Lunch break.The halls buzzed with motion — chairs scraping, bags swinging, voices rising and falling in bursts — but none of it touched her.
Sable didn't linger.
She rose from her seat the moment the bell rang, ignoring the idle chatter of her classmates. No one called her name. No one tried to stop her. They'd stopped doing that weeks ago.
She was old news now.
The girl who'd transferred in with all the rumors and mystique, who turned heads and stirred whispers her first week — "She's a prodigy!" "She's got ties to EGO's devs!" "Her family's loaded!" — that version of her had long since faded, replaced not by someone timid, but someone real. Someone steady. She kept to herself — not out of fear, but preference. She didn't chase conversations or force connections. She listened more than she spoke, watched more than she reacted. The kind of quiet that made people unsure if they should try again, or just leave her be. Most chose the latter. Which suited her just fine.
People eventually stopped trying. She preferred it that way.
The rooftop door creaked open beneath her palm, hinges groaning with rust and neglect. The chill of the overcast day greeted her, rain falling in a fine mist that clung to her blazer. She didn't mind it.
She crossed the wet rooftop tiles without hurry and slipped beneath the small overhang next to the door — her usual spot. One weather-worn bench, barely sheltered from the wind. It wasn't comfortable. That wasn't the point.
Sable sat, unwrapping her bento with practiced quiet. Steam rose from the still-warm rice. She didn't touch it right away. Instead, her gaze drifted out past the railings, down toward the courtyard below, where students gathered in clusters beneath awnings and trees, laughing, moving, filling space.
It was hard to imagine herself down there.
Her thoughts wandered — not toward the courtyard, but to a battlefield far removed from this one.To a screen.To a match.To a player.
TimeWrapped.
Or, as she now knew him, Raxian Gravemont.
Classmate.
Interesting coincidence. If it even was a coincidence.
The moment she transferred in and heard his name whispered behind hands, it stuck with her. Raxian Gravemont. He wasn't the loudest, but people noticed him. They always did. Not because he tried — if anything, he seemed annoyed by the attention — but his group naturally centered around him. The kind of person others instinctively followed, even when he didn't ask them to.
She recognized the way he carried himself. Confident, but restless. Like someone chasing something invisible. And she'd seen that look before — not in class, but on the scoreboard. In the way he played. In the heat of sudden flares and high-stakes gambles. TimeWrapped.
After enough matches, enough subtle cues, enough in-game ticks that mirrored real-world patterns — the pacing, the tilt, the precision when he was focused — she'd made the connection. Long before the system ever linked their names.
And she'd noticed the spiral, too. Not just on EGO. But in real life. He lost his edge. Grew quieter. Eyes tired, jaw always set too tight. His digital losing streak matched his real-world slump beat for beat. It was too aligned to be coincidence.
They had spoken once — just briefly. Her words had been neutral on the surface, but laced with something more. A nudge. A test. Encouragement, maybe, if you tilted your head and squinted. She didn't pity him — but she understood. And if he really was TimeWrapped, then yeah... she had her reasons to care.
He was interesting.
And if he ever climbed back up — if he ever managed to meet her again as an equal — maybe then she'd let him know just how closely she'd been watching.
She didn't think he'd figured her out yet. Not for certain. It was too far-fetched. Too convenient. Their avatars clashing in a random queue, and then—days later—sitting one row apart in the same classroom? Odds like that bordered on narrative fiction. Still…
She stirred her rice absently with her chopsticks.
He could be catching on.
Especially now that his momentum had shifted.
She'd noticed the recent climb. Back into Drive – Division 2 after his brief fall. His style was cleaner. His rhythm returned. That last match she had spectated? There was an edge in it again. The kind she had seen in their first encounter — the one that had made her challenge him in the first place.
That rematch was coming. She'd promised as much in their last message.
But not until he's ready.
Not just skilled — ready. Sharp. Focused. Capable of more than brute ambition. She didn't want to trample him again. She wanted a real fight. The kind that lit her blood, not just her stats.
And if he did beat her?
Sable's eyes narrowed slightly, rain trailing down the railing in broken lines.
If — not when — but if… she might even tell him.
Her real name. Her real account. Let him put the pieces together himself.
Let him see her.
But that was a thought for later.
For now, she took a quiet bite of her lunch, the taste lost to the pull of strategy and prediction, the rain still tapping rhythmically against the metal above.
Downstairs, Raxian probably hadn't even noticed she was gone.But upstairs, Sable was watching.
---
Jake was still salty.
They'd had a rematch earlier that day at the gaming café — a follow-up to their last one where Raxian had been out of rhythm, barely holding it together. But this time? Raxian was back in form. Crisp mechanics, smart reads, and that same dangerous unpredictability that had once made him a name to watch. He'd stomped Jake clean. Not even close.
"Okay, you buffed yourself," Jake muttered, slumped in his chair, arms crossed and eyes glued to the post-game stats. "No way you weren't smurfing."
