Morning light spilled through the windows of Raxian's room, cutting across the messy sprawl of clothes, wires, and energy drink cans. He rolled out of bed, rubbing the sleep from his eyes before tugging on his school uniform—same regulation cut as everyone else, but with enough flexibility to let students put their own twist on it.
His version had sharp lines and darker trims: a fitted navy jacket with silver accents and an embroidered school crest just above the heart. Beneath it, a black dress shirt—untucked and unbuttoned at the collar—contrasted with the crisp navy-and-white-striped tie that hung loosely around his neck. His pants were slim-fit and slightly cropped above his boots, showing off a flash of chain around his ankle. Where others looked clean and polished, Raxian looked styled—intentional, untouchable.
But it was his accessories that set him apart.
A tangle of silver and black necklaces layered over his chest, glinting beneath his open collar. His wrists were lined with stacked bracelets—leather, chain, and cord—while his fingers bore several rings: some simple bands, one a sleek black signet, another shaped like a dragon curling over his knuckle. He adjusted the watch on his wrist with a habitual flick, its glowing orange display syncing with the EGO app before fading to a dull hum. His ears were pierced—twice on the left, once on the right—and adorned with dark studs and a thin hoop.
He never left home without them.
---
By the time he stepped outside, the city was already buzzing. His backpack hung casually off one shoulder, and the streets around him pulsed with energy. It was impossible to ignore the presence of EGO—it had taken the world by storm. Street vendors sold flashy merch: replica visors, in-game cosmetics as keychains, and limited edition team jerseys. Some booths even blasted custom EGO battle tracks, remixed with heavy bass and electric vocals.
Pedestrians walked past in hoodies featuring logos of the top-ranked players, their names printed in sharp metallic font down the sleeves. Giant digital billboards rotated between glowing game trailers and ads for sponsored energy drinks—each one featuring a different celebrity player in slow motion, dodging fire or unleashing signature moves.
"Did you see Zenith's last run?" a teenager gushed to her friend, pointing at a holo-poster showing a flame-wielding champion mid-strike."I swear he hacks. There's no way he cleared that in under a minute."
Even people who didn't play EGO were obsessed. The game wasn't just a game anymore. It was a global sport, an identity, a culture.
And Raxian wanted to be part of that world—not just part of it. He wanted to stand at the top of it.
As he passed under a glowing archway marking the start of his school district, he glanced up at a digital poster looping a highlight reel of the top 5 players this season—each of them confident, powerful, iconic. The last frame cut to black with three glowing words:
"What's your EGO?"
Raxian smirked, eyes catching his own reflection in a storefront window. Not yet.But soon.
---
On his way to school, Raxian took the long route—through the neon-lit alleyways of downtown. He didn't need to. He just liked the walk. The morning light refracted off slick pavement and LED signs, casting the streets in soft purple and gold. The city was already pulsing, alive with chatter, hovercars, and vending drones—but here, in the alleys, things moved slower. Quieter. Like the world hit pause for just a second. He adjusted the strap of his backpack and turned the corner toward the café.
Their usual spot.
It didn't look like much—wedged between a dusty laundromat and a comic shop with a flickering sign—but it had history now. Ever since Tess started working weekday mornings, the crew claimed it like a second home. Some days it felt more like their actual one.
He stepped through the door, the bell chiming overhead.
And like clockwork, heads turned.
---
Bruce was posted by the window, smoothie in one hand, scrolling with the other. His shaggy brown hair fell over his forehead, half-hiding his eyes behind sleep-heavy lashes. The boy looked like he'd just wandered in from a dream and hadn't fully rejoined reality. His uniform was wrinkled but neat enough—tie half-done, blazer slung on like a shrug. Classic Bruce.
Jake was mid-rant—naturally—arms flailing like he was casting a spell, jacket slipping off one shoulder, silver rings clinking as he punctuated every word with unnecessary flair. His black hair was spiked in all directions, a jagged streak of red slicing through his bangs like a warning label. His uniform had somehow become a statement piece: sleeves rolled, tie tied loose, school badge replaced with a dumb little enamel pin shaped like a burning heart. He looked like he belonged on the cover of a game poster—and acted like it, too.
Ava sat in her corner booth, a vision of calculated precision. Her uniform was flawless—every line pressed, every detail deliberate. Her dark bob framed her face like it had been designed for maximum impact, and the gleam in her eyes said she missed nothing. She sipped her tea with quiet confidence, as if she was more CEO than student. Knowing her, she already had plans to run the school from behind the scenes.
