The screech of sneakers sliding against tile echoed through the hallways of Westgate High School as Logan sprinted through them. A thin line of sweat covered his forehead and even as he ran, his lungs felt as though they were about to burst. He had been sprinting across six blocks for well over 20 minutes and he felt as though he was about to die of exhaustion.

Rounding the corner of the hallway, Logan swerved as he burst into the classroom, his backpack swinging wildly as he skidded to a stop inside the door. The sharp sound of the door slamming shut behind him made the students in the room turn their heads in unison. Inside, 20-odd students with history books in front of them locked eyes as at the front of the class, Mr. Erik Klein set down the marker he was using to write on the blackboard.

Erik Klein was a heavy man and had often been compared to a pumpkin though no one ever said such comparisons out loud. His hair was dirty brown alongside his eyes and across his face, a large beard and mustache obscured most of it.

“Mr. Hayes.” The voice of Mr. Klein was calm but at the same time gruff. He stood at the front of the class, his arms crossed and one eyebrow raised. “You’re thirty minutes late.”

Logan bent over, hands on his knees, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He felt the sweat trickling down his back and his lungs burning from what had been, in his mind, a full-scale sprint to avoid being marked absent.

“Y-yeah…” he managed between gulps of air. “S-sorry… there was… the bus…”

Mr. Klein didn’t let him finish. “Since you’ve graced us with your presence, you can answer the question.” He gestured toward the blackboard, where the words stood out in bold letters: Who started the Hussite Wars, where were they fought, and when?

Logan straightened up, brushing damp strands of hair out of his face. He didn’t even need to glance at the board. “Jan Hus,” he said between breaths. “They were fought in Bohemia. Started in… uh… 1419 and ended in 1434.”

The room went silent for a beat before Mr. Klein nodded. “Correct. Take a seat.”

Murmurs spread across the classroom as Logan shuffled to an empty chair near the back. He sank into it, pulling out his tablet and pretending not to notice the amused glances of his classmates.

After some time of writing on his tablet and making sure everything was correct, the final bell rang and students began to file out, Logan grabbed his bag, hoping to make a clean escape.

“Mr. Hayes,” Mr. Klein called, stopping him mid-step. “A word, please.”

Logan winced but turned back toward the desk. “Yeah, what’s up?”

Mr. Klein leaned against the edge of his desk, arms folded again, his expression softer than before though still inquisitive. “You’re one of the brightest students I’ve ever taught in my 13 years working here. Your grades are exemplary, your test scores are perfect, and you’re on track to be nominated for valedictorian.”

Logan shifted awkwardly, not sure where this was going. “Uh…Thanks?”

The teacher sighed. “But you’re late to school—or absent—more often than not. Just this month, I’ve had to mark you tardy or missing five times.” He paused, studying Logan’s face. “What’s going on?”

Logan hesitated, his hand tightening around the strap of his backpack. “I… I just lose track of time sometimes. You know, late nights studying and all that.”

Mr. Klein’s expression didn’t change. “Studying?”

Logan nodded quickly, but the silence that followed told him Mr. Klein wasn’t buying it.

“You’re too smart to make excuses like that,” the teacher said finally. “Look, I’m not here to punish you or make you feel bad. But I can tell something’s distracting you, and whatever it is, you need to get it under control. I’d hate to see someone with your potential let it go to waste doing…whatever it is you're doing.”

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Logan swallowed hard, his chest tightening. He forced a weak smile. “I’ll work on it. Thanks, Mr. Klein.”

The teacher gave him a long, searching look before nodding. “See that you do. Now go before that lunch line gets too long.”

***

Logan sat on the edge of a wooden bench outside Westgate High, a half-eaten turkey sandwich in one hand and a far-off look in his eyes. Around him, the quiet hum of a typical lunch break filled the air—the occasional shouts from the soccer field, the chatter of passing students, and the steady rustling of leaves from the row of oaks that lined the courtyard.

His three closest friends were scattered across the bench, the remains of their own lunches sprawled across the table.

“Alright, Logan,” said Sam, a lanky guy with messy black hair and perpetually ink-stained fingers from one of the art rooms. “Spill it. What’s with the weird vibe? You’re zoning out like you just lost a ranked match.”

