The rhythmic beeping of machines filled the sterile hospital room like a mechanical heartbeat. The faint scent of antiseptic clung to the air, sharp and cold, masking any hint of human warmth. Somewhere near his head, oxygen hissed softly from the tube running beneath Reever's nose, the sound steady and almost hypnotic. The world around him was wrapped in a haze of white light and muted hums — the kind of quiet that felt too clean to be real.
His eyelids fluttered open. Vision came slowly, shapes bleeding together until they sharpened: square ceiling tiles, the glossy surface of medical monitors, the pale glow of daylight struggling through half-drawn curtains. A man in a lab coat stood by the foot of his bed, scribbling notes with quick, practiced strokes.
"Ah. You're awake." The doctor didn't look up at first, still writing something briskly before tucking his pen into his pocket. Then his gaze lifted — sharp, intelligent eyes softened only slightly by fatigue. "Mr. Reever, do you ever plan to stop giving me heart attacks?"
Reever's lips twitched into a faint smirk, though his face still felt heavy. "You're too young to have one, Doc."
The doctor exhaled through his nose, half amused, half exasperated. "You were playing that game again, weren't you? At your age?" He shook his head. "Ninety years old, Reever. Ninety. And still grinding matches like you've got something to prove."
Reever's chuckle came out as a dry rasp, but there was a warmth beneath it. "It's not about proving anything. It's called passion, Doc. That game's been my world since… well, since my wife passed." His gaze drifted toward the ceiling. "It's where I still find my peace."
The doctor studied him for a moment, his expression softening slightly before the professional mask slid back into place. "Peace doesn't usually involve cardiac arrest," he said flatly. "Your heart gave out from strain. You were lucky — someone found you in time. But if this keeps up…" He trailed off, his tone darkening. "You need rest, Reever. No more all-nighters. No more tournaments or whatever those death matches are."
Reever didn't respond immediately. His eyes found the window, where thin sunlight filtered through the curtains, hazy and distant. Outside, he could just make out the faint outlines of the city — a blur of movement and color that felt a thousand miles away."Yeah…" he said finally. "Sure. Rest."
The doctor didn't believe it, but he nodded anyway. "Good. I'll check on you later." He gave a small, almost sympathetic smile and turned to leave, his footsteps echoing softly down the corridor until they faded into the background hum of hospital life.
Reever lay there for a long time, staring at nothing. The machines around him beeped and pulsed in a rhythm that was too precise, too artificial to comfort him. Each sound was a reminder — not just of how fragile his body had become, but how close the ticking clock had grown. He thought of the years he'd spent chasing perfection, the endless practice, the thrill of victory. He thought of the people he'd lost — teammates, friends, his wife. Somewhere along the line, the game had become both his sanctuary and his cage.
Sleep came for him slowly, creeping in through the edges of his awareness like a thief. He didn't fight it.
When he awoke again, the light in the room had changed — warmer now, the kind that came with late afternoon. A gentle knock sounded on the door, followed by the soft rustle of shoes against linoleum. A nurse entered, her smile polite but genuine.
"Mr. Reever," she said gently, "you have a visitor."
Reever blinked, his mind catching up. "Visitor?" His voice came out rough, uncertain.
She nodded and stepped aside. A man in his fifties walked in — crisp suit, tired eyes, and a familiar posture that made Reever's heart give a small, aching twist.
"Dad," the man said quietly.
Reever's expression softened. "Sam." He gave a faint smile. "How's your back? Still sitting at that desk too long?"
Sam chuckled, setting a small bouquet of lilies on the bedside table. The flowers added a touch of color to the sterile room, their scent faint but grounding. "Some habits run in the family," he said.
They talked for a while — quietly, like two men who'd said everything before but found comfort in repeating it. Sam spoke of work, of his wife, of the small, ordinary things that made up his life. When the conversation drifted to Reever's granddaughter, the old man's eyes lit up.
"She's set the date?" he asked, voice soft but hopeful.
"Next month," Sam said, smiling faintly.
"I'll do my best to attend." Reever's tone was light, almost teasing, but beneath it lay something unspoken — an understanding they both shared but didn't voice.
Sam reached out, briefly resting a hand on his father's arm. "She'll be glad to hear it. Rest up, Dad." He hesitated a moment longer, as if he wanted to say more, then gave a nod and left. The door closed softly behind him, leaving the faint scent of cologne and flowers in his wake.
Minutes passed — maybe longer. The nurse appeared again, clipboard in hand. "Mr. Reever," she said, tilting her head with a small smile, "you have another visitor."
Reever frowned, brow furrowing. "Another one? You sure I'm not dead already and this is my funeral?"
She laughed, shaking her head. "Quite sure. This one's… younger."
He raised a brow, curiosity flickering across his face. The nurse stepped aside, and a man in his early thirties entered. He moved with quiet confidence — tailored suit, sleek hair, and the polished presence of someone accustomed to boardrooms and microphones. Yet when his eyes met Reever's, the composure faltered for a moment, replaced by something gentler. Respect. Maybe even admiration.
Reever squinted. Then a slow grin crept across his face. "Well, I'll be damned," he muttered. "You've grown into your father's suit."
The younger man chuckled, pulling up a chair beside the bed. "I get that a lot," he said. "It's been a while, Mr. Reever."
"Don't 'Mr.' me," Reever said, waving a hand weakly. "Your old man used to shout my name like a war cry across the comms. 'Cover Reever! He's pushing mid!'" His voice softened. "You've got his eyes, you know."
A ghost of laughter touched the young man's face. "He told me about those days. Said you were the best shot he'd ever played with."
Reever's expression dimmed, his smile fading into something bittersweet. "Your father was better," he said quietly. "He just didn't live long enough to prove it."
Silence settled — not awkward, but heavy with memory. The heart monitor continued its slow rhythm, a fragile reminder of life's persistence.
The younger man — now clearly a CEO by his bearing — looked down, his voice measured but touched with emotion. "That's actually why I'm here. I've been reviewing an old project — something your name came up in. You were one of the original beta players, right? The early test servers?"
Reever blinked, curiosity piqued. "Heh. I didn't think anyone cared about fossils like me anymore."
The CEO's lips twitched into a faint smile. "I do," he said quietly. "And I think my father would've too."
Reever studied him for a long moment, then nodded slowly. "Then I suppose," he said, voice gravelly but sincere, "I owe it to him to hear what you've got to say."
The young man leaned forward slightly, eyes gleaming with something Reever couldn't quite place — excitement, maybe, or conviction. "Good," he said softly. "Because what I'm about to tell you…" He paused, the faint hum of machines filling the silence."…might just change everything."