Leo’s living room is small, cluttered, and warm — the kind of warmth that comes from too many electronics and not enough ventilation. The air feels lived?in, thick with the smell of old pizza, warm plastic, and the faint ozone tang of overworked power strips.

  A massive TV dominates the room, flooding everything in blue?white light. The glow washes over the posters peeling at the corners, the stack of mismatched mugs on the radiator, the half?assembled PC tower on the floor with its side panel missing like a ribcage left open.

  Three empty pizza boxes lean against each other on the coffee table like they’re holding one another up. A fourth sits half?closed, a single slice inside congealing into a shape that no longer resembles food.

  Kam, Taylor, and Leo are crammed onto a two?seater sofa that was never meant for three people. Shoulders overlap. Knees knock. The cushions dip unevenly under their combined weight, forcing them into a tight, uncomfortable geometry.

  Leo leans forward with his elbows on his knees, mashing buttons like he’s trying to physically intimidate the controller.

  “I’m pushing. I’m pushing. I have the—what’s it called? The high ground advantage,” he says, breathless with effort.

  Taylor doesn’t look away from the screen.

  “Leo, shut up. You’re feeding. Just hold the angle.”

  “I’m engaging the meta.”

  “That’s not what that means. Kam, trade me.”

  Kam doesn’t answer. He leans forward instead, shoulders hunched, creating a buffer between Taylor and the rest of the room. A small, deliberate shift. Protective. Containing.

  You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

  The game erupts in chaos. Explosions bloom across the screen, bright enough to light the walls in stuttering flashes. The sound system rattles the cheap shelving unit, making a stack of DVDs tremble like they’re considering collapse.

  Kam’s crosshair snaps. A clean headshot lands.

  “Clean,” Taylor says. “See? That’s mechanics. You’re just spamming inputs and praying.”

  “I’m creating space,” Leo insists.

  “You’re creating a funeral.”

  Kam doesn’t react. His face stays still, focused, the glow of the TV painting sharp angles across his cheekbones.

  Leo’s knee bounces dangerously close to Kam’s thigh. Kam shifts his leg a few inches to the right, eyes never leaving the screen. The movement is small, controlled, but the sofa is so cramped that even that adjustment feels like a tectonic shift.

  The controller is warm in his hands. Warmer than it should be. The plastic feels soft at the edges, like it’s been sitting in the sun.

  As the match tightens, the plastic around the triggers starts to shine, catching the TV light in a way that isn’t just reflection. The texture smooths under his fingertips.

  Taylor keeps talking, voice rising with the tension.

  “They’re sweating. Full stack. They’re playing like it’s ranked.”

  A bead of sweat slides down Kam’s temple. The pressure builds — dense, focused, coiling behind his ribs like a spring wound too tight.

  “They’re rushing,” Leo says. “They’re rushing the— the thing. The point. The—”

  “Kam, I need you,” Taylor says.

  “Here,” Kam answers.

  His grip tightens.

  A faint wisp of steam escapes his breath, barely visible in the cold patch of air near the window. He tucks his elbows in, keeping the heat close, contained, trying to fold himself into a smaller, safer shape.

  “He’s one shot,” Taylor says. “Swing him.”

  Kam clenches his jaw.

  “Got him.”

  He pulls the trigger.

  The controller gives way.

  His finger sinks into softened plastic like it’s warm wax.

  Kam freezes.

  On screen, his character spins in place, useless, doomed, caught in the death animation before the kill feed even registers.

  The match ends.

  Taylor reacts instantly. “You sold. What happened?”

  “Lag?” Leo offers, already half?standing, peering at the router like it personally betrayed him.

  Kam looks down at his hand.

  He pulls his finger free. Melted plastic stretches like gum, then snaps. A thin strand clings to his skin before curling back onto the controller.

  The controller smokes faintly, a thin grey thread rising from the seam near the trigger.

  Kam sets it on the table, pushing it away from Leo’s side of the sofa like it might still be dangerous.

  “Input lag,” he says.

  Taylor looks at the controller. Then at Kam.

  The joke dies in his throat.

  “We need another patch,” Taylor says quietly.

  Kam keeps staring at his hand. The skin is intact. Completely normal. The plastic cools in uneven ripples, hardened into a warped shape that will never fit a hand again.

  The TV cycles through menus, bright colours flickering across their faces. The room smells of warm plastic, stale pepperoni, and the faint metallic scent rising from Kam’s hoodie.

  Kam exhales slowly.

  The air cools.

  Outside, rain taps the window soft, steady, like it’s trying not to interrupt.