Megan was talking, typing quickly without looking away from her screen. Kyle only half-listened, his gaze fixed on his monitor, fingers lazily tapping the keys.
"…I'm going to the tax office tomorrow morning," she went on casually. "Told Darren to come on his own. I mean, he was planning to stop by anyway."
Kyle stilled for a second.
Darren.
The word caught. And instantly — a flash. Black shirt, damp skin, the movement of his hand, too close to the camera.
He blinked sharply and looked away, as if that could erase the image.
"…Darren?" he repeated quietly.
"Yeah," Megan shrugged. "We'll stay in touch tomorrow. Depends how the timing works out."
Kyle exhaled through his nose.
The pause stretched just a second too long.
"Okay… let him come," he said, not looking at her.
"What?" Megan looked up, thrown.
Kyle let out a quiet breath. For a moment he hesitated — like he wasn't entirely sure what he'd just said.
Then, more evenly:
"I mean… Darren can come on Friday. For my birthday. Join us."
Megan froze. You could practically see the loading screen on her face.
Then she lit up, snapped her laptop shut, and looked at him with a wide smile.
"Seriously? You're not joking?"
"Mhm. I'm not," he replied flatly, still not taking his eyes off the screen.
"Yes!" she clapped her hands. "I'll tell him you gave him the green light."
Kyle just nodded. A few minutes passed in silence.
"I knew you'd like him," Megan said softly, almost under her breath.
Kyle cleared his throat.
"…I didn't say that."
"Okay, okay!"
"And—" she glanced around, "—clean your room. It's a mess."
Kyle rolled his eyes.
"Yeah, okay, Mom."
-----------------------------------------
Gunfire and the sound of shattering glass cut through his headphones. The keyboard glowed in shifting neon colors, cycling through shades with the speed of Kyle's fingers.
Every press — precise to the second. Every hold — just enough to line up a clean shot.
"Regroup," Kyle said calmly into the mic. "Sponge, Brain — flank them. Gladiator, hold interception. I'm staying on position, covering targets on approach."
The room filled with the steady rhythm of keystrokes and mouse clicks. There was practice in his movements, precision — and something else. A stubborn focus pushed all the way into habit.
He'd been playing this game for years. And it showed — their team was top-ranked for a reason. They could've gone pro, joined tournaments. None of them wanted to. Too much hassle.
Out of the corner of his eye, Kyle noticed his phone screen light up for a second, then go dark.
Then again.
This time, he glanced over.
Darren:
can't wait for friday
His heart stumbled. His hands followed — fingers going stiff, wooden, refusing to move.
A second passed. Then another.
A gunshot cracked in his headphones, followed by his character's pained cry.
Kyle snapped back.
"…shit."
The screen flashed in large, blood-red letters:
YOU DIED
The chat updated immediately:
Reddy123 killed GrayMouseLtd
Kyle just stared at the screen, eyes wide, not blinking.
His teammates reacted instantly.
"Holy shit, Kyle got killed — what the hell was that?"
"Who even was that guy? Took out our Mouse like it was nothing…"
"No way. That's it, meteor's hitting tomorrow!"
They weren't mad — you could hear the laughter underneath. But the surprise was real.
Kyle waited for the round to end. Even without him, his team closed it out. When they suggested another match, he declined without hesitation.
He exited the game. Took off his headphones. Leaned forward and pressed his forehead in his hands.
"…what the hell is this," he muttered.