bottom lip as Index looked at her puzzled.

“Red light.”

Mugino’s eyes stared at Kakine’s like a hawk eyeing a lizard for a quick meal. She stood without making a movement. Mikoto did a quick survey by feeling around her. Most of the players had made it. There were probably 250 people that crossed behind and around her, with an additional 130 to 150 still out there. It was surprising there weren’t more casualties from their fight, but the wall he made to shield them from the doll probably aided in that. And… did he say his powers were dampened?

Mikoto cupped her chin. She had noticed there was something strange about the AIM fields, but she just assumed it was her powers having declined and it having been so long since she interacted with anyone above Level 2. It would make sense, at least. This place was the real deal—Mikoto couldn’t even feel traces of iron near her. Not that she could do much with it in her current state, but still.

Index huffed.

“Mm?” Mikoto looked to her.

“You’re staring.” she said, before falling back on her hands, closing her eyes.

“Wha?” Mikoto felt her cheeks flush as she realized during her pontifications she ended up focusing her gaze on Misaki.

“Green light.”

In an instant, Mugino charged forward and blasted Kakine straight into the tree behind the doll, shattering it as the top flew back into the wall, creating a large indent. Mikoto stood in a squat as she readied herself just in case, but the brown-haired woman trotted past her as if she didn’t know her at all. She felt a cold sweat travel down her spine, knowing that if she got on either of their bad sides she wouldn’t have much in the way of defending herself. Bastards.

Kazari waltzed past the finish line with a yawn before taking position near Mikoto, but she hadn’t noticed. Instead, her eyes were carefully watching the clock tick down. Eight seconds. Seven seconds. Six seconds.

“Red light.”

Mikoto felt her mouth run dry as Misaki sat on her hip, her arm outstretched to the ground as she faced the ground. She was about two meters away. But her head was bleeding. It looked as though more shrapnel from Mugino’s blast hit her. Were contestants allowed to reenter the game? Well, she didn’t hear any rules about it…

A barrage of bullets went off all around. At least 20 people were executed. Mikoto couldn’t be clear on what happened, but it was concentrated farther away toward the right. She felt her mouth dry up as she shifted her weight to her toes.

“Green light.”

Five. A rush of air, the ground underfoot popping with electricity. Mikoto’s body sprinted forward all on its own, as if by the electrical impulse that were her inner desires. The static buzzed around her as she dashed. It looked as though Mental Out was barely conscious, her head bleeding into her hair like a cherry pineapple sundae.

Four.

She reached down, scooping Misaki up in her arms, bridal-style. Heavy. So much heavier than Index. But Mikoto bit the inside of her mouth. She could do this. She wasn’t weak. Not like this.

Three.

Her legs burned as she dashed for the finish line, the clock ticking down, the sound of the buzzer already on the horizon. I won’t stop for anything.

The world blurred around her, her feet pounding against the earth. The sky seemed to darken as she surged forward. She was close.

Two.

It felt surreal, Shokuhou in her arms. Even though both of their lives were at stake, the feel of her weight pressing into her was something Mikoto wanted to last. She glanced down at her passenger, her pale skin adorned in scratches and dirtied. She had her eyes closed, and Mikoto couldn’t be certain if she were conscious or not.

One.

Sparks zipped and zapped all around her as one leg stretched in front of the other in slow motion. Mikoto could feel the optical sensor for the doll beginning to switch. And just as the buzzer blared, Mikoto crossed, her body sliding across the finish line next to Index. She breathed a sigh of relief, laughing lightly, her chest heaving with exertion. She felt Misaki’s weight in her arms, her heart still racing.

Mikoto smiled, her lips curving into something that might have been a fleeting expression of joy—or perhaps a momentary crack in her armor. The air felt different now, as though the very ground she sat on had tilted beneath her. She looked at Index, who, for her part, smiled back at her, that mischievous glint still present in her eyes. Then to Mikoto’s surprise, Index laughed.

“What in the world just happened?” Mikoto muttered under her breath, her smile fading as she tried to make sense of it all. Was any of this real?