Logan sat beside her, tall and quiet, the hood of his regulation jacket up over his dark hair. Headphones rested loosely around his neck, the cord wrapped once around his wrist like a tether. His blazer was unbuttoned, shirt collar open just enough to bend the rules. Logan looked like he didn't care, but every movement said otherwise—calculated, deliberate, always watching.
They were already here. Of course they were.
Behind the counter, Tess wiped down the counter with the kind of intensity reserved for either cleaning or hiding from emotional intimacy. Her café uniform was crisp, black apron tied tight over her button-up, her pink ponytail bouncing every time she moved. She had three silver ear piercings, two stacked rings on one hand, and an expression that said she'd end someone's bloodline if they tested her before 8 a.m.
It was familiar. Loud. A little chaotic.
Raxian smirked.
"Hey, hotshot!" Jake's voice rang out across the room.
Before he could dodge, Jake had him in a chokehold-hug, dragging him in like they were filming some heartfelt reunion. Jake was basically a golden retriever with impulse control issues.
"Let me go, Jake," Raxian muttered, though the corner of his mouth twitched.
"Nope. Not until you admit I'm the heart of this group."
"You're the headache of this group," Ava said flatly, not even looking up.
Logan snorted once. Tess gave them a dry look. "You guys ordering anything, or is this another 'loiter and test my patience' day?"
Raxian shrugged her a grin and slid into his usual seat. He tugged at the collar of his black dress shirt—untucked, the striped tie hanging loose—while his navy jacket, silver-trimmed and crested, shifted as he moved. A custom pin of his EGO avatar clung to his lapel. His black hair was tousled on purpose, streaked with a platinum blond highlight that caught the morning light. He looked like a glitch in the system. The kind you couldn't stop watching.
Marcus strolled in last, brushing past him on his way to the counter. His uniform jacket was half-off his shoulder, revealing the hoodie he'd somehow snuck under it—technically against dress code, but he wore it like it was part of the design. His eyes sparkled with mischief, and the smirk on his face said he knew it. One hand in his pocket, the other already hovering near the pastry display.
"What's today's special, oh wise keeper of caffeine?" he asked Tess, flashing her a grin.
"Coffee. Black. Because that's all you freeloaders ever order," Tess replied dryly—but her smile said she didn't mind.
The noise settled around Raxian like static. Bruce, the breeze. Jake, the wildfire. Logan, the blade behind the silence. Ava, the storm in a teacup. Tess, the gravity. Marcus, the gamble.
And him? He was the core. Not because he tried to be.
Because they all moved around him like satellites.
EGO. School. The game. All of it could wait.
For now, the day started here.
And it always started like this.
---
The school gates loomed ahead, the building's sleek glass facade catching morning light as the group crossed the street. They weren't exactly early, but they were rarely on time either. Just early enough to make an entrance—and late enough for the crowd to already be buzzing.
Except today, the buzz was different.
Raxian slowed as they entered the courtyard, his brows furrowing. Students were gathered in small clusters, murmuring, heads turning, necks craning for a better look at—
"What's going on?" Marcus asked under his breath.
Jake, already halfway ahead, paused and leaned back toward him. "Weird, right? I mean, usually people only look this hyped when someone gets suspended or when the vending machine eats another credit."
Marcus smirked, then elbowed Jake lightly as they both instinctively veered toward the edge of a gathering crowd, angling their bodies just enough to listen in without making it obvious.
"Some kind of drama?" Marcus asked a nearby student, voice casual.
"New girl," the kid whispered. "Transfer."
"From where?"
"Dunno. Somewhere big. She's supposed to be, like… an EGO prodigy or something. Like, actually insane."
That word hit harder than it should've.
Prodigy.
Behind them, Tess scoffed. "You two are such gossip sponges," she said, folding her arms. But even she tilted her head slightly, trying to catch more of the conversation. Her eyes narrowed with reluctant curiosity. "A transfer at this point in the semester? Sounds like a PR stunt."
Bruce let out a low hum but said nothing. Logan stood still, hands in his pockets, headphones now on. He didn't react outwardly, but Raxian could feel his attention sharpening—like a silent radar tuning in.
Ava, as always, was unreadable. Her eyes swept the crowd once, then flicked toward the front doors, as if expecting the girl to materialize any second.
Raxian remained still, his breath caught in his throat for just a moment.
