The countdown felt both eternal and instantaneous.
Kaito sat in what Takeshi called the "preparation space"—a small room carved out of Elysium's malleable reality, where players could exist between matches without the constant shifting and distortion of the outer zones. The walls were a neutral gray, stable but somehow temporary, like they could dissolve at any moment if someone stopped believing in them.
"You're fidgeting," Takeshi observed from across the room.
Kaito looked down at his hands—or the consciousness-construct that resembled hands. They were trembling, the edges flickering slightly with instability. He forced them to still, to solidify.
"First match nerves," Kaito said, trying to sound casual. "It's normal, right?"
"It's survival instinct," Takeshi corrected. "Your consciousness knows what's at stake. Knows that in—" he glanced at the countdown that floated perpetually in the corner of everyone's vision, "—forty-three minutes, you'll be playing a game where losing means ceasing to exist. That's not nerves. That's your mind screaming at you to run."
"Can't run," Kaito muttered.
"No," Takeshi agreed. "You can't."
The preparation space held six other players, all scheduled for the next match cycle. They sat in various states of readiness—some meditating, others pacing, one young woman repeatedly shooting an imaginary ball at an imaginary hoop, over and over, the motion so practiced it had become automatic.
Kaito studied them, trying to understand what he was about to face.
The woman shooting was named Yuki, according to the designation that floated above her head when he concentrated. She'd been in Elysium for four months, had survived seventeen matches. Her form was stable, confident, but there was something hollow in her eyes, like she'd forgotten what it meant to be anything other than a player.
The man meditating near the far wall was Marcus, designation showing eleven months in Elysium, thirty-two matches survived. His form flickered occasionally at the edges, brief moments of instability that suggested he was closer to degradation than he wanted to admit.
"Stop staring," Takeshi said quietly. "It's considered rude here. Everyone's consciousness is exposed enough without being analyzed."
"Sorry." Kaito looked away. "I'm just trying to understand what I'm up against."
"You want to know the truth about the matches?" Takeshi leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "They're not about basketball skill. Not really. They're about willpower. About how strongly your consciousness can maintain coherence under extreme stress. The game mechanics are just the framework. What matters is whether you can hold yourself together when reality itself is trying to tear you apart."
"That's comforting."
"It's not meant to be." Takeshi's expression was grave. "You did well in the evaluation because you were against a system proxy—just code, no real consciousness behind it. But in the actual matches, you're playing against other trapped minds. Minds that are desperate, terrified, fighting for their continued existence. That desperation makes them dangerous. Makes them unpredictable."
Kaito's hands started trembling again. He clenched them into fists.
"How do I—" he started, then stopped, unsure how to phrase the question.
"How do you win?" Takeshi finished. "You remember who you are. You hold onto that no matter what happens on the court. The system will try to destabilize you, make you question your form, your memories, your identity. It'll show you things—fears, regrets, alternative versions of yourself. If you let it fragment you, if you lose coherence even for a second, your opponent will exploit it. And if you destabilize completely..."
He didn't need to finish the sentence.
A chime echoed through the preparation space—soft but unmistakable.
"THIRTY MINUTES TO MATCH CYCLE," the Administrator's layered voice announced. "ALL REGISTERED PLAYERS REPORT TO ASSIGNED COURTS."
Around the room, the other players rose. Some with resignation, others with grim determination. Yuki stopped her phantom shooting and cracked her neck—a purely psychological gesture, meaningless in a place without actual necks or muscles, but apparently comforting nonetheless.
"Good luck out there," she said to no one in particular, her voice flat and distant.
Then she walked through a doorway that formed in the wall and disappeared.
One by one, the others followed, each summoned to their designated court.
Kaito remained seated, watching them go, trying to slow his racing thoughts.
"KAITO HAYASHI," the Administrator's voice singledHim out. "COURT DELTA. OPPONENT: ASSIGNED."
A doorway materialized in front of him, outlined in lime-green light.
Takeshi stood. "That's you. Court Delta is a standard configuration, nothing fancy. Five-on-five, but your match will be one-on-one since you're new. They ease you in before throwing you into team matches."
"One-on-one," Kaito repeated, standing on unsteady legs. "Against who?"
"You'll find out when you get there. The system doesn't announce matchups in advance." Takeshi put a hand on Kaito's shoulder—the contact was strange, like touching someone through a membrane, but real enough. "Remember what I said. Hold onto who you are. Don't let the game take that from you."
Kaito nodded, not trusting his voice.
He walked toward the doorway.
