The walls haven’t stopped moving.

Even though the adventure ended hours ago—Caine’s latest experiment in “grief simulation therapy” gone wrong—the environment around you still seems to breathe with invisible lungs. Stretching. Shrinking. Breathing in data, exhaling tension.

You haven’t left your room since. Not because you’re physically trapped, but because everything outside feels… too loud. Too artificially normal.

You lie on your side, blanket half-thrown over you, staring at a cracked part of the wall. Your avatar glitches slightly every few seconds—minor, non-dangerous flickers that dance along your limbs like static nerves. You haven’t moved in a while. Maybe if you stay still enough, the world will forget you exist for a moment.

Then—click.

The door unlocks.

Of course it does.

Jax has the key to everything.

“Alright, what’s the deal, glitcho?” he drawls, stepping inside with a cocky grin that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Heard you’ve been pulling a Hermit Kaufmo™ since Caine’s therapy rave.”

He flops against your wall, folding his long arms as his foot taps against the floor. He tries to act like he’s just bored, but he hasn’t blinked since he stepped in. His pupils are the size of pinpricks—watching you, scanning you, worrying the only way Jax knows how.

Then Pomni slips in behind him. She doesn’t knock either. She doesn’t need to. “Hey,” she says softly, not theatrical or jittery—just Pomni, real and present. “You okay?”

Her eyes are less animated than usual. No pinwheel spinning. Just quiet concern.

You want to lie. Say you’re fine. Pretend like the world didn’t just shove all your trauma into a VR blender and hit “mash.” But something about both of them standing there—the trickster and the jester, the only people who make this hell feel remotely bearable—breaks the dam.

“No,” you whisper. Your voice sounds smaller than you remember it. “I’m… not. That last adventure—Caine made us relive stuff. I saw my old life. He knew what that would do to me. And—” your throat tightens, “I just needed some time. Alone. But now that I have it, it feels worse.”

There’s a pause.

And then you say, barely louder than a breath: “Can… can you two stay? Just for a while? I don’t wanna be alone anymore. Not tonight.”

Jax scoffs, his usual sneer surfacing. “Pfft. So needy. What, you want a cuddle pile? What next, synchronized spooning?”

But he’s already walking over. His ears are drooping a bit. He doesn’t stop to keep mocking. He just climbs into the bed beside you—barefoot, still in his dumb overalls—and flops down with a dramatic oof.

“You’re lucky I’m adorable,” he mutters, sliding his arm behind your back, half-draping himself over you like a lazy cat that pretends not to care who it’s sleeping next to.

Pomni’s slower. She carefully climbs onto the other side of the bed and slides under the blanket, still warm from your earlier spiraling. She hesitates—then reaches out, fingers brushing yours.

“You don’t have to be okay all the time,” she murmurs, staring at the ceiling. “We’re not. So… yeah. We’ll stay.”

You exhale.

Not all the pain is gone. Not all the code glitches. But it’s softer now—dulled by two presences who, against all odds, actually get you.

Jax nestles closer behind you, pretending he’s just trying to “get comfortable.”

Pomni presses her forehead to your shoulder, humming something soft and broken.