Soft golden lamplight pooled across the living room, casting long shadows along the edge of the plush beige carpet. The furniture was warm and welcoming—earth tones and gentle textures that made the room feel like a sanctuary from the outside world. A muted hum from the dishwasher blended with the faint ticking of the wall clock. Folded laundry sat in gentle stacks on the coffee table: fluffy towels, crisp T-shirts, mismatched socks waiting to be paired.
Lillian sat in her favorite seat, a wide armchair by the window, the same one she'd nursed Raxian in when he was a baby. Her chestnut hair, softly curled and brushed just past her shoulders, shimmered with hints of copper in the lamplight. A strand fell forward as she folded another shirt, tucking it into a neat pile. Her face, though kind and calm, carried the faint traces of worry behind her honey-brown eyes.
Her gaze drifted through the hallway, landing on the closed door at the end.
Raxian's door.
He hadn't said much after dinner. Just the usual "Thanks" before disappearing into his room. Again. She gave a quiet sigh, her hands slowing. He was probably playing that game—EGO—again. Just like every night. She didn't fully understand it, but lately, it felt like it was the only place he lived.
The folding paused. Lillian stared at the door a little longer, then reached for another towel. There was a weight in the quiet, one she tried not to acknowledge too often.
—
In stark contrast to the warm living room, Raxian's bedroom was a world of its own—cool, moody, electric. The only source of light came from the neon blue strips lining the edges of his desk and monitor, pulsing softly like a heartbeat. His PC rig glowed with an ominous amber light that mirrored the burning orange in his eyes as he stared at the screen. The walls were lined with posters—famous EGO champions mid-battle, signed photos from players he admired, tournament banners from seasons past.
A vinyl record spun gently in the corner on his retro-fitted player, looping a haunting synth-heavy track from the EGO soundtrack. It gave the room a strange sense of calm beneath the tension crackling at the desk.
Raxian sat rigid in his chair, fingers clenched around his custom black controller. Sweat clung to his brow, breath shallow. To an outsider, he might've just looked like a teenager too into his game—but they didn't know about the clock embedded in his wrist. The thin chip embedded into the veins just beneath the skin, its faint glow currently pulsing in sync with the rhythm of the game.
Because for Raxian, once he booted up EGO... he didn't just play.
He became.
The moment he logged in, his consciousness was pulled into his avatar—a perfect digital reflection of himself. Tousled black hair with a pale platinum streak, that same focused stare, and most of all—those burning, golden eyes that pierced through the dark.
In the world of EGO, he was known as a hybrid-class combatant. His avatar wore sleek tactical gear layered in dark tones—an armored black hoodie with cross-body straps, padded cargo pants, and fingerless gloves built for speed. He looked like he belonged in a spy thriller, and he moved like it too.
Tonight, he was deep in a ranked match—face to face with a cocky, smirking mage who wielded floating, enchanted cards. The cards danced around the mage's fingers, flaring with each flick. They stunned, sliced, exploded. A single misstep and Raxian would be pinned in place. Again.
But he wasn't losing.
Not this time.
Twin swords flashed in Raxian's hands, reflecting the light of the surrounding battlefield—a neon-lit rooftop stage above a virtual city skyline. He dashed in close, blades colliding with magical cards mid-air, slicing through the air with speed and fury. A grenade flew from his hip and exploded behind the mage, pushing him off balance. Raxian slid into a low spin, slicing the edge of the enemy's robe just before the next stun card grazed his cheek.
Another breath. Another swing.
The lines between the real and digital blurred. This wasn't a game anymore.
This was where he was alive.
Raxian's twin blades clashed against a spinning shield of cards, sparks flying in slow motion. He ducked under a sweep, flipped backward with fluid precision, and launched a dagger mid-air—forcing the mage to warp back and reset his hand. He was close. One more combo, one clean stun bait, and the match was his.
