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Chapter 4: Simulation's First Death Flag
No, for this "future" version of himself, it was indeed something he had personally experienced.
"Forget about being kept or anything like that," Narumi said flatly, his eyes fixed on the cityscape sliding past the car window. "It's common for writers to experience creative blocks and get stuck in a rut."
Haruno tilted her head, her glossy black hair catching a faint glimmer of afternoon light. There was something almost playful in her tone, something that seemed designed to steer the conversation toward a place she'd already chosen.
"Yeah," Narumi continued lazily, a smirk curling at the corner of his mouth. "Writing novels is a dead end, and making money isn't easy either. Miss Haruno, are you saying all this because you want to take me as a sugar daddy?"
"Cough—!"
The butler sitting in the driver's seat nearly choked on his own breath. His hands jerked against the steering wheel, but somehow, miraculously, the car stayed steady.
"Oh dear, Narumi, what are you saying?" Haruno recovered quickly, her smile unwavering even as her brows twitched. "I thought young men your age would want to be down-to-earth and do practical things."
"No, high-end prey will come to the table on their own," he replied without missing a beat. "Hesitating for even a second would be disrespectful to the life of a kept man."
"…You're still quite the smooth talker."
Narumi leaned back, closing one eye, satisfied. Haruno's composure—maintained even while on the verge of collapse—was admirable in its own way. That smile of hers, equal parts indulgent and exasperated, might have melted a lesser man's will. But Narumi had long since built up resistance to that kind of beauty.
"If you don't explain your purpose," he said after a pause, "I'll assume you're secretly in love with me and have come to confess your feelings—to get back together, maybe."
He said it casually, as though commenting on the weather, but his tone carried a teasing undercurrent sharp enough to make the butler cough again.
Haruno sighed. "Narumi Toru… still as impossible as ever."
He didn't answer, only giving her that nonchalant look—the kind that said go on, surprise me.
In his fragmented memory, Haruno Yukinoshita had summoned him out of the blue, asking him to meet her at their old high school—Soubu High. The reason was simple enough, or so it seemed at first.
"…Yes," Haruno said finally, her voice softening. "She's my younger sister. Yukino. You must have met her once or twice before, right? Back when we were dating."
Her tone wavered slightly on the word dating, and for the first time, Narumi noticed how her confident smile softened into something quieter, almost nostalgic.
"I didn't ask you to go find her at school," she added quickly. "She's not there right now."
Haruno leaned gently back in her seat, the afternoon light painting faint shadows across her face. Her gaze was distant, fixed somewhere beyond the passing buildings.
"She's still resting in the hospital," Haruno said at last, voice low. "That's where we're going."
The words carried a quiet gravity that even Narumi couldn't shrug off immediately.
Yukino Yukinoshita—hospitalized? That was… strange. In reality, Yukino was perfectly healthy. The Yukinoshita family name was well-known, her older sister Haruno famous among her peers as an untouchable beauty, her reputation cold and impeccable. Narumi knew of her, of course. Everyone did. But the Yukino in front of him now—the one he was told existed in this future simulation—felt like a rewritten line of code in an old game, a version of reality that had branched off somewhere he hadn't noticed.
Narumi tried to recall her from this world's "past." All that surfaced was a faint image: a quiet girl, black hair neatly kept, watching him from behind the glass during a date with Haruno years ago. Maybe a few polite exchanges over dinner at the Yukinoshita household. She'd been shy but sharp-tongued, testing him in subtle ways—as if measuring whether he was worthy of her sister.
To him, she was a younger sister figure, no more, no less. And now that same girl lay in a hospital bed.
He might've said something comforting if he were someone else. But Narumi Toru was not someone else.
He raised an eyebrow. "You said you wanted to help me. Does that have anything to do with your sister?"
It was the sort of line only Narumi could deliver at such a moment—so misplaced it circled back around to being sincere in its own strange way.
Haruno's sigh was soft, but the disappointment behind it wasn't. "You really don't know how to say anything polite, do you? You could at least ask what illness she has."
"These polite words won't suddenly cure your sister's illness," he said flatly. "After all, if it's something even the Yukinoshita family can't fix…"
He trailed off, letting the rest hang unspoken.
Haruno clicked her tongue. "Now I remember why I wanted to break up with you. That ruthless way you talk—completely inhumane."
She rested her chin against her palm, her profile reflected faintly in the tinted window. "Aren't you at least curious?"
"Following this procedure," Narumi murmured, "you'll tell me your next line anyway."
Her eyes narrowed, but she still smiled. "It was diagnosed recently. A pancreatic disease."
Her tone was calm—too calm—but the tremor beneath it gave her away.
"Think of it as a kind of autoimmune disorder," she went on. "Serious, but uncertain. If things go well, she might recover. If not…" A pause. "She has maybe a year. Two at most."
Narumi glanced sideways at her. For once, she didn't meet his gaze. Her eyes lingered on the scenery outside, a blur of city and sunlit glass.
"That child…" Haruno's voice softened to a whisper. "She isn't even an adult yet."
Narumi tilted his head. "Difficult to understand."
"Right?" Haruno laughed weakly. "I thought the same thing. She was always the healthy one. How could something like this happen so suddenly?"
He didn't answer. His mind was already elsewhere, parsing variables and possibilities. Is this the divergence point of this simulation? he thought. Is Yukino's illness the catalyst?
