Pete Harrison was not a small guy. At sixteen, he tipped the scales at over three hundred pounds, and he knew it, and everyone else around him knew it as well. He had heard every nickname in the book—whale, tank, big boy—and most of them behind his back.
Pete wasn't proud of it, but he wasn't exactly ashamed either. Food was comfort, and comfort was something he didn't get much of anywhere else.
His room looked like a high-end gaming cave that had been hit by a tornado of snack wrappers and empty soda cans. Three glowing monitors sat on a custom desk his dad had shipped in from Japan.
The chair was reinforced—rated for five hundred pounds, because regular ones creaked ominously under him. A mini-fridge sat in the corner, always stocked with energy drinks and cold pizza. Servants kept it filled, since Pete rarely had to ask twice.
Money wasn't the problem in the Harrison household. Mr. Harrison—never "Dad" when Pete thought about him—was some kind of finance wizard who spent more time in Singapore and Dubai than at home. Mom jetted off to Paris or Milan whenever the quiet got too loud. Pete had everything a teenager could want, except people who actually wanted to hang out with him.
So he lived online. Forums, Discord servers, leaderboards. He wasn't the best player—average at most—but he loved the stories.
King Arthur pulling the sword from the stone. Achilles charging into battle. Guan Yu riding through armies as a red-haired demon. And Robin Hood—stealing from the rich, giving to the poor, and living free in the forest with his band of loyal friends.
Pete devoured every movie, every book, every game that featured them. In those stories, the heroes always belonged somewhere.
Anyway, tonight was supposed to be special.
Chivalry Games was launching the Legendary Hero System series of games at midnight, the first one being The Prince of Thieves, featuring Robin Hood as the main character. Rest of the heroes would be added through DLCs.
There were no pre-orders, and no digital early access—just physical copies, first come, first served. Chivalry Games had doubled the price at the last second—a classic hype move. The internet had exploded with complaints and excitement in equal measure.
Pete had watched the trailers a dozen times—sweeping forest shots, arrow-cam slow-motion, a skill tree for real outlaw progression in the game. It looked incredible.
He had planned it perfectly. His driver, Jenkins, had been parked outside the store since noon, holding a spot near the front of the line.
Pete rolled up at 11:45 p.m. in the back of the black SUV, wearing an oversized hoodie and sweatpants that still felt really tight around the middle. He carried a king-size soda in one hand and his platinum credit card in the other.
The parking lot was chaotic. Cars circled like sharks. People milled around in cosplay or pajamas, clutching lawn chairs and sleeping bags. It smelled like energy drinks, pizza, and winter cold. Pete stepped out, and the wind bit at his cheeks. He waddled toward the glowing storefront, his heart already racing in excitement.
The line snaked around the building. Hundreds of people—mostly teens and twenty-somethings—shivered and chatted and scrolled on their phones. Mr. Jenkins waved from near the doors, fifth or sixth in line. Perfect.
Pete squeezed past the barricades, ignoring the mutters and glares. A girl in a Link costume rolled her eyes. A guy with a man-bun whispered something to his friend. Pete kept his head down and pushed forward until he reached Mr. Jenkins.
"Thanks, man," Pete muttered. "You're the best."
The driver nodded once, professional as always, and headed back to the warm car. Pete took his spot, right up against the velvet rope. The digital clock above the doors read 11:52.
Eight minutes left.
He sipped his soda and tried to ignore the stares. Being this big made you invisible and hyper-visible at the same time. People looked, then looked away fast, like they might catch whatever he had.
Pete was used to it. He pulled out his phone and scrolled through the game's subreddit. Fan art, speculation about hidden classes, complaints about the price hike. Someone had posted a meme: Robin Hood holding a credit card with the caption "Stealing from the rich… to give to Chivalry Games."
Pete snorted. "Good one."
The crowd thickened behind him. Someone's elbow jabbed his back. Another person's backpack bumped his arm. The energy was electric, everyone buzzing on caffeine and anticipation. Pete felt it too. For once, he was part of something big.
He was sort of first in line, and getting the game before anyone else. Maybe he would stream it live tomorrow. Maybe he would finally climb those leaderboards.
11:55.
The lights inside the store flicked on. Employees in green polo shirts scurried around, setting up registers. Pete caught a glimpse of a girl with a ponytail arranging boxes behind the counter. She looked about his age, maybe a year older. Cute. He wondered if she was a gamer too or just working the shift for college money.
11:57.
A chant started at the back of the line—"Open up! Open up!"—and rippled forward like a wave. Pete grinned despite himself. This was it. The doors would slide open any second, and he'd be first.
11:59.
The clock flipped to midnight.
Nothing happened.
The chant died down into confused murmurs. Someone checked their phone. Another person groaned. Pete frowned. Had they delayed it? Technical issues? Cancellation?