Behind him, Takeshi called out one more thing: "And Kaito? If you start to feel yourself fragmenting, if the erasure process begins, sometimes you can feel it coming. Like your thoughts getting fuzzy, your memories becoming vague. If that happens, focus on something concrete. A memory that matters. Anchor yourself to it. It might give you enough stability to finish the match."
"What if it doesn't?"
Takeshi's silence was answer enough.
Kaito stepped through the doorway.
Court Delta was smaller than the massive arena where he'd done his evaluation, but somehow more oppressive. The boundaries were clear—marked by walls of solid light that pulsed with a slow, rhythmic beat like a heartbeat. The court itself was regulation size, the lime-green lines perfect and precise, the hoops gleaming at either end.
But the space above the court was wrong.
Instead of a ceiling or open sky, there was a swirling void of color and darkness, like looking up into the eye of a storm. Occasionally, shapes moved through it—fragments of something Kaito couldn't identify, couldn't comprehend.
He stood at center court, alone.
The countdown in his vision read: 14:22
Fourteen minutes until the match began.
Kaito tried to practice, to warm up, but there was no ball yet. The system would provide it when the match started. So he just stood there, trying to steady his breathing that wasn't breathing, trying to calm his racing heart that wasn't really a heart.
He thought about his father—the real, physical man back in the pod somewhere, or maybe already lost completely to Elysium's depths. He thought about his mother, the woman in the photograph, the genius who'd built this digital prison and then locked herself inside it.
He thought about Riku, standing in that basement facility, watching his best friend's unconscious body and hoping for a miracle.
I have to survive this, Kaito told himself. I have to win. Not just for me. For all of them.
At 10:00, a doorway opened on the opposite end of the court.
Kaito's opponent emerged.
She was young—maybe his age, maybe younger. Short black hair, athletic build, eyes that glowed faint green in the strange light of Court Delta. Her form was stable, more stable than Kaito's, suggesting she'd been here longer, had adapted more completely.
The designation above her head read: HANA - 3 MONTHS - 9 MATCHES WON
Nine matches. She was a survivor.
Hana walked to her end of the court, studying Kaito with an expression that was equal parts curiosity and predatory focus.
"You're new," she called across the court. "I can tell by how unstable your form is. You're still clinging to physical expectations."
Kaito didn't respond, didn't know what to say.
"I was like that too, at first," Hana continued. "Thought I could maintain my humanity, my identity. Took me three matches to realize that's not how you survive here. You have to let go. Become what the game needs you to be."
"I'm not letting go of anything," Kaito said, surprised by the strength in his voice.
Hana smiled—cold and sad. "Then you're going to die."
At 05:00, the Administrator's presence manifested above the court—not physically, but as a sensation, a weight in the digital air.
"MATCH PARAMETERS INITIALIZED. CONFIGURATION: ONE VERSUS ONE. DURATION: TWELVE MINUTES. SCORING: STANDARD RULES. VICTORY CONDITION: HIGHEST SCORE AT TIME EXPIRATION."
A ball materialized at center court, floating in the air between them.
"SECONDARY CONDITION," the Administrator continued, and Kaito felt a chill run through his consciousness. "ERASURE THRESHOLD ACTIVE. PLAYERS REDUCED BELOW TWENTY PERCENT COHERENCE WILL BE SUBJECT TO IMMEDIATE DELETION."
Takeshi hadn't mentioned that.
"What does that mean?" Kaito shouted up at the void.
But the Administrator didn't respond. It never explained. It only enforced.
Hana's smile widened. "It means if I break you badly enough, you don't even get to finish the match. You just stop existing."
At 00:00, the countdown hit zero.
"BEGIN."
They moved simultaneously, both racing for the ball at center court.
Hana was faster—her consciousness more adapted, her form more streamlined. She reached the ball first, snatched it from the air, and immediately drove toward her basket.
Kaito chased, his legs pumping, his body—or the impression of his body—moving with desperate speed. He caught up to her just as she went up for the shot, getting a hand up to contest.
Too late.
The ball arced perfectly through the hoop.
HANA: 2
KAITO: 0
"You're slow," Hana called, already moving back toward center court where the ball had rematerialized. "Still thinking like you have weight, like you have mass. You don't. You're consciousness. You can move as fast as you believe you can."
She grabbed the ball again before Kaito could react, drove past him with inhuman speed, scored again.
HANA: 4
KAITO: 0
Panic started to creep in. Kaito forced it down, forced himself to focus. Takeshi's words echoed in his mind: Hold onto who you are.
