The alarm hadn't even gone off yet, but Raxian stirred awake, groggy and restless. His body didn't feel like it had rested at all. He hadn't stayed up late grinding matches the night before—logged off earlier than usual, actually—but there was no way he could sleep after the humiliation he'd taken from that one player. AkarisLite. The name burned in his head like static that wouldn't fade.
He sat up, raking a hand through his hair, strands falling wild and uneven across his forehead. His hair was jet black, sharp and untamed, but the streak—the platinum-blond streak—slashed through it like lightning, impossible to ignore. People always noticed it first. Teachers, classmates, even strangers in crowded stations. Like a flaw or a brand. Like something he hadn't chosen, but carried anyway.
Then came his eyes. Gold. Not the soft amber of jewelry stores or beer bottles, but molten, almost predatory gold. They looked like they'd been scorched into him, burned hotter than anyone else's. Rare. A kind of intensity you couldn't hide even if you wanted to. They were the sort of eyes people looked away from quickly, like they'd been caught staring into a flame.
Raxian shoved himself out of bed, tugged on his uniform—the same crisp navy blue-and-white set every other student in his school wore. Except he never wore it like they wanted. He left the top buttons open, letting a slim silver chain show at his collarbone, layered with a sharper, darker necklace that rested lower against his chest. His bracelets clinked faintly as he adjusted his watch, an expensive piece he hadn't bought for himself. It fit too snugly against his wrist, but it gleamed, like everything else in this household did. Earrings glinted when he turned toward the mirror, piercings catching the weak morning light.
The uniform's blazer? Loosened and pushed back, sleeves rolled casually high enough to show the jewelry stacked on his arms. The tie was half-knotted at best, slouching like it didn't care about rules. That was his style. He wasn't going to let them box him in.
---
He skipped breakfast—he usually did—and slung his bag over one shoulder, heading for the door. From the kitchen, the faint shuffle of a newspaper being folded told him his mom was awake.
He leaned on the doorframe a moment, waving toward her without looking fully in. "Later, Mom."
She was sitting at the table in her robe, reading glasses low on her nose, steam rising from a mug she'd forgotten to sip. A stay-at-home wife, through and through. Not because she couldn't work—she'd been sharp, lively once, he knew—but because she'd been boxed into playing the part. Smiling, gentle, quiet. Filling silence in a house too big for the two of them.
And always alone.
The thought twisted something in him. His dad was out again, like always. That man practically lived at his office—or wherever the hell his job kept him. Raxian didn't even know what he did. Business? Politics? Something shadowed, corporate, complicated. His mom never explained. Just said, "He works hard for us, Rax."
But what was the point of providing for a family you never came home to? What was the point of affording this massive, spotless apartment in the center of the city if he was never there to be part of it? Raxian had seen him maybe once a month, if that. The rest was empty chairs at family dinners.
When he was younger, the only times he remembered his dad showing up were public appearances. Tournament days. He remembered his dad in the stands, stiff-backed, clapping politely when Raxian won a match. But never with pride. Never for him. Always for the cameras, for the status it reflected.
It was a hollow kind of memory. One that left Raxian grinding his teeth now, tightening the strap on his bag. What infuriated him most wasn't his father—it was his mom's silence. She never called him out, never said what she really felt. She smiled through every absence, every lonely night. Pretended like it was normal.
Raxian hated it. Hated that she let herself shrink into the role, playing along as if that was enough.
He pulled the door open, muttered another quick, "See you," and stepped into the elevator bringing him down the building.
The air outside was cooler than he expected for mid-spring, crisp enough to sting faintly against his skin. He tugged at his collar, loosening the tie until it hung in that careless way he preferred, and shoved his hands into his pockets as he set off for school. Each step felt heavier than the last, his mind still tethered to the night before. Passing the glass doors of the apartment building, he caught the burn of gold in his eyes reflected back at him—sharp, defiant, alive even when he felt anything but.
