Overview:

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The Sevillas are left stranded as the family gathers at the chapel to pray for the children’s safe return. A heated fight breaks out between Thalia and Ellie, and their husbands rush in to pull the sisters apart. Bill speaks with the resort manager about launching a rescue for the children. He reassures Carlisle, telling him not to blame himself and that he believes Topher will be alright out there. Meanwhile, James learns from his bandmates through their group chat that time inside the cave moves differently from the world outside.

Split_party_the_storm_intermission.sav

Rain hammers the window like a boss fight on hard mode—relentless, merciless, zero checkpoints. The glass streams with water, each droplet racing downward in that hypnotic way that makes me think of loading screens that never end.

Inside, the air tastes like anxiety and expensive furniture polish. Thalia paces—designer heels clicking against marble like a countdown timer—her perfectly manicured hands twisting a silk handkerchief into origami knots. Classic worried-mom energy, level 100. Enrico stands by the window, shoulders rigid in his post, jaw clenched so tight I half-expect a boss health bar to appear above his head. Even Morissette, their maid, hovers nearby wringing her blouse, dark eyes darting between her employers like an NPC stuck in a cutscene.

The weather outside? Total campaign-ender. No one’s searching for Allison in this Biblical-level downpour.

Meanwhile, across town at the chapel—because of course there’s a prayer montage happening—Grandma Emily clutches her rosary beads like they’re a legendary drop. Grandpa Al sits beside her, weathered hands folded, his bachelor son Uncle Ronald occupying the pew behind them. The Pangilinans are there too: Greg, Martha, and their daughter Mary, all kneeling beneath that massive crucifix.

INRI, the inscription reads above Jesus. I know that one from gaming forums—Iesus Nazarenus, Rex Iudaeorum. Latin for “Jesus of Nazareth, King of the Jews.” The kind of detail that shows up in Assassin’s Creed loading screens.

Everyone’s praying. Everyone’s hoping.

Somewhere out there, Allison’s missing.

And the storm just keeps respawning.

Boss_battle_family_meltdown.sav

The lobby transforms into a PvP arena, and I watch the pre-boss cutscene unfold in real-time.

“This can’t go on like this,” Thalia announces, pacing across the polished floor like she’s speedrunning anxiety itself. Her designer dress—cream silk, probably costs more than my gaming rig—wrinkles under her clenched fists. Her heels click-click-click in that rhythmic pattern that screams “final boss approaching.”

Enrico stands frozen, arms crossed, jaw working like he’s grinding his teeth into XP dust. Dude looks completely out of his depth—the kind of expression you get when the tutorial ends and suddenly the game throws you into hardcore mode. “What do you want? For us to charge into the storm?”

Classic defensive dialogue option. Wrong choice, buddy.

“I don’t care anymore! I’ll find a way.” Thalia’s voice cracks—that audio glitch that happens when emotion overrides logic. She pivots away from her husband, targeting the nearest NPC: some poor staff member stationed in the lobby.

The guy’s wearing the standard employee uniform—white polo, navy slacks, nameplate that I can’t read from this angle. His posture screams “minimum wage doesn’t cover this drama.”

“Is there any way we can continue the search? The storm isn’t that bad,” Thalia pleads, leaning over. Her knuckles go white gripping.

Narrator’s Commentary: Yeah, except the weather outside literally looks like the apocalypse DLC. Rain’s coming down in sheets thick enough to render distance fog obsolete.

“Sorry, ma’am, we’re not authorized to resume the search and rescue.” Standard protocol response. The employee’s doing that thing where he makes bare eye contact—textbook conflict avoidance.

“You don’t understand—the lives of our children, my daughter’s life, are at stake!” Thalia’s volume spikes. Her voice echoes across the lobby like a critical hit notification.

Several guests glance over. Background NPCs registering the disturbance.

“Is yelling at the staff going to save the kids?”

Enter Ellie—stage left, wearing her trademark “I’m-the-reasonable-one” expression. Shorter than Thalia, wearing a sensible cardigan over a modest blouse. The kind of outfit that says “I’m a young wife who still shops at department stores.” Her dark hair’s pulled back in a practical headband.

