"You died."
The screen freezes, Tobin's knife still buried in my side, his greedy smirk locked in pixels, the blinking glow of the text a grim taunt to my failure. My finger hovers over the pause key, breath snagged in my throat, the laptop's glare throwing jagged shadows across my classroom desk.
. What the hell just happened?
I cleared the whole damn run with ruthless precision, but apparently missed the snake staring me in the face. My brain churns, tearing apart the run like a math problem I botched. Tobin's whining, his clumsy stumbles, those shifty eye-flicks when I snapped at him—I should've caught it. The devs hid a fucking ending inside the ending, a trap within a trap.
"Sneaky bastards," I mutter, voice low, fingers itching to smash the keyboard. I clench my fists, nails biting my palms, the sting keeping me from screaming.
"Ms. Clara?"
I jolt, heart slamming my ribs, my hand knocking my coffee mug. Cold dregs slosh over the desk, a dark stain spreading like my mood.
"Damn, it…" I scramble to stop it, only making it worse, and look up. Arthur, my student—lanky, glasses fixed on his nose—stands by my desk, test paper dangling like a taunt. His brow's raised, furrowed like he's caught me stealing answers instead of the other way around.
"We're done with the test," he says, voice wary, eyes flicking to my laptop, still showing my bloodied avatar.
I slam the lid shut, plastic cracking, and rub my temples, cursing myself.
Nice one, Clara. Lose track of time on a five-minute break? Genius.
The classroom snaps into focus—rows of desks, fluorescent lights buzzing like trapped flies, the chalky stink of dust and kid sweat. The class stares at me, too calm, too still, like they're in on some joke I missed. My eyes flick to Arthur, watching me with too much bravado, barely hiding a smirk.
Stupid kid.
"Sit down, Arthur," I snap, not as sharp as I meant, throat tight. "Class, pass your scripts up. Move it."
Arthur glides across the room, sneakers scuffing the linoleum, then slinks to his seat, eyes lingering like I'm a puzzle he's cracked. The class shuffles, papers rustling, whispers a low buzz. I walk to Arthur's desk, watching them move with mechanical precision,too coordinated for this pack of gremlins.
Bet they cheated while I was distracted, I think, bitter. Wouldn't be the first time they tried to outfoxed me. I grab Arthur's script, scanning his answers.
Perfect. As usual.
"Nerd," I mutter, eyes narrowing. I pick up Nathan's next to him. Perfect too—every equation nailed, every step crisp, except a few dumb mistakes. Intentional, to throw me off.
I glance at Nathan, shaking like a leaf in a hurricane, eyes darting anywhere but me. I flip through the rest—Lilian's, Marcus's, Sarah's—all damn near identical, tweaked to match their styles.
My smirk spreads, pulse kicking up. They cheated. Every last one. I lock eyes with Arthur, glare burning. 'I know you cheated, you little shit', my arched brow says, lips pressed thin. 'Don't even try me.'
His eyes widen, mouth parting in a fake gasp, all innocence. 'Cheat? Me?' his face lies, but a lip-twitch betrays him, a smirk he can't hide.
Kid's good, I'll give him that. I tilt my head, stare hardening, fingers tapping the desk. 'Keep it up, punk. I'll tank your grades to zero.' My eyes flick to the scripts. 'All of you.'
He counters, brows shooting up, a sly glint. 'Go ahead, Ms. Clara. I'll snitch you were gaming on the job.' His smirk deepens, daring me, fingers drumming lightly on his desk. My chest tightens, nails digging into my palms.
I hate this child.
We stare, air thick, the class's whispers fading.
"Class dismissed," I bark, voice slicing through, giving up. Kids scramble, chairs scraping, voices spiking in relief. Arthur lingers, packing his bag slow, smirk a parting jab.
I turn away, shoving papers into my satchel, hands shaking with rage.
Not sure who I hate more right now, Tobin or Arthur?
"Clara Voss, outsmarted by a 16-year-old. If I could, I'd feed you to crocodiles I trained, Arthur." The thought's satisfying, but it's just that—thoughts. I'm no crocodile trainer, just a teacher drowning in my own fuck-ups.
Couldn't even stop a class of a shared IQ of ten from cheating
The door creaks, and I scowl, expecting Arthur's smug face, but it's Carl Linken, my coworker and walking headache, strolling in. His button-up's too tight for his round gut, grin too wide, like he's thrilled to see me.
