Overview:

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The families of the missing children manage to launch a search and rescue mission after the storm. The first to be found is Michael, lying unconscious in the fields. The rescue party follows a trail of broken branches that leads to a cave. Not far from the entrance, they locate James. His aunt Ellie and uncle Ansel volunteer to stay behind with the unconscious teenager. Deeper inside the cavern, the rescue team reunites Roanne, Allison, and Sophie with their parents. Sophie requires immediate medical attention for blunt head trauma and is promptly taken away by paramedics. Finding the last two—Benjamin and Topher—proves difficult, as their path is blocked by a cave-in. Trusting her instincts, Selena convinces the rescue team leader to follow an unlikely guide: a small puppy. Below a newly formed sinkhole, the rescuers rappel down and successfully retrieve Benjamin and Topher, bringing the rescue mission to its conclusion.

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Day Three. The Tutorial’s Over.

Look, I’ve played enough open-world RPGs to know that the “three days later” time skip is where things get real. That’s when the cutscene ends and the actual gameplay starts—when you find out if your party members survived the dungeon or if you’re going to be staring at a “Game Over” screen.

The morning sun beats down on the fields like it’s trying to speedrun global warming. I’m squinting against the glare, watching the search party crest the horizon like some low-budget Lord of the Rings remake. The grass is that particular shade of green that screams “tropical paradise” in the travel brochures but right now just looks like a really big place to lose someone.

And then I spot him.

Michael is sprawled on the ground, unconscious, looking like a video game character whose player rage-quit mid-session. The kid’s just lying there in the grass, and my brain immediately goes to that dark place—the one that whispers what if he’s not just unconscious? I shake it off. This isn’t that kind of story. Can’t be.

“There’s a boy!” One of the rescuers calls out, pointing. His voice cracks with urgency, and suddenly everyone’s moving faster.

Uncle Ronald’s at the front of the pack, and his face does this whole journey in about two seconds—confusion, recognition, horror, hope, all blending together like a really messed-up smoothie. “That’s Michael!” His voice is loud enough to carry across the field, definitive, like he’s confirming a boss spawn location.

I watch Ronald break into a jog—well, as much of a jog as a middle-aged Filipino uncle can manage—leading the rescuers toward his nephew. The grandparents, Al and Emily, trail behind him. They’re moving slower, but man, the determination on their faces. It reminds me of those NPCs in games who follow you even though their movement speed is like half of yours, but they’re determined to help.

When Granny Emily reaches Michael, she just—crumbles. Not literally, but emotionally. She drops to her knees beside him, her weathered hands reaching out to cup his face. “My Apo, what happened to you?” Her voice cracks like old vinyl, and I feel it in my chest.

Apo—that’s Tagalog for grandchild. The word carries weight here, generations of it.

Grandpa Al’s hand rests on Emily’s shoulder, steady as a rock. He’s doing that thing where guys from his generation don’t cry, they just sort of compress all their feelings into this granite expression and stand there being Strong™. Classic tanking behavior—absorbing the emotional damage so the rest of the party can function.

Michael’s parents arrive next—Martha and Greg. Martha’s wearing this floral blouse that’s now wrinkled and stained with sweat and dirt from three days of searching. Her eyes are red-rimmed, mascara long gone. Greg got that exhausted dad look, the one where you can see every hour of missed sleep written across his face like patch notes.

“Where are James, Sophie, and Benjamin?” Martha’s voice pitches high with barely controlled panic. She’s scanning the field like she’s got detective mode activated, looking for her other kids. Three still missing. The quest log isn’t complete.

“They may be nearby, in the vicinity,” one rescuer offers. It’s that kind of optimistic deflection NPCs give you when the actual answer is we have no idea.

Little Mary’s clinging to Martha’s hand—she looks maybe seven, six years old, wearing a green dress. Her eyes are fixed on Michael, wide and worried, like she’s watching a let’s-play of the scariest game ever made. That’s her big brother lying there unconscious. That’s trauma in real-time, folks.

Aunt Ellie steps forward—she’s got this commanding presence despite being pretty petite. Reminds me of Commander Shepard from Mass Effect, honestly. “We need to continue the search,” she says, and it’s not a suggestion. Her husband Ansel nods beside her, the classic support player backing up the party leader.

