Giri placed his documentation on the counter, stepped out of the admission line, and found a seat among the plastic chairs. Most were taken: a young woman clutched her papers; an elderly man dozed with his head tilted against the wall.
He eased into the chair, stretching sore legs, when a girl approached hesitantly.
"Sir, excuse me." She held out a form. "Do you know what I should fill in here?"
Giri scanned the page. "That line's for your name. This one's for the inmate's name and block," his voice soft and understanding.
"I—I don't know his room number. My father just got transferred here."
"You can leave it blank. Just make sure things like date of birth are correct." He pointed to the section. "They'll check the database or call you if anything's missing."
"Thank you so much." Relief softened her voice.
The sight tugged at something Giri buried ever since high school. He'd been that person once—fumbling with forms, unsure of anything.
Red and blue lights had painted his house that night, flashing endlessly across the windows. His mother stepped out of the house, wrists cuffed in front. An officer reading unfamiliar words from a papersheet—fraudulent appropriation, financial misconduct—words that meant nothing to a seventeen-year-old.
His father stood silent at the front. His sister was still abroad, unaware of anything.
The officer guided his mother toward the patrol car. Before stepping in, she turned back.
"Don't worry, dears. A clear conscience is a soft pillow."
But court hearing after court hearing peeled back another layer of deception. His mother—a diligent worker—had been used in someone else's scheme. The real culprits vanished, leaving her to face the punishment for crimes she never knew she was part of.
Without her taking the fall, the case would have dragged on forever.
To the system, she was just another expendable piece—and even that system seemed like a pawn on someone else's board.
"Visitor 336."
The intercom crackled, yanking him fifteen years forward into reality. Giri stood, following a guard through security.
No amount of coding expertise could hack these walls or rewrite this reality. Here, he was powerless.
The visiting booth's scratched plexiglass separated him from the woman in faded blue prison garb.
Even with monthly visits, Giri noticed new changes each time—a wrinkle around her eyes, silver threading her hair, a little more weight in every step. Their time together was being stolen away, visit by visit. He would pay anything to buy those moments back.
Yet her face lit up the instant she saw him, smile lines deepening. "Giri, sweetheart!" Her voice crackled through the phone speaker, warm as ever.
"Good to see you too, Mom." Giri pressed his palm to the glass where her hand rested on the other side, the cold barrier between them.
Her gaze flicked to the empty chair beside him. "Your sis couldn't make it?" A flicker of disappointment passed before she masked it with a smile. "How's work?"
"Busy, but going well."
"Make sure you eat properly. Rest too." She leaned closer, forehead nearly touching the glass. "You look tired. Are you sleeping enough?"
YOU ARE READING
GameDev Reincarnated into His Own Creation
FantasyWhen renowned game developer Giri meets his untimely end, he awakens as twelve-year-old Vel in the magical realm of Aeonalus-his own creation. Five hundred years have passed since he crafted the world, and Vel finds himself in the village of Oakhave...