---
The streets were already alive despite the early hour, the rush of voices and footsteps carrying through the avenues as students in uniforms streamed toward their academies, and office workers shouldered past one another in pressed suits and coffee in hand. Delivery drones cut across the skyline like darting birds, weaving between sleek skytrains that hissed along their elevated tracks.
Everywhere, the city pulsed with the same heartbeat: League. Towering billboards stretched along glass high-rises, holographic ads spilling into the streets with seamless motion. The faces of the world's top players flickered in neon — their gamer tags lit up like gods of a new pantheon. K/DA shimmered across one building with a new single, while another block boasted Heartsteel's latest tour announcement, fans already clustering near posters to snap pictures. True Damage grinned down from the overpass, their lyrics synced to the beat pumping faintly from open cafés. League wasn't just a game here; it was the air people breathed, the fuel of the city's identity.
Even the smaller details screamed it — a kid running late with a pro team's jersey half-tucked into his uniform pants, a shop clerk rolling up shutters under a glowing sign shaped like an in-game rune, an AR stream hovering over the street corner showing highlights from last night's regional match.
And through it all, Raxian walked, jaw tight. Each flashing banner and chanting crowd tightened the knot in his chest. His reflection stared back at him from the glass of a skyscraper — but it wasn't his face he wanted to see. It was his name that should've been plastered up there, blazing brighter than all the rest. The thought burned, sharper than the morning chill.
---
The café windows glowed against the grey morning, warm light spilling across the street. Inside, the smell of roasted beans clung to the air, and the low hum of conversation mixed with the hiss of the espresso machine.
Raxian had made it a habit to stop by here before school — not so much for the coffee, but because this was where his crew always gathered. The café was their unofficial headquarters, a second home before the day really began. Tess's family owned the place, which meant they had a booth that was basically reserved for them. No matter how early he arrived, someone was always already there.
And sure enough, the gang was assembled.
At the booth by the window sat two familiar figures…
Ava, sleek dark purple bob cut sharp against her jawline, her deep violet eyes fixed on her phone, sat with perfect posture. Her navy blazer was buttoned neatly, her tie aligned just right. Even in uniform, she looked like she belonged in a brochure. A silver ring gleamed on her finger, and she had that air of someone who never, ever messed up.
Across from her was Logan, his chestnut-brown hair tousled and falling just into his cool gray eyes. His blazer hung loosely off his shoulders, his striped tie undone halfway, a hoodie zipped up underneath. Headphones rested around his neck, the cord trailing into his pocket. He stirred his coffee absently, gaze distant, the picture of someone who didn't care but still managed to look put together.
Behind the counter, Tess moved with practiced sharpness. Her pink hair was tied back in a low ponytail, her blue eyes cutting as she wiped down the counter. Her apron hung over her uniform, sleeves rolled past her elbows. The blazer and tie were folded neatly in the back, waiting for her shift to end. Practical, no-nonsense, and sharp-edged—just like the tone she used with her friends.
"Jake," she muttered without looking up, "either order something or stop breathing on the pastries."
Jake leaned against the counter like it was his stage. His black-and-red streaked hair was messy but styled just enough to look intentional, his bright green eyes lit with mischief. His school blazer was open over a hoodie, his tie hanging loose and uneven. Bracelets clinked against his wrist as he grinned, earrings catching the café's light.
"C'mon, Tess," he teased, smirk widening, "don't act like you don't miss me when I'm not here."
"I don't," she deadpanned, moving past him with a tray.
The bell over the café door chimed.
Raxian stepped in, hands shoved into the pockets of his blazer. His eyes scanned the room with the usual mix of tiredness and irritation.
Jake spotted him instantly, grin turning wolfish. He strode over, slinging an arm around Raxian's shoulders.
"There he is! Big man himself. Or should I say… last night's punching bag?"
Raxian stiffened. "The hell are you talking about?"
Jake whipped his phone out like it was evidence. "Don't play dumb, bro. Checked your match history this morning. AkarisLite? Ring any bells?" He gave a mocking gasp, bracelets jingling. "He stomped you, didn't he?"
