"Hey, Shyam. Can you lock the door today?"
said a man holding a black laptop with an orange logo on the back.
He looked young, kinda stylish, and had muscles to spare. Long hair, styled, black with white streaks — like someone who got into anime one night and never came back.
"Sure," someone replied from behind a battlefield of a desk.
Scattered gear, half-open drawers, crumbs of unknown origin — and a man awkwardly trying to sit on a chair clearly built by someone who hated backs.
Effects and clips glowed on his computer screen, alongside the picture of his digital wife.
At the bottom-left corner of his screen, a small blue figure danced around like it had no bills to pay.
Shyam stared at it... then at his unfinished projects. Then back again.
"I'm fu**ed," he said. For the third time that day.
"At least clean your desk," the stylish man said, dropping a key on Shyam's desk.
The room was dark, but the glow from the screen made Shyam's face visible — tired, slightly greasy, yet somehow still smug.
Even though he was weird, he did brush his teeth and wash his face quite often.
"I like it this way," Shyam said, tossing the key into his drawer.
"Sure you do. Well, goodnight. Also, no projects tomorrow, so you can actually rest."
The stylish man gave a wave and left.
There were at least three more computers beside Shyam's — each desk cleaner than the last.
But Shyam didn't care. Clean desks don't finish edits. He only cared that the work was done.
"Sure thing, Raghav," Shyam replied as he disconnected a pen drive and slipped it into his pocket, shutting down his PC.
"Let's see... a pack of Majjie and a Pokegirl card. Alright, I have enough money!" he muttered as he walked out.
A woman appeared from another room.
This studio Shyam worked in... was actually just an apartment?
"Oh hi, Aravi. Good evening," Shyam said, spinning the key counterclockwise in his fingers.
"Hi, Shyam," she replied, walking past him like he was air — well, at least she greeted him.
"As expected," Shyam whispered, sliding the key into his pocket again.
He walked slowly along the cracked concrete road.
The street lights flickered like they were on their deathbed, and the sky looked nothing like an anime — barely any stars, no glowing moon, just good old disappointing reality.
All the shops had shut their shutters. A few chowmein vendors still hung under half-lit lamps. Even they had no customers this late.
Around half an hour later, Shyam arrived at his own apartment.
Surprisingly… it was clean. Spotless.
Unlike his work desk.
"How's my apartment clean? Did Santa finally answer my wish and deliver a girlfriend? But it's not even Christmas yet…"
Shyam muttered as he kicked off his shoes.
Suddenly—
"Big bro! Welcome back!"
A girl's voice, probably around 12 years old, echoed from inside, followed by the sound of feet rushing toward him.
"Ira's here?" Shyam blinked.
In the next second, a girl with short black hair, a blue skirt, and shiny brown eyes jumped on his back.
"Ouch! What are you doing here?"
"Mom's nearby for work. She told me to stay at your place tonight!" Ira replied, yanking his hair like it was sticky rice.
"Oh yeah? And why aren't you asleep yet?" he asked, dropping his bag on the shoe rack and walking in.
The lights were dim, the vibe was creepy — but it felt nostalgic. Like he was a kid again.
"Because Mom told me to eat with you! She cooked us a nice dinner!" Ira beamed as she followed him.
"She did?" Shyam opened his bedroom door with disbelief.
"Go place the plates. I'll be back in a minute," he said, setting his keys on the desk and powering on his PC.
"Sure!" Ira replied and darted off like a trained squirrel.
A few minutes later, Shyam shut off the PC again and joined her at the dinner table.
"Let's eat!" she cheered, picking up her spoon.
"Yeah, let's," he smiled and followed suit.
"It's great," he said after the first bite.
He usually lived off fast noodles and microwave food. Real, home-cooked meals were a luxury now — ever since his mom got hospitalized.
"It is!" Ira echoed, and they both ate like two kids who hadn't seen food in days.
Which, in Shyam's case, was kinda accurate.
After the meal, he tucked Ira into the guest room beside his.
Then, back to his own room.
Computer on.
Mouse in hand.
Click.
Head Farm Online.
An online game where you're assigned to a farm with a teammate, and you have seven days to climb into the top ten.
Shyam loved it — it was his therapy. His break from life.
"New Game."
Layout selected.
"Start."
Suddenly, the UI vanished, replaced by a 3D grassy field with a barn in the corner.
Behind Shyam's avatar stood another avatar. A female one.
Jumping. Endlessly.
"…Hello?" Shyam asked, watching the girl bounce like a cracked bunny.
"Oh, hi!" she replied — still jumping.
"Is your auto-jump on?"
"Is it? Sorry! Just installed this game. Friend forced me to try!"
"Yeah, I get it. Just turn it off from settings before I get motion sickness," Shyam sighed and started grinding.
"Sure, thanks!" she said and began fiddling with her settings.
For 33 seconds, silence.
Then—
"How do I use this thing?" she blurted, right-clicking wildly.
Her avatar was holding a hoe — meant for tilling soil.
She was using it on a tree.
For reasons not even God can explain.
To be fair, with enough determination (and a few patches), she might cut the tree.
But Shyam wasn't waiting for patch notes.
"We're definitely hitting Top 1000. For sure…" he whispered, and started teaching her everything — from tools to farming basics.
Minutes turned into hours.
He'd never played this long.
But somehow... it was fun.
Even if teaching her felt like doing calculus with a spoon.
After five hours, he finally logged off and turned off his PC.
"She's a weird one," he muttered...
...and drifted off to sleep.
---
E-1