The room was quiet, the kind of quiet that made every creak of the floorboard feel like a gunshot.

  Light filtered in through the sts of the blinds, dust motes swirling in zy spirals through the air. The pce smelled like Roberto, cologne with a hint of citrus, and something deeper, maybe old leather or a worn book spine.

  I padded across the room on bare feet and eased down onto the edge of the bed, careful not to jostle him too much at first. “Hey…” I whispered, my voice barely louder than the rustle of sheets.

  No response. Just a low, steady snore, the kind that sounded suspiciously smug. I sighed, a little louder this time. “Roberto?”

  Still nothing. His snores intensified, as if in defiance, and I swore he was grinning in his sleep. It wasn’t just sleep, it was a slumber worthy of the undead, and here I was trying to summon an undead knight with nothing but my voice.

  That mental image sent me into a quiet giggle, which only encouraged him to snore louder. Rolling my eyes, I reached over and gently shook his shoulder. “Come on, you sleepy corpse.”

  That finally got a reaction. His eyes cracked open, dazed and bleary, unfocused, as they scanned the room before nding on me. “Charlie?” he mumbled, and with no warning, he wrapped his arms around me in a surprisingly tight hug.

  “Wait—huh?” I froze, completely caught off guard as he pulled me in and promptly… fell asleep again. On my shoulder. Snoring again, without missing a beat.

  “Ro–Roberto?” I protested, trying to wriggle free, but he was dead weight, clinging to me like I was his favorite pillow. A very confused pillow.

  “I would suggest cold water,” Jerry offered helpfully in my ear, his voice far too happy for the situation.

  “Jerry, shut up,” I hissed, biting back a grin and opting for a less… aquatic solution. I shook Roberto’s shoulder again, this time with intent. “Come on, wake up, you walking stereotype!”

  That finally seemed to seal the deal. His arms tightened around me once more, then loosened slightly, only to tighten again as if confirming I was real and not some odd dream. “Charlie?” His voice was hoarse, full of confusion and sleep, and muffled slightly against my shoulder.

  “Yes?” I asked, still trapped in his half-conscious embrace, stifling a giggle that was bubbling up like soda in a shaken can.

  “Madonna mia…” He pulled back just enough to blink up at me, bleary-eyed and utterly baffled. “Why are you hugging me?”

  I blinked right back, just as confused. “I didn’t!” The absurdity hit me all at once, and I burst into ughter, a real, uncontrolled ugh that vibrated through my chest, shaking off the weight that had been sitting there for hours.

  A ugh that felt like it had a soul behind it, whatever that meant.

  After everything, Irwen’s revetions felt like some distant fever dream, surreal and hazy. I was still here, still me, and I could still do something. Even if it was as stupidly insignificant as destroying an illegally built mansion.

  Roberto groaned, rubbing at his temples as if trying to massage the pieces of his brain back together. “Ma che cosa, what happened?” He peered at me through narrowed eyes. “I remember… trying to fix the… spoiler?” His hand dropped, and he stared at his fingers like they’d betrayed him. “Perché diavolo would I be fixing the spoiler at tre di mattina in the workshop?”

  “You were wasted, my lovely Roberto,” I said with another giggle, brushing some sleep-tousled hair away from his forehead. “Spectacurly wasted. And I was too. I just wanted to thank you for taking care of the drunken me. Again.”

  He flopped back onto the pillow with a dramatic sigh. “Eh, no problem, signorina! Ubriaca or not, you’re still troppo bel to compin about.”

  “I’ll take that as a compliment,” I said, rising to my feet with a smirk, brushing down my hoodie and smoothing out my leggings. “Well, I should be—”

  Before I could finish, his hand caught mine gently, his fingers warm and rough against my skin. His grip wasn’t forceful, just enough to say wait. “No, no, signorina, at least a caffè before you go. Leaving without coffee? è una barbarità!”

  I nodded with a smile. “Sure.”

  As it turned out, Roberto’s idea of getting caffè wasn’t the groggy, stumbling affair I had in mind. Instead of tossing a pod into a machine, he took my hand and led me downstairs, still tousled from sleep, still half-dressed in whatever passed for his lounging clothes.

  And there, like some hidden gem I’d never noticed before, was a café inside his building.

  Cozy. The walls were lined with exposed brick and shelves of mismatched coffee mugs. The air was thick with the aroma of freshly ground beans and warm pastries, and sunlight streamed through tall gss windows that framed a quiet street, where only a handful of early risers strolled by with no particur urgency.

  Behind the counter stood a petite redhead with a wide smile and an apron that read Caffeine Is My Love Language. She lit up when she saw Roberto. “Ciao, fratello!” she said before turning her attention to me, her eyes sparkling with interest.

  “This is my sister, Isabel,” Roberto said, gesturing between us like a proud matchmaker. “Isabel, this is Charlie. She needs coffee. A special coffee.”

  What followed was a passionate, five-minute debate, in full Italian, about what kind of coffee I should have. I caught only fragments: something about “robusta troppo forte,” then “delicata ma potente,” and then something that sounded dangerously close to “she has the eyes of someone who needs at least two shots.”

  Eventually, I was handed a steaming cup of something rich, topped with a delicate swirl of foam. I didn’t know what it was, but it was strong, slightly sweet, and exactly what I didn’t know I needed.

  I sipped in silence, watching the zy world outside through the café’s rge windows, the gentle clink of cups and indistinct murmur of voices soothing the st of my swirling thoughts.

