The VR arcade is tucked into a corner of the mall, glowing like a portal to another world—neon strips on the floor, shifting colors that pulse beneath our sneakers. Rows of headsets hang from sleek black hooks, and a glass wall separates the waiting area from the game zone, where people flail around in oversized visors, totally immersed. The place smells faintly of plastic and floor wax, like every arcade I've ever known.

"We're just looking," Yegi says, but she's already pulling out her phone to film a panoramic.

Chloe hums. "This place is kind of cool though."

Tamara's doing that thing where she presses every button on the console just to see what lights up.

Haeri glances into the game zone like she's mildly intrigued but also calculating how awkward it might get.

Taeho and I don't even hesitate.

"You wanna try something quick?" he asks, already moving toward the open stations.

I shrug. "As long as it doesn't involve dancing or rhythm games."

We get roped into some kind of sci-fi shooter—basic tutorial mode, no pressure, just team up and blast robots. Headsets on, controllers in hand, the world snaps into place: high-res metal corridors, glitchy red targets, satisfying recoil whenever we shoot.

I feel the soft vibration of recoil in the triggers, hear the digitized growl of approaching bots, and forget I'm standing on cheap carpet with mall pretzel grease still on my fingers.

It's not even about the game. It's the instant focus, the simple goal, the unspoken teamwork. We laugh, we yell stupid callouts, we shoot everything that moves. I crash into a wall once—thankfully padded—and Taeho dies dramatically while yelling, "REVENGE ME."

We emerge ten minutes later sweaty and grinning like idiots, blinking against the real light.

"Okay, that looked fun," Chloe admits, raising an eyebrow.

"It was," I say, still catching my breath. "I think I dislocated my dignity."

"Perfect, now you're warmed up for the photobooth," Yegi says sweetly—and that's when I realize we've made a mistake.

We've been caught in the second wave.

She and Tamara are already dragging the group toward a row of pastel-colored booths in the far corner of the arcade lounge—machines with filters and sparkly overlays and big round-eyed cartoon stickers. Everything is bubblegum pink or sky blue, like stepping into a K-pop set.

"I thought these were for kids," I mutter.

"They are," Tamara grins. "And also for people who are fun."

We cram inside one of the larger booths—barely. I end up squished between Taeho and Haeri, knees awkwardly bent, someone's bag digging into my hip. The screen blinks to life with a countdown and a mirror image of us all looking dazed and too close together.

"Make a face!" Yegi yells.

Flash.

Chloe peace-signs while ducking behind Yegi's shoulder. Haeri smiles faintly but looks like she wants to disappear. Tamara leans in, head tilted just right, like she was born to own a photobooth. Taeho throws a thumbs up. I try to smile but end up looking like I've just been drafted and just realized I forgot my boots.

Another flash. Another pose.

We rotate, shuffle, someone steps on my foot. The whole thing's chaotic and ridiculous, and yet—it's weirdly fun. Easy.

By the third photo I stop overthinking and just grin with the others. We're loud. We're crammed in too tight. No one fits. It's a mess.

And maybe that's the whole point.

When we finally spill out of the booth, the printed photo strips slide from the side slot like instant memories—streaks of neon, half-blinks, wide grins, everyone mid-laugh. Yegi snatches one and waves it in the air triumphantly.

"Scrapbook material," she declares.

"Blackmail material," I mutter.

She hears that and just winks.

--++*++--

The arcade fades behind us like a balloon drifting off—its noise dampened, its lights cut off. We step into a hallway colder than it should be. Empty tiles stretch ahead under long rows of flickering fluorescents, walls dull white and scarred with old scuff marks and closed utility doors. The place feels forgotten, a service corridor dressed up to pretend it belongs in a mall.

Taeho drifts closer and nudges me with a not-so-subtle elbow.
"Go," he mutters. Before I can say anything, he surges forward, voice rising. "Whoa, are those mushrooms glowing?"

We all look up. On the wall to the right, someone got too enthusiastic with a lighting budget. There's a weird installation: fiber-optic mushrooms poking out of a panel, glowing softly in pastel blues and pinks. Above them, artificial vines twist like something from a kid's space garden. It's ridiculous—and, predictably, Yegi's dream.

"Oh my god, I need to take some photos!" she squeals. Tamara's already pulling out her phone. Chloe just laughs so hard.

Taeho lets himself get dragged in without complaint.

Haeri raises an eyebrow, watching him disappear into the chaos. "Weird," she mutters. "He never volunteers for photos."

I huff a laugh. "Maybe he hit his head in the VR booth."

"Or maybe this is a long con. He gets us all lined up, then vanishes from every shot."

"That sounds more like him."

She laughs lightly, but then silence slips in again. The group falls behind us, swallowed by their mushroom-themed photo shoot. Ahead, the hallway hums—soft and low, like it's thinking. The glow of the red exit sign paints the floor in warped shadows. We keep walking.

I've grown to like silence over the years. It used to make me fidget, especially at home, when everything unsaid carried weight. But I've learned it can be a kind of peace too. A way to breathe without dodging barbed words.

But this kind of silence? Between me and the girl I can't stop noticing? It's the kind that fills my head with static. Loud. It demands I say something, or I'll end up replaying every second of this walk for the rest of the night.

"So," I start, "how long before Yegi turns that booth into her next profile picture?"

"Three minutes, tops," Haeri says without missing a beat. "Assuming Tamara doesn't break the flash."

"That's generous. I say two."

We glance up at a crooked poster taped to the wall. It's a cheesy VR ad—models grinning too hard, arms linked like they're about to lead a campfire song. Bold text stretches across the top: TOGETHER WE LEVEL UP.