He was Kaito Hayashi. He'd played basketball his whole life. He knew this game.
When Hana went for the ball a third time, Kaito anticipated her movement, cutting her off, snatching the ball himself. He felt a surge of satisfaction—brief, fragile.
He dribbled, trying to create space, but Hana was on him instantly, her defense suffocating. She wasn't just playing basketball. She was attacking his coherence, pressing against his consciousness with her own, trying to destabilize him through sheer force of will.
Kaito felt his form waver. His hands flickered at the edges. The ball almost passed through them instead of bouncing off.
No. Stay solid. Stay real.
He spun away from her, creating just enough space to get a shot off. It was ugly, off-balance, but it went in.
HANA: 4
KAITO: 2
"Not bad," Hana admitted. "But not good enough."
The match devolved into a brutal back-and-forth. Every possession was a war, every shot a battle for continued existence. Kaito scored, then Hana scored twice. He managed a steal, converted it into points, then lost the ball on her counter-pressure.
At the six-minute mark, the score was HANA: 14, KAITO: 10.
And Kaito was starting to fragment.
It began subtly—his vision going slightly blurry at the edges, his thoughts taking a fraction of a second longer to form. Then more noticeably—his hands passing partially through the ball when he tried to catch it, his legs feeling distant and disconnected.
A new indicator appeared in his vision, glowing angry red:
COHERENCE: 67%
"You're breaking," Hana observed, almost clinically. "I can see it. Your form is destabilizing. Another few minutes and you'll hit the erasure threshold."
Kaito tried to respond, but his voice came out distorted, like audio played through a failing speaker.
She was right. He was losing coherence. Losing himself.
Focus, he commanded his fragmenting mind. Remember who you are.
But it was getting harder. Memories were becoming slippery, hard to grasp. He could still remember his name, his purpose for being here, but the details were fuzzing out. What color had his father's eyes been? What had Riku's voice sounded like? How old was he again?
COHERENCE: 54%
Hana scored again, easy and uncontested. Kaito had barely been able to move.
HANA: 16
KAITO: 10
Four minutes left in the match.
"I'm sorry," Hana said, and she actually sounded like she meant it. "But I can't let myself die for you. I have people I'm trying to get back to. So I'm going to keep scoring until you fragment completely. It'll be quick. Painless, probably. Better than some of the ways I've seen people go."
She took the ball again.
Scored again.
HANA: 18
KAITO: 10
COHERENCE: 41%
Kaito fell to his knees—or his consciousness-construct collapsed, the distinction was becoming meaningless. The court beneath him felt like water. The walls around them were pulsing, breathing, closing in.
This is it, some distant part of his mind thought. This is how I die. Not in a hospital bed or a car crash. I'll just stop existing in a basketball game that shouldn't exist, played by a mind that's forgotten how to be a body.
COHERENCE: 33%
His vision was fragmenting now, splitting into multiple overlapping images. He could see the court and also not-the-court, could see Hana and also versions of Hana, could see himself from outside himself, a figure on his knees dissolving into particles of light.
Warning indicators flashed:
CRITICAL COHERENCE LEVEL
ERASURE PROTOCOL STANDBY
Three minutes left.
Hana stood over him, the ball tucked under her arm. "Any last words? Sometimes people want to say something before they go. I try to remember them. Pass them on if I ever make it out of here."
Kaito's mouth moved. Sounds came out, but they weren't words anymore, just noise, just the sound of a consciousness coming apart.
COHERENCE: 24%
Anchor yourself, Takeshi had said. Focus on something concrete. A memory that matters.
But Kaito's memories were dissolving. He couldn't remember his father's face, couldn't remember why he was here, couldn't remember—
No.
Wait.
There was something. A fragment, still solid, still real.
A photograph. On a mantle. A woman smiling. His mother.
Her name was Akari.
She'd built this place.
She was here.
He'd come to find her.
Kaito grabbed onto that memory with everything he had left, wrapped his fragmenting consciousness around it like a drowning man grabbing a lifeline.
COHERENCE: 21%
The erasure threshold was twenty percent.
He was one percentage point from deletion.
But the memory held. And holding the memory, he could remember other things. His name. Kaito Hayashi. His age. Sixteen. His best friend. Riku. His father. Missing. His mission. Find them. Save them. Survive.
COHERENCE: 22%
He was stabilizing. Barely. Teetering on the edge of the void, but no longer falling.
Kaito looked up at Hana. His vision was still fragmented, still wrong, but focusing.