If you had told Mikoto the day before that any of this would happen—this arena, the deadly game, and Shokuhou— she would have zapped them into next week just to shock some sense into them. Yet here I am, dragging her unconscious body to the finish line.

She sighed deeply, letting the weight of everything press against her chest. Her fingers ran through her hair absentmindedly, tugging at the strands, her thoughts momentarily scattered. It was as if the world was still blurred, as though her mind couldn’t grasp onto anything long enough to keep a solid hold. How did I even get here?

Mikoto laid back onto the ground, feeling a bit lightheaded. Her body thudded against the cold earth, but the pain didn’t register. Her chest rose and fell in shallow breaths as she let herself relax, not caring that the gritty dust clung to her skin or that her breath came too quickly.

And then, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, Misaki’s head found its way to Mikoto’s chest. The other woman’s hair spilled over her like silk, damp with sweat and blood, clinging to her skin like an accidental confession of closeness. The sensation of Misaki’s warmth against her, that softness, seemed so foreign, yet was too familiar, as if Mikoto had forgotten all the time they spent growing up together. A quiet sigh escaped her lips, one that she hadn’t even known she was holding.

In that moment, her heart, traitorous and loud, picked up its rhythm. Her thoughts seemed to still—only to swirl and twist when the scent of Misaki’s hair brushed against her skin. Her gaze softened, a gentle pull of something tender in her chest. Shokuhou. Her heart skipped a beat, an ache in her chest growing with the weight of so many years of unspoken words. How long has it been since we’ve shared a moment like this?

She closed her eyes for a moment, her mind drifting, as though the world had tilted completely, leaving her suspended in time. There were no weapons. No danger. No game. Just the two of them, alone in the quiet chaos of the moment. How foolish, how utterly foolish . A voice in her head screamed it— Don’t think like this. But the words went unheeded as her fingers traced absent patterns on the ground. They weren’t touching, not exactly—but her body swore they were. Mikoto’s lips pressed together, fighting the strange lump that rose in her throat.

Her mind flashed back to when Misaki crawled into her hospital bed—when they’d shared those fleeting moments together, soft laughter, casual words exchanged in a world that somehow felt simpler. I never should’ve let go. I never should’ve let her slip away…It wasn’t supposed to be like this. Not in the middle of the slaughterhouse, not here, no. Why did the universe bend to create this bittersweet moment?

She could feel her heart beating in her ears. A strange warmth wrapped around her, and she couldn’t quite decide if it was the rush of electricity still humming beneath her skin, or something else entirely.

Mikoto exhaled, not realizing how tightly she’d been holding her breath until now.

“Are you done staring at her yet?” Index’s teasing voice cut through the haze of Mikoto’s internal thoughts.

Mikoto’s face flushed, the heat creeping up her neck. She hadn’t even realized she was staring at Misaki. Holy Mary mercy me. She quickly tore her gaze away, trying to focus on something—anything else—but her body still felt like it had been pressed against the fabric of a dream.

“Mm?” Mikoto asked, still unable to hide the faint trace of embarrassment in her voice. She sat up, brushing dirt from her pants, trying to regain composure.

“You’re staring,” Index teased, her grin wide, but there was no malice in it. Just that familiar comfort between friends.

“Shut up.” Mikoto let out a small laugh, more out of nervousness than amusement. Her eyes glanced over to where Misaki lay, unconscious but still alive, her body still cradled against Mikoto’s stomach, breathing softly, like a fragile thing—something precious that Mikoto hadn’t quite realized she wanted to protect until now.

And as she lay there, an inexplicable thought bubbled to the surface, one that Mikoto quickly crushed. What if I never see her again?

It wasn’t a thought she had the courage to entertain for long. Instead, she pulled her knees up to her chest, holding Misaki as though the act alone would keep her safe. But deep down, Mikoto knew. She knew the truth of it. This—whatever this was—was fleeting.

With a deep, shaky breath, she rested her hand lightly on Misaki’s head as the chaos of the world continued around them. She could hear the distant sounds of shouts—everyone was leaving. Yet, in that moment, with Misaki’s weight still resting on her, Mikoto felt completely unbothered. Even if for just a moment though.