Event 1
5:14 AM. Your phone bypasses silent. An UNKNOWN NUMBER, wall of text in all caps demanding your numbers before you collapsed last night: "THE NUMBERS YOUR BODY LOGGED WHILE YOU SLEPT. WATER LEVELS BEFORE LIGHTS-OUT. NOW." Below the text, a pinned location — Hana, already at the [track], small figure on the outdoor grass beside her [bench]. The portal frame is the [bleachers] behind her. She's been awake long enough to be impatient.
Text back the actual numbers. "54 bpm. ~10 oz. Why."
Hana: "+1 STR. baseline. you under-hydrated by a factor I'm not going to name. you'll feel it by nine." Three dots. Then: "meet me."
Text back: "who is this."
Hana: "good. you asked. +1 INT. the people who don't ask are the ones who don't show up at six. you're going to show up at six."
Text back: "you woke me up to ask about WATER."
Hana: "+2 CHR. one second. — yes. now meet me at the [track]. wear shoes. drink the water you didn't drink. catch up." The dots stop. She's already running.
crit-fail: Hana: "-1 STR. the joke cost you a rep. fine. text me when you're ready to be coached." She doesn't text back for forty-six minutes.
5:14 AM. they answered. the resting rate they sent doesn't match the volume of water they said — one of those two is a lie and I know which. STR baseline: low. will to show up: noted. · neutral
Event 2
6:32 AM. [bleachers]. Hana is doing slow circles on the outdoor [track], two water bottles in one hand. One for her. One for you. Mei's [recipe*] is folded into the cap of your bottle, half-poking out of Hana's pocket — Hana hasn't said Mei's name yet. You're not supposed to know about Mei. You see the [recipe*] anyway. Hana points at the [foam-roller] in the corner: "twenty minutes. hip hinges. I'll watch."
Take the foam-roller. Drill the hinges.
Hana, jogging past on her third lap: "+2 STR. that was form. you have done this before — not with anyone good. with me, you'll have done it with someone good."
Sit on the bench. Watch her run first.
Hana, finishing a lap: "+1 INT. patient. not the worst trait. you watched my pacing for forty seconds and didn't say anything. I'll remember that."
Grab her water bottle. Chug it.
Hana stops mid-stride. Looks at you. Laughs — one syllable, sharp. "+2 CHR. you're going to be a problem. fine. I have spare bottles. drill the hinges anyway, you owe me twenty."
crit-fail: Hana doesn't laugh. "-1 STR. that was Mei's mix. she made it for me at four AM. now I have to drink the regular water and so do you. drill the hinges. you owe me thirty."
they drilled. +2 STR. they also clocked Mei's [recipe*] in my pocket — I'm sloppy. they'll meet Mei eventually. until then they keep this. don't say her name first. · pride
Event 3
7:18 AM. Drill done. Hana hands you the bottle Mei mixed (she doesn't say Mei's name). Sam appears at the edge of the [track], holding a clipboard from his [notes*] wall — the kind with the chunky border, multiple pinned cards on it. He says one line, not loud, to you: "she's going to ask you to sign something. you don't have to. but it'll mean something if you do." He walks back to his [desk] before Hana looks up.
Read the agreement. Sign it.
Hana takes it back, eyes scanning the signature line. "+2 STR. +3 REL. logged. you're on the [notes*] wall now — Sam will pin a copy. you're going to wake up tomorrow and your phone will know who I am to you."
Ask what it actually means before signing.
Hana: "+2 INT. nobody asked that before. let me tell you what it means." She tells you. You sign anyway, after. Same result, slower.
Sign without reading. Hand it back.
