Chapter 2
two
. . .
Witt
Message Draft: Glitch
Every system has a pattern. Every pattern has a weakness. Mine is you.
I own fourteen companies, two esports’ leagues in Europe, one here and enough stock options to retire every member of my family.
Yet, Birdie, my sister-in-law, still thinks I'm incapable of feeding myself.
The first thing people notice about my office is the glass. Not just any glass, some of them are actually screens so that I can look at system architecture, games, etc.
But floor-to-ceiling panels wrap around the top level of Armadillos Arena like a goddamn spaceship overlooking downtown Austin.
The second thing they notice is the silence.
No TVs blasting sports commentary.
No music.
No assistants hovering.
Just the soft mechanical hum of servers in a climate-controlled closet, the size of most middle-class houses and the faint click of my keyboard.
Exactly how I like it.
Dara steps into my office carrying a tablet and an iced coffee I forgot I ordered forty minutes ago. “Your viewers think you died.”
I don’t glance up from the letter in my hand.
“Statistically unlikely,” I say.
“That was sarcasm.”
“I know.”
Dara adjusts the sleeve of her blazer then moves my coffee three inches to the left.
I move it back.
She rolls her eyes. "Every time."
"There is a correct place."
Dara’s worked for me long enough to understand the rules.
If I’m wearing the black headphones, don’t talk unless the building is on fire.
If I’m holding a letter, don’t interrupt.
And if both are happening simultaneously?
Run.
“You disappeared from the internet for four days,” she says carefully.
“Three.”
“Normal people don’t know that.”
Normal people also don’t turn a game into a streaming channel into a billion-dollar empire.
But I did.
Synatrix Global Interactive started in my bedroom with a broken headset, two flat-screen TVs stolen from my older siblings, repurposed as monitors, and an obsession with gaming.
Games are patterns.
People are patterns.
Success is figuring out which one breaks first.
Now the company owns esports teams, game studios, a streaming platform, merch lines, convention partnerships, and the fastest-growing competitive football gaming league in the country.
Two years ago, I expanded into sports gaming with professional football. Of course, I started it with the Austin Armadillos. Now every team in the league has its own esport division. All owned by their respective teams but pay royalties to SGI—me.
Now investors throw around words like revolutionary and market disruptor while Forbes estimates my net worth at a number high enough to make people uncomfortable around me.
I don’t care about the money.
I care that the systems work. But systems simply working doesn’t keep players online, and lately we’ve been losing subscribers.
My thumb brushes over the folded edge of the letter.
Real paper.
Real ink.
Most people stopped writing letters years ago. She never did.
Encrypted messages and voice chats.
Hours spent gaming together online.
I received a letter a few months ago. And every single time, my chest tightens before I open it.
Dara notices where my attention is focused and sighs dramatically. “The mystery woman again?”
“She has a name.”
“You don’t know her name.”
I look up slowly. I do know her screen name.
Dara raises both hands. “Right. Sorry. The mysterious possibly fictional woman.”
“She exists.”
“She also vanished three months ago,” she retaliates and the words hit like a bruise.
Ninety-three days.
Two thousand two hundred and thirty-two hours.
Not that I was counting.
Since then, there’s been no hidden messages inside game chats. No late-night invites to destroy our favorite villain—nothing.
The silence shouldn’t bother me this much.
Except she’s been part of my life for almost a decade.
Every major moment somehow traces back to her.
I depended on her over the past few years to help me relax though product launches, coding spirals, business plans and the night I almost lost my first baby—my company.
She was there for all of it, even if she didn’t know it.
And then suddenly poof, gone.
She was the only person alive who could beat me at my own game and make me laugh while doing it.
A loud pounding rattles the glass office doors.
Dara winces. “Looks like they’re looking for you.”
The doors fly open before I have a chance to tell her to initiate lockdown procedures. Inwardly I chuckle to myself because my brother presses me to be more outgoing.
Parker strides inside wearing gray sweats and a backward Armadillos cap while Annika follows behind him carrying two coffees and significantly more patience.
“You were supposed to be at Dad’s an hour ago,” Parker says. “And you won’t answer your phone.”
“I’m busy.”
Parker looks around the silent office. “Doing what? Plotting world domination?”
