The neon lights from the city outside flickered through the cracked window of the teenage boy's room, casting colored hues over the cluttered desk. The city was alive—always alive—even at 1:30 a.m. The streets below hummed with traffic, the occasional honk of cars echoing up to his window, and the dim glow of distant signs reflected off the high-rise buildings, filling the night air. It was the pulse of a city that never slept.
But inside the room, the boy felt disconnected from it all.
The glow from his computer monitor illuminated his face, the only light in the room as his hands moved in a blur across the keyboard. His character—a mobile sharpshooter—darted across the map, using quick reflexes and precision to stay one step ahead. He had to win this ranked match. He was on the brink of proving to himself—and everyone else—that he wasn't just another average player.
Then it happened.
A single shot—perfect and clean—pierced through the air and took him down. His character crumpled to the ground, the screen flashing red. A headshot.
His pulse spiked, fingers gripping the mouse tighter as he stared at the screen in disbelief. That shot came out of nowhere—too precise, too calculated. Whoever was behind that shot was too good, too accurate. No way this was a coincidence.
The name "Timewrapped" flashed on the screen, a mocking reminder of just how badly he'd been outplayed.
The death screen blinked in front of him, and the post-game chat hit him like a brick: "Better shooter wins lol."
The words echoed in his mind like an insult, even louder than the ringing of the death screen. His eyes flicked over the post-game stats, and his stomach dropped when he saw his score: 3/7/4. This wasn't just another loss. It felt personal.
"No way," he muttered, slamming his fist on the desk. His heart raced, frustration boiling inside him. Those words in the chat, the smirk from the enemy—it stung, like salt in an open wound.
He hovered over the report button, his fingers trembling. Just as he was about to click it, the voice of the enemy player blared through his headset.
"What the hell was that, Timewrapped?"
The words felt like a punch to the gut. Timewrapped. That was his in-game name, but hearing it thrown at him like that made it sting in a way he hadn't expected.
He froze. His mind raced with anger and confusion. He wanted to fire back, to retort, but the words wouldn't come. Instead, the game ended, and the post-game summary took over the screen.
He barely registered the words before him when his phone buzzed.
Raze.
Without thinking, he grabbed his phone and typed furiously: "Lost my promos. Got stomped by some smurf."
Raze's reply came instantly: "I saw you online. Was gonna spectate, but I already know what happened. Your reaction says it all."
The boy scowled at the screen, frustration still gnawing at him. "Smurf? Yeah, that guy was unreal. Landed every shot like he had some script."
Raze's reply was swift: "Sounds like someone's salty."
"Salty?" the boy scoffed, throwing his phone back on the desk. The post-game report blinked in front of him again, but he didn't care anymore. Not about that stupid match.
Then another message from Raze popped up: "C'mon, do it. Add him. Let the salt flow."
He growled under his breath, fingers itching to hit the keys again. "Fine," he muttered, typing in "AkarisLite."
The seconds dragged on, every moment stretching longer as he waited for the notification to pop up. What was he doing? Why add someone who'd just destroyed him?
The notification finally appeared. Request Sent.
Then, seconds later, Request Accepted.
His heart thudded as the chat icon blinked, and the message from AkarisLite popped up: "Hey. GG."
"GG?" the boy muttered, staring at the screen. He typed quickly, frustration bubbling up again. "GG? That's all you have to say after stomping me into the ground?"
The response came immediately: "What else is there to say? You played well."
His hands shook as he typed back: "Played well? You destroyed me. No one at this rank plays like that. Are you scripting?"
This time, the reply took longer. He felt his impatience grow, his fingers tapping restlessly on the desk. Finally, the words appeared.
"Neither. Just better."
"Just better?" He muttered to himself, his fingers tightening around the mouse. "Typical Akaris player. Cocky as hell."
But the response that followed was cool, unbothered: "Only because I earned it. You weren't bad, though. You've got potential."
The words hit harder than the loss itself. Potential. The word stung, like he was being dismissed. Who was this player to tell him what he was capable of?
"What do you mean, 'potential?'" he typed, his words sharp with annoyance.
"It means you've got the mechanics. You just don't use them well. You tunnel vision, waste your moves, and tilt too easily. Fix those, and you'll get there."
He stared at the message. His pride stung. He didn't want to admit it, but there was truth in those words.