Bruce nudged him with an elbow, grinning around a mouthful of soda. "Cheer up, man. You'll get him next time. Or not."
"Traitor," Jake said, voice flat.
---
Later that afternoon, the crew made their way to Marcus's place to study — or at least, that was the excuse. His house was massive, tucked in the nicer part of the district. Tall ceilings, polished wood floors, and wide-open rooms filled with abstract art his parents probably pretended to understand. They were successful in fields none of them could quite explain, and as their only child, Marcus got the royal treatment.
Even his room felt like a lounge. Plush carpet. Multiple monitors. Mood lighting. A couch. And most importantly — enough space for all of them to crash in with laptops and snacks.
The assignment they were supposed to tackle was for Lit&Media — something about analyzing thematic shifts in short-form digital storytelling. Raxian had skimmed the brief earlier and immediately filed it under "barely tolerable."
"Why is this so vague?" Tess groaned, sprawled across the rug with her laptop open beside her. "Like, what even counts as short-form?"
"Apparently everything," Bruce said, already halfway through his outline. "I think I picked the wrong reel though. This girl did a whole video essay in… rhyme."
"Oh no, that one?" Marcus winced from behind his screen. "Yeah. That was brutal."
Jake, meanwhile, hadn't even started. He was leaning across the back of Ava's chair, eyebrows raised in full charm mode. "Avaaa. My academic savior. Light of my GPA. Any chance you wanna... collab?"
"No," Ava said, not even looking up.
"C'mon, Logan," Jake pivoted. "Help a brother out. You love this stuff."
"I love learning," Logan said without pause. "Not cheating."
Jake made a sound like a wounded animal, flopping dramatically onto the couch. "Y'all are cold."
Raxian chuckled from where he sat on the floor, leaning back against the bed frame. The assignment was dry, sure — but the atmosphere wasn't bad. Music played low from Marcus's Bluetooth speaker. People were talking, laughing, the scent of popcorn and something sweet drifting in from the hallway. At one point, Marcus's mom came in with a tray of fruit, cookies, and fizzy drinks, smiling politely and asking if they needed anything else.
"Thanks, Mom," Marcus said, already grabbing a cookie.
Tess whispered, "I love your house," like it was a confession.
"Same," Bruce added.
Raxian found himself dragging his cursor across the same paragraph of his notes for the third time. It didn't matter. The assignment would get done — eventually. But right now, being here, surrounded by his people, felt... good. He didn't have to try. He didn't have to perform. They weren't treating him like a popular guy or a top player — just Raxian. And after the slump he'd been in not long ago, this kind of normalcy felt like the biggest win of all.
Even if Jake was still whining in the background.
---
Fayne's interest in the new student had started small — a passing curiosity, like everyone else. But unlike the others, hers hadn't faded.
Sable was… different. Still hard to read. She wasn't rude, but she wasn't warm either. She didn't seem shy, just selective — like someone who had grown used to guarding her edges. The kind of person who carried silence like a shield. And while most students had already moved on from the initial hype surrounding her transfer, Fayne hadn't. Not quite.
Maybe it was because Sable reminded her of herself — or rather, of how she used to be before letting Mira and Leah into her world.
Fayne had expected the girl to soak up the attention when she first arrived, to play into the intrigue, the whispered curiosity that trailed her down the halls. But she hadn't. She kept her head straight, answered when spoken to, disappeared when the bell rang. She didn't push people away, not actively — she just gave no openings, and people took the hint.
And during breaks — every time — she vanished. No one seemed to know where she went, and stranger yet, no one seemed to care. Fayne found that odd. Not the disappearance, but how easily people gave up on her. Maybe that's what Sable wanted.
Still, she couldn't help wondering.
What went on in her mind?
Why transfer in the middle of the school year like that?
The teacher had mentioned something about Sable moving around a lot over the years during her introduction. It had been a simple comment — probably meant to soften the spotlight — but it stuck with Fayne. It sounded... lonely.
She realized she'd been watching Sable again, eyes drifting across the classroom to where the other girl sat, expression unreadable as she scrawled something in her notebook.
Fayne blinked and looked away quickly, but not quick enough.
A pen jabbed lightly at her side.
"Hey," Mira whispered from the desk in front of hers, eyes gleaming with mischief. "What are you daydreaming about?"
Fayne startled, heat crawling up her neck. "Nothing," she whispered back too quickly.
Mira raised an eyebrow, then followed her gaze subtly before turning back, smirking. "Huh. That's new."
Leah leaned in from the other side, voice barely audible. "You watching mysterious rooftop girl again?"
"Shut up," Fayne muttered, sinking slightly in her seat.
But even as she turned her attention back to the teacher, her thoughts wandered.
She wasn't sure why she was drawn to Sable, exactly. Maybe it was because they were alike. Or maybe because Sable seemed like she didn't need anyone — and yet part of Fayne couldn't shake the feeling that maybe she did.
Either way… she wanted to understand her.