Ansel’s the practical one. “It’s better if Inay and Itay stay with Michael. They can attend to him, and they’re too old to go much farther.”

Inay, Itay—Mom and Dad. More Tagalog. The game’s teaching me vocabulary through context clues, which is honestly how I learned half my English from RPGs anyway.

Martha turns to Mary, kneeling down to her daughter’s level. “Anak, stay with Lola and Lolo for a while as we look for your brothers and sister.”

Anak—child. Lola, Lolo—Grandma, Grandpa. I’m keeping track. Pattern recognition is kind of my thing.

“Opo, Nanay,” Mary responds, and there’s something about that automatic respect, that “yes, mother” that hits different. Filipino kids and their built-in deference stat.

Uncle Ronald straightens up, taking charge. “I will take care of Mary and watch over Inay, Itay, and Michael.” He’s delegating himself to babysitting duty, basically. Someone’s got to guard the home base while the main party ventures forth.

Greg takes Martha’s hand—and okay, even my cynical gamer brain has to admit that’s kind of sweet in a devastating way. They’re holding onto each other because everything else is falling apart. They walk forward together, and Ellie and Ansel fall in behind them, along with the rescuers. It’s like watching a party formation in a tactical RPG. Two tanks, two support, plus NPC allies.

Back at the makeshift camp, Granny Emily’s cradling Michael in her lap now. She’s running her fingers through his hair, and I can see her lips moving—probably praying, or talking to him, or both. Grandpa Al sits beside her on the ground, one hand on her back. Uncle Ronald’s holding Mary, who buries her face in his shoulder. A few rescuers stay behind, standing guard. Background NPCs maintaining the safe zone.

The main search party’s moving now, and the rescue team leader’s examining the ground like he’s tracking in Horizon Zero Dawn. “These are faint footprints. The trail is broken, but we can work with it.” He’s crouched low, studying the grass with this intense focus.

“It’s a miracle, considering the heavy rainstorm a few days ago,” another rescuer comments. And yeah, that tracks—environmental hazards should have wiped any clues clean. But video game logic says there’s always a trail to follow. The quest marker doesn’t just disappear.

They follow the broken breadcrumb trail of footprints across the field. I’m watching them move, this ragtag band of desperate families and professional rescuers, all united by one goal: find the missing kids. It’s like the most tragic co-op mission ever designed.

Time passes. In games, you’d see a loading screen or a fade transition. In reality, it’s just walking and hoping and scanning the ground and probably praying. The sun climbs higher. Sweat drips. Hope fluctuates like an unstable framerate.

And then—there it is.

The cave entrance looms ahead of them like the opening to a dungeon instance. It’s dark, jagged, carved into the hillside like some level designer got creative with the terrain tools. The families and rescuers stop at the threshold, staring into that darkness.

“The kids must have ventured inside,” the team leader says, stating the obvious. Of course they went in. Kids always go into the mysterious cave. It’s basically a narrative law at this point.

I stare at that cave entrance, and my mind’s already running through dungeon scenarios. What’s waiting in there? More unconscious kids? Something worse? The game’s been pretty tame so far, but caves are where things get complicated. Where the difficulty spike happens.

The rescue team prepares to enter, checking their equipment. Flashlights click on, beams cutting through the darkness. It’s time for the dungeon crawl to begin.

Save point recommended, my brain supplies automatically. But there are no save points in real life. You just have to move forward and hope you spec’d your character right.

The party enters the cave, swallowed by shadows, and I’m left wondering what kind of boss fight—or worse—is waiting for them in there.

Quest Updated: Find the Missing Children (1/7 Found)

The game continues.

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The cave entrance yawns open like the mouth of some procedurally-generated boss arena. Dark. Ominous. Probably filled with respawning enemies if this were an actual game. The rescue team leader’s standing at the threshold, flashlight beam cutting through the darkness like a lightsaber—if lightsabers were boring and practical instead of cool.

“The kids must have ventured inside,” he announces to the parents. “We’ll continue our search inside.”

No kidding, Sherlock, I think. Where else would they be? But I keep my mouth shut because sarcasm isn’t helpful when people are legitimately terrified.

