Raxian hadn't gotten a proper night's sleep in days. His eyes, usually sharp with playful arrogance, were dull beneath the classroom lights. His uniform was a little more disheveled than usual—tie looser, jacket unbuttoned, dark circles beginning to ghost beneath his eyes. He'd still sit at his usual spot in the front, back straight like always, but something was clearly… off.
Marcus leaned in during homeroom, eyeing him with concern."You good, man? You look like someone reset your life file mid-save."
Raxian waved him off with a half-smirk, but Tess caught the exchange and raised a brow."Seriously, you've looked like hell all week. And not your usual cool kind. Just—hell."
Jake, ever the loudmouth, leaned over his desk and grinned."Oh, I know exactly what it is. That game's eating you alive, huh?"He mimicked holding an invisible controller, tongue out in mock concentration."Probably still thinking about that assassin chick who mopped the floor with you. Let loose, man. Even better—duel me."
Raxian shot him a deadpan look. "Pass."
"Aww, come on. For old times' sake," Jake pressed, grinning wider. "Back to the roots. The street rat versus the brawler. You might even win this time."
That earned a snort from Marcus and a quiet, "Now that I'd pay to see," from Tess.
Eventually, Raxian relented with a shrug. "Fine. One match."
---
The café was dim and cool, illuminated by rows of glowing monitors and the soft neon pulse of RGB lights overhead. It was a familiar haunt—one they'd spent plenty of afterschool hours in before. The crew gathered around a shared station, booting into a 1v1 exhibition. A private match.
Jake's avatar loaded in first—same as always. His EGO character was the digital embodiment of his real-life confidence: spiky black hair with red firey streaks, red jacket whipping behind him, a flashy brawler-type with glowing gloves and a cocky idle stance. He looked like he'd walked out of a fighting anime intro, eyes glinting with untamed power.
Raxian's avatar loaded in next. Still the same cool, sharp figure in black. Same outfit he'd designed years ago. He never changed it—his identity in-game had always been a constant.
Except… tonight, it didn't feel like him.
The match began, and almost immediately, Jake took control. His movements were fluid, aggressive, but calculated. Feints, baits, relentless pressure. He knew Raxian too well—knew his tells, his hesitation, his rhythm.
And Raxian? He was stiff. Offbeat. Predictable.
He didn't even land a clean combo.
The match ended in a blur of flickering light and a knockout screen that hit harder than it should've.
"WINNER: JAKE-RO! DEFEAT: TIMEWRAPPED!"
"Woooo!" Jake stood up, arms raised like he'd just won a championship. "Still got it! The Jake-sweep is real!"
"Dude," Ava muttered, "shut up."
Tess rolled her eyes, clearly unimpressed. "You're acting like you beat a world champion. He's tired."
Marcus leaned back with a sympathetic shrug. "It's not his week. Leave it."
But the damage was done. Jake wouldn't shut up for the next twenty minutes, re-enacting parts of the match in exaggerated slow-mo while the others tried to ignore him.
Raxian didn't say much after the duel. He just slumped deeper into his seat, jaw tense, eyes staring blankly at the screen until the lobby disconnected.
---
The next morning was more of the same. Raxian sat through class in a daze, barely speaking. His hair was unstyled, hands deep in his pockets, as if he was trying to disappear into himself.
And somewhere across the room—Fayne was doodling like always, the twins whispering nonsense to each other. Sable sat in her usual seat next to Bruce. Beanie still in place. Her gaze briefly flicked to him.
She didn't say anything.
But she noticed.
The way his posture slumped just slightly more each day. The silence where there used to be cocky remarks. The tension in his jaw. The shift in his rhythm.
She noticed all of it.
And though she didn't say a word…
It stuck with her.
---
The hallway had thinned out during the break. Most students drifted toward the courtyard or the vending machines, filling the air with the usual hum of teenage chatter. But by the lockers—by the windows that overlooked the sports field—it was quieter.
Raxian stood with his back to the world, elbow resting against the metal as he stared into his half-open locker. He wasn't really looking for anything. His backpack hung limply off one shoulder, and his uniform shirt was crumpled at the collar. He looked like he hadn't slept. Because he hadn't.