And if Sable kept vanishing like this, maybe she'd just have to start following.
---
The soft scratch of charcoal on paper echoed faintly in the quiet hum of the college art studio. Fluorescent lights buzzed above as sunlight filtered through tall windows, casting muted rays across easels, half-finished sculptures, and the occasional pile of crumpled sketches.
Raze sat cross-legged on the high stool, hunched slightly forward, a faded black beanie pulled snug over his two-toned hair — dark with streaks of muted green that caught the light when he moved. His oversized zip hoodie hung loosely over a paint-splattered band tee, sleeves pushed up to his forearms, revealing a smudge of graphite on one hand and a rubber bracelet that looked older than he probably was. Worn cargo pants and battered sneakers completed the art student aesthetic — functional, comfortable, and just slightly chaotic. He looked like he belonged here.
His canvas was halfway done — a sketch of a figure in motion, mid-dive, limbs stretching through a blurred suggestion of wind and water. He didn't talk much during class, but his work spoke loud enough.
When the bell rang and students began filing out, Raze packed up slowly. One of his friends — a curly, brown-haired, matching eye color, design major named Jules — slapped him on the back on the way out.
"Bar tonight?" Jules grinned.
"It's Wednesday," Raze replied, smirking as he slung his bag over his shoulder.
"Exactly. Mini Friday. You in?"
He didn't take much convincing.
---
By early evening, the group had claimed their usual booth near the far end of the bar — a cozy spot just a little removed from the loudest tables. The place wasn't packed, but familiar music played low through the speakers, and the lights were warm enough to soften the city-stress most of them carried in their shoulders.
Raze made his way to the counter, exchanging a nod with the bartender.
"Evenin', Micah," he greeted casually.
Micah, tall and thin, with a graying beard and neatly parted hair, gave him a small, tired smile. He wore a crisp button-up and a patterned vest like always — too formal for this place, some might say, but he carried it with quiet dignity. The kind of man who had been through a lot but never let it show more than necessary.
"Raze," he said, placing a coaster on the counter before he even asked. "You all surviving midterms?"
"Barely," Raze said, cracking a grin. "You?"
Micah shrugged. "Still breathing."
That was his usual answer. Raze respected the hell out of him for it.
He knew Micah was a father of two — teenagers, if he remembered right. Lost his wife a few years ago to an illness no one talked about anymore. Worked double shifts, ran the bar like a quiet storm, paid bills like a machine, and still found time to ask how Raze's sketches were coming along. A whole life behind those weary eyes — and still he stood behind this counter night after night, calm, kind, present.
"Same drink as always?" Micah asked.
"Yeah," Raze said. "Thanks."
He was just about to take the glass back to the booth when his phone buzzed in his jacket pocket. A text. From Raxian.
don't get too wasted tonight, dumbass
He snorted under his breath. Classic.
Despite being younger, Raxian had a habit of keeping tabs on him like an annoying older sibling — even though technically, Raze had six years on him. Still, that was what brothers did, right?
He tapped out a reply.
just one. chill.also ur a hypocrite
Another buzz.
yeah but im a responsible hypocrite
Raze smiled to himself and shook his head, tucking the phone away before grabbing the glass.
Back at the booth, his friends were already laughing over something stupid Jules said. The kind of laughter that came easy after long days and familiar faces. And as he slid into the seat beside them, Raze thought — not for the first time — that he was grateful for all the pieces of his life that had stayed.
And for the people who still checked in, even when he didn't ask them to.
---
Even though Raze had promised Raxian he'd take it easy, the night didn't go exactly to plan.
At first, it was fine — light buzz, good company, the warm hum of laughter bouncing between sips. But then one drink turned into two, and two blurred into four. Time started moving in slippery intervals. At some point, someone ordered shots. He barely remembered if he declined. Probably didn't.
His friends filtered out one by one — Jules left early, citing a morning class; Kay and Lio followed not long after, tossing casual goodbyes his way. Eventually, it was just Raze at the booth, slouched a little deeper into the worn leather seat with his half-empty glass sweating beside him. The music had slowed down, quieter now, and the warm low lights of the bar had turned vaguely dizzying.
Micah noticed.
From behind the counter, the bartender's sharp eyes tracked the subtle signs — the way Raze blinked slower now, or how he kept forgetting his phone on the table after checking it for the third time in ten minutes. How he leaned forward like he was going to get up, then sank back like the idea had exhausted him.
Micah dried another glass and sighed through his nose. The bar was nearly empty now. Last call had been called. Chairs were flipped on tables.
Eventually, he walked over and gently tapped the side of the booth.
"Kid," he said, voice low but firm. "Bar's closing."
Raze stirred, blinking heavily. He looked up, eyes hazy but smiling like he could still charm his way through anything. "M'fine," he mumbled, pushing himself upright with effort. "Just resting my eyes."
Micah didn't look convinced. "You sure you're good to get home?"
"Yeah, yeah," Raze muttered, patting his pockets as if that proved anything. "I got it. Promise."