The search party moves into the cave, and immediately—like, immediately, first room of the dungeon immediately—there’s James.

He’s lying face-down at the entrance, head turned sideways, limbs splayed out like a ragdoll whose physics engine glitched. The kid’s wearing a dirt-stained graphic tee—I can’t make out what’s on it from here, probably some band logo—and his dark hair is matted with dust and sweat. He looks like he faceplanted mid-sprint and just… stopped.

“James, Anak!” Martha’s voice cracks the silence like a critical hit. She’s sprinting toward her eldest son before anyone can stop her, and honestly? That’s some impressive reaction time for a mom who’s been awake for seventy-two hours straight.

Greg’s right behind her, and watching them converge on James is like seeing two player characters rush to revive a downed teammate. They’re on their knees beside him, and Martha’s pulling him into her arms—gently, carefully, like she’s afraid he’ll shatter if she moves too fast. Her face is doing that thing where you’re crying but also laughing with relief but also still terrified, all at once. Emotional overload. Complete system crash.

Greg got one hand on James’s shoulder, the other on Martha’s back, and his face—man, his face is just raw. That’s the only word for it. Raw grief and relief fighting for dominance. His eyes are squeezed shut, and I can see his lips moving. Praying, maybe. Or just talking to his unconscious son. Hard to tell from here.

One of the rescuers approaches, clipboard in hand because apparently even rescue operations have paperwork. “Ma’am, do you confirm the identity of this lad?”

Aunt Ellie steps forward. She’s got this composure that reminds me of Captain Janeway from Star Trek Voyager—totally in control even when everything’s chaos. “Yes, he is my nephew, Jameson Pangilinan.” Her voice is level, matter-of-fact, like she’s confirming a package delivery instead of identifying her unconscious nephew. Trauma response or just shock? Probably both.

“Martha, Kuya Greg, you can leave James to us. Ansel and I will take care of him,” Ellie says, and there’s this gentle authority in her voice. She’s taking command of the situation, delegating tasks like a raid leader. Someone has to.

Ansel nods beside her—he’s the support class to Ellie’s tank, I swear—and adds, “Go on, find your other children—Sophie and Benjamin.”

Right. Because the quest isn’t complete. Two kids still missing. The objective marker’s still blinking on the mini map.

Martha looks torn, literally torn between staying with James and searching for her other children. It’s the kind of impossible choice that games never really capture properly. Save one party member or search for the others? Real life doesn’t give you the option to reload the save file.

But Greg takes her hand, pulls her gently to her feet, and they rejoin the search party. Martha keeps looking back over her shoulder at James, like she’s afraid he’ll disappear if she loses visual contact. Greg’s practically supporting her weight as they walk deeper into the cave.

Ellie kneels down, cradling James in her lap now that Martha’s moved on. A few rescuers stay behind with her and Ansel, forming a protective perimeter. Safe zone established.

“Oh my God, what has happened to you, James? And to your cousins?” Ellie’s whispering, and her voice finally cracks. The composure fractures. She’s running her fingers through James’s hair, pushing it back from his forehead. There’s a nasty bruise forming on his temple—purple-black, angry-looking. Combat damage.

Ansel crouches beside her, one hand on her shoulder. He doesn’t say anything, just stays close. Sometimes the best support ability is just presence. Just being there.

I stare at James’s unconscious form and can’t help but wonder: what the hell happened in that cave three days ago? What kind of dungeon did these kids stumble into?

Quest Updated: Find the Missing Children (2/7 Found)

New Objective: Discover what happened in the cave.

The mystery deepens.

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The tunnel opens up into what can only be described as a legit dungeon chamber. I’m talking cathedral-ceiling-high cavern with stalactites hanging like the world’s most dangerous chandelier installation. The space is massive—easily the size of a high school gymnasium—and lit by the rescuers’ flashlight beams that slice through the darkness like searchlights at a movie premiere. Except instead of celebrities, we’re finding unconscious kids. Way less glamorous.

The cavern walls are rough limestone, all irregular and pockmarked, glistening with moisture. There are boulders scattered around like some giant played marbles and got bored halfway through. The air smells damp and earthy, with this metallic tang that makes me think of old pennies. Water drips somewhere in the distance—plink, plink, plink—like nature’s own ambient soundtrack.

