After club hours, we were supposed to hit the mall and grab dinner with the Ling sisters, like fireflies drifting toward neon.

Yekase couldn’t remember when they set it up, but friends are friends; the river runs, she follows.

They met at the school gate, the dusk like lacquer on iron.

“Senpai, what club are you in?”

“The Go-Home Club.” Her tone was dry as a leaf.

Yekase blinked at Ling Ya, surprise popping like a soap bubble in sunlight.

“Third-years don’t get clubs,” Ling Ya explained, voice limp as a wilted reed.

Yekase’s attempt to go with the flow capsized at the shore; she shook her head, disappointed, and let it sink.

They drifted toward the nearest shopping plaza, streetlights blooming like pale chrysanthemums.

Ling Yi took the lead like a sparrow hopping ahead. “By the way, Lulu showed me the Gunpla she just bought today—fully purple, very round.”

“That’s probably not a Gundam,” Yekase countered on reflex, like a spring snapping back. “Sounds like something from Zeon…”

“Lulu said that too,” Ling Yi chirped, unbothered, a ripple ignoring the stone.

So she’d already been corrected once!

“So is there even a difference? A Gundam’s a Gundam…”

“Huge difference!” Yekase’s voice cracked like lightning.

“Lulu said that too.”

Yekase abandoned the argument, letting it float downstream; fine, she’d build Barbatos tonight and show her tomorrow, proof like steel on an anvil.

“Yezi, how’re the Film Club and the Bird Research Club? Picked one yet?” Ling Ya’s concern hovered like a paper lantern. She knew Yekase was picky; one flaw, and Yezi’s mind would loop it like a scratched record. If Yezi dropped both, Swim Club still had a hook.

“The Film Club’s too loud,” Yekase said, a clean cut like a blade. “Great library, sure, but I can source films myself.”

“And the Bird Research Club?”

“Not bad. I’ll probably join.”

“Eh—doesn’t that club only have the male president as a regular? Yezi, which part of him do you like?” Ling Ya had lined up her pitch for the other side—things like I’ve got resources too—but Yezi wanting to play with birds rubbed her the wrong way, like sand in a shoe.

“I like his birds, okay?”

“You actually… like a man’s bird…”

“Say that again?” Heat rushed up; Yekase pounced to cover Ling Ya’s mouth, laughter and flailing kicking up like startled koi.

Ling Yi sipped the milk tea she’d bought while waiting, as calm as a still pond.

“Mistakes of youth,” she intoned, stagey as moonlight on velvet.

That tone made Yekase freeze mid-grapple. “Wait—Ling Yi, is that your character now?”

“Lulu taught me,” she said, eyes cool as a night breeze.

“Knew it, that Pu Lu again! What is she teaching you every day—”

“Show them your power, Mechbreaker!”

“There’s always a way!” Yekase answered, unwilling, the line tumbling like a pebble down a slope.

Then both heads turned toward Ling Ya, spotlights in a night fair.

“I-it’s actually a Gundam…” Ling Ya muttered, pretending nothing around them existed, a turtle retracting under street glare.

She still caught a strange term midair. “What’s ‘Mechbreaker’?”

“It’s your Sis Yezi’s handle in mecha-fighting.”

“Don’t shout that on a main street…” Yekase hissed, cheeks hot as coals.

Mecha-fighting—original title “Survival of the Fittest”—was a game where you uploaded your own designed mech, got it approved, then co-oped or fought players in 3D arenas, steel clashing like storms.

Yekase wasn’t top-tier, but she had a name—especially in the crowded mid-tier ladder where everyone knew the storm that broke their toys. She didn’t play to win; she played to strip your mech down to screws, like a vulture leaving gleaming bones.

If the opponent’s mech was gorgeous and interesting, she’d finish disassembly, exhale in pure satisfaction like a bell after ringing, then hit surrender.

So her rank wasn’t high, but her notoriety burned evenly—half cheers, half stones.

“Jiejie, tell me more. Tell me more,” the younger one pleaded, tugging like a tide.

“Hey!”

The sisters ignored Yekase, heads together, whispers fluttering like moths.

“Her game ID is SSSS.ROZE. Her custom mech is B-666 Luciferin. Ask any local mecha-fighter either name, and they’ll nod.”

