Delicious Fruit
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fha183
I never wanted to dwell too much on that game, but the images from that night have lodged in my memory like a rusted blade—each recollection sending a dull ache through me.
The taste of Restaurant 113 was still intoxicating. Whiteinky and I were regulars there. He always teased me about my obsession with steak—medium-rare, always medium-rare. "If you're gonna be that precise, why not bring a thermometer to cook it?" he’d joke. The moment the knife split the seared crust, pink flesh would weep amber juices, like blood finally freed from confinement. And then there was that dish, "Midday Soul Haunter"—so sublime, the chicken so tender it practically melted. "This chicken must’ve done yoga every day in its past life," Whiteinky would quip, always making me snort with laughter. The golden, buttery broth clung to plump grains of rice, each spoonful like savoring a warmth on the verge of vanishing.
But that night, everything came to an abrupt end.
We were clinking glasses, Whiteinky’s face flushed under the pendant light. "Wouldn’t it be great if this wine refilled itself?" he slurred, "Like a health potion in a game..." The crisp chime of glass against glass was shattered by—"Pop!"
A bottle cap flew through the air and struck the neck of the man at the next table.
When he turned, I heard a wet, crunching sound—like vertebrae grinding out of place. His face was bloated, pale as waterlogged paper, pupils shrunk to pinpricks.
"The hell, man?" His voice grated like sandpaper on rusted metal. "This place… you’re the only one eating here."
As he stood, the hem of his suit jacket lifted unnaturally, his shadow stretching and twisting across the floor like something alive, creeping toward my feet.
I whipped my head toward Whiteinky’s seat—it was empty.
Only half a bowl of "Midday Soul Haunter" remained, its dark red sauce congealing at the rim, quivering like half-dried plasma.
"S-sorry…" My hoarse apology dissolved into the hollow silence of the restaurant.
Then, all the lights went out.
Moonlight suddenly poured through the windows, nailing my shadow to the floor. Tree branches thrashed in the wind, and from somewhere distant came a sigh: "You called me ‘bro’… no need to apologize..."
Before the words faded, the wooden table in front of me warped and collapsed in on itself, morphing into a flickering monitor. My fingers found the keyboard without my conscious command, and the screen glowed with jagged crimson letters:
MINESWEEPER KID
A smeared pixelated figure hunched at the center of the screen, its back to an endless wasteland. It jerked its head up, its jagged mouth splitting open to screech: "SAVE ME—"
I instinctively hit Shift. The figure spasmed violently, rotting pixels bursting across the display.
"Solve the puzzle," it giggled, "or stay here forever."
My eyes locked onto the minefield. Then, against all reason, I laughed—the muscle memory of a national Minesweeper champion awakening in my veins.
"Fine," I said, rolling the mouse wheel. "Consider this your intervention."
The cursor darted across the grid with surgical precision. Numbers weren't threats but signposts: 3 meant three mines nearby, 1 meant only one, empty spaces were safe harbors.
Click. Click. Click.
With each cleared square, the pixel figure cheered, its hellish backdrop receding. Sunlight bled into the wasteland, revealing patches of grass, wildflowers, even the ghost of a footpath.
"Almost... there!" Its voice shed its distortion, turning childishly eager.
Three mines left.
The restaurant lights flickered in sync with my clicks. Every revealed square made the overhead bulb sizzle; every flagged mine made a wall lamp explode in a shower of glass.
Two mines remained.
I hovered over the final unmarked tiles. Logic dictated the last bomb could only be in—
Top-left... or bottom-right.
Fifty-fifty.
I exhaled and aimed for bottom-right.
"Get this right, and I win."
The pixel figure stood in its newborn meadow, waving at me with a radiant smile.
"Thank you!" it cried. "I can go home now!"
I clicked.
The square flipped.
MINE.
The screen flashed blood-red. A deafening explosion sound effect ripped through the speakers as the figure burst apart in a shower of glitching gore.
"No—that’s impossible!" I shot up, chair toppling behind me.
Had I miscalculated?
But then—no "Game Over" message appeared.
Instead, the crimson screen warped, reforming into new text:
"Congratulations. You’ve found the 113th mine."
My mind blanked.
113 mines? The game didn’t even have—
Then, I understood.
I looked up.
The restaurant walls were sloughing away, exposing charred beams. A scorched silhouette smoldered into view on the floor, and in Whiteinky’s seat sat a blackened figure, its skin crackling away to reveal raw meat beneath.
"Remember now?" it—no, Whiteinky—rasped, browning teeth like corroded gears. "Three years ago. Restaurant 113 caught fire. We were both there."
"You got out."
"I..."
A skeletal finger pointed at the pixelated remains onscreen.
"Became your Minesweeper."
The monitor pulsed with a final prompt:
"Restart? (Y/N)"
My hand drifted toward the keys.
Outside, the moon winked out.
The stench of burnt flesh thickened.
This time, I knew—
No choice would ever free me.
I jolted awake, sheets soaked with sweat.
Sunlight stabbed through the curtains, needling my eyes. Gasping, I clutched the mattress like a life raft.
"Fuck... a dream?"
My throat felt full of broken glass. I fumbled for my phone—10:23 AM, no calls, no texts.
"Goddamn it." I flung the phone aside and swung my legs over the bed.
My bare foot touched something cold.
A bottle cap.
Its metal edge gleamed in the light, mocking me.
I picked it up. The ridges bit into my palm—identical to the one from the dream.
Whiteinky’s name rose in my throat like bile.
I opened my laptop, fueled by spite, ready to review-bomb that fucking game into oblivion.
