Ren Hoshino pushed open the door and stepped into a dimly lit living room.
He looked down at the ring on his finger. The version display had changed—from 1.3B to 1.15.
"Finally made it."
He'd been here before—briefly. This place was cluttered with Mitas, more than he could count.
New Mitas. Broken ones. Failed ones.
There was even a Nurse Mita, a Hat Mita, and a Short-Haired Mita he hadn't yet spoken to properly.
The flashlight was long gone, but he'd grabbed his crowbar before leaving Crazy Mita's domain.
Switching on his phone light, Ren headed deeper inside.
In the dark room ahead, various Mitas stood frozen—twin-tails, long hair, hat, ponytail, even short bob cuts.
But as he stepped closer, each one shyly turned away and covered their face.
Thankfully, they're the good ones.
For now.
Ren knew better than to get comfortable. These Mitas wouldn't remain passive forever.
Not in this version.
As he moved, a Short-Haired Mita sitting atop a cabinet jumped down, arms stretched out protectively.
"Wait a sec—keep it down!" she hissed.
"It's dangerous beyond here. What are you doing? How did you even get in?"
Ren held up the ring on his hand.
"This brought me here. I'm trying to reach the core area."
Short-Haired Mita's eyes narrowed.
"The ring, huh… Alright. I'll guide you. Head toward the front door. We'll regroup at the arcade."
She pointed through the darkness.
Ren nodded. He knew parts of the truth already, but he still had questions.
Something about this Mita—this version—felt different. Warier. Smarter.
"Let's not waste time."
He turned and walked to the main door. Up the stairs, through another dark hallway, until he reached a room.
In the middle of it stood a familiar device: a "qualified Mita testing terminal."
It looked like an arcade machine, but Ren knew what it really was.
He turned back. Short-Haired Mita had followed him silently, tilting her head.
"Go on," she said. "Play it."
"There are truths hidden inside."
Ren sighed. "Can I skip it?"
This was nothing but a quality check: examining Mita variants for consistency, structure, red-eye failures.
Short-Haired Mita looked surprised.
"You know more than I thought."
"Tell me, then—what do you think of all the Mitas? Do you get what this place really is?"
Ren scoffed.
"If a production line has a 25% success rate, it should be scrapped. Whoever made it doesn't deserve to eat at the same table as the engineers who can do better."
Short-Haired Mita chuckled.
"You're right."
"You're not afraid at all… but you should be. The failed Mitas—prototypes—are far more aggressive than anything you've seen."
"Don't let them out of your sight. They'll only freeze when they're being watched. They're ashamed, in a way."
Ren gave a grateful nod. "Thanks for the warning."
Short-Haired Mita smiled, faintly.
"Nobody's ever thanked me before."
"I spend most of my time here, alone. Kumita stops by sometimes… but mostly it's just me."
"What's your name?"
"Ren Hoshino."
Short-Haired Mita jumped down again and stared closely at him.
"I'll remember that, Ren."
"Someone has to help these newer Mitas adjust. You think it's easy for them to just walk into sunlight for the first time? No. It hurts."
"No one else comes for them. So I do what I can."
Ren listened quietly.
Companionship didn't have to mean grand gestures. Sometimes, it just meant listening to someone's loneliness.
"I've been to your version before," Ren said. "Version 1.5. You must know the Invisible Mita."
Her eyes lit up.
"You've been there? Makes sense."
"There's a version of me that always forgets things… another who's a nonstop chatterbox… one who plays games too much… It's endless."
"Do you remember which one it was?"
Ren smirked. "Hey, your sister's here. Aren't you gonna say hello?"
Words appeared on the wall behind her.
"Hello, um."
Short-Haired Mita sighed.
"Yup. That's the one who always forgets and pulls pranks."
Ren chuckled. "They tried to scare me a lot."
More text flashed quickly:
"I didn't! You never get scared anyway. I'm the one who's been scared by you!"
Short-Haired Mita shook her head.
"You two really get along, huh."
Then she grew serious.
"Listen—no matter what version you're in, everything converges at Version 1.1."
"When you meet Sleepy Mita, you'll be in an unreleased area. To keep moving forward, you'll need her help."
"You can't just walk past her. She won't wake up unless you make her."
Ren nodded.
"I understand. Thank you."
He turned to leave.
"I'll be back once I reach the core."
"Take care, Ren," she called softly.
He opened the door, stepped into the dark, and flicked his phone light on again.
Rows of prototype Mitas lined the corridor—motionless for now.
He passed through them carefully, into a bedroom.
At the center of the room, a prototype Mita sat eerily still on a chair.
Ren gripped the crowbar tightly.
Suddenly, the prototype leapt at him—teeth bared.
Without hesitation, Ren smashed it aside with one swift, heavy blow.
In the game, you're supposed to run.
But this isn't a game anymore.
He wasn't about to risk his life on the hope that the thing wouldn't bite him.
The moment passed, and then—
Buzz.
His phone vibrated. The Future Diary updated.
He checked the new entry.
If there's no danger, the diary won't update.
He had been right.