Three months ago, I died.
I don't remember everything.
I remember watching some porn in my room, A girl was moaning through my headphones. Over and over. Fake, exaggerated, almost annoying.
That sound was the last thing I remember.
When I opened my eyes, I thought I'd failed.
I expected a hospital ceiling. White lights. Beeping machines. Someone asking me questions I didn't want to answer.
Instead, I was in my apartment.
Same room. Same bed. Same smell. Same crack in the ceiling above me.
I sat up too fast and checked myself. Chest. Arms. Legs. No pain. No bandages. No scars.
I was alive.
That didn't make sense.
I checked the date. It was March 26th exactly three days after I killed myself.
Strangely it was night time, and I saw something unbelievable in the sky.
Instead of a single moon, the sky had twin moons, and there were giant cracks on their surface that made them look like closed eyes.
.
.
It's been three months since then.
At first, I kept waiting for something to happen. A power. A voice. A sudden realization that I wasn't just some guy who failed to die properly.
I told myself it would come eventually. That maybe the delay was part of the process. That stories always started slow before things got interesting.
Nothing happened.
No powers. No system. No strange instincts. No sudden strength or knowledge.
Just days passing.
Bills still needed to be paid. Food still ran out. Rent didn't care that I had technically died once.
So I got a job.
Part-time. A flower shop called Bloom.
It was small. Quiet. Paid less than average. The kind of place people walked past without noticing. But it suited me. No pressure. No expectations. Just arranging flowers, ringing up customers, and keeping my head down.
I didn't ask why the shop existed in a world with two moons.
I didn't ask why no one else seemed to notice them.
As far as I could tell, everyone acted like this was normal. Like it had always been this way. Like I was the only one who remembered a sky with just one moon.
That alone was enough to keep my mouth shut.
Bloom opened in the late morning and closed at six. Most days were slow. Couples buying bouquets they couldn't afford. Old people picking flowers for graves. People apologizing to someone who wasn't listening anymore.
I didn't talk much. That was fine. No one asked me to.
Then, one Friday, she came in.
She walked like she knew exactly where she was going. Straight to the counter. No hesitation.
Black clothes. Long skirt. Gloves. Sunglasses, even though the shop lights weren't that bright.
She asked for black dahlias.
Her voice was calm. Flat. Like she was ordering coffee.
I rang her up. She paid. Took the flowers.
Before leaving, she looked at me and said, "Thank you, Flower Boy."
Then she left.
The next Friday, she came again.
Same time. Same clothes. Same flowers.
Same words.
I thought it was coincidence.
By the third week, I realized it wasn't.
She never came early. Never came late. Always at six. Always black dahlias. Always that name.
"Flower Boy."
I didn't know why it bothered me, but it did.
By the fourth Friday, I was already looking at the door a few minutes before six without meaning to.
And that's when she didn't leave right away.
She stood at the counter after paying, quiet, like she was waiting for something.
Then she said, "Let's go on a date."
I stared at her.
A date.
For a second, I thought I'd misheard her. Like my brain had filled in the words on its own.
"…A date?" I said.
She nodded once, like this was obvious.
"Midnight," she said. "Cypress Hill Cemetery. Behind the hill. Bring something sweet. Wear black."
She said it calmly. No hesitation. No smile. Just a statement.
My first instinct was to laugh it off. To say no. To make a joke and move on.
"That's… kind of messed up," I said instead.
She tilted her head slightly, like she was studying my reaction.
"You don't have to come," she said.
The way she said it made my stomach tighten.
Then she turned and walked out, the bell above the door ringing softly behind her.
I stood there for a long moment, staring at the spot where she'd been.
My shift ended a few minutes later. I locked up, turned off the lights, and stepped outside.
I told myself I wasn't going to go.
I told myself it was stupid. That nothing good ever came from following strangers to graveyards at midnight.
I still went home and changed into black.
.
.
Cypress Hill Cemetery was quiet.
Not peaceful. Just empty.
The path up the hill was uneven, and I almost tripped more than once. I had a small box in my hand—strawberry mochi I'd picked up from a convenience store on the way. I didn't know why. She'd said to bring something sweet, and I hadn't questioned it.
The air smelled damp. The ground felt soft under my shoes.
