The soft hum of the washing machine blended with the muted tick of the antique clock in the corner. Lillian — or Lily, as her friends called her — sat on the wide, dark leather couch, folding a neat stack of laundry across her lap. The couch alone could have bought someone else's entire apartment, yet in this home it didn't feel cold or showy. That was Lily's doing. Despite the sprawling space and the gleam of wealth tucked into every detail — the enormous flat-screen mounted on the wall, the polished shelves lined with imported vases, the faint glow of automated lighting — the living room breathed warmth.
Earth tones softened every corner. Framed family photos sat proudly on the mantle beside a vase of fresh tulips. A knitted throw, handmade by Lily herself years ago, was draped casually over the arm of the sofa. It was a grand house, yes, but it smelled faintly of lavender detergent and lemon polish — the kind of place that felt lived in, not staged.
Lily herself matched that atmosphere: refined, but approachable. Her shoulder-length chestnut hair, kissed with light blue highlighted ends, framed a face both youthful and composed. She had warm, honey-brown eyes that always seemed to carry more than one thought at once, and a gentle smile she offered freely, though tonight it was missing. The soft cardigan draped over her shoulders and her small pearl earrings made her look every bit the picture of elegance, yet her hands moved with the practiced rhythm of any mother sorting socks and shirts into tidy piles.
She paused, one folded sweater resting across her knees, her gaze drifting past the coffee table and toward the hallway. Beyond those doors, the calm of the evening fractured. Her eyes lingered on the one at the very end — her son's room.
Locked. A small plastic sign dangling from the knob: Do Not Disturb.
Her lips pressed into a line. She didn't need to ask what he was doing. She knew. He was playing that game. Again.
League of Legends.
Lily let out a quiet sigh, running her thumb along the edge of the folded fabric. She could never quite understand it — her son's obsession, or society's, for that matter. Once, long ago, it was just another video game. But now? League had become everything.
Billboards plastered with the faces of professional players stretched over skyscrapers. Corporate brands fought tooth and nail to sponsor esports teams. Pop groups like K/DA, Heartsteel, and True Damage were global sensations, dominating charts and stages with flashy music videos backed by the game's cultural empire. In classrooms, in cafeterias, on street corners — everyone was talking about patch notes, replays, highlight clips.
And at Aetheridge Central Academy, her son's school, it was more than talk. They held tournaments. Announcers, audiences, prize pools. Children weren't just playing anymore; they were competing for a piece of something bigger.
Her son, Raxian, was right at the center of it.
She was supposed to be proud, wasn't she? By all accounts, she was. He was said to be the top player in his year — maybe even in the entire school. An Ekko midlane specialist who had clawed his way up the ladder, now standing on the edge of Diamond rank. She had been there for him since the beginning, clapping the loudest at local events, hanging medals he'd won in his room herself. She'd seen the way his face lit up when victory screens flashed across his monitor. She had wanted, desperately, to support him.
And yet…
Lily's smile faltered as she folded another shirt, slower this time.
Was this really healthy? This public obsession — this world that had turned a game into life itself? Wasn't it supposed to be just that? A game?
Her eyes shifted back to the closed door in the hallway. Somewhere behind it, the muffled clatter of keys, the faint rise of Raxian's voice — whether in frustration or triumph, she couldn't tell.
Her heart tugged in two directions at once. Pride. Worry. Hope. Doubt.
She exhaled slowly, setting the folded laundry aside.
"Raxian…" she whispered to herself, not loud enough for him to hear.
---
Meanwhile, behind that locked door at the end of the hall, chaos reigned.
The rapid-fire clacking of mechanical keys echoed like gunfire, broken only by the occasional frustrated breath and the creak of a leather chair as Raxian leaned forward, hunched over his glowing monitor. His eyes were locked, unblinking, on the match before him. The screen's neon glow reflected sharp in his pupils.
