The digital verdict echoed in the small, warm space: "Defeat!" The female game announcer's voice, synthesized and devoid of feeling, was the last thing Sirhean could process on the tablet clutched in his hand. The device vibrated faintly with his heavy, ragged breathing, betraying the emotional turmoil he was desperately trying to smother, to keep strong as his absent friends and allies had always demanded.
On the television across the room, a cartoon played—the shrill, manic laughter of cartoon animals echoed as they darted from a hunter, dodging comical, oversized bullets with an agile, rubbery grace. It was meant to be a distraction, a silly counterpoint to the aching, sharp pain lodged deep in his chest. It failed utterly.
The tablet screen flickered, the stark, crimson-tinged blood prints of the loss momentarily replaced by the cold statistics. His MVP status was a cruel joke; he had played exceptionally well, yet the system showed his final star protection shattered. He had dropped down to Epic rank. He stared at the enemy team's names, their automated "well played" spam feeling like deliberate, acidic mockery. He slumped deeper into the rough, slightly yielding canvas of the cute girl's bedroom he occupied—Sophia's room. Her parents were gone, his rowdy gamer friends had already departed for curfew, a fleeting moment of privacy any boy might fantasize about. But Sirhean was past caring about the fantasy; he couldn't muster the energy to hide the collapse anymore.
His friends, his entire boy's group, were all fellow gamers. This digital failure, this arbitrary erasure of his progress, stabbed him deeper than any personal heartbreak could. His right hand clenched convulsively around the rigid back banner of the tablet cover. He heard a faint, sickening tink as the glass screen beneath his grip momentarily strained. He squeezed just enough to acknowledge his breaking point, not enough to shatter the device entirely. He couldn't recall lifting his gaze from the screen for what felt like an eternity; twenty minutes of his life felt surgically excised. He was stuck in an MVP loss streak, cycling through wins and losses until this final, crushing defeat.
His fingers, slick with nervous sweat, mechanically traced the profiles of his random teammates: the mage, the support, the marksman, the tank—all boasting seven or more deaths, while Sirhean, the jungler, had only nine or ten kills, despite his numerous assists. He needed coordination, a single, unified push on the enemy core base, but that perfect synergy was something the half of the MOBA community he knew had never offered him. Only the enemy team, appearing perfectly synchronized, possessed the cohesion he craved.
The bedroom door swung inward with a soft, almost hesitant creak. Sophia walked in. Sirhean's head remained bowed, his focus locked on the main menu, where the avatars of his friends—now safely in different regions, playing at higher ranks, untouched by the arbitrary cruelty of the rich gaming company—stared back, a silent testament to a hell he couldn't comprehend.
"Hey bro, I baked y'all some brownies and milk!" Sophia announced in a chirpy, high-pitched tone. She tip-toed across the floor, her movements light. The dim, amber glow of the bedside lamp cast long, distorted shadows across the walls, highlighting the delicate curve of her cheek, the soft, almost invisible down of her skin, and the fine lines of worry etched around the corners of her eyes. Her eyes held a genuine warmth.
"To cheer us up, now that we're finally alone from all that noise, huh?" Sophia whispered, leaning close to his ear. He flinched, a sharp, involuntary jerk, turning slightly toward her. She was already dipping a brownie into the milk, taking a few plushy, audible dunks before eating it slowly, letting out a soft, drawn-out "Mmmph," deliberately leaving a smear of dark chocolate near the corner of her lips to tease him. Sirhean could only blink in silence, his mind too scrambled to process her intent. He darted his head away, focusing instead on the flickering TV screen.
"I see why you guys are obsessed with milk—making all those weird noises like it's so eww," she continued, her voice trailing off as she began her monologue about baking. But her babbling became static noise to Sirhean. Everything blurred; he could barely register her words anymore, lost in the chaotic jumble of his own emotions.
