The apartment felt smaller that night.
Eli sat in the dark long after the screen went black, staring at his reflection. The message still echoed in his head — You're being noticed. Don't stop now.
He'd checked his phone a dozen times since. No new messages. No sender information. Just that single line, hanging there like it knew exactly what it was doing.
He tried to tell himself it was a prank. Maybe someone from the Nexus forums, someone who'd seen the stream clip of Rook saying his name. Maybe they were messing with him. But how could they have added him to a private tournament ladder?
The more he thought about it, the less it made sense.
At some point, his body remembered it was tired. He collapsed into bed, leaving the computer on. The hum of the fan became a low, mechanical lullaby. He dreamed of maps and minimaps, of endless matches where the scoreboard never changed.
When he woke, it was almost noon.
Sunlight bled through the blinds. His phone buzzed with missed messages — two from his boss, one from his sister. He ignored them all.
Instead, he turned back to the monitor.
Eternal Nexus was still closed. No notifications, no messages. For a long moment, he just hovered over the icon, unsure if he should open it again.
Finally, he clicked.
The client loaded — same blue glow, same menu music. He went straight to the ranked tab.
No "Shadow Circuit" listing. No tournament ladder. Nothing.
Like it had never existed.
He scrolled through forums, subreddits, Discords. No one mentioned anything about an invitational. No screenshots. No leaks. No one even hinted that it had happened.
It was as if only he had seen it.
He sat back in his chair, rubbed his eyes, and tried to breathe. Maybe it was a test server? Maybe Rook was experimenting with a private match mod? It had to be something like that.
Still… the match felt too real. The ping, the reaction times, the way his hands had trembled.
He checked his match history.
Nothing new. The last recorded game was from the day before.
For a few minutes, he just stared at the empty space where that win should've been — the one where he'd killed Rook.
And that was the first time he felt it — a small, sharp panic under his ribs.
What if it was all in his head?
He spent the next two days trying to go back to normal. Work, eat, play. But "normal" felt distant, like he was acting out someone else's life. He queued up again, but every game felt dull. The rhythm he'd found was gone. His reflexes felt slower, his focus fractured.
Every so often, he'd glance at his phone, half expecting another text. Nothing came.
By the third night, he couldn't stand it anymore. He opened the Nexus launcher again, but this time, instead of logging in, he went to the support page. He typed out a message to the developers.
Hi, I was recently part of something called the "Shadow Circuit Invitational." I just want to confirm if this was an official event or if my account was compromised.
He hovered over the "Send" button for a long time before clicking it.
An automated reply popped up instantly.
Thank you for contacting Eternal Nexus Support. We have no record of any event by that name. Please avoid third-party invitations and report suspicious links.
That was it.
No details. No follow-up. No acknowledgment.
Eli leaned back in his chair, staring at the message. Then, for the first time since this whole thing began, he laughed — a short, tired sound that felt more like disbelief than humor.
He thought about uninstalling the game. He really did. But his mouse never made it to the "Uninstall" button. His hand froze halfway, like something deep inside him still wasn't ready to let go.
Instead, he launched it again.
The next few hours bled together — match after match, noise after noise. The game became background static to his thoughts. He just needed to feel right again, to prove that the match with Rook wasn't a dream.
At one point, after losing a particularly brutal match, he threw his headset down and muttered, "You said I was ready."
The words sounded strange in the empty room.
That's when he noticed something new on the corner of his monitor — a faint icon near his player tag.
A small, black rook piece.
He blinked.
It wasn't clickable. Hovering over it did nothing. But it was there, plain as day.
He grabbed his phone, snapped a picture, zoomed in. Definitely there.
And then, before he could take a second one, it disappeared.
Just gone.
He sat frozen, staring at the empty space on his screen. His breathing grew shallow. The hum of the PC fan sounded louder than usual.
Finally, he closed the client, got up, and stepped outside.
The night air hit him like a reset button — cool, crisp, alive. The street was quiet except for the distant buzz of a neon sign down the block. He hadn't been outside this late in weeks.
He started walking.
His head was a storm — part fear, part curiosity. He didn't believe in signs or destiny or whatever, but something about that icon had felt intentional. Like a signal.
He turned the corner onto the main street. The café near his apartment was still open. The same one he used to visit during college. Warm light spilled out onto the sidewalk.
He went in, ordered a black coffee, sat by the window.
The sound of clinking cups and quiet chatter filled the space. For the first time in days, he felt human again. The world outside Eternal Nexus still existed.
He took a slow sip of coffee, exhaled, and pulled out his phone.
Still nothing. No messages.
He opened the photo gallery — but the screenshot he'd taken of the rook icon was gone.
His stomach dropped.
He scrolled through his camera roll again, faster this time. The photo wasn't there.
When he returned to the home screen, a new notification appeared.
New Message — Unknown Number
His pulse spiked.
He opened it.
Unknown: You shouldn't have taken that picture.
Eli froze.
He looked up, scanning the café. There were maybe five people inside — a couple whispering near the counter, an old man reading a paper, a young guy with earbuds staring at his laptop.
The barista smiled at him as she passed.
His phone buzzed again.
Unknown: We'll talk soon. Don't tell anyone.
The message vanished before he could screenshot it.
He just sat there, hand trembling slightly around his cup, staring at the empty screen as his reflection stared back — pale, sleepless, and suddenly very aware that he might not be the one watching anymore.