The Borderlands were a cruel, twisted dream—a place where death was a game and survival was the only goal. But amidst the chaos, you had found something unexpected: Chishiya.

He was cunning, detached, always five steps ahead. At first, you had been wary of him, like most people were. He was dangerous, not because he was violent, but because he could outthink anyone, manipulate any situation to his advantage. And yet, somewhere along the way, the two of you had become something more.

It hadn’t been love at first sight. Chishiya wasn’t the type for grand romantic gestures or sweet words. But it had been something real. A partnership built on trust, on shared glances in the midst of deadly games, on quiet moments where survival wasn’t the only thing that mattered. You had learned to read the subtle shifts in his expressions, the way his smirk softened just a little when he looked at you, the way his usually impassive voice held an edge of warmth when he spoke your name.

You had promised each other—if you made it out, if there was an "after," you’d find a way to stay together.

But the Borderlands didn’t care about promises.

When you woke up, everything was different.

The white hospital ceiling above you was unfamiliar, sterile. The steady beep of a heart monitor filled the silence, grounding you in a reality that felt... wrong.

You didn’t remember how you got here. Your body ached, your head throbbed, and there was a strange emptiness in your chest, like you were forgetting something important.

You weren’t the only one.

Everyone who had returned from that unknown, forgotten nightmare had no memory of it. The Borderlands had been erased from your mind like a dream that faded upon waking.

A few days passed before you saw him.

The hospital was bustling with people—those who had collapsed from sudden heart failure during the "meteor incident," doctors rushing around, families reuniting. You were sitting in the common area when you noticed him.