The words sparked laughter from the booth.
Logan finally lifted his gray eyes, smirking faintly. "Should've dodged."
Ava, still scrolling, didn't even glance up. Her voice was flat, but the edge cut all the same. "Not surprised. You always choke when it matters."
"Wow," Raxian shot back, glaring at them, "glad to know my so-called friends have my back."
A low yawn came from the corner of the booth. Bruce, slouched with his coffee in hand, blinked his sleepy brown eyes. His soft brown hair was messily tousled, his tie half-knotted, his blazer slipping off one shoulder like he'd just rolled out of bed.
"Didn't he choke last week too?" he mumbled, rubbing one eye. "Déjà vu."
"Thanks, Bruce," Raxian muttered, jaw tight.
The bell chimed again, and Marcus strolled in. His wavy dark-brown hair was neatly styled, not a strand out of place, framing his golden-hazel eyes. His uniform looked tailored to him—tie perfectly adjusted, blazer fitted snug, crisp shirt tucked in. A sleek silver watch glimmered on his wrist, his polished shoes clicking against the tile.
Sliding into the booth with a smooth smile, he caught the tail end of the chatter. "Morning," he said lightly, setting down his bag. He glanced at Raxian, his grin sharpening. "What'd I miss? Ah, right—Classic Rax. Losing again."
"Unbelievable," Raxian groaned, dragging a hand down his face.
Jake laughed, clapping him on the back. "Don't worry, man. You're still our number one loser."
Tess set the tray down with a sharp clack, her amber eyes narrowing. "That's enough. Either buy something or take the circus outside. Some of us are actually working."
The group quieted—momentarily. Ava tucked her phone away, Logan leaned back into silence, Bruce sipped his coffee with a sleepy grin, and Marcus smirked knowingly. Jake only snickered, leaning closer to Raxian like he couldn't resist one last jab.
Raxian dropped heavily into the booth, the chaos orbiting him like it always did. Same morning, same gang, same noise.
And somehow, despite the headache, it felt like home.
---
The morning air was brisk, the sun still fighting to push through a blanket of pale clouds. The streets were busy with students heading in the same direction, chatter rippling through the crowd.
Raxian walked in the middle of his crew, as always. He didn't ask for the position, but the others naturally fell into place around him. His golden eyes were set straight ahead, jaw tight, hands in his blazer pockets. Next to him, practically glued at the hip, was Jake—grinning, loud, self-proclaimed "co-leader" of the gang.
Behind them trailed the rest: Marcus, smooth as ever with his crisp uniform, Bruce yawning into his energy drink he got from a vending machine, and Tess, arms crossed, eyes scanning like she was keeping everyone in line. Ava and Logan walked a little off to the side, quieter as usual, pretending to be above it all, though nothing ever escaped them.
It started as a whisper in the courtyard they passed through. Stray words caught their ears: "New student… transfer today… heard they are a League prodigy."
Jake's head immediately snapped toward the source, eyes gleaming with curiosity. "Hold up," he said, spinning on his heel to face the group while walking backwards. "What's this I'm hearing? A prodigy? At our school?"
Marcus raised a brow, smirking. "That's what they're saying. Supposedly he's top tier. Might even give certain people"—he glanced pointedly at Raxian—"a run for their money."
Jake let out a bark of laughter, throwing an arm dramatically around Raxian's shoulders."Ohhh, now this I gotta see. Imagine, the mighty Rax finally having competition. Outside of me—" he paused for effect, eyes glinting, "—and that AkarisLite guy who stomped you yesterday."
His grin widened, teeth flashing. "What if this new prodigy's even better than him? What if he wipes the floor with you too?"
Raxian stiffened under the weight of all their eyes. His platinum streak caught the morning light as he tilted his head away, muttering, "Tch. Rumors are just rumors."
Bruce finally stirred, taking a long sip of his energy drink before mumbling, "Funny how tense you look for someone who doesn't care."