"Oh, so you're a coach now?" he typed, trying to mask his vulnerability with sarcasm.
"If I were coaching, I'd charge you."
That made him chuckle despite himself. He couldn't help it—it was ridiculous. Still, he was frustrated. This player, whoever they were, had just given him advice as if they were better than him. And maybe they were. But that didn't sit well.
"Whatever," he typed back. "I'll climb without your 'advice.' Next time we queue, I'll destroy you."
The reply was simple, mocking in its ease: "Sure."
The chat ended abruptly, and Raxian sat there, staring at the screen. A strange mix of frustration and curiosity settled in his chest. This wasn't over. Not by a long shot.
He leaned back in his chair, breathing heavily, as his phone buzzed again. Another message from Raze.
"So? Did you blow up on them?"
He took a deep breath, frustration still simmering. He typed slowly, as if trying to collect his thoughts.
"No. They're... weird."
Raze's reply came almost immediately: "Weird? How?"
The boy paused, looking at the screen. How could he explain it? He didn't even fully understand it himself. After a long pause, he typed back, unsure of how to feel:
"They're just... different."
—-------------------
The boy dropped his phone onto the desk, the screen flashing a brief blue light that illuminated his face. He stared at it for a second longer, as if expecting something, before finally reaching out to turn off the computer. The glow of the monitor faded into darkness, but his mind didn't follow suit. It still buzzed with the sharp image of AkarisLite's perfect shot, their effortless precision.
Why was he still thinking about it?
He shoved his chair back with a jarring screech, the noise breaking the stillness of his room. Rubbing his eyes, he let out a deep yawn, then tossed himself onto his bed, still wearing his hoodie and jeans. The cool sheets felt good against his skin, but even their comfort couldn't distract him from the questions swirling in his head.
He stared up at the ceiling, the faint buzz of the city outside filtering in through the window. His thoughts drifted—aimless, but inevitably landing back on the same question. AkarisLite. Who were they? How could someone be that good?
His lips twitched into a half-smirk. Just another player. It shouldn't matter. He didn't need to overthink this. He wasn't going to let one random game get under his skin.
But still, the feeling wouldn't let go.
He rolled over and turned off the bedside lamp, the room plunging into complete darkness. The hum of the city outside and the occasional rattle of his blinds were the only sounds that kept him company as he lay there, staring into the dark.
Who did they think they were?
He squeezed his eyes shut, willing the thoughts to stop. Whatever. Tomorrow was another day. Another chance to prove himself.
He didn't need to worry about a random player.
Not yet.
—-------------------
The next morning came with the same intensity as the night before. The city outside was already awake, the lights and noise of the bustling streets creeping through his window as the boy blinked into the early morning. He groaned, pushing the covers off himself and reluctantly sitting up on the edge of the bed. The discomfort of being up too late after the game still lingered in his chest, a dull ache that wouldn't quite fade.
The bedroom was just as messy as the night before. Posters of non-existent bands plastered on the walls, his desk cluttered with empty energy drink cans and half-finished assignments, his bed a tangle of sheets. He stood up, rubbing his eyes, already regretting staying up too late. But he couldn't help it. The game had gotten under his skin.
His mom was downstairs, probably vacuuming or folding laundry, the sound drifting up from the hallway. He didn't bother to check. It was the usual—she was always busy with something around the house, leaving him to his own devices. His dad, as usual, was nowhere to be found. He wasn't surprised. He'd learned to stop waiting for him a long time ago.
He grabbed his school bag from the corner of the room and slung it over his shoulder, his gaze lingering on the uniform hanging on the back of his door. A sigh escaped him, and he reluctantly pulled the dark blue blazer over his shoulders. It was the same every day—ACA's strict uniform rules: blazer, white shirt, dark blue tie. The kind of uniform that screamed discipline and conformity.
But he wasn't about to follow all the rules. He tugged the tie down a little too loose, the ends hanging just below his collar. He ran his fingers through his messy hair, combing it roughly but ensuring the streaked blonde remained visible. He adjusted it to hide the remnants of his late-night gaming session, but the messy, rebellious look still suited him.
He grabbed his phone, typing quickly into his group chat:
"Here. Meet me at the station."
No responses. But that was fine. He wasn't one to engage in pointless chatter anyway. They'd show up eventually.