His mind raced—calculations, cooldowns, the rhythm of his opponent's flicks. He could feel the win on the edge of his fingertips.
The mage floated backward, cards swirling in a tight orbit. One shimmered violet.
A trap?
Raxian narrowed his eyes. Don't take the bait. He dashed left—only for the ground to light up beneath him.
Too late.
The card was a double feint—illusion, then a flash-blind stun that froze his avatar mid-move.
"Shit," he hissed under his breath, fingers twitching against the controller, but it was too late to recover.
The mage smirked, snapping his fingers.
A fan of golden cards expanded outward, then struck like a storm. Each impact pushed Raxian back, damage stacking. One final card, deep red, shimmered and sliced through the space between them—critical hit.
His avatar fell to one knee.
The screen pulsed.
DEFEAT.
The final card struck like a blade of light, slicing through the smoke between them.
The screen erupted in a flash of gold and red as the announcer's voice boomed overhead with crisp, theatrical flair:
"WINNER: DECKRIX."
"DEFEAT: TIMEWRAPPED!"
As the colors faded, the sound of a roaring digital crowd surged through the arena—cheers, claps, a few echoing chants of "Deck! Deck! Deck!" It didn't matter whether anyone had actually tuned in to spectate. In EGO's ranked circuits, the post-match simulation always generated a crowd. The game wanted every win to feel like a stadium.
But none of it was for him.
TimeWrapped stood motionless amid the simulated applause. His twin swords, still faintly glowing, lowered slowly as the energy around his body dimmed. Breathing hard, his chest rose and fell beneath his tactical gear. He didn't look at the crowd, didn't glance at the golden mage who was already spinning his deck between two fingers.
A second later, their avatars were teleported with a shimmer of light—vanishing from the battlefield and reappearing inside a circular, floating platform of glass and light: the post-match lobby. The Arena Sync screen hovered between them like a translucent curtain, pulsing gently.
Across from him stood Deckrix—the mage—tall, graceful, and all smirk. His outfit was a cloak of sleek navy threads laced with silver, and his cards floated lazily behind his back like orbiting stars.
He stepped forward and pressed the "Request Arena Sync" button.
A soft chime rang.
A glowing prompt appeared in front of Raxian:
"Deckrix has requested an Arena Sync. Accept / Reject?"
He didn't hesitate.
Reject.
The chime cut short.
The mage tilted his head, the smug grin still lingering. "Oof. No handshake? Come on, TimeWrapped. That was a good fight."
Silence.
Raxian's avatar stood still, glowing eyes fixed forward—not at the mage, but through him. His jaw was tight. One hand clenched at his side.
AetherFox raised a brow, cocking his head with mock sympathy. "You're not mad you lost, are you?"
Still, nothing. Just that cold, furious stare.
The mage gave a soft chuckle, his deck collapsing into a flash of light and vanishing. "Well. Guess I'll see you on the leaderboard... if you can stay there."
With a graceful turn, Deckrix exited the platform, his avatar fading into data particles as he returned to his lobby.
The sync chamber flickered out, returning Raxian to the main hub alone.
No more crowd. No more colors.
Just the silence.
Just that single, brutal word still lingering in the corner of the screen.
DEFEAT.
—
Raxian stood just off-center in The Loop, leaning back against a half-formed glass wall that pulsed faintly behind him — almost like it was breathing. His fingers still twitched slightly from the match, phantom muscle memory jolting through him even as the twin swords were no longer in his hands.
The arena lights had faded. The crowd noise was gone. But the hum of presence still lingered.
This place… had changed.
Gone was the cold, sterile queue zone from early builds. Now the air felt warm — not in temperature, but in tone. A low, wordless melody drifted from somewhere unseen, wrapped in ambient sounds: a glass clink at the bar, the murmur of avatars mid-conversation, and the soft squeak of Cass's broom dragging invisible dust across the floor.
Raxian's golden eyes flicked across the hub.