She opens her mouth to continue. “I suggest—”

INTERRUPT COMMAND ACTIVATED

“I suggest—suggest to your face!” Thalia whips around, and suddenly the cutscene transforms into an unskippable boss fight.

Warning: This scene contains content that might be uncomfortable. Viewer discretion advised. But also, this is real life, and real life doesn’t come with content filters.

Thalia lunges. Her perfectly manicured fingers—French tips, because of course—tangle in Ellie’s hair and yank. Hard. The kind of grab that would trigger a quick-time event in any action game.

Ellie stumbles forward, her sensible flats skidding on the marble. “Aaaah—!”

“How dare you! You tell me what to do? You’re not even a mother! You don’t know how it feels!” Thalia’s shouting now, dragging her younger sister across the lobby like she’s pulling aggro in a dungeon raid.

My Internal Monologue: Okay, so this just escalated from zero to “Jerry Springer episode” in approximately three seconds. Someone needs to hit pause. Someone needs to summon the emergency GM.

Enrico and Ansel—Ellie’s husband, taller guy, looks like a good man who accidentally wandered into an action movie—both sprint forward. The husbands engage in damage control mode, trying to separate their respective wives.

Background NPCs fully engaged now. An elderly couple near the elevators. A businessman with a briefcase. A kid about my age with his mouth hanging open. Everyone’s watching the family drama unfold like it’s premium cable television.

“Come with me! We’ll charge into the storm. We’ll find the children together!” Thalia’s still gripping Ellie’s hair, pulling her toward the entrance where rain batters the glass doors like an army of Zerglings trying to breach a Terran bunker.

“Aaaaaaahhh!” Ellie’s scream cuts through the lobby—pure, unfiltered pain response. Her hands claw at Thalia’s wrists, trying to break the grip.

Gaming Logic Check: In any RPG, this would trigger a “party member attacking party member” penalty. Probably lose alignment points. Definitely lose relationship stats.

“Stop!”

New voice. Female. Authoritative enough to pause the action.

Selena materializes from somewhere—I wasn’t tracking her position—rushing forward with tears already streaming down her face. She’s the oldest sister, the one with the quiet elegance. Wearing a simple blouse and slacks, her long dark hair loose around her shoulders. But right now? Right now she looks completely shattered.

The husbands manage to create space between Thalia and Ellie. Ansel wraps his arms around his wife, who’s breathing hard, one hand pressed to her scalp where the hair-pulling definitely left marks.

“This is already a nightmare, and you two are fighting?” Selena’s voice cracks on every syllable. Her face—usually so composed, so controlled—crumples like deleted save data.

Thalia releases her death-grip on Ellie. Her hands drop to her sides. Enrico keeps a steadying hand on her shoulder.

“Topher is my only son—my only child.” Selena’s words come out broken, fragmented. “I can’t give birth again. He’s all I have.”

Critical Hit. Emotional damage: maximum.

Selena’s knees give out. She sinks to the lobby floor—that expensive marble that probably costs more per square foot than my entire bedroom—and just… breaks. Her shoulders shake with sobs that echo through the suddenly silent space.

Thalia drops beside her older sister immediately. No hesitation. She wraps Selena in a hug, and now they’re both crying—ugly crying, the kind that doesn’t care about makeup or appearances or the dozen strangers watching.

Ellie closes her eyes, tilting her face upward. Her hands fold over her chest—prayer position, or maybe just self-comfort—while Ansel holds her steady. She’s breathing slowly, deliberately, like she’s trying to absorb and process the emotional shrapnel flying everywhere.

My Observation: This is what happens when the game stops being about winning. When the quest objectives become “please just let everyone survive.” When the only boss fight that matters is against grief itself.

The storm outside continues its assault on the windows.

Inside, three sisters share their pain on a lobby floor.

And somewhere out there, seven kids are still missing.

