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A new ceiling.

The announcer appears at my side, microphone in hand, grinning as if he broke the record himself. “BunnyGlitch, ladies and gentlemen! A new record on the Inferno beat-map! How does it feel?”

I open my mouth, but nothing comes out.

His laugh covers my stumble. “Speechless! That’s the sign of a true competitor, folks. Let’s hear it one more time for BunnyGlitch!”

The noise redoubles, rooting my feet to the stage.

Still talking into his microphone, the announcer claps me on the shoulder, and I flinch.

His hand falls away. “—and don’t forget, folks, meet-and-greet in the east corridor starting in ten minutes. BunnyGlitch will be there, along with all our top finishers⁠—”

Kain steps onto the stage, his hand finding the small of my back. “Solid run, Bunny.”

I lean into the hand at my back, my throat clicking as I swallow.

He steers me toward the stairs, his body between me and the crowd. “Hang in there for a few more minutes.”

Studio lights wash over us as we step down from the platform, and the crowd’s cheers follow us into the wings, fading as the next game competition begins.

“I’ll go get you a drink. Don’t move from this spot.” Kain deposits me next to a snack table and vanishes backstage.

My fingers ache, a dull throb from my wrists to the tips. I flex them, imagining the pressure of Kain’s hands working the tension loose. That’s the real prize. All the pampering that comes after the event ends.

The buzz of race cars fills the speakers.

I lean to the side for a better view of the giant screen over the audience. It replays past competitions for Apex Rush, the next event scheduled for this room.

On the stage, techs reset tablets and adjust overhead cameras.

Someone clears their throat behind me, and I turn.

A tall guy stands a few feet away, his mop of brown hair curling around the blue headphones dangling from his neck. He wears a graphic tee under an open hoodie, battered sneakers, and the competition credentials clipped to his collar hang askew.

HexDrive. We’ve crossed paths often enough at these events that he gave me his IRL name before, but it still takes a moment to pull it up from my database.

Mercer.

I tip my chin up the way I’ve seen other people do, and he takes it as his cue to approach.

“You crushed that map, man,” he says with a grin. “The way you handled the distortion on the final sequence was insane. Nobody else attempts that cluster.”

His excitement sits on the surface, easy to read. No hidden layers. In Dusk Protocol terms, he’d be one of the early-game NPCs with transparent dialogue trees.

“Thanks,” I say.

He shifts, one sneaker scuffing the floor. “Listen, I’ve been watching your streams for a while. The way you approach Pulse Riot is different from how anyone else plays it. It’s like you’re not reacting to the beat-map, you’re predicting it.”

I tilt my head. This is true. It’s also the most basic observation anyone could make about my play style.

Lev’s advice surfaces, reminding me that conversations should be reciprocal, whether you’re interested or not. “I’ve watched some of your live streams for Overclock.”

They could have been better, but I remember enough of Lev’s lessons not to point that out.

“Thanks, man, that means a lot.” He takes another step closer, entering the bubble where Kain told me to stay put. “I was wondering if you’d want to meet up sometime? IRL? I think we’d work well together.”

I consider the statement. “We don’t have enough data to make that determination.”