To his left, someone was sitting alone on one of the Lounge Couches, curled forward, expression distant. Their glow was faint — low sync, maybe. Just existing. Two others had settled near the bar, saying nothing, bathed in the amber lighting of Cass's Echo. Cass didn't even look up from drying a glass, but still muttered:
"We all get cracked now and then…"
Further ahead, he spotted Miro at the replay booth, tapping away at his terminal with mechanical precision. The clerk didn't glance up, but Raxian knew he would if he approached.
"You've changed," Miro would probably say again. "The echoes don't lie."
He hated how that line always landed too close to home.
A faint shimmer passed through a nearby wall — the silhouette of a duel unfolding somewhere distant, half-visible like a reflection in broken glass. EGO's shadows never left you, even when you stepped out of the match.
Raxian exhaled slowly, head tipping back against the wall.
His private queue timer ticked silently in the corner of his interface. But he didn't hit it. Not yet.
The Loop always made him wait — not because he needed to, but because something about it… felt like an answer waiting to form.
A girl in an oversized hoodie — Nila — stared up at the leaderboard display near the ceiling. Her voice drifted softly into the space near him, half-sung:
"You think they ever feel what we feel?"
He didn't answer.
He just closed his eyes, let the pulse of The Loop wash over him for a minute longer — before stepping forward again, and vanishing into queue.
—
The queue snapped. A pulse through The Loop — a ripple in the glass beneath Raxian's boots. Then came the flash.
MATCH FOUND.
A low chime echoed through his interface.
In a breath, he was no longer in the hub.
He stood on the edge of the Prepping Zone, that familiar liminal space suspended in translucent dark. Geometry spiraled softly in the distance — ever-shifting, unreal. This place wasn't part of the arena. It was a pocket between. A moment to breathe. Or freeze.
TimeWrapped rolled his shoulders as the countdown timer ticked down from five minutes.
Across the void, his opponent materialized.
AkarisLite.
The name glitched faintly over their silhouette before stabilizing. An assassin class — that much was obvious. But gender? Identity? Expression? Impossible to tell. Their entire form was wrapped in matte-black tactical layers: asymmetric cloak, segmented plating, minimal ornamentation. A blank, reflective mask covered their face, no eyes, no mouth — just a cold, seamless surface.
They didn't move.
Neither did TimeWrapped.
Two avatars. Two unsynced stages. A quiet stare bridging them.
In ranked matches, you could preview your opponent — just for a minute or two, before stages loaded and transport began. But only your own arena synced, unless requested sync access. Theirs remained a flat void behind them. No clues. No cues. Just silence.
Raxian tilted his head slightly. Tried to read them.
Nothing.
No flair. No taunt emote. No weapon draw. AkarisLite simply… stood there. Not cocky. Not cautious. Just still — like they'd done this a hundred times and already predicted the outcome.
A flicker of static buzzed at the corner of the arena grid.
He thought about saying something — but didn't.
Let them be a mystery.
Some players spent months perfecting their presence. Others made their power by hiding it.
Raxian's fingers tightened around the hilt of his virtual twin swords. The prepping timer ticked down.
3:12
He found himself wondering:
What kind of arena does someone like that load?
And what would it feel like to fight there?
—
The moment the prep timer hit zero, Raxian's world cracked open.
His stage roared to life in a burst of static and flame — a stylized cityscape drowned in deep indigo and fractured neon. Glass shards floated midair like frozen rain, remnants of collapsed billboards and skyline flare. Beneath it all, a subway rumbled somewhere below, long silent — but the tremors remained, like the echo of a memory.
This was his domain.
He knew every flicker of light, every gust of simulated wind, every subtle rhythm the terrain pulsed with. The arena was narrow, relentless — just enough room to maneuver, never enough to breathe. Built like him: fast, volatile, no margin for error.
AkarisLite blinked into place at the opposite edge. Silent. Still. Their avatar cloaked in anonymity — no expression, no tell. No sync request.
