That morning, Mike woke earlier than usual. He brewed tea, poured it into two cups like he always did—yet didn't ask if Kuro had eaten, didn't rummage through his toolkit. He simply sat there, watching steam curl from the rim of the cup, his gaze distant, as if listening to something not quite wind.
He didn't mention the sensors. Didn't talk about readings. Didn't ask whether Kuro had felt any more anomalies.
"Still thinking about what Mr. Than said?" Kuro asked quietly.
Mike nodded, then closed his eyes for a beat. "Not belief. Just… can't stop thinking about it."
For someone like Mike—who needed schematics, data, and reasons—this was something else. Something that had no graph to follow.
He'd grown up in a well-off family, in a house near the city center—unlike Kuro's small dorm on the outer rim.
His father, chief engineer at a Luxios energy node, was strict but supportive. His sister, living in the suburbs, led a scattered life—frequent job changes, sporadic messages.
His twin, Ezra, barely spoke. Eccentric, reclusive. No official diagnosis, yet the entire neighborhood called him "not quite like the others." Mike never called Ezra a burden. Only said:
"He sees the world differently. Sometimes... I wish I could too."
One night, after a long day at the library, Mike came home to the familiar sound of an argument: his sister wanting to move closer to central Luxios; his father urging stability. Mike didn't step in. He stood outside, holding a folder of scan copies, listening to the weight of unspoken wounds.
When the house fell quiet, Mike went to Ezra's room to check in—his usual ritual after family storms. But the room was empty.
On the desk lay a new drawing.
At first glance: chaos. Cold hues, spirals, jagged cuts.
But then Mike saw it: the living room. Not its furniture—but its energy. The drawing mapped the tension. The pressure, the places where the air had thickened with unspoken words. The light fractured above the table, exactly where the shouting peaked.
Mike stood there for a long while.
Later, when he told Kuro, he simply said:
"Ezra drew a map of that room. Not what it looked like—what it felt like. And it was accurate. Since then… I stopped thinking things need to show up on machines to be real."
That night, Kuro stepped out to grab a book and heard the quiet tones of Mike's electric guitar. Not practice, not tuning—just a freeform line of sound. Notes that hovered, then fell half a beat off. Like the fingers were searching for something the heart hadn't named.
And Kuro understood: Mike was shifting. Not by much. But enough to change the rhythm.
Later that night, Kuro stirred from sleep to find Mike still awake, sitting with a Rubik's cube untouched in hand, eyes lost in the darkness beyond the window.
As if sensing him, Mike spoke.
"You think this trip is a bad idea?"
Kuro blinked, half-awake. Mike's voice was quiet. But clearer than anything else in the room.
"I don't know," Kuro said.
The next morning, Mike brought out a hand-drawn planetary map. In its center, where they had once left it blank, a new red circle had appeared.
Kuro raised a brow. "You're serious."
Mike nodded. "Not making any grand claims. Just figured… if something is out there, we should at least take the first step."
That night, he came to Kuro's place carrying a small canvas bag. No heavy gear. Just the map, a notebook, a few wires, and a half-built device.
"You're not bringing the full sensor kit?" Kuro asked.
Mike shook his head. "Not necessary."
The way he said it made Kuro feel something shift—not fear. But a quiet thrill.
They didn't call it a mission. Didn't call it an expedition. Just a walk—to understand what made a man like Than go silent for half a life.
The next morning, the sky was unusually clear. No clouds. No signal noise. Just stillness.
They picked up a few spare parts at the tech market. Mostly basic things, patch wires, and a coarse sensor roll Mike used to dismiss as "too imprecise."
Kuro teased: "So now you're using things that don't give you numbers?"
Mike only smiled.
Back at the dorm, he traced sigils into his notebook in silence. Kuro asked:
"What if there's nothing there?"
Mike didn't look up. "Then we call it a picnic instead of a theory."
That night, they sat outside. No music. No soldering. Just silence.
Kuro asked: "Do you think a vague feeling is enough to begin a journey?"
Mike didn't answer right away. Then:
"No. But maybe… I've ignored it long enough."
"I don't want to turn away from myself again."
And with that, the journey had already begun.