“An urban legend?”

“Close enough.”

Ling Ya glanced back at Yekase, who stared up at the ceiling red as a sunrise, then pressed on. “What do SSSS and B-666 stand for?”

“No clue,” Ling Yi said, shrugging light as dandelion fluff.

“SSSS is Shooting Star Sky Striker,” Yekase cut in at last, words clicking like gears.

“As for B-xxx, that’s my invention index. B for battle tools; I’ve got N for normal tools.”

“So that’s it!” Surprise flashed across Ling Yi’s face like a firework.

“What’s so shocking?” Yekase asked, one brow arched like a bow.

“Uh,” Ling Yi scratched her cheek, sheepish as a cat. “Because it’s 666, I thought you’d go, ‘Actually the B is Beast!’ You know, wordplay…”

“You’ve played too much FGO,” Yekase sighed, a wave rolling its eyes.

Why 666?

Because there were 665 inventions before it.

Well, no kidding.

But Ling Yi’s disappointment drooped like a wet flag. “Really no? Like, the full-body armor opens outward, revealing a glowing inner frame… the ‘B-666’ paint splits, and the hidden ‘east’ letters slide out, making ‘Beast-666’—that kind of heart-pounding development—really, really no?”

“Really, really no.” It did sound thrilling, but the game had performance caps. Extra transformations were dead weight, slowing the main form like chains in mud. You’d end up spawning and instantly ‘cast off,’ a ceremonial shrug at best.

They entered the mall, a hive humming on a Wednesday night. The beef-bowl joint Yezi wanted had a line like a coiled dragon, so they climbed to higher floors, steps tapping like rain.

A poster snagged Ling Yi’s eye at a storefront, bright as a signal flare.

I know the taste of the Moon! Ingredients sourced on the Moon—let your taste buds feel one-sixth gravity!

“The taste of the Moon… I kinda want to try,” she said, curiosity rising like a kite.

“Didn’t we eat lunar beef last time?” Ling Ya asked, skeptical as shade.

“That’s why. If that was bad, I’d run from any ‘Made on the Moon’ tag like a cat from water.”

Fair enough. Ling Ya nodded, and they sat at a place called Moon Cocoon, the name floating soft as silk.

The waiter brought menus, pages rustling like leaves in wind.

Even the BGM was “1/6,” single track looping like a moon orbit. Was it a full lunar playlist, or just RNG irony?

“Wasabi Moonbeast Tentacles, Moon Dust Roast Chicken, Primeval Moon Stew…” Ling Yi read, each name like a cult mask.

…Wait. These dishes sounded a bit eldritch, like fog with teeth.

A prickle crawled up Yekase’s spine, a cat’s fur lifting in a draft. She scanned the room to anchor herself to the real—any twitching weirdos? Any wrong-angle shadows? None. …Had the trap sprung at the door?

Ling Ya watched Yezi’s sudden paranoia with baffled eyes, then stepped out to buy drinks, brisk as a breeze.

Ling Yi ordered fast, pen flashing like a needle. She asked Yezi’s opinion, got smoke for answers, handed back the menu, and drifted into her phone’s glow.

“Ling Yi, I feel… off,” Yekase murmured, unease coiling like mist.

“You’re not spooked by menu names, right? Chill. It’s all ambience,” Ling Yi said, a hand wave like a fan.

It better be… Yekase trusted her gut now like a wolf trusts wind; it was howling that this place wasn’t safe.

But nothing had actually happened. She couldn’t drag Ling Yi away by the sleeve; interest is a stubborn flame.

Fine. Cross the bridge when the river brings it. Adapt like water.

After a bit, Ling Ya came back hugging a huge Coke, the bottle dark as a well, and the dishes started landing like small moons.

First up: Moon Dust Roast Chicken. A male waiter set down a gray “stone,” dull as ash.

“???”

“All right, time to crack it!” he barked, a stage cue like thunder.

He yanked a machete from his coat. Steel flashed like winter sun.

“Holy—?!”

Clang!

One chop, and the “stone” split cleanly in two, halves crumbling like stale bread—turns out it was super-compressed dust, cocooning a lotus-leaf chicken.