Good.
Sharing would've felt… wrong.
In EGO, stages weren't shared. Each fighter stood in their own version of the battlefield. Client-based sync meant that while Raxian stood in a city collapsing under its own brilliance, AkarisLite was seeing something else entirely. Something colder. Quieter. Maybe even peaceful.
He'd never know.
That was the strange intimacy of EGO — you fought in different worlds, but bled the same.
The final prep frame locked in.
No taunts. No gestures. Just silence.
Raxian exhaled once.
Then the announcer's voice dropped like a blade:
"BEGIN."
Raxian moved first — twin swords flashing into his hands in a trail of light. His stance was tight, practiced, high mobility with room to pivot into ranged.
He didn't rush.
He knew better.
Assassins were tricky. They wanted you to close in fast. To give them rhythm, momentum, something to exploit.
His eyes narrowed.
EGO's fighting system wasn't built for open stealth tactics. The arena was a tight strip — wide enough to dash, to dodge, to duel. Not enough to vanish. Not enough to hide.
Which meant assassins like AkarisLite had to be smarter.
To make up for the lack of space, the class kit came loaded with utility:
Shrouds, which created momentary visual glitches, enough to fake out slower players.
Invisibility bursts, short durations that cut in and out like breathing.
Backsteps with iframe windows, perfect for slipping through a combo string.
Daggers, knives, short swords. That was standard.
But AkarisLite hadn't drawn a weapon yet.
They just stood there. Still. Calculating.
Waiting.
A ripple moved through the arena as their stance subtly shifted.
Raxian adjusted his grip.
He didn't know what was coming.
But he knew this: it wouldn't be obvious. And it wouldn't be slow.
—
AkarisLite blurred.
Not a dash. Not a run.
Just a blink — forward, fast, impossibly clean.
Raxian parried on instinct, blades crossing up — but air hissed between them. Empty. The hit didn't come from the front.
A pressure behind him. He turned, too late.
[STRIKE - BACK DAMAGE - CRITICAL]
AkarisLite's elbow drove into his spine with a sickening jolt, followed by a flash-cut slash that sent TimeWrapped tumbling forward in a scramble of pixelated sparks.
Raxian rolled out, skidding low, launching a grenade mid-recovery — smart, fast — but the shroud activated a half-second before detonation.
Smoke. Visual distortion. No read.
"Where—?"
AkarisLite emerged through the haze like a ghost breaking surface — mask glinting, karambits drawn now. Short, brutal curves of light.
They didn't go for a flashy combo. They went surgical.
Strike. Pivot. Cut. I-frame dodge. Strike again.
[STUNNED - INTERRUPTED - ARMOR BREAK]
The system screamed callouts.
TimeWrapped couldn't breathe between hits. Every move he made was already read, already answered. His stamina bar dipped red. His avatar glitched on impact frames. He was losing — no, he was being dissected.
AkarisLite didn't emote. Didn't bait. Didn't miss.
When TimeWrapped tried a ranged burst — a desperation fallback — AkarisLite didn't even block. They vanished.
Invisibility burst. Behind him again.
[EXECUTE RANGE REACHED]
A short sequence. Two cuts. One to the neck. One to the chest. Cross-shaped.
Raxian's screen slowed.
TimeWrapped collapsed to his knees, shattering into digital fragments before slamming hard back into full integrity — the game's visual for death without actual disconnect.
[MATCH END]
The announcer's voice rang out, smooth and final:
"WINNER: AKARISLITE — DEFEAT: TIMEWRAPPED!"
The crowd surged in ambient cheers. AkarisLite stood still, daggers fading into mist. They didn't turn to face him. Didn't even flinch.
The arena dissolved into particles.
AkarisLite faded out first.
Raxian was left alone in the static, breathing hard.
Owned.
Outplayed.
Utterly dismantled.
—
Raxian yanked the chip from his watch without ceremony.