Tess glanced at Raxian, blue eyes narrowing. "Ignore them," she said sharply. "It's probably exaggerated. People love to hype things up."
But the seed was planted, and the group was buzzing. Ava, tucking her hair behind one ear, muttered without looking at him, "Wouldn't be the first time someone overtook you."
Logan gave the faintest smirk, eyes half-lidded. "Should probably get ready for another choke."
Marcus chuckled under his breath, leaning closer as if savoring the tension. "No shame in being second place, Rax. Plat's not so bad, you know."
Jake whooped, nearly doubling over in laughter. "Imagine! Our Emerald boy dethroned. Can't wait to watch."
Raxian didn't rise to the bait this time. He just shoved his hands deeper into his pockets, eyes fixed on the school gates ahead. His silence said more than words: he was rattled, and they all knew it.
The gang kept moving, laughter and teasing trailing through the air around him. But beneath it, the tension clung like static. A new prodigy. A rival. And Raxian couldn't shake the feeling that this wasn't just playground gossip.
---
The classroom buzzed like a hive. Whispers about the rumored transfer student swirled from desk to desk, every voice repeating the same thing: League prodigy.
Raxian slouched into his seat at the front-center, dropping his bag beside his desk. As usual, his crew flanked him like satellites — Jake immediately plopping into the seat beside him, grin plastered across his face.
"Man, I'm telling you," Jake said, leaning in close like he was sharing a state secret, "this guy's the real deal. Rumor has it he climbed faster than anyone else in the region. Might actually be a match for you. Outside of me and AkarisLite, of course."
Raxian groaned, dragging a hand down his face. Jake had been at this since they arrived at the school yard, and it didn't look like he was stopping.
The rest of the class wasn't helping. The gossip had spread like wildfire — snippets of excitement, awe, and envy carrying from the back rows to the front.
Raxian ignored it. He tuned Jake out, eyes scanning the room.
And then they stopped.
By the window, seated in the back, was Fayne.
Her silver-white hair caught the soft morning light, gleaming faintly against the backdrop of the glass. The strands framed her pale face in a simple bob, a single dark clip pinning her bangs neatly to the side. Her sharp blue eyes were lowered to her notebook, where her pen moved in steady strokes. She wore the standard navy school uniform perfectly intact — no rolled sleeves, no loosened tie. Everything about her appearance was tidy, understated, quiet.
That was Fayne. Always Fayne.
---
Memories tugged at him uninvited.
Childhood. His parents nudging him toward her house. Playdates he never asked for. Fayne always tucked away in her room, sketchbook open, pencil in hand. Writing. Drawing. Barely saying a word.
He remembered sitting on her carpet, restless, wanting to show off his newest toy or talk about the games he was playing. She never looked impressed. Never laughed at his antics. Too quiet, too distant, too… uninterested.
And deep down, Raxian had always felt like she didn't really like him. He was too loud. Too flashy. Too much. So he stopped trying. He never got to know her. And as the years rolled by, class after class, grade after grade… the distance between them only widened.
---
A sharp burst of chatter pulled him out of the memory.
"Speak of the devil," someone muttered, and the door swung open.
Mira and Leah, the twins, strolled in.
Mira, her dark hair tied into bouncing twin pigtails, was already talking before she'd even reached her seat. Her warm brown eyes shone with excitement, her voice carrying effortlessly over the classroom buzz. "Did you hear? He's supposed to be insane at League. Like, borderline professional level. Imagine having someone like that in our class!"
Her sister, Leah, followed with a quieter smile, her hair clipped back with neat barrettes. She didn't yap like Mira, but her bright eyes showed the same spark of curiosity. "They're saying he'll be here today," she added, softer but no less eager.
The room swelled with fresh chatter.
Raxian blinked, realizing his thoughts had wandered too far. And that's when he noticed—Fayne was looking at him.
Her blue eyes met his for the briefest moment. Calm, steady, unreadable.
Heat prickled at the back of his neck. He tore his gaze away instantly, staring hard at the blackboard instead.
