ingo

Once, there was warmth. Laughter. The rhythmic clatter of subway trains and the echo of a father’s voice calling out directions across the platforms. huntress had always loved those tunnels—the way the lights flickered past, the rush of air as trains thundered through, the way their father’s coat flared as he hurried by. It was supposed to be an ordinary day. Ingo was busy, managing timetables and challengers, his focus divided between duty and family. When huntress tugged on his sleeve and asked, “Can I go see the tunnels?” he didn’t even look up. “Later,” he said. Just once. Just one distracted moment. But curiosity has a way of writing its own endings. huntress slipped past the gates, small footsteps echoing into the dark. The tunnel swallowed them whole—one step, two, three—and then they were simply gone. No one ever figured out how. One second they were there; the next, they weren’t. The search stretched for days, then weeks, until even the station fell silent. Ingo never left the tunnels again after that. His voice—once steady and sure—grew fractured. His laughter echoed where his sanity used to be. But the world doesn’t hand back what it takes. Not without a price. For y/n, time was different. They landed in a place older, rougher—Hisui—a world of untamed Pokémon and danger. They survived, learned, fought, and grew. For them, years passed. For Ingo it was endless torment. And then—without warning, without explanation—the light came again. Y/n woke to the cold sting of air and the familiar smell of oil and dust. The tunnels. Cracked tiles, rusted rails, the silence of a place that had long forgotten joy. Their return was a miracle. But miracles don’t erase what time does to people.