The disconnection hit like a cold snap — the momentary lag between virtual sync and physical reorientation always left a residue in his chest. His vision swam, but he didn't wait for it to clear.
He didn't even log out properly. Just flung the controller across the bed and slumped back in his chair, arms dangling off the armrests, breath shallow. Neon light still pulsed through the dark room. The record player was still going — a low, melancholic loop that somehow made everything worse.
His phone buzzed.
Right on cue.
RazeFlicker:
yo.
u good? or did ur soul get extracted on camera.
Raxian blinked at the message. He didn't respond immediately. Just stared at the screen, jaw tight.
Another ping.
RazeFlicker:
i saw the match.
bro got fully meal prepped & served with garnish.
Raxian:
FUCK off.
RazeFlicker:
LMAO
nah fr tho u alright?
Raxian sighed. His thumbs hovered. Then:
Raxian:
i don't get it. i didn't even play bad. they were just... faster. like they knew every frame ahead.
RazeFlicker:
yep. that was one of the cleanest ego kills i've seen in months.
Raxian:
thanks for the vote of confidence.
RazeFlicker:
just sayin.
Raxian:
nah. u just like seeing me lose.
RazeFlicker:
i like seeing u sweat.
means ur still climbin.
means u still care.
There was a pause.
Then RazeFlicker again:
also. u should add them.
Raxian:
what??
RazeFlicker:
the assassin. AkarisLite. send a friend req.
Raxian:
dude why would i add someone who just humiliated me??
RazeFlicker:
bc ur an ego addict. and u just found a player that made u question ur whole kit.
that's rare. lean into it. learn from it. or get smoked again next time.
Raxian stared at the screen, annoyed by how much he hated how right Raze sounded.
RazeFlicker:
besides. they were cracked. imagine if u teamed up instead.
Raxian:
...
RazeFlicker:
little bro. trust me. add the damn assassin.
Raxian let out a sharp breath through his nose. Then slowly pulled open the in-game contacts overlay on his phone.
He typed in the name: AkarisLite.
The "Send Request" button hovered in blue.
He didn't press it.
Not yet.
But he didn't close the screen either.
—
The screen dimmed slightly as his finger hovered near the "Send Request" button. The blue light reflected faintly in his eyes.
Raxian didn't move.
His room, once humming with motion and fire, had gone still. Just the quiet crackle of the record loop in the background, the neon glow cycling slowly across the walls, and his own pulse—tired, loud, echoing in his ears.
He stared at the name on the screen.
AkarisLite.
He shouldn't still be thinking about that match. It was over. Done. Another loss in the pile. So why was it stuck in his chest like splintered glass?
Maybe it wasn't just that match.
Maybe it was all of it.
He used to be sharper.
He used to win without breaking a sweat—used to move like the game was an extension of him. Every combo, every dodge, every sync—fluid. Clean. He remembered nights where he climbed six- seven wins in a row. Back then it was effortless. Natural.
Now?
Now it felt like he was fighting upstream. Like his body still moved, but his instincts lagged a half-second behind. Like the game had changed... or maybe he had.
He'd never admit it aloud, but the numbers didn't lie. His win rate was dropping. His ranking had dipped low enough that RazeFlicker had started teasing him about "reaching mortal territory." Every win was a grind. Every loss felt heavier than the last.
And tonight?
Tonight he'd been dismantled. Not outplayed — demolished. Torn apart before he even had time to adapt.
By someone silent.
By someone he couldn't even read.
By someone better.
Raxian swallowed hard, jaw clenching. His thumb curled back from the screen, hesitating.
What the hell was wrong with him lately?
Was he losing his edge?
Was he burning out?
Or was the problem deeper?
He didn't know. That's what scared him.
He leaned back again, phone resting on his chest now, screen fading toward black.
The glow of the arena still lingered in his mind's eye — sharp, hot, fast. The place where he always felt most alive.
And lately?