Micah hesitated, towel slung over one shoulder. He'd seen enough like Raze over the years — tired kids trying to outrun whatever weighed them down, acting like sleep could fix everything. But he also knew better than to force someone who swore they were okay.
So he handed Raze a plastic cup of water. "Drink this before you go."
Raze nodded sluggishly, took a few sips, and wobbled toward the door with a tired wave.
"See you, Micah."
"Get home safe, Raze."
The door shut with a dull thud, the city night swallowing him.
But he didn't get far.
The chill in the air hit harder than expected, and the second he stepped out into the quiet street, it felt like the ground tilted. His feet carried him a block or two — barely — before the adrenaline wore off and the haze thickened again. His body was heavy, the kind of drunk that draped over your shoulders like wet cloth. And despite what he told Micah — and himself — he knew he wasn't going to make it home tonight.
He found a bench — the kind old folks sat on during morning walks — tucked beneath a flickering streetlamp just outside a closed flower shop. The metal felt cold even through his jeans, but he didn't care.
Raze sat down, exhaled.
The city was quiet. The kind of quiet that came only on weeknights between the bars closing and the street cleaners arriving. A faint breeze tousled his hair, carrying with it the distant sound of a train.
He leaned back.
Eyes fluttered.
And then, sleep claimed him — not fully peaceful, not fully safe, but still, in that moment… it was rest.
Tomorrow, he'd deal with the rest.
---
The street was still quiet when Fayne arrived, her breath visible in the early morning chill. She tugged the scarf tighter around her neck as she approached the familiar storefront of her mom's flower shop — "Edelweiss & Ivy" in hand-painted script across the windows. A few petals from yesterday's display clung to the doorframe, fluttering with the breeze. She reached for the keys in her coat pocket, mentally going over her usual opening routine — lights, heater, water for the buckets—
—but then she froze.
There was someone on the bench.
At first she thought he might be a customer waiting for the shop to open. But then she noticed the slouch of his shoulders. The way his head hung forward so much that his chin almost touched his chest. His body curled inward like he was trying to disappear into himself. And worst of all — the slow, shallow rise and fall of his chest.
A man in his twenties. Tall, dark-haired, dressed in layers that smelled faintly of cigarette smoke and bar-floor salt. His breath — when she cautiously stepped closer — carried the sharp, unmistakable sting of alcohol.
Fayne hesitated.
She glanced up and down the street. No one else around.
This wasn't something she usually did. She wasn't reckless. She wasn't the kind of girl who poked sleeping strangers. But something about the way he was slumped forward — like he was one bad twitch away from tipping face-first onto the concrete — it set off alarms in her brain.
"Hey," she said gently, keeping her distance but raising her voice enough to be heard. "Um. Sir?"
No response.
Fayne glanced at the shop, then back to him. She took a few cautious steps forward.
"Hey—sorry, but... are you okay?"
Still nothing.
She sighed under her breath, annoyed at herself more than anything, and gave the edge of the bench a light kick — enough to make it rattle under him.
The man stirred.
A groggy grunt. A flutter of eyelids.
Then, slowly, Raze blinked awake.
His eyes were dry and sluggish, blinking against the faint morning light that had begun to creep over the buildings. He squinted at the girl standing before him, her expression somewhere between concerned and skeptical. White hair- like snow, tucked into a beanie. School uniform beneath a padded jacket. Hands curled in the sleeves like she didn't quite trust the chill — or him.
It took him a moment, but the pieces began falling into place.
Bar. Laughing. Glasses clinking. Friends leaving. Streetlamp. Cold.
Shit.
He rubbed at his face. "What... time is it?"
"Just past six," Fayne said cautiously, still watching him.
Raze groaned, sitting up straighter — or at least trying to. His back ached from the metal slats. His neck felt like someone had jammed a steel rod into it while he slept. "God. Did I really crash here...?"
"You tell me," Fayne replied, folding her arms.
He looked around, finally taking in the flower shop behind her. The small chalkboard sign still blank. The dew on the windows. The smell of morning soil.
Then it clicked.
"You work here?"
"Sort of," she nodded. "It's my mom's shop. I open on Thursdays."
Raze winced. "Sorry if I scared you."
"You didn't. Just… wasn't expecting a half-frozen college guy passed out next to the roses."
He chuckled under his breath, then regretted it when the pounding in his skull reminded him how much he drank. "I swear I'm not usually this much of a mess."
Fayne tilted her head, narrowing her eyes slightly. "You sure? 'Cause you kinda look like someone who thinks they have it all together when they don't."
That caught him off guard — and made him smile.
"You're not wrong."
A brief pause. She shifted her weight. "Need water? Coffee?"
Raze blinked again. "You're offering me coffee?"
She shrugged. "I'm already making some inside. Just don't throw up on the orchids."
He laughed, genuine this time. "Deal."
Fayne turned toward the door, fishing out the keys again. Before she stepped inside, she looked back once more — just a glance.
