Azri sat through the next day of classes like a shadow of himself. The words on the board blurred together. Mira leaned toward him more than once, whispering, "Are you okay?" Fran nudged him at lunch, frowning.
"You look dead, man. You sick?"
Azri forced a weak grin. "Just tired."
It was the best lie he could manage. They didn't press, though both of them traded worried glances when he wasn't looking
By evening, Azri was back in the basement, staring at the cracked wall. The memory of the burger still burned in his mind. If that was real… what else can this place do?
He stepped through the hidden door. The ruined world greeted him in silence, still and broken, but it no longer paralyzed him.
He whispered: "I want to fly."
The air shifted. His body grew light. His feet lifted off the ground, and in an instant, he was soaring above the wreckage. His heart raced—this was no dream. He flew higher, past collapsed rooftops, over the husks of cars, free in a way he'd never felt before.
And it didn't fade. Minutes passed. Then hours. He landed only when he chose to
Breathless, Azri muttered, "This is Insane!"
Back in the parallel basement , he tried again. Stood in the dim basement, and repeated: "I want to fly." Then immediately went to his original dimension.
The same rush surged through him—until his phone timer hit 5 minutes and 37 seconds. Then gravity yanked him down, and the power vanished.
He tried with money. In the ruined world, stacks of bills appeared at his feet. He carried them back through the door—and they stayed. Real, solid, permanent.
The rule became clear.
In the ruined world, anything he wished for was his forever.
In his own world, the unnatural broke apart after time, erased like a dream fading at dawn.
Azri sat in the silent basement, trembling. Why? Why are the rules different?
The rules burned in his mind—permanent there, temporary here. But Azri wasn't satisfied. If objects and powers worked… what about people?
He stood in the center of the ruined street, the silence pressing against him. "I wish… for the best chess player in the world to appear."
Nothing. No shimmer in the air, no figure appearing. The silence mocked him.
Azri shut his eyes, feeling stupid even as he whispered it.
"I wish for… Veyra to appear."
The air shifted.
When he opened them, someone was standing in front of him.
Her.
Veyra—from Ebon Dusk, that old TV show he used to marathon when he was younger. It wasn't a big series; barely anyone at school had heard of it. But she'd been his favorite character—the strategist who always kept her composure, the one who felt… different.
Now she was here. Exactly as she had been on-screen. Same calm eyes. Same voice. Same presence.
"…Where am I?" she asked, glancing around at the ruined street. Her tone was steady, curious more than afraid.
Azri's throat went dry. "This… doesn't make sense. You're not—" He stopped himself. "You're real."
They spoke for hours. She remembered things from the show—the battles, the other characters, even her own death in the final season. She talked about them as if they had really happened, not as fiction. But whenever Azri tried to bring up the show itself, she grew quiet, like she didn't understand the word.
Still, it felt natural being with her. Almost too natural.
When Azri finally reached for her hand, his voice cracked.
"Come with me. I'll show you my world."
He stepped through the doorway into the basement. Relief rushed through him—until he turned.
Veyra was still inside the ruined world, her palm resting against something invisible in the air. She pressed forward, but couldn't move past it.
"…I can't," she said simply.
Azri pulled harder. Nothing.
Her expression didn't change, but there was something in the way she was looking at him now—focused, intent, like she was trying to memorize his face.
Azri's grip slipped. His stomach knots.
He stepped back into the basement alone.