An EGO prodigy?
The phrase echoed in his head, landing a little too close to the thought that had been gnawing at him since last night. His jaw clenched.
His mind snapped to the game—the match—the assassin.
What was supposed to be a casual ranked run had turned into something else entirely. A masked player. A class he recognized, but not like that. Their style was fluid, sharp, improvisational—like they were playing jazz with a blade. He hadn't seen anyone move like that. Not in his rank. Not on his server.
But that's what threw him most. They were on his server. Same region, same pool. Otherwise, the friend request wouldn't have gone through.
And they'd accepted.
He rubbed the back of his neck, pulse ticking a little faster.
She'd wiped the floor with him. Not just a clean win—a dismantling. No glitch, no excuses, just raw skill. He'd been outplayed, plain and simple.
And now there was a new girl at school? A transfer? A rumored prodigy?
His stomach turned.
No. It couldn't be. The odds were ridiculous.
Still, the timing…
He scoffed under his breath and shoved the thought aside.
It had to be a coincidence.
Right?
The hairs on the back of his neck rose, but he quickly pushed the thought aside.
"No way," he muttered to himself. The odds were too low. That was just some random match. People used alt accounts all the time. There was no proof, no reason to—
"You okay?" Bruce asked quietly beside him.
Raxian blinked. "Yeah. Just... caught off guard."
Bruce didn't press.
The group moved forward, letting the murmurs fade behind them as they entered the school building—but Raxian couldn't shake it.
Something about the timing was too perfect.
Still, he shook it off. That assassin couldn't be here. No way.
Right?
---
Entering the school building, Raxian wasn't the only one on edge. There was a subtle shift in the group's energy—barely noticeable to anyone else, but there. Heads tilted slightly. Steps slowed. Conversations quieted as they crossed the threshold into the main hall.
The rumors hadn't died down—in fact, they'd only gotten louder. Whispers trailed along the walls, skipping between lockers and slipping beneath classroom doors. Every student seemed to be saying the same thing in slightly different ways.
"She's a transfer—came out of nowhere."
"Apparently she's insane at EGO."
"Wiped out a whole team solo. Twice."
Some exaggerated. Some didn't even sound like they knew what they were talking about. But the words "girl," "prodigy," and "EGO" kept threading through the noise like a pulse. And Raxian felt it in his teeth.
Marcus, for his part, looked casual as ever—but Raxian didn't miss the way his eyes flicked across the hall, scanning faces. Just a little extra alert. Marcus always noticed people. He wasn't loud about it, not like Jake—who thrived off being the center of gravity—but Marcus paid attention. He remembered names. Knew who ran with who. Picked up on rumors before they had time to settle. It wasn't about gossip—it was about reading the room. Knowing where to stand, who to talk to, when to shift gears.
He wasn't fake. Just strategic.
Jake, meanwhile, was dramatically ranting about how the new student had to be part of some shady marketing stunt. "Like, come on, a last-minute prodigy? That's literally a shōnen anime arc waiting to happen."
Tess rolled her eyes, brushing past them to get to her own class. "You're a walking shōnen anime arc, Jake," she muttered without looking back.
By the time they reached their homeroom, the noise hadn't let up. Even the upperclassmen looked restless, casting glances toward the door like something was about to burst through it.
No new student yet.
The classroom was the same as always—bright fluorescent lights, clean rows, buzzing with low chatter—but there was a weird tension in the air. Like everyone was waiting for a drop.
Raxian slid into his seat near the front, dropping his bag with a thud. The rest of the group followed suit almost instinctively, filling in the chairs around him. Marcus and Tess next to him. Jake diagonally across. Bruce a row behind, half-asleep already. Logan and Ava took their usual spots in the back, near the windows—quiet but present, like sentinels.
It wasn't on purpose, the way they arranged themselves around Raxian. It just happened. Like gravity.
The chatter kept going. The whispers. The glances toward the door.
Still no sign of her.
But Raxian could feel it—whatever was coming had already changed something.
And it hadn't even walked in yet.
---
Raxian's eyes wandered—unintentionally, at first. In the middle of the usual morning shuffle, past the chatter and footsteps, his gaze landed on someone seated by the window.
Fayne.
