Rosaria wandered through the museum with her mother, admiring the art that lined the walls. With a whisper of sound, they drifted toward other exhibits—statues, oddly crafted pieces meant to reflect something back to the population. Something unspoken.
She turned to her mother, whose resemblance was closer to a twin instead of a parent.
But the woman was gone.
Rosaria tried to speak, but her voice was lost—silenced beyond recovery. She opened her mouth, but nothing came. Not even a whisper.
Then, at the entrance of the clockwork art museum, Baven appeared. The doors stood wide open, blinding light flooding in behind him. She couldn’t see his face, only the shadow.
But she knew it was him.
Rosaria tried to call out. But it was like blowing air—no words, no sound, just breath.
“Perhaps you shouldn’t have lashed out so much,” she heard him say, “rather than allow your emotions do the driving.”
To do that, she’d have to calm down. Cool her temper. And that could take hours—especially when her rage bubbled like a storm beneath her skin.
So then . . . what did he mean?
Rosaria forced herself awake—a trick she’d learned growing up to escape the grip of nightmares. Once lucid, she could reshape the dream, turn its tide toward something gentler.
Her cybernetic smartphone chimed with a soft ringtone.
Who could be calling me at this hour?
She picked it up and answered groggily, “Hello?”
“Hey, Rosaria. How are tricks?” said a familiar voice.
“Oh—hi, Peter. You’re not going to believe what just happened…”
She launched into the story: the late-night incident, the unexpected appearance of her crush, and how he’d asked her on a date inside the game.
“You were right. I wasn’t going to believe it,” Peter replied, snidely.
They’d been close friends since the early days of Mythikar. Though they’d never met face to face, their bond had endured—occasional calls, shared memories, and the quiet comfort of knowing someone relatable was still out there.
Rosaria mock-laughed. “Ha ha, very funny. At least my story’s more true than those tall tales you fed me all those years ago. I know our lives are sad—but we don’t need to make them worse by spinning unrealistic stories. Unless you’re planning to profit off them.”
“That’s just cold, Rosaria.”
“Well, money drives this world. Might as well make some with your imagination if you can. Just don’t let it turn you greedy.”
Peter snorted. “Say I do get greedy—what would you suggest someone direct that greed toward?”
“Self-sustainability’s a prime example,” she said. “Forget the idea that money equals access. Focus on the desire itself, and ask whether it’ll help you in the long run. That way, you’ll avoid the kind of long-term problems that sneak up on you later.”
“There’s truth in what you’re saying,” Peter admitted, “but even self-sustainability has its risks.”
“Like what?” she asked.
“The land could flood and ruin the crops. Water systems might rust and break down, or collapsing roofs. That sort of thing.”
Rosaria scoffed. “Compared to people who let impulse drive them into generational cycles of pain—premature parenthood, broken homes, and emotional fallout—homesteading problems barely register.”
Peter chuckled. “I’d nearly forgotten how poetic you get in casual conversation.”
“How about you then, hmm? What’ve you been up to?”
“Just the usual—work, life, and the deprivation of a love life.”
“Still dreaming of becoming a modern Van Gogh in college?” she teased.
He sighed. “I need to build up money first. Who knew college could be so expensive?”
“I know, right?” she chuckled. “But it’s the hurdle we face to reach higher ground. Can’t let the system keep us down longer than it has to.”
“Speaking of hurdles,” Peter said, “any chance you’ll conquer your social problems sometime this century?”
That did it.
“Goodbye, Peter,” she said, and hung up.
Her encounter with Baven still clung to her thoughts, forming a tangled knot in her chest—one she couldn’t seem to unravel.
What will it take to sever these emotions from me? she growled.
In a huff, she dropped her phone to the floor and collapsed onto a pillow.
Ding.
She ignored it. Just a notification. Something she’d check later.
Ding.
Again.
She reluctantly reached for the phone, and sure enough—unread messages.
Rosaria? Are you there?