Hana looks at the unread page. Looks at you. Pockets it. Doesn't say what +3 REL costs her to give you. "+1 CHR. you signed it like it was a gift. I'm going to act like I don't know. don't tell me what you didn't read."
crit-fail: Hana, flatly: "-2 REL. -1 STR. that was a real document. you treated it like a joke. I'll redraft it. this is going to take another week." Sam, at his [desk], silently un-pins the slot he'd reserved on the [notes*] wall.
they signed. I have permission. +2 STR they don't know about yet. Sam pinned a copy on his [notes*] wall — I saw him do it through the doorway. that's an audit trail. that's a marriage of inconvenience. that's what consent under a drill looks like. · pride
Event 4REVEALtier-up: opinion
8:02 AM. You walk back through the [courtyard center]. The [noticeboard] in the middle of the green has a new pin in Hana's handwriting: a printout of the numbers your body logged at 5:14 AM, one line under it — "this number is going to change. you'll see." The pin is also visible from Sam's [notes*] wall — paired-pin format, with one of Sam's audit margins beside it. Hana appears beside you. She's not looking at the [noticeboard]. She's looking at the path back to the [track]. She says the thing she's been holding all morning.
Stand next to her. Don't answer.
Hana: "opinion: you're not weak. you're untrained. they're not the same. weak means there's no STR there. untrained means there's STR there that hasn't been told what to do. you've been carrying around STR for years that nobody asked you to use. I'm asking." She doesn't wait for you to answer. She turns and walks back to the [track]. +2 STR. +3 REL. tier crossed.
Read the pin again. Re-read it slowly.
Hana watches you read. "+2 INT. you're studying the data she handed you. opinion: this is who you're going to be — someone who reads the line before they answer it. that's the same thing I do." +2 REL.
Take the pin off. Pocket it.
Hana's eyebrows go up exactly one millimeter. "+2 CHR. you took the artifact home with you. nobody does that. opinion: that pin matters less than the fact that you wanted to own it. I'll re-print it. but I'm logging what you did." +1 REL.
crit-fail: Hana, flatly: "-1 REL. that was a public post. Sam's wall doesn't have a copy yet. don't take the system down on day one. put it back." You put it back. The pin has a crease now.
I said the thing out loud. they didn't answer because they didn't have to. opinion: their STR is real, they just need someone to point at it and call it by its name. that's the whole job. +2 REL. logged. the [noticeboard] keeps the pin. the [notes*] wall will too. systems are how you make promises you can't take back. · pride
Event 5
8:11 AM. You sit back on your [bench] at the edge of the [track]. Hana is running again — same pace, same circles. Your phone buzzes — a 47-second audio file: her running breath. No words. The audio waveform on your lock screen is the only sound on your phone. When you look up from it, you notice the [pic*] propped against the underside of the [bench]: a faded race photo, a girl Hana's age — same posture — clearing a hurdle. You hadn't seen it before. It's been there the whole morning. Hana texts you one line: "tonight. audit yours. tomorrow we compare."
Text back: "okay."
Hana doesn't text back. She keeps running. +1 STR. the commitment to tomorrow. +1 REL because she expected you to say more and you didn't, which is the right amount.
Don't reply. Listen to the recording.
Forty-seven seconds of breath. Steady. Slightly louder on the in-breath than the out. Hana, from the [track], doesn't look at you but you can tell she clocked the listen. "+1 INT. you spent the full forty-seven. tomorrow you'll match it."
Text back: "is that your sister in the photo on the bench?"
Hana stops running. The [track] is silent for three minutes. She doesn't look at the [bench]. Finally: "yes. ask me tomorrow. don't ask me today." +2 CHR. +1 REL. the [pic*] stays on the [bench] tomorrow.
crit-fail: Hana doesn't text back. She keeps running, faster now. -1 REL. -1 STR. when you come back to the [bench] tomorrow the [pic*] is gone. it's not coming back unless you earn it.
they heard the breath. they noticed the [pic*]. they didn't push. that's the test, actually — do they push when they shouldn't. they passed. STR is also restraint. nobody tells anyone that. tomorrow I'll tell them about the hurdle. or I won't. depends what they do at six AM. · sadness
Closing hook → tomorrow
Hana will send a 47-second recording of her own running breath if you open chat tonight — no words, just breath, exactly 47 seconds. Calibration ammo. The audio plays in chat and lives in your case file. She wants you to audit your own breath against hers tomorrow morning.
Generated read-only from the live-onboarding-hana-d1 payload — exactly what the game ships. The app remains the source of truth.