3. Chapter 3
Wren
By the time I get back to my apartment from the café, my legs feel like overcooked noodles and my back has filed a formal complaint in triplicate.
The soles of my shoes slap against the pavement in a slow, exhausted rhythm, the city's muggy breath clinging to my clothes like a second, sticky skin.
The walk from the bus stop is only six blocks, but tonight it may as well be a goddamn marathon.
Every crack in the sidewalk feels like a trap, every traffic light a personal affront.
I drag myself up the final flight of stairs, my knees creaking with each rise like rusted hinges.
My arms hang limp at my sides, keys dangling from one hand, the metal chiming with a tired little jingle that sounds more like a warning than a welcome.
I pause outside my door, the hallway dim and silent, save for the buzz of a flickering light overhead. I listen. Just to be sure.
The lock clicks open beneath my fingers. I slide inside, shut the door quietly behind me, then bolt it, latch the chain, and twist the deadbolt with a familiar snap. I double check it—always. Habit. Survival.
Inside, the air is still and faintly cool.
The curtains are drawn, softening the harshness of the city glow outside.
My sanctuary. My bunker. This place is small—claustrophobic to some—but it's mine.
The walls are thin enough that I can hear Mrs. Castro two doors down yelling at her cat in Spanish, but there's comfort in that, too. Normalcy, in its loudest form.
Still, I sweep the apartment like clockwork. Bathroom door open, check. Bedroom closet closed, check. Windows latched, curtains untouched, shadow angles familiar. I even crouch low and glance under the bed—because dignity means nothing when paranoia curls against your spine like a predator.
The text from last night won’t stop playing on repeat. Creepy doesn’t cover it. The words weren’t overt. Just a single line. But the weight behind them? Heavy. Familiar.
This place is supposed to be safe. And yet.
I toss my bag onto the couch, peel off my stained hoodie, and head to the kitchen.
I microwave leftover noodles until they turn into a gluey mess and crack open the last of the flat grape soda.
It’s a sad excuse for a meal, but I eat it anyway, standing in the dim light and letting the fluorescent hum lull me into a numb kind of stillness.
When the food’s gone, I rinse the plate and pour a generous amount of bourbon into a chipped glass. No ice. No mixer. Just a straight line of heat that scratches at my throat and settles in my chest like fire.
I wander to the living room window and peer through a narrow slit in the curtains. Outside, the alley is empty. No figures lingering in the shadows. No movement. No reason to worry.
Except I do.
The bourbon helps a little. But the ache under my skin doesn’t ease.
I head to the bathroom and turn on the shower.
Steam quickly fogs the mirror, curling around the edges like smoke.
The water stings when it hits my skin, but I don’t flinch.
I scrub harder than necessary, fingers aching by the time I’ve rinsed the soap away.
The grime, the sweat, the weight of eyes I imagined or maybe didn’t—all of it runs down the drain.
But the memories come anyway.
My brother used to be the best part of my world.
Tall and quiet and funny in a dry way. He made me feel safe once.
He made me laugh until I cried, gave me rides to school, taught me how to lie to Mom when I broke the rules.
We were close once—even if he and his best friend used to tease me constantly.
And then one day, he stopped coming home with stories and started leaving behind carnage.
He decided that morality was optional. That restraint was a chain he didn’t need. He started leaving behind scenes full of blood and fire, horror so grotesque that even the news blurred the footage.
The worst part?
He forgot we were still there. He forgot me .
I remember the first time the media swarmed our front lawn. Microphones shoved in our faces. Neighbors whispering. My name dragged into headlines because blood shares blood. Because DNA doesn’t lie. Because someone had to explain why a monster wore my brother’s face.
People stared. People judged. People stopped talking to me altogether. Even the ones who used to call me sweet, or funny, or bright.
We still had to live with what he left behind. Friends stopped calling. Employers googled. The media made it their job to exhume every secret they could find and drag it into the light.
So I ran. I burned my past behind me, changed everything from the way I dressed to the way I walked. I picked a coast where no one knew my name and built walls so high even I could barely see over them.
But the scars don’t care about ZIP codes.
I turn off the water and towel off slowly.
My skin pink and raw, but clean. I get into soft cotton shorts and an oversized tee with a faded graphic on the front.
Then I pull on a worn oversized hoodie over the top with frayed cuffs.
No bra. Just something comforting. Familiar.
The kind of clothes that don’t demand attention or shape or performance.
Just fabric. Just softness. Just me.
My bare feet pad across the worn floorboards to the corner of the room where my gaming setup lives—clean, minimalist, just enough power to run what I need without drawing attention. A pair of noise-cancelling headphones rests on the stand, waiting like a silent invitation.
I slip them on and boot up the game. The familiar chime of the menu makes something in my chest ease. This is the one place I don’t have to fake a voice. I don’t need to be on camera. They don’t care who I am or what I look like. I don’t need to be anything but a skilled gamer.
It’s been days since I logged in. Too many. And right now, I need that controlled chaos more than I need air. A little violence, a little camaraderie, and a whole lot of people who don’t expect anything from me but kills and backup.
