May 6, 2023. 6:42 PM — Akihabara Intensive Care Clinic, Tokyo, Japan

  Akihabara Clinic was among the most prestigious in Japan; and priced accordingly.

  Most of the players trapped in SAO had been moved to public hospitals across the country. Thiago was one of them. At first, he’d been sent to a hospital outside the city.

  Valeria didn’t let it stand.

  With a cold, focused resolve that surprised even the people who’d known her forever, she forced herself out of the initial shock in barely a couple of days and went straight to the U.S. Embassy to demand support. At first she got sympathy. Then legal guidance; how to prepare for a future lawsuit against Argus, the company behind SAO.

  It wasn’t enough.

  Ignoring the cold and rain, Valeria stood vigil outside the embassy for days. Every time someone entered or exited, she asked if they had family caught in the incident. Little by little she gathered other families, and the collective demand started to carry real weight.

  Back in the United States, relatives and friends of the trapped protested outside the White House, pressuring the government to take action.

  News that thirty-seven U.S. citizens had been effectively kidnapped inside a video game spread fast. At first, many people dismissed it as a tasteless hoax; until, in less than two weeks, eight of them were dead. Same cause in every case: neurological damage from the helmet’s microwave mechanism.

  At Elson University, Sophie Clarke, the journalist assigned to cover the basketball team, published an article in the campus paper identifying Thiago Montalvo, the team’s star and widely considered the best college player of the decade, as one of the trapped.

  National sports media picked it up almost immediately. From that point on, the condition of the remaining twenty-nine U.S. players became a matter of national interest.

  By the end of November, the U.S. government finally leaned on Japan to take measures and resolve the situation.

  They couldn’t extract the players, not with Akihiko Kayaba’s perfectly sealed architecture, so Japan’s prime minister ordered three entire floors of Akihabara Clinic reserved for the trapped American citizens.

  Since then, Valeria came every single day to sit with Thiago.

  Sometimes she talked about the day before: some dumb thing Renji had said, or her mother’s constant questions about when he’d be coming home.

  Other times she spoke out loud about childhood stories from their town; how Thiago used to pick fights with older boys to defend her and April, her best friend. His first love. The girl who taught him how to play basketball.

  But most of the time she stayed beside him in silence, holding his hand, warm but weak, trying and failing to stop the tears.

  —I’m sorry… —she whispered in those moments, almost like a prayer.

  The only answer was the steady sound of life-support machines and monitors proving he was still alive.

  For now.

  * * * * *

  May 7, 2023. 10:29 AM — Epsilon Air Force Military Hospital, Shizuoka, Japan

  The room door burst open, and a tiny hurricane with braids came rushing in, skidding to a stop beside the bed.

  —Daaad! —a little girl shouted. —Wake uuuup!

  —Sweetheart, you know Dad won’t wake up like that, —her mother, Rin Fukuda, told her gently.

  The girl looked up, sad.

  —I know… but if I talk to him like I always do, maybe he’ll come back.

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  Rin smiled as much as she had strength for.

  —Even if you don’t yell, your dad can hear you. He just can’t come back from there yet.

  When the SAO incident was confirmed as real, the Air Force base quickly determined three of their people were trapped: one pilot, Ryo Fukuda, and two technicians. All three were transferred to the military hospital immediately.

  The first technician died on the afternoon of November 6. The second, barely two days later.

  The days that followed were a nightmare for Rin—living with constant fear while still trying to give Shiori something that felt like hope.

  As the weeks passed, it became clear that deaths nationwide had dropped dramatically. Experts said players were adapting, learning how to survive inside the game, and casualties would become far less frequent.

  Rin clung to one thought: her husband’s military training gave him better odds than most. Every day Ryo stayed alive meant the chances of getting him back were still real.

  —Mommy… —Shiori’s voice pulled her back.

  —Yes, honey?

  —Do you think Daddy remembered my birthday?

  Rin smiled and stroked her daughter’s hair.

  —Of course he did, my love. Your dad would never forget. I’m sure he sang “Happy Birthday” to you wherever he is.

  Shiori’s eyes carried the same sadness she’d had since the day her father put on the nervegear to check whether it was safe for her.

  —Is Daddy really going to come back someday?

  —Yes, sweetheart. I promise. He promised you too, didn’t he? —Rin said calmly. —And you know Dad never breaks a promise.

  The little girl hugged her tightly, holding onto that certainty like it was something physical.

  * * * * *

  May 9, 2023. 12:37 PM — General Hospital, Nara, Japan

  Because so many SAO victims came from the Kansai region, especially Osaka, many had been transferred to hospitals in other cities.

  Shon Misugi was one of them.

  The communal ward, where he lay alongside seven other players, was filled with the uneven chorus of machines; each monitor ticking out its own rhythm. Every patient was alone. Their families couldn’t afford to stop working to stay with them, and the government offered no real support.

  Shon’s parents had worked since he was little. Being alone wasn’t new to him. And inside Aincrad, players didn’t even know whether their loved ones were nearby.

  In many cases they didn’t think about it at all. Every ounce of their mind was locked onto one task:

  Survive.

  The hospital had three rooms dedicated to SAO victims, eight beds per room. They were cold places; not only in temperature, but in spirit. Doctors did one round a day, checked vitals, and left. They knew they couldn’t do anything for those “patients.”

  On some shifts, especially nights, monitors were switched off. A code blue in an SAO room meant brain death. There was no procedure to run. Nothing to try.

  A young woman died overnight, killed by an exploit discovered by red players, even inside safe zones: challenge a sleeping player to a duel, use their own hand to accept, then kill them before they could react.

  She died close to one in the morning.

  Her death wasn’t officially recorded until eleven, when the monitors were turned back on for the medical round.

  Nothing changed after that.

  * * * * *

  May 11, 2023. 7:07 PM — Onodera Estate, Osaka, Japan

  Akane Onodera’s room was no longer filled with vanities and elegant wardrobes. The bed sat at the center, surrounded by the finest life-support equipment money could buy. Cutting-edge monitoring systems and rotating teams of Japanese and foreign medical professionals worked around the clock.

  Takeshi’s room was the same.

  They even had a stylist whose job was to shave him and trim the hair that grew past the edge of the helmet; maintaining the immaculate image an Onodera was expected to project, even in a coma.

  Argus had collapsed just days after the incident, leaving the patriarch with no direct leverage. Game operations had been transferred to a tech company linked to the Yuuki Group; one of the very few families in Japan powerful enough to respect the Onodera… without fearing them.

  Three months earlier, Kazuo Onodera had offered a ten-million-dollar cryptocurrency bounty on the dark web to any hacker capable of forcibly disconnecting a random player.

  Many tried.

  None succeeded.

  For one week, the in-game death rate spiked without explanation. Ninety-four players died in attempts to force disconnections. The operation stopped; not because Kazuo withdrew the offer, but because there were no hackers left skilled enough… or ruthless enough… to keep gambling with human lives.

  —Call the prime minister again. Tell him I want him in my office tomorrow afternoon, —Kazuo ordered one of his aides.

  —Sir, his secretary says his schedule is full for the next three weeks. I insisted it was urgent, but nothing changed.

  Kazuo let out an irritated breath.

  —Fine. I’ll handle it.

  He picked up his phone and dialed a number. When someone answered, he didn’t bother with greetings.

  —If you want to keep your lifestyle and your pride once your term ends, you’d better show up in my office tomorrow.

  He hung up before the other side could respond.