  Maybe I just needed to think.

  “Okay,” I finally said with a smile that didn’t feel forced anymore, setting the empty cup down. “Now I really have to go.”

  Roberto nodded, falling into step beside me as we stepped out into the crisp morning air. “I’ll walk you out, signorina. After all, wouldn’t want you to forget your soul here.”

  I rolled my eyes. “You’re never letting that go, are you?”

  “Not a chance.”

  He took my hand again, fingers warm and calloused from years of tinkering with machines, and led me around the side of the building with a casual confidence that said he did this sort of thing all the time. The morning air was cool against my cheeks, still tinged with the scent of espresso and baked pastries from the café.

  We reached a heavy steel door nestled into the side of the building, and Roberto pulled it open with a familiar creak, revealing his personal garage.

  The interior was bathed in warm, golden light from old-fashioned sconces, illuminating a pristine space that smelled like oil, leather, and the faint metallic tang of tools. His car, the same beast he’d drifted into a parking space st night, sat there.

  I didn’t ask Jerry if we drove totally wasted, but I suspected the car didn’t even have a self-drive AI.

  “Uhm, Roberto?” I blinked, a bit confused, my gaze drifting from the car to him. “I’d like to see your car, sure, but…”

  He tilted his head, just as confused. “Aspetta... I drive you home, sì? Or... no?”

  “Oh—no, no, that would be great!” I ughed, the sound escaping before I could stop it, and silently berated myself for being dense. Of course he was offering. I’d told him I didn’t want to walk alone.

  He listened. That shouldn’t surprise me, but… it did. And that felt oddly nice.

  The ride home was mercifully uneventful, only one slightly aggressive turn over the sidewalk that had me clutching the door handle, but by the time we pulled up to my pce, I was humming. Specifically, the Rimelion theme. The melody stuck in my head like a warm, comforting memory, and I kept humming it as I unlocked my door and stepped into the mess I’d called home for the past few chaotic days.

  Empty bottles, scattered clothes, it was a war zone of procrastination and avoidance.

  I sighed, rolled up my sleeves, and started cleaning. Dishes into the sink. Trash into bags. I moved, a rhythm to match the urgency I suddenly felt to set things right.

  Truth was, I was stalling.

  Deying re-entry into Rimelion, the world where, apparently, I had a soul. Where I wasn’t just a code pretending to be a person. The weight of Irwen’s words still clung to me like a heavy coat I couldn’t shrug off.

  Was I really that different? Was the Charlie in the game someone else entirely?

  Nobody knew how this tech worked. If what Riker said was true, it wasn’t just tech. It was magic. Real magic. The kind that rewrote rules and bent realities.

  No wonder Rimelion couldn’t be replicated or cloned.

  With the apartment pristine, every surface wiped, every piece of trash gone, even the floor suspiciously clean, I stood in the middle of the room with no more excuses to dey. I inhaled deeply, taking in the oddly satisfying scent of the cleaner and sterile order. It felt… artificial, like I’d cleaned not to live in it, but to prove I could.

  Whatever. Time to face it.

  I stripped off my hoodie and leggings, tossing them onto the freshly vacuumed floor with mild defiance. Who cared? It’d be messy again soon enough. Then, with one st gnce at my reflection in the mirror, barefoot, hair wild again, eyes staring too deeply, I stepped into the capsule and entered Rimelion.

  In an instant, I was back in my castle. It didn’t feel different. Not exactly. But there was a… hum beneath my skin, like I was more present. More here. Was that what it meant to be real? Or some game quirk?

  I didn’t dwell on it.

  Instead, I stretched, cracking my neck, and with a spring in my step, headed toward my office. The castle halls echoed with the muted rhythm of heels on polished stone and the soft murmur of servants and soldiers moving through the early morning bustle. They saluted as I passed.

  Still weird. Me commanding people.

  Yet here I was, a princess in a stone fortress with banners bearing my snowfke crest, a company and alliance under my name, and now... looming war.

  The moment I stepped into the castle’s hallway, I was ambushed by paperwork incarnate.

  Lo stood at the door to my office, papers in hand, tapping it rhythmically with her quill like a sword master ready to duel.

  Her expression?

  That look, the one reserved for people who forget very important things. It was the “you have disappointed me greatly, but I will not yell because I am too good” look.

  “Uhm, hi, Lo?” I tried, my voice inching toward hopeful. “Have I… maybe… possibly forgotten something?”

  Her lips pursed. Dangerously.

  “Lady, yes. You promised to return this morning,” she stated efficiently like a finely sharpened dagger. “Technically, it is still the morning. Barely. And you are not the st one to arrive. However, now you are here, the war council will convene in fifteen minutes.” Her eyes narrowed slightly, as if daring me to argue. “In the High Strategy Chamber.”

  I blinked, brain still not working properly. “...We have a High Strategy Chamber?”

  “Yes,” she said, with the firm finality of a judge handing down a sentence. “You insisted on calling it The Map Room, but everyone else refused. Including me.”

  I squinted at her, pcing my hands on my hips. “...Rude.”

  Lo didn’t dignify that with a response, only raised an eyebrow and resumed scribbling on her papers like a woman with pns that didn’t involve my nonsense.

  “Alright, what’s on the agenda?” I asked, trying to save myself before she buried me under a mountain of logistics.

  She finally cracked a tiny, ominous smile.