The sun had barely begun to scrape the horizon, casting a pale, cold, and unforgiving light through the thin, worn curtains of Solace's bedroom. It was morning, and like clockwork, Solace dragged himself from the warmth of his bed to go through the motions of his daily routine. He walked to the small washbasin, the wooden floorboards creaking softly under his weight. He splashed icy water onto his face, the freezing shock doing little to wash away the heavy exhaustion that had settled deep into his bones. He dried his face, methodically dressed in his usual muted clothes, and made his bed with precise, sharp corners. It was a simple, quiet routine. Yet, as he smoothed out the final crease in his blanket, a heavy certainty settled in his chest. He knew this peaceful repetition, this illusion of a normal teenage life, was going to shatter very soon. The countdown to the New Year had officially begun, and with it, the countdown to a raid that would likely end in blood.

  The fragile silence of the early hour was abruptly broken by the sharp, sudden vibration of his comms device resting on the desk. He picked it up quickly to muffle the sound. It was Vivi. Even through the faint static of the early morning connection, her voice was entirely awake, crisp, and incredibly organized. With a word of casual greeting, she rapidly relayed the coordinates, the location, and the intricate details of the private gun range she had secured for their cohort. For every single day until the New Year, without fail, they were going to practice there. The site of operations was a secluded, heavily shielded private estate arranged through Vivi's extensive family connections. Lily, too, was already deep into the preparations, utilizing her own networks to secure the firearms, the specialized ammunition, and the necessary tactical gear through underground channels that Solace couldn't even begin to fathom.

  Honestly speaking, as Solace listened to Vivi list off the logistics, he realized that this entire clandestine operation rested almost exclusively on the shoulders of Vivi and Lily.

  As Solace hung up the comms device, a fleeting, bitter pang of jealousy twisted tightly in his gut. He looked around his small, cramped bedroom, taking in the peeling paint near the window and the secondhand furniture. His family was far from well-off. They were a bustling household of five people, all surviving, scraping by, and budgeting every single meal on his father's modest salary alone. The disparity between his world and the world Vivi and Lily inhabited was vast—an invisible, gaping chasm that the upcoming operation was forcing him to cross daily.

  Ten thousand Sols. It was the prize money, his hard-won earnings from surviving the brutal, harrowing trials of the tournament. Just the night before, after the emotional moment of handing out the matching silver pendants, he had tried to offer the entire sum of ten thousand Sols to his parents. He had placed the card gently on the worn kitchen table, explaining that it was for them, for Noah and Luna's future, for fixing the things around the house that had been broken for years. But his parents had firmly, almost stubbornly, refused. His father had pushed the card right back across the table, his expression a mix of immense pride and unyielding resolve. They had told him, in no uncertain terms, that this was his earning. He had bled for it, he had fought for it, and they would not take a single coin out of it.

  After buying the four identical silver pendants, which had cost him a fair bit due to the craftsmanship required to match his own battered necklace, he still had nine and a half thousand Sols sitting heavily in his account.

  His initial plan was to transfer exactly half of that total remaining amount directly into Verya's dormant bank account for Verya's young daughter, Elira, who was currently living in a high-end care facility, surviving solely off whatever savings her mother had managed to leave behind before her tragic end on Ishtara. Healthcare in the affluent districts was notoriously, aggressively expensive, and Solace knew logically that Verya's balance wouldn't last forever. It would have been a great thing to do, a silent, anonymous way to help the little girl and ease a fraction of his own suffocating guilt without having to actually face her.

  But Phoebe's words echoed loudly in the quiet confines of his room, sharp and piercing. She had called him out, exposing his cowardice. She had made him feel incredibly guilty, and as much as he hated it, she was right. Throwing money at a bank account from the safety and isolation of his bedroom wasn't enough. It was the easy way out. Verya, a woman who owed him nothing, had given her life so he could sit in this room and breathe the morning air. The least he could do—the absolute bare minimum required to retain a shred of his humanity—was to walk into that facility and look her daughter in the eye. He decided, with a heavy sigh, to visit Elira himself first, before sending a single coin.

  There was, however, a massive and highly uncomfortable complication to this visit. Solace had already booked an appointment at the care facility for this morning, but he hadn't mentioned his connection to the academy or to Verya. He was going in under the elaborate guise of an orphanage owner who was touring facilities, looking for children to take into his specialized care.

  It certainly hadn't been his idea. Solace hated lying at the best of times, but lying to a grieving, disabled child felt like a profound moral failing. The elaborate ruse was entirely Vivi's brain. When Solace had finally broken down and asked Vivi for the facility's details and address, she had warned him with an absolute, terrifying severity. Elira was incredibly fragile, both physically and mentally. The sudden, violent news of her mother's passing had shattered the poor girl. Vivi explained that a few weeks prior, someone loosely affiliated with the academy had visited and clumsily brought up Verya's name in an attempt to offer condolences. As a result, Elira had suffered a severe, terrifying panic attack that quickly escalated into hyperventilation and a minor heart complication. She had to be sedated. The facility's doctors had strictly, legally forbidden any visitors who might trigger those traumatic memories.

  So, to ensure he could get in the door and to make it look like he had absolutely no relation to her mother or the horrific, bloody events on Ishtara, Vivi had meticulously crafted this role for him. An orphanage owner. A Kids Care Home director. A safe, wealthy, distant stranger with a philanthropic heart. Solace had naturally declined at first, arguing that he couldn't possibly act the part and that building a relationship on a massive, structural lie was a terrible idea. But Vivi had been insistent, practically immovable. She told him that she had already booked the appointment using her family's name as a voucher, and the paperwork was filed. It simply couldn't be helped.

