Chapter 7: The Game Never Ends

People often post online, "If you suddenly had thirty million, how would you live?"

There were Reddit threads, Instagram reels, and late-night debates at dive bars. Derek and I were living the answer, the American dream—if your dream included a heavy dose of survivor’s guilt.

Derek and I are living examples. Save half, splurge half. We moved into a big house in the suburbs and drove a Porsche. We’d often invite models over for pool parties.

We bought a Craftsman-style home in a leafy neighborhood outside Austin, filled the fridge with craft beer, and hosted Fourth of July parties that neighbors gossiped about for months. I learned to grill steaks, Derek tried (and failed) to keep the pool clean.

But there’s one thing Derek wouldn’t touch: music. He packed up all the albums of his favorite singers from before we transmigrated and put them in the basement. When he closed the door, he asked me, "Got anything to throw away?"

He stood in the cool, shadowy basement, his hands lingering on a stack of old vinyls. There was a finality in the way he taped up the box, like burying the last piece of who he used to be.

I said, "Already did."

I shrugged, keeping it casual. Old habits die hard.

"What?"

He looked at me, eyebrow raised, expecting a punchline.

"Five Years of SAT Prep, Three Years of Practice Tests (Physics Edition), Starting from Zero to Learn Olympiad Math—I tossed them after the SATs."

I let the words hang there, hoping he’d get the joke. But I could see the nostalgia flicker in his eyes.

Derek rolled his eyes and sat by the pool. The evening breeze was gentle. The distant sound of girls splashing in the pool never felt so real and alive.

The sun dipped low, casting everything in gold. The laughter, the sizzle of the grill, the smell of sunscreen—life finally felt tangible again. But sometimes, late at night, I caught Derek staring at nothing, lost in old ghosts.

Even after a whole year, those people and things still surfaced in our minds unexpectedly. But Derek and I never mentioned it.

The past was a scar that itched, but we agreed—no looking back. Not out loud, anyway.

Derek sipped his watermelon juice, tilted his head, and waved at a girl in the distance. "Actually, the system came to me later. It seemed to offer some therapy or something..."

He acted like it was no big deal, but his voice wavered just a touch. Therapy, closure—who really believes in that?

I turned to look at him, listening as he continued, "It kept saying those were just past dreams, like a murder mystery game—when the lights come on, it’s all over. But some things, I think only you understand. How could things we really experienced be fake? You know, now I want to puke whenever I see alcohol."

He said it like a joke, but I caught the pain behind the words. Sometimes, the system’s logic made sense—sometimes, it was just a Band-Aid over a bullet hole.

Derek said this with a smile. But I always felt he wasn’t truly happy. There was a scar on his heart. Maybe it would be torn open again at some unguarded moment, bleeding once more.

I watched him for a moment, wondering if any of us ever really heal. We survived, sure—but we didn’t win. Not in the ways that count.

Just like after I came back, I unconsciously held back. For example, Aubrey doesn’t like spicy food, so when the boss asks about flavor, I habitually say no to spicy. Derek and I weren’t winners of this game—just survivors.

It’s funny what sticks. Old preferences, old loyalties—they sneak up on you, reminders of a world you can’t go back to.

The live music grew louder, snapping me back to the present as the atmosphere quickly became lively again. Derek tossed down his glass. "I swear, tonight I’ll hit on every girl!"

He grinned, wild and reckless, his old bravado coming back for an encore.

I said, "Me too."

We exchanged a look—brothers-in-arms, ready for anything. The world felt bright and endless, if only for a moment.

The two of us jumped into the pool one after the other. The music was so loud that we didn’t hear the damn system reboot.

It was like an air raid siren in the middle of the party—no warning, just chaos.

It broke the sound system and shouted at the top of its lungs, panic in its voice:

"Detected main character’s death in the novel world. Target used abnormal means. Forcibly recalling hosts. Teleportation begins in three seconds."

Derek and I, arms around pretty girls, barely had time to react—

Everything froze. The water felt like syrup, the music warped and distant. Three seconds can be a lifetime when you know you’re about to lose everything again.

Then, everything went black. We lost consciousness.

The last thing I heard was Derek cursing under his breath. Then, nothing.