"I'm... not... dead... yet," he managed.
Hana's eyes widened. "How are you—that's impossible. At that coherence level, you should be gone."
COHERENCE: 26%
Kaito pushed himself to his feet. His legs were translucent, barely there, but they held his weight.
Two minutes left.
"I can't die here," Kaito said, his voice getting stronger with each word. "I have people to find. Promises to keep."
He held out his hand.
Hana looked at it, at him, confused.
"The ball," Kaito said. "Give it to me."
"You can barely stand. You're practically erased already."
"I'm still here. Which means I'm still playing." Kaito's hand steadied, solidified. "And the match isn't over until time expires."
For a long moment, Hana just stared at him. Then, slowly, she smiled—a real smile this time, not cold or predatory. Respect.
She tossed him the ball.
Kaito caught it. The sensation of the ball in his hands, the weight and texture of it, anchored him further. This was real. He was real.
COHERENCE: 34%
He drove toward the basket. His movements were sluggish, his form still unstable, but he moved. Hana didn't defend—just watched, curious now rather than aggressive.
Kaito went up for the shot.
The ball left his hands, arcing through the impossible space of Court Delta, hanging in the air for what felt like an eternity.
Then dropped through the hoop.
HANA: 18
KAITO: 12
COHERENCE: 41%
One minute, thirty seconds.
The ball rematerialized at center court. Both players moved for it simultaneously. This time, Kaito got there first. He'd learned something in his near-erasure—physical expectations didn't matter here. Speed was a function of will, of belief.
He believed he could be faster.
So he was.
He scored again before Hana could react.
HANA: 18
KAITO: 14
One minute.
"Impressive," Hana called. "But you're not going to win. You need to score three more times in sixty seconds while I only need one basket to put the game out of reach."
She was right. The math was against him.
But Kaito had stopped thinking about the math. Had stopped thinking about anything except the ball, the basket, the game.
He stole her inbound pass—a desperate gamble that somehow worked. Scored immediately.
HANA: 18
KAITO: 16
Forty-five seconds.
COHERENCE: 53%
He was coming back together, pulling himself into stability through sheer stubborn will. Every shot, every movement, every second he remained conscious reinforced his existence.
Hana took the ball, drove hard. She was trying to run out the clock now, dribbling away from the basket, keeping possession.
Kaito chased her, reached in, tipped the ball loose.
They scrambled for it—two consciousnesses fighting for a digital object that represented survival, life, continued existence.
Kaito came up with it.
Twenty seconds.
He didn't think. Didn't plan. Just shot from where he was, way beyond three-point range, beyond anywhere a reasonable player would attempt a shot.
The ball flew.
Time seemed to slow, the strange physics of Elysium bending around the moment.
The ball hit the rim.
Bounced.
Bounced again.
Fell through.
HANA: 18
KAITO: 18
Tied game. Fifteen seconds left.
The crowd that existed and didn't exist in the stands around Court Delta—the shadowy presences of other players watching through the system—erupted in noise that was felt more than heard.
Hana grabbed the ball, desperation in her eyes now. She drove toward her basket, Kaito right behind her.
Ten seconds.
She went up for the shot.
Kaito jumped, his consciousness launching upward with belief-powered force that defied any rational physics.
His hand met the ball just as it left hers.
Block.
The ball careened out of bounds.
Five seconds.
It rematerialized at center court, exactly between them, one final chance for either player.
They both ran.
Three seconds.
Kaito reached it first—barely, his fingers wrapping around it with a grip that was as much willpower as anything physical.
Two seconds.
He turned, saw the basket impossibly far away, saw Hana recovering, saw the countdown in his vision ticking down.
One second.
He shot.
The ball left his hands just as the buzzer—a sound that was all sounds and no sound simultaneously—filled Court Delta.
MATCH TIME EXPIRED
The ball was still in the air.
Everything froze—Kaito, Hana, the ball suspended mid-flight, the entire court locked in that single moment between victory and defeat, between survival and erasure.
Then time resumed.
The ball dropped.
Straight through the hoop.
Perfect.
HANA: 18
KAITO: 20
MATCH COMPLETE. VICTORY: KAITO HAYASHI.
Kaito collapsed, his legs giving out, his entire being shaking with exhaustion that shouldn't exist in a place without bodies.
COHERENCE: 61% AND STABILIZING
He'd won.
He'd survived.
He was still here.
Across the court, Hana stood with her arms wrapped around herself, and Kaito realized she was cryin