The hiss of the grill was a constant, angry sound.
Grease popped, spitting hot venom onto Athan's forearms. He didn't flinch, didn't even register the sting. The tiny red welts that bloomed on his skin were just part of the uniform, as much as the stained apron cinched tight around his waist. The thick, cloying smell of fried Magikarp and charred Tauros meat clung to his clothes, his hair, his very pores a ghost that followed him long after his shift ended.
Clang.
He scraped the flat-top with a fluid, economical motion. No wasted energy. Every movement was honed by two years of standing in this exact spot, a prisoner in a six-by-six foot cell of heat and steam. Two years spent staring at order tickets under the dim kitchen lights of "The Cerulean Catch," a dive that boasted proximity to the canals and little else.
It paid the bills. That was its only virtue.
"Two Krabby cakes, side of fries, up!" Athan's voice was rough, cutting through the kitchen noise as he slid a heavy ceramic plate onto the pass-through window.
Marco, the head cook, a man whose gut perpetually strained the buttons of his chef's whites, grunted without looking up. He was busy wrestling with a pot of clam chowder, wielding a ladle that looked heavy enough to be a weapon.
This was his life. Not a grand adventure across sun-drenched routes, not a quest for badges and glory. His reality was the cramped, suffocating heat of a kitchen, the relentless percussion of pots and pans, and a dull, throbbing ache in his feet that set in around hour six and didn't leave until long after he was home.
Just another Tuesday in a world he was never supposed to be in.
The thought was a familiar, bitter poison. He remembered another world, a different life. A life of fluorescent-lit lecture halls, the chemical taste of instant noodles, and the comforting glow of a screen as he commanded digital monsters. A world where Pokémon were intricate sprites and lines of code, a fantasy to escape into.
He'd died. The memory was a shattered mirror a blinding flash of headlights, the agonizing shriek of tires, then a crushing impact. Then, nothing. Until he woke up here, small and screaming, in a body that wasn't his, in a world that shouldn't have been real.
For a while, it had been a dream. A loving mother, Celia, with kind eyes. A strong, smiling father, a Pokémon Ranger whose Arcanine moved with the grace of a living flame. His father would return from patrols with impossible stories and, on Athan's third birthday, a precious egg.
From that egg hatched Kiba. A tiny, yipping Growlithe who was a direct link to the man he could now barely recall.
Then the dream had burned away. The Cinnabar Island eruption. His father was on the front lines of the rescue effort, a hero running into the inferno. He saved sixteen people. He never came home. A plume of superheated volcanic ash had done what no rampaging Pokémon ever could.
The Ranger Corps stipend was a pittance, a hollow apology for a life lost. His mother, Celia, had worked herself into the ground at a textile factory, the air thick with dust and chemicals. The work paid for their tiny apartment, but it stole the breath from her lungs. A chronic respiratory illness, the doctors called it. A cage of hospital visits and medicine that cost more than their rent.
He was ten when that happened, the age he should have been standing in Professor Oak's lab, choosing a partner. Instead, he was washing dishes at a greasy spoon diner, the suds unable to clean the exhaustion from his bones.
Five years later, he was a seasoned veteran of the service industry.
"Athan! Clock out!" Marco's voice boomed, startling a nearby Rattata that was scavenging near the bins.
"On it."
He unlaced his apron, hanging it on a greasy hook. He ran a hand through his sweat-dampened black hair, pulling out the worn tie and letting it fall to his shoulders.
Haircuts were a luxury he couldn't afford.
A soft bark greeted him as he pushed open the alley door.
There, sitting patiently amidst the overflowing dumpsters and the stench of refuse, was Kiba. The Growlithe was small for his breed, but his posture was proud, his chest puffed out. His orange and black fur was immaculate, a stark contrast to the grime of his surroundings. His tail gave a few solid thumps against the cracked concrete.
"Hey, Kiba." The harshness melted from Athan's voice. He knelt, and the Growlithe immediately trotted forward, pushing his warm head into his hand, nudging for a scratch behind the ears.
"Wait long, buddy?"
Kiba let out a happy, breathy yip. He was the one piece of magic left in Athan's life, a silent, loyal companion who understood his moods better than any person. Kiba knew the bone-deep weariness, the simmering frustration, and the faint, flickering ember of hope Athan tried so hard to protect.
Together, they began the walk home.
Cerulean City at night was nothing like the quaint, pixelated town he remembered. It was a sprawling metropolis, a concrete and steel giant bisected by wide, dark canals that reflected the neon glow of skyscrapers. Sleek water taxis, their lights blurring into streaks of crimson and blue, zipped across the water's surface, their engines a low hum beneath the city's din. Pidgey and Spearow roosted on power lines, their chirps and squawks a wild counterpoint to the distant wail of a police siren.
This world was bigger, messier, and infinitely more complicated than any game. His meta-knowledge, the one advantage he was supposed to have, felt like a joke. He knew the type chart, sure. So did every ten-year-old with a Pokédex. He knew, vaguely, the layout of Mt. Moon, but that was a simplified map on a screen.
As they passed a small group of kids, their excited chatter caught his ear.
"…no way you can get through Rock Tunnel without a licensed guide," one of them said, gesturing with a half-eaten popsicle. "My cousin tried. Said the Geodude and Onix are way more aggressive now. The League even posted a Level 2 hazard warning."
Athan's steps faltered for a half-second. A hazard warning? A licensed guide? In the games, it was a dark cave you navigated with the move Flash. Here, it was a regulated danger zone. His knowledge wasn't a guide; it was a collection of faded, inaccurate trivia.
Their apartment was a third-floor walk-up in a district where the streetlights flickered more than they shone. The paint on the building was peeling, and the air smelled faintly of damp and mildew. But the landlord didn't mind Pokémon, and the rent was cheap. It was home.