And Raze, still slouched on the bench but a little more awake now, met her eyes.
"Thanks," he said.
She didn't say anything back. But she nodded — and then disappeared into the shop with the soft chime of the bell above the door.
It wasn't how he expected his day to start.
But maybe that was okay.
---
The door chimed softly as Raze stepped into the flower shop, brushing off the cold morning air. The warmth hit him first — not just in temperature, but in atmosphere. It smelled like fresh soil and petals, like greenhouses and tea leaves. The walls were a soft sage green, worn in a way that made them feel lived-in, not old. The wooden floors were a warm chestnut brown, creaking just slightly under his steps. Natural tones filled the space — clay pots, woven baskets, pale linen drapes filtering the rising sunlight. Everything felt still. Like a place where time slowed down on purpose.
It was lovely.
He blinked, a bit hazy still, but it made him smile.
When Fayne returned from the back, he noticed the steam rising from two cups — one in each hand. She wordlessly handed him one.
He took it gratefully. "Thanks… seriously. For the coffee and the… rescue."
She gave a small nod, sipping her own drink. Not coffee, he noticed. Tea — the soft herbal scent giving it away. Something calming. Maybe green tea. It suited her. She didn't feel like a caffeine person.
He stole a subtle glance at her now that his head wasn't pounding so hard.
There was something striking about her — not loud, not flashy, but clean, sharp. Intentional. Her hair was pale, almost white — like snow dusted over silk — with a simple clip pinning it back. Her eyes were clear and still, a kind of sky-blue that felt steady, even when she wasn't looking at you. And the way she carried herself — quiet but not timid — it reminded him of—
Oh.
It clicked.
That girl Raxian used to talk about. The one from school. They'd gone way back, apparently. Raxian had called it a "weird childhood connection," said their parents had tried to get them to bond when they were younger. It never really worked, but they'd always somehow ended up in the same class every year. Raxian used to grumble about how "Fayne's always there," but never with any real annoyance. More like… resignation. And a little curiosity.
"You're Fayne, right?" Raze asked, before thinking.
Her gaze flicked up to meet his.
A pause.
She didn't answer immediately — just tilted her head slightly, brows knitting ever so slightly in caution. It wasn't fear, it was calculation. Quiet logic behind those eyes. Assessing him. Wondering how a stranger knew her name.
That's what Raxian had described, too. She didn't react recklessly. She observed. Weighed the moment.
Raze quickly held up a hand in soft defense, voice gentle. "Sorry, that was weird. I'm a friend. Of Raxian's."
At the mention of the name, her eyes lowered. She looked down into her tea like it had just become more interesting than anything else in the room.
"…oh," she murmured.
And just like that, the air shifted.
Raze didn't push. He took a sip of his coffee instead. It was surprisingly good.
This flower shop, this girl, this strange coincidence of a morning — none of it had been on his plan for the day. But somehow… it already felt like it mattered.
---
The silence between them lingered for a moment, comfortable in its stillness. The flower shop buzzed quietly with life — a soft hum of the fridge in the corner, the occasional creak of the ceiling fan above, and the faint rustle of leaves brushing against the windows outside. Raze held his coffee in both hands, letting its warmth settle through his fingertips.
"I should probably introduce myself properly," he said at last, glancing her way. "I'm Raze. Raze Strathmore. I go to Aetheridge Southern University — Art and Design program."
Fayne looked at him a moment longer before giving a slight nod. "You're… the one who draws," she murmured. "Raxian mentioned you once."
His smile tugged up on one side. "That sounds about right. He doesn't usually shut up about people he actually cares about."
"…I see." She hesitated, then added softly, "Then yes. I'm Fayne."
Raze caught the tiny shift in her voice — subtle, but there. A cautious little flicker. And though she didn't say the words, he could feel the question underneath her tone.
Had Raxian spoken kindly of her?
He didn't make her ask.
"He talked about you in a good way," Raze said gently, reading her hesitation like an open sketchbook. "Maybe not always clearly, but… yeah. You meant something to him. Still do, I think."
Fayne's expression remained unreadable for a second longer, but her gaze dropped to her tea, and Raze caught the faintest trace of a smile at the edge of her lips.
"…Okay."
They sat there a little longer, letting the moment settle. The warmth in the shop made everything feel slower — unrushed. Raze didn't ask more about Raxian, and Fayne didn't offer. Instead, the conversation shifted toward simpler things. He told her about his classes — how his current assignment was to draw "emotion through still life," and how he didn't even know what that meant. Fayne gave a soft laugh at that. A quiet, low sound — like it slipped out before she noticed.
But then, the soft chime of the door opening cut through the moment.
A woman entered with a smile, holding a small umbrella and already eyeing the sunflower bouquet near the counter.
Fayne stood smoothly, stepping into motion with practiced ease. "Good morning," she greeted, her tone warm but calm, shifting into her working rhythm as she moved behind the counter.
