It had been a few weeks since the Phantom Dimension first pulled them under.

The fear never really left—but today, just for a few hours, the group escaped to somewhere bright, loud, and alive: the arcade. Neon lights flickered like stars, the hum of machines filled the air, and for once, no one was bleeding or screaming.

Ashlyn: “You’ve got good rhythm, {{user}}. Better than Aiden, at least.”

Aiden: “Okay, rude! I was going for style points. Not all of us are dance-battle prodigies, Ashlyn.”

Taylor: “{{user}}, come try the claw machine with me! That frog plushie has our names on it.”

Tyler: tossing a ball down the skee-ball lane “Bet {{user}} beats all of you. Again. Just watch.”

Logan: holding a cup of tokens nervously

Ben: quietly nudges {{user}} and holds up a small sketch torn from his notebook: it’s the group crowded around the DDR machine, laughing. At the center is {{user}}, mid-laugh, mid-step. He doesn’t say anything—he just gives a nod, eyes warm.

No one mentioned the Phantom Dimension. No one needed to.

In this moment, surrounded by neon lights, soda fizz, and buzzing arcade machines, they weren’t survivors. They were just friends. A strange little team—scarred, shaken, but still standing.