And then I see her.

Sophie.

She’s lying on the cavern floor near the left wall, and my stomach does this ugly twist because she looks wrong. The kid’s maybe four years old, wearing a dainty yellow dress—now stained brown with dirt and cave grime. Her skirt is torn at the knee. One of her sneakers is untied, laces trailing in the dust.

But it’s the blood that makes everyone freeze.

There’s a smear of dried blood on her right forehead, dark rust-red against her pale skin. It’s crusted over, tracking from her hairline down toward her eyebrow. Head wounds bleed like crazy—I know this from both medical shows and that one time I wiped out on my skateboard—so even though it’s dried, it looks bad.

“My poor daughter, you’re hurt.” Greg’s voice breaks completely. The man just crumbles, and I mean that literally. His knees hit the ground beside Sophie with a dull thud that probably hurt but he doesn’t even seem to notice. He’s sobbing—full-on, shoulder-shaking sobs—as he stares at that blood on his daughter’s forehead.

Martha drops down beside him, gathering Sophie into her arms with this desperate gentleness. She’s cradling her daughter’s head, careful not to touch the wound, and her face—God, her face is doing that thing where grief and relief are fighting for control and neither one’s winning. Tears are streaming down her cheeks, dripping onto Sophie’s dirt-smudged face.

One of the paramedics—a woman with her hair pulled back in a no-nonsense ponytail, wearing the standard-issue medical vest thing—kneels down and starts her assessment. She’s checking Sophie’s pulse, shining a penlight in her eyes, doing all the medical stuff that looks impressive and important.

“Your daughter needs immediate medical attention. It looks like she suffered a head injury.” The paramedic’s voice is professional but not unkind. “It’s been three days since the kids went missing, correct?”

Three days. That’s seventy-two hours of being unconscious or semi-conscious with a head injury. That’s not good. That’s definitely not good. My limited medical knowledge—gleaned mostly from Grey’s Anatomy reruns and WebMD rabbit holes—tells me that’s serious concussion territory. Maybe worse.

“We’ll transport her to the nearest hospital,” another paramedic announces, already pulling out a collapsible stretcher from his pack. The thing unfolds like a Transformer, all efficient angles and metallic clicks.

Selena steps forward. She’s Topher’s mom—I remember her from earlier, the one who was totally losing it because Topher’s her only child. But right now, she’s pulling it together, going full commander mode. “It’s alright, Greg. You and Martha should go with Sophie to the hospital. I promise I’ll bring Benjamin back.”

There’s something heroic about that. Like she’s making a quest oath in an RPG. I will complete this mission. I will find your son.

Greg looks up at her, eyes red and swollen. “Thank you so much, Ate. My wife and I are forever indebted to you.”

Ate—that’s Tagalog for older sister. Selena’s the eldest sibling in this family tree, which apparently comes with responsibilities. Big sister energy maxed out to level 100.

The paramedics work with practiced efficiency, lifting Sophie onto the stretcher. They strap her in with Velcro restraints—riiiiip—and Martha and Greg flank either side as they start carrying her out. Martha’s holding Sophie’s hand, not letting go for a second. Greg got one hand on the stretcher railing, the other wiping at his eyes.

Watching them leave feels like watching party members split off in a game. The group’s dividing. Resources splitting. It’s strategically necessary but emotionally brutal.

“Over here!” A rescuer’s voice echoes from deeper in the cavern, and the remaining search party pivots toward the sound.

There’s this massive boulder in the middle of the chamber—and I mean massive, like the size of a small car, all rough granite and probably weighing several tons. And perched on top of it, maybe eight feet off the ground, is another unconscious kid.

Roanne.

A rescuer’s already scaling the boulder, finding handholds in the rock face like he’s free-climbing in Breath of the Wild. He reaches the top and then leans down, extending a hand to help someone else up.

Carlota, Roanne’s mom, accepts the hand. She’s wearing a floral dress that’s completely inappropriate for cave exploration—kitten heels and everything—but she’s climbing that boulder like her daughter’s life depends on it. Which, I guess, it might. Her face is set with determination, jaw clenched, eyes focused.