Raze stood too, taking that as his cue.
He finished the last of his coffee, setting the empty cup neatly on the edge of the small table near the window.
He lingered just long enough to catch her glance before he turned.
"It was nice meeting you, Fayne," he said sincerely.
She looked up from wrapping the bouquet, paused for a moment, and replied — eyes sharp but sincere:
"Get home safe, Raze."
He nodded, smiling faintly.
And this time, as he stepped out the door and into the morning light, he didn't feel quite as hungover.
---
When Raze returned to his afternoon class, Jules was already waiting outside the lecture hall, a soda bottle in hand and that usual soft-eyed, unreadable look he wore when trying to be casual about being concerned. "Yo," he greeted. "Didn't mean to dip early last night. Got hit with a brick wall of sleep. You make it home okay?"
Raze just gave a tired smirk, his hands tucked into the front pocket of his hoodie. "Yeah. All good."He didn't bring up the flower shop. Or Fayne. Or how his morning had started on the kind of quiet note that lingered long after.
But Jules didn't press. He just nodded and said, "Cool. Some of us are heading to Vertex Café this weekend. EGO run. You in?"Raze's grin widened. "You bet. Five-stack?""Full party.""Oh, it's gonna be a mess.""A glorious one."
---
The weekend came, and the group met up late Saturday afternoon at the glowing, neon-splashed front of Vertex Café, a local gaming spot that fused warm beanbags with cold tech and served drinks with too many layers of foam art.
Besides Jules and Raze, the crew included:
Sera – A snappy strategist who mained tank-type brawlers and always knew when to dive in or pull back. She liked slurping green smoothies and had dyed coral-pink ends.
Tycho – A wildcard, played a support-type monk who dabbled in control. Wore fingerless gloves indoors and believed in "emotional cooldowns."
Yui – The youngest in the group, soft-voiced but vicious in-game. She loved caster types with high burst damage. Her mage builds were famous for unpredictable spike patterns.
Raze showed up in a sleeveless gaming tee, a zipped-up jacket tied around his waist, and his controller clipped to his belt. He synced his VR watch and leaned back in his pod seat, smirking at his own avatar — a sleek, coat-tailed sharpshooter with glowing ammo rounds strapped across his chest.
---
They queued into a match and, once connected, were transported into the familiar Prepping Lobby — a flat space of quiet mist and customizable skies.
Jules, as the party leader, synced his environment. It transformed around them into a moonlit coastal temple, ancient ruins with candles flickering in bowls, the scent of pine and ocean salt embedded in the digital rendering. Raze chuckled. "Trust you to make it aesthetic."
Their five-minute strategy huddle began — quick ability callouts, reminder of sync options, and pacing. They reviewed their opponent's lineup: all new names, full party, seemingly coordinated. Raze already knew his matchup would be a mirror — another ADC, another quick-trigger finger, probably twitchy on the dodge.
---
1v1 STAGE:
Each player warped into their respective duel zones.
Raze landed in an overgrown courtyard, vines curling around broken stone. His opponent appeared — an arrogant, flashy sniper type with a flicker-dash cloak and a toothpick in his mouth. The guy sent a salute emote.
Raze answered by loading a tracer round into his rifle.The duel was rough — the sniper was fast, but too showy. Meanwhile, Raze stayed cool, hitting body shots, conserving energy, forcing his opponent to get impatient. The other player overextended after a feint, and Raze clipped his ankle with a trip shot, rolling back behind cover to finish the exchange clean.
Next to him, Yui was tearing through an enchantress who kept taunting between spellcasts, but she stayed calm — textbook silence spell, burst flare combo — and the match ended with the enchantress timing out from mental fatigue.
All five of them made it through. No disqualifications. No burns.
---
5v5 ARENA:
They were dropped onto a glowing, rotating platform — a circular battlefield divided into zones like the diagram Raze had seen: melee at the front, ranged in the back, hybrids center.
They took positions. Raze shifted to the far edge, behind cover, scoping the opposite backline where the opposing ADC was already charging a bullet stream.
It was chaos — but controlled chaos.
---
COMBO SYNC #1: "Wings of Collapse"Triggered by Jules and Yui.
Jules, playing a midline melee hybrid with aerial leaps, activated a forward pull that launched him and Yui into a synchronized dive. The moment Yui landed her stun rune on the opposing tank, Jules chained his ultimate — a sweeping slash that cracked the platform tiles.
Cutscene flash: the sky darkened, feathers rained down like meteors, both characters gliding across the screen in choreographed motion. When the light returned, the enemy formation had scattered.
---
COMBO SYNC #2: "Dead Horizon"Raze and Sera's sync.
Sera baited a lunge, slammed the enemy tank with a knock-up skill, and pinged Raze. He vaulted onto a ledge and activated his alt-fire mode — a long-charge rail shot.
Cutscene moment: time slowed, Raze's avatar took a deep breath, scopes glowing — the tank was silhouetted in red — boom. The shot hit, splintering the armor and breaking the tank's stance. That crack allowed Jules to land the final combo hit.
