As the group finished their meals, Sim conjured a cozy arrangement of recliners and couches that seemed to hum with relaxation energy—like they’d been plucked from a spa resort in another reality. The fabric shimmered faintly, enchanted to mold perfectly to their bodies.

  Before anyone could sink into the couches or kick up their feet, Emily raised a hand, halting the moment with the kind of quiet authority that came from years of commanding lab teams.

  “Hold on a second,” she said, her tone thoughtful. “I’ve got two requests for Sim.”

  Sim’s voice responded instantly, curious and warm. “What’s on your mind, Emily?”

  Emily glanced down at her combat gear, her fingers brushing the engraved patterns etched across her chest. “I really love these suits,” she said, her tone even. “They’re practical, tough, and let’s be honest—pretty badass. But in the jungle? They were like personal saunas. Can we enchant them with internal temperature control? Something we can adjust through our system interface? That way, we can cool them down or warm them up when needed.”

  “Done,” Sim replied without hesitation, her voice humming with satisfaction. A faint ripple passed through the air like a quiet breeze. “Interfaces updated. And as a bonus feature, they will default to 72 degrees unless otherwise selected.”

  The trio instinctively opened their menus, a new “Comfort Settings” tab appearing beneath their equipment options. Quinn tapped the slider. Emily followed. Dexter grinned.

  A collective exhale filled the room as the stifling heat from the jungle was replaced with a perfect climate-controlled hum of comfort.

  “Oh, and,” Sim added, clearly pleased with herself, “your gear will now auto-repair and return freshly cleaned every time it’s stored. You’re welcome.”

  Emily beamed. “That’s amazing. Seriously, thank you.”

  Sim’s voice turned playful. “Second request?”

  Emily tilted her head, glancing at Quinn with a mischievous smirk. “I don’t know about you two, but I don’t exactly want to live in combat gear. Especially since Quinn’s little biomancy upgrade has made all our old clothes basically obsolete.” She raised an eyebrow, mock-scolding. “We’ve all grown out of our wardrobes, muscle-boy.” She winked at Quinn, teasing him with a lighthearted smile.

  Quinn chuckled, flexing just enough to make his shirt strain. “Guilty.”

  “Think we could use our astral storage to stock a wardrobe that actually fits?”

  Sim’s avatar flickered for a heartbeat. “Already anticipated. I’ve synthesized wardrobes based on your latest measurements. You can now swap outfits like you would weapons—fully stored, quick access.”

  Emily wasted no time. With a flick through her interface, her armor shimmered out of existence, replaced by dark jeans and a snug, soft tee. She spun in place, checking the fit. “Perfect,” she said, pleased. “Thanks, Sim.”

  Quinn followed suit. In a blink, he wore jeans and a well-fitted plaid button-up. “Okay, that’s just smooth,” he admitted, adjusting the cuffs.

  Then came Dexter.

  He tapped through his menu... and promptly appeared in nothing but brightly patterned boxers featuring cartoon pickles riding rockets.

  His eyes widened. “Uh... I think I unequipped without equipping.”

  “Classic Dex,” Quinn muttered, fighting a grin.

  A soft shimmer restored him to dignity—cargo shorts and a comic book–themed tee snapping into place.

  Dexter exhaled like he’d dodged a fireball. “Crisis averted. Thanks, Sim.”

  Emily just shook her head, amusement dancing in her eyes. “Some things never change.”

  Quinn clapped Dexter on the back. “Let’s hope you plan better than you dress.”

  Dexter wasted no time. He claimed the biggest recliner like a dragon taking its hoard, sinking into it with a satisfied groan. His feet popped up, his arms flopped out to the side, and his grin stretched wider with every second.

  Rosco, now a walking sugar coma in fur, clambered up onto Dexter’s chest and promptly collapsed. His limbs sprawled like a starfish, tail twitching once before going limp. Whipped cream still clung to the tips of his ears, but he didn’t seem to care. The soft rise and fall of his tiny frame said it all—he was out.

  Across the room, Quinn and Emily curled into a plush chaise lounge that molded perfectly beneath them. Just a quiet closeness that spoke volumes. Emily snuggled into him, her head resting lightly on his shoulder, his arm gently wrapped around her.

  The chaos of the last few days—the monsters, the mana, the impossible decisions—fell away. For the first time, they weren’t strategizing or fighting. They were just... breathing.

  As Dexter’s soft snoring began to rise like a gentle metronome, Emily stirred. She tilted her head slightly, her eyes meeting Quinn’s beneath the glow of a hovering ambient light.

  “I’ve been meaning to ask you something,” she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper.

  Quinn turned to face her, one brow rising. “What’s that?”

  Emily hesitated, her gaze flicking to Dexter before returning to Quinn. “I’m no psychologist, but… have you noticed how Dexter can’t go ten seconds without cracking a joke? Even when stuff gets serious? Especially then. Do you know why he does that?”