He'd asked his group for space, just for the break. Jake had whined, of course, but Marcus caught on quickly, and Tess didn't need much convincing. Even Logan, who rarely said anything unless he had to, had gently tugged Jake away with a single look.
So Raxian stood alone.
Or so he thought.
A quiet presence leaned against the locker beside his, just outside his peripheral vision. He didn't notice until he turned to close the locker door—and froze.
Sable.
She had one boot pressed against the lockers behind her, one knee bent, arms crossed over her chest. Same oversized beanie pulled down low over her ears, same loose uniform with small custom touches—a chain at her hip, fingerless gloves barely peeking out of her sleeves. Her posture was relaxed, unreadable. A single headphone rested in one ear.
He blinked. "...You good?"
Her gaze flicked over to him, cool and steady. "You look like hell."
Raxian huffed a quiet laugh. "Yeah. That obvious?"
She shrugged. "Little bit."
There was a beat of silence. Not awkward, just… suspended. Like she was giving him the choice to say more. He didn't.
She tilted her head slightly, studying him. "That game, huh?"
His brow twitched, the tired in his eyes suddenly sharpening. "What about it?"
"I've seen that look before," she said, voice low. "You're in your own head. You're losing."
He didn't respond right away. Just stared at her. "...You play?"
"Of course," she said, matter-of-fact. "Thought you noticed the watch."
"I did," he muttered. "Just didn't think you'd say anything."
"I usually don't."
That made him pause. "Then why now?"
Another shrug. "Guess I've been there."
Something in her voice shifted—barely. A flicker of something real beneath the calm. It wasn't pity, not exactly. Just recognition.
He looked at her again, more carefully this time. She was hard to read. Untouchable. But something about her—her silence, her timing—felt intentional.
"Thanks," he said quietly.
Sable pushed off the locker and adjusted the strap of her bag. "Don't thank me. Just get your rhythm back."
And with that, she walked off, disappearing around the corner before he could say another word.
He stood there for a long moment, her words echoing in his head.
"Get your rhythm back."
Maybe it was nothing.
Maybe it wasn't.
---
That afternoon, after trudging home and numbly going through the motions of dinner prep with his mom, Raxian slumped into his room. He hadn't even planned to log on. Not after that loss streak. Not after getting clowned by Jake.
But his watch chimed the moment he set it on his desk.
New Message: AkarisLite.
His breath caught, just for a second. He hadn't messaged them since that first night. His thumb hesitated before tapping open the chat.
AkarisLite:
so. about that rematch.
Raxian stared at the text. Heart ticking a little faster. Was this it? Was this their way of throwing him a bone? He started typing:when?But before he could hit send, another bubble popped up.
AkarisLite:
not an invite.a challenge.
His fingers froze.
AkarisLite:
i've seen your match history.not gonna waste time on you like this.get your head back.then we can talk.
For a moment, Raxian just… blinked at the screen. It wasn't trash talk. It wasn't pity either. It felt like a gut punch — because they were right. His recent stats were garbage, and they'd obviously done their homework.
He typed something—backspaced. Tried again. Nothing sounded good. Nothing sounded like him.
Finally, he sent:you checking up on me now?
The reply came instantly.
AkarisLite
only on the players who might be worth my time.
He felt his jaw tighten, but there was this strange heat creeping under his skin, too. Not anger exactly. More like… a spark.
"fine," he typed.
"don't disappear when i come for you."
Their answer was a single line. Calm. Deadly sure of itself.
AkarisLite:
i'll be waiting.
Their icon dimmed. Offline.
Raxian sat back in his chair, staring at the screen. Somehow, that short exchange had rattled him more than all the losses that day.
He hated how badly he wanted that rematch.Hated how much he wanted to prove them wrong.
That he wasn't spiraling.That he could pull himself out of this.That he could get his shit together — for real this time.
Not for rankings.Not for ego.Just to stand on his own two feet again.
---
Fayne had noticed it, too.
The way Raxian seemed… dulled lately. Frayed around the edges. Like a chord once pulled taut now loosened — still trying to hold a rhythm, but losing tune.