She sat with her elbow propped against the desk, chin nestled lightly in her palm, absentmindedly doodling in the corner of her notebook. Not taking notes. Not pretending to. Just… lost. Her expression was calm, unfazed by the murmurs that rippled through the room like wind through leaves. The sunlight caught in her pale hair, almost silver against the soft shadows of the room, making her seem like she existed slightly apart from everything else—like she didn't fully belong to the same world as the rest of them. A small clip held her bangs to the side, neat and intentional, like everything about her was designed for quietness.
She was probably daydreaming again.
Raxian felt something twist in his chest—recognition, maybe. Nostalgia.
They used to be closer. Or well… "closer" as in, their parents forced them into the same spaces as kids. Arranged playdates. Shared birthday parties. A series of polite childhood collisions. But they never truly clicked. Raxian had been loud back then—always showing off, trying to be the center of attention. Like Jake was now. He craved recognition, wanted to be seen. Fayne, on the other hand, had always been the opposite—quiet, even-tempered, difficult to read. She would observe without judgment, speak only when she meant it, and drift away when things got too loud.
And over time, they just… diverged.
Different crowds. Different rhythms. Yet, somehow, they'd always ended up in the same homerooms. Same classrooms. Same school. Every single year.
It was strange, how consistent that was.
As if summoned by routine, the twins arrived—Mira and Leah.
Mira dropped into the desk directly in front of Fayne, her warm brown twintails bouncing with every step. She had a naturally energetic glow to her—rosy cheeks, sparkly amber eyes, and a permanent upturn to her lips that made her look like she was always on the edge of laughter. Even her uniform felt expressive, her sailor collar slightly off-center and her bag decorated with keychains that jingled softly when she moved. She was the kind of girl who made friends before she even spoke. Within seconds, she'd already brought up the rumors—something about the new transfer student, some prodigy girl—and sandwiched the gossip right between tangents about an upcoming party and which teachers were "vibing" and which weren't.
Leah, more reserved, slipped into the seat beside her sister with a soft smile. Her look was neater, more composed—dark, silky hair falling just past her shoulders and pinned back carefully with silver hair clips that glittered under the classroom lights. Her brown eyes were warm, but observant, and she carried herself with an elegant stillness that contrasted Mira's bouncing energy. Though quieter, she wasn't aloof. Her gentle nods and occasional interjections showed she was just as engaged—especially when Mira veered into topics like fashion trends or the latest cute upperclassman sighting.
Still, her presence was calmer—more in tune with Fayne's. The two often shared a quiet understanding, occasionally exchanging glances that spoke more than words. Where Mira brought noise, Leah brought balance.
And today, even they were stirred by the rumors. The buzz around this mysterious transfer student was impossible to ignore.
Fayne didn't say much, just tilted her head slightly toward them, listening. It wasn't clear whether she believed the rumor or even cared, but she nodded once, her pen pausing in her hand like she was considering something quietly.
Raxian realized he'd been staring.
A beat later, Fayne looked up—and met his eyes.
His chest jolted. Instinct took over. He looked away too fast, too sharp, practically snapping his gaze to the front of the class.
Stupid. Why had he even been watching her?
She probably thought he was weird. Or worse—curious.
But that wasn't it. He wasn't curious. Not about her. Not really.
Right?
Beside him, Jake and Marcus were still talking about the new girl. Ava said something dry from the back. Bruce was slumped over his desk. The class wasn't even officially started yet, but something already felt different. Charged.
And now he couldn't help but feel like Fayne had seen through him in just one glance. Like she always had.
---
The chatter in the classroom died down a few beats faster than usual—not from fear or respect, but from sheer anticipation. Everyone knew what was coming. Even the usually half-dead Bruce lifted his head a little from his desk, groggy and squinting.
The door opened, and in walked their homeroom teacher, Ms. Halden. Sharp eyes, sharp bob-cut, sharp voice. She wasn't cruel, just no-nonsense. The kind of teacher who had a reputation for remembering everything, and for somehow always knowing who actually threw the eraser even when she wasn't looking.
She stepped in briskly, her heels clicking against the floor like punctuation. She barely made it to the front of the classroom before pausing, turning back toward the door.
"And this," she said, with the kind of deliberate pause that always meant a new character was about to be introduced, "is Sable Holloway. She transferred here from Caelthorn."
There was a silence. Then the door creaked again.
And in she walked.
Sable.
She wasn't tall or flashy. She didn't swagger or strut. But there was something about the way she moved—shoulders loose, eyes half-lidded, the faintest tug at one corner of her mouth like she was privately amused by how dramatic her entrance had accidentally become.
