Wildcard (Warcross #2)(82)

Brooke bursts into protest as their father tugs her silk cap straight again. Hammie looks away from her mom. “You just came back yesterday,” she says.

Their father raises a stern eyebrow. “Hammie. Stop making your mamá feel bad. I assigned you plenty of algebra homework to keep you busy for the next week. I can always give you more. Now, that’s your last complaint. You understand me?”

Hammie opens her mouth, then shuts it sullenly. “Yes, sir,” she mutters.

Their mother smiles at Hammie’s face. “It’s a good thing,” she teases. “Without me around, you can finally win a few chess games. Maybe you’ll even put up a fight when we play next time.”

Hammie straightens, a little smirk sneaking onto the corners of her mouth, and suddenly she looks exactly like the teammate I know. The spark in her mother’s eyes seems to feed her. “Yeah, you’ll be sorry. Next game, your king is mine.”

“Oh, big talk now.” Her mother laughs once, the sound full of warmth. “Listen—each time you play against anyone, pretend you’re playing me. All right? That should give you the fire to do your best.”

The young Hammie nods at that. “Hell yeah, I will.”

“Hammie,” her dad scolds from the bed. “Language. How many times?” Brooke starts cracking up.

Hammie might be too young to understand it, but I know what her mother’s really doing—reminding her that the game connects them, that her mother’s presence is there even when she’s not.

The scene shifts again to the middle of the night, where Hammie sits by flashlight at the little chess table and plays quietly on her own, her brow furrowed in determination.

Finally, the memory disappears, replaced once again with the endlessly repeating movie trailer.

Hammie stays frozen where she is.

It takes everything in me not to reach out and pull her back with us. I tear my eyes away from her, feeling my heart rip a little as I go. “Come on,” I say through gritted teeth, my hand on Roshan’s arm. He stumbles a little as we walk by, like he wants to grab her, too, but instead he forces his face forward again.

Hideo marches beside us, twisting and turning his body as he weaves through the crowd. When I glance at him, his expression is stone-cold.

I shouldn’t have brought them here. I didn’t understand how dangerous navigating Zero’s mind would be.

But it’s too late to dwell on it.

We finally reach the department store’s entrance. The model smiles at us with her blank expression. She holds out a coupon for us to take, but unlike everyone else walking into the store, I hold back and don’t dare touch it. Neither does Hideo nor Roshan.

Her smile disappears. Then, suddenly, she raises her voice. It’s a warning call.

And everyone near us starts rushing toward us at a frightening pace.

“He’s found us,” Hideo calls over his shoulder. “Hurry!” He seizes my wrist and pulls me forward. Roshan dashes ahead.

A door at the end of the floor glints, and we make a run for it. People behind us continue to rush forward, still expressionless and wordless.

Hideo reaches the door and shoves it open. We hurry inside. The last thing I see when I look back are the countless determined faces heading toward us. Then I slam the door shut, sealing them out.

I’m trembling all over. Hammie’s gone. Asher’s gone. And if we don’t get to the end of this soon, if we don’t restore Zero’s mind to Sasuke’s, they may never come back.

After the strange, wordless bustle of the Shibuya illusion, this street looks calm and quiet and dim, lit only with streetlights and the occasional stripe of golden yellow light streaming out from homes.

It’s the street where Hideo’s parents live, but everything looks different at night, and a subtle mist floats around us.

Hideo’s breath fogs in the air as he stares at the house. “This is before Dad planted the spruce in the front yard,” he says in a soft voice. “The door’s a different color, too.”

I remember that. When I’d visited his home, the door had been painted a deep red, but in the Memory Hideo had once shown me of his younger self sprinting back home, the door had been blue. That’s the color it is here.

Hideo hesitates, as if he were afraid to walk closer. This is a nightmare that he’s trapped in, just like how Zero had once used my worst memory against me.

Roshan starts walking toward the house. “Emi,” he says quietly, “you and Hideo stay back. I have my shields; it’ll be safer for you both that way. No doubt there are security bots here, too.”

Hideo shakes his head once and steps in front. “Watch Emi,” he replies, then sweeps a hand across the scene. A menu grid appears. “I’m such an integral part of this scene that I’ll blend in easily. Zero’s not going to find me.”

We head up to the house. As we draw near, I can hear the sound of muffled voices in the house, the recognizable hum of Hideo’s mother and the lower rumble of his father. Hideo approaches the home, opens the door, and leads us in.

It’s a warm, comforting space, as neat and tidy as I remember it—except without the sculptures that Hideo’s father would later make in remembrance of Sasuke. In fact, there are still photos of Sasuke on all the walls, portraits of him with Hideo and with his parents. This must be a memory from when he was still back home.