The final bell sings its tired metallic chime, and the whole class scatters like someone cut the string holding a bunch of balloons together. Backpacks zip, chairs scrape, conversations burst and fade. I should be heading out with them, chasing what little free time I have before assignments crush my evening again—but fate, in the form of the weekly cleaning roster, insists I stay. Afternoon duty. The natural predator of gaming hours.

  If only they’d left me on the noon shift like last term; that one that didn’t affect my schedule of doing my homework and gaming. Now, the longer I stay here, the more time for gaming gets squeezed. But logic demands the hierarchy: schoolwork first, gaming second. Even if every neuron in my skull protests.

  Once the room quiets, I start the ritual. Wipe the blackboard—our academic monolith—until it gleams. Grab a towel from the locker, polish the windows, restore the world to some illusion of order. Next task—

  “Aye, nerd’s already at it,” someone calls. “Sorry not sorry we just arrived. Student council meetings are a draaaaag.”

  Ray stands near the doorframe, blond hair catching stray sunlight like someone polished him. He walks by the cleaning locker with Mark and Joshua in tow, radiating that strange luminescence that popular people generate as if by photosynthesis. Too bright. Too polished. My skin prickles the way it does when a fluorescent tube buzzes just before dying.

  “It’s fine. It’s not like I can’t clean the classroom without you three.” I keep working the sill. “And Prez’ll scold me if I skip cleaning.”

  Mark snorts, blue eyes gleaming. “He’s right, Ray. Unlike you, he doesn’t enjoy being screamed at.” He pokes Ray’s leg with a broom—more theatrical than threatening. “Speaking of Prez, you into her or something?”

  Joshua picks up the erasers, leans out the window, and smacks them together. Chalk dust blooms into the orange sky. He laughs. “Ray? Fancy the Prez? Nay. He only wants that she fancy him.” He gestures broadly. “In a word: narcissist.”

  They’re so noisy. Cleaning is supposed to be quiet—meditative, even. A domestic cooldown phase. Instead, I get commentary. Commentary with the volume slider broken.

  Ah— I’m finally done.

  I return the towels to the locker and glance over. “Ray, you should throw out the garbage.”

  He narrows his eyes. “Can’t you just do it?”

  “You asshole, you’re also assigned to clean,” Mark snaps, brandishing the broom like a sword that wishes it were sharper.

  Ray throws up his hands. “I get it, I get it! I was just playin’ around. Geez.” He pouts his way to the trash can, forcing everything into a black plastic bag. “Ugh… it reeks. Why do I have to do this…?”

  Joshua steps beside me. At this distance, his height feels exaggerated—six inches taller. No wonder he’s ace of the school’s basketball team.

  “That’s how trash is supposed to smell, you pampered dingus.” He glances down to meet my gaze. “Sorry about this guy. You’ve gotta be irritated by now.”

  Of course I’m irritated. Schools function through rules because organizations—like schools—only stay functional when they agree on predictable behavior—civilization as an emergent property of failure modes. Classroom cleaning duty is one of those micro-systems that keeps entropy at bay. Watching someone ignore it feels like watching a bug mess up a carefully written code.

  But letting that irritation spill out would just escalate things. No good system benefits from unnecessary noise.

  “I’m used to it,” I say. “And it’s not like I’ll just do whatever he tells me.”

  Joshua grins, equal parts impressed and entertained. “That’s some guts!” He claps my back, sending a shockwave through my spine. “Standing up to one of the most popular guys in the school takes guts.”

  “It’s not guts. It’s having self respect.” I glance at him. “And aren’t you popular too? Shouldn’t you be… I don’t know… socially obligated to enable his nonsense?”

  Joshua bursts into laughter, and even Mark cracks up while sweeping. Huh. My joke actually lands—proof their humor isn’t entirely built on cringe callouts and internet brainrot.

  Mark straightens, about to say something. “We may be friends, but we will not taking his side if he’s wrong—”

  He stops.

  Not a stumble. Not a pause for dramatic flair. His voice just… dies.

  We all turn toward him.

  “Cat got your tongue, smart guy?” Ray ties the garbage bag tight. “Hey, I’m asking you—”

  He stops too.

  Because all of us finally register it.

