By 2021, Ashton had clawed his way out of Lincoln High's shadow, building a haven in the digital sprawl of Discord. His server, *Neon Den*, buzzed like a dive bar at midnight, three thousand misfits trading memes, their laughter crackling through voice chats during *Among Us* marathons and *Homestuck* shitpost wars that lit up his nights. He wasn't the scrawny kid counting tiles anymore; he was "Ashaz," the quiet king who kept channels alive with pixel art of *Teen Titans*'s Raven, her cloak rippling in teal, or *Avatar*'s Zuko, scars glowing like embers. *Neon Den* was a chaotic family, a place where he wasn't invisible, where users like "GlitchWolf" and "StarSlicer" debated whether Beast Boy could outwit Aang until dawn, their voices a lifeline through his headset. Ashton modded with a light touch, banning trolls who spammed slurs, soothing drama over stolen fanart, his laptop's glow a shield against the loneliness that lingered from high school's betrayals, his fingers dancing across keys to craft sprites that earned "holy shit" reactions in #art-drops.
Then it collapsed like a sandcastle in a storm. A cropped screenshot spread like a fucking virus—a private DM twisted to paint him as "predator," "shady," words that hit like brass knuckles. He'd been joking with GlitchWolf about *Homestuck*'s quadrants, a throwaway line about "moirails" and "keeping the peace," but the screenshot cut it to look sinister, stripped of context. No proof, just mob bullshit, likely from "DarkReaper," a banned user who'd raged after Ashton permabanned him for doxxing a kid in #general. Ashton stared at the message, his reflection warped in the screen's glare, a stranger to himself, his stomach churning like he'd swallowed acid. He typed defenses, fingers shaking, each word a plea: *Check the logs. I didn't do this.* But mobs don't read; they torch. *Neon Den* bled users, channels going silent, GlitchWolf and StarSlicer ghosting without a word, their avatars grayed out. VRChat, his next refuge, followed the same arc: joy in virtual arcades, dancing in pixelated clubs under neon skies, then ashes when the rumors spread, avatars turning their backs, whispers of "Ashaz is sus" poisoning every room.
He worked a dead-end job at a grocery warehouse, stocking shelves under flickering fluorescents, the air heavy with cardboard dust and the drone of forklifts that rattled his skull. Coworkers gossiped, their eyes prying: "You okay, St. Perez?" Mike, the shift lead, asked, his tone half-curious, half-accusing, his coffee breath sour. Ashton shrugged, dodging, his sketchbook tucked in his locker, filled with Lucina's wolf ears, her sword, her armor—images from the dream that refused to fade, teal and magenta bleeding into every line. Trust was a bruise, tender and deep, each betrayal a weight that pressed his chest like a cinderblock. He sketched during breaks, the warehouse's hum fading as Lucina's eyes took shape, her voice echoing: *Remember me.* He moved forward, each step a defiance of the void, his pencil a blade carving purpose from pain.