The player count becomes a drumbeat in my skull.
Sixty-four after our third match—a brutal siege defense where Simon held a doorway for nine minutes while I picked off attackers from above.
Thirty-two after the fourth—a racing game through collapsing tunnels, our avatars bleeding and broken by the end but still breathing.
Sixteen after the fifth—a hunting ground where we became the predators, moving through shadows with a synchronization that terrified even us.
We're infamous now. I hear our names whispered in the neutral zone, watch other teams go quiet when we pass. "Kira and SimonTheGreat"—spoken like a warning, like a curse, like the names of monsters you hope never find you in the dark.
Our synchronization has become legendary, the subject of whispered strategy discussions I catch fragments of when I walk alone to gather supplies.
"They don't even talk during matches," someone mutters to their partner. "It's like they share one brain. How do you fight that?"
You don't, I think. You can't. Because the connection we have was forged long before this tournament, built across three years of gym sessions and careful observation and a love so deep I learned to read Simon's body language like a second heartbeat.
He doesn't know that's why we're unstoppable. He thinks it's chemistry, luck, some inexplicable magic the game generated between matched strangers.
He has no idea that Kira has been studying him since before Kira existed.
The realization comes during a quiet moment between rounds.
Simon is sleeping beside me, face soft in the dim light of our room, one arm thrown across my waist like he needs to hold me even in unconsciousness.
I watch the rise and fall of his chest and think about what's happening to my body in the real world. The flesh-and-bone Gordon, trapped in a gaming chair, slowly dying, starving, dehydrating. Muscles atrophying while machines keep my brain locked in digital paradise.
I should want to escape. Every rational part of me knows that survival means winning, means fighting our way through the remaining matches, means returning to a world where Lily's ultimatum waits and Simon will never look at me like this again.
But here, he loves me.
Here, I'm visible. Real. The person he reaches for in the dark, the name he whispers when pleasure overwhelms him, the partner he'd die to protect.
Here, the mask has become my real face—and maybe that's twisted, maybe that makes me a monster, but it's also the first time in twenty-three years that I've felt like myself.
The thought crystallizes slowly, terrifying in its clarity: I don't want to leave.
I don't want to go back to being Gordon Hayes, invisible best friend, closeted disaster, the man who loves Simon from across an uncrossable distance.
I don't want to watch him date women, hear him talk about Kira in past tense, pretend our friendship is enough when I know exactly what it feels like to have more.
I want to stay. Here, in this nightmare, where at least the nightmare loves me back.
The first mistake is small.
A hesitation during our sixth match—a half-second delay before calling out an enemy position, giving Simon less time to react. He takes a hit he shouldn't have taken.
Nothing serious, just a graze, but the wound lingers in my memory like evidence of a crime.
I tell myself it was exhaustion. The neural toll of prolonged immersion, the stress of constant survival. My brain misfired, It won't happen again.
It happens again.
Match seven: I choose a route that's technically sound but slower than necessary, extending the combat phase by precious minutes.
Match eight: I mistime a combination we've executed flawlessly a dozen times, forcing Simon to improvise when he shouldn't have to.
Match nine: I freeze for two full seconds when an opening presents itself, letting our opponents regroup when I could have ended things cleanly.
Each mistake brings us closer to elimination without crossing the line. Each mistake extends the tournament, delays the ending, keeps us trapped together in the only place Simon has ever chosen me.
I know what I'm doing. Some dark part of me knows exactly what I'm doing, even as I lie to myself about stress and fear and the toll this game takes on minds not meant for endless immersion.
I'm sabotaging our escape—pulling punches, playing to survive instead of playing to win.
If we lose, the game holds us longer. If we keep barely winning, the tournament continues. Either way, I stay. Either way, Simon stays with me.
The tenth match nearly kills us both.
It's a vertical nightmare—platforms suspended over void, gravity that shifts without warning, enemies attacking from angles that shouldn't exist. Simon takes three hits in the first five minutes because I failed to call out positions I definitely saw.
By the end, we're both bleeding, both gasping, barely dragging ourselves across the finish line while our opponents' avatars shatter behind us.
We collapse in the neutral zone. Simon's chest heaves, his face streaked with digital blood, his eyes fixed on me with an expression I can't read.
"We need to talk." His voice is flat, controlled. The voice he uses when he's holding back something that wants to explode. "Not here. In our room. Now."
The walk back feels like a funeral march. Simon doesn't touch me, doesn't reach for my hand the way he always does. The distance between us stretches wider with every step, and I can feel him building toward something I'm not ready to face.
Inside our room, he seals the door and turns to me.
"What the hell is going on with you?"
The words come out sharp, accusatory.
"And don't give me the exhaustion excuse again. I've been watching you for the last four matches, Kira. Something's wrong, and I need you to tell me what it is."
"I don't know what you're talking about." The lie tastes like ash. "I'm tired, we're all tired. This tournament is designed to break people down…"
"Bullshit."
He steps closer, and I can see the fear beneath his anger now.
"You think I don't know your patterns? You think I can't tell when you're holding back? That hesitation in match seven—you saw the opening. I watched your eyes track it. And then you just... didn't take it. Why?"
"Simon…"
"Match eight. The combination. We've done that move a hundred times, and suddenly you can't hit the timing? Match nine. Two seconds. You froze for two full seconds while I was getting torn apart, and there's no way that was an accident."
His voice cracks. "Are you trying to lose? Is that what this is? You've given up, and you're too scared to tell me?"
"No." The word comes out choked. "That's not… I haven't given up!"
"Then explain it to me!"
He's shouting now, hands fisted at his sides, eyes bright with something that might be tears.
"Explain why the woman who saved my life a dozen times suddenly can't seem to fight like she wants to survive. Explain why every match feels like you're pulling punches, playing scared, like—"
He stops. His face contorts.
"Like being trapped here with me is so terrible that you'd rather die than try."
The accusation hits like a physical blow.
My chest caves, my breath stutters, and I stare at him—this man I love, this man who thinks my sabotage is rejection—and I don't know how to explain that it's the opposite. That I'm not trying to escape him. That I'm trying to keep him.
That I've been sabotaging our victory because winning means losing him, and I'm not strong enough to choose freedom over love.
"It's not about you." My voice comes out broken. "Simon, I swear, it's not about you."
"Then what is it about? Make me understand, because right now all I see is my partner giving up, and I can't…" His voice shatters. "I can't do this alone. I need you with me, really with me, fighting like you mean it."
He steps closer, cups my face in both hands, forces me to meet his eyes.
"I love you. I've told you that every night since I almost lost you in that forest. But I need you to love me back enough to want to survive. Can you do that? Can you fight for us?"
The question hangs between us, sharp as any blade we've faced in the arena.
I don't know how to answer. Because the truth is darker than anything he's imagined—and saying it out loud would mean admitting that my love has become the thing endangering us both.
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