Lately it felt like it was slipping away.
—
He exhaled sharply through his nose, thumbing the screen once with unnecessary force.
"Request sent."
There. Whatever. It was done. Probably pointless. Maybe even a little pathetic. But Raze had gotten into his head again, and now the name AkarisLite was lodged there like a thorn he couldn't ignore.
They were probably already deep into another ranked match by now, sweeping someone else off the board. Or maybe they didn't even check their requests. Raxian had played this game long enough to know the types — silent, high-elo grinders who didn't talk, didn't connect, didn't care.
He leaned back, let the phone rest beside him, and closed his eyes for a second.
The glow of the record player spun against his ceiling. Quiet, lo-fi piano notes looped again — soft, slow, too calm for his heart rate.
Minutes passed.
And then:
[AkarisLite has accepted your request]
He sat upright. His hand scrambled for the phone.
What the—
Before he could even decide how to react, the notification shifted.
New Message: AkarisLite
He opened the chat.
gg
good game.
That was it. Two lowercase lines. No punctuation. No emoji. No follow-up.
Raxian stared at the message, reading it over and over.
It felt… wrong. Not the words. Just the timing. The simplicity. The fact that they even replied at all.
Were they mocking him?
Was this some next-level passive flex?
His jaw tightened instinctively, and for a second he nearly fired back something sharp — something defensive to cover the sting still left in his chest.
But then he paused.
No emoji. No taunt. No "ez" or "lol."
Just a clean, flat gg. A professional courtesy, maybe. Or a habit. Or something else.
He couldn't tell.
And that's what bothered him most.
AkarisLite remained as unreadable in chat as they had been on the battlefield.
Still, his fingers hovered above the keyboard.
What the hell was he even supposed to say?
He couldn't stop himself.
His thumbs moved before his brain caught up:
are you kidding me?
"gg" really?
Sent.
As soon as the message went through, he cursed under his breath. What the hell was that? He sounded bitter. Childish. Like someone who couldn't take a loss.
Which, to be fair… right now, he couldn't.
He was about to type a follow-up — something like "sorry, ignore that" or maybe just unsend it entirely — when he saw the three dots appear.
They were typing.
They paused for a moment. Then:
yeah
you were good
Raxian stared at the words. Narrowed his eyes.
Good? That pissed him off even more.
stop bullshitting me
Three dots again. Quick.
not bullshitting
you didn't panic
most do
He clenched his jaw, rereading the message. Something about the calm rhythm of their replies annoyed him even more than if they'd been openly arrogant. It was like they didn't even care that they wiped the floor with him.
And worse — they were complimenting him?
cool. i still lost
A few seconds later:
yeah
to me
doesn't make you bad
The casualness of it was unbearable. Raxian ran a hand through his hair, scowling at the glow of his screen.
so what, you're one of those?
"it's not about winning" types?
They didn't reply right away this time.
Then:
nah
winning's fun
just not everything
i play to move
He blinked.
to what?
idk
flow? rhythm?
when it clicks it clicks
like skating
or fire
Another pause.
u got rhythm
just too tense
He stared at that last line a while longer than he meant to.
you don't even know me
A beat.
lol
doesn't mean i'm wrong
And somehow that was more infuriating than anything else they'd said so far.
Or maybe not infuriating. Maybe… unsettling.
They weren't trying to get under his skin.
But they were already there.
—
He didn't reply right away.
Raxian stared at the last message, his fingers hovering over the keyboard. For once, no snarky comeback came to mind. No defense. No bravado.
Just a strange weight in his chest he couldn't name.
The typing bubble appeared one last time.
hope we rematch someday
was fun
And then —
Their chat icon dimmed.
Offline.
Just like that, they were gone.
No goodbye. No need to have the last word.
Raxian sat there, screen still glowing in the dark, neon lights from his wall pulsing faintly in the silence.
He hadn't expected them to log off.
He hadn't expected… any of it.