Jake, of course, noticed. He leaned over with a smirk. "Oho. What's this? Finally noticing the quiet girl in the back?"
"Shut up," Raxian muttered.
But the thought lingered, unwanted.
---
The steady murmur of voices filled the classroom, laughter and snippets of half-finished stories bouncing between desks as students leaned into their little cliques. The door slammed open with a sharp thud, and silence washed through the room like a tide being pulled back.
In stepped Mr. Harland—their homeroom teacher. He was tall and wiry, dressed immaculately in a pressed charcoal suit, his black hair slicked back so precisely it seemed glued in place. His thin-framed glasses caught the morning light as he scanned the room, and that was all it took—every conversation died down. He had that rare, commanding presence, the kind that could wring obedience out of a restless classroom without needing to raise his voice. His sharp brown eyes flicked across each student like a hawk, and the atmosphere tightened.
"Settle," he said simply, and the room obeyed.
Harland clasped his hands behind his back, voice steady and deliberate."Today, we have a transfer student joining us."
Immediately, the tension shifted—shoulders leaned forward, whispers bubbled. Everyone was hungry for a new face, some fresh disruption to their daily rhythm.
He cleared his throat. "This is Sable Holloway. She's moved around quite a bit, but originally comes from Havencrest."
The name dropped into the silence like a stone into a pond—ripples of murmurs instantly spread.
Sable? Was that a boy's name? Or a girl's name? Didn't it sound more like a girl's name? And hadn't Harland said "she"? Everyone's anticipation sharpened.
The door eased open again.
And in walked Sable.
She had an effortless air about her, like she already knew all eyes would be on her and didn't care in the slightest. Her black hair fell in messy layers just above her shoulders, the fringe long enough to brush past one sharp, green eye. The other was just as striking, carrying a calm sharpness that hinted at someone used to watching more than speaking.
The standard school uniform—crisp white shirt, dark blazer, plaid skirt—was on her, yes, but styled to her own rules. The tie hung loosely knotted, her blazer sleeves rolled up just enough to flash the leather band around her wrist. She'd undone the top button of her shirt, collar hanging a little open, and her skirt had a subtle asymmetry to it like she'd cut or pinned it to suit herself. Somehow, the look was casual but deliberate, the exact kind of careless-cool that made people lean in.
She raised her hand in a casual half-wave—more acknowledgment than greeting—and without waiting for further instruction, she strode down the row, boots scuffing faintly against the tile.
She didn't bother introducing herself. Didn't need to.
At the back corner, an empty seat waited—right beside Bruce, who was slouched against his desk, a half-crushed can of energy drink in hand. He blinked at her once, sluggish from the caffeine overload, before taking another sip.
Sable slid into the chair as if it had been hers all along, leaning back with her arms crossed loosely, her posture unbothered and settled. Like she'd always been there.
Mr. Harland adjusted his glasses, unmoved."She'll be observing for today. No academic expectations."
A faint grin tugged at the corner of Sable's mouth. That suited her just fine.
The room, however, was alive with curiosity. Every glance that cut her way, every whisper behind palms and bent notebooks, only seemed to bounce harmlessly off her. She didn't flinch, didn't bristle, didn't care.
From the very first moment, she sat there like she belonged.
---
Break came fast, chatter exploding the moment the teacher stepped out. Jake—predictably—was the first to pounce. He slid right up to Sable's desk, leaning against it with all the cocky energy of someone who thought the new kid couldn't possibly resist his charm.
"So," he grinned, "you're new here. Lucky for you, I happen to be the best tour guide in the whole building. If anyone's gonna interrogate you—uh, I mean, show you around—it should be me."
Sable barely tilted her head toward him. She didn't look annoyed, but she didn't look entertained either. Her expression stayed unreadable, lips in the faintest almost-smile as though she'd heard his pitch a thousand times before and already knew the script.
"No thanks," she said simply, voice calm, cutting the momentum flat without even trying.
Jake blinked, baffled. His mouth opened like he was going to argue, but Tess's voice cut across the row.