Before leaving, he gave one last look in the mirror. The small hoop earrings glinted in the light, still in place. Even if the school hated them, they weren't going anywhere. He wasn't about to hide who he was.
—-------------------
The station was busy as always—packed with commuters, tourists, and students all heading in different directions. The train stations were the lifeblood of the city, connecting its many neighborhoods to the core of the capital.
The boy stood against the railing near the platform, barely glancing at the other passengers. His friends eventually started trickling in, each of them with their own vibe, trying to catch his attention—but he remained aloof, eyes scanning the ground as he waited for the train.
Tess arrived first. She was always the one to be punctual. Her long pink hair was tied into a ponytail, her sharp blue eyes scanning the crowd before locking onto him. Raxian barely acknowledged her presence with a grunt.
"You're late."
Tess raised an eyebrow, stepping up next to him with a small smirk. She had that air of being in charge.
"Don't start," he muttered under his breath, though there was no real bite to his words.
Moments later, Marcus appeared with his signature cocky grin. He was loudly chatting with someone on his phone, but when he spotted Raxian, he waved. Marcus was always trying to stand out. The boy had a natural charisma, despite his loudmouthed antics.
"Yo, Rax! What's up, bro?" Marcus grinned, his voice carrying through the station.
Raxian didn't even look up. Just a nonchalant half-wave in return.
Then came Jake, his co-leader, the one who always had something to prove. He pushed through the crowd with his usual smug smirk plastered across his face, knowing damn well how much Raxian hated it. Jake wasn't exactly subtle in his attempts to get a rise out of him.
"Morning, big shot." Jake leaned in, his grin widening.
Raxian's response? A lazy glance. Jake always talked like he was the king of everything. Maybe today he'd ignore him. Maybe.
Finally, Bruce showed up, the last to arrive but probably the most chill out of the bunch. He was the kind of guy who knew how to joke around but never took things too far. He flashed Raxian a friendly grin, nodding to him as he adjusted his bag.
"Morning," Bruce said simply, but with that good-hearted tone that made you feel like he genuinely meant it.
Raxian shrugged. "Whatever." He started walking ahead, clearly not invested in the chatter that followed him.
The group trailed behind him—Tess, Marcus, Jake, and Bruce—heading toward the train. No one really bothered trying to engage with Raxian. It was the same every day. He was the leader, but not because he led. He just... was. Everyone else followed along, whether they liked it or not.
"You're still texting during class?" Marcus asked, catching up to Raxian as the train arrived. He glanced over Raxian's shoulder at his phone.
"Shut up." Raxian shoved the phone into his pocket without looking up, his fingers still itching from the game earlier.
They filed into the train, the usual chaos of cramped bodies and noise. Raxian, of course, stood at the front of the pack. He always did, and everyone else just followed suit, as if they were too used to this dynamic to care.
As the doors closed, Raxian leaned against the rail, arms crossed. His thoughts were elsewhere—on the sniper. AkarisLite. Who was that? Why had they been so… perfect?
But he wouldn't think too hard about it. Not today.
They had school to get through. And whatever happened next? Well, that was anyone's guess.
—-------------------
Raxian made his way through the school's bustling halls, his footsteps light but deliberate, as if he owned the place. The usual noise and chaos of the students didn't faze him; it was just another day.
The gang trailed behind him, their voices a steady hum of teasing and banter, but Raxian barely registered it. He moved through the crowded hallway with the kind of confidence that came naturally. It was second nature to lead them, to be the one everyone followed without question. He didn't have to do anything to keep them in line; it just happened.
As they passed by the lockers, Raxian caught sight of Logan and Ava standing near the wall. Ava was as composed as ever—arms crossed, posture straight. She glanced at him quickly, her expression unreadable. Logan, ever the quiet one, stood by her side, practically blending into the background, though Raxian could sense he was always alert.
Marcus, never one to leave anyone out, shot them a grin. "Yo, Logan, Ava, planning on bringing some energy today, or what?"
Logan barely reacted, his gaze flicking over to Marcus before drifting back to the crowd. Ava, with her usual calm, gave him a polite nod but didn't say anything.
"Not much to say," Ava murmured, her voice cutting through the noise. "Morning."
Raxian didn't break stride, offering just a slight nod in response. He wasn't in the mood for small talk, and Marcus certainly wasn't about to let the silence last long.