He knew this champion better than anything. Ekko wasn't just his main — he was his identity. From the day he picked up the game, it had been Ekko. His music, his style, his rhythm. Raxian was a huge True Damage fan, and deep down he carried the dream: to become so exceptional with the boy genius of Zaun that one day he'd stand among the best — maybe even meet Ekko's voice himself, the real rap sensation, face-to-face.
But that was only part of it.
It wasn't enough being one of the top players at Aetheridge Central Academy. It wasn't enough having medals hanging on his wall, proof of tournaments won and battles survived. Not for Raxian. Every victory only drove him harder. He wanted to be recognized — not just as good, not just as promising — but as the best of the best. Someone undeniable. Someone unforgettable. Someone who mattered.
And right now, that dream was slipping away, one minion wave at a time.
The game had started simple enough. On the loading screen, Raxian had barely even looked at his lane opponent. Yasuo? Please. He knew Ekko inside and out. He could handle anything.
Or so he thought.
From the first wave, the enemy Yasuo tore into him. Every time Raxian tried to last-hit, the wind swordsman's blade was already there, zoning him off the creeps like an executioner drawing lines in the sand. His health bar dipped with every exchange.
"Goddammit…" Raxian muttered, slamming a key. His Q — Timewinder — became less a weapon and more a crutch, desperately flung to scrape gold off the wave from a distance. Diving in with Phase Dive? Impossible. Yasuo's Wind Wall devoured his projectiles and punished every attempt. The tornado loomed like a loaded gun, and Raxian knew stepping in range meant getting launched, juggled, shredded.
This feels like when I first started playing… he thought bitterly. No way I'm going back to that.
He tried to break free of the chokehold by roaming bot. If he couldn't win lane, he'd win the map. But the enemy Caitlyn and Morgana sat maddeningly far back, shields ready, traps perfectly spaced. Even with his ult, there was no gap to punish. Morgana's Black Shield and snare threatened to erase him before he could blink.
Hopeless.
Fine. Call for backup. He spammed pings, begging his jungler to gank mid. But even when help came, Yasuo slipped away with surgical precision, Sweeping Blade dashes turning minions into an escape ladder. The bastard had map awareness like a hawk.
Raxian's teeth clenched. He had Ignite; Yasuo had Teleport. He should've had kill pressure. He should've had control. But Yasuo never gave him the opening. Never misstepped. And when Teleport lit up, the map bled. Towers crumbled. Side lanes fell. Raxian's team spiraled, and all fingers pointed at him.
"Mid diff," someone typed.
"Report Ekko," another chimed.
The words stabbed deeper than the Yasuo ult.
Raxian's fists tightened on his mouse and keyboard. He snapped back, blaming them. What did they expect? That he could 1v2 while bot lane played safe like cowards? That his jungler's half-hearted gank would work when Yasuo read them like a book?
No — this wasn't just any Yasuo. This was a smurf. It had to be.
By the time the nexus exploded, Raxian's score sat at 2/7/2. He stared at the defeat screen, pulse thundering in his ears.
Then his fist crashed into the desk. The monitor rattled. His headset tore free and clattered across the floor.
"Bullshit!" he roared, chest heaving.
The silence after was deafening. His breath came sharp and uneven, the sweat on his palms sticking to the desk. His screen glowed back at him — Defeat. The red letters burned.
Then — ping.
A message slid across the bottom corner of the client.
[RyzeFlicker]:yo lil man, rough game huh? 😂
Raxian froze. His heart dropped like a stone. No way.
[TimeWrapped]:…you were watching?
[RyzeFlicker]:front row seat, popcorn n everything 🍿ngl that yas stomped you harder than finals week
[TimeWrapped]:fuck off
[RyzeFlicker]:nah fr tho…u typed "bullshit" so hard i swear i felt it through my monitor 💀
Raxian groaned, dragging a hand through his hair. He didn't even notice he'd typed it in the post game-chat.