"Buzz off, Jake. Give her space," Tess snapped, not even looking up from her notebook.
Jake raised both hands dramatically, muttering something about "just being welcoming," but the sting of being brushed off lingered in his baffled expression.
Other students swarmed soon after—curious faces, eager voices. A cluster formed around her desk: where was she from, why was she here, what did she like? The usual barrage. Sable leaned back casually in her chair, arms draped loose at her sides, eyes scanning the crowd without focusing on anyone in particular. She didn't roll her eyes, didn't sneer, but her silence spoke louder than words.
Finally, she let out a level reply, slow and unbothered:"I'll check out the place on my own."
That was it. No follow-up, no smile to soften it, no edge to sharpen it. Just a simple refusal that didn't leave much room to push.
The crowd hesitated, like someone had flipped a switch. Interest fizzled, feet shuffled, and the students peeled away one by one, retreating to their own groups. The energy in the room shifted. For now, at least, she'd been granted space.
---
When the second class started, Jake—persistent as ever—gave it another go. He leaned halfway across the aisle, grinning like he hadn't been shut down already.
"So," he started again, "about that tour—"
"No."
Sable didn't even look at him this time. She was already opening her notebook, posture relaxed but firm. It wasn't rejection with bite—it was rejection with indifference.
Jake sat back, mouth hanging open. "She didn't even look at me," he muttered.
"Good," Tess deadpanned.
Around them, the normal rhythm of class resumed.
But not for Raxian. From his seat, he had been throwing the occasional glance her way. At one point, she caught it.
Their eyes locked, just for a beat.
Sable didn't look away. She held his gaze with the same chill, grounded presence she'd carried since she walked through the door. Then, as if dismissing the moment, she broke eye contact on her own terms—calm, collected, unbothered.
And just like that, Raxian realized he might've been the only one in the room who actually believed she was paying attention.
---
The final bell rang, and chairs scraped back as students filtered toward the door. Sable was one of the first up, weaving into the stream of bodies without hesitation, her dark hair brushing her shoulders as she slipped out. She hadn't said a word to anyone on the way. Jake had spent the entire day trying to crack her shell—grand tour offers, dumb jokes, casual "what's your deal?" questions—but she had deflected every attempt with the same cold efficiency.
Logan fell into step with him on the way out. "Hopeless," he muttered, earbuds slung around his neck.
Jake shoved his hands into his pockets, scowling. "C'mon, man. Who doesn't laugh at my jokes? Or at least something? You telling me she's immune?"
"Seems that way," Logan said flatly.
They regrouped outside on the school grounds. The afternoon sun stretched long shadows across the pavement, painting the edges of the courtyard in gold. Jake still hadn't gotten over his bruised ego.
"I mean seriously, who does she think she is? Ignoring me like that? It's unheard of." Jake gestured dramatically, as if appealing to a higher power.
"You're more obsessed with her than the rest of the class combined," Marcus teased, throwing his backpack over one shoulder.
"Facts," Tess said, smirking. "You look more desperate than the gossip squad by the lockers."
Before Jake could snap back, Ava adjusted her bag and cut in, calm as ever. "I'm not sticking around. I've got something after school today. I'll catch you guys tomorrow."
That caught their attention. "What's that about?" Marcus asked.
They all turned to Logan, since he was practically glued to Ava most of the time.
Logan shrugged. "Business's business."
Tess raised a brow. "That so?"
Ava tilted her head, her hair sliding neatly back over her shoulder. "It's nothing dramatic. Just my side job. Personal training gig."
"Figures," Tess said with a short laugh. "That girl has all the skills. Don't know how you keep up, Logan."
"She doesn't game much, remember?" Logan countered.
"Still," Tess pressed, "she'd probably beat you at that too if she cared enough."
The group chuckled and let it die there, the banter running its course as their paths started to split off—side streets and train stations pulling them apart one by one. The air cooled as the chatter thinned, leaving only Jake, Marcus, and Raxian walking the last stretch.