---
In the final minute, all players were near their stamina caps. You could see the tremble in their movements — spells delayed a half-second longer, shields slower to raise.
But Jules was relentless. They pulled together for a final push, bursting through the enemy's remaining hybrid and mage. The clock hit zero.
Victory.
Their avatars knelt in a glowing circle as the arena dissolved into stars, and the match score flickered across the screen:Team Just-Us – 1 | Team Dynamite – 0
Raze let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd held, grinning.
"Next round," Jules said, eyes glowing behind his headset. "We're trying the pro circuit simulation."
"You're insane," Raze replied. "I'm in."
---
After the victory splash faded and their pods gently dimmed to idle, the team automatically dropped back into the Hub.
But not the sterile white lobby of early builds.
They were in The Loop.
The floor beneath them shimmered faintly, glassy and soft, echoing the faint ripple of imagined water — or memory. The distant skyline drifted in and out of view like smoke, dotted with abstract silhouettes of towers that pulsed like breathing lights. A sky that wasn't really sky, tinted twilight blue, turned slowly above them. The stars there didn't stay still — they swam, curving gently in slow constellations that didn't exist in real space.
Somewhere, a voice laughed. Somewhere else, a low synth melody hummed like an old song remembered differently.
Raze exhaled and cracked his neck.
"Well," Sera said, stretching her arms until her avatar mirrored the motion with a yawning sigh. "That was spicy."
Yui dropped onto a nearby floating lounge couch, the cushions reshaping to cradle her frame with a soft squish. "I can't believe I missed that interrupt on the last clash…"
"You landed every silence that mattered," Jules replied, stepping onto a gentle platform that lowered him toward Cass's Echo, the bar. "You saved my neck twice. That tank was chewing through cooldowns like candy."
Cass — the bartender NPC — glanced up from polishing the same glass he always polished. He didn't blink. He didn't need to.
"You again," Cass said in his familiar, nonchalant tone. "One round of recovery, coming up."
He placed a deep blue drink on the bar in front of Jules, who picked it up and took a long, slow sip. The rim of the glass caught the light and changed the glow of his avatar slightly — calmer now, like moonlight on tidewater.
Raze joined him, ordering nothing, just leaning forward with arms crossed on the wooden countertop. His silhouette took on a more grounded hue, less jagged, more centered.
"It's weird," he muttered. "How it always feels like… real air in here."
Cass didn't respond to that one. Just gave him a look that somehow said: You're not the first to think that.
Sera lounged on a second couch near Yui, scrolling through her match replays via a flick of her wrist, murmuring to Tycho — who stood cross-legged on the floor like a monk, watching a ghostly projection of his duel on a replay booth wall.
"You still flare too soon," Sera said, teasing.
Tycho grinned. "It's a spiritual release. Gotta purge the ego."
"No, that's called feeding."
They all chuckled.
Yui curled into her seat, pulling up her customization terminal and toggling her avatar's idle stance from "stoic" to "relaxed," watching as her figure settled into a more natural posture, one leg tucked under. Her aura softened, like a curtain being drawn.
Off in the distance, one of the ambient NPCs — Rhys — was perched at the edge of the platform again, legs hanging into the glowing void. He didn't look at them, but his presence felt like a quiet punctuation.
Cass glanced at Raze one more time and said, simply, "You fought cleaner this round."
Raze blinked. "Wait... you recognize me?"
Cass smirked. "You left an impression last time you staggered in after that 2v2 meltdown. Thought you'd quit."
Raze looked away. "Yeah. So did I."
Eventually, the ambient lights of the hub began to shift — the gentle cue that the night was deepening. Even the Loop had a circadian rhythm, subtle as it was.
Sera stood and stretched again. "Alright, I'm logging. Got errands IRL."
Yui offered a small wave. "Sleep well, everyone."
One by one, the group peeled off — their avatars gently pixel-fading into threads of light that drifted upward and disappeared.
Only Jules and Raze remained.
Jules looked at his drink, then at the ripple in the Loop's floor under his stool.
"You seemed off earlier this week," he said. "Better now?"
Raze didn't answer right away. He just watched a shadow drift by overhead — a memory of a battle still echoing.
"Yeah," he eventually said. "Better now."
Then he stood up, gave Cass a little nod, and faded out.
---
When Raze materialized in his personal quarters, the transition was seamless — no loading screen, no blink. Just a hush, like the world exhaled.
His room wasn't large. It didn't need to be.
The space opened into a low-lit studio loft, walls dappled in slate blue and soft desaturated olive — earthy tones that grounded the usual synthetic sheen of the hub. A skylight stretched across the ceiling, revealing a fabricated night sky beyond. Stars glowed slowly overhead, mapped to constellations he'd named himself. None of them were real, but that wasn't the point.
The room had warmth. Intent.