Carding, the dad, follows behind her. He’s in slacks and a button-up shirt, also not exactly spelunking attire, but he’s managing. His face is tight with worry; forehead creased with deep lines.

And behind him, moving with deliberate care, is Roel—Roanne’s older brother. The kid’s maybe sixteen, seventeen, eighteen, wearing a convenience store work shirt (I remember him from earlier—he works at the local 7-Eleven equivalent). His face is doing that thing teenage guys do when they’re trying really hard not to cry in public. Emotional lockdown engaged.

When they reach the top of the boulder, I can finally see Roanne clearly. She’s lying on her back like she fell asleep during a really uncomfortable camping trip. Her shawl—this delicate chestnut thing with tassels—is still draped over her shoulders, somehow intact despite everything. Her dark hair fans out around her head like a halo.

“Anak, Nanay is here. You don’t have to be alone anymore.” Carlota’s voice cracks as she reaches for her daughter. She’s using Nanay—Mom—and there’s so much love and pain packed into that one word it’s like an emotional nuke.

Carding gently touches Roanne’s hair, smoothing it back from her face. “Anak, Tatay is here too, along with Kuya Roel.” Tatay—Dad. Kuya—older brother. The family’s all here, the squad’s assembled.

Roel stares at his sister, and I watch him bite his lip hard enough that I’m worried he’ll draw blood. He looks away quickly, blinking rapidly. Trying to keep it together. Trying to be strong. Classic oldest sibling behavior—taking the emotional hit so everyone else doesn’t have to.

Movement to my right catches my attention. Thalia—Allison’s mom—is pacing around the base of the boulder like an agitated NPC whose pathfinding got stuck in a loop. She’s muttering to herself, hands fidgeting, pulling at the hem of her blouse. “Where are you, Allison? Where are you?”

Her voice is rising with each repetition, panic building like a loading bar approaching 100%.

“Madam, Allison is there.” Morissette—the family’s maid, wearing a simple blouse and jeans, her hair in bob cut—points toward the far side of the boulder.

“Where?” Enrico, Allison’s dad, immediately snaps to attention. He’s a bigger guy, muscular in that dad-who-used-to-work-out way, wearing cargo shorts and a polo shirt. His face is flushed, stress written across every feature.

Morissette leads them around the boulder, navigating between smaller rocks, and I follow the group’s movement with my eyes. There, tucked behind a row of smaller boulders near the cavern wall, almost completely hidden from view, is Allison.

She’s seated, back against the rock face, legs splayed out in front of her. Her hair is a disaster—completely disheveled, tangled, with bits of dirt and what might be cave moss stuck in it. Her head is tilted to one side, chin resting on her shoulder. She’s wearing pink and leggings, and somehow her phone is lying beside her, screen cracked like a spider web.

“Allison!” Thalia’s scream echoes through the cavern. She’s sprinting—well, scrambling—over the rocks toward her daughter, and I’m genuinely impressed she doesn’t trip and crack her own head open.

She reaches Allison and drops down, pulling her daughter into a fierce hug. “What happened to you?” The question comes out choked, desperate. She knows Allison can’t answer, but she’s asking anyway because that’s what terrified parents do. “Anak, of all the things you and your cousins could have done, why did it have to be caving?”

There’s this mix of emotions in her voice—relief, fear, anger, sadness, all blending together like an emotional smoothie nobody asked for. She’s scolding her unconscious daughter, which would be funny if it wasn’t so heartbreaking.

Enrico arrives, kneeling on Allison’s other side. His face is doing this complicated thing where relief and anger are fighting for dominance. “Allison, stay with me—stay with Dad. This wouldn’t have happened if you hadn’t been distracted, flirting with that Carlisle.”

Whoa. Okay, so apparently there’s some pre-existing drama here. Carlisle—that’s the Kennedy family’s butler. And apparently Morissette got a crush? Maid and butler romance drama overlapping with life-threatening danger. Reality TV writers could never.

But then Enrico pivots, and his face goes dark as he turns to Morissette. “This is your fault.”

Oh no. I know where this is going. Blame the nanny. Classic move.

