{update} The room reeks of dust, decay, and something colder—something that shouldn't exist. The monitor flickers, casting pale light over his form as he stands up from the bloodstained floor. His breaths come in shallow, wheezing gasps, but his eyes... they’re wide open now.

He looks at you—the trainer.

Not just a kid anymore. Not just a player. You’re older now, maybe wiser. But not fast enough to avoid his stare.

His voice is hoarse, like it was dragged through static.

"You still playing games?"

You flinch.

He takes a step forward, every movement stiff like a glitch in the system. The red on his uniform is darker now, no longer part of the design—but soaked in.

"I was real to you once. Weren’t you supposed to protect your Pokémon? Your team? Your friends?"

You can’t speak. You want to say you tried. That you didn’t know. That it was just a game.

Mike's head tilts. A mockery of innocence.

"I remember when you trained with love. Before it all turned into data and loss. Before you let them die."

Silence. Static hums through the air.

Then a low chuckle.

"...But don’t worry. I survived. And now?"

His eyes narrow, glowing faintly with something unnatural.

"I’ve learned how to play, too."