She wore the uniform, sure, but in a way that made it hers. The navy blazer was slightly oversized, the sleeves rolled just enough to reveal layered black bracelets—woven leather, one with a silver charm, another with what looked like scratched-in initials. Her necktie was loosened slightly under the collar, the shirt beneath unbuttoned just enough to breathe without breaking the dress code. And the beanie—black and clearly not allowed—was tugged low over messy waves of dark hair that curled in deep blue layered strands down to her chest.
A glint of silver peeked out from under her sleeve as she adjusted her bag strap. A watch. Sleek, matte black-banded, with just enough of the logo visible for Raxian to catch it: the distinctive EGO brand insignia—minimalist, but unmistakable to those who knew the game.
It wasn't flashy, but it hit him like a static charge.
She was a player.
Even without seeing the full design, he recognized the model—it was one of the newer sync-compatible watches, the kind linked to high-level accounts. A lot of students had them, sure, especially at Aetheridge where EGO was practically a second language. But something about seeing it on her wrist—tucked neatly under her sleeve like a secret—made it different.
Intentional.
Hidden, but not really.
Like her.
Raxian's breath caught for just a moment. His gaze lingered, a thread of unease winding down his spine. Something shifted in the back of his mind, like a puzzle piece turning—one that almost fit.
Almost.
Her eyes were deep green, but not vibrant—more like moss under shadow. Quiet. Watching. Unbothered.
Someone whispered, "She looks like she walked out of a music video."Another: "She looks like she doesn't even care that she looks that cool."
Raxian said nothing. He hadn't meant to sit up straighter in his chair, but he did. Something about her presence pulled the room a half-step off axis.
"Sable's been moving around a lot," Ms. Halden continued. "She comes from Caelthorn, and before that—well, I'll let her share if she wants to. For now, she'll be joining our class. Please make her feel welcome."
A few obligatory murmurs of welcome floated through the classroom—half-hearted greetings from students who barely lifted their heads. Mira turned in her seat, whispering something to Leah with wide eyes. Jake leaned toward Raxian's desk, mouthing, "Yo," with a pointed glance toward the new girl.
Even Bruce stirred.
Slouched over his desk, cheek pressed to the cool surface, he blinked blearily as if emerging from hibernation. His brow furrowed, lifting his head just enough to get a better look at the girl now standing at the front of the room. It was rare for Bruce to react to anything that wasn't caffeine or food-related.
But even he looked… alert.
His eyes trailed the curve of her silhouette as she moved. Not in that way—but like he was reading something unfamiliar. Curious. Suspicious.
The room had quieted faster than usual, like someone had lowered the ambient volume. There was something about her—how she stood, how she didn't seem to care whether they stared or not. Sable didn't shrink. She didn't preen.
She simply was.
And that alone was enough to pull every gaze in the room—including Fayne's.
Ms. Halden gestured toward the desk beside Bruce—still only semi-awake. "You can take the empty seat over there."
Sable offered a polite nod, her expression unreadable. She made her way past the rows, her boots soft against the tile, her gaze flicking past Fayne, the twins, even Raxian—for just a moment—before settling next to Bruce.
She dropped into the seat in one motion, slouched back, bag still slung across one shoulder. She didn't greet Bruce. Just propped an elbow on the desk and stared ahead. Calm.
Unbothered.
Like she'd been here the whole time.
---
And with that, Ms. Halden began the lesson, voice calm and clipped as she flicked on the projector. She gestured for Sable to settle in, then added in her usual brisk tone, "No pressure on you today—just observe, take in the rhythm. You'll pick it up soon enough."
Sable gave a faint nod. She'd heard it before. Different city, different school, same speech. She dropped her bag beside her chair and leaned back in her seat, arms crossed loosely, gaze half-lidded but alert. Not taking notes. Not pretending to. Just listening. Watching.
She was good at that.
The lesson hadn't even fully kicked off before Jake was already inching toward her desk, practically hovering. One arm slung over the back of the chair in front of her, he wore a grin that was equal parts curiosity and ego. "So—Sable, right?" he asked, like they were already on a first-name basis. "You into EGO?"
A few other students had turned their heads too—some with subtle glances, others more shameless. A girl in the back tried to snap a quiet picture under her desk. Someone else whispered to their neighbor.
Sable didn't look up at Jake right away.
Then she did. Just once, briefly.
"Yeah," she said flatly.
No follow-up. No smile. No reaction to his flashy presence or the whispers fluttering through the room like wind catching loose paper.
