[Prison Visiting Area]
The fluorescent lights of Heiwa Detention Center bore little resemblance to Game Evolution's warm office glow. Cold concrete walls stretched toward a gray sky, guard towers looming at each corner. Metal detectors beeped in steady rhythm as visitors filed through security.
Giri placed his documentation on the counter, joining the row of plastic chairs where others waited. A young woman clutched her papers, eyes darting between signs she struggled to understand, a new visitor. Two seats down, an elderly man dozed, head tilted back against the wall - a prison visit veteran who knew the drill.
The familiar weight settled in Giri's chest. Blue and red lights painted his childhood home that night, casting harsh shadows across his mother's face as metal cuffs clicked shut around her wrists. The words echoed in his teenage mind: "Fraudulent appropriation of property."
Each court hearing revealed another layer. His mother, a diligent worker, caught in someone else's web of deceit. The real culprits vanished, leaving her to face consequences for crimes she never knew she was part of. Just another expendable piece on their board.
"Number 36," the intercom crackled.
Giri stood, following a guard through security. No amount of coding expertise could hack these walls or rewrite this reality. Here, he was powerless.
The visiting booth's scratched plexiglass separated him from the woman in faded blue prison garb. Despite everything, her eyes lit up at the sight of him, smile lines crinkling around her eyes.
"Giri, sweetheart!" Her voice crackled through the phone speaker, warm with maternal love.
"How are you, son?"
"I'm good, mom. Good to see you." Giri pressed his palm against the glass, an old habit from when he was younger.
Her eyes scanned his face, noting the dark circles under his eyes. "How's work?"
"Busy, but going well."
"Make sure you eat good. Rest too." She leaned forward, her forehead almost touching the glass. "You look tired. Are you sleeping enough? Getting proper meals?"
Giri's throat tightened. Even behind bars, she worried more about him than herself. Her hands fidgeted with the phone cord, probably fighting the urge to reach out and straighten his collar like she used to.
"The game I'm making is about to become bigger, mom. You could even hear news about it in here, in just a few months."
Pride brightened her worn features. "I'm so proud of you, sweetheart."
They traded stories - his debugging adventures, her new library privileges, his team's latest achievements, her creative writing class. But as their time wound down, she grew quiet, fingers drumming against the counter.
"There's... something else." She leaned closer, voice dropping. "There's news. A possibility my case might be reopened."
Giri's heart skipped. He gripped the phone tighter.
"Nothing guaranteed, but they found some details, even people. That would prove my innocence." She took a deep breath. "The detective officer got his 'early retirement.' A new one came in, looked at my case. He said he will re-investigate it."
Her eyes darted to the countdown clock mounted on the wall. Time slipped away like sand through fingers.
"Almost time." She smiled, though her eyes held a hint of mischief. "Next time, remember to bring me some fried shrimps. They don't have them in here."
"Sure mom, I'll bring as much as you like." Giri's chest tightened at the simple request.
A guard approached with measured steps, his face softened with understanding. "Time's up, folks." His voice carried none of the usual prison authority.
Giri's mind wandered to shared meals at their favorite restaurant - crispy ebi fry, steaming rice, his mother's laughter echoing across the table. Simple joys now locked behind concrete and steel.
"I'll be back next month, mom."
She rose from her seat, blue uniform hanging loose on her frame. Each step toward the door seemed to pain her. Once, twice, three times she turned back, waving until she disappeared around the corner.
The train ride home blurred past in a haze of neon signs and city lights. Giri's feet carried him to the convenience store on autopilot, his mind still echoing with his mother's words about the case reopening.
The automatic doors chimed. He grabbed the fanciest instant ramen cup from the shelf - black garlic oil tonkotsu, premium noodles. The kind of indulgence that made instant food feel special. A bottle of matcha milk joined his basket, its green glass promising comfort.
Back in his apartment, Giri slumped onto his couch. Steam rose from the ramen cup, carrying memories of late-night coding sessions and shared meals. The matcha milk's sweetness failed to wash away the bitter taste of worry.
Work deadlines loomed. The VR integration needed fixing. His mother's case might reopen. Each thought twisted into the next like tangled code, refusing to resolve into neat solutions.
His phone sat heavy in his hand. Social media offered no escape - just an endless scroll of other people's happiness. His thumb hovered over his contacts, muscle memory almost dialing Moriya again.
Instead, it landed on Shizuka's name.
Their last conversation felt like ages ago. Before the corporate pressure, before SolarTech. Back when making games still felt pure.
Shizuka always saw things differently. Where others saw walls, she found windows. Where others got lost in details, she grasped the bigger picture.
Giri pressed dial before doubt could stop him. The phone rang once, twice...
"Giri?" Shizuka's voice carried surprise and warmth. "It's been forever! What's up?"
Giri sank deeper into his couch, the empty ramen cup forgotten on his coffee table. Street lights painted shifting patterns across his ceiling through half-drawn blinds.
"Just been thinking," he said, letting out a long breath.