Behind the hill, the cemetery opened up into a small clearing.
She was already there.
Sitting on a dark blanket beneath a dead tree.
For a moment, I forgot why my chest felt tight.
I looked up.
Two moons hung in the sky.
They were clearer here. Closer. Both marked with deep cracks that ran across their surfaces, like something had tried—and failed—to break them open.
I swallowed and looked back at her.
"You're late," she said.
I checked my phone out of habit. 12:04 AM.
"Sorry," I said.
She glanced at the box in my hand. "You brought dessert."
I handed it to her.
She opened it, picked one up, and licked the sugar from her fingers before taking a bite. She closed her eyes briefly.
"Mmh," she said. "Good."
I didn't know where to look.
She patted the blanket beside her. "Sit."
I hesitated, then sat.
She shifted closer than I expected. Close enough that I could feel the cold through her clothes.
"You look tired," she said. "Lay down."
She tapped her thighs.
My brain stalled.
This was wrong. I knew it was wrong. Every part of this was wrong.
I still did it.
I lay back, resting my head in her lap.
Her thighs were firm. Cold. Not uncomfortable—just unfamiliar. Like resting against stone that had been warmed slightly by the sun.
She ran her fingers through my hair.
Slow. Careful.
I felt my body relax before I could stop it.
"That's better," she said.
I stared up at the sky between her shoulder and chin. The moons didn't move.
She leaned down, close enough that I could feel her breath near my ear.
"Tell me," she said quietly, "are you afraid of death?"
I opened my mouth to answer—
And something appeared in front of my face.
A translucent screen. Floating. Bright.
My heart jumped.
Three options were displayed, clean and simple, like a menu.
____
[CHOOSE RESPONSE]
🔘 Not if I'm dying in your arms
🔘 Yes. I don't want to die
🔘 What kind of question is that
____
I froze.
My first thought was that I'd finally snapped. That this was my brain giving up.
I laughed once, short and nervous.
"This isn't real," I muttered.
She didn't react. She just waited.
I felt a pressure in my chest. A sense that waiting too long was a bad idea.
I picked the first option.
"Not if I'm dying in your arms."
She smiled.
"Good answer," she said.
Then her thighs tightened.
Not gently.
Hard.
My breath cut off instantly. I tried to move, but her weight pinned me in place. Pressure built on both sides of my head, sharp and unbearable.
I gasped, but there was no air.
My hands shot up on instinct. I dug my fingers into her thighs, nails scraping, clawing for any kind of grip. The fabric bunched under my hands, but it didn't matter. She didn't flinch.
I pushed harder.
My arms shook. My shoulders burned. I tried to twist my head, to angle my neck, to create space—anything.
There was no space.
She tightened her legs another inch.
Air left my lungs in a broken gasp. Pain bloomed behind my eyes, sharp and blinding. My vision pulsed white at the edges as my heartbeat slammed in my ears.
I clawed harder, nails dragging, tearing at whatever I could reach. My fingers slipped. My grip failed. Panic surged, raw and animal.
Something inside my head popped.
Then something else cracked.
The sound wasn't loud—it was wet and close, like it came from inside my skull. My thoughts scattered instantly. Pain drowned everything.
She squeezed again.
The pressure spiked all at once, crushing, final. My hands went slack. The world folded inward, sound collapsing into silence.
And then, everything went dark.
———
[YOU DIED]
[AUTO-SAVE LOADED — 20 MINUTES EARLIER]
———
I sucked in air and nearly dropped the box in my hands.
I was standing behind the counter at Bloom.
My heart was racing. My hands were shaking. Sweat ran down my back.
The clock on the wall read 11:44 PM.
"No," I whispered. "No way…"
A screen appeared in front of me.
This one stayed.
———
[SYSTEM CHAT — [ACTIVE]
[SYSTEM]: Hello, Player.
[SYSTEM]: Welcome to OTOME GAME OF DEATH.
[SYSTEM]: Survival depends on correct social responses.
[SYSTEM]: Failure to respond will result in death.
[SYSTEM]: Incorrect responses may cause psychological damage.
[SYSTEM]: Question one.
[SYSTEM]: What matters more to you?
[Brain] / [Heart]
———
The screen was waiting for my answer.