The cold blue light of my monitor was the only thing worth looking at tonight. My room was a cave of shadows, lit by the glow of RGB strips I'd configured to a deep, venomous purple. My corset creaked slightly as I leaned forward, the familiar pressure against my ribs a comfort—weeks of training that waist down to something worth showing off. Dark lipstick, heavy eyeliner, hair dyed black with streaks of crimson. The whole package.

And I was fuming.

"Are you kidding me?" I snapped into my headset, my voice cracking with disbelief. The defeat screen flashed across my screen, that obnoxious animation mocking me. My K/D ratio stared back like a bad report card. "How the fuck is that my fault? Our tank was off in Narnia the whole match, our healer couldn't heal a paper cut—"

I was on a roll. The text chat was already filling with my complaints, my username Sabewitdabod glowing in all caps as I typed at machine-gun speed. "tank diff 🗑️🚮 healer is SLEEPING on the job report all of them"

The post-game lobby lingered. Most of my teammates had already left, but one name sat there, quiet.

Sallymakeyocupspop.

I'd seen them in the match. They'd been... fine. Nothing special. Probably another scrub trying to climb out of elo hell.

Then they spoke.

`Sallymakeyocupspop: if you think you're so good, maybe after this you'll understand the WEIGHT we have to carry`

I blinked. The fuck was that supposed to mean? Some new gen z slang slop?

I attempted to yell back but my mic wouldn't pick up in game, and she spoke again.

`Sallymakeyocupspop said some strange incantation something I only picked up a few words "Death, chest, and weight" I couldn't make sense of it.

So I laughed. Loud, sharp, genuine laughter that echoed off my bedroom walls.

"Okay, weirdo," I muttered, typing back a rapid-fire string of insults before leaving the lobby. "Imagine being so bad you have to RP in a post-game chat lmaoooo"

I queued up another match immediately, my blood still hot, my fingers twitching for redemption.

---

Twenty minutes later, I'd died four more times. Same shit, different teammates. I was tilted into orbit, my fingers burning from typing insults at people who couldn't hear me anymore. I slammed a fist on my desk, rattling my energy drink can.

And somewhere beneath the anger, I noticed …