The car rolled smoothly into the hospital parking lot. Its glossy black surface reflected the dull gray sky above, as if the world itself were dimmed. The two of them exited wordlessly and made their way to the elevator, their footsteps echoing faintly in the sterile hall.
"We were shocked at first," Haruno said as they rose. "But we've come to terms with it. So, Narumi, don't feel too down."
She patted his shoulder gently, misinterpreting his silence for empathy.
"Aren't you still stuck with your writing?" she asked lightly. "Maybe meeting Yukino will help. A real patient—perfect for research, right? Inspiration."
Narumi snorted. "You're such a nasty older sister."
"Oh, come on." Haruno grinned, unfazed. "Writers should be flexible. Talk to her, cheer her up a bit. You might even help her feel better."
The elevator dinged softly. They stepped out into a corridor lined with doors, the air thick with the scent of disinfectant. Every few steps, they passed nurses in white coats, quiet families with tired eyes, and the occasional muted hum of medical equipment from behind a door.
At the end of the hall stood a single door left slightly ajar. Haruno stopped there, motioning for him to go in first.
Narumi hesitated, his fingers resting on the cold metal handle.
Then, pushing it open, he was greeted by the golden spill of sunlight filtering through half-closed blinds.
The room was filled with quiet.
By the window, a girl sat reading, the sunlight catching strands of her long, ink-black hair. A red ribbon, tied loosely near her temple, shimmered faintly in the light.
Her face—pale, delicate, almost unreal—might have belonged to an angel painted in soft brushstrokes. The hospital gown did little to dull her beauty; if anything, it amplified her fragility.
If not for the faint exhaustion under her eyes, Narumi might have mistaken her for Yukino Yukinoshita as he remembered her—perfect, untouchable.
Then she looked up.
Her clear blue eyes met his, steady and cold as winter water.
"…Have we met somewhere before?"
The words left her lips after a long silence. They cut through the still air like a whisper of déjà vu.
Narumi said nothing. For a moment, he couldn't. Because in that gaze—sharp, curious, quietly searching—he felt something stir deep inside.
Yukino Yukinoshita, the terminally ill girl in this simulation, was the key. He knew it instinctively. Whether by intuition or by some faint voice of the system itself, he could feel the weight of the scenario pressing down on him.
---
If time could turn back, Yukino would never have clicked that fateful pop-up.
The "Simulation Game" had appeared while she was studying late one night, an ad on her phone claiming to predict "your future self." She'd meant to close it. But sometimes, the little 'X' in the corner isn't an exit—it's a trap.
And so, she fell in.
Thank you for choosing to play this game, the message read. We hope this Future Simulation brings you a brand new and realistic experience.
"…Simulating the future?" she murmured, frowning.
Yes. The butterfly effect—a flap of wings changing the world. Aren't you curious to see what your life could become?
The room around her hadn't changed. But the world had. The air felt heavier, more real than before.
Until one morning, a dull ache began in her stomach. Then another. And another.
Tests. White walls. Cold hands pressing against skin.
Pancreatitis, they said. Acute. Dangerous.
Her life unraveled from that moment—classes, clubs, everything replaced by hospital days that stretched like purgatory. The pain was real. Too real.
This can't just be a game, she thought. Can it?
When the simulation finally ended, she promised herself that if she ever escaped, she would go to a real hospital—just to be sure.
And then, as if repeating the script, she found herself in this sterile room, staring out the window when the door opened and the past walked in wearing a tired smile.
The boy standing in the doorway wasn't supposed to exist in her future. And yet, there he was.
That sense of familiarity struck her like lightning—a connection that defied logic. Destiny, her mind whispered.
---
Narumi's first instinct, however, was to test the system.
After all, when playing a multi-ending simulation, you always start with the wrong choices first.
He stared at the girl, then at Haruno behind him. Then—
Slammed the door shut.
"?"
The faint sound of confusion behind the door was almost comical.
"Well," Narumi muttered. "The main storyline was definitely about to begin. No need to rush."
He yawned. "Let's be realistic. This is a Yukinoshita family matter. Haruno and I are exes, not relatives. Interfering would just make things worse. And if her mother's around? I'm out."
He turned, already walking away.
"Wait—Narumi, wait!" Haruno's voice followed him, but he only waved dismissively, never looking back.
Test complete, he thought. Now let's see what happens when you go off-script.
Everything around him began to blur, dissolving into light.
[You declined the research proposal and returned to your monotonous life.]
[Your writing stagnated. Your university days passed without spark.]
[Years later, on the day of your graduation, you learned of Yukino Yukinoshita's passing.]
He could see it—the quiet funeral hall, the muted rain outside, Haruno's face pale and unreadable as she stood before her sister's portrait.
[She never recovered. Despite her friends' encouragement, she lost hope, lost the will to fight.]
Afterward, Narumi drifted through life. His writing failed. His passion faded. The years blurred together into a slow, gray monotony.
Until one night, sitting before his computer, the screen dimly reflecting his face—he felt his chest tighten.
And then nothing.
A dull silence swallowed him whole.
He died in his twenties—alone, ordinary, forgotten.
Not even reaching retirement age.
---
End of First Simulation.
Result: Death by Insignificance.
Achievement Unlocked: The Future That Never Blooms.