Page 3 of Game Over

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KIRA

ONE YEAR AGO…

“My kill! That sniper was mine, Rogue!” I laugh, because I’m not really mad. Not at him. Never at him.

“Too slow, Mischief.” His voice is deep and smooth, like good whiskey, I imagine. However, I’ve never actually developed a taste for the stuff. “You hesitated.”

“Did not.” I line up another shot, the familiar rush of playing with him flooding my system. It’s been over a year of this—night after night, game after game. Sometimes, I wonder if I keep playing just to hear his voice.

The kill count flashes on the screen. Another victory. Our fortieth this week.

“That’s how it’s done.” I stretch my arms overhead. My back cracks in three places. How long have we been playing? The darkness outside my window suggests hours.

“You’re getting better.” There’s pride in his tone, which makes my stomach flip in that stupid way I hate and crave simultaneously.

“I had a good teacher.” I swallow, gathering courage. “Hey, so... GamerCon is this month.”

His silence tells me everything before he even speaks.

“Mischief—”

“I know, I know. You’re busy. You’re not into crowds. You live too far away.”

“It’s complicated.”

It’s always complicated withRogue. After a year of late-night conversations about everything from childhood fears to conspiracy theories, I don’t even know what he looks like. There is no social media or video chats, just his voice and his presence in these digital worlds we inhabit.

The red flags are obvious. I’m not stupid—I’ve seen enough true crime documentaries to fill a semester course. A guy who refuses to video chat? Who dodges personal questions about his job beyond vague mentions of “tech”? Who never shares photos but somehow knows what I wore to my cousin’s wedding last month without me telling him?

I should have cut contact months ago. That’s what any reasonable person would do.

“We could just grab a coffee,” I persist, ignoring the warning bells. “One hour of real life. I promise not to be disappointed when you don’t look like Thor.”

He laughs, but it’s tighter than before. “Trust me, reality is overrated.”

“Says the man who knows what I look like.” I’d streamed enough for him to know every detail of my face. The imbalance sometimes bothers me, but then he’ll say something that makes me feel so seen that I forget why it matters.

“I know what makes you… You,” he says quietly. “You rage-quit when you’re hungry. I know you hum when you’re lining up a difficult shot. I know you better than people who see you every day.”

And that’s the problem. He does know me. Sometimes, it feels like he knows things about me I haven’t even told him. Like last week, when he asked if my headache was better—a headache I’d only mentioned to my mom on a private call. Or how he sent me a message checking if I was okay precisely five minutes after I’d had a meltdown over a work email.

Coincidences, I tell myself. They have to be.

We fall back into our rhythm, picking off enemies and calling out positions. The same hollow feeling I get after every failed attempt to meet him settles in my chest.

“Hostile on your six,” he says, voice steady as always.

I take the shot without responding, my enthusiasm deflated like a day-old birthday balloon.

After a few more rounds, I fake a yawn. “Think I’m gonna call it a night.”

“You sure? It’s only one a.m. Usually, I can’t drag you away until the birds start singing.”

He knows my patterns too well. It’s both comforting and unsettling. He never messages me when I’m in the shower, but always seems to text within minutes of me settling back at my desk. Or that he somehow knows which days I work late shifts without me updating my schedule.

“Yeah, just... tired, I guess.”

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