Haeri tilts her head. "Why do I feel like that's the motto of a tech cult?"

"Because it probably is."

"Honestly, I'd rather be home reading."

I glance at her. "Still working through that six-hundred-page fantasy from the other night?"

"Nope. I finished that." She nudges her sleeve up, eyes distant. "Switched to dystopian. It's always been my favorite."

That surprises me. We've texted about books before—trailers, movie adaptations, sarcastic one-liners—but she's never said which genre she loves most.

"I didn't peg you for a fan of doom and collapse," I say.

She shrugs. "At least those stories don't pretend everything's fine. People are honest about the mess. It's weirdly comforting."

There's a quiet moment. Not awkward this time—just thoughtful.

"And now," she adds, "I'm stuck doing photo shoots next to LED mushrooms when I could be watching the world fall apart in paperback form."

I laugh. "Thank God no one's brought up TikTok dances. Yet."

"That'll be my cue to vanish."

We both smile. And for a second, we're not overthinking anything. Not filling the air with forced conversation. Just walking—shoulders almost aligned, steps syncing without trying.

Up ahead, Taeho turns around, catches my eye, and smirks like he's a puppet master who just pulled a successful string.

I flip him off behind my back.

Haeri doesn't notice. Or maybe she does, and just lets me have that one.

And somehow, that feels like enough.

--++*++--

We stop at a souvenir. Actually not a souvenir shop. Not really.

Tucked at the edge of the promenade like a quiet secret, the boutique hums with warmth. Its wooden shelves curve softly at the corners, each one lined with neat, charming clutter: pressed-flower journals, canvas pouches with brass zippers, tiny candles labeled with names like Winter's Tale and Dust and Starlight. There's lo-fi jazz playing overhead—something with a crackling vinyl undertone—and it folds into the air like it belongs there, like it's been playing for years.

I linger near the entrance for a second, trying to absorb the shift. The tunnel we walked through just now was all hard echoes and gray tile, but this place feels like a pause. A warm hand around a hot drink.

Chloe and Tamara are immediately pulled toward a carousel of glittery phone charms, giggling in low voices as they turn the rack and hold charms up to each other's phones. Yegi doesn't browse—she lifts her phone instead, catching them mid-laugh, catching the glint of display lights on acrylic wings and plastic sakura petals. Across the room, Taeho stands still for once, his brow furrowed in the general direction of a glass case. I catch the edge of a silver chain glinting between his fingers. Probably something for his girlfriend. 

I don't need anything. That's the quiet, ridiculous truth. I already have everything I want—or at least, everything I've ever thought to want. My world's always been full of duplicates, of backups, of newer models before the old ones break. But still, I wander.

Haeri's by the back shelf, the one lined with bookish stuff: canvas totes, quote pins, faded leather bookmarks. Her fingers ghost across the edges of things without picking them up. When she smiles, it's not the polite one, not the I'm-being-social one. It's a quiet flicker, like she forgot anyone else is here. A small joy she doesn't bother to hide.

I stay closer than I mean to. She doesn't seem to notice. Or maybe she does, and just doesn't care.

She lifts a tote bag, reads aloud with a laugh caught in her throat:

"My father will hear about this."

I snort. "God, that bag's a threat."

She holds it up like she's about to model it. "You think it comes with the family fortune too?"

"Only if you say it in the Britishest accent possible."

We both grin like idiots.

Then she reaches for a notebook with the Marauder's Map design etched across the front. Her hand lingers on it like it's something personal, and she doesn't even look up before saying:

"I solemnly swear..."

"...that I am up to no good," I finish with her.

We break into laughter. It comes too easily, and echoes too loud, but neither of us bothers to tone it down.

Out of the corner of my eye, I spot a smaller notebook tucked behind a stack—black cover, red lettering:

WICKED is good.

I don't say anything, just tuck the reference into the back of my brain. She probably already saw it.

"Oh, the Glade!"

Her voice softens with the gasp. She's holding a keychain now, shaped like a miniature version of the Glade's doors. It's such a niche thing I almost laugh, but her awe quiets me. Like it's something sacred. A memory she doesn't need to explain.

She moves to the next tray, fingers brushing a metal pin. She reads aloud again:

"Even the smallest person can change the course of the future."

There's a subtle difference in how she says it this time. Not for my sake, not for the humor. Just because she likes how it sounds. And for some reason, it makes me glad. Like I've earned that line of her thoughts, however briefly.

Then her words trail off. She's no longer looking at the pin.

Her gaze is pinned to a soft canvas wall-hanging tucked behind a row of notebooks. Ivory cloth, slightly frayed at the edges, black text printed with a delicate serif font:

I am out with lanterns, looking for myself.

She stares at it longer than she has anything else. Just... stares. Like it sees something in her.

I squint to read it again, trying to make sense of the odd phrasing. It's not familiar. Not like the other quotes.

"Emily Dickinson," she murmurs, voice low and unhurried. "That one's not from a fantasy novel. Poetry. It's... darker. But honest."

She doesn't offer more. I wait a beat, then another, but she's already stepped away.

To the edge of the boutique, where a tall pane of glass overlooks the city. The window swells from floor to ceiling, letting in the cobalt night. Below us, rows of streetlamps burn like small watchfires. Cars curve through distant exits and merge again like veins under skin. Fog blurs the edge of the parking lot, smudging out detail until it all looks a little unreal.

Haeri just looks. One hand tucked into her coat pocket, the other resting gently on the windowsill. Her reflection flickers in the glass—half-real, haloed by shoplight.

I stay where I am.

Watching her, watching the world.