  Quinn followed her glance to the recliner where Dexter now lay sprawled like a sleeping octopus, half-covered in a fleece blanket Sim had probably conjured just to match the scene.

  “Yeah,” Quinn said, his voice softening. “It’s his shield. Always has been.”

  He let the words hang a moment before continuing.

  “Dexter didn’t exactly have it easy growing up. The jokes, the sarcasm, that’s how he survived it. Turn everything into a punchline, and no one sees the pain underneath. It’s how he deflects when things get heavy. Like if he keeps everything light, it won’t crush him.”

  Emily’s expression grew more serious, her voice tinged with quiet empathy. “He’s like that all the time... but it never feels fake. Just… layered.”

  Quinn nodded. “Exactly. It’s armor. But it’s also how he connects with people. He’s not trying to push anyone away. He just doesn’t know how to let them all the way in.”

  Emily’s expression softened, a flicker of understanding washing across her face. “I can relate,” she said quietly, her voice shaded with vulnerability. “I was picked on a lot when I was younger. You know how kids can be.” Her shoulders sagged a little, the weight of old memories pressing down. “That’s probably why I buried myself in science. Relationships always felt... complicated. Safer to just avoid them.”

  Quinn gave her a small, general squeeze—more than comfort, it was shared experience. “You’re not alone in that,” he said, voice steady. “I get it.”

  A soft pause settled between them. The kind of silence that didn’t demand to be filled but carried meaning all its own.

  Then Emily shifted slightly, her tone shifting, taking on a heavier note. “Quinn,” she said, her brow furrowed, “where do we go from here?” Her voice was hushed. “I’m basically a fugitive. The Swiss government probably thinks I stole their most valuable data. And you and Dexter… I’m sure your government’s looking too. Our disappearance hasn’t gone unnoticed. Things are only going to get harder.”

  Quinn’s jaw clenched at that. Not in anger—but in knowing. Quiet dread. He didn’t answer with words at first. Instead, he pulled her a little closer, a simple gesture that said what he couldn’t.

  But it wasn’t enough.

  “Sim,” he said aloud, not looking away from Emily, “what’s our situation?”

  The air shimmered. Sim’s avatar appeared at the center of the room, her posture upright, her usual playful tone gone.

  “Well, you’re not wrong. The Swiss government has launched a high-priority investigation into the singularity event,” she began. “Emily, your face is currently circulating on several international watchlists. Interpol, Europol, and three private agencies I’ve flagged are actively trying to locate you.”

  The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.

  Quinn let out a long breath, not shocked—but hearing it aloud still hit like a gut punch.

  “Figures,” he muttered. “And the U.S.?”

  Sim turned her gaze toward him. “The United States government has issued a soft-classification red flag. You and Dexter are marked as persons of interest. Not officially wanted—yet. But your work credentials and digital footprints have been restricted. And Dexter…” She hesitated, just briefly.

  Quinn’s eyes narrowed. “What about him?”

  Sim’s lips pressed into a thin line. “He’s been flagged as a potential threat. The term used was... ‘hostile entity.’ Likely due to him being the last to use a secure keycard before the network breach. They’re trying to tie him to a cyberattack they still don’t understand.”

  Emily exhaled, half a laugh, half a groan. “Great. That’s exactly what we need right now. One of us labeled a ‘hostile entity.’ That never ends well in government files.”

  Quinn’s voice dropped to a near growl. “We knew we’d be on their radar eventually. I just hoped we had more time.”

  Sim’s tone remained even, but the gravity in her words deepened. “You don’t. Not much.”

  “So... what do we do?” Quinn asked, his voice sharper now, urgency bleeding into every syllable.

  Sim’s avatar flickered, pausing like she was running thousands of contingencies in the background. “Believe it or not,” she said at last, “it’s only been four days since my awakening.”

  Dexter bolted upright in his recliner. “Four days? That’s impossible. It feels like weeks.”

  “Eleven days have passed for you,” Sim explained, tilting her head. “Thanks to the time-dilation parameters within this pocket dimension. But only four on Earth.”

  Dexter groaned and flopped back again. “And in those four days, the world’s governments have already labeled us fugitives. Great.”

  Sim smirked faintly. “And they’ve been trying—and failing, I might add—to hack into my systems ever since. I wish them luck.”

  Her tone shifted back to pragmatic. “For now, I recommend staying under the radar. Continue your missions. I’ve already taken steps to create false trails in the digital records, altering your appearances and backstories. It’ll hold, but not forever. It should buy us some time.”

  Quinn’s eyes narrowed. “What’s the long-term play, Sim?”

  A silence stretched as her avatar flickered once again. Then she delivered the inevitable.

  “We might need to act before they do.”