[2] Likes
The taste of Restaurant 113 was still intoxicating. Whiteinky and I were regulars there. He always teased me about my obsession with steak—medium-rare, always medium-rare. "If you're gonna be that precise, why not bring a thermometer to cook it?" he’d joke. The moment the knife split the seared crust, pink flesh would weep amber juices, like blood finally freed from confinement. And then there was that dish, "Midday Soul Haunter"—so sublime, the chicken so tender it practically melted. "This chicken must’ve done yoga every day in its past life," Whiteinky would quip, always making me snort with laughter. The golden, buttery broth clung to plump grains of rice, each spoonful like savoring a warmth on the verge of vanishing.
But that night, everything came to an abrupt end.
We were clinking glasses, Whiteinky’s face flushed under the pendant light. "Wouldn’t it be great if this wine refilled itself?" he slurred, "Like a health potion in a game..." The crisp chime of glass against glass was shattered by—"Pop!"
A bottle cap flew through the air and struck the neck of the man at the next table.
When he turned, I heard a wet, crunching sound—like vertebrae grinding out of place. His face was bloated, pale as waterlogged paper, pupils shrunk to pinpricks.
"The hell, man?" His voice grated like sandpaper on rusted metal. "This place… you’re the only one eating here."
As he stood, the hem of his suit jacket lifted unnaturally, his shadow stretching and twisting across the floor like something alive, creeping toward my feet.
I whipped my head toward Whiteinky’s seat—it was empty.
Only half a bowl of "Midday Soul Haunter" remained, its dark red sauce congealing at the rim, quivering like half-dried plasma.
"S-sorry…" My hoarse apology dissolved into the hollow silence of the restaurant.
Then, all the lights went out.
Moonlight suddenly poured through the windows, nailing my shadow to the floor. Tree branches thrashed in the wind, and from somewhere distant came a sigh: "You called me ‘bro’… no need to apologize..."
Before the words faded, the wooden table in front of me warped and collapsed in on itself, morphing into a flickering monitor. My fingers found the keyboard without my conscious command, and the screen glowed with jagged crimson letters:
MINESWEEPER KID
A smeared pixelated figure hunched at the center of the screen, its back to an endless wasteland. It jerked its head up, its jagged mouth splitting open to screech: "SAVE ME—"
I instinctively hit Shift. The figure spasmed violently, rotting pixels bursting across the display.
"Solve the puzzle," it giggled, "or stay here forever."
My eyes locked onto the minefield. Then, against all reason, I laughed—the muscle memory of a national Minesweeper champion awakening in my veins.
"Fine," I said, rolling the mouse wheel. "Consider this your intervention."
The cursor darted across the grid with surgical precision. Numbers weren't threats but signposts: 3 meant three mines nearby, 1 meant only one, empty spaces were safe harbors.
Click. Click. Click.
With each cleared square, the pixel figure cheered, its hellish backdrop receding. Sunlight bled into the wasteland, revealing patches of grass, wildflowers, even the ghost of a footpath.
"Almost... there!" Its voice shed its distortion, turning childishly eager.
Three mines left.
The restaurant lights flickered in sync with my clicks. Every revealed square made the overhead bulb sizzle; every flagged mine made a wall lamp explode in a shower of glass.
Two mines remained.
I hovered over the final unmarked tiles. Logic dictated the last bomb could only be in—
Top-left... or bottom-right.
Fifty-fifty.
I exhaled and aimed for bottom-right.
"Get this right, and I win."
The pixel figure stood in its newborn meadow, waving at me with a radiant smile.
"Thank you!" it cried. "I can go home now!"
I clicked.
The square flipped.
MINE.
The screen flashed blood-red. A deafening explosion sound effect ripped through the speakers as the figure burst apart in a shower of glitching gore.
"No—that’s impossible!" I shot up, chair toppling behind me.
Had I miscalculated?
But then—no "Game Over" message appeared.
Instead, the crimson screen warped, reforming into new text:
"Congratulations. You’ve found the 113th mine."
My mind blanked.
113 mines? The game didn’t even have—
Then, I understood.
I looked up.
The restaurant walls were sloughing away, exposing charred beams. A scorched silhouette smoldered into view on the floor, and in Whiteinky’s seat sat a blackened figure, its skin crackling away to reveal raw meat beneath.
"Remember now?" it—no, Whiteinky—rasped, browning teeth like corroded gears. "Three years ago. Restaurant 113 caught fire. We were both there."
"You got out."
"I..."
A skeletal finger pointed at the pixelated remains onscreen.
"Became your Minesweeper."
The monitor pulsed with a final prompt:
"Restart? (Y/N)"
My hand drifted toward the keys.
Outside, the moon winked out.
The stench of burnt flesh thickened.
This time, I knew—
No choice would ever free me.
I jolted awake, sheets soaked with sweat.
Sunlight stabbed through the curtains, needling my eyes. Gasping, I clutched the mattress like a life raft.
"Fuck... a dream?"
My throat felt full of broken glass. I fumbled for my phone—10:23 AM, no calls, no texts.
"Goddamn it." I flung the phone aside and swung my legs over the bed.
My bare foot touched something cold.
A bottle cap.
Its metal edge gleamed in the light, mocking me.
I picked it up. The ridges bit into my palm—identical to the one from the dream.
Whiteinky’s name rose in my throat like bile.
I opened my laptop, fueled by spite, ready to review-bomb that fucking game into oblivion.
Rating: 7.1 71
Difficulty: 46 46
Jun 29, 2025