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I am the Sentinel. I speak for those without a voice.

The Ember District loads in its usual purplish twilight, the Sentinel waiting at the city gates for me to select the same option I’ve chosen for fifteen years.

But my thumb hovers over the button, refusing to begin.

A few feet away, Kain sits with his back to me, working at the offline station.

I gave him an hour before coming back downstairs and collapsing into my beanbag in the corner.

He didn’t tell me to leave again.

So I stayed.

My secondary gaming computer sits untouched next to his. It’s the one I use when I’m not streaming and just want to mess around while he works in the basement. But none of the games hold my interest.

A small, uneasy knot in my gut keeps me from getting too close to his workstation, to avoid being told to leave again. I stay folded in the floor chair, my safe zone, angled away from his monitor’s glare.

His dark hair falls over his forehead as he hunches forward, fingers flying across the keyboard in the fluid, focused rhythm he gets when he's buried in computer work.

A data sorting program, maybe?

When I first crept back in, I stole a peek at his screens. The two monitors on his offline workstation are filled with Dusk Protocol, a command line scrolling too fast to read on one and a file browser populated with forum archives on the other. Farther down the desk, his online monitor sits open to Lantern Key’s company chat in case someone needs to reach him.

Julian’s DM notification has been cleared.

I return to my tablet where the Sentinel waits and tap Start.

The line advances. I am the Sentinel. I speak for those without a voice.

The gate guard responds with the stock reply I’ve memorized, and I tap through his dialogue without reading it. I navigate the Sentinel through the narrow alley that leads to the Ember District.

The music shifts to the persistent bass thrum of the district’s ambient track.

Three dialogue trees in, the words on the screen blur. Kain’s keyboard cuts through the quiet. Tap. Tap-tap. Tap. Each keystroke amplifies the silence around it, splintering my focus until the game world recedes.

The house speakers are off. My own game is muted. I wait for Kain to tell me to take an eye break or ask what I’m working on. The only sound is his keyboard. There’s no video playing on a side screen, nothing for us to half-watch together. Just empty air where noise should be.

My jaw aches. I’m clenching my teeth again, and I stretch my jaw left, then right to pop it.

I drop the tablet onto my lap.

The screen goes dark.

Three seconds later, I pick it up again. The game is still running, the Sentinel paused mid-step in the alley, a pixelated NPC frozen in the act of turning toward him.

I set it down again. Pick it up. Shove it in the pocket of my oversized hoodie.

The sleeve hangs past my fingertips, and I roll the excess fabric between my thumb and index finger, over and over, the texture rough then smooth then rough again.

My sock-covered foot taps the floor. One-two-three. One-two-three. The rhythm doesn’t match anything because there’s nothing playing. Kain hasn’t put music on.

He always puts music on.

I check the time on my phone. Four twenty-three.

Four hours since Kain arrived home with his exciting new job. Three hours and twenty-three minutes since Kain started working without breaking focus, without speaking, without even taking a bathroom break.

The soggy-fry feeling from earlier still sits in my stomach, queasiness rolling beneath it.