She hadn't said anything, of course. Fayne rarely did. Words were something she reserved for paper, not people. But she saw it. In the way he slumped just a little more in his seat. How his jokes hit slower, quieter. How he stared at his phone screen without really seeing it.
And it wasn't new — not really. She'd been watching Raxian for years. Not in the loud, obvious ways people "watch" others. No. She watched like an observer sketches clouds: quietly, thoughtfully, without demand. Ever since they were kids and their parents — best friends through college — insisted on those awkward playdates. Their dads tagging along, barely bothering to hide the tension between them. That strange, bristling cold that slipped into the room whenever the moms weren't around.
Raxian had always been loud, back then. Boisterous. A spotlight-chaser. The kind of kid who couldn't stand being still. He made faces, cracked jokes, ran too fast down the hallways and talked over everyone else in the room. Fayne, on the other hand, had preferred the corner of the room with her coloring books, or the windowsill where she could hear the birds. She hadn't spoken much, even then. She just watched. Watched the adults talk. Watched her mother laugh too loudly at jokes. Watched Raxian fall over himself trying to be noticed. She saw the performance — even if no one else did.
Back then, she started writing it down.
Her thoughts. Her quiet, wordless feelings. She had a little pink notebook — now faded and tucked into a box in the back of her closet — where she documented every playdate, every shift in tone between their parents, every strange, unexplained thing that unsettled her. And, especially, Raxian. What he did. How he acted. How he changed.
The notebooks had multiplied over the years.
From kindergarten to middle school to high school, they'd always somehow ended up in the same homerooms, the same classrooms. Their desks had drifted further apart, just like their worlds. But Fayne kept watching — from behind her notebooks, from the back row by the windows, from the cafeteria tables tucked into corners. She didn't obsess. She simply… noticed.
She noticed people. Their rhythms. Their contradictions.
And Raxian, perhaps more than most, fascinated her. He had always walked like he was trying to leave something behind. Laughed like he needed it to echo. But lately, even those things were cracking. Even from a distance, Fayne could feel it — something gnawing at him. Something heavy. Maybe he didn't even realize it himself. But she did.
And then there was the new girl. Sable.
Cool, composed, and untouchable in a way that made the air shift when she entered a room. Fayne couldn't quite place it, but there was something… off-pattern about her. Like a note that didn't quite belong in the chord but still made the song richer. She didn't speak much, but her presence pulled attention anyway — and not just from the room. From Raxian, too.
Fayne had caught him glancing.
And… Sable. That name. It scratched at the back of her mind like a word in a dream, something overheard long ago.
She stared out the window now, barely hearing the teacher's lecture, a pen spinning in her hand. Her notebook open, a half-finished sketch idling across the margins. Not of flowers, or stars, or clouds.
But of two shadows.
One chasing something invisible.
The other watching him do it.
She would write about it later.She always did.
---
Fayne's phone buzzed gently in her lap, a soft vibration muffled beneath her oversized sleeve. Her hand drifted down instinctively, brushing past her notebook. She glanced toward the front of the class—Ms. Halden was still facing the whiteboard, mid-ramble about something none of the students were really listening to.
Beside her, Leah subtly elbowed her and arched an eyebrow. Fayne just blinked slowly, nonchalantly tilting her phone up. Mira, always tuned in to anything mildly rebellious, leaned forward just enough to block the view with her shoulder. The twins were chaos and chatter, but they could keep a secret when they wanted to. This was routine.
Fayne unlocked her phone with a quick flick.A message previewed across the screen:
Milo:
You alive?
Fayne's lips curled slightly. She tapped out a reply under the desk, her fingers quiet and practiced.
Fayne:
Just barely. You?
There was a pause. Three dots blinked and disappeared. Then:
Milo:
Existing.Doing a client review in ten. Just checking in.
Fayne:
Coaching or judging?
Milo:
Both. New team. Mid-tier. Think they're hot shit.Not even running def interrupts properly.
Fayne:
Tragic.
Milo:
The real tragedy is me wasting my time on them.
Fayne let out the tiniest breath of a laugh through her nose. That was Milo—dry, unimpressed, always skimming the world from a height no one could reach. He'd always been like that. Reserved, sharp-witted, emotionally muted. But her family had taken him in during one of the hardest chapters of his life. She never asked for details—not directly. But she knew enough.