It’s Baven.
That was the first message.
The second was longer.
Even if you’re not available right now, I need to tell you—I have your proof. I’m desperate for help. But not just any help. I need the Phantom Dragon herself. Sylvanna Drake.
It’s no exaggeration: you’re the one I need.
I’m begging you. Please—give me a chance to explain, or at the very least, show some compassion.
Here’s the number to reach me. I’ll be waiting.
Compassion?
What would he know of compassion?
He hadn’t bothered to show any when she sat alone at lunch.
Not when she reached out, only to be brushed off—no effort, no kindness, no invitation into his world.
Her grip tightened around the phone, harder than she thought possible.
She was tempted to let him deal with his problem alone.
But that’s not what the heroine would do.
Not in any story worth telling.
Heroes helped—even villains—when they were in need.
No matter how illogical.
Because it was right.
The right thing now. . . was to set aside her feelings.
And answer his call.
This knowledge was like needles in her mouth.
Ok, fine. Let’s meet in person again.
I don’t trust any photos you send me.
Bring your proof. Name the time and place.
Send.
Several minutes passed.
Then came the reply:
Let’s meet at the neighborhood park—tomorrow at noon.
I don’t want to cause you too much travel trouble.
And don’t worry. I’ll bring plenty of evidence for my argument.
Rosaria refused to be the kind of protagonist who trusted words without proof.
She needed to see—to believe with her own eyes.
In the meantime, she made quiet preparations.
Arranged time off from work.
Returned her library books.
informed the people she spoke with regularly that she might vanish for a while—and not to worry if she did.
By nightfall, it was done.
She rested, knowing tomorrow would ask more of her than usual.
Baven practiced breathing exercises early that morning.
Sleep had barely touched him—his nerves too restless, his anxiety too loud.
“I don’t know about this, Celia. This is the same girl who had a crush on me. She seemed pretty convinced I silently scorned her—hell hath no wrath and all. How am I supposed to persuade her to come with me when she’s in that mindset?”
He worried she wouldn’t come.
Truthfully, Baven knew as little about her as she did about him.
“Think of it this way, Master,” Celia said gently. “This is your chance to mend fences with Rosaria.
If you make an effort—as she once did for you—then you’ve done your part. What she chooses next is hers alone.”
Baven nodded absentmindedly.
There were times he worried about Celia’s diet—she had the appearance of a walking skeleton.
Just then, his broad-shouldered bodyguard, Albertus, stepped into the room.
“She’s right, you know, sir,” he said in his crisp British accent.
“When it comes to the opposite gender, it’s practically impossible to know what they’re thinking—unless you’ve come to understand them deeply, or you’re one of those rare types who can read strangers like a statistical map.”
Baven loosed a long exhale. “You’re both right. Whatever happens, happens—that’s it. And I’m not going to let anything hinder me.” He gathered the items he’d laid out the night before—each chosen to help persuade Rosaria to his side—and tucked them into his backpack with quiet resolve. He waited, letting the minutes drift toward noon before finally heading out.
Rosaria arrived at the meeting spot shortly before high noon. Baven was already seated beneath the pavilion with his familiar posture and unreadable gaze. “You could have chosen a different place to meet face-to-face, you know.”
“Well, since you’re having some difficulty getting by as it is, I didn’t want you to waste money or go somewhere beyond your walking range,” he said lackadasically.
“I’ll have you know I’m perfectly capable of walking an hour and a half to my destination,” she retorted snidely. “While I could always use the exercise, I do have a car. I just don’t use it much.”
“Oh. . .” He regarded her thoughtfully, the muscles slipping and sliding beneath his skin. Despite all the years apart, just sitting in front of him still made every cell in her body hum—vibrate with the adrenaline his mere presence could trigger. Why did she have to be so drawn to finely-toned men?
Rosaria leaned forward, arms crossed on the table, summoning every ounce of self-control to contain herself. “You have no idea how I see the world,” she growled.
