21. Jae #2
The room is dark, the gray blackout curtains pulled shut against the morning sun.
On the heavy mahogany desk, a mechanical keyboard and mouse rest beside a glowing dual-monitor setup, the liquid-cooling rig humming quietly in the corner as its pale blue lights pulse through the glass case.
It’s an immaculate, sterile room—no clutter, no stray papers, nothing that signals anyone actually lives here except for the high-end hardware glowing in the dim light.
I slide into the deep leather gaming chair, set the stolen Pepero box next to my mousepad, and reach for the headset hanging from the stand.
I pull the cushions over my ears. The hum of the house vanishes. Outside my window, Seoul keeps moving, but inside, the world goes completely still.
The primary display casts a stark blue glow across my face. My fingers find the mechanical keys on pure muscle memory—WASD, thumb resting on the spacebar, index finger hovering over the mouse button.
The lobby music thrums through the headset—a low, pulsing synth beat.
Amiyah is already waiting in the party lobby. Her avatar—a Horizon wearing the custom skin I watched her unlock piece by piece over the summer—stands locked in, the gold weapon skin gleaming on her back in the pre-match light.
I open the voice channel. “You alive over there, Lane?”
A beat passes. The rapid clack of her keyboard comes through the mic, followed by her voice, cool and dry. “I’m optimizing. Some of us like to warm up with an actual plan, Jae.”
“Some of us like to shoot without analyzing the map geometry for five full minutes.”
“Some of us have win rates that justify the geometry.”
I fight off a smile. Her banter has grown sharp over the summer—delivered with the calm, terrifying certainty of someone who views mercy as a tactical error.
“Your win rate is three percent higher than mine,” I say.
“Four point two,” she corrects instantly. “As of Tuesday. I keep records.”
“Of course you do.”
We load into the Firing Range for our usual warm-up duels before queuing into Battle Royale matches. Our avatars spawn at opposite ends of the red dirt arena, weapon racks gleaming under the artificial sky.
I slide out from behind the middle barrier, bringing my Sentinel up in a smooth arc. The 2x-4x scope centers on her Horizon moving along the high ledge. I hold my breath, tracking her movement, and pull the trigger.
Crack.
An orange hit-marker flashes on my HUD—a clean ninety-eight damage. Blue armor cracks.
“Ledge, tagged ninety-eight,” I say, already chambering the next round.
“Noted,” her voice comes back, smooth and completely unfazed.
Before my bolt cycles, the low, pressurized WHOOSH of a gravity lift echoes through my headset. She launches off the ledge, arcing over the gap between the rock pillars in a filthy, high-speed flank that cuts off my line of sight.
I swing my mouse left, trying to track her mid-air, but she’s already behind me.
Rat-tat-tat-tat.
A ruthless, laser-tight burst from her Flatline shreds through my health before I can even turn my character around. My screen turns gray, the death sound chiming loud in my ears as my avatar collapses into the dust.
Killed by: PinkPrecision.
“Nice,” I say, leaning back in my chair, my voice dripping with deadpan sarcasm.
“Naturally.” No gloating. Just a calm statement of fact.
“Nah, that was a cheap-ass kill,” I mutter, watching her avatar crouch-spam over my deathbox on screen. “You abused the lift momentum.”
“Cry about it,” she replies without missing a beat.
This is our rhythm. Ever since she got back from Europe three weeks ago, we’ve been logging on at least twice a week—the same game, the same headset pressed to my ears, while sixteen hours and eight thousand miles sit between us.
In just those few weeks, I’ve had to relearn her gameplay—the subtle pause before she pushes a room, the slight breath she holds when she spots an ambush, the aggressive angle she takes when she knows she has the upper hand.
She knows I’m reading her, too. Her response has been to play harder, pushing tighter angles and taking riskier fights just to see if I can keep up.
I find it infuriating. I also find it—though I’d rather swallow glass than admit it out loud—absolutely fucking sexy.
We queue up for Battle Royale, dropping straight into the meat grinder of Fragment East on World’s Edge (60 PLAYERS REMAINING / 20 SQUADS). We clear two squads off the rooftops, pushing north as the automated system voice cuts through the comms: “Attention: Ring 2 closing in sixty seconds.”
We push into the final circle, but as the barrier forces us into the open, two converging squads pinch us from opposite angles.
Heavy fire rains down from the ridge. I take out one, but her Horizon goes down under a barrage of grenades.
Seconds later, my screen flashes blue: 2ND PLACE / SQUAD ELIMINATED. Neither of us mentions the loss.
We don't log off. The post-game lobby sits quietly on our screens. I lean back, the leather of my chair creaking in the dark. Outside, Seoul is completely quiet.
“You still there?” Amiyah asks. Her tone softens, the competitive edge melting into something warmer.
“Still here.”
A quiet hum lingers on her end—the faint clatter of a coffee mug, the soft click of her laptop keys. Early morning in Los Angeles. She’s probably sitting at her desk, hair pulled back in that messy knot she only lets me see on webcam, surrounded by early readings for the semester.
“What’s on your schedule today?” she asks.
“Family negotiations,” I say simply. “You?”
“Reading an eight-hundred-page property law brief before classes hit in three weeks. The usual law student prep.”
I smile into the dark room. “Sounds thrilling.”
“I live for the glamour.”
We talk for another hour—about case law, ridiculous campus posts, and the terrible artisanal coffee she bought that tastes like melted crayons. Her voice carries through the earpiece with a steady, quiet intimacy that shrinks the sixteen-hour time gap down to nothing.
“I should go,” she says softly. “Got two more chapters to outline before noon.”
“Go kick that outline’s ass, hotshot.”
“I always do, Jae. Try to keep up.”
“Unbelievable,” I murmur.
And then she laughs—that real, unguarded laugh that breaks through her reserve, warm and bright. It fills my headset, fills the quiet darkness of my room in Seoul, and lingers long after the line goes dead.