Logan blinked, snapping back to reality. “Huh? No, I’m good. Just… thinking about something Mr. Klein said earlier.”

“You mean about you being late again?” chimed in Mia, the only girl in the group. She had her legs crossed on the bench, a half-empty energy drink perched on her knee. “Dude, I’ve seen turtles move faster than you in the morning.”

The others laughed, and Logan forced a smile. “Yeah, yeah. Real funny. He was just talking about… how I need to get my priorities straight, I guess.”

“Your priorities?” Noah, the last of the group, asked, raising an eyebrow. He was stocky and soft-spoken and was in the process of devouring a taco. “What’s that even mean? Dude, you’re valedictorian material, and you’re a god in Dunes of Arabal. What more do they want?”

“Speaking of Dunes,” Sam said, smirking, “did you know Logan has over 3,900 hours logged? I checked his profile last week. That’s more than all of us combined.”

Logan groaned. “You keep saying that like it’s a good thing.”

“It’s impressive, is what it is,” Mia added as she took a sip from her drink. “You should just skip school and go pro already. You’d make a killing streaming on WatchIt.”

Logan shrugged, finishing the last bite of his sandwich. “I dunno. It’s just a game. Fun, sure, but I don’t think it’s, like, life-defining.”

“Yeah, right,” Noah scoffed. “Bet we’ll see you online tonight anyway. Anyway, want to join us for that raid I was telling you about yesterday?”

Logan thought about that as he crumpled the empty sandwich bag in his hands. “For sure, but only if I finish my homework first.

***

The sun was dipping low in the sky by the time Logan made it home. Shadows had already begun to surround the streetlights as he unlocked the front door and stepped inside. The house was silent, save for the faint hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen.

He flicked on the light, squinting as the brightness filled the entryway. His shoes made soft thuds on the hardwood floor as he walked to the kitchen. On the counter, a note in his mom’s tidy handwriting sat propped against a glass of water:

Working late tonight. Meatloaf in the microwave. Love, Mom.

Logan sighed, grabbing the note and tossing it into the recycling bin. His parents were always working—his mom at the lab in Pittsburgh, his dad managing a bank downtown, he kept forgetting the name of it. It wasn’t a bad life by any means, but it was routine. Dinner was almost always a solo affair, and their conversations were usually limited to the brief overlap of time they spent together in the mornings or late at night.

Instead of bothering with the meatloaf, Logan opened the pantry and pulled out a pack of strawberry Pop-Tarts. He munched on one as he climbed the stairs to his room.

The door creaked slightly as he pushed it open, and a rush of warm air greeted him. The faint smell of stale energy drinks lingered in the room, a side effect of his late-night gaming marathons.

Logan tossed his backpack onto the floor and sat at his desk, opening his laptop to finish the homework he’d ignored all week. It didn’t take him long—half an hour, tops—but as he closed the last tab and leaned back in his chair, a strange feeling crept in.

His gaze drifted to the bed, where his VR headset lay nestled against the pillow. Like many headsets at the time, his “Gryphon” headset was little more than a helmet with a visor attached to the front of it. From its position, he could see the sensors inside the headset, small circles that would be touching against his scalp whenever he put it on.

It had been a gift from his parents when he turned 12—a birthday present but also a reward for acing his classes that year. At the time, it felt like magic. He still remembered the first time he put it on, how the virtual world had swallowed him whole, brighter and more vivid than anything in real life. That had been his first taste of the VR world.

Now, four years later, it had become more than a hobby. It had become, if he were being honest about it, an obsession. He couldn’t even remember when he started putting it on at night and how tired he would feel in the mornings. Every win, every rank-up, every completed game—it all felt important at that moment. But lately, he’d been wondering what it all meant.

Mr. Klein’s words echoed in his mind. I’d hate to see someone with your potential let it go to waste

Logan sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Maybe it is time for a break,” he muttered to himself. His eyes flicked back to the headset. He’d finish what he started—get to 100 wins in Dunes of Arabal, and then call it quits. Maybe find something else to focus on like finding a new hobby or focusing on life.

With a deep breath, Logan reached for the headset and slid it over his head. The familiar hum of the startup process filled his ears as he leaned back on his bed. A faint smile tugged at his lips as the real world melted away around him.