I always thought the night I died would haunt me forever, but apparently my brilliant life choices include reenacting it like some messed-up speedrun.
Saturday night.
Same chair.
Same messy hair.
Same stupid jacket.
Same shorts.
Same cup noodles that were probably a biohazard by now.
Same pile of trash I forgot to throw because my brain was too busy juggling school, exploit knowledge for Zethara, and pretending I wasn't waiting for this exact moment.
It honestly felt ridiculous. Like I was cosplaying as my past self.
My monitor flickered.
Rise of Zethara loaded with that long buffering circle spinning like it had personal beef with me.
The moment the title screen flashed in, my chest tightened. Not fear this time.
More like… coming home after someone cleaned the cobwebs out of your heart.
The guild chat exploded before the login screen even faded.
Minho was already barking strategy like a drill sergeant who drank five espressos.
