The rhythmic thwack-ping of the plastic ball was the only sound in the apartment building's Recreation Room, a space chilled by a relentless air conditioning unit that always felt like overkill. Steve chased the ball, leaning low and stretching, his chest already tightening with that familiar, unwelcome resistance.
"Too slow, Stevie!" Lucas yelled, bouncing on the balls of his feet. He served with a ridiculous flourish, sending the ball skimming the net and zipping out of Steve's reach.
Steve straightened up, placing his hands on his knees and taking a slow, deliberate breath. It felt shallow, like trying to breathe through a piece of cloth. He forced a smile. "Luck. Pure, grade-A beginner's luck. And seriously, man, I think the thermostat is set to 'Antarctic Research Station.' I'm going to need a space heater just to walk home."
Lucas grabbed their paddles and tossed them into the worn canvas bag. He was barely winded, his energy an easy, constant thing that Steve sometimes envied. "A little brisk air cleanses the soul. But alright, I'm calling it. The call of triple-layer nachos is too strong to ignore. Plus, we need to stock up before the big night."
They walked back up to their apartment, the echoing, slightly sterile corridor making Steve's panting sound louder than it probably was. He was breathing heavier than he liked, the familiar lightness a subtle, internal tremor. He automatically patted the pocket of his shorts, the empty crushing plastic casing of his rescue inhaler wasn't there, it was on his desk. His regular one was a few puffs away from useless. Gotta get a new one.
In the kitchen, Lucas was already pulling on a hoodie. "Okay, snack run commencing. Give me the holy list. Something cheesy? Something spicy? Something that'll kill us by dawn?"
"Grab whatever, you're the snack master," Steve said, turning towards their room. He stopped in the doorway, suddenly remembering the chore he'd put off all week. "Hey, before you go. Big favor. My regular inhaler is running on fumes. Could you swing by the pharmacy section and grab me a new blue one? Same strength."
Lucas nodded, already halfway out the door. "Oh, yeah, definitely. We need you functional for the all-nighter. The blue one. Got it. Don't start the new world without me."
"Sure, dude," Steve replied, already sinking into his chair in front of his humming desktop. He pulled up Minecraft, the jaunty, nostalgic theme music filling the room, and logged into the server.
He appeared in the cozy main chamber of their base, the rough-hewn stone and scattered torchlight a familiar sight. He stepped out the main entrance, leaving the safety of the walls for the expanse of their land. Immediately, his eyes went to his fields. The farm was his digital garden, an escape into order.
Ignoring the distant shouts of his friends' avatars on the Discord channel, Steve focused on the wheat. It was ready, a glorious sea of golden, perfectly square stalks. He pulled out his diamond hoe and started his harvest. Snip. Snip. Snip. The satisfying sound of the crops breaking filled his headphones. He worked methodically down the long rows, replanting the seeds immediately, ensuring the cycle was never broken.
The root crops were next. Carrots and potatoes. He dug them up in clumps, the small, pixelated nuggets of food instantly transferring to his inventory with a solid, reassuring clink. His storage slots were already full to bursting, but the routine was the point. It was a perfect, organized world, where a simple, predictable action always yielded a predictable, healthy result.
A soft glow from the desktop screen washed over Steve as he reached the end of the last row. Done. He hit the Escape key, the world of smooth stone and golden fields pausing instantly. A sudden, deep thirst pulled him from the digital rhythm. He pushed himself out of the chair, the slight tightening in his chest from the earlier ping pong game still lingering, and headed for the kitchen.
The water filter stood on the counter, a squat, utilitarian block of white plastic. He twisted off the cap of his reusable bottle, filled it with the slow, gurgling stream, and immediately brought it to his lips. The water was frigid and sharp, but as it hit his throat, it didn't go down right. It felt cold, but also suddenly thick, and his throat constricted around it.
A violent, unexpected cough seized him. Water sprayed from his mouth in a sudden, wide arc, hitting the tiled floor with a dark, pooling splatter. The cough didn't stop. It morphed, escalating from a simple spasm into a ragged, tearing sound. It was the familiar, terrifying sound of a door slamming shut.
Asthma attack.
Panic, sharp and immediate, cut through the residual fatigue. He dropped the bottle, which bounced once with a hollow thud and rolled, and scrambled back to the bedroom. His desk, a haven just moments ago, was now the site of the most critical search. He fumbled for his blue inhaler, his fingers slick with sweat. He got it open, brought the plastic mouthpiece to his lips, and pressed down.
Pfff.
He pressed again, sucking desperately.
Pfff.
A sickly, hollow silence followed. Two small, useless puffs. The canister was bone-dry, nothing but cold air and the sound of his worsening wheeze. Lucas. He was gone.
His breath was now a high, panicked whistle. He couldn't think, only move. He knew the protocol: the Andersons, next door. They knew about his asthma; they were the kind, older couple who always had him and Lucas over for holidays. They could help.
He stumbled out of the room, turning toward the front door. His foot slid on the slick, black patch of water he had spilled moments before. There was a sudden, sickening loss of balance, a desperate, windmilling attempt to grab the air, and then the world was a blinding flash of white light and a heavy, brutal crack as the back of his head met the unforgiving edge of the kitchen counter.
The sound of his fall, muffled and heavy, was swallowed by the silence of the empty apartment. The water slowly spread across the tile. The monitor in the next room continued to glow, the world of Minecraft still paused and perfect, waiting for an avatar that would not return.
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Word count: 1058
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