He unlocked the door, the familiar scent of old grease from his clothes immediately filling the small, sparsely furnished space. A worn couch, a wobbly table, a kitchenette. It was clean, but it was hollow.
Kiba went straight to his bowls. Athan dropped his worn backpack by the door and went to his room, the floorboards groaning under his weight. He reached under his bed and pulled out a heavy metal box, the lock well-oiled. Inside lay his entire life's work.
Bills. Stacks of them, bound by rubber bands. And heavy rolls of coins. He tipped it all out onto the floor, the metallic clatter echoing in the quiet room.
He counted. Again. Just to be sure. His fingers, calloused from the grill scraper, moved with practiced precision.
One hundred thirty thousand, six hundred and seventy Poké yen.
For a fifteen-year-old fry cook, it was a fortune. For his ambitions, it was barely a starting pistol.
The numbers were burned into his mind. Trainer's License application fee: 50,000. Mandatory starter kit—five Poké Balls, a basic regional Pokédex, one Potion: 15,000. That left him with 65,670 Poké yen. It felt like a mountain of cash, but he knew how fast it would turn to dust on the road. Food for him, specialized high-energy food for Kiba, more Potions, Antidotes, Burn Heals… a single emergency visit to a Pokémon Center for an unexpected injury could wipe out half of it.
And none of it could go toward his mother's bills. Not this money. This was for the escape plan.
His eyes drifted to a photo on his nightstand. A smiling woman with his dark hair and warm eyes, her arm around a much younger, happier Athan.
He had to see her.
The Cerulean General Hospital was a sterile white monolith that smelled of antiseptic and quiet despair. He showed the night nurse Kiba's special visitation pass a hard-won privilege and made his way to his mother's room.
Celia was awake, propped up by pillows, watching the city lights glitter outside her window. She looked fragile, her skin pale under the fluorescent lights. A clear tube ran from her nose, connected to an oxygen tank that hissed softly, a mechanical breath in the silent room. She turned as he entered, and a smile bloomed on her tired face, a light that pushed back the shadows.
"Athan. You came."
"Always." He pulled a chair close to her bed. Kiba padded over silently and rested his chin on the edge of the mattress, letting out a soft, concerned whine.
"How was your day?" she asked, her voice a reedy whisper.
"Same old. Marco almost set the chowder on fire again."
She laughed, a small, brittle sound that dissolved into a series of dry coughs. He placed a hand on hers, waiting for the fit to pass. Her skin was cool, almost papery.
"You work too hard, Son," she said once her breathing settled. "You're fifteen. You should be… Living your life without worry." Her gaze drifted past him, back to the window and the vast, dark world beyond. "Maybe go on your own journey ..."
The words were a familiar blade, twisting in his gut. It was his dream, yes, but it had been her dream for him first. A dream he had deferred, then buried under the weight of rent and prescriptions.
"We're doing okay, Mom," he lied, the words tasting like ash.
They talked for another hour. He told her about a funny Snorlax on a TV show, about Kiba chasing a particularly brave Pidgey in the park. He didn't tell her the faucet was leaking again, or that he'd been watering down their soup for a week to make it last. Her job was to rest. His was everything else.
When he left, the moon was high, casting the city in a stark silver and black.
Back in the suffocating silence of his apartment, Athan sat on the floor, the metal box open before him. The money stared back, a testament to years of scorching heat, aching feet, and swallowed pride. Kiba came and rested his head on his knee, a warm, solid weight that anchored him.
He had the money. He had finally, painstakingly, saved enough. The door was open.
So why was he paralyzed by a fear so cold it felt like ice in his veins?
This routine, this miserable, grinding life, was a prison. But it was a predictable one. He knew exactly how much he'd earn, exactly what the bills would be. He could keep them afloat, treading water in an ocean of debt, forever gasping for air but never quite sinking. It was a slow suffocation.
Becoming a licensed trainer… that was a gamble. It was stepping off a cliff in the hope that he could learn to fly on the way down. Prize money from official Gym battles and sanctioned tournaments was real. The rewards posted on the Trainer Guild boards for completing tasks,escort missions, pest control, resource gathering that was life-changing money. Enough to get his mother the best specialists, the best care. Enough to get them out of this shoebox apartment.
But the risk was absolute. He could fail. In this world, a Pokémon battle wasn't a turn-based game; it was a visceral, violent clash of strategy and power. He was an amateur. Kiba was strong, his father's Arcanine lineage evident in his fierce spirit and the surprising heat that radiated from his small body, but he was just one Pokémon, and he'd never been in a real fight. They could get hurt. He could lose everything he'd saved in a single, devastating defeat.
He ran a hand over Kiba's back, the fur soft and warm. The Growlithe looked up, his dark, intelligent eyes filled with a profound, unwavering trust that Athan felt he had done nothing to earn. Kiba wasn't just a Pokémon. He was a partner. He was the last piece of his father he had left.
His father had been a hero. He ran toward disaster. His mother had sacrificed her health, her dreams, her very breath, for him.
And what was he doing? He was hiding. Flipping burgers and surviving, but never truly fighting. He had been given a second chance in a world of impossible wonders, and he was squandering it in a sweltering kitchen, trading his dreams for a steady paycheck.
No.
Not anymore.
The cold fear in his stomach didn't vanish. But now, something else rose to meet it: a resolve, hard and sharp as forged steel. The risk was terrifying. But the thought of staying here, of watching his mother fade away while he slowly drowned, was infinitely worse.
He looked from the pile of money, the fruit of his past, to his loyal partner, the key to his future.
"Kiba," he said, his voice quiet but unshakable in the empty room. "We're done waiting."