Danny’s POV
I don't sleep.
I lie in bed staring at the ceiling, replaying every word Siren said like a song I can't get out of my head. She's alive. She didn't leave me. Her parents — her fucking parents — destroyed her headset, and she had no way to reach me.
Two weeks of thinking I'd done something wrong. Two weeks of checking messages obsessively, logging in every night, standing at that goddamn stone bridge like a pathetic digital scarecrow. And the whole time, she was locked out. Trapped in her real life with no bridge back to me.
The relief is overwhelming.
But so is the shame.
She asked me questions tonight. Real questions. Where do you study? What do you do? What do you look like? And I shut down. Deflected. Hid behind vague answers because I'm terrified that if she knows the truth — West Side trash, broke family, nothing special — she'll disappear for real this time.
She asked if I have a girlfriend.
I told her I love someone and don't know if it's mutual.
I meant her. I should have said it was her.
But the words got stuck somewhere between my heart and my mouth, and now she's gone again. Ninety-three minutes away, in some strip mall gaming club, wondering if the girl I love is someone else entirely.
Weekends only. She can only reach me on weekends now.
The thought is unbearable. I need her every day. Need her voice in the dark, her laugh in my ears, the one person who makes me feel like I'm worth something. Five days between each conversation. Five days of silence, of waiting, of not knowing if she's okay.
I stare at the ceiling and make a decision before sunrise.
I'm going to buy her a new headset.
Five hundred dollars. That's what a decent VR setup costs. Five hundred dollars I don't have, but I'll get it. I'll work double shifts. Take every bike repair the club throws my way. Save every penny until I can afford to give her back the world my father's equivalent destroyed.
The tricky part is getting it to her without revealing who I am.
I could ask for her address in the game — tell her I want to send her something, a gift, nothing weird. But if I mail it from here, she might trace it back. Figure out who Ghost really is before I'm ready. Before I know if she'll still want me when the mask comes off.
A post office. That's the answer. I'll ask her for a P.O. box or a post office nearby where she can pick it up. General delivery. Anonymous. She'll get the headset, and I'll stay a voice in the dark until I'm brave enough to be something more.
It's not a perfect plan. But it's something. It's hope.
Morning comes too fast.
I drag myself to the kitchen and find Mom pulling on her work jacket. Another twelve-hour shift at the hospital — cleaning rooms, changing sheets, destroying her back for minimum wage while the nurses pretend she's invisible.
"You're up early," she says, studying me with those tired eyes that see too much.
"Couldn't sleep."
"Everything okay?"
"Yeah." I grab a mug and pour coffee I don't really want. "Got a bike to fix after class. Then I'm meeting some girl from North Side for a project."
Her whole face lights up. It's almost painful to watch. "A project? With a North Side girl?"
"It's mandatory, Mom. Don't get excited."
"Is she pretty?"
"Mom."
"What? I'm just asking." She's already smiling, that hopeful smile she gets whenever she thinks my life might be turning into something better. "This is good, Danny. Building bridges. Making connections outside the club."
"It's a school project. We're not building anything."
"Still." She squeezes my shoulder on her way to the door. "Be nice to her. First impressions matter."
"I'm always nice."
She laughs — actually laughs — like that's the funniest thing she's heard all week. "Sure you are, mijo. Sure you are."
The door closes behind her. I stare at my coffee and think about Siren. About Nora. About the two women who've been living rent-free in my head, taking up space I can't afford to give.
Classes blur past. I take notes I won't read, answer questions I don't care about, count the hours until I can get to the club and start earning.
The afternoon is productive. Two bike repairs instead of one. Marco's Harley had a carburetor issue that took an hour to diagnose. Then some kid from the neighborhood brought in a dirt bike with a busted chain — easy fix, quick cash. I count the money and do the math.
At this rate, I can afford the headset in three weeks. Maybe two if I pick up extra jobs. Maybe less if I skip eating for a while.
Worth it.
Raf finds me elbow-deep in a third engine, grease up to my forearms, sweat dripping down my neck.
"Damn, Vega." He leans against the workbench, watching me with that knowing look I hate. "You training for the Mechanic Olympics or something?"
"Need the money."
"For what?"
"Stuff."
"Eloquent." He crosses his arms. "This have anything to do with the mystery girl you won't talk about?"
"There's no mystery girl."
"Sure there isn't." He grins. "That's why you've been moping around like a kicked puppy for two weeks, and now suddenly you're working triple shifts like your life depends on it."
"Drop it, Raf."
"Fine, fine." He holds up his hands in surrender. "But when you're ready to talk, I'm here. Just saying."
I don't answer. I focus on the engine, on the parts that make sense, on the mechanical puzzle that doesn't ask me questions I can't answer.
Eight-thirty. I finally surface from the repairs, wiping my hands on a rag, checking my phone for the first time in hours.
Three missed calls. Five texts. All from Nora.
"Where are you?" "We were supposed to meet an hour ago." "Are you seriously standing me up?" "Answer your damn phone." "I'm coming to the club."
Shit.
I completely forgot. The project. The princess. The meeting I agreed to before Siren came back and scrambled every thought in my head.
I curse and run outside just as Nora's car tears into the parking lot. She storms out, slamming the door hard enough to make me wince, fury radiating off her in waves.
"Do you have any idea how hard it was to find this place twice?" She's in my face before I can get a word out. "I drove forty-five minutes. Forty-five minutes, Danny. And you couldn't be bothered to check your phone?"
"I was working—"
"I don't care what you were doing. We had a meeting. You agreed to it. And you just... forgot?"
"Look, I'm sorry—"
"Save it." She cuts me off with a wave of her hand. "I don't want your apologies. I want to finish this project so I never have to see you again. Let's just work."
Twenty minutes later, we're in a 24-hour coffee shop. Laptops open, notes spread between us, the tension so thick you could cut it with a knife. She's still pissed. I'm still distracted. This is going to be a disaster.
But then something shifts.
I notice an error in her research — a misquoted statistic that would tank the whole argument. I point it out, expecting her to get defensive. Instead, she frowns at the screen and mutters, "Shit. You're right."
She struggles with a concept in the methodology section. I explain it without thinking — the way I'd explain it to anyone, clear and direct. She listens. Actually listens.
I suggest a thesis structure that would strengthen the argument. She pauses, pen hovering over her notebook, and I watch her actually consider it. Not dismiss it. Consider it.
"You're..." She stops. Starts again. "You're actually smart."
The words hang in the air. She says them like she can't believe they're leaving her mouth. Like discovering I have a brain is roughly as surprising as discovering I have a third arm.
My jaw tightens. "Don't sound so surprised, princess."
"I didn't mean—"
"Yeah. You did." I lean back in my chair, coffee growing cold in front of me. "It's fine. I'm used to it. North Side thinks West Side can barely tie our own shoes. Nice to know you're no different."
She has the decency to look ashamed. "That's not fair."
"Isn't it?"
Silence stretches between us. The coffee shop hums with late-night noise — the hiss of the espresso machine, the murmur of other conversations, the clatter of dishes in the back.
"I'm sorry," she finally says. Quiet. Almost sincere. "That was shitty of me."
I study her for a long moment. The way she holds herself — spine straight, chin up, armor firmly in place. But underneath, something else. Something tired. Something human.
"Yeah," I say. "It was."
She nods. Accepts it. Doesn't make excuses.
And for just a second, I see a glimpse of someone real. Someone who might be more than the designer clothes and the cold attitude and the prejudice she was raised on.
Then the moment passes, and we go back to work.
But something has shifted. Something small. Something that might matter later.
Or might not.
With this girl, I honestly can't tell.