---
Marcus slowed before his turn. "Oh—before I forget. You guys know Raze scheduled a custom with his college crew tonight, right?"
Raxian raised a brow. "Didn't hear about that."
Marcus smirked. "Supposed to be a full ten-man. Him against his buddies. Thought it'd be interesting to watch."
Jake perked up instantly. "Oh, hell yeah. Spectate party. Let's all hop on and watch him stomp. I need to see this guy clown his own friends."
Raxian shook his head with half a grin. "Don't underestimate them. He's been talking about how sweaty they can get."
"Please," Jake scoffed. "Your boy Raze? The guy's already Diamond Two. That's like another planet compared to us. He's what, some kind of Rift warlord at this point?"
"Pretty much," Marcus said, chuckling. "And don't forget—he's got that Singed ADC thing he always pulls out. Half the fun is watching people tilt when he runs it down bot lane and still wins."
Jake threw an arm around Raxian's shoulder with exaggerated enthusiasm. "I'm telling you—this is content. We're grabbing snacks, piling in, and spectating the whole thing. No excuses."
Raxian just sighed, but the corner of his mouth twitched.
Raze—RyzeFlicker—wasn't just Raxian's older friend. He was the older brother figure of their circle, the guy who could tilt the enemy team in game but talk you down in real life. He carried himself with that Diamond-level calm, the kind of presence that made the rest of them feel like they were still playing little league. And he loved nothing more than bending the rules—like locking in Singed with a smile and somehow making it work.
It wasn't just another match. For the group, it was a chance to see how far the gap really stretched between them and the kind of player they all secretly wanted to be.
---
When Raxian got home, the first thing he did was toss his bag on the floor and boot up his PC. The screen's glow lit up his room in pale blue, the familiar client opening with its chiming login sound.
RyzeFlicker was already online. Not just online—he was sitting in a custom lobby with six others, waiting for the last three to lock in.
Figures. Raze never wasted time.
While the lobby timer ticked down, Raxian flicked through his friend list. That's when his eyes caught on another name.
AkarisLite.
Still there. Still online. Still playing.
They hadn't unfriended him after last night's match. Part of him itched to click in and spectate—to prove that guy was smurfing in an elo he didn't belong in, to see if that "calm, respectful" front was just another trick.
But his finger hovered over the name a little too long.
No. Nope. He definitely wasn't curious. Definitely wasn't wasting his time on some smug mid-laner.
"Leave them be…" he muttered to himself. Then paused. "…Yeah. Definitely."
He closed the window and joined the spectate call.
---
Jake was already loud in voice chat, headset crackling. "Finally! Took you long enough, Rax. You're about to witness greatness. Raze is gonna clap these clowns."
Marcus's smooth tone cut in, calm but amused. "Let's not pretend we don't know what's coming. This guy doesn't play the game—he rewrites the rules. Every match is a gamble with him."
Tess had joined too—Jake had dragged her in—and her sigh came across crystal clear. "You people are hopeless. It's just another game."
"Not just another game," Jake shot back. "This is Raze. This is the man, the myth, the legend."
Raxian leaned back in his chair, half-smiling despite himself. Raze wasn't just their "older brother" figure—he was their wild card, their ace. Watching him play was like sitting front-row at a magic show.
---
The tension climbed as the spectate lobby loaded into champion select.
Marcus hummed. "So, what's he going to pull this time? Kai'sa? Jhin?"
The cursor hovered over both. Kai'sa. Jhin. Even hovered on Ezreal for a second.
But then it stopped. Locked.
Ryze.
The champion that had given him his name. Not meta. Not stable. Not what anyone else would've dared in bot lane. But so perfectly Raze.
Jake cheered. "YES. The OG is back! THIS is the champion that built his reputation."
"Or ruined it," Tess muttered.
"Blasphemy," Jake shot back.
Marcus chuckled. "No, she's right. He's a wildcard. Could 1v5. Could run it down. The line's thin with him."
"That's the point," Jake said. "That's why we watch."