“Already did that,” Annika, his fiancé, says mumbling.
I like Annika. Mostly because she doesn’t fill silence just to escape it.
Parker points at the headphones hanging around my neck. “You’ve had those on all day, haven’t you?”
“Yes.”
“You know normal people would text and say they can’t make it instead of pretending they can’t hear the phone ringing.”
“The headphones are noise canceling.”
“That’s not the point and you know it.”
Annika walks over and sets one of the coffees on my desk. “Birdie threatened to send J.D. after you if you skipped dinner again.”
“That’s emotional terrorism.”
“That’s family,” Parker corrects.
I unfold the letter again without meaning to.
Parker notices instantly. Unfortunately, all O’Ryan’s operate like mentally unstable FBI profilers.
His eyes narrow. “Oh my God.”
“No,” I counter, knowing what he’s going to say.
“You’re reading one of her letters.”
Annika’s gaze softens slightly. “Still nothing?”
The fact that Annika asks gently instead of curiously makes something in my chest pull tight.
“No.”
Parker drops into the chair across from me. “Bro, at this point she either joined the CIA or murdered someone.”
“She didn’t murder anyone.”
“You’re defending her awful fast.”
Becoming even more defensive, I snap, “She cries during animal rescue videos.”
Parker blinks. “That tells you absolutely nothing.”
“Maybe she’s sick?”
"You're obsessed with her."
"Incorrect."
"Witt."
"Obsession implies irrationality."
Annika hides a smile behind her coffee cup, and it wouldn’t shock me if she hears the desperation in my voice.
My phone buzzes against the desk. Every muscle in my body locks.
Parker notices first. Annika notices second.
Dara quietly backs toward the door because she’s smarter than everyone else in this room.
The notification flashes across my computer screen. Every muscle in my body tightens, hoping it’s my online friend.
“You get weird every time one of your million devices goes off,” Parker says, pointing at me.
I ignore him and open the email.
FROM: HR — Synatrix Global Interactive
My brow furrows.
“That’s the face,” Parker says to Annika. “That’s his serial killer face.”
“Rude,” I mutter as I open the email.
Dara pauses near the door. “Oh. I forgot to tell you an applicant made it through your first three phases of the process.”
“What applicant?” Parker asks.
“The one for the new creative strategist position,” Dara explains.
That gets my full attention. Slowly, I scroll through the attached portfolio of marketing projections, retention strategies and integrations concepts for immersion of competitive gaming into the sport market.
No wasted language. No filler. No ego.
And she currently works for one of the big five tech companies as a software architect.
My pulse gives a strange, unexpected kick.
Because this—
This is how Rune thinks.
The same kind of precision.
The same pattern recognition.
The same terrifying ability to predict player behavior before the data catches up.
A line from one of the attached notes catches my attention.
Gamers don’t stay loyal to platforms.
They stay loyal to emotional experience.
I reread it twice.
Then a third time.
Annika looks over my shoulder, watches me carefully over the rim of her coffee cup. “You like this one.”
“Maybe.”
Parker grins. “That means yes.”
I keep scrolling.
The applicant has experience in competitive gaming communities, audience analytics, narrative design, and branding. No degree mentioned.
Interesting.
No photo attached. Minimal personal information.
Just qualifications.
Exactly how I would’ve submitted it.
And for the first time in three months, my brain shifts away from the silence left behind by my missing pen pal.
Maybe this is efficient.
Three months is a statistically significant amount of time to spend waiting for someone who isn't responding.
My attention should be elsewhere, on my business.
I need a creative strategist capable of keeping up with me. Someone smart enough to work beside me without needing constant handholding. And someone that can bridge the gap between my world and the gamers or players.
My thumb taps once against the edge of my phone. “Schedule the interview,” I tell Dara.
Parker leans back in his chair dramatically. “Wow. He likes them so much he used a complete sentence.”
I ignore him. But as I stare down at the application again, something unfamiliar settles low in my chest.
Anticipation.
Which is ridiculous, because I haven’t met anyone who thinks like Rune.
But this applicant might come close.
And for the first time in months… I almost forget to wonder where she is—my online rival, my pen pal.
But like the sideview mirror says:
Warning! Objects in mirror might be closer than they appear.