  A massive circle glows beneath us—etched across the floor in impossible geometry, spinning through colors like a kaleidoscope with a mind of its own. Intricate symbols, layered rings, patterns that feel familiar only because every fantasy game and anime I’ve consumed has primed my brain for this shape. But this one dwarfs all those fiction-sized diagrams. This one’s colossal. Alive.

  A magic circle. A literal magic circle. Under our feet.

  Light erupts—too bright, too many hues, as if physics is improvising new wavelengths out of spite. The world vanishes in a single swallow of brilliance.

  Then everything becomes wrong.

  I’m torn apart without pain, like my entire sense of self is being unscrewed, thread by microscopic thread. My body dissolves into something that isn’t sensation or thought. I’m being moved—or remade—shifted from what was into what will be. The whole process vandalizes logic so thoroughly that my neurons give up trying to map the experience to anything real. And somewhere in that prismatic storm, I’m almost convinced I glimpsed a color that shouldn’t exist.

  Ah…

  My consciousness unravels.

  I… I… I—

  “You four have been chosen and reincarnated into this realm beyond your own.” The king raises a jeweled, weathered hand, voice echoing across the vast chamber. “From this day forth, you four young men shall be the heroes of this realm—the light of every nation. Rise with pride!”

  I can’t believe it…

  This is just like the Isekai animes I have watched. No wayyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy.

  This is literally an Isekai intro. The kind with overproduced theme music and sparkly backgrounds. No way. No way. No—way!

  I force my breathing steady and look at the three beside me. Still kneeling. None of us dares to stand. In our world we don’t kneel to anyone, not even the prime minister, and yet here we are—positioned like props before a king in full regalia, surrounded by armored guards who look very willing to stab first and ask questions never.

  We woke up already kneeling. And right now, standing feels unsafe.

  Finally, after a long time, Ray swallows, one big gulp it’s actually audible. “Reincarnated…? But we didn’t die. How are we here? And… where the hell even are we?”

  For someone who mostly relies on his face and whatever social physics governs the popular-kid strata to get by, he manages to articulate the collective panic surprisingly well. Moments ago we were cleaning our classroom; now we’re part of a tableau straight out of a fantasy novel—kneeling before a king, flanked by guards in full Medieval armor polished enough to threaten my reflection.

  It’s thrilling, in the abstract sense. Also quietly terrifying, the same flavor of terror I get before the brutal final examinations—not loud, not catastrophic, just a pressure in the sternum reminding me I’m about to be tested on principles that will absolutely not show mercy.

  We were moved between worlds. Maybe even universes. That’s the part my brain keeps chewing on. Movement across spacetime via unknown mechanism should involve energy scales large enough to shred matter into quarks. Yet here I am, kneecaps intact. No scorch marks. No screaming atoms. Even school uniform is pristine. Only a king announcing our “reincarnation.” Which makes no sense, because reincarnation requires Step One: death. We skipped that part. Unless my definition is outdated in whatever cosmology governs this place.

  But the real dread coils from a simple genre statistic: Isekai protagonists almost never go home. Not because of plot reasons—because of narrative ones. The world wants heroes. The story wants permanence. That thought alone scrambles half my brain into paralysis while the other half tries to parse the absurdity.

  A guard steps forward—a woman in armor more elaborate than the rest, chased in gold and shaped with intimidating elegance. “The artifact which did summon you and your companions had wrought new bodies for all of you, that your souls may dwell within this realm.” She gestures to a gray cube engraved with impossible geometry, like someone trapped an Escher sketch inside a mineral. “In verity, you were born anew.”

  Born anew…

  Well, that handles the metaphysics—sort of. Though the idea that this cube rebuilt my body from scratch invites dozens of philosophical crises I don’t have the RAM for right now. A cube that reconstructs my body from scratch? Great. Add that to the growing list of things violating conservation laws, identity theory, and basic sanity.

  But as my thoughts reassemble into something resembling rationality, another issue looms so large it practically backspaces every other concern. Heroes. The king literally called us heroes. Why us? What does “hero” even mean in this world? And—

  …What the fuck?

  The stream of information slam-dunks straight into my mind. Not visually. Not aurally. Just there—like someone unzipped a file directly into my neurons. No floating windows. No glowing hologram panels. No obnoxious MMO sound cues. Just sudden, pristine knowledge—like the cold shock of remembering mid-subway ride that you might’ve left the stove on back home.