Then the speakers crackled to life.
"Welcome, heroes!" a recorded voice boomed. "Chivalry Games is proud to present… The Prince of Thieves!"
Cheers erupted. The glass doors slid open with a soft whoosh. Employees waved people forward in orderly rows. Pete stepped up to the first register.
The girl with the ponytail smiled at him professionally but warmly. Her name tag read MOMO.
"Hi! Gamer ID and payment, please?" she asked in a cuter voice than her looks.
Pete fumbled for his card, suddenly aware of how sweaty his palms were. "Uh, yeah. Here."
He rattled off his account number while she scanned the system. The screen beeped green.
"One copy of The Prince of Thieves, collector's edition," Momo said, sliding a sleek forest-green box across the counter. Gold foil lettering glinted under the lights. "Enjoy Sherwood, hero."
Pete's fingers closed around the box like it was made of glass. It was heavier than he expected. Perhaps there were essentials inside like a manual, art book, maybe a map too. He could already imagine cracking it open in his room, taking in the new-game smell, and logging into character creation…
"Thanks," he managed, stealing a quick glance at Momo's cute face before leaving.
He turned around—and froze.
The crowd had become a wall.
Hundreds of bodies pressed forward, everyone trying to reach the registers at once. The orderly lines had collapsed into a surging mass. Pete clutched the game to his chest and tried to move towards the exit.
"Excuse me," he said to the guy in front of him.
The guy didn't budge.
Pete tried sideways. Someone's shoulder slammed into his arm. Another person stepped on his foot. The air suddenly grew thick and hot, smelling of sweat and leather. He took a step back and bumped into more people.
Panic flickered in his chest.
He wasn't small. He had mass, which was leverage. But the crowd had momentum. Everyone wanted out now that they had their copy, or wanted to get in if they hadn't reached the counter yet. It was a bottleneck at the doors.
Pete tried again. "Hey, let me through—"
A shove from behind sent him stumbling forward. He caught himself on someone's backpack, apologized, and pushed again. His progress was inches at a time. His breathing grew heavier as the seconds passed. The soda sloshed in his stomach, making him want to hurl.
Minutes dragged on. Five, maybe ten. He had moved maybe fifteen feet. The exit still looked miles away.
Pete's legs ached and he couldn't feel his hips anymore. Sweat trickled down his back. The game box was getting crushed against his chest. He shifted it to one arm and used the other to shield himself.
Someone yelled behind him. Another person laughed nervously. The energy had shifted, now that everyone was in a hurry. Excitement had turned into frustration.
Pete's foot caught on something—a bag, a shoe—and he lurched. He windmilled his arms, trying to stay upright, but the crowd gave him a bump again. He went down hard.
The impact knocked the wind out of him. The floor was cold tile. For a second he just lay there, stunned, while the game box skittered a few feet away.
Then the stomping began.
At first it was accidental—someone stepping over him, with the heel grazing his side. Then another. And another. The crowd couldn't stop as the momentum carried them forward.
Pete curled up, his arms over his head. "Hey—watch it!"
No one heard him. Or if they did, they couldn't do anything about it.
A boot landed on his calf. Pain. Another caught his ribs. He tried to crawl towards the wall, anywhere with space, but bodies blocked him from every direction.
Pete's breathing became harder, and every exhale pushed against the weight pressing him down. His chest burned. He thought, absurdly, about the doctor's visit last month.
Brittle bones. High cholesterol. "You need to make changes, Peter." He had nodded to the doctor then, and promised he would change his lifestyle, then ordered extra fries on the way home.
Now those warnings felt very real.
A sharp kick caught his temple. Stars exploded across his vision. He tasted blood.
The game box lay just out of reach, cracked open, with the discs glinting under the fluorescent lights. People stepped over it without looking down.
Pete's fingers twitched towards it. So close. All that planning, the perfect spot in line, the credit card ready… for this. What was going on? It felt like a nightmare.
Another wave of feet rushed him. Someone's knee landed on his back. Air whooshed out of his lungs and didn't come back. Dark spots danced at the edges of his sight.
Pete thought about his empty house. The servants who would find his gaming chair cold tomorrow. His parents, thousands of miles away, getting a phone call they would probably take in a hotel suite.
He thought about Robin Hood—free in the greenwood, surrounded by friends who had his back.
Then he couldn't think much at all as his brain was deprived of oxygen.
The pain sharpened and hurt badly, then dulled to a neutral. Sounds faded to a distant roar. His heart hammered once, twice, then stuttered.
The last thing Pete felt was the tile against his cheek, and a strange, floating lightness. Ah, I finally lost all that weight. Nobody is going to call me a whale anymore.
It was like the world had finally decided to let him go.