February didn't come crashing in.
It arrived the way sadness does when you're distracted—quietly, without permission, settling into the corners before you notice it's there. No alarms. No warnings. Just a heaviness that made breathing feel slightly delayed.
The Sixth Affiliate hadn't changed.
Same halls. Same floating rooms. Same voices overlapping, laughing, arguing, existing.
But Jam Seller felt wrong inside it.
Not lost.
Not broken.
Just… off.
He moved like someone watching himself from a distance. He spoke, joked, reacted—but none of it landed where it used to. It was like his emotions were half a second late, arriving after the moment had already passed.
Divine was still there.
Always there.
Not loud. Not demanding attention. Just present in that sharp, observant way that made Jam feel seen without being exposed. Divine listened the way most people never learned how to—without waiting for his turn to speak.
They talked more than before.
Not in public. Not where words were meant to impress.
They talked in the quiet gaps—about why emptiness still hurt even when you got used to it. About how happiness felt real only when someone else was close enough to reflect it back. About how loneliness didn't scream; it just drained color.
Jam admitted things he usually laughed away.
That sometimes he felt hollow.
That sometimes emotions felt like memories instead of experiences.
That 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," he said once. "You're not empty. You're tired."
That alone made Jam feel lighter.
"You'd be better," Divine said another time, not unkindly, "if you didn't force yourself to be funny all the time."
Jam didn't defend himself.
He knew.
Loneliness hadn't weakened him.
It had made him noisy.
And Divine—strangely, quietly—let him be noisy without judging it.
---
Misku didn't enter his life loudly.
She didn't demand attention or force familiarity. She was just… there. Staying. Asking questions that didn't feel like traps. Listening without rushing to reply.
Jam found himself teaching her things naturally. How owo battles worked. Why patience mattered more than strength. Why rushing only made you lose faster.
She learned fast.
More than that—she trusted him.
One night, her message came hesitant, clumsy, painfully human.
"Um… by the way… do you know I have a crush?"
Jam smiled at his screen, already knowing what was coming.
"Who?"
The pause stretched. Long enough to feel vulnerable.
"Divine… >///<
He's really cool. Kind. Mature. My heart actually pounds when I see him."
Something in Jam tightened.
Not jealousy.
Something heavier.
He typed slowly.
"Yeah. He's a good guy."
And he meant it—fully, sincerely.
Later, he teased her gently. Just enough to make her laugh. Because that was how he showed care without crossing lines.
But underneath it all, something else was growing.
Jam and Divine were aligning in ways that felt almost unsettling. They reached the same conclusions without trying. Finished each other's thoughts without meaning to.
Once, Jam said it without filtering himself.
"Talking to you feels like talking to my own dream. Like… I'm hearing myself think."
Divine didn't respond immediately.
That silence lingered longer than comfort.
---
The prank was meant to be harmless.
Misku suggested it—block Divine for a moment, unblock him, laugh it off. Jam hesitated. He knew Divine didn't read things lightly. He analyzed. Overthought. Internalized.
But he agreed.
And it collapsed instantly.
Divine didn't see a joke.
He saw himself being replaced.
Being pushed aside quietly, politely, without explanation.
"If she liked me," Divine said later, voice cold but wounded beneath it, "she wouldn't spend all her time talking to you. People don't lie with patterns."
Jam tried to explain. Tried to slow the spiral.
Divine:"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."
That was the moment Jam made his choice.
He chose Misku.
Not because he wanted her.
Not because he loved her.
But because she had no one else.
Divine blocked him.
And in this dimension, blocking wasn't distance.
It was erasure.
One moment Divine existed.
The next—he didn't.
February slipped toward its end without closure.
No final words.
Just absence.
---
Misku didn't shatter loudly.
She broke the way people do when they're trying to be strong.
Quietly.
She asked Jam one night, voice shaking through text.
"Do you love me?"
"No."
"I know you do."
"No," he said again, firmer. "I don't."
"Ouch… 💔
That hurt. Haha. It's okay."
It wasn't okay.
She cried where Jam couldn't see.
And Jam felt helpless in a way he hated.
So he made a choice—careful, flawed, human.
He flirted just enough to soothe her. Let her feel wanted without promising anything real. Comfort without commitment. Warmth without future.
He told himself it was safe.
The age gap made it impossible anyway.
He stopped talking to everyone else.
Until Divine changed his name across dimensions.
"Manipulator of Women."
That snapped something inside Jam.
He explained everything. Showed messages. Context. Intentions. His guilt laid bare.
Divine finally understood.
"I'm actually stupid," Divine admitted. "I overthink everything."
But understanding didn't erase the damage.
Misku left the Sixth Affiliate.
Jam reached her elsewhere—a game, a quieter place. He listened. He apologized without defending himself. When things stabilized, he pulled away.
He wanted quiet.
That's when he entered Inferno.
That's where he met Serene—calm, steady, not fascinated by his pain. And Akane—arrogant, sharp. He pushed back harder than necessary. He didn't care what she thought.
Eventually, Jam 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 had let him go then, nothing after would've happened.
---
From Divine's view, Jam didn't disappear.
He hardened.
Not angry. Not bitter.
Resolved.
Divine recognized that 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 without drama.
Just silence.
And silence wasn't empty.
It was waiting.
"That she should have let me go so future wouldn't have turned this way"