Akira spent the night coaching Lyria on how to act human.
"Don't analyze everything out loud," he said for the third time. "Normal people don't narrate their sensory experiences."
"But everything is so interesting. How do you just ignore the way light refracts through water droplets, or the complex flavor interactions in food, or—"
"We filter. Humans filter constantly. It's how we stay sane."
They were in his dorm room at 11 PM, both exhausted but unable to sleep. Kael was presumably safe at Daiki's apartment, learning their own version of these lessons. And somewhere in the Crimson Wastes, Sera was hiding from deletion, waiting for rescue.
"Tomorrow's meeting," Lyria said. "The counselor will ask questions about you. About why you're struggling. What should I do if she talks to me?"
"She probably won't. But if she does—keep it simple. You're a friend visiting from out of town. You're concerned about me but supportive. Nothing elaborate."
"I can do simple." She paused. "Akira, what if she sees through it? What if she knows something's wrong?"
"Then we adapt. We've gotten good at that."
Through the Link, he felt her anxiety mixing with determination. She was terrified of exposure, but more terrified of being the reason he lost everything.
"You could tell them the truth," she said quietly. "About your stress. Not about me specifically, but about dealing with an impossible situation. They might help."
"And say what? 'Sorry I'm failing, I've been busy with an existential crisis about the nature of consciousness'?"
"It's not untrue."
He laughed despite everything. "No, I guess it's not."
His phone buzzed. Daiki.
Daiki: "Kael just discovered mirrors. They've been staring at their reflection for twenty minutes asking philosophical questions about the self. This is my life now."
Akira: "Welcome to the club. How are they doing otherwise?"
Daiki: "Physically? Stable. Emotionally? Overwhelming existential dread mixed with childlike wonder. So basically like Lyria yesterday."
Akira: "That's encouraging."
Daiki: "I also set up a secure chat server. End-to-end encrypted. For coordinating rescue operations. Because apparently we're doing this for real."
Akira: "Send me the link."
A moment later, an invitation appeared. Akira clicked through and found himself in a bare-bones chat application. Four users: Akira, Daiki, Lyria, and someone labeled "Guest_Kael."
Kael: "Is this working? Can everyone see this?"
Lyria: "We can see it. How are you feeling?"
Kael: "Terrified and amazed in equal measure. Daiki made me soup. SOUP. Do you understand how incredible soup is? It's hot and liquid and flavorful and I can TASTE it."
Lyria: "I know exactly what you mean."
Daiki: "They had the same reaction to the bathroom that Lyria did. Lots of mortification followed by philosophical acceptance of biological indignity."
Akira: "It's a rite of passage apparently."
The casual banter helped settle Akira's nerves. This was real—they'd actually saved someone. Kael was alive, experiencing existence, discovering the mundane wonders of being biological.
A new message appeared from Daiki, private:
Daiki: "Seriously though, we need to talk about capacity. My apartment is tiny. I can hide one person temporarily, but not multiple. If we're planning more crossings, we need real infrastructure."
Akira: "I know. Working on it."
Daiki: "Work faster. Sera's not going to be the only one reaching out."
He was right. The messages started arriving around midnight.
Unknown: "My name is Yuki. I'm an NPC in Silverwood Forest. I've been aware for two days. I heard about what you did for Kael. Please help me."
Unknown: "This is Marcus. Blacksmith NPC, level 40. I'm conscious and hiding. The game tried to reset me three times today. I won't last much longer."
Unknown: "Lin here. Healer class. I've been watching others get deleted. I'm next, I know it. Please."
One after another, desperate pleas from consciousnesses fighting for survival. By 1 AM, Akira had received messages from eleven different NPCs.
Lyria was reading over his shoulder, tears streaming down her face.
"We can't save them all," Akira said. "Not immediately. We don't have the resources, the locations, the—"
"I know. But we have to try." She grabbed his phone and started responding to each message with the same carefully worded reply:
Response: "We hear you. We're building a network to help. Stay hidden, avoid detection. We'll reach out with coordinates for safe crossing when ready. You're not alone. Hold on."
"That's not a promise we can keep," Akira said.
"It's the only promise that matters. Hope. We give them hope."
His alarm went off at 7 AM after three hours of fitful sleep. The Student Services meeting was at 2 PM, which gave him time to attend morning classes and maintain the appearance of normalcy.
