— The Lie Between Real and Illusion
Noon.
The city remained eerily silent, as if time itself had stalled.
In the distance, the heavy footsteps of a pandemic patrol echoed faintly through the empty streets.
Shawn sat quietly at his desk.
The computer screen had just gone dark—it marked the end of his video conference not long ago.
He stared at the dimmed terminal, Da's final instruction still ringing in his mind:
"Execute in silence."
It felt like a dream. Or a warning.
He couldn't tell where reality ended and illusion began.
Suddenly, Quinn appeared before him—battered, bloodshot eyes, fractured armor, and a face twisted in fury.
He roared:
"Do you even understand what you've done?!"
Shawn, stunned for a moment, stood up and caught him.
"You're alive?"
"Because they pulled out." Quinn's eyes locked onto him, dark and unreadable.
"The battle's over?" Shawn frowned.
"The entire O.S.S. legion—just stopped. Like they got... some kind of order." Quinn's voice was low. "Then they retreated, completely. Like a receding tide."
Shawn stared at him in disbelief.
"Did they leave anything behind?"
Quinn nodded grimly.
"A whisper. Just one sentence—'the agreement is in place.'"
A chill ran through Shawn's spine.
He was just about to explain the cooperation he had reached with Da during the video call when Quinn cut him off sharply:
"You trusted him? Da?!"
Shawn froze, his expression darkening.
He gave a brief rundown of the meeting: Da had proposed collaboration, promised to deploy the National Guard, political support, and a delay on the "Restart Plan."
Quinn's jaw clenched.
"You've been played."
"That's not an alliance. It's a cage."
The air thickened with silence.
"Did it ever occur to you," Quinn stepped closer, "why they never punished you for binding the Core without authorization? It's because they never wanted to control it. They just need you—the key—to open what they themselves can't touch."
Shawn narrowed his eyes.
"You have proof?"
Quinn reached into his shattered armor and pulled out a fragmented data shard. With a flick, he tossed it into the air.
A faint projection flickered to life—distorted, glitching.
A broken voice echoed through the static:
"...agreement confirmed... Riftborn locked... withdrawal as promised…"
Quinn's voice dropped to a near whisper.
"Timestamp on this transmission... nearly identical to the time of your Meeting."
Shawn's pupils shrank. His heartbeat quickened.
Before Shawn could say another word, his terminal suddenly jolted—buzzing so violently it nearly slipped from his hand.
He glanced down.
The red countdown—once seared into the center of the screen like a curse—was gone.
In its place: a blank, blinding white.
No numbers. No trace.
As if it had never existed.
His breath caught.
He tapped to refresh—again.
Again.
Nothing.
He grabbed the secondary pad on the desk—same result.
Where the deep crimson digits had once pulsed like a war drum, now there was only sterile, empty silence.
"The countdown..." Shawn whispered, voice hollow. "It's gone. The cycle's paused..."
A strange stillness fell around him.
Outside the window, clouds began to swirl in unnatural spirals—silent, slow, as if the sky itself were holding its breath.
The room dimmed for a moment, the lights flickering without cause.
Then—his terminal buzzed again.
Incoming call: Kent.
His thumb hovered over the screen—but didn't touch it.
Behind him, Quinn's voice sliced through the quiet like a blade.
"No. Not paused—hidden."
Shawn turned. Quinn's eyes were locked on the terminal, jaw tight, the color drained from his face.
"They don't want you to know what time it really is."
His voice was lower now, colder. Almost reverent.
"The Restart…"
He stepped closer, voice barely above a whisper:
"…may already be unfolding—on another path."
That night.
Shawn lay in bed, wide awake.
The dim glow of the streetlamp filtered in through the window, casting pale shadows across the ceiling—a false sense of peace.
Everything felt real. And yet... everything felt like a lie.
Every truth seemed like a meticulously crafted illusion.
He sat up, his gaze unconsciously drawn to the window.
The light in his grandfather's study was still on, quietly glowing in the dark.
"Lucy…"The woman who had burned herself out for her beliefs.
And the gray journal she had left behind.
A sudden jolt struck his mind—like a flash of lightning:
"Find the missing pages."
He threw on his robe and stepped out toward the study.
His grandfather sat by the window, a fresh cup of tea at his side.
The air carried a faint scent of leaves.
The journal lay open on the desk. The first few pages—still blank.
"You're reading her journal too?" Shawn asked softly.
The old man didn't look up. He just said,
"What she left behind… wasn't meant for who you were back then."
Shawn hesitated.
"Then why did she hide it?"
A quiet sigh.
"Because back then, you couldn't have handled it."
The lamplight flickered gently over the page. Then, as if summoned by time itself, the first blank sheet slowly revealed a line of handwriting:
"Your memory was rewritten, and everything you've seen is only what you allowed yourself to believe."
Beneath that, in even smaller script, another line emerged:
"Call my name: Lucy. Chant: OMMETA. You will reclaim your memory."
Shawn's pupils contracted. A memory surged forth—
not long ago, deep within the Domain of Meta-Origin, he had often heard people softly chanting a word that lingered like a dream:
OMMETA.
At the time, he hadn't fully grasped its meaning.
It sounded like a mantra—gentle, weightless, yet filled with gravity.
It felt like faith. Like awakening.
Now, he finally understood—
It wasn't just a chant.
It was a key.
The only path she left him—
to awaken the truth buried within himself.
He slowly closed the page, eyes resting on the remaining three.
Still blank. Still silent.
What else had she left unsaid?
And what part of him… still wasn't ready?
The light in the study flickered gently.
He knew then:
What he had to find next wasn't written anywhere—
It was buried in the parts of himself he'd forgotten.