Chapter 7
ETHAN
“You keep pausing the fucking game,” Alfie says, not looking away from the screen where his Yoshi is absolutely destroying my Bowser. “That's the third time in two minutes.”
“Sorry, sorry.” I unpause Mario Kart, immediately drive off Rainbow Road. My phone buzzes again and I can't help grinning as I pause. Again.
“Dude.” Alfie finally turns to look at me. “What is going on?”
“Nothing,” I sing-song, typing back to Piper. She's trying to deny that her roommate—Riya liked my year-old photo, and it's adorable how flustered she's getting.
There are some pretty good pics on there too—me at the beach last summer, that one where I'm actually dressed nice for Troy's birthday. Not that I posted them for female attention or anything. But if Piper happened to scroll through them...
My phone buzzes. But it's not Piper.
Dad
Saw this and thought of you.
It's a link to an article: “Top 10 Stable Careers for College Graduates - Accounting Tops the List!”
My good mood evaporates and I groan.
“What now?” Alfie asks, and his voice has that tone that means he's not letting this go. “And you better tell me.”
I toss my phone onto the couch. “My dad's on my ass about grades. About what I'm doing after graduation.”
“Ah.” Alfie nods, that understanding look he gets. “The parent pressure special. I know it well.”
“Yeah?”
“My mom calls weekly to remind me that my cousin just made partner at his law firm. He's twenty-eight and drives a Tesla,” Alfie comments. “But here's the thing—it seems like the most important thing in the world right now is your dad's approval. But maybe, it isn't.”
I snort. “Easy for you to say.”
“If you make a decision they don't like… Honestly? The worst that can happen isn't that bad. They get upset, they adjust, life goes on—”
"You don't get it." I cut him off, frustration boiling over.
"My dad gave up everything for me. NFL dreams, full ride to State, all of it—gone because Mom got pregnant.
Then I couldn't even give him the one thing that would've made it worth it—me making it instead.
" I laugh bitterly. "I owe him something.
I've gotta do something good with my life.
Something that makes his sacrifice worthwhile. "
“Ethan—”
“And making video games isn't it. Not to him. I need to show him it’s worth it.” I grab my controller, then set it down again. “You know what? Speaking of that, I've got a deadline tonight. My senior project is due for beta testing at midnight.”
“We can talk about—”
“Why am I fucking around playing Mario Kart when I should be working?” I'm already standing, heading for the stairs. “I'll see you later, man.”
“Ethan, come on—”
But I'm already in my room, door closed, sinking into my desk chair. The article link stares at me from my phone. Accounting. My dad wants me to be an accountant.
Dad
Just want you to have options, son. Real options.
I turn my phone face down and open my game files.
Midnight lurks outside the skylight, but inside my attic room, every LED blares like it’s high noon.
The house is empty—Freddie’s at Alex’s, probably making out during a nature documentary.
Troy’s convincing Delilah that watching him play NBA counts as quality time, and Alfie’s definitely three hours deep into some physics podcast that would make my brain leak out my ears.
Which means I’ve got five hours of blessed silence to push the next build of Fault Line to thirty anonymous sophomore beta testers who will absolutely destroy me if I’m even five minutes late.
I’m hunched at my desk, death-gripping a stress ball while Fault Line glows on my second monitor. Two years of work staring back at me, and the ending still feels like lying to someone’s face.
You play as this apprentice wizard. Typical chosen one, except the twist is your mentor—the Archmage—is kind of a dick.
The whole game is about proving yourself worthy by crafting this ultimate staff.
Six hours of gameplay dedicated to collecting rare crystals, carving runes, and learning spells.
The staff becomes everything. Your identity. Your power. Your proof that you matter.
Then the final boss fight happens. Dragon—because, well, it has to be a dragon. And in the climactic moment, your staff—this thing you’ve poured everything into—shatters.
Currently, the Archmage just... fixes it. Waves his hand, sparkles everywhere, “Good job, kid. You passed the test.” Roll credits while epic music swells.
It’s bullshit. Safe, cowardly bullshit.
A soft knock interrupts my spiral.
“It’s open.”
Alfie shuffles in, hair defying gravity. “Still drinking battery acid?”
He nods at my Code Red pyramid. Three cans deep and counting.
“Fuel of champions,” I mutter, not looking away from the screen. “Unlike your pretentious leaf water.”
“My tea is calming and sophisticated. And that, my friend, is the fuel of kidney stones.” He navigates my disaster zone of crumpled concept art and crashes onto the futon. “How’s it going? Today’s deadline, yeah?”
“It’s...” I slam my mouse down. “Fucked. Well, just the ending’s fucked.”
“Show me.”
I queue up the final cutscene. Alfie watches in silence—the dragon fight, the staff breaking, the Archmage’s instant forgiveness and magical fix. When it ends with the triumphant orchestra, his face scrunches up almost comically.
“That’s...” He searches for words. “Incredibly unsatisfying.”
“I know.”
“Like, offensively safe.”
“I know.” I spin to face him. “But every time I try to write something real, something that actually means something, I just”—I make a vague gesture—“freeze up.”
Alfie studies me with that look he gets when he’s about to ask something uncomfortable. “What’s the story actually about? Like, underneath the wizard stuff?”
“It’s about...” I stop. Start again. “It’s about having this thing that defines you. That everyone says makes you special. And then losing it.”