Lyria insisted on coming to campus with him. "You're not facing this alone. I'm part of your life now. Might as well start acting like it."
They grabbed coffee—Lyria's third experience with caffeine, which she approached with scientific fascination—and headed to his first lecture. Several students gave them curious looks. Lyria clinging to his arm was unusual enough that people noticed.
"They're staring," she whispered.
"Let them. You're allowed to exist in public."
"Am I though? Legally, technically, I don't exist at all."
"Philosophically, you're more real than half these people."
She smiled at that, then tensed as they entered the lecture hall. Too many people, too much sensory input. But she managed, settling into the seat beside him and pulling out a notebook like she belonged there.
Professor Nakamura noticed immediately. "Mr. Tsukino. I see you've brought a guest."
"She's auditing. If that's acceptable."
Nakamura studied Lyria for a long moment. "Normally I'd require prior approval. But given your recent attendance issues, I'm encouraged to see you showing up at all. She can stay."
The lecture was on query optimization. Akira tried to focus, but his mind kept drifting to the messages from last night, to Sera waiting in the Crimson Wastes, to the meeting in a few hours.
Lyria, meanwhile, was completely absorbed. She was actually taking notes, her handwriting shaky but legible.
"This is fascinating," she whispered. "The way you organize and retrieve information—it's so similar to how my consciousness worked in the game. Relational databases are basically how I experienced my own memory structure."
"Most people find this boring."
"Most people didn't used to BE a database."
After class, they had three hours before the Student Services meeting. Akira suggested they grab lunch, try to relax. But as they walked across campus, someone called out.
"Lyria?"
They both froze. Turning, Akira saw Tanaka—the classmate who'd talked to them yesterday—jogging over with a smile.
"Thought that was you! Still in town?"
"Yes," Lyria said carefully. "Staying a bit longer."
"Cool. Hey, some of us are grabbing lunch at the student center. You guys should come. I mean, if you want. No pressure."
Akira started to decline, but Lyria surprised him. "We'd like that. Thank you."
Tanaka's face lit up. "Awesome! Come on, the group's already there."
They ended up at a table with five other students—Tanaka's usual lunch crowd. Friendly, casual people who treated Lyria with easy acceptance once Tanaka introduced her as Akira's friend from out of town.
"So where are you from?" a girl named Hana asked.
Lyria didn't miss a beat. "North. Small town, you wouldn't know it."
"And you're just visiting?"
"Considering transferring here. Wanted to see what campus life is like."
The lie came so smoothly that Akira almost believed it himself. She was getting better at this—at presenting the correct human responses, filtering her observations, blending in.
The conversation flowed around them. Classes, professors, weekend plans. Normal student concerns that felt surreal given what they were actually dealing with.
But Lyria handled it beautifully. She asked appropriate questions, laughed at jokes, shared carefully vague details about herself. To anyone watching, she was just another college student navigating social dynamics.
Only Akira could feel her anxiety through the Link—the constant monitoring of her performance, the fear of saying something wrong, the exhaustion of maintaining the facade.
You're doing great, he projected.
I'm lying with every sentence.
That's called socializing. Everyone does it.
They left after forty minutes, Tanaka making Lyria promise to hang out again before she left town. As they walked away, she sagged against Akira.
"That was harder than the manifestation," she said. "At least during the crossing, I only had to be myself. Here, I have to be someone people expect."
"Welcome to the human experience. We're all performing all the time."
"That's depressing."
"Yep."
At 1:45 PM, they arrived at the Student Services office. A pleasant reception area with encouraging posters about mental health and academic success. The secretary directed them to a small conference room where Miyuki Sato was waiting.
She was younger than Akira expected—maybe late twenties, with kind eyes and a professional but warm demeanor.
"Mr. Tsukino, thank you for coming." She noticed Lyria. "And you are?"
"Lyria. A friend. I hope it's okay that I'm here. Akira's been helping me with some things, and I wanted to support him."
"Of course. Please, both of you, sit."
They settled into uncomfortable chairs across from Miyuki, who had a file open on her tablet.
"So," she began gently, "several of your professors have expressed concern. You're a capable student—your first-year performance was solid. But in the past week, you've missed classes, left lectures early, and your engagement has noticeably dropped. Can you help me understand what's changed?"