“So it really is roast chicken…” Yezi exhaled, nerves unspooling like thread.

…Wait.

“Isn’t moondust harmful to humans?” she asked, doubt flickering like a candle.

“You’re asking that now?” Ling Ya shot her a look, sharp as a pin.

“Our moondust is modified by the Lunar Ecology Front,” the waiter said, smile bright as a signboard, machete still resting on his shoulder. “We removed harmful components and heat-compressed it to mimic Earth soil’s stickiness. It keeps a unique aroma but acts like clay. Please enjoy.”

Ling Yi peeled the lotus leaf, steam rising like spirit smoke, and tasted a bite.

“Not bad. There’s a medicinal note,” she said, eyes narrowing like a taster’s.

Medicinal… maybe that wasn’t a normal lotus leaf, a thought crept, spider-quiet.

“Yezi, what are you even worried about? If they can run in a downtown mall, they passed food safety. If you want actual SAN check cuisine, you won’t find it here,” Ling Yi said, cool as marble.

“Uh… fair point.” A cold bead slid down Yezi’s neck like rain. How had she not thought of that? This was a rule-of-law world; if the uncanny were real, the Organization upstairs would’ve monetized it already.

Zombies on generators, ghosts on payroll—they’d make it happen.

Relaxing, Yezi finally ate, flavor blooming like night flowers.

More dishes arrived in sequence, steam rising like morning mist. Yezi and Ling Ya loved the Moonbeast tentacles most; rumor said “moonbeast” was a gene-tweaked octopus that grew legs and walked on land. It still tasted juicy as spring water. Who knew what habits kept it that way.

…

Four men in overcoats and sunglasses walked in from the door, a block of moving black like a thunderhead.

“…?”

In her peripheral vision, a lump of night shifted. Yezi turned, and there they were—four out-of-season soldiers in matched coats.

This heat and overcoats? Not afraid of heat rash blooming like rashers?

“Table for four? This way, please—” The waiter, apparently used to greeting combatants straight off a shift with the Organization, didn’t blink. He guided them smoothly, a shepherd with wolves.

“I’m looking for your boss,” the lead man said, voice low as gravel.

“Sorry, the manager’s busy. If you need anything, tell me and—”

A steel blade kissed the waiter’s shoulder, cold as a river stone.

“I said, I’m looking for your boss.”

…

Oh, great. The sky finally cracked.

Yezi drew a breath, steadying herself like a reed after wind, and whispered into Ling Ya’s ear, “Told you something big was coming. My gut’s sharp.”

“Don’t be right here…” Ling Ya muttered, face pale as paper.

The restaurant fell silent in a flash, a pond under frost. Customers and staff stiffened, eyes cutting toward the storm’s eye.

Across the table, Ling Yi blinked hard, her gaze flipping like cards—Are you doing something? it asked. But however clever on ordinary days, Yezi was just a schoolgirl now, soft hands against bare steel. Words were paper boats in a flood.

She shook her head slowly. No way.

“You three! What’re you whispering about?” one of the men snapped, his boots thudding closer like drums.

He’d noticed them and was walking straight their way, shadow falling like a blade.

He lounged against the pillar by the table, lazy as a cat in noon heat.

He clocked the three as students; his guard dropped like a half-lowered visor; he just wanted to peacock.

One hand nested in his pocket like a burrow; the other lifted his shades, eyes baited like hooks.

“What, never seen someone from the life? Wanna play with daddy?”

That pocket definitely hid a weapon, a snake asleep.

Cold caution rose, a tide in her ribs.

Yekase chose to grin, swear she’d done nothing and called no cops, keep her skin intact—

Crack.

Her canine caught a stray peppercorn folded in the wasabi moon-beast tentacles, a grit under a wheel.

Numbness bloomed from the corner of her mouth, frost filming glass.

Ah—this shell could serve, a shard in flight.

…ptoo.

Before she knew it, her mouth spat the half-crushed pepper, sling-shot true for his eye.

—Ugh?! What the— my eye’s going numb—

She flipped her grip on the chopsticks, wood lightning in her fist.

Right hand flattened; she drove up from below, lifting the sky under his chin.

The tip punched through his lower jaw, pinning his tongue to his soft palate like a butterfly to cork.