END CUTSCENE

OBJECTIVE UPDATED: Survive the Night

The_management_office_dialogue_tree.sav

The resort management office looks like every corporate admin room I’ve ever seen in video games—neutral beige walls, motivational posters about “teamwork” and “excellence,” a filing cabinet that probably contains nothing but insurance forms and complaints about the breakfast buffet. The fluorescent lights buzz overhead with that annoying frequency that sounds like white noise in a horror game.

Bill sits across from Mr. Sullivan, the resort manager. Sullivan’s positioned behind his desk like a final boss who refuses to engage in direct combat—middle-aged, balding, wearing a polo shirt with the resort logo embroidered over the pocket. His hands are folded on the desk, fingers interlaced in that “I’m-being-professional-but-this-situation-sucks” configuration.

“We’re doing everything we can, Mr. Kennedy.” Sullivan’s voice hits that corporate-smooth tone—the kind that’s been practiced in customer service training seminars. “It’s just unfortunate that the storm has proven to be too big of a hurdle.”

Translation: We can’t do anything because Mother Nature just activated god mode and we’re all stuck on the respawn screen.

Bill leans back slightly in his chair. He’s still wearing his casual resort wear—button-down shirt, khaki shorts—but his posture reads military-grade discipline even in civilian clothes. Topher’s dad has that ex-serviceman energy that never fully logs off. His jaw’s tight, but his voice stays level.

“I understand. It can’t be helped that the search and rescue had to be postponed as soon as it started.”

My Narrative Commentary: Classic diplomatic dialogue option. Bill’s choosing the [Reasonable Response] path instead of the [Aggressive Confrontation] tree. Smart play when you’re dealing with NPCs who control quest progression.

Sullivan exhales—probably relief that Kennedy isn’t going full Karen mode like some parents might. “Thank you for your patience, sir. Rest assured, as soon as it’s safe to go outside, our team will resume the search and rescue operation immediately so we can reunite your children with your families as soon as possible.”

Standard corporate reassurance script. The kind of promise that sounds good but lacks concrete stats or timelines.

“We’ll keep you posted with any news and updates,” Sullivan adds, standing up. The universal signal for “this meeting is over.”

Bill rises too, shaking Sullivan’s hand—firm grip, brief, professional. No lingering. No small talk. He turns and exits through the office door, which closes with a soft click behind him.

LOCATION TRANSITION: HALLWAY

Carlisle waits outside like a loyal companion NPC who’s been set to “Follow” mode. The Kennedy family butler stands with perfect posture, hands clasped behind his back, wearing his crisp beachwear. Dude probably irons his socks. His expression stays neutral, but his eyes track Bill’s face immediately, scanning for information like a HUD reading emotional status bars.

No words needed. They’ve got that silent communication thing down—the kind of party sync that happens after grinding dungeons together for years.

The storm continues hammering the windows at the end of the hallway.

The quest log remains unchanged: FIND THE MISSING KIDS.

Progress: 0%.

Companion_quest_butlers_guilt_protocol.sav

The hallway feels like a liminal space—one of those transitional areas in games where nothing happens except party member conversations. Beige walls, patterned carpet that’s seen better decades, framed photos of the resort’s “happy moments” that now feel aggressively ironic. The fluorescent lighting casts that unflattering glow that makes everyone look slightly zombie-fied.

“What did the manager say?” Carlisle asks the moment Bill clears the doorway. His fine speech sharpens the words—that proper enunciation that makes even casual questions sound like formal inquiries. Dude’s still standing at parade rest, but his shoulders carry tension like invisible shoulder pads equipped with +50 Stress.

Bill stops, turning to face his butler fully. The posture never wavers—back straight, chin level, hands relaxed at his sides. But his eyes tell a different story. Tired. Worried. Running simulations in his head that all end badly.

“Mr. Sullivan promised that the search and rescue would resume once it’s safe for the team to head out.” Bill’s tone stays even—that command voice that’s been trained to deliver bad news without triggering panic. “The resort management will keep us posted on any important news and updates regarding the children’s whereabouts.”

Standard quest update. Noncommittal timeline. No concrete objectives.