“Hm.” He’s doing that thing where he pretends to be casual but isn’t. “Like football?”
My whole body tenses. “We don’t need to—”
“I’m just saying. Kid spends years building something that becomes his entire identity. It breaks. Authority figure pretends everything’s fine.” He shrugs. “Sounds familiar. Not that I know the full story and you don’t have to tell me either but…”
“It’s not about that.”
“Okay.”
“It’s not.”
“I said okay.”
But we both know I’m lying. The silence stretches until I can’t stand it anymore.
“You want to know what happened?” The words come out harder than intended.
“Fine. Homecoming game, senior year. Scout from State in the stands. Fourth quarter, we’re down by three.
I go for this pass—perfect spiral, textbook form—and this linebacker just..
.” I unconsciously roll my shoulder. “Tore my rotator cuff. Complete separation. Six months minimum recovery, probably longer. My career was over before it started.”
Alfie doesn’t interrupt, which somehow makes it worse.
“Dad drove me home from the hospital in complete silence. Didn’t say a word until we pulled into the driveway.” I laugh, but it’s sharp. “You know what he said? ‘You should’ve dodged it, boy’. Nobody could have dodged it. The guy came at me.”
“Jesus, Ethan.”
“The best part?” I’m on a roll now, can’t stop. “Everyone pitied me for months. They looked at me like I was broken. Dad could barely look at me at all. He pushed me hard in physiotherapy, hard enough that I was in agony. I couldn’t get back to normal.”
I turn back to the screen, to my apprentice’s broken staff.
“So yeah. Maybe it is about football. Maybe it’s about spending your whole life being told you’re special because of this one thing, then having it ripped away and everyone expecting you to just... cope.”
Alfie’s quiet for a long moment. “So why does the Archmage fix the staff?”
“Because...” I trail off. Because that’s what people want. A happy ending. The comforting lie that everything broken can be repaired.”
“What really happened to your shoulder? After.”
I don’t want to answer, but something about the darkness and the deadline makes honesty easier.
Plus, Alfie is such a calming presence and he rarely digs into things, so I have a feeling this is more for my benefit than his.
“Never healed right. I can’t throw anymore.
Can’t even do a proper push-up without it screaming.
Doc said maybe 80% functionality if I’m lucky, but.
..” I shrug with my good shoulder. “Eighty percent of a quarterback is just a guy with a fucked-up arm.”
“And your dad?”
“Still introduces me as his son who ‘used to play ball.’ Like that’s my defining characteristic. Past tense.” I spin the stress ball harder. “Know what the worst part is? Sometimes I catch myself doing it too. ‘Hi, I’m Ethan, I used to be somebody.’”
“You are somebody.”
“Yeah? Who?”
“The guy who’s about to fix this ending.”
I look at him. He’s not doing the pity face everyone else does when the shoulder comes up. He’s just... waiting.
“The apprentice can’t get his staff back,” I say slowly. “That’s the point. It’s gone. He has to figure out what he is without it.”
“So what does he do?”
I stare at the screen, then start typing. Delete the Archmage’s comforting lie, replace it with something else.
ARCHMAGE: Power without purpose will devour you.
“That’s it?” Alfie leans forward. “That’s all he says?”
“Wait.” I’m seeing it now, the real ending. “The apprentice tries to channel magic without the staff. It’s raw, uncontrolled. The tower starts shaking, collapsing. Everything you built is literally falling apart.”
My fingers fly across the keyboard, adding the sequence. The apprentice’s magic spirals out of control, violet flames everywhere. The Archmage just watches, cold and distant. The tower explodes.
“But here’s the thing—” I add a final scene. “Black screen. Just breathing. Then... a heartbeat.”
“He survives?”
“Maybe. That’s where it ends. You hear the heartbeat getting stronger, see text fade in… ‘This is only the beginning.’ Then nothing. Credits roll in silence.”
“Holy shit.” Alfie sits back. “That’s evil. People are going to lose their minds.”
“Good. Let them wonder if he lived. Let them feel what it’s like to not know if you’ll ever be okay again.” I’m adding the sound design now—that single heartbeat in the darkness. “No closure. No comfort. Just the possibility that maybe, maybe you survive this.”
“Setting up a sequel?”
“Maybe. Sometimes you don’t get answers. Sometimes you just get to keep breathing.” I look at him. “When my shoulder got fucked, nobody could tell me if I’d play again. Six months of ‘maybe’ and ‘we’ll see’ and ‘let’s stay positive.’ This is that feeling.”
Alfie watches me polish the final touches. “Your dad’s definitely going to hate this game.”
“Good.” The word comes out fierce.
By the time Alfie leaves, I’ve perfected it. The tower burns. The staff stays broken. The apprentice might be dead, might be alive. All we know is that heartbeat in the darkness, that suggestion of something continuing even after everything falls apart.
It’s 4 AM when I finally upload. My message to the beta testers is simple.
“Enjoy, kids.”
My shoulder aches, but for once, it feels like proof of something. Not of what I lost, but of what I’m building from the ashes.
The beauty is, if people hate it, I can claim it’s setting up a sequel.
But really? It’s just the most honest ending I could write.
Sometimes things break and you don’t know if they’ll ever be fixed.
Sometimes, all you get is the next heartbeat, and the next, and the hope that eventually that’s enough.