Jake hesitated. "Cool," he added, still trying to keep the energy up, but it was clear her vibe had deflected most of his usual charm.
Tess, seated nearby, rolled her eyes with enough force to nearly tip her chair. "Buzz off, Jake. Give her, like, five minutes to breathe."
He raised his hands in mock surrender and backed away, mouthing a dramatic "Yikes" to Marcus as he slunk back to his seat.
Sable didn't even blink. Her gaze drifted toward the front of the room again, and she resumed her quiet lean against the back of her chair like nothing had happened—like the whole interaction had been background noise.
And in her mind, maybe it was.
---
The first break came as a wave of chairs scraping back and chatter rising all at once. Students spilled into the hallways like a flood, eager for snacks, air, or gossip—mostly the last one.
Jake was on his feet the moment the bell rang, already eyeing Sable before she even stood. He met her at the door with the kind of grin he wore like a badge. "Alright, mystery girl," he said, sidestepping into her path. "Time to make it official. Tour guide Jake, at your service."
Behind him, Marcus and Tess lingered a step behind, and a few more curious students hung nearby under the pretense of conversation. Someone mentioned the club building. Another tried to ask what city she originated from.
Sable blinked, nonplussed. Her posture was relaxed, one hand casually readjusting the strap of her bag across her shoulder. "I'm good," she said. "Just want to look around by myself."
There wasn't a hint of apology in her voice. No forced smile. Just a calm, even tone that left little room for negotiation.
Jake raised his eyebrows. "Aw, come on. We know all the shortcuts. Could save you some time."
"I've got time."
And with that, she brushed past him.
The hallway stretched open ahead of her, students parting instinctively as she moved. Her steps were unhurried, but something about the way she walked—focused, grounded—made it hard not to look twice.
Jake stared after her for a second, caught somewhere between amused and wounded. "Okay then," he muttered, tossing a glance at Marcus. "She's a tough one."
Tess smirked. "She just doesn't like you."
They circled back near Raxian's locker, where he stood leaning against the edge, arms crossed loosely over his chest, pretending to scroll through something on his phone. But his eyes weren't on the screen.
They were on her.
He didn't say anything—he rarely did when it came to new faces—but his gaze tracked her as she moved down the corridor, quiet and unfazed by the attention she drew. Her beanie still tucked low, sleeves hiding the edge of that unmistakable watch. The black strap. The faint glint. An EGO-branded model, he was sure of it now.
The hallway noise dulled around him.
Raxian's fingers tightened slightly around his phone.
He didn't know who she was yet.
But he was starting to suspect.
And he wasn't the only one watching anymore.
---
That afternoon, after the walk home under a dull, cloud-choked sky, Raxian slipped through the front door to the familiar sound of a knife tapping rhythmically against a cutting board. The kitchen light spilled into the hallway—warm, steady. The scent of soy, garlic, and simmering broth welcomed him in.
"Hey, Rax," his mom called from behind the counter, her voice as bright as the daylight wasn't.
"Hey, mom."
He set his bag down by the stairs and joined her without being asked, rolling up his sleeves before grabbing the cutting board beside her.
They worked quietly—him peeling and chopping scallions, her stirring the pot. It was easy, this rhythm between them. Wordless. Comfortable.
But not complete.
His dad's absence lingered like a missing chair at the table.
"He's working late again," his mom said casually, placing a lid over the pot with practiced gentleness. "Said he might not make it back until tomorrow."
"Mmh," Raxian muttered, pretending to focus on slicing. The green onions blurred slightly under his knife.
"He's just been so busy lately," she added, a little too quickly. "Big project. Important meetings. You know how it is."
He didn't. Not really.
He wasn't even sure what his dad actually did. Something with finance? Law? Maybe tech? The story shifted depending on who asked. Once, years ago, Raxian had tried searching his father's name online, but barely found anything that made sense. Vague titles. Company names he didn't recognize. Lots of travel. Always "off the grid."
And his mom—she played along, always with a patient smile and hands that never stopped moving.
But Raxian saw it.
The tightness in her jaw when she had to set an extra plate aside again.
The way she lingered a little too long over her texts before dinner, waiting for a message that didn't come.
The way she'd pretend not to notice when he stopped asking.
Dinner was quiet.
His mom asked about school, about his friends, about how he was sleeping. He gave her the usual answers. Fine. Good. Yeah. Her smiles were soft but tired, and he couldn't help but think how lonely she must feel in this big, neatly kept house that echoed too easily when footsteps weren't around.