[TimeWrapped]:why do u even care loldon't u have college shit to do or whatever
[RyzeFlicker]:bro im multitasking, life skills 😎besides, someone's gotta make sure u don't throw ur pc out the window again
Rax's cheeks burned. "That was one time," he muttered aloud, typing furiously.
[TimeWrapped]:it lagged. wasn't my fault.
[RyzeFlicker]:copium.exe activated 😂
[TimeWrapped]:you're actually insufferable
[RyzeFlicker]:facts. but i still got ur back.listen, ego aside… that yas was clean. u gotta admit.
Raxian hesitated, fingers hovering over the keys. The image of that Yasuo still replayed in his mind: the rhythm, the precision, the way his own every move was read before it happened. It made his stomach twist.
[TimeWrapped]:he got lucky.
[RyzeFlicker]:nah. that wasn't luck. that was work.kinda like what u'd look like if u stopped malding every other match 😉
[TimeWrapped]:ok old man chill
[RyzeFlicker]:im 22 not 80respect ur elders kid
For a moment, the banter softened the weight pressing down on Raxian's chest. Raze had that effect — loud, teasing, annoying as hell… but grounding.
[RyzeFlicker]:real talk tho. add him.
Raxian blinked.
[TimeWrapped:what? why would i do that.
[RyzeFlicker]:bc he's the exact kinda player u wanna learn from.u wanna climb? u study the ppl who kick ur ass. simple.
[TimeWrapped]:nah. not happening.
[RyzeFlicker]:u scared?
[TimeWrapped]:im not scared.
[RyzeFlicker]:then prove it. hit that add button. what's the worst that happens? he declines?best case u actually learn something instead of yelling at ur monitor.
Raxian clenched his jaw. His pride screamed against it, but… a part of him knew Raze was right. He hated how often that was the case.
[TimeWrapped]:…fine. whatever.
His cursor hovered over AkarisLite. Fingers tight on the mouse, he clicked Add Friend. The request sent.
A hollow feeling settled in his chest, half-defiance, half-anticipation.
[RyzeFlicker]:attaboy. knew u had it in u.now get some water before u combust 💀
Raxian leaned back, exhaling sharply, the corner of his mouth twitching upward despite himself.
---
The notification pinged softly.[AkarisLite]: Hey. GG.
Raxian blinked at the screen.That was it? No "ez," no "better jungler wins," no victory lap with emotes? Just hey gg.
He narrowed his eyes. Wait a damn minute.
[TimeWrapped]: lol u mocking me?[TimeWrapped]: cus u stomped me that hard huh
There was a pause. He half-expected them to reply with some smug emoji. Instead:
[AkarisLite]: nah. just meant gg. u played fine.[AkarisLite]: u just tunneled too much mid. kept forcing it.
Raxian froze. Advice? They were giving him advice?
He leaned back in his chair, scoffing. Who the hell does this guy think he is?
[TimeWrapped]: oh so now ur my coach huh[TimeWrapped]: lol ok whatever
Another ping.
[AkarisLite]: not tryna coach u. just saying.u wanna climb, focus less on forcing ur winconmore on punishing mistakes.
Raxian stared at the lines, jaw tightening. He hated how… calm it sounded. No flex, no gloat, just—facts. Which only pissed him off more.
Raze's words echoed in his head: "u wanna climb? u study the ppl who kick ur ass. simple."
Tch. Easy for him to say. Raxian had climbed to this point on his own grit. He didn't need some random Yasuo smurf telling him how to play.
[TimeWrapped]: ya ya ok thanks for the lecture.ill keep that in mind professor.
[AkarisLite]: chill man. just trying to help.good luck in ur games.
Raxian let out a sharp laugh through his nose, running a hand through his hair. He typed one last line:
[TimeWrapped]: sure. gl too.
And with that, he shoved his chair back and slammed the monitor's power button a little harder than necessary. The screen went black, his reflection faint in the glass — jaw tight, eyes still burning with the sting of defeat.
But the advice lingered anyway.
No matter how much he wanted to shake it off, it had wedged itself into his head like a splinter.