  It’s convenient, annoyingly so. If an RPG interface had literally popped into the air, I would’ve judged this world for lazy reality design. That kind of cliché belongs to fantasy stories written by people who outsourced imagination to their favorite RPG game.

  Still… this knowledge feels disturbingly innate, as if some part of me always knew it. The bonuses sit in my awareness the way muscle memory does—familiar, baked-in, not something newly grafted. And that might be the most unsettling part. Being told I have “no level cap” is one thing; having my mind accept it without protest is another. Like my brain’s already been patched to accommodate this world’s illogical logic.

  I glance at the other three. Their faces mirror my own confusion—wide eyes, tight jaws, the shared expression of four people whose worldview has just been drop?kicked. Looks like they got the same weird epiphany that I did.

  Mark lets out a weak breath, almost a laugh. “Blessing granted… Hero?” He repeats the mental prompt we all felt, as if saying it aloud will make it less absurd.

  The king lifts a hand and rests his chin on it, posture regal in a way that feels rehearsed. “All shall be revealed in due time, young man. For now, rest. Recollect your thoughts.”

  We’re left in a chamber—a great chamber—its architecture uncannily familiar, like the pages from a Medieval architecture textbook back on Earth. Vaulted ceiling. Heavy beams. Ornate furniture carved with motifs that would make museum curators salivate. Even the layout is suspiciously accurate: this room sits at the upper end of the hall, exactly where a great chamber should be in an H?plan manor from the late Medieval to early Tudor period.

  It’s almost too accurate, like someone rebuilt history from memory and filled in the missing parts with fantasy flair. Yet even with all the Medieval authenticity, some details are… off. Little anachronisms lurking in corners, like mismatched puzzle pieces. Not the place itself but something else. I’m noticing them, cataloging them, but my mind is too scrambled from the whole reincarnation fiasco to interrogate them out loud. The others look equally overwhelmed.

  Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.

  We sit, waiting for whatever the king has in store. Not like we have agency right now.

  Mark buries his face in his hands, shoulders hunched. “We might… not be able to go back.”

  Ray shrugs, but it’s brittle. “Yeah, maybe. But think about it—we get a cooler life here, right? I mean, we’re literally called heroes and… stuff…” His voice fades, enthusiasm dissolving like sugar in water.

  The weight of it presses on all of us. No going back. No home. No parents, routines, mundane annoyances—the entire scaffolding of our old lives wiped clean.

  It hits them hard. It hits me too, but the reason coils differently inside my chest.

  After all—

  How could I let myself be brought here without my consent? This is… an outstanding turn of events but… ugh… I’m feeling a bit frustrated. Okay, cool down…

  Joshua chimes in with that calm, mountain-wide steadiness he naturally radiates. His hand lands on Mark’s back, solid as a pledge. “We stay sharp for now. We can figure out how to get home once we aren’t staring down royalty.”

  It’s strange how easily he wears composure—like the situation only grazed him instead of uprooted everything.

  My gaze roams the room again. Gold filigree threads around the columns, catching sunlight like constellations trapped in metal. The room is too large, too quiet, an echo chamber meant to make men feel small. And right now, it’s working splendidly.

  “We should,” I murmur, folding the words under my breath. “Let’s be ready for whatever the king throws at us. And maybe push him for answers while we’re at it.”

  Great chambers in Medieval worlds—if they follow Earth’s history—are places where power performs itself. Ceremonial stages. Places where truths are dressed up and lies wear crowns. Which means we’re already tangled in something heavy.

  Part of me hopes, almost childishly, for the classic exposition dump. A benevolent info-fairy king who will explain why four confused highschool boys from another world have been dragged into this stereotypical fantasy world. Because right now, we know nothing. And nothing feels like the most dangerous terrain of all.

  Ray tries to rally his usual swagger and fails. “This feels like something I’ve read before,” he mutters. “You know. Those web novels… the Isekai litRPG ones.”

  Well, it is kind of one, too, huh? Technically, it’s hitting every note of that genre already—status information dumped straight into our minds, arbitrary bonuses, weird reincarnation. But I never really consumed that type of media. If I want the RPG experience, I can boot up a game.

  All said, relying on Earth-based fiction to navigate this world is reckless at best, suicidal at worst. So even if those medias and this world are similar, I can’t just nilly-willy just use them as instructional materials. I need real data, observation, deduction—facts over fan service. For now, I have to collect more—

  The door creeks open. They’re here.