"Seriously, though," Marcus said, nudging the group forward, "you two look dead this morning. Late night?"
Logan shot him a sharp look, but remained silent. Ava didn't react, though her eyes flicked briefly to Raxian before returning to her quiet thoughts.
Jake, with his usual grin, chimed in. "What's up, Rax? Bet you're still nursing that caffeine deficiency from last night, huh?"
Raxian let out a small sigh, barely reacting. His mind was still stuck on the game—the strange shot from "AkarisLite." But it wasn't worth dragging the others into it. He half-heartedly mumbled, "Maybe you're right."
Bruce, usually quiet, shrugged casually. "We all need sleep. Maybe we should just take a chill day for once."
Raxian didn't respond, his focus elsewhere. He kept walking, his thoughts still lingering on the strange feeling that wouldn't leave him. The rest of the group's chatter became a blur in the background as his mind wandered.
"Too worked up over the match," was an understatement. What he didn't admit to anyone, even himself, was that something about that sniper shot—the precision, the way it felt different—was gnawing at him. He couldn't shake it. But he wasn't about to dwell on it. There was no point. He'd push it aside like everything else and move on.
"Rax," Marcus's voice broke through his thoughts, dragging him back to the present. "You with us?"
Raxian blinked and shook his head, a touch of irritation rising. "Yeah, yeah. Just... got something on my mind."
As they moved on, Raxian pushed the nagging feeling to the back of his mind. The day ahead would keep him busy, and whatever had happened last night wasn't worth dwelling on. He had enough to deal with.
—-------------------
Inside the classroom, Raxian slid into his seat at the front, the rest of the group naturally gathering around him. They were like a chaotic orbit, always revolving around him but never really pulling him in. He didn't mind. They were his friends—his crew—but the world beyond this place always seemed louder, more urgent.
The chatter buzzed around him, but his attention snapped back when he heard the mention of a "test." His mind short-circuited for a moment. Crap. Was that today? A sinking feeling settled in his stomach. Another "F" on his record, no doubt. But honestly, who cared? The test wouldn't define his future, not in his eyes at least. He had bigger plans. At least, that's what he kept telling himself.
Tess, as usual, was prepared. She slid into the seat next to him, her presence a quiet anchor amid the usual chaos of the group. Without a word, she handed out notes to the guys, each one accompanied by a look that said, I know you're not going to study, so here's your lifeline. She'd already shared her notes in the group chat, but she knew full well the guys wouldn't keep up with the material. As always, Tess took the responsibility of keeping them in line. Not that Raxian noticed, or cared. He never asked for help, but somehow, Tess always made sure to have his back.
Raxian didn't even glance at the notes. He didn't need them. Or at least, that's what he told himself. Instead, he slipped the paper into his pocket, a gesture born from habit. Who knew? Maybe it would come in handy later. But for now, he wasn't going to let a test ruin his mood. There were bigger things on his mind.
—-------------------
Raxian's eyes drifted to the back of the classroom where a familiar figure sat by the window, her head tilted slightly, eyes fixated on the view outside. Fayne. Her platinum blonde hair tucked neatly behind her ear, perfectly framing her delicate features. As usual, her uniform was spotless—nothing like the messy chaos of Raxian's own appearance. She was the picture of composure, quiet and serene in a room full of loud voices and energy.
Fayne always had this aura of calm around her, unaffected by the noise and distractions that consumed everyone else. She wasn't part of his group, but she stood out even in a crowd. The twins,Mira and Leah, flanked her as usual, but their energy couldn't compete with the quiet grace Fayne exuded. Mira was her usual chatty self, while Leah, more like Fayne, kept her distance, a calm presence among the chaos.
Back in the day, their parents had tried to get them to interact more, set up playdates they both dreaded. Raxian had always been the loud one, seeking attention, while Fayne—too quiet and introspective—never really fit in with the group. As kids, he'd never paid much attention to her. But now, as he glanced across the room, he couldn't help but wonder what was going on in her mind.
It was almost as if she was still a mystery to him, despite their years of overlapping. Why did she sit there so quietly? What was she thinking? Raxian quickly shook off the thought. There was no point in getting lost in it.
Before he could sink further into his thoughts, Jake's voice broke through. "Yo, Rax, bet I could make history way more interesting today."