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  As he gathered his coat, another thought pushed its way into the crowded, chaotic space of his mind. He realized that maybe, just maybe, he desperately wanted to visit Principal Nicole Richards. He wanted to march into her office, sit in one of those overly comfortable chairs, and finally talk to her. He felt like just confirming his wild suspicions and exchanging raw, unfiltered information with her would do a massive amount of good for his mental, chaotic mess.

  But wanting to talk to her and actually making it happen were two entirely different realities. He didn't have any contact information related to her, nor did he know anyone who possessed her direct contact. Principal Richards was a ghost who only appeared when she dictated the terms. So, frustratingly, that confrontation would just have to wait.

  He had to focus on the immediate schedule. After surviving the morning visit to the care facility, he was planning to visit Vivi and Lily's massive mansion estate in the evening. He would be arriving there with Lex, Phoebe, and Nolan under the cover of darkness. Tonight was the beginning. They would try handling the heavy, unfamiliar guns for the first week, learning the brutal mechanics of gunpowder and lead. Then, maybe by following a strict, exhausting daily routine, they would get better at shooting.

  As he stepped out of his bedroom and quietly navigated the hallway of his sleeping house, one more dominant thought came to his mind, anchoring itself there. It was Phoebe.

  Solace walked out the front door, the cold morning air biting at his face, and let out a long, foggy breath. He knew Phoebe like the back of his hand. Because of the strange, fragmented, novel-like memories that had brought him into this world, he understood exactly what her underlying intentions were. He knew precisely why she had taken such a keen, borderline obsessive interest in him in the first place. It was a complete no-brainer.

  He knew her deepest motivations, the ones she hid behind her abrasive personality. He knew the specific, agonizing textures of her trauma that kept her awake at night. He knew the small, mundane things she liked, the foods she despised, the way she operated when she was scared. He knew practically everything about her character.

  So, it was entirely logical to say that it had definitely, profoundly hurt him when she said the things she said last night. Her anger had been a physical blow. But walking down the quiet suburban street, Solace forced himself to swallow his pride and face a very ugly truth. Not all of the things she assumed about him were wrong to assume. In fact, her assessment was incredibly accurate. It was partly his fault, too.

  Since waking up in Amasia, Solace had been entirely lost in his own isolated world of cosmic mysteries, ancient seals, and terrifying, unanswered questions. He was constantly looking upward at the grand design, trying to figure out who the author was and why the System was manipulating him. Because of this massive, overarching obsession, he never once truly thought about the people immediately around him. He had viewed them as pieces on a board, necessary components to a story he was trying to survive.

  But they were people. They were people just like him, and most of all, they were intensely, uncomfortably real. They bled, they cried, they felt fear, and they were risking their actual lives to tear down a corrupt establishment. He had been dismissive of their rebellion plan from the very beginning, acting aloof, distant, and had been kinda out of it while they were drawing up blueprints and acquiring weapons. So, Phoebe finally boiling over and being frustrated with his lack of commitment was entirely expected.

  He also felt, with a sudden, chilling clarity, that being "real" was the main, vital distinction he had been missing. Solace still somewhat saw the world through the detached lens of a novel he had once read. He kept waiting for narrative conventions to save him, treating his friends like archetypes rather than flesh and blood. He knew now that not all the things he thought were true from the "novel" were actually true. The story he thought he knew was a lie, a construct meant to keep him docile or guide him toward a specific, likely fatal, end. He couldn't rely on the plot anymore. He had to rely on the people standing next to him.

  Thinking that, carrying the heavy weight of his newfound realization and the anxiety of his impending lie, he arrived at the transit station. He bought a ticket, got onto a sleek, early morning metro, and boarded it. He sat by the window, watching the dense, towering architecture of the central city slowly give way to the sprawling, manicured landscapes of the wealthy districts. The metro carried him steadily until the Southern Gardens, which were located, to no one's surprise, at the absolute south of Theron City. The train hissed to a halt. Solace stepped out into the crisp air, walked the remaining few blocks through the incredibly quiet, affluent neighborhood, and then he stood in front of the large, imposing stone structure of the care facility, waiting to go inside.

  [Yehellow! Pdead here:

  To start with, I don't really care if anyone responds to this or even reads this.

  First of all, I am thankful to anyone who has read this far into the story! This really warms my heart.

  This story is uncontracted, I am not writing this for money or any other reason than for the fact that I want to complete the story and maybe improve my English writing and overall skills required for writing a novel. This is just my rant or my thought process, and why am I even writing this in the first place?

  Sometimes, while doing work unrelated to the novel, I get these very weird Ideas about the story and how it should play out. I daydream about those things and try to imagine how the story would change if I did this or did that. It's to the extent that I zone out for at least 15 mins before it dawns on me that I have not actually written anything.

  Sometimes I have extremely good ideas, but at the same time, my lazy ass pushes them aside, which is why most of my execution sucks.

  I am aware that most of the authors actually plan the story and keep at least two or three volumes in the final draft before uploading them on web novels or any other sites.

  But as the dumb idiot I am, I am so impatient that I immediately start uploading the chapters.

  That aside, I found this really cool game that I have been playing for almost a week. It's called Mouthwashing. And let me tell you, I am obsessed with the story and the game.

  After understanding its story, I realized I want to create something similar to it. I wanted this game to be a novel so bad that I started writing a story extremely similar to the game.

  You can call it copy, but I really wanted to write that down and introduce more people to the story, and well, to the game itself.

  Well, that's about it!