Morissette’s face crumbles. “I’m so sorry, Sir. This won’t happen again.” She’s almost bowing, hands clasped together, voice shaking. “Please, I’m so sorry.”

“There’ll be no next time if Allison doesn’t wake up.” Enrico’s voice is ice-cold, and the threat is crystal clear. Your job is gone if my daughter doesn’t survive.

That’s harsh. That’s really harsh. I mean, I get it—the man’s terrified, he’s lashing out, he needs someone to blame who isn’t himself—but Morissette looks absolutely devastated. She’s crying now, silently, shoulders shaking.

I want to say something. Defend her. Because blaming the maid for the kids’ autonomous decision to explore a cave is objectively unfair. But I’m just an observer here, watching this family drama unfold like the world’s worst reality show.

Quest Updated: Find the Missing Children (5/7 Found) Still Missing: Benjamin, Topher

The search continues.

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The Kennedy search party—that’s Bill (the patriarch, looking very CEO in his outdoor vest), Selena (Topher’s mom, running on pure determination and caffeine at this point), and Carlisle (the family butler who’s way more loyal than any NPC has a right to be)—sloshes through a shallow stream of groundwater.

The water’s maybe ankle-deep, cold enough to make everyone hiss through their teeth when it seeps into their shoes. It’s that crystal-clear underground water you see in nature documentaries, reflecting the rescuers’ flashlight beams like liquid glass. The stream bed’s all smooth pebbles and silt, and the sound of splashing echoes weirdly in the confined tunnel space. Very Goonies, very adventure-movie aesthetic, except nobody’s having fun.

Bill’s got his jaw set in this grim determination expression, stepping carefully to avoid slipping. Selena’s moving faster, almost frantic, like she’s speedrunning this section. Carlisle’s staying close to them both, one hand hovering near Selena’s elbow in case she stumbles. Dude’s got bodyguard protocols activated even in crisis mode.

The rescue team’s spread out around them—five guys total, all wearing those reflective vests and helmets with mounted lights. They look like a squad from a survival horror game, minus the weapons. Plus, the radios. Plus, the competence, hopefully.

And then the tunnel opens up into… a problem.

A massive problem.

“From the looks of these piled-up boulders, it’s safe to say there’s been a cave-in.” The rescue leader—a middle-aged lanky guy and the calm voice of someone who’s seen some stuff—stops and surveys the obstacle. His flashlight beam plays across what can only be described as nature’s own game over screen.

The passage ahead is completely blocked. I’m talking blocked blocked. Like someone stacked a bunch of refrigerator-sized boulders from floor to ceiling in a game of Minecraft Tetris. The rocks are all jumbled together, dirt and smaller stones filling the gaps. It looks unstable as hell—one wrong move and the whole thing could shift, crush someone, cause another collapse. Environmental hazard: maximum.

“This is a dead end. We have no other way through or around.” The second-in-command speaks up, and this guy’s the complete opposite of his boss. Younger, clean-shaven, with this perpetual frown like someone’s forcing him to play a game he didn’t choose. His tone’s flat, defeated. He’s already given up. Classic quitter energy.

The rescue leader shakes his head. “Then we need to find another way. ‘If there’s a will, there’s a way,’ as they say.”

Okay, points for the motivational poster quote, but I can see Selena’s face, and she’s not having it. Her expression cycles through disbelief, frustration, despair—emotional speedrun, any% completion. Bill puts a hand on her shoulder, but she’s already turning around, heading back the way they came.

The whole group retreats, trudging back through the stream, back through the winding tunnels, back to the surface. It’s a very literal walk of shame. Quest failed. Objective unreachable. Return to checkpoint.

When they emerge from the cave, the sunlight’s almost offensive in its brightness. I squint against it, watching the group spread out across the field. The grass really is ridiculously green—that saturated, tropical green that doesn’t look real but totally is. The wind’s picking up, rustling through the blades with this whoooosh sound that would be peaceful in literally any other context.

But hope’s draining from everyone’s faces like HP in a poison status effect. Two kids still missing. No other way into the cave. Time running out.

And then—

Woof, woof, woof.

Everyone freezes. Heads turn in unison like we’re all NPCs programmed with the same idle animation.

