The Chosen One [Honkai: Star Rail]

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On The Third Day Anthony had disappeared

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The living room was a mess of paper and noise.

The printer spat out another sheet—Anthony's face, clean-shaven, clear-eyed, staring back in grainy black and white under the bold header: MISSING PERSON. Rose sat curled up on the couch, wearing his hoodie again, her legs tucked underneath her. The sleeves swallowed her hands. 

Anthony's mom was on the phone—again. Another call to another friend. Another shaky explanation. Another plea.

"No, we still haven't found him. Yes, we filed the report. He just vanished—we thought maybe someone saw something. Maybe one of the neighbors…" She paused, holding back something tight in her throat. "Please let me know. Anything, even if it's nothing."

She hung up. Her fingers shook.

"He's not the kind of person who... who just vanishes," she muttered, mostly to herself. She had said it three times that morning already. And the night before. And the night before that.

Anthony's father stood at the kitchen counter, taping flyers into a bundle. His hands were calm, but his jaw was locked tight. A muscle twitched in his cheek.

He hadn't said much. But every time he looked at Rose—or at Anthony's empty seat at the table—his grip on the paper would tighten.

"We'll start at the gas station near the park," he said finally. "Then work back toward the bridge. Then down toward his old campus."

"I'll take the apartments on Mayview," his wife said, grabbing the flyers and a roll of tape from the table. Her voice was clipped. Steady. Barely holding.

"Someone must've seen him. Someone had to."

It wasn't just hope. It was fury. This wasn't how things were supposed to happen.

She turned to Rose, crouching low.

"Sweetheart, stay here. If anyone comes to the door, don't open it unless it's Grandma or the police, okay?"

Rose nodded slowly, but she didn't look up. "Can I help too?"

"You're helping by being safe," her dad said, his voice low. He looked tired. Bone-tired.

They left the house and locked the door. They began to split through the neighborhood first.

Door by door.

"Hi, sorry to bother you—we're looking for our son, Anthony Cloyne. He went missing sometime late Sunday night or early Monday morning. He was home, and then… he wasn't. Please, if you saw anything, or heard anything—anything at all—"

They handed out the flyers. Taped them to lampposts. Left stacks with coffee shop owners. One of the clerks at the corner store took two and promised to share them around.

Police had already searched the house. No signs of forced entry. No signs of him leaving. Nothing on his phone or his laptop. Nothing on the street cameras. Nothing.

Anthony's mother knocked on an apartment door, slightly biting her bottom lip.

Anthony's mother knocked again, firmer this time. The door clicked open after a moment, revealing a young man in his mid-twenties, hair messy, dark circles under his eyes. He blinked, caught off guard.

"Uh… yeah?"

"You're one of Anthony's friends, right?" she asked softly, hands wringing the edges of the flyer she clutched. "From college. I… I'm his mother."

His face changed. Recognition. Worry. A flicker of guilt, maybe.

"I—I mean, yeah, I knew Anthony. We had a few classes together. He helped me pass physics."

She held out the flyer, the crumpled paper trembling slightly in her hands.

"He's missing," she said. "Since Sunday night. We've filed a report, gone to the police, and searched everywhere we could think of. We were hoping… hoping maybe you'd heard from him? A message? A call? Anything?"

The man looked at the flyer, eyes catching on Anthony's face. Then he shook his head slowly.

"No. God, no, I haven't seen him in a long time. Maybe about three years? I thought he was working somewhere downstate."

She nodded, swallowing the lump in her throat. "He came back recently. Discharged from the military. But he didn't just vanish. He wouldn't do that. Not to us. Not to Rose."

"Rose?"

"His little sister. She's six," she said, eyes flicking to the floor for a moment. "He'd never leave her without saying goodbye."

Silence sat between them. Thick. Heavy.

"If anything comes to mind," she added quickly, voice fraying at the edges, "any text, or something strange… please call me. Or the police. Anything. Even if it doesn't seem like much."

The man nodded again, slower this time. "Yeah... Yeah, of course. I'll dig through old messages, just in case."

She gave him a tired, grateful smile—then turned and walked down the hall.

Back to the stairs. Back to the streets. Back to another door.

Her husband was waiting across the road, taping another flyer to a utility pole. His hands moved on autopilot now. Routine born from panic.

Anthony's phone still sat at home, untouched. No texts. No location. Just the background photo of him and Rose, making faces at the camera.

They got home after dark.

Flyers still in hand. Shoes scuffed. Voices hoarse.

The door creaked shut behind them, and for a moment, they just stood there. In the quiet. In the absence of him.

Anthony's room door was still open—untouched since the first night. His bed made. His blanket folded at the foot. Desk light still flickering, faintly, like it hadn't been turned off properly.

His mother walked past it, into the kitchen, sat at the table and just… stared.

His father placed the remaining flyers on the counter and opened the fridge. Not to eat—just to look. Then shut it again.

"I don't know what else to do," she whispered.

"I know," he replied.

The next morning, a knock came early. Two officers. Plainclothes. Quiet, professional. Polite in that rehearsed way that said they didn't expect to find anything, but were obligated to look.

They went through the motions.

Questions. Repeated answers.

"When was the last time you saw him?"

"Did he seem upset?"

"Any sign of mental distress?"

"Drugs?"

"Arguments?"

"Did he leave a note?"

The parents answered everything.

"No."

"No."

"No."

And again, "No."

The officers, like the ones before them, searched the home again. No forced entry. No blood. No broken windows. Nothing stolen.

They checked his devices. His phone was clean. Location last pinged from inside the house.

His laptop showed nothing.

His social media had also shown nothing.

There were no traces.

It was like he had just vanished into thin air.

After a few hours, the officers packed up their notes, promised to "stay in touch," and took with them a missing person case file that no one seemed quite sure what to do with.