Even now, years later, he still texted her like this. Never too much. Never dramatic. Just little taps on the shoulder from afar, as if to say: "I'm here. You good?"
Fayne:
You eating?
Milo:
Not this again
Fayne:
Milo.
Milo:
Had tea and bread. Chill.I'm not dead.
Fayne:
…yet.
Another pause. Then:
Milo:
Tell your mom I'm coming over for dinner next time I'm in Aetheridge.
Fayne:
You're always welcome. You know that.
Milo:
I know.
There was something quiet and reassuring in that. Milo didn't do warm. But he didn't have to. That was the thing about Fayne—they understood each other without frills.
She locked her phone again and slipped it back into her bag. Leah peeked at her questioningly, but Fayne just shook her head with a tiny smile. Mira leaned in like she was going to ask who it was, but the teacher turned back around just then, and the twins settled again.
Fayne picked up her pen and continued her notes like nothing happened.But a small warmth had lodged itself in her chest—just enough to soften the edges of her thoughts.
---
It was nearing sunset when Raxian sent the message. Not through the usual chat channels—they had a more personal one. One of those ancient-feeling, barely-used encrypted messenger apps they'd both stubbornly stuck with since back when Raze had to delete socials to avoid his parents. The kind of app that didn't ping or notify, just quietly waited for someone to check it.
Raxian:
You around? Need to talk. Same spot?
It took a while before the read receipt popped up. Then, a single reply:
Raze:
Give me 20. I'm coming.
Twenty minutes later, they met up at the rusted vending machines near the edge of the old skate park—technically a public recreation lot that had been mostly abandoned when the city built a newer park uptown. The ground was cracked, and the rails were rusting, but no one bothered them there. It had become their place. Raze had even taught Raxian how to do a clean ollie on one of those ramps, years ago. It didn't stick, but the memory did.
The lights buzzed dimly above them as Raze punched in the code for a can of black coffee. Raxian grabbed a melon soda—something fizzy, cheap, and sweet. The vending machine clunked as it dropped the cans, like it resented having to still work.
Raze leaned against the railing, can pressed to his lips, eyes scanning the horizon. He had a sharper jawline now, stubble grown in, the tired kind of calm in his eyes that didn't quite suit someone his age. He was 22, but already felt older than that. Worn in, like denim.
His tousled black hair fell in loose waves, curling slightly at the ends with a kind of unruly charm. Amid the dark strands, subtle greenish highlights caught the light—faint, but distinct, like faded war paint that never quite washed out. They were a leftover from a phase, maybe, or a quiet rebellion against the monotony of life—but they suited him. His layered necklaces clinked softly with each shift of his posture, tags and pendants hanging over a thick white knit sweater, partially hidden beneath a heavy cardigan patterned in dark, geometric shapes. The faux fur lining along the collar added to the warm, weathered look he always carried.
There was something about the way he dressed—deliberate but effortless, like he never had to try too hard to leave an impression. A single bracelet wrapped around his wrist, the kind you don't take off for months. He looked like someone you'd pass on the street and turn around to watch again, just in case you missed something the first time.
He didn't speak much unless he had something worth saying. But when he did, it landed — soft, steady, like a stone skipping once before sinking. Even now, with the vending machine humming behind them and the cold creeping in through their jackets, Raxian found himself listening — really listening — like he always did when Raze talked.
"Your mom doing okay?" Raze asked after a beat, his voice low, easy.
"Yeah," Raxian said, cracking open his drink. "She asks about you."
"She always does." There was a smile in his voice. "Tell her I'll stop by soon. Maybe cook."
Raxian huffed a dry laugh. "She'll hold you to that."
They let the silence settle in. A familiar kind. Comfortable.
Raxian's sneaker scraped gently against the cracked pavement, eyes fixed on the glow of the vending machine. "You ever feel like you're just… spiraling? Even when you're doing everything you can not to?"
Raze took a slow sip from his can, then lowered it, steam curling into the air. "You spiraling?"
"I don't know," Raxian said, not looking at him. "Just feels like everything's slipping lately. In-game. School. Even with my friends, I'm just… wrong. Off."