---
The game unfolded like only a Raze match could. Laning phase looked suicidal at first—Ryze, fragile mage, walking into every other auto Jinx threw. But then the cage came down. Rune Prison snapped tight, and Jinx froze. Three combos later, she was dead under her own tower.
The second time, same thing.
The third time, Jake couldn't hold it in. He leaned into his mic and barked, "Get Jinxed!"
The call went silent.
Jake blinked. "You guys didn't—seriously? No one? Not even a chuckle?"
Marcus's voice was bone-dry. "That was awful."
"Terrible," Tess added without missing a beat.
Even Raxian groaned. "You're banned from jokes for the rest of the night."
Jake grumbled under his breath, but they could hear him laughing anyway.
From there, Raze only accelerated. Roaming mid, teleport flanks, caging squishies left and right. By the twenty-five-minute mark, it came down to him and Jules—his old college buddy, captain of the other team. The clash was brutal, but when the dust settled, it was Raze's Ryze standing tall over Jules' battered Zed.
The nexus fell, blue light shattering across the screen.
Victory.
---
Raze had no idea they'd been spectating. He was probably already joking around with his college friends in their own call.
But for Raxian, Jake, Marcus, and Tess—it felt like their win too. They cheered, clapped into their mics, Jake yelling something about "all hail the Rift King," while Tess told him to shut up through a laugh she didn't quite hide.
For a moment, the weight of rumors, transfer students, and AkarisLite's smug shadow didn't matter.
It was just them, watching someone they all looked up to do what he did best.
And it felt good.
---
Raxian's room was dim except for the glow of his monitor, still humming with the aftertaste of Raze's match. His phone buzzed on the desk.
[RyzeFlicker]: yo lil man, saw you in the lobby 👀 spectating me like a fan club?
Raxian rolled his eyes and dropped onto his bed, thumbs flying.[TimeWrapped]: shut up. just here to watch you int.
[RyzeFlicker]: int?? pls, that was performance art. tell tess she's gotta roll her eyes harder if she wants it to count.
Raxian smirked despite himself, but he wasn't here to stroke Raze's ego. He typed quickly:[TimeWrapped]: ggs tho. your ryze is still busted.
[RyzeFlicker]: damn right. OG status. u all cheering for me or clowning on me?
[TimeWrapped]: both.
There was a pause. Then, the message he knew was coming, the one he dreaded.
[RyzeFlicker]: so… did you add him?
Raxian froze, the victory buzz souring in his chest. His fingers tightened around the phone.
[TimeWrapped]: bruh seriously? you're bringing THAT up?
[RyzeFlicker]: what?? im just asking. follow-up on homework.
[TimeWrapped]: i didn't text to get grilled about last night. we're celebrating YOUR win, not—
[RyzeFlicker]: lmao relax. mans gets tense faster than his ping spikes.
Raxian glared at the screen. His cheeks warmed—annoyance, embarrassment, both.[TimeWrapped]: you're actually the worst.
[RyzeFlicker]: nah. the worst is u dodging questions. did u add him or not.
Raxian jabbed the screen harder than necessary.[TimeWrapped]: …yeah. i did.
Silence for a moment. Then a reply.
[RyzeFlicker]: 👏 attaboy. proud of u.
That single line, so smug yet sincere, made Raxian groan into his pillow."Unbelievable…"
[TimeWrapped]: bro chill. it's not that deep. no rematch, end of story.
[RyzeFlicker]: maybe. or maybe not. either way u leveled up. gg no re.
Raxian's jaw clenched, but before he could fire back, another text came in.
[RyzeFlicker]: aight, i'll buzz off. go touch grass or smth. drink water. u sound dehydrated even thru text 💀
The typing bubble vanished. Conversation over.
Rax stared at the screen a long moment, thumb hovering like he wanted to argue. But nothing came. He tossed the phone aside and lay back, staring at the ceiling.
He hated how Raze always knew when to push—and when to back off.
And now, AkarisLite lingered in his friend list like an open wound, impossible to ignore.