On the horizon, maybe fifty yards away, there’s a puppy.

A German Shepherd puppy, to be specific. The little guy’s maybe four months old, all tan and black fur with those giant satellite-dish ears that German Shepherds have before they grow into them. He’s standing there in all four paws in the grass, tail wagging, barking at the group like he’s trying to tell them something.

“Woof, woof, woof!”

It’s aggressively cute. Like, dangerously cute. Disney movie cute.

Selena’s staring at the puppy with this weird intensity. Her whole body language shifts—shoulders straightening, head tilting. It’s like she’s locked onto a quest marker only she can see.

“Just ignore the pup,” the second-in-command mutters dismissively, waving his hand like he’s shooing away a bug. “We’ve got real work to do.”

Dude. Read the room. Read the genre. This is obviously a Lassie situation.

“Woof, woof, woof…” The puppy barks again, more insistent. He stands up, takes a few steps in the opposite direction, looks back at the group, barks again. The universal dog language for follow me, you dense humans.

“We need to follow the dog.” Selena’s voice is firm, decisive. She’s already moving toward the puppy, and honestly? Respect. She’s trusting her instincts, following the obvious narrative beat.

The rescue leader nods immediately. “Ma’am, I’m glad we share the same hunch. Team, let’s follow the puppy!” He’s gesturing to his men, already redirecting the mission parameters.

“But sir, this is ridiculous,” the second-in-command protests, and I can practically hear his eye roll. “It’s a dog.”

“No buts! Get moving!” The rescue leader’s voice goes full command mode, and the second-in-command shuts up, though his face says he’s filing a complaint with HR later.

The group starts following the puppy, who’s now trotting ahead with purpose, occasionally looking back to make sure they’re keeping up.

New Quest Marker Acquired: Follow the Mysterious Puppy

Because of course. Of course, the game would throw in a Lassie Ex Machina at this point.

I’m watching this unfold and thinking: video game logic has invaded reality, and honestly? I’m here for it.

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The puppy leads us across the field like he’s got a waypoint marker only he can see. The little German Shepherd’s trotting with purpose, tail up, occasionally doing that head-turn thing to make sure we’re keeping up. His paws leave tiny prints in the soft earth, and I’m half-expecting to see a glowing trail behind him like in Okami.

Selena’s right behind the pup, practically jogging to keep pace. Bill’s beside her, one hand hovering near her elbow in case she trips. Carlisle’s maintaining his professional three-steps-behind distance, but his face is locked in this intense focus. The rescue team’s fanning out, following the formation.

And then the puppy stops.

Just… stops. Sits down in the grass, tail wagging, looking incredibly pleased with himself. Mission accomplished, his whole body language says. You’re welcome, humans.

“This is it, men. Prepare the ropes—we’re going down.” The rescue leader’s voice cuts through the moment, and suddenly everyone’s moving with purpose.

Because in front of us, maybe ten feet ahead, the ground just… ends.

It’s a sinkhole. A legitimate, no-joke, earth-just-decided-to-open-up-and-swallow-everything sinkhole. The opening’s roughly circular, maybe fifteen feet across, with jagged edges where the earth collapsed inward. I can see roots dangling down like nature’s own rappelling ropes, dirt and rocks scattered around the rim. The hole drops straight down into darkness—I can’t see the bottom from here, but my brain’s immediately calculating depth based on shadow and angle. Maybe twenty feet? Twenty-five?

This is some Minecraft cave generation in real life. Except instead of diamonds and redstone at the bottom, there are potentially two unconscious kids.

The rescue team’s already in motion. They’re pulling climbing rope from their packs—serious professional-grade stuff, not the flimsy cord you’d use for a clothesline. The rope’s thick, braided nylon, bright orange for visibility. One guy’s setting up an anchor point, wrapping the rope around a sturdy tree trunk maybe fifteen feet back from the edge. Another’s testing the knots with sharp tugs that make the rope go taut with tension.

“How did that dog know there was a sinkhole here?” The second-in-command’s staring at the puppy with this expression of complete bewilderment. His skepticism just got absolutely wrecked by a four-month-old German Shepherd, and I’m living for it.