  We straighten instinctively as the king enters, flanked by guards who stand in perfect formation. He sits opposite us, posture immaculate, and beside him stands a girl, probably our age. Her long hair is a silver-white cascade, complementing skin pale as alabaster with just a hint of rose at the cheeks. Her eyes are arresting—a pure, uninterrupted azure, like the deep sea mirrored in a cloudless sky.

  Everyone’s gaze drifts her way; Ray’s already visibly flustered, heat rising to his cheeks. I, however, focus on her clothing. It’s an elegant, modest ensemble—a two-piece dress that somehow blends the formal austerity of Medieval royalwear with the subtle flair of nineteen-eighties’ fashion. The top is a plain white shirtdress over a structured waistcoat; the skirt flows long and frilled, regal yet oddly modern. It’s anachronistic, yet it fits, like a memory that never existed but feels familiar.

  “I wonder if this is the part where the heroine gets introduced,” I mutter, more to myself than anyone else.

  Joshua lets out a short chuckle, half grimace. “Didn’t expect you of all people to muse those kinds of things,” he says, voice carrying amusement.

  The king raises a brow, then exhales and gestures toward the girl. “This is my daughter—Genovefa. I see that she pleases all of your liking.”

  Daughter…? So a princess!? Yep. This really is the heroine introduction moment. My brain screams, coincidence? I think not! It feels almost staged, like they anticipated exactly how a fantasy narrative should hit four confused high school boys. And his tone… light, yet commanding. Serious but not grim. An actual stage for exposition, a grounding anchor—and the princess herself is a visual cue to command our attention.

  I can’t help the smirk tugging at my lips. “Your Majesty, why not just explain the current circumstances already?”

  The armored woman from earlier steps forward, teeth clenched. “You may be one of the heroes, yet you would do well to curb your tongue, boy.”

  I scoff, shrugging. “Sure, sure. But let’s start with this whole ‘hero’ ordeal.”

  Mark glares at me briefly but shakes his head. “Disrespect is not our intention. It’s just… we need to know why we’ve been dragged here from our world.”

  The king exhales with his eyes closed—a soft, weary sound that isn’t frustration so much as an emotion with round edges, something closer to sympathy. There’s an odd note in him, a faint dissonance I can’t identify, but no malice rings in his presence… For now at least. When he opens his eyes, they drift toward Genovefa; he gives a small nod, and she steps around his seat to stand before us like an emissary.

  “As you might’ve wondered, the land wherein you stand now is the Kingdom of Eisenheim.” Her voice follows, clear and gentle. If silver could speak, it would sound like this—bright, smooth, balanced. She speaks with the same formal cadence as the others, but there’s a lighter rhythm threading through her words, something closer to our century’s patterns, like she’s practiced translation for our ears. “This kingdom, together with four others, joined arms—though reluctantly—to hold at bay the monsters nestled in the frigid north, beyond a channel of narrow sea.”

  She glances back. The armored woman steps forward immediately, her presence steel-cut and severe. She throws me one last look—half warning, half appraisal—before addressing us.

  “The monsters of the north differ greatly from the monsters found in gentler lands of the continent. Those that dwell beyond the channel are far grimmer, stronger, smarter foes—world-ending threats, some would call them. They are called demons.” Her jaw tightens; pride folds beneath something darker. “Even most of our mightiest warriors avail little ’gainst such horrors.”

  The words hit like a temperature drop. Not just me—the others straighten, breath hitching. Hearing it is different from reading it in fiction. Something in my spine prickles sharply, a cold tide rippling marrow-deep. Even the air feels thinner.

  Mark swallows, the sound dry and loud. “We gained a lot of boosts from that… ‘Blessing.’” His gaze sharpens around the edges. “Is that why we were summoned here?”

  Finally—he’s chasing the core logic instead of the emotional shockwave. With everything we’ve heard so far, the reincarnation, the titles, the stat-like bonuses—it all triangulates toward a single answer—

  Genovefa inclines her head, eyelids drifting shut as though bracing herself. “Yes. People summoned by the artifact are blessed—granted powers beyond the common warrior’s reach. It’s the very reason you stand before us… and why all five nations pledge their support in nurturing your growth.”