He flinched. “Still so hostile toward me?”
“It’s not like I have much reason to trust you. You had your chance, and you passed it up like a fool.” She drummed her fingertips against the table.
“Right. Before we get down to business,” said Baven, “as desperate as I am for your assistance, I’m just as curious—how long have you been Sylvanna Drake?”
About time. She stopped thrumming her fingers.
“I’ve been playing the game since it came out. People did other things to cope with the stress and trials of life—drugs, smoking, whatever. I played games and binged TV. I’ve been a gamer for as long as I can remember. After school, every day, I’d log in—questing, leveling up. When I maxed out, I needed another excuse to keep playing, so I got into PVP. It gave everyone an even chance at victory, no matter what gear they had. That’s how it was designed.”
She hesitated. “I needed to hurt something whenever. . . things. . . got to me. At least there, I felt more like myself. Less ignored. Cyberspace was more of a home to me than this reality ever was.”
Rosaria recalled the memories like recurring dreams—fond, electric, and alive.
“I fought battle after battle and never tired of the chills that would course through me every time. Some days, I went through several matches without realizing how much damage I’d taken. And then came the tournament. I took the championship and earned the name Phantom Dragon. Since then, I’ve defended my title against anyone who tried to take it.”
“Life happened,” she continued, “and I became inactive. Least till you showed up and pulled me back into the fray.”
Her stomach rumbled. She shifted in her seat from discomfort, weakened from the lack of food.
Baven giggled and placed a bag of takeout on the table. Blood rushed to her cheeks.
“I thought you might be hungry, so I brought this. It’s from the burger joint—I ordered it for you, kept everything sealed, and reheated it before I left.”
He hesitated, glancing at her. “I now know that was presumptuous. I don’t know if you even like that kind of food.”
“I also brought some sandwiches.” He hooked a thumb over his shoulder. “They’re in the limo. If you’d rather have those, I can go grab them.”
He had been famous at the schools they’d attended together. Rumors that he was loaded had always floated around. It seemed they were true—bodyguards stood near the sleek black limo parked just outside the park gates. Either he had connections… or he owned the whole operation. The latter felt more likely.
Rosaria delicately cleared her throat. “I’ll try the burger meal, thank you.” She accepted the food from him. “There. I told you mine; now tell me yours.”
Baven was dumbfound at her. This strong, famous, masked woman he fell for was this shy, awkward, strange girl from high school? He should have known to take better heed to the phrase that not everything is what it seems. With this new knowledge, he was having difficulty keeping hit wits and not being tempted to poke fun at her. “Not so weary about me poisoning you then?”
“There’s no sense in you poisoning me over being the top player. Sure, I made the most money from my position as champion—but anyone can earn from Mythikar. And I’ve been inactive for so long, it’s likely someone else holds the title now. Beyond that, it’s just a game. And as you’ve repeatedly declared, you need my help. So it’s not exactly logical to kill the one person whose help you’re counting on.”
After her blunt speech, she resumed happily enjoying her cheeseburger.
“Let’s start with Mythikar,” he said hoarsely and spoke quickly, “I’m the one who wrecked the safe zone.”
Rosaria choked on her burger. Even though they weren’t inside the game, he could see the redness of rage blooming in her eyes.
“What? How could you?” She slammed her hands down on the wooden surface.
“I hacked the game,” Baven said carefully. “I found a secret server—empty, untouched. I tried turning it inside out. That’s why it looks so bleak now. But the code… it’s vast. Intricate. Alive, almost.”
Rosaria blinked, stunned. “But why do such a thing?”
Her bafflement was expected. Baven had no choice. He needed to comb through the game’s architecture, thread by thread.
“I played something else for a while,” he said, voice low. “Until I started hearing Diana’s name in the riddles that keep surfacing in Mythikar.”
“Why would that matter to you?” Rosaria said too sharply.
“The creator of the game. . . . .is my mother.”
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