Morning sunlight spilled through the thin curtains.
Brushing the room in gold and dust, the house smelled faintly of soap and tea — the kind of quiet scent that only existed after storms had passed.
Mira stood by the kitchen window, her reflection faint in the glass. The night before still echoed inside her — the tears, the trembling confessions, the weight that had lifted and then settled differently. Her hands were steady now as she washed the dishes, each slow motion rhythmic, deliberate. She was trying — really trying — to be better.
From the living room, soft laughter broke the stillness.
Her son sat on the couch, controller in hand, speaking quietly to his father. His tone had changed — lighter, though fragile. The person beside him, Kael, wore tired eyes but a calm expression, the first real peace on his face in years.
Mira turned off the tap and leaned on the counter, watching them.
"Majiku," she called softly. "Breakfast's still on the table. Don't let it get cold."
He turned, a grin breaking through. "Already ate, Mom."
That grin — she hadn't seen it in so long that her heart ached from just looking at it.
Kael caught her gaze from across the room. For a long moment, they just looked at each other. Years of silence, shouting, and pretending had hardened something between them. But now, in the warmth of that fragile morning, they both saw what was left behind: exhaustion, regret, and something small but real — forgiveness.
Kael stood slowly, stretching before he walked toward her. Mira dried her hands, unsure whether to smile or cry.
"Hey," he said, voice rough from disuse. "You look… better."
"I feel worse," she admitted, but there was a small, rueful smile with it. "Maybe that's a start."
He chuckled. "Maybe it is."
For a moment, silence stretched again — not cold this time, just quiet. Then she whispered, "I'm sorry."
Kael blinked. "For what?"
"For everything." Her voice shook, but she didn't look away. "For the yelling. For drinking. For pretending. For not being there. For—"
He stopped her with a gentle hand on her shoulder. "Hey… Mira. We both broke things."
Her eyes filled with tears. "But I broke you."
He shook his head. "No. We broke together. That's what love does sometimes. It cracks."
She laughed through her tears, the sound raw. "You always were the poet."
He smiled faintly. "You always were the storm."
The two of them stood there, in the soft hum of the morning, as years of buried pain finally bled into something human.
Majiku peeked in from the hallway, watching them. His small hands gripped the wall, nervous, unsure. He looked younger in this light — the shy, hesitant kid he really was when not hidden behind his avatar.
Kael noticed first. "Hey, kiddo," he said, his voice softer than Majiku remembered. "You gonna hide there all day?"
Majiku flushed, retreating half an inch behind the wall.
Mira chuckled quietly. "Come on, son. Don't be shy."
He hesitated — then, suddenly, he ran. Down the hallway, through the doorway, small feet thudding against the wooden floor until he collided into both of them, arms wrapping around theem both.
The air seemed to hold still.
Mira gasped, her arms trembling as they closed around him. Kael leaned down, folding them both in, and for the first time in years, the house felt whole again.
No words were needed. The sound of their breathing — uneven, wet with tears — said enough.
It was a fragile peace, stitched together with apologies unspoken and promises barely shown, but it was theirs.
After a long moment, Kael pulled back slightly, brushing Majiku's hair with a hand. "I've got to head out for work soon," he murmured. "Big shipment day. But…" He looked between them. "Don't forget this. Any of this."
Mira nodded, swallowing thickly. "I won't."
Majiku's small voice piped up. "You promise we'll all… stay okay?"
Kael knelt, meeting his son's eyes. "We'll try, okay? That's how staying okay starts."
Majiku nodded, hugging him again before Kael grabbed his jacket and stepped out into the daylight.
The front door closed softly — a sound that, for once, didn't hurt.
The hours drifted gently after that. Mira cleaned, hummed quietly to herself, and tried to keep her thoughts in order. She found herself catching mistakes — old habits she'd slipped into. Her tone would grow sharp, her sighs impatient, her voice too cold. But every time she felt the mask tighten, she stopped, took a breath, and tried again.
"Majiku," she called after a while, hearing the faint sound of the headset booting up in the next room. "Not too long today, alright?"
"I know, Mom," he said, already halfway gone into the world of Eien.
She sighed softly, wiping her hands. "Just be careful…"
He didn't hear her.
When Majiku opened his eyes, Eien greeted him with its usual warmth — the soft hum of wind through leaves, the flicker of a nearby campfire glowing gold against the indigo sky. The digital stars shimmered like frost.
