CHARACTER PROFILE
Cerin Arlow
Cerin, age 15, born on April 19, attends the same school as Mike and Kuro in the city of Noctis. He used to be close friends with Kuro in middle school, but the two grew apart in high school. Cerin is tall and slim, with pale skin and slightly coarse hair that sometimes makes him resemble a mushroom. His speech tends to be stiff, but he's generous and warm when speaking with people he knows. Even so, he keeps his personal life mostly private.
Cerin excels at reading and synthesizing data—he has a knack for identifying repeating patterns and overlooked connections. He once helped recalibrate the school lab's energy sensor devices. When Cerin commits to something, he always has a clear strategy and avoids acting on impulse.
After their meeting with Mr. Than, Mike and Kuro returned to Noctis—each carrying a quiet question that refused to settle. They both knew now: this wasn't just a reckless student trip. It was the kind of threshold you crossed and couldn't uncross.
Mike, the one who always grounded himself in reason, found for the first time that his diagrams, his data, his models—none of it could hold what he felt standing in the Hollow Zone.
Because Mike lived closer to the city center and Kuro stayed in a dorm out by the hills, they met that afternoon at Kuro's place. Nothing ceremonial. Just the understanding: since the map had been drawn, since the red mark had appeared, they were going somewhere.
But not yet. They still lacked supplies. A route. And some questions hadn't yet taken shape.
That evening, while Kuro was boiling water, Mike sat at a folding table, flipping a page in the map over and over—like it might eventually give an answer if touched the right way.
"I'm wondering," Mike said. "Should we bring someone else?"
Kuro looked up. "You mean invite a third?"
Mike nodded without looking up. "Not just as backup. But because… another perspective might keep us from getting too lost in our own."
"Anyone in mind?"
Mike didn't answer immediately. He stared out the window, where streetlights blurred into the dusk.
"Not yet. But whoever it is needs to be quiet enough to listen. And awake enough not to believe too fast."
No decision came that night. But the next morning, as they made tea in silence, both of them casually opened the school timetable. Only two mandatory sessions left that week. The rest—flexible.
They visited campus—not for errands, but to walk the familiar halls one more time. As they left, Kuro took the bike. Mike rode pillion, arms wrapped around a folded-up gear list scribbled in silver ink on canvas.
"First stop: tech market. Solder kits, wire rolls. Then thermal flasks, backup batteries, a flashlight—no reflection glare."
"You sure we're not setting up a field lab?" Kuro teased.
Mike didn't laugh. But his eyes gleamed.
"Best prepare for both."
They stopped by a shop on a hill—one Mike had visited since eighth grade for robot parts. The place hadn't changed. Dust on every shelf. But the owner recognized him immediately.
"Another machine in the works?" he asked.
Mike didn't explain. Just handed over a list.
"Whatever's in stock, I'll take. I'll build the rest."
After the parts run, they detoured behind the market to a used bookstore. Its faded sign, chipped green door—Kuro had passed it before. But this time, he entered alone.
Mike went back to prep gear. Kuro carried only a slip of paper listing what he needed: pre-war local history, magic records, anything unofficial—those volumes quietly removed from public shelves.
He searched slowly. Asked questions the shopkeeper couldn't answer without pausing to remember. Finally, he chose three books: one history text missing its appendix, a handwritten replica from the sealed R-7 archive, and a collection of unverified legends. Their covers frayed, pages yellowed. But the old ink smelled... honest.
He wasn't sure he'd understand it all. But part of him believed: if what he'd sensed wasn't just a fluke, then it deserved a second reading—with less innocence.
As he flipped through one brittle volume, a name floated up from memory: Cerin.
Not a close friend anymore. But someone who'd once been that.
Back in middle school, Kuro and Cerin had ridden to school together—talking about the absurd, the technical, and everything in between. Cerin was sharp, calm, methodical—capable of sketching theory while wiring circuits.
Now he had a girlfriend—daughter of a high-ranking Academic Council supervisor. Busy, polished, expected. He was never mean. Just… always somewhere else.
"If it were Cerin," Kuro thought, "he'd understand. But... could he leave?"
Kuro held onto the thought for two days. He drafted a message. Deleted it. Rewrote it. Deleted again. Not from fear of rejection. But because if Cerin said yes—it meant bringing him into something he might never walk away from.
"Not worth it," Kuro muttered.
After their final class that week—a quiet discussion session—Kuro mentioned Cerin. Mike just said:
"Two's enough."
That ride home wasn't long. But the sky looked clearer. As if the world was holding its breath.
Mike double-checked the gear in his pack. His screen blinked softly, lines of green code breathing like a pulse. Kuro stood by the doorway, gripping a foldable baton—cold and solid.
"We should bring the dashcam," Kuro said.
"Yeah," Mike nodded.
"I reprogrammed the sensor," Mike added. "If the surrounding frequencies deviate beyond 2.5, it'll automatically ping our family inboxes."
Kuro asked, "What if the zone blocks transmission?"
Mike didn't answer. He slid the dashcam into the bag. Plugged in the battery.
"Then maybe… someone'll find the local copy."
Kuro fell silent. He unpacked a small spray can from his cloth pouch. Its cap was scuffed from field tests.
Mike raised an eyebrow.
"You still carry that?"
"Homemade," Kuro said with a dry smile. "Chili oil, alcohol, and camphor. Won't blind, but it'll make something back off."
Mike watched for a moment. Then resumed wiring the final chip.
Kuro's mind flashed back to Mr. Than's eyes. Dull. Grey. Still.
He tucked the baton behind his belt.
"We're not just visiting lonely retirees anymore," Kuro muttered.
Mike looked up and chuckled.
"No. But at least this time, we know we're walking into the trap on purpose."
They met beneath the old overpass—where they'd once brainstormed a robot to harvest wild herbs. That plan had lasted a month, yielded nothing but sweat.
This time, the dream felt different: sharper, silent. Waiting for two boys who still weren't sure they were old enough for it.
"I won't blame you if you stop," Mike said.
"I won't blame you if you run first," Kuro smiled back.
No more delays. No more questions to ask.
And so—they left.