Page 50 of Game Over

“What the fuck?” I mutter, leaning closer to the glass. This isn’t how it’s supposed to go. She should explore, test boundaries, and enjoy herself despite her circumstances. This broken shell wasn’t part of my calculations.

I pull up her vitals on the nearest screen. Her heart rate is steady but elevated, and her respiration is normal. Physically, she’s fine, but her expression makes my stomach clench.

A single tear tracks down her cheek, and she doesn’t even bother to wipe it away.

I run my hands through my hair, tugging at the roots. Did I push too far? Break something essential in her? The thought makes my chest tighten in a way I don’t recognize. This isn’t satisfaction. It’s... something I didn’t account for.

“Use the fucking console,” I whisper against the glass. “Play something. Anything.”

But she doesn’t move. Just sits there, shoulders curved inward, looking smaller than I’ve ever seen her. The fierce gamer girl who trash-talked opponents and bounced with excitement over new releases is nowhere to be found.

For the first time since I brought her here, doubt creeps in. Not about my right to have her-she’s mine, always has been—but about my methods. The broken look in her eyes wasn’t part of the fantasy. I wanted fire and challenge, not this hollow response.

I press my palm flat against the glass, suddenly desperate to reach through and shake her back to life.

I stare at the monitors, checking the timestamp. She’s been sitting in the same position for exactly fifty-eight minutes and twenty-three seconds. There has been no movement except occasional blinking and the silent tears that have dried on her cheeks.

This is a serious miscalculation on my part. Breaking her wasn’t the objective—molding her was. What good is a perfect doll if she’s shattered inside?

I run simulations in my mind, calculating variables and outcomes with the same precision I used to plan her abduction. Physical comfort won’t work. Threats are counterproductive at this stage. And continued isolation will only deepen whatever dissociative state she’s entering.

The answer comes to me like code resolving: vulnerability. Show her the man, not the monster. Let her see behind the mask, just enough to form a connection without sacrificing my plan.

I gather what I need at precisely two hours and unlock the recreation room door. The sound makes her flinch, but her eyes remain fixed on that same spot on the wall.

“Kira.” My voice comes out softer than intended.

No response.

I cross the room slowly, like approaching a wounded animal, and set down two steaming mugs on the coffee table. The scent of hot chocolate fills the space between us.

“You haven’t moved in two hours,” I say, settling onto the couch beside her, carefully leaving space between us. “Your choice, of course. But I thought... maybe you’d like this.”

She doesn’t acknowledge the drink or my presence. I expected resistance, not this emptiness.

“I went too far.” The words feel foreign on my tongue. Admitting a miscalculation isn’t in my nature. “That wasn’t... how I wanted things to be between us.”

Still nothing. Just the hollow stare of someone retreating deep inside themselves.

I reach out slowly, telegraphing my movement and gently turning her face toward mine. Her eyes finally meet mine—vacant, distant, yet still defiant in their emptiness.

“I need you here with me, Mischief.” The nickname slips out, the one I’ve used a hundred times through our headsets while gaming. “Not just your body. Your mind. Your fire.”

Something flickers in her expression—recognition, perhaps. The smallest spark in a dark room.

I slide closer to Kira, anxiety clawing at my chest. This emptiness in her eyes—it’s wrong. All wrong. I didn’t hack into her life, study her for years, create this space just to break her into this hollow shell. I need her fire, her challenge, her mind. Without that, she’s just another failed experiment.

“Look at me.” My voice comes out harsher than intended. I soften it. “Please, Kira.”

Nothing. Just that vacant stare.

I run my hand through my hair, tugging hard enough to hurt. Pain centers me and reminds me of what’s real. I must give her something real, too—something beyond the monster she sees.

“When I was eight,” I start, “my father made me watch him play Doom for fourteen hours straight. If I looked away, he’d hit me. If I fell asleep, he’d pour ice water over me.”

My throat tightens. I’ve never told anyone this, not even in the mandatory therapy sessions after I was found half-starved in that internet café at twelve.

“He was drunk, high... Said he was going to make me into the best gamer.” A bitter laugh escapes me. “The perfect soldier in his imaginary war. I pissed myself twice before morning. Wasn’t allowed to clean up.”

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