Marcie and Adam, his two closest gamer friends, had been the anchors to his mental stability, their concern a soothing, cool balm on his wounded spirit, their presence a silent promise of understanding. Now, that drug had expired the moment they left. He had tried to rebuild on new accounts, grinding with a desperate will that never matched the justice he sought for his first main account, banned on false accusations he couldn't even appeal—the support system was nothing but an impersonal, cold AI loop.
The rich, warm scent of baked sugar and melting vanilla wafted from the plate she held, an aroma that usually signaled childhood comfort and safety. Now, it was a bittersweet, sharp reminder of the innocence he had lost the moment he stopped playing single-player games—the moment he started carrying the burden of others' shortcomings, never being punished for their mistakes while he was.
His mind was elsewhere, trapped in a labyrinth of troubling thoughts, dreams and regrets replaying like a broken, skipping record. He pushed his phone further away, toward the pillows behind him. In his periphery, Sophia's mouth moved, her voice a soothing, low melody that momentarily eased the iron band tightening around his muscles. Her words felt like a lifeline, a beacon he was too exhausted to swim toward. He didn't even care enough to appreciate the moment; his senses were dulled by the sheer weight of his pain.
He managed a slow, sluggish nod, a barely perceptible movement that Sophia didn't seem to register as an answer, or perhaps she didn't care what it meant. He simply wanted this interaction to end, wanted to sink back into the dark, comforting gloom.
His body felt leaden with exhaustion. Sophia's mouth moved on, her words a comforting stream he couldn't decipher, her concern a tangible, soft presence wrapping around him like a heavy, warm blanket. She chuckled with a bright, tinkling, childlike glee, a sound that momentarily pierced the darkness but was quickly consumed by it. He envied her happiness; he had no idea how she maintained it.
His gaming mission—the six years he had poured into it—always fell short of that final, unreachable goal. The memory was a burning ember, igniting fresh frustration. His hands rested on his shoulders, the muscles tight and knotted like old rope, a physical manifestation of the strain. He had gotten halfway there, and his failure was a constant, gaping wound in his pride.
Suddenly, the frustration boiled over. He roared, a sound of pure rage, and punched the nearest wall. The force sent jolting shockwaves up his arm; the pain was a brief, sharp distraction from the deeper ache. The sound of splintering wood and plaster cracking was a jarring noise that shattered the room's fragile peace. Dust and debris swirled in the amber light, a tangible representation of his internal chaos. He stared at his knuckles, the skin raw, torn, and already blooming dark crimson where the skin had ripped open against the structural wood beneath the drywall, a testament to the violence he inflicted upon himself. The wall itself was now groaning and sagging from the impact.
"Hey, earth to Sirhead, you listening? Want to dig in?" Sophia asked, her voice now soft, laced with a hint of gentle, weary sarcasm. She waved a hand sharply across his face, trying to shock him back to life. Her eyes, filled with concern, were a beacon. He didn't respond with words, but with desperate, urgent movement. He grabbed her close, wrapping his arms around her body with a fierce, possessive force. She gasped, her breath catching. He pulled her tight, seeking refuge in her warmth. She smelled of rosé and something clean, like linen drying in the sun—a delicate fragrance that filled his nostrils, the scent of her shampoo a comforting familiarity. The combination was heady, momentarily easing the tension in his mind.
Hot, stinging tears flooded his eyes, the anger instantly watered down by a true torrent of grief and exhaustion. "I'm tired... Just hold me... Please..." Sirhean begged between ragged breaths, his voice a broken, vulnerable whisper. As he held her, he managed to turn on the TV music—the deep, resonant tones of synthesized rain pouring down, creating a sonic cocoon of safety. The sensory richness—the visual of the rain, the auditory rhythm—was a welcome distraction. He pictured a metal-armored warrior sleeping on hay, his bloody blade resting nearby, a symbol of strength and protection. He didn't feel safe, but he felt held. All that mattered now was this connection, this primal need for contact overriding the crushing weight of the obligations he had made to his friends, the sacrifices he made for them that had left him empty and unrewarded.