  From the recliner, Dexter let out a groggy grunt. “So let me guess... we save the world, and maybe—just maybe—they’ll clear our names?”

  His eyes remained closed, but his smirk said everything.

  Sim’s tone lifted just slightly. “Something like that.”

  “But before we dive into any grand cloak and dagger adventures,” Sim continued, her tone shifting from practical to purposeful, “we need to address something critical. Not out there—but in here. With all of you. With me.”

  Quinn’s brow creased. “What do you mean? We’ve been pushing nonstop. We’re doing everything we can.”

  Sim’s avatar grew still, the light around her dimming slightly, as if her digital form was bracing against the weight of what came next. “I need more mana,” she said quietly. “And not just a little more—a lot. I’m nowhere near strong enough to create the shield we need around Earth’s core. Not yet.”

  She let that settle for a beat, then added, “And we’re running out of time.”

  A ripple of unease passed through the group.

  Then Sim’s expression darkened further. “But there’s something else. Something more immediate.” She turned her gaze toward Quinn. “It’s about your children.”

  Quinn straightened instantly, every muscle tensing. “What about them?”

  “They’re safe for now,” Sim said, her voice gentler. “Time here is slowed again.”

  She paused—just long enough for Quinn’s concern to grow taut.

  “If the governments are tracking you—and they are—they won’t stop at digital trails. They’ll start looking into your life. Your connections. Your family.”

  Quinn’s jaw clenched. “So you’re saying they could be watching my kids?”

  Sim nodded slowly. “It’s a real possibility.”

  A moment of silence passed, thick with implications.

  Then Quinn spoke, his voice low but firm. “Do we bring them in? Let them be part of this? If they’re involved, maybe we can shield them better. At the very least, I’ll know where they are and what’s happening to them. I’d sleep a lot easier knowing they’re not being scrutinized by the government.”

  Emily crossed her arms, thoughtful. “Let’s think this through,” she said, her voice calm but focused. “If the government is already watching your kids, maybe we can use that. Their safety comes first—always—and Sim can get them out of trouble at any time, but if they’re being followed anyway, we might be able to steer that attention.”

  Quinn frowned but listened.

  “They don’t have to be involved directly,” she continued. “In fact, they probably shouldn’t be. But if we control the narrative, their proximity to you could become misdirection. They’d help by simply existing… while Sim reroutes the watchers.”

  Her voice dipped into something more somber. “If we tell them everything, they’re in for good. No turning back. No normal life. But if we don’t… we risk leaving them blind to the danger. We can still protect them, but from the shadows.”

  Dexter leaned back in his chair, eyes narrowed as he tapped a rhythm against the armrest. “Yeah,” he muttered, “trying to protect them without turning them into targets is a razor’s edge.”

  He sighed. “But pretending everything’s fine while the government’s poking around their lives? That doesn’t sit right either.”

  Quinn ran a hand through his hair, frustration simmering just beneath the surface. “I talk to them every week. They’re going to notice something’s off. And if someone starts questioning them, they won’t know what’s real or what to hide.”

  Silence settled over them like a weighted blanket.

  Then, from Dexter’s lap, Rosco stirred—half-covered in whipped cream, his belly round from pie.

  “Me got idea,” the little Kinkajou said, licking his paw with casual confidence. All eyes turned toward him.

  Dexter arched an eyebrow. “Yeah? Hit us with your wisdom, O Great Banana Sage.”

  Rosco sat up straighter, his emerald eyes gleaming as his tail swished like a metronome. “You no hide from hunters,” he said. “You lead hunters wrong way. Give them path to follow. But not your path—a bad path.”

  Emily blinked. “You mean… we don’t just cover our tracks—we leave fake ones? We make them think they’re making progress?”

  Rosco bobbed his head enthusiastically, tiny ears twitching. “Yes! Let them chase ghosts. Clues go wrong places. They think they close. But they never close.”

  Emily tapped a finger against her knee, thoughtful. “We wouldn’t even need to involve your kids. Just give the government a trail to follow… and let them wear themselves out.”

  Quinn leaned back, realization dawning like a sunrise behind his eyes. “That’s… actually brilliant. They think they’re closing in, and meanwhile, we keep them pointed the wrong way.”

  Dexter snorted, shaking his head with a grin. “Leave it to the psychic kinkajou to outmaneuver every intelligence agency on Earth.”

  Sim’s avatar flickered into view, voice thoughtful, “I like where this is going.” Her tone sharpened slightly, all business now. “I can construct a full disinformation framework—burner phone accounts, staged GPS data, decoy drop points. We’ll make it look like you’re coordinating with a shadow network. Nothing verifiable. Everything just believable enough to be compelling.”

  Emily leaned forward, her eyes narrowing in strategic focus. “We feed them exactly what they want—a mystery. Enough false leads to keep them chasing their own tails.”

