The explosion was perfectly timed.
The armored player sprinted across the ruined courtyard, sonar pulsing in bright blue arcs across Ezra's screen. His opponent thought he was being clever, cutting through the left flank, hiding behind broken pillars, conserving shells.
Ezra already knew where he would step.
Three... Two... One.
He detonated.
The enemy player vanished in a burst of white heat and pixelated debris. The screen shook violently, the blast echoing through his headphones.
A second later—
YOU WIN!
The words burned across the monitor in bold gold text.
Ezra Klein leaned back in his chair, exhaling slowly. His fingers were steady. His heart wasn't.
Seven points.
The leaderboard updated in the corner of the screen. Rank 10 to Rank 8.
Worldwide. He smirked faintly.
"Too easy," someone on voice chat muttered.
Ezra didn't respond. He rarely did. In-game, he didn't need to talk. His reputation spoke for him.
Skirmish had sold over thirteen million copies worldwide. It was brutal, strategic, and clean. No guns. No missiles. Just gauntlets and blades.
Eight types of gauntlets, called Sleeves. Each with its own ability. Each with its own ammunition type, called Shells.
Explosive Sleeves.
Piercing Sleeves.
Fragmentation Sleeves.
Delayed detonation.
Proximity.
Impact.
And every player had sonar, short pulses that revealed movement within range.
It wasn't about reflexes. It was about prediction. Control. Domination.
A notification blinked at the top of the screen: Rank #2 has challenged your team.
The voice channel went silent. Ezra stared at the screen.
Rank #2 didn't challenge people. Rank #2 hunted them.
He adjusted his headset.
"Queue it," he said calmly.
Ezra Klein was twenty-four years old. Unemployed. A game dev in theory. A Skirmish player in practice.
His days were simple: wake up, log in, grind. In Skirmish, he had teammates who respected him. Rivals who feared him. A name that carried weight.
Online, he wasn't a failure. He was lethal. In Skirmish, he had family.
In real life—
He blinked.
Something felt wrong.
The room felt too quiet.
Too cold.
The hum of his PC was gone.
The glow of his monitor... Gone.
Ezra opened his eyes.
He was lying on damp sand.
Above him, a pale sky stretched endlessly. Wind brushed across his face. The air smelled like salt. He pushed himself upright. His head pounded.
"Where…?"
No buildings. No roads. No city skyline.
Just shoreline. And forest.
He reached for his phone instinctively. No signal. No bars.
His fingers brushed the back of his neck. He froze. There was something there.
A small, raised bump at the base of his skull.
His pulse quickened. He staggered to his feet, stumbling toward the water's edge. He leaned over and caught his reflection in the shifting tide.
Then he turned slightly, and saw it.
Embedded just beneath the skin. A small black chip. A thin metallic line disappearing into his neck.
His stomach dropped.
"No…"
He clawed at it. It didn't move. It was inside him.
His breath began to shake.
A crunching sound made him turn. A bag lay half-buried in the sand nearby. His bag. He didn't remember bringing it.
He tore it open.
Inside, a gauntlet. Matte black. Heavy. Real.
Ezra stared at it. It looked identical to the Sleeves in Skirmish. Identical.
"That's not possible," he whispered. He slipped it onto his arm. It locked into place with a soft mechanical click.
His skin prickled.
There was a button on the underside. He hesitated. Then pressed it. A digital countdown lit up along the side.
05… 04… His eyes widened. 03… He hurled the gauntlet away from himself and dove backward into the sand. 02… 01—
The world exploded.
Sand blasted into the air. The shockwave rolled across the shore. The sound was deafening.
Ezra lay there, ears ringing. Slowly, he lifted his head. The spot where the gauntlet landed was scorched black. Smoke curled upward. His chest tightened.
"It's real…"
Not a replica. Not a prop. Real. The Sleeves were real. And they were lethal.
Something buzzed faintly in the back of his skull. A pulse. Like sonar. He stiffened.
Movement.
Somewhere behind him. He grabbed the gauntlet and ran. He sprinted toward the tree line, branches slapping against his arms. The forest swallowed him whole. Insects scattered as he crashed through undergrowth.
He tripped over exposed roots and tumbled down a short incline, landing hard in the dirt.
He groaned and pushed himself up, and stumbled out of the trees.
Onto another stretch of sand.
A beach.
The ocean stretched endlessly ahead.
He staggered toward the water, trying to breathe.
And then he heard footsteps. Slow. Measured.
He turned.
A boy stood about twenty meters away.
No older than fifteen. Short hair. Calm expression. A Sleeve strapped to his arm.
Ezra blinked. Relief flooded him.
"Hey—" he called out. "You too? Do you know where we—"
The boy raised his arm.
Ezra's brain finally caught up. He dove.
The blast tore through the air where he had been standing. Sand erupted behind him.
He rolled, coughing.
The boy didn't hesitate. Didn't speak. He was hunting.
Ezra scrambled upright, heart hammering.
"You don't have to do this!" he shouted.
The boy's face didn't change.
Another blast detonated near Ezra's feet, throwing him sideways.
Pain flared through his ribs. He forced himself up.
Think.
Think.
The Cord.
The chip in his neck. It pulsed again. Radar. It was tracking them. Hiding wouldn't work. The gauntlet in his hand felt wrong. Different.
He fired.
Nothing.
He fired again.
Still nothing.
The boy tilted his head slightly. Amused. Ezra stared at his own Sleeve. It wasn't explosive.
It had a different trigger condition. DNA recognition? Delayed activation? He didn't know. He didn't understand it yet. And that was the problem.
The boy began circling, cautious now. Two blasts loaded. Simultaneous. He was preparing to clear multiple hiding spots.
Ezra ducked into thick bushes near a jagged rock formation. His heart pounded so loudly he thought it would give him away.
The Cord pulsed again.
They could sense each other.
No matter where he hid.
He was playing Skirmish.
In real life.
No respawns.
No resets.
He closed his eyes. Counted. Three... Two...
He ran.
Not away from the boy, but toward the cliff's edge.
"Idiot," the boy muttered, stepping forward. Ezra didn't slow.
He jumped.
The ocean swallowed him. Cold. Violent. He kicked downward, swimming hard.
Above him, the boy walked to the cliff's edge. "You can't outrun the radar," the boy called down. "You're dead anyway."
Ezra surfaced just long enough to breathe.
Then he smiled.
"Five," he whispered. "Four."
The boy frowned slightly. "Three."
Realization flickered across the boy's face.
He looked down at the edge of the cliff.
"Two." Ezra had dropped something when he jumped. "One."
The explosion shattered the cliff's edge. Rock and sand erupted upward in a violent shockwave. The blast tore through the boy at point-blank range.
The ocean roared as debris crashed into it.
Silence followed.
Ezra treaded water, chest heaving. Fragments of rock rained down around him.
And then, a body hit the sea.
The boy's form sank slowly beneath the surface. Lifeless.
Ezra stared. His breathing became uneven.
"I didn't…" he whispered. "He attacked first." Self-defense. He had no choice. He swam back to shore on shaking limbs.
The tide rolled in gently. And with it, the boy's Sleeve. It washed up at his feet.
Ezra stared at it for a long moment. The reality settled in.
If this was Skirmish, then he needed ten. Ten more kills. Ten Cords. To go home.
His eyes lifted slowly toward the forest. The Cord at the base of his neck pulsed again.
Another player was close.
Ezra picked up the Sleeve.
And the hunt began...