February didn't rush.
It arrived the way sadness does—quiet, uninvited, settling in corners before you even noticed it. No alarms. No warnings. Just a weight that made breathing feel slightly delayed.
The Sixth Affiliate hadn't changed.
Same halls. Same floating rooms. Same voices weaving together—laughing, arguing, existing.
Jam Seller felt… off.
Not lost. Not broken.
Just… displaced.
He moved like someone observing himself from the outside, speaking and joking while his reactions lagged, arriving a half-beat too late. The moments that used to land now passed him by.
Divine was there.
Always there.
Not loud. Not demanding. Just present. Observant in a way that saw everything without exposing anything.
They spoke more than before—not where anyone could watch, not where words were meant to impress. They spoke in the quiet gaps: about how emptiness still hurts even when you've grown used to it. About how happiness only feels real when reflected by someone else. About how loneliness doesn't scream—it drains color.
Jam admitted things he usually masked with laughter.
Sometimes he felt hollow.
Sometimes his emotions were memories instead of experiences.
Sometimes joking wasn't joy—it was armor.
Divine didn't pity him. Didn't soften his voice.
He just nodded through text.
"That makes sense. You're not empty. You're tired."
And somehow, that small acknowledgment lifted weight he hadn't realized he carried.
"You'd be better," Divine said one night, "if you didn't force yourself to be funny all the time."
Jam didn't argue. He knew.
Loneliness hadn't weakened him—it had made him noisy. Human in a way he rarely allowed.
And Divine, quietly, let him be.
Misku didn't enter his life with noise or fanfare.
She didn't demand. She simply stayed. Asked questions. Listened. Didn't rush. Didn't judge.
Jam found himself teaching her naturally—how owo battles worked, why patience often mattered more than strength, why rushing always led to mistakes. She learned fast. And she trusted him.
One night, her message came hesitant:
"Um… by the way… I have a crush…"
Jam already knew.
"Who?"
The pause stretched like fragile glass.
"Divine… >///< He's really cool. Kind. Mature. My heart actually pounds when I see him."
Something tightened inside him.
Not jealousy. Something heavier.
"Yeah. He's a good guy," he typed. Meant it.
Later, he teased her gently, just enough to make her laugh—care without overstepping.
But beneath it, something else was stirring.
Jam and Divine began aligning in ways that felt almost unsettling. Reaching conclusions together without trying. Finishing each other's thoughts.
Once, Jam admitted without filter:
"Talking to you feels like talking to my own dream. Like… I'm hearing myself think."
Divine didn't reply immediately. The silence lingered, long enough to be uncomfortable.
The prank should have been harmless.
Misku suggested it—block Divine briefly, unblock, laugh.
Jam hesitated. Divine didn't take jokes lightly. Words were analyzed, internalized, weighed.
He agreed anyway.
It collapsed instantly.
Divine didn't see humor. He saw displacement. Quiet. Polite. Unnoticed replacement.
"If she liked me," Divine said later, calm but wounded beneath, "she wouldn't spend all her time talking to you. People don't lie in patterns."
Jam tried to explain, tried to slow the spiral.
"I'm not something you break and glue back together," Divine said. "And I won't stay somewhere I'll eventually ruin things. If I stay, someone gets hurt."
And Jam made his choice.
He chose Misku. Not out of love, not desire. But because she had no one else.
Divine blocked him. In this world, blocking wasn't distance. It was erasure. One moment, Divine existed. The next—he didn't.
February drifted toward its end quietly.
No closure.
No final words.
Just absence.
Misku didn't shatter loudly.
She broke quietly, like someone trying to stay strong.
One night, voice trembling through text:
"Do you love me?"
"No."
"I know you do."
"No," he repeated, firmer. "I don't."
"Ouch… 💔 That hurt. Haha. It's okay."
It wasn't okay.
She cried where he couldn't see.
He felt helpless in a way he hated.
So he made a choice. Careful. Flawed. Human.
Flirted just enough to soothe her. Warmth without promises. Comfort without future.
He told himself it was safe. The age gap made anything else impossible.
He stopped talking to everyone else.
Until Divine returned across dimensions.
"Manipulator of Women."
That snapped something inside Jam.
He explained. Everything. Messages. Context. Intentions. Guilt laid bare.
Divine understood.
"I'm actually stupid," he admitted. "I overthink everything."
Understanding didn't erase damage.
Misku left the Sixth Affiliate.
Jam followed her elsewhere. He listened. Apologized. Pulled away when things stabilized.
He wanted quiet.
That's when he entered Inferno.
There, he met Serene—calm, steady, not fascinated by his pain.
And Akane—arrogant, sharp. He pushed back harder than necessary. Didn't care what she thought.
Eventually, he told Misku goodbye.
She refused.
"Why are you acting different?"
"If I stay," he said, exhausted, "I'll hurt you more."
"Why does something new always ruin everything?"
He didn't answer. He knew the truth.
If she'd let him go then, none of what came after would have happened.
From Divine's view, Jam hadn't disappeared.
He hardened. Not angry. Not bitter. Resolved.
Divine recognized the look—the moment someone stops needing to be understood.
Jam had given up a place. A bond. A version of himself.
All for one fragile belief:
If I can reduce someone else's pain, even a little, maybe it's worth losing myself.
February ended quietly.
No drama. No noise.
Just silence.
And silence wasn't empty.
It was waiting.
"That she should have let me go… so the future wouldn't have turned this way."