Headset hums. Fingers dance. Jason snaps commands into chat, clipped and clean.
"Left stair. Hold. Now."
Shots land. Timers collapse. The map empties.
"Nice," Caleb laughs. "That was surgical."
"Again," Evan says, already pulling up the next map. "Run it."
"Clock?" Marcus asks, precise as always.
"Thirty," Lucas answers without looking up.
"Push," Daniel adds, easy and unbothered. "We've got time."
Jason says nothing. His lean frame barely shifts in the chair; screenlight skims his brown skin and catches the rough shadow under his eyes. Dust drifts through the glow like slow snow.
"Cover me," someone adds.
Jason flicks, counters, closes.
"Clean," Marcus mutters.
The enemy drops. The room exhales through speakers.
"Victory," the announcer declares.
"Queue up," Daniel says.
"Jay?" Caleb tries, voice warming. "You good?"
Jason removes the headset. The word hangs, flat. His palms rest on the controller as heat fades. Outside, a breeze rattles leaves beneath gray clouds; a truck sighs past.
"Jay."
No answer.
He clicks exit. The match dissolves. Silence floods the room. The chair creaks. His breathing sounds loud, unfamiliar. Blue light drains from the walls.
He stands. The room settles around him , fan ticking, dust resettling, the hum of something winding down. Time stretches. The screen vanishes, leaving him listening to the absence press closer, heavier, as if it expects a reply.
—-------------------------------
The phone vibrates beside the keyboard. Jason glances, then looks away.
Lucas texts, "You up? Tomorrow?"
Caleb follows, "Tell me you clipped that."
Another line waits, already read. Clara. No words. Just the mark that she saw him.
"Don't," Jason murmurs. He flips the phone face-down. Glass clicks against wood.
"You there?" Caleb sends.
"Jay?"
Nothing.
Jason stands. Warm plastic, stale citrus. The fan pushes thin air across his arms.
"Stop," he mutters to the room.
Another buzz rattles the desk.
"Come on, man," Caleb writes.
Jason opens the drawer, shoves the phone inside, closes it hard.
"Enough."
Pipes knock. The fan ticks.
A careful knock lands on his door. One knuckle. Then two.
"Jason?" Margaret asks. Her voice stays gentle. "I made rice. It's getting cold."
"I'm fine," he says. The word scrapes.
The handle turns a fraction, stops.
"You don't have to be," she says.
Jason leans his forehead to the door. The wood feels cool, steady. He doesn't answer.
Light from the hallway leaks under the door quietly.
—-------------------------------
Jason returns to the desk.
"Okay," he says. "Okay."
The game closes. Icons reshuffle.
"Get it together," he tells himself.
For a beat, the monitor goes black. His reflection rises , lean shoulders, tired eyes, jaw set. Dust drifts, deliberate.
His father's words surface uninvited.
Not loud. Not dramatic. Just Richard, standing in a doorway years ago, already half gone.
"You'll survive, son."
Jason breathes out through his nose. "That's it?"
The memory fades without correction.
Only the burden remains, unspoken, unfinished, heavy as ever.
He clicks. Nothing.
"Come on," he whispers.
The darkness holds. His face stares back, alert, focused, paused.
The fan hums. Outside, neon from a late shop paints his cheek. He touches the warmth, grounding himself.
"Next," Jason says. "I'm ready."
The desktop snaps back, bright and ordinary. A message preview flickers, gone.
He sits straighter.
"Whatever this is," he murmurs, "let's do it."
The cursor blinks, patient.
—-----------------------------------