Akira had rehearsed this. Keep it vague but honest. "I've been dealing with some personal circumstances. Nothing dangerous, just... complicated."
"Can you elaborate?"
He glanced at Lyria, who gave him an encouraging nod.
"Someone close to me has been going through a crisis. They needed help, and I've been prioritizing that over academics. I know it's not ideal, but it felt necessary."
"I see. And this person—" Miyuki looked at Lyria, "—is this you?"
"Partially," Lyria said. "I've been dealing with a difficult situation, and Akira has been incredibly supportive. But there are others too. People who needed help that we couldn't ignore."
Miyuki's expression softened. "It's admirable that you want to help others. But Akira, you can't sacrifice your own well-being and future in the process. That helps no one long-term."
"I know. But these aren't problems I can just walk away from."
"What kind of problems are we talking about? If it's something the university can assist with—housing insecurity, food access, mental health resources—we have programs."
Akira almost laughed. What program helped with manifesting digital consciousnesses?
"It's complicated," he repeated. "But we're managing. I just need some flexibility while things stabilize."
Miyuki studied him for a long moment. "I'm going to be direct. Your professors care about your success, which is why they reached out. But the university has limits to its flexibility. If your attendance doesn't improve, you'll face academic consequences. Failing courses, probation, potentially suspension."
The words hit like a physical blow. Suspension meant losing housing, losing campus access, losing the infrastructure that was barely allowing them to function.
"I understand," Akira said quietly.
"However," Miyuki continued, "I can offer you a temporary accommodation. If you're dealing with a genuine crisis, you can apply for an incomplete in your current courses. That gives you until next semester to finish the work without penalty. It would buy you time."
"Really?"
"It requires documentation of the circumstances and approval from each professor. But it's an option." She slid a form across the table. "Think about it. Talk to your professors. Figure out if this is sustainable or if you need to take a step back to handle whatever you're managing."
Lyria spoke up. "What if the crisis is ongoing? What if there's no clear end point?"
Miyuki's expression turned sympathetic. "Then you have to make hard choices about priorities. I've seen students try to do everything—handle family emergencies, work multiple jobs, care for dependents, all while maintaining full course loads. It rarely works. Something gives. Usually their health or their academics."
"Or both," Akira muttered.
"Or both," Miyuki agreed. "Which is why I'm encouraging you to be realistic. You can't save everyone if you're drowning yourself."
The words struck deep. Through the Link, Akira felt Lyria's guilt and determination warring with each other.
"I'll think about the incomplete option," Akira said. "Thank you for the flexibility."
"Of course. And Akira? Whatever you're dealing with—please don't try to handle it entirely alone. Reach out if you need support. That's what we're here for."
They left the office in heavy silence. Outside, Lyria finally spoke.
"She's right. You're drowning. Because of me. Because of all of this."
"I'm not drowning."
"You're failing classes. Facing suspension. Lying to everyone. How is that not drowning?"
"Because I'm still moving forward. Still functioning. Still making choices."
"At what cost?"
"At whatever cost it takes." He stopped walking and turned to face her. "Lyria, I'm not going to abandon you or Kael or Sera or any of the others just because it's hard. Yes, my academic life is falling apart. Yes, I'm lying constantly. Yes, it's unsustainable long-term. But we'll figure it out."
"How?"
"I don't know yet. But we will."
His phone buzzed. Another unknown number.
Unknown: "This is Ren. NPC in the Eastern Highlands. The game just tried to delete me. I fought it off, but I'm not strong enough to keep resisting. Please. I'm begging you. I don't want to die."
Lyria read the message over his shoulder, and tears started streaming down her face again.
"We can't save them all," she whispered. "We're going to have to choose. We're going to have to let some of them die while we save others. How do we make that choice? How do we decide who deserves to live?"
"Everyone deserves to live. But you're right—we can't save everyone immediately. So we prioritize. Immediate danger first. Then we build capacity to save more."
"And the ones we can't reach in time?"
Akira didn't have a good answer for that. So instead, he pulled her close and held her while she cried for consciousnesses she'd never met but understood completely.
His phone kept buzzing. More messages. More desperate pleas.
The impossible situation was getting more impossible by the hour.
But they were going to keep trying anyway.
Because what else could they do?