Along the left wall, panels of framed digital sketches hung like shifting memories — Raze's own artwork, imported from his IRL portfolio and stylized into gently animated renderings. They moved slightly when he passed, as if breathing with him. One piece flickered: a character mid-pose, blurred in motion. Another showed a pair of siblings — the younger smiling, the older's face unfinished.
His bed wasn't a bed, but a broad nest-like seat of layered pillows and woven mesh, sunken into the floor. Nearby, a low coffee table sat scattered with half-finished models — paused sculpture projects, mock-up UI designs, a cracked clay mug that never loaded fully, still rendering. He never fixed it.
To the right: a music deck, always dimly glowing, a looping playlist of ambient instrumentals playing low and smooth from invisible speakers. The current track had subtle percussion — the kind that felt like walking alone through mist.
At the far end of the room, floor-to-ceiling windows opened out to… nothing. A rolling void. But he'd configured it to look like an endless cityscape in motion, neon-bathed and rain-kissed. Cars that didn't exist passed far below. He never saw people in them. Just lights.
He shrugged off his cloak — his avatar's jacket detaching and dissolving mid-air — and dropped into the nest-bed with a long breath.
Above him, tiny lights adjusted to his posture, shifting from pale blue to a warmer gold. This was his recharge zone. His mind-space. There were no visitors here. No chat pings. No notifications. Just him.
A soft UI bloomed beside him — transparent, elegant.
Match Replay: [Yes]Art Mode: [Yes]Message Queue: [Muted]
He hovered a finger over the art tab, then changed his mind.
Instead, he whispered to no one, "Play last sync."
And above him, on the ceiling screen, the match flickered to life — not as data, but as memory: his breath syncing with each dodge, each counter, each burst.
He watched his avatar fight like a ghost.
Alone in a room that remembered him.
---
By the time Raze stepped back into his dorm, the lights were low and a sleepy stillness hung in the air. His roommate was already out cold, one arm draped off the side of his bed, a fan humming in the corner. No words. Just the soft ambient noise of a campus night.
Raze slipped out of his clothes, pulling on a loose shirt and shorts, brushing his teeth in dim light, careful not to clatter. Everything was so… analog again. He kind of liked the contrast. He padded over to his bed, climbed in, and let himself sink into the cotton familiarity of real blankets.
But his mind was buzzing.
The match.
The flower shop.
Fayne.
It all reeled through Raze's mind like a soft, flickering montage — not sharp, but hazy and warm around the edges. Meeting Fayne had been unexpected — like stumbling across a hidden pathway in a familiar map.
She'd barely said much, but something about her presence lingered. The way she watched, not with judgment but with quiet awareness. Calm. Composed. Her white hair caught in the morning light like snowfall. Her words careful, measured. Raxian had mentioned her before — a childhood friend, the kind you grow up beside without ever quite growing close to. He used to say their parents hoped they'd bond. That they never quite did.
But from what Raze saw now, she was still part of Raxian's world. Just... quietly rooted on the edge of it.
Then there was Micah.
The bartender with tired eyes and a voice that could pour warmth as easily as whiskey. His laughter was worn at the edges, but genuine. Raze hadn't expected to connect with him — especially not at some half-empty corner bar — but there was something grounding in the way Micah moved behind the counter. Like he'd seen it all before and still chose to be kind.
A father of two. A widower.
And yet, somehow, not bitter.
Raze had seen the weight in his shoulders. But also the way he kept the place gentle, safe — like a harbor for the broken and the burned out. Maybe even for guys like Raze.
Then… Raxian.
Relentless. Driven. Always pacing some invisible edge between excellence and obsession.
He'd talked about AkarisLite less recently, but the impact still clung to his voice whenever he did. An assassin — not in the role sense, but in the psychological one. Someone who'd cut past the screen, past the strategy, and struck something inside Raxian that had never quite healed.
Even now, Raze felt a chill thinking about them.
AkarisLite wasn't just a name. It was a presence. A phantom in the leaderboard shadows. No flashy intro. No branded voice line. Just precision. And silence.
Were they real? Or just another legend, passed between cracked comms and streamer montages?
Still...
Something about tonight felt like the beginning of a new thread. Like the moment when side characters start to converge. When the quiet girl behind the flower counter, the weary bartender, the fractured prodigy, and the aimless college kid all step onto the same page without meaning to.
It didn't feel forced.
It felt… mapped.
Not in the cheesy, cinematic kind of way — but like fate had nudged things just enough.
He exhaled, watching the ceiling blur in the dark above him.
"Maybe it's all mapped out," he murmured to himself.
Somewhere, a car passed outside. His roommate shifted under the covers. The hum of the fan filled the silence again.
And in the quiet space between thoughts, the last image lingered in his mind — not the flower shop, not the bar, not even Fayne's calm expression.
It was AkarisLite.
Half-shadowed.
Waiting.
Would they cross paths again?
Raze didn't know.
But as his eyes finally closed, a small part of him hoped they would.
And that this time, they'd be ready.