  Joshua folds his arms, weight shifting like he’s rooting himself. “But the demons’ place—whatever it is—is separated by a sea channel, right? So what’s the point of bringing us four here from another world if the demons are stuck across the water?”

  Good point from the big man himself. Even a narrow channel is a peak natural defensive barrier. The English Channel alone stopped Hitler’s Operation Sea Lion cold. Moving forces—especially large ones—across water is a logistical nightmare—slow, exposed, dependent on weather and supply lines. Which is why arial superiority is a prerequisite requirement. But even assuming these demons can fly, swim fast, or cheat physics, the five nations could unify into one giant air-defense net and blast anything that comes over. And if these people already know about demons, they’ve had generations to prepare countermeasures.

  So why drag us here? Why rebuild our bodies?

  The question keeps looping in my head, tightening like a noose. I’m already at my limit. I need data—clear data that answers my questions! My fingers curl. The itch for information is a physical ache for me and it’s very unbearable—!

  Genovefa finally lifts her eyelids as she answers:

  “Portals.”

  “Portals…?” The word hits a switch in my mind, and a half-formed hypothesis sprints forward. I tap my chin, coaxing it into clarity. “Since you brought that up, I assume you’re insinuating that these ‘demons’ use these portals to cross to the mainland? That’s most plausible, especially with how they’re still a problem despite the natural sea barrier.”

  She stiffens. Mark stiffens. That reaction alone nearly makes me lose it. If this is all one massive prank, I’ll applaud the commitment.

  “What’s next?” My voice rises, dry with disbelief. “Intervals? Waves? Spawning in batches like some… cosmic tower-defense event?”

  This time even the king freezes.

  You are kidding me. No way. I am not actually right?!

  Joshua shoots me a look, one brow doing a slow ascent. “I respect you and all, but… did you pull that out of your ass?”

  “Yes.”

  Actually, I pulled it out of a dusty corner of my brain—specifically a disappointing light novel where a shield-wielding protagonist gets dragged into a world with “Waves,” recurring apocalyptic events where mysterious dimensional rifts appear to vomit monsters everywhere. Except here, nothing about this feels mysterious. More like logistical infrastructure for demon invasion.

  Ray throws his head back with a groan. “This is literally that one anime…”

  Genovefa breathes, straightening herself like she’s forcing composure into her bones. “The hero with crimson hair is right. Every fourth month, portals—dozens at times—open at random places upon the mainland. Through them the demons march, spreading havoc and flame. Thus are you four summoned… that you may stand ready when the next wave comes.”

  Four months. Random locations. High mobility invasion points. No wonder the five nations are desperate. A sea channel doesn’t matter if the enemy can toss doorways wherever they want. They must have been losing ground for years. Maybe decades. Desperate enough to gamble on an impossible artifact that rebuilds strangers into heroes.

  That changes the whole board. The stakes. The logic behind dragging four confused teens across worlds.

  Everything.

  “So we’re very needed,” Joshua sums up, turning to the king. “But… I don’t see how helping this world benefits us. If anything, we’re risking our actual lives.”

  “That’s right!” Ray snaps, his earlier dread burned off and replaced with his usual swagger. “Cool spectacle, sure, but we wanna go home. Not sure about these three, but I’ve got zero reason to rush back—and even then I’d still rather be at home!”

  I nod, sharing the same sinking truth. “I feel the same. My inclination leans toward returning home.”

  Genovefa only lets out a long, weary breath. The guard’s gaze tenses, a tightening of steel and suspicion. The king, however, merely knits his brows.

  “I would be inclined to facilitate your return, were such power vested in me,” he begins, voice edged with strain. “Yet the artifact’s provenance lies solely in summoning heroes, not their repatriation. And as far as our knowledge extends, no nation holds any method to reverse it.” His fingers trail slowly through his beard. “However… should you remain and offer your prowess, insight may be gleaned from the demons’ portals—revelations that could conceivably guide you homeward.”

  The words settle like a curtain of cold iron.

  There it is. Spelled plainly. No return. Not unless we stay, fight, and untangle their creeping apocalypse—which is still worse since it’s basically just hypothetical. What if we winded up not finding out anything? We’re just… stuck here?

  I did wish for an exposition dump—some clean explanation of the context of our summon—but learning the shape of the cage around us stirs something bitter in the ribs.