The rest of The Misty Four weren't online — no Kael, no Mira's avatar, no Mizuno's memory hanging in the distance. Only the fire and the whispering code of the world.
But someone was.
Ryn stood there, beside the flames, his figure tall and motionless, half-shrouded in smoke.
Majiku blinked. "Ryn?"
The kid looked up slowly. His face was unreadable, his tone calm — too calm. "You're early."
Majiku walked closer, confused but relieved. "Didn't think you'd ever log on again."
"I almost didn't," Ryn said. "But… I've been thinking about some things."
Majiku smiled faintly, rubbing the back of his neck. "Yeah? Like what?"
"Like how fragile everything is," Ryn murmured. "How easily it all breaks."
Majiku hesitated. There was something strange in his tone — something heavy.
The ground under his right foot clicked.
He froze.
"Wait—"
A sound of metal grinding filled the air. Hidden bars shot upward from beneath the soil, encasing him in a sudden iron cage. The firelight reflected on their cold surface, flickering shadows like claws across his face.
Majiku grabbed the bars, panicked. "Ryn—! What the hell is this?!"
Ryn tilted his head, the faintest ghost of a smile crossing his lips. "Got you, little bug."
Majiku's stomach turned cold. "Ryn, what are you doing?"
"You wouldn't understand," Ryn said softly, stepping closer. His eyes glowed faintly red in the reflection of the campfire. "I've been waiting for this. For you. For all of you."
"Us?" Majiku stammered. "You mean—"
"The Misty Four," Ryn interrupted. "Or rather, what's left of them. Three, now."
Majiku blinked. "Three?"
Ryn didn't answer. He only smiled wider, the kind of smile that didn't belong in any human face. "You were all supposed to fix this world, remember? To make Eien something beautiful through your own dreams. But all you did was turn it into another lie. Another cage. Just like your mother did to herself."
Majiku's hands shook as he pulled against the bars. "She's trying to fix things—"
"Too late," Ryn snapped. "People like her don't fix things. They infect them."
Majiku's breath hitched. "What are you talking about? Ryn—this isn't you."
Ryn stepped closer until the bars divided them. "You still think there's a me left in here?"
Before Majiku could answer, Ryn swung his boot through the cage's gap, kicking him hard in the gut. Majiku fell backward, the impact knocking the air from his lungs.
"Stop—!"
But Ryn didn't stop. He opened the gate with a flick of his hand — the metal creaked, retracting long enough for him to step inside.
Majiku scrambled back, but there was nowhere to go. Ryn's shadow fell over him, massive against the trembling light.
"You don't understand," Ryn said again, his voice breaking now with something rawer, uglier. "They took everything from me. My life. My family. My name. Eien took it all. And your group — your perfect little dreamers — you helped them by playing this damned game."
Majiku's eyes widened in confusion and fear. "That's not true! We didn't—"
Ryn's fist struck his jaw before he could finish.
Pain exploded through his head. He hit the ground hard, vision flashing white. He tasted blood — real or virtual, he couldn't tell anymore.
Ryn loomed above him, shaking. "You don't even know what they did, do you?"
"Stop… please…" Majiku gasped, trying to crawl away.
But Ryn grabbed him by the collar, lifting him effortlessly. His eyes burned like static. "You're all puppets. The Misty Three. The heroes. The symbols. But I know the truth now."
He slammed Majiku down again. The sound echoed through the empty forest.
Majiku coughed, tears streaking his face. "You're wrong," he whispered. "You don't have to do this."
Ryn froze. For a heartbeat, something flickered in his eyes — regret, maybe, or pain. Then it vanished.
"I already did," he said quietly.
He turned, walking out of the cage, the bars sealing shut behind him with a metallic clang.
Majiku lay there, shaking, blood dripping onto the pixelated dirt, his vision hazy. The fire crackled softly nearby, uncaring.
Outside the bars, Ryn stood watching him — silent, unreadable — before finally whispering, "Tell your mother her lies caught up."
Then, as suddenly as he'd appeared, Ryn vanished into the night — leaving only the cage, the fire, and the sound of Majiku's ragged breathing.
In the real world, Mira paused mid-dish, her stomach tightening as a faint, inexplicable dread washed through her.
The sink's water ran over her fingers, and she whispered to no one, "Majiku…?"
But the house gave no answer. Only the hum of the faucet — and far away, in another world, the echo of a child's pain trapped inside a cage of iron and betrayal. Preventing him from logging off.
End of Episode 10: "The Calm Before the Cage."