Voices filter through the moment I log in—distorted slightly by audio compression, but still loud enough to be familiar in that detached, digital way. They’re already in a match.
I’ve got an open invite to their fireteam, so I slip in the moment the last round ends.
WrathSpawn. HexedOut.
Troublemakers. Entertainers. Absolute menaces when they work together.
"Finally," WrathSpawn says, his voice clipped but pleased.
"Look who decided to grace us with her dark, brooding presence," HexedOut chimes in with a laugh. "We thought you died. Or worse—got a life."
I type a quick greeting. A non-answer with a little wink emoji.
"Oh, she definitely missed me," HexedOut says. "Emoji confirms it."
"She logged in. That’s enough," WrathSpawn replies.
I smirk and settle deeper into my chair, stretching out my legs with a sigh. This is exactly what I needed.
The match queue pops. I click ready.
The second we drop into the map, it's like slipping into a second skin.
For some reason we drop into a game with a four-player squad, but our fourth is some random kid with a username like Xx420Sn1p3Zz. He dies in the first five minutes and rage-quits.
HexedOut sighs. “Another loss for the randomizer gods. Guess it’s up to us.”
“Isn’t it always?” WrathSpawn mutters, already laying traps and barking out directions.
WrathSpawn takes point like always—methodical, merciless. HexedOut zips around like a gremlin with a grenade fetish. And me? I hang back, sniper rifle ready, watching for targets through the scope while the chaos unfolds in front of me.
We move like a machine, every attack calculated. Every retreat planned. I hug the wall of a crumbling warehouse, scope up on a rooftop camper, and time my shots between breaths.
“Left ridge,” WrathSpawn says. “Two snipers. I’ll flank.”
“I’ll distract.” HexedOut whistles into his mic. “Silence, sweetheart, want to light them up?”
I ping the snipers and drop a grenade at their feet.
HexedOut lets out a laugh. “See? That’s why she’s my favorite. Deadly and silent. Like a sexy ninja.”
We win the first round.
"God, that headshot was sexy. You been practicing without me?" HexedOut asks.
I send an emoji shrug.
"Don’t make it weird," WrathSpawn mutters.
"She likes it when I make it weird," HexedOut retorts.
"Pretty sure she likes it better when you’re muted."
I chuckle—quiet, almost involuntary—but the soft sound carries through my headset.
There’s a pause.
"Was that a laugh?" HexedOut sounds delighted.
"Told you she’s not a bot," WrathSpawn says. "She’s just ignoring us like a queen."
I type: Maybe silence is just classier than whatever you were about to say.
"Ouch," HexedOut groans. "Savage."
They don’t push. Don’t ask why I don’t speak. Maybe they just think I’m introverted. Or shy. Or too focused on the game. Either way, it works for me. The headset picks up my breathing and the occasional soft exhale, but they seem content filling the space with banter and competition.
And for now, that’s enough.
The banter continues between matches. HexedOut drops a stream of nonsense that would make any HR department spontaneously combust. WrathSpawn speaks only when necessary, but when he does, it hits with the weight of someone who doesn't waste words. They’re opposites, but they balance each other in-game.
And somehow, over time, they've started to feel… familiar.
Like home.
We play round after round until my trigger finger aches and my hoodie clings damp to my back. It’s the good kind of tired, though. The kind that comes from being somewhere that, even virtually, feels like I belong.
"We converting you back to full-time gamer yet?" HexedOut teases.
"She doesn’t owe you her presence," WrathSpawn cuts in.
"Jealousy doesn’t look good on you, man."
I send an animated dancing skull gif.
"MVP. That’s our girl," HexedOut says after my final snipe.
"Precision," WrathSpawn adds.
I feel warmth bloom in my chest. It’s stupid. They don’t know me. Not really.
But for a moment, I let myself pretend. Pretend that this version of me—this silent warrior on their six—is all I’ve ever been.
Not a girl hiding behind a mask. Not a ghost waiting to be recognized.
Just… Silence.
One more match. Then another.
Eventually, I feel the crash coming—the emotional comedown, the late-night ache that even pixelated camaraderie can’t cure. My fingers hover over the keyboard.
[Silence has logged out.]
Just like that, the world fades.
I yank off the headset and blink at the quiet apartment, with its creaking floors and shadows that stretch just a little too long.
They don’t know who I am.
And I need it to stay that way.
Even if… sometimes… I wonder what it would be like if they did know me.
What would they say if they knew? If they saw the girl behind the screen? Not the sharpshooter or the snarky texter. Just me. Tired. Running. Covered in invisible scars that haven’t healed right.
Would they still crack jokes if they knew my real name? The one splashed across old news headlines, trailing behind my brother’s legacy like a stain no bleach could touch?
I wonder if, in the moments between kills and sarcasm, I could be normal.
But that’s dangerous thinking.
So I shut the laptop, check the locks—again—and crawl into bed, telling myself not to dream about voices that feel like safety.
They’re just pixels.
Just usernames.
Just the only place I still feel real.