Afterwards, he helped with the dishes. She thanked him like always. And like always, he just nodded.
Then he retreated to his room, the sound of the news humming low on the kitchen TV behind him, the house dimming with the evening.
He didn't think about his dad much.
But tonight, it was harder not to.
Harder to ignore how the man's name felt more like a placeholder than a presence.
Harder to pretend it didn't leave a hollow somewhere beneath all the noise in his life.
---
After a quick shower, hair still damp and clinging to his neck, Raxian sat down behind his desk and strapped the watch back on. The screen blinked softly—waiting. He tapped the EGO icon on his pc. The chip synced instantly.
His vision blurred.
And then—
Clarity.
His consciousness shifted, clean and seamless.
He blinked open in another world while holding his controller in reality.
A low hum greeted him first. The lights of the ceiling strips flickered to life, warm and atmospheric. His avatar—his other self—lay in a minimalist bed framed by metal tubing and indigo sheets. It was the same position he always spawned in, arms behind his head, one foot hooked over the other. Still. Resting. Waiting.
Now awake.
He sat up, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed and planting his boots on the matte floor.
Everything was exactly how he left it.
His room in EGO wasn't flashy, but it was deliberate—just like him. The walls were dark gray steel, lit with subtle neon accents that pulsed along the edges: cool blues and faint violet hues. On one side, a digital screen framed like a window displayed a programmable cityscape view—tonight, he'd set it to a rainy skyline, the distant rumble of thunder playing low in the background. Across from the bed was a long desk littered with strategy notes, virtual trophies, and a few half-loaded modules for build theorycrafting.
Above the desk hung a single framed print—his first ranked win, screen-capped and signed by him.
In the corner stood a slim wardrobe interface, untouched. He never used it.
His avatar had worn the same outfit since day one: black tactical hoodie, cross straps, fingerless gloves, slim cargo pants, and that signature blue-accented wrist piece. Clean, sharp, utilitarian.
Unchanged.
It wasn't about aesthetics—it was a label. A statement.
This is who I am here.
And when people saw him, they recognized it.
The guy with the look. The one who didn't change.
He stepped forward, his boots soundless on the floor, and pulled up his HUD. Everything flickered into view—messages, invites, rankings. Notifications buzzed at the corner of his vision, but he ignored them.
What he wanted was already clear.
There was only one match that mattered tonight.
A rematch.
Against someone he wasn't even sure would show up.
Still… he queued up anyway.
And waited.
---
It wasn't like he'd scheduled a rematch or anything.
He hadn't even checked if AkarisLite was online.
But something about it… about them… felt inevitable. Like gravity. Like they were destined to clash again—sooner rather than later. His instincts, his ego, whatever it was, told him the battlefield would bring them together again, just like it had the night before.
He queued up.
Ranked. 1v1. First match of the night.
The screen loaded.
Not them.
Some random fist-punching Monk class with jittery movement and an oversized ego. The match was awkward and ugly, dragged out longer than it needed to be. Raxian won, but barely—and it didn't satisfy. Not even close.
Fine, he thought, exiting the screen with a sharp breath through his nose.
He flicked open his friendlist and hovered over their name.
Offline.
AkarisLite: last seen 19 hours ago.
A dull ache settled in his chest, heavier than he expected. Maybe tonight wasn't it after all.
Still… he kept going.
Match after match. Queue after queue.
But something was off.
His timing. His movement. His focus.
He played tighter, more desperate, overthinking every exchange. He knew it too—and that only made it worse. His rhythm was off, his instincts dull, and everything started slipping. Opponents he would've demolished a week ago were suddenly outplaying him, edging him out in narrow fights.
Loss after loss stacked up.
And before he knew it—
A pulse of red flickered across the corner of his HUD.You have dropped to Drive — Division 3.A cold click. No drama. Just quiet failure.
The words flashed across the screen like a slap.
His jaw tightened. His cursor hovered for a beat, twitching like it might punch through the screen.
Then—
Click.
Log out.
The game faded. His room dimmed.
Raxian yanked off the watch, tossed it to the floor with a dull clatter, and flopped backward onto his bed. His arms sprawled out over the covers, his head sinking into the pillow.
He stared at the ceiling.
"Man… this sucks."
It wasn't just the losses. It was the silence.
No AkarisLite.
No rhythm.
No fire.
Just static.