A light chuckle crackled through the phone. "Thinking? That's dangerous."
"What about?" Shizuka's voice carried that familiar mix of curiosity and concern.
"Life and video games," Giri traced patterns in the condensation on his matcha bottle. "Do you ever feel like we were gods?"
"Gods?"
"To the people in our game," he clarified. "We built their world. Their rules. Their very existence. We decided who lived, who died, what powers they had. We were… omnipotent."
"I suppose we were," Shizuka mused, her voice softening. "But even gods have limits, don't they? Rules they can't break."
Giri's fingers tightened around his phone.
"I've been trying to play differently," he said. "For years. Fighting the system, gathering evidence, hiring lawyers. Nothing works."
"The system's rigged," he added, voice cracking. "Like those pay-to-win games where you can't progress without spending real money. Except here, even money isn't enough."
The matcha bottle sat on the table, its contents growing warm. Outside his window, a siren wailed in the distance - another reminder of that night.
"That's what I mean. Life feels like a game sometimes—a badly designed one. Arbitrary rules, unfair challenges, no clear objective."
"Maybe the objective isn't what we think it is," she countered. "Maybe it's not about reaching some final level or defeating the last boss. Maybe it's about the experience. Learning from the challenges. Connecting with the other players."
"Other players?"
"Like us. Moriya. Your family. We're all in this together, Giri. Facing our own boss fights and helping each other through them."
Giri closed his eyes, remembering his mother's words about the case reopening. A new detective, new evidence, new hope. But hope had betrayed them before.
"But what if we fail?" His voice barely rose above a whisper. "What if the boss is too strong?"
"Then we learn. We try again. We adapt. And if we still can't win..." Shizuka paused. "Maybe we need to play the game differently."
Giri leaned back, his phone pressed against his ear. The empty matcha bottle rolled across his coffee table, casting green-tinted shadows.
A laugh bubbled up from his chest, surprising even himself.
"What's funny?" Shizuka's voice carried a hint of concern.
"Just thinking about our game," Giri traced the rim of his empty ramen cup. "With this new AI tech, we're not just writing data anymore. We're practically creating lives."
The thought sent a chill down his spine. Each NPC would have their own thoughts, their own desires, their own struggles. Just like real people, trapped in a system they didn't create.
His fingers drummed against the armrest. "What if they end up like us? What if they look up at their sky and curse their creator for their problems?"
"That's a very you way of looking at it."
"I mean it, imagine one of them deciding to..." Giri found the word too grim to speak aloud, he changed it "...quit their quest because the developer was a jerk."
Shizuka's voice shifted, taking on a more serious tone that made Giri sit up straighter.
"If they did, then maybe that's on us. Maybe it's a sign that we didn't give them enough agency. Enough freedom to choose their own path."
Giri's fingers stopped drumming. "You think it's our fault?"
"Not exactly," Shizuka replied. "We need to make sure they know they always have a choice and they are not alone."
Her words hit closer to home than she probably realized. Giri glanced at the photo of his mother on the shelf - her smile captured in happier times.
"Even if it's not the one they expect. Even if it's not about 'winning'."
"Like Sometimes…assembling the right party is already a game in its own right," Shizuka added, her voice carrying a hint of that old enthusiasm they shared during late-night coding sessions.
The phrase struck a chord. Giri thought about his mother's new detective, his friends, his team at work - each person adding their own strength to his quest. Maybe he'd been approaching this all wrong, trying to solo a raid boss when he should've been building his party.
A chuckle escaped Giri's lips. "Yeah, I guess you can't solo a raid boss."
"Exactly. Life's an MMO, Giri. Take breaks when you have to, but don't give up on your only playthrough. Like I said earlier, just try looking at it differently."
"Well, I just hope I don't have to face one of those NPCs one day!" Giri's tone lightened. "They might just demand better rewards for their challenges."
"And here I thought your pixelated chicken dragons were bad. Now you've got philosophical NPCs demanding better loot?"
"Hey, those pixelated chicken dragons were a technical marvel. Besides, I wasn't the one who designed the chickens to squawk in reverse."
"That was one test build, Giri! One! And those reverse squawks had charm, they were a-head of our time." Pride colored Shizuka's voice at her own pun.
"Besides, it's not like your code was flawless. I distinctly remember a certain bug where all NPCs kept walking into walls during cutscenes."
"Don't remind me. Kenji still calls that 'the great elf migration.'"
The memory brought warmth to his chest, remembering simpler days of bug-fixing and shared laughter.
"Thanks, Shizuka," Giri said finally, his voice soft. "I needed this."
"Anytime," she replied gently. "And Giri?"
"Yeah?"
"Don't be afraid to rewrite the rules, Giri. Perspective is everything. A bug could be a feature. What players want isn't always what they need."
A smile tugged at Giri's lips as the call ended, his mind felt clearer than it had in weeks.
He had two worlds to protect now - one he'd built and one he lived in. Both needed his attention, his care, his determination to make things right.
---
End of chapter 1.