Marcus raised an eyebrow, clearly intrigued. "Oh yeah? What do you have planned?"
Jake's grin spread wide. "Got a little something something up my sleeve... if you catch my drift."
Bruce, usually the quiet one, chuckled and shook his head. "Of course you would, Jake. Wouldn't have expected anything less."
Raxian rolled his eyes, though a small smirk tugged at his lips. Jake was always stirring up trouble, but he didn't really care. He knew what to expect.
Raxian turned his attention back to the front of the classroom, his thoughts flicking back to Fayne for a moment. The way she sat there, unaffected by the noise, made him wonder if he'd ever understand her calm, composed nature. But then again, maybe he didn't need to. There were more important things to focus on—like Jake's latest attempt at chaos.
Raxian let out a quiet sigh, pushing the thoughts aside. He had enough to deal with today.
—-------------------
The school day dragged on longer than Raxian cared to admit. The bell rang, and he practically bolted from the classroom, pushing through the mass of students, his mind already focused on escaping the monotony of the school day. The group had already scattered in their own directions—he didn't mind, they all had their own lives to deal with. He was already halfway down the street before he realized he hadn't even thought to wait for anyone.
He pulled out his phone and checked his messages. Raze was free, as expected. They'd been through this routine a hundred times before: Raxian, restless after a long day, texting Raze to meet up. No questions asked.
The walk to the gaming café felt longer than usual, the sounds of the city humming in the background. It was the same path, the same streets, but today, it felt different. Maybe it was the game still gnawing at his thoughts, or maybe it was the usual unease that followed him after a loss—something he didn't often allow himself to feel.
When Raxian entered the café, the familiar buzz of keyboards and low chatter greeted him. He spotted Raze immediately, leaning casually against the counter, his phone in hand, looking completely at ease. His dark hoodie, slouched just right, paired with his loose-fitting clothes, was the same Raze Raxian had come to know—the kind of effortless cool Raxian admired, but also sometimes resented. Messy black hair framed his face, a few streaks of green catching the dim neon light.
Raze was already looking up, that trademark smirk on his face. "You finally show up, huh?"
Raxian grinned despite himself, dropping his bag onto a nearby chair. "Better late than never. Guess I don't have the luxury of lounging around like you." He let out a sigh, half-amused, but the weight of the night's frustration still clung to him.
Raze raised an eyebrow, a small chuckle escaping his lips. "Yeah, sure, Mr. Big Shot. At least I didn't fall asleep before you even got here."
"You know my schedule." Raxian shrugged, walking over and plopping into a chair. "Besides, I'm here now."
Raze's grin faded into something more knowing, but his voice remained light. "Still thinking about that game from last night?"
Raxian ran a hand through his hair, messy streaks of blonde peeking through the chaos. "It just doesn't sit right with me. That sniper... too precise. Like they knew exactly where I was gonna be."
Raze let out a soft laugh, though it wasn't mocking. "Not used to being outplayed, huh?"
Raxian shot him a half-hearted glare, but his lips twitched into a small smile. "Not like that. Losing's one thing. But that sniper..." He trailed off, leaning back in his chair, his words falling away as he considered the game again. "It felt personal."
Raze's expression softened just a touch, no longer teasing. "Okay, I get it. But listen, you're too good at this to let one match mess with your head, alright? So what if it was personal? That's just the game. You can't control everything."
Raxian exhaled sharply, his shoulders slumping. "I know, I know. It's just... annoying."
Raze grinned again, leaning in slightly, his tone light but with an edge of sincerity. "That's the spirit I like to see. Don't let it get to you. There's bigger stuff to worry about. A random sniper shot? Doesn't deserve the energy."
Raxian nodded, though the feeling still lingered. "Yeah, yeah. Guess you're right."
Raze's grin widened, and he slapped Raxian on the back lightly. "Of course I am. Now come on, you can't overthink everything. That's why you've got me, right?"
Raxian chuckled, shaking his head. "Yeah, yeah. I'll try not to overthink it... for now."
They both relaxed into the familiar rhythm, the usual banter and teasing that came with hanging out. The noise of the café, the clicks of keyboards, and the hum of the neon lights in the background made the whole world feel like it was at a comfortable distance, and for the first time in a while, Raxian let himself forget about the weird sniper and the frustrations of the day. For now, it was just him and Raze, and that was all that mattered.