Carlisle’s composure cracks like armor durability hitting zero. His hands unclasp from behind his back, one rising to run through his neatly combed hair—black. The gesture destroys his usual perfect presentation. His jaw tightens, and his eyes—green, usually calm—suddenly look haunted.

“That’s not good enough, sir.” The words come out rough, stripped of his typical professional polish. “Time is of the essence. We don’t know what’s happening with the kids—if Topher is alright out there.”

My Observation: Classic companion guilt dialogue. The loyal NPC who feels responsible for the party member who got captured/lost/separated. This is the part where they blame themselves for not being strong enough, fast enough, good enough.

“I should’ve looked harder for Bud.” Carlisle’s voice drops, and oh man, using the nickname hits different. More personal. More raw. “I would’ve found your son, and he’d be here with us.”

The guilt radiates off him like a debuff aura. His shoulders curve inward slightly—body language that screams “I failed my primary mission objective.”

Bill steps forward, closing the distance. His hand lands on Carlisle’s shoulder—firm grip, grounding. The kind of touch that says “you’re still part of my party, stop the self-blame spiral.”

“We know Topher has always been a wanderer, always had that spirit of adventure burning inside him.” Bill’s voice carries that dad-confidence—the kind that’s partly belief, partly desperation masked as certainty. “He’s the best scout there is, equipped with the survival skills he needs, and his cousins are there to guide and help him.”

Genre-Savvy Commentary: Bill’s running the “faith in the protagonist” script. Standard mentor/parental figure behavior when the hero’s off-screen doing main quest stuff.

“This situation is beyond our control—it’s no one’s fault.” The shoulder pat punctuates the statement.

Carlisle’s eyes close briefly. His breathing steadies—that deliberate inhale-exhale pattern when someone’s trying to manually override their emotional state. When he opens them again, the professional mask begins sliding back into place. Still cracked at the edges, but functional.

Outside, through the window at the hallway’s end, the storm continues its endless assault. Rain streaks the glass like corrupted textures in a graphics glitch.

Seven kids somewhere in that chaos.

QUEST TIMER: UNKNOWN

DIFFICULTY: NIGHTMARE MODE

CONTINUES REMAINING: 0

Achievement_unlocked_time_anomaly_detected.sav

The blue-white hologram flickers out like a computer shutting down—that satisfying whoosh of particles dissolving into nothing. The Visean Cosmos model materializes again, four luminaries orbiting the crystal ball’s shooting star in their concentric planes. Pretty. Mesmerizing. Also, completely irrelevant to James right now because he’s just noped out of the players’ circle.

Dude shuffles to the far corner of the cave, drops into a sitting position against the rough stone wall, and immediately pulls out his phone. The screen’s glow illuminates his face in the dimness—that classic “scrolling at 2 AM” lighting that makes everyone look slightly undead. His thumbs start flying across the touchscreen keyboard.

My Commentary: Classic “something’s wrong so I’m gonna message my friends for validation” move. Textbook teenage response to weird situations. Been there, done that, got the Discord notification spam.

The cave around him stays constant—bonfire crackling in the center, shadows dancing on walls, his cousins still absorbed in whatever post-game discussion they’re having. Benjamin’s probably analyzing the rules. Michael’s flexing about something. The usual party dynamics.

James hunches over his phone, shoulders curved inward, knees drawn up. His fingers tap-tap-tap against glass with that rapid-fire rhythm that screams “urgent message composition in progress.”

SCREEN DISPLAY: FACEBOOK MESSENGER

The interface glows with that signature blue-and-white color scheme. Top of the screen reads:

Kaleidoscope Boyband GC 5 members

James types:

James ‘Rockstar’ Pangilinan Hey guys, I’m pulling off an experiment to see if I can send messages from inside a cave. How cool would that be? Did you receive this message? Kindly reply ASAP. Sent 4:00 p.m., Tue July 19

He hits send. The message swooshes away with that satisfying notification sound—the digital equivalent of throwing a message in a bottle into the internet ocean.

James waits. Stares at the screen. The three little dots appear, disappear, appear again. Someone’s typing.