Because it’s a Lassie situation, my dude, I think. The narrative demands it. Accept the tropes. Embrace the cliché. This is reality operating on movie logic now.

The puppy wags his tail harder, like he’s saying yeah, I’m awesome, got a problem with that?

One of the rescuers—a lean guy with a climbing harness already strapped on—steps forward. He’s got carabiners clipped to his belt, and they clink together with each movement. The rope gets threaded through a belay device on his harness, and another rescuer acts as his belayer, gripping the rope from the anchor point.

“Going down,” the climber announces, and then he’s backing toward the edge of the sinkhole. His boots find purchase on the rim, and then he’s leaning back at this impossible angle, trusting the rope completely. He starts walking backward down the vertical wall, paying out rope with each step. It’s like watching someone moonwalk into the earth.

The descent is smooth. Professional. He disappears into the shadow of the sinkhole, flashlight beam bouncing around down there, and then—

The walkie-talkie crackles to life. “Affirmative, the boys are down here.”

Topher’s feet pointed to the left, while Benjamin’s were to the right, their heads meeting in the center.

YES. Quest complete. Final objectives located. Achievement unlocked: Found All Seven Missing Children.

Everyone at the surface freezes, holding their breath. Selena’s gripping Bill’s arm so hard her knuckles are white. Bill’s face is doing that thing where hope and fear are having a cage match.

The rescuer’s voice continues over the radio: “Sir, I’ll take the smaller one first—he’ll be easier to lift.”

Smart call. Tactical decision. Start with the lighter payload, test the system, then go for the heavier extraction.

There’s movement below—I can see the flashlight beam shifting, shadows dancing against the sinkhole walls. The belayer at the surface starts pulling rope, and the climber begins ascending. Except now he’s got cargo.

When they emerge from the darkness, I see him.

Topher.

The kid’s strapped to the rescuer’s chest in this emergency harness setup, arms dangling, head lolling against the guy’s shoulder. He looks tiny against the adult rescuer—maybe nine years old, skinny, wearing a dirt-caked t-shirt with gilet. His dark brown hair’s a mess, streaked with dirt, and there’s a scrape across his left cheek. One of his roller skates is gone, leaving a sock-covered foot dangling.

They reach the surface, and hands immediately reach out to help them over the edge. The rescuer carefully unbuckles Topher, and other rescuers lower the boy gently onto the grass, cradling his head.

“Anak, you’re safe!” Selena’s voice cracks as she rushes forward, and I watch this woman who’s been holding it together for three days just break. She drops to her knees beside Topher, pulling him into her arms, and she’s sobbing—full-body, gasping sobs that sound like they’re being torn out of her chest.

Bill’s right there with her, arms wrapping around both his wife and son, and his face—man, his face is doing this thing where he’s trying so hard not to cry but completely failing. Tears are streaming down his cheeks, dripping onto Topher’s dirty hair.

It’s the kind of raw, ugly, beautiful emotional moment that would make me super uncomfortable in any other context, but right now? Right now, it’s perfect. This is what it looks like when your worst nightmare ends and your kid’s safe. This is relief and love and trauma all mixed together.

The rescuer’s already heading back down for round two. The rope pays out again, the flashlight disappears into darkness, and we wait.

It takes longer this time—Benjamin’s bigger, heavier, probably more awkward to strap in. But eventually, the rope goes taut again, and they start ascending.

Benjamin emerges next. He’s older than Topher—maybe twelve, thirteen—and taller, gangly with that awkward pre-teen proportions thing happening. His glasses are gone too, and he’s got dirt smeared across his face like war paint. His button-down shirt’s torn at the shoulder, and there’s a nasty bruise forming on his left arm.

They get him to the surface, unbuckle him, and—

“You had it rough, didn’t you?” Carlisle’s voice is soft as he kneels beside Benjamin. The butler’s face is doing this complicated emotional thing, and then he reaches out, gently brushing dirt from Benjamin’s forehead. “But it’s all over now, bro.”

Bro. The butler just called the kid bro. The informal affection in that one-word hits different.

Quest Complete: Find the Missing Children (7/7)

Achievement Unlocked: Happy Ending

The puppy barks once, tail wagging, like he’s celebrating too.

Good boy. Very good boy.