"Clara, you don't look so good," he says, concern dripping, leaning on a desk, his cheap cologne stinging my nose. "Rough day?"
"Shut it, Carl," I snap, zipping my satchel with a jerk, the sound loud in the empty room. My reflection in the window—dark circles, black hair slipping from its bun—proves him right, but I'll be damned if I admit it.
He flinches, hands fidgeting in pockets, but pushes on, undeterred. "You should come with me...I mean us!!Us!!—drinks with the teachers. It'll be fun."
I glance up, catching Ms. Harrow peeking in, face tight, ducking out when we lock eyes. Shadows cluster at the door, as if waiting for my response. She's not thrilled Carl's inviting me, and neither are the others. I'm too beat to care.
"Hard pass," I say, slinging my satchel over my shoulder, strap biting my skin. "I'd rather drink alone than play nice with you lot."
Carl's grin wobbles, eyes downcast like a kicked puppy. "Sorry, Clara, no need to bite my head off. Just being friendly."
"Yeah, well, don't," I growl, brushing past, boots heavy on the linoleum. The school halls are empty, fluorescent lights casting long shadows. I walk, thoughts spilling out, muttering.
"My run's ruined by a two-timing snake, and now this. Definitely easier in there,no Arthur, Carl, or Harrow.
But, no superwoman out here either , no ruin explorer with gold-plated pistols and killer hips. Just Clara Voss, overworked, underpaid, stuck with thieving gremlins who'd rat me out for a grade in a school of teachers that would make gossip girls look like a slumber party."
I picture trapping Arthur and Harrow in some clever scheme, but it's hollow. . It didn't matter, neither did I care enough.
My rundown apartment building looms, the worn-out pain visible from here, streetlight flickering like my mood. I climb the stairs, each step heavy with regret. I fumbled with my keys but the door didn't budge, my key sticks in the lock. I sighed, working it gently, technique over force.
A loud moan cuts through the door. I froze
'Did my door just moan?'
Another loud moan cuts through—not my door, but the wall, coming from the only idiot that would be having sex by six, when normal people are coming back from work.
Greg, my neighbour, and his latest fling, thumping like they're filming a porno. My patience snaps, and I pound his door, fist aching. "Greg, shut it the hell down! Some of us are trying to live here!"
"Fuck off, Clara!" he yells, voice thick with irritation. "Get a life!"
I bang harder, knuckles stinging. "I'll call the building manager, asshole!"
He laughs, sharp and mocking. "Good luck! She blocked your number ages ago!" The thumping ramps up, rubbing it in.
I slump against my door, muttering, "There's Greg, reminding me I'm an unwilling nun every damn day." My life's a sick joke, and I'm the punchline. I jam my key in, lock groaning, and stumble inside. My place is a wreck—bare walls, sagging couch, boxes of junk I couldn't sell. But one thing keeps me going.
I toss my satchel, kick off my shoes, and tug on a tank top, fabric cool on my skin. I grab a stale sandwich, scarfing it down, and snag my headset, wrapping fresh tape around its fraying cord, adhesive sticking to my fingers.
Retreating to my room, my PC setup glows, its light like a slice of peace. The only thing I haven't pawned, my sanctuary of wires and light. I log into my Videotube account, "Adventures of a Noob Player," and check my subscribers—a few newbies, a flood of comments on my ruin run. "Noob, you got fucked!" one says. "Tobin's a snake!" another. I smirk, bitter. No shit.
Shouldn't have streamed that.
You shouldn't be streaming at school at all, my conscience whispers. I ignore it.
The comments pile up, most chanting "145th!"
I hit livestream, voice steady as I talk into the mic, face off-camera. "Yo, fans and trolls, welcome back to Adventures of a Noob Player. By popular demand and my own dumb stubbornness, you know what time it is. I'm hitting my 145th try at Halia's final chapter, the nastiest soulslike out there. This won't be like the ruin run, so stay tuned—today might be the day."
I lean back, the loading screen bathing my face in light. I know it's pathetic, a 36-year-old divorcee gaming till midnight, but these hours blur the days. Gaming's my escape, the one place I'm not a failing teacher, a broke nobody.
It doesn't judge me by age, status, or circumstance like everyone else does when they hear my story. Here, I'm a gunner, a fighter, clawing for something, even if it's just pixels. Reality's got nothing for me, but I'm not running—just taking a break from the futility.
I click start, the theme music swallowing me, and for a few hours, Clara Voss isn't sinking—she's swinging.