Technical Sidebar: The fact that he’s getting signal inside a cave is already sus. Most caves are dead zones. Natural faraday cages. But this cave clearly plays by different rules—rules that involve magical board games and cosmic cataclysms, so standard physics probably took a vacation.

The replies start flooding in:

Ezra ‘Guitarist’ Santos Woah! I got your message, and you’re inside a cave? Unbelievable. How is that possible? Where did the signal come from? This is pure magic. Sent 6:02 p.m., Tue Jul 19

James’s eyebrows shoot up. His thumb scrolls. Six oh two? He glances at his phone’s clock display in the top corner—still reads 4:03 PM.

Wait, what?

Apollo ‘Guitarist’ Magdangal Are you in a different part of the world? Your message says it was sent at 4:00 p.m. Dude, are you in a different time zone, or did you set your time two hours early? Sent 6:05 p.m., Tue Jul 19

James’s face goes from confused to “oh crap” in about 0.5 seconds. His eyes widen—that classic anime shock expression. His free hand runs through his hair, messing up the beautifully styled waves.

Genre-Savvy Alert: Time dilation. This is straight-up science fiction territory. Interstellar-style relativity shenanigans. The kind of plot device that shows up in Doctor Who episodes and makes your brain hurt if you think about it too hard.

James’s thumbs hammer out a response:

James ‘Rockstar’ Pangilinan What? It’s already six o’clock in the evening? You mean it’s probably past sunset. This is bonkers—we’re just playing, and now it’s almost time for dinner. Sent 4:07 p.m., Tue Jul 19

More replies materialize:

Kai ‘Keys’ Calzado In the first place, your different time shouldn’t be reflected in our messengers. Is this a glitch in the app? Or did Facebook just decide to show various time zones? Sent 6:10 p.m., Tue Jul 19

My Analysis: Kai’s asking the real questions. Messenger normally syncs to device time, not location time. The app showing different timestamps for the same conversation thread? That’s not a feature. That’s a bug. Or in this case, probably a symptom of reality breaking down in interesting ways.

Rowan ‘Drummer’ Ramos This is outright spooky! Is the cave haunted or what? If I were you, I’d get yourself and your party out of there. Sent 6:13 p.m., Tue Jul 19

James stares at his screen. The blue light reflects in his eyes—wide, uncertain, calculating. His jaw clenches. His thumb hovers over the keyboard, trembling slightly.

What is happening?

The question loops in his head like a broken audio file. His eyes dart from his phone to his cousins across the cave. Benjamin’s gesturing at something—probably explaining some rule interpretation. Michael’s laughing. Topher’s smiling. Allison’s recording. Sophie’s drawing. Roanne’s watching everyone with that motherly awareness she always carries.

Nobody else looks concerned. Nobody else knows.

Should I tell my cousins?

The bonfire crackles. Shadows shift. The board game sits in the center, innocent-looking despite having just completed its cosmic alignment sequence.

I don’t know what to do.

James’s fingers tighten around his phone case—black, decorated with music note stickers. His other hand presses against the cool stone wall behind him, grounding himself in something solid and real.

DECISION POINT ACTIVATED

Option A: Alert the party immediately. Trigger potential panic. Risk disrupting whatever’s happening.

Option B: Stay quiet. Gather more information. Hope the time discrepancy is just a weird glitch.

Option C: Procrastinate the decision because you’re scared of being wrong.

My Brutal Honesty: James is clearly picking Option C. Classic protagonist move—sitting on critical information because you don’t want to be the guy who causes problems. But in every horror movie, every sci-fi thriller, every isekai anime? The person who waits too long to speak up? Yeah. That never ends well.

The phone screen dims to conserve battery. James’s face falls into shadow.

Outside the cave, the storm rages.

Inside, time itself has apparently decided to freestyle.

And James sits frozen in his corner, holding the evidence of the anomaly in his trembling hands, unable to bridge the gap between knowledge and action.

QUEST LOG UPDATED:

NEW OBJECTIVE: Tell the Truth (or Don’t)

DIFFICULTY: Moral Dilemma

TIME LIMIT: Unknown (literally)