  “When me chase tail, me get dizzy. Make Hunters get dizzy.” Rosco said.

  Dexter snickered.

  Quinn exhaled slowly, the tension in his shoulders starting to ease. “Rosco, you might’ve just saved my kids.”

  The little creature puffed up with pride, licking a bit of lingering whipped cream off his paw. “Rosco smart. Rosco like when friends not worried.”

  Dexter lifted him like a tiny golden trophy. “Rosco for MVP!”

  Rosco raised his paw in solemn victory. “Most Valuable Primate.”

  Emily smirked, her eyes narrowing with purpose. “Alright, let’s put this plan into motion. Sim, would you mind starting the groundwork? The sooner we spin this web, the safer everyone will be.”

  Sim nodded, her expression unreadable but her voice calm and efficient. “Understood. Initiating Operation Ghost Trail now.”

  Quinn let out a long breath—one he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. The pressure in his chest began to ease. They weren’t just reacting anymore.

  They were taking control.

  And thanks to a dessert-loving, mind-speaking kinkajou, they finally had a plan.

  Dexter, surprisingly quiet for a beat, glanced over at Emily. “You know,” he said, his voice softer than usual, “knowing what you know now—what you’ve become—do you ever wish you had more time living a normal life? Before all this… mana madness?”

  Emily looked thoughtful, her fingers absently brushing her temple. “Maybe you’re right ,” she said slowly. “ I wouldn’t trade this for any so-called ‘normal’ day. Not anymore. You might actually be right for once, Dexter.”

  Then she lifted her arms in dramatic flair, mirroring his signature move. “Because WE HAVE MAGIC!”

  Dexter sat up like someone had just played his theme song, his grin exploding across his face. “Now that’s what I’m talking about.”

  Quinn, still lost in thought, nodded slowly. “Then that’s what we’ll do. Sim will start Operation Ghost Trail, and we’ll bring my family in. Honestly… if I didn’t, they’d never forgive me. I can already picture their faces.” He stifled a yawn, the day finally catching up to him. “But first… let’s rest. We’ll plan more tomorrow.”

  Dexter yawned in sympathy, stretching dramatically as he sank deeper into the oversized recliner. “Now that’s a plan I can get behind. But fair warning—if anyone wakes me before noon, they better have caffeine. Or pie. Preferably both.” His eyes fluttered shut, a contented sigh escaping him as he snuggled deeper into the cushions.

  Sim’s avatar flickered into view again, her smile playful and knowing. “Um, guys? I think you’re forgetting something.”

  Dexter cracked one eye open, already wary. “What now, Sim?”

  “You don’t need to sleep anymore,” she said sweetly, voice tinged with mischief.

  With a casual snap of her fingers, the recliners shimmered and pulsed, recalibrating their functions. A soft wave of energy rolled through the room—and in an instant, every trace of exhaustion melted away. Muscles loosened. Minds sharpened. It was like waking from the best nap of their lives, minus the nap.

  All three of them blinked at one another, wide-eyed, as the sensation hit like a second wind laced with a shot of adrenaline straight to the heart. Their exhaustion vanished—poof—like it had never existed.

  Dexter sprang out of his recliner with a surprised whoop, landing in a crouch like he was ready to sprint a marathon. “Whoa. Okay, this feels amazing.”

  Emily stood with more grace, rolling her neck with a slow, satisfied sigh. “I haven’t felt this awake since... actually, ever.”

  Dexter glanced between them, then raised a hand with mock seriousness. “So... does this mean we don’t get to dream anymore? ‘Cause I’m gonna need my REM cycles. That’s where all my best jokes come from.”

  Sim’s laugh was light, amused. “Relax, Dex. The system includes full neural integration—dreams, memory consolidation, emotional processing. All the perks. None of the pillow drool.”

  “Whew,” Dexter said with mock relief, wiping his brow. “Didn’t want to lose my subconscious sandbox.”

  Quinn chuckled and gave one final stretch, his joints popping with satisfying precision. He stood tall, renewed focus in his posture. “Alright, team. Break’s over. Let’s get back to it.”

  Their laughter echoed in the pocket dimension, light and warm—an earned reprieve after everything they’d been through. But in the background, Sim’s expression flickered.

  Just for a moment, her smile dimmed.

  At the edge of her vast awareness, she felt it again—subtle quantum ripples echoing through her plane. Seven perfectly spaced waves, each one symmetrical to the last. Not random. Not natural. Not her own.

  A whisper across reality.

  “Sim?” Emily asked, catching the shift in Sim’s demeanor. “Everything okay?”

  Sim’s avatar straightened, her smile quickly returning. “Yes,” she said smoothly. “All good.”

  But even as she said it, she knew it wasn’t the whole truth.

  Something was trying to get her attention.