"You lost again?" Raze didn't sound surprised. Didn't sound judgmental, either. Just present.
"More than a loss. Dropped a whole division," Raxian muttered. "And some pro player I ran into basically told me to fix my shit before we rematch."
"That AkarisLite player?"
"Yeah." Raxian's voice dropped even lower. "And they were right. I can't even blame it on lag or luck. They were just better. Like they already knew how I'd move."
A long pause. Raze watched a moth spiral aimlessly into the vending light, wings flickering like static. "I've been there, y'know."
Raxian glanced at him. He knew what was coming — but he didn't interrupt.
"You remember when I was couch-hopping?" Raze said quietly. "Showering at that busted gym downtown, eating from gas stations, failing out of class, thinking I'd already missed my shot?"
Raxian nodded. He didn't have to say anything — he remembered all of it. Raze crashing on their couch. His mom making extra dinner without a word. Raze trying to hide how tired he was, how scared he was.
"I thought I was done," Raze said, voice soft. "But I kept showing up. Didn't matter if I felt like shit. I just… kept going. Until something stuck. That's how you dig out."
"You make it sound so—"
"Easy? Nah." Raze looked over at him. "It's not. But it is simple."
Raxian exhaled hard, tilting his can, staring into the bubbles like they might spell out an answer. "Everyone expects me to be something. And I don't even know what I expect from myself anymore."
"Then maybe that's where you start," Raze said, nudging his shoulder lightly. "Figure out what matters to you. Not them. You. Reset your win condition."
The quiet returned — this time heavy, but not hopeless. The wind picked up, whispering through weeds and cracked concrete. Somewhere down the block, a dog barked once, then fell silent.
"Thanks for coming," Raxian said finally.
Raze gave a small shrug, but his voice was steady. "You're my brother, dumbass. You call, I show up. That's just how it works."
They stayed there until the sky went deep purple. Talking about everything and nothing. Sipping warm drinks from dented cans and watching the streetlights flicker on, one by one.
And for the first time in a long time, Raxian didn't feel like he was unraveling alone.
---
In the days that followed, he slipped back into the game.
At first, it was just muscle memory. Logging in. Queueing up. Moving through the motions. He didn't expect anything dramatic. He wasn't even sure what he was looking for. But somewhere between the late-night skirmishes and early morning practice runs, something shifted.
It didn't happen all at once. But gradually — like a pressure valve easing — his fingers started moving with confidence again. His mind sharpened. The lag between intention and execution dissolved. There was a quiet sense of control returning. Flow.
And not just in the game.
He started sleeping better. His schoolwork stopped feeling like a mountain and more like a trail — still steep, but walkable. He laughed more. Ate real meals. Answered messages. Cleaned his room. Not all at once, not perfectly, but enough that his crew took notice.
"Alright, who the hell are you and what did you do with Raxian?" Jake asked one evening, arms crossed as Raxian hummed — actually hummed — while reviewing replays.
Raxian smirked, not looking up from the screen. "Maybe I just remembered I'm cracked."
"Bullshit," Jake said. "You've been chipper lately. Like. Alarmingly chipper. Are you on something? Is this caffeine? Did you start journaling?"
"I'm evolving," Raxian replied smoothly. "Growth arc unlocked."
Ava, ever the realist, chimed in from the corner of the group chat.AVA__:"Glad you found your spark again. Just don't let it go to your head."
RAXIAN:"Would I ever?"
AVA:"Yes. Immediately."
BRUCE:"Dude's already floating. Let the man fly."
But even under the teasing, they all knew something was different — better. He wasn't coasting. He was climbing again. That frantic edge in his voice was gone. The reckless tilting, the emotional crashes, the long silences — replaced with fire. Controlled fire.
And Raxian could feel it too.
It wasn't about being the best. Not right now. It was about wanting to try again. Really try.
He remembered what Raze said — how just showing up was sometimes the whole battle. So that's what he did. One login at a time. One match at a time. One foot in front of the other.
And yeah, maybe he was still figuring everything out. Maybe the rematch with AkarisLite still hung somewhere in the future like a checkpoint.
But for the first time in weeks, Raxian wasn't running from it.
He was ready to meet it head-on.