  However…

  “We’re pretty important, right?” I rise from my chair, looking down at the king now instead of up. “You mean it when you say all five nations will support us—give us whatever is needed to gain the strength to stop the demons?”

  The armored woman steps forward again, my reflection warped across her helm. “You persist in your disrespect toward His Majesty. I have said—”

  The king lifts a hand. “Stand down, Leyni.”

  She halts mid-syllable, bows silently, and steps back.

  “You speak true,” he says, voice steady as stone. “And on the morrow, our preparations shall begin. Each of you shall receive what you require. Yet the night deepens, and rest now becomes your rightful due. This conference is now dismissed. Retire, all four.”

  We look at each other. Same lack of agency. Same quiet acceptance. Then we give a bow.

  ““““By your will.””””

  I let myself fall into the enormous bed. It’s firm by modern standards—springless, cotton-packed—but warm enough, soft enough. Honestly better than I expected. I had half prepared myself for stiff feather sacks and scratchy linen, but cotton works just fine.

  The others collapse into their own beds. And yes, we each have one. The room is vast, almost decadent, as if the walls themselves lean in to reassure us: You’re valuable. You’re needed.

  “Ugh… what a day,” Ray groans, rolling around like he’s trying to fuse with the mattress.

  I roll too, feeling the heat trapped under the fabric. “We really got shoved into a fairy tale… and we’re gonna be here for a very, very long time.”

  Even with exhaustion dragging at my limbs, the mental checklist spins to life. Research their history. Understand the magic framework—I caught pieces of it during that strange status intrusion. There’s so much to explore. I don’t hate that part. This is another reality, ripe and humming with mysteries. And the others, now that the shock’s dulled, are starting to regain their usual vigor.

  A strange comfort settles in: trapped, yes—but on the edge of something vast.

  Mark sits up, loosening his necktie, peeling off the last layer of normalcy. “So what now?”

  “We gather our thoughts and rest,” Joshua murmurs, already curling into that tucked-in sleeping position—the one that looks like someone trying to fold themselves back into safety. “We need our bodies and minds ready for tomorrow. And who knows… maybe we’ll learn what those strange status from that ‘Blessing’ meant.”

  Ray lets out a snort and a crooked grin. “Listen to Mister Athlete talk big. But yeah, I get you.” He sprawls across his bed, limbs thrown wide. “We’ll probably get shoved into quests after this. Form parties and everything. I’m just hopin’ we get a party with hot girls, man. Gotta have goals, ya know?”

  “You’re the worst…” Mark mutters, half recoiling, half resigned. Then his gaze shifts to me. “You—why’re you so quiet?”

  I stop rolling on the mattress and sit up to meet his stare. “I don’t have anything to add. Wait, why do you sound like you don’t even know my name?”

  His brows knit. The other two freeze. Then all three look at one another, confusion reflected back and forth like mirrors misaligned.

  “““We know you exist. But we don’t really know your name.”””

  The synchronized answer lands like a punch to the ribs—clean, merciless, oddly comedic in a cruel universe-has-a-sense-of-humor way.

  I always tried to live efficiently, unobtrusively. The world is loud and invisibility is simple. When we got stage roles, I’d fight to play the background tree. No lines. No spotlight. Just bark and leaves. But maybe I committed so hard to being unseen I succeeded a little too well.

  Joshua gives a sheepish laugh, fingers raking his hair. “Now, now… Look, we’re stuck together for a while. Mind finally telling us your name formally?”

  “I cannot believe you had to ask your own classmate that.” I sigh, a long exhale of inevitability. “Shin. My name’s Shin.”

  A bright, easy smile rises on Joshua’s face. “Then let’s get along, Shin.”

  Ray pops upright, pointing a finger at me like he’s declaring judgment from a cardboard throne. “Ha! Not expecting much from you though, nerd!”

  “Nice to meet you…” Mark mumbles, already horizontal again, voice dissolving into the fog of sleep.

  Their reactions crash into me from three different angles—friendly warmth, teasing contempt, and exhausted acceptance. After the whirlwind of fear, wonder, and heavy dread, it all feels strangely intimate, strangely grounding.

  My consciousness unravels at the edges, thinning like fabric worn by too many thoughts.

  I’ll shut down for now. Let tomorrow carry the mysteries it wants.

  …………

  ………

  ……

  …

  Bruh. I can’t believe this shit.