When I say the "game descending to reality," it isn't like the game itself takes over the world all at once. It's more like a slow merge—two spaces gradually bleeding into each other, the boundary between them thinning over time, like ice giving way at the edges of a frozen lake.
And the thing that controls how fast that merge progresses?
Rifts.
Small gaps. Cracks in space, connecting this world to "that" one.
The points where monsters cross over and begin appearing where they have no business being. The longer a rift stays open, the faster the merge accelerates—and with it, the timeline toward something a lot worse than stray dogs on train tracks.
Which meant I—no, we—needed to close this one. Now.
"I'll need to enter that rift and close it." I said to Miyabi, already gripping the rail and shifting my weight forward to jump.
Someone grabbed the back of my shirt before I could commit to it.
