Ethan glanced at his watch, the soft glow of the numbers reminding him how late it had gotten. The fatigue of the day was finally catching up to him, weighing down his limbs as he made his way to the exit. The gaming café had been a whirlwind of unexpected challenges and interactions, but now all he wanted was to go home and collapse into bed.

“Hey, wait!” A voice cut through the ambient noise of the arcade, halting him in his tracks.

Turning, Ethan saw a group of players approaching, their faces alight with a mixture of excitement and mischief. At the front was the boy in the backward cap who had first recognized his skills in Blitz Tactics Legends.

“You’re not leaving yet, are you?” the boy asked, his grin wide and infectious.

“I was planning to,” Ethan replied cautiously, sensing a hint of insistence in the boy’s tone.

“No way, man,” the boy continued, his enthusiasm undeterred. “You’ve been killing it tonight. You can’t leave without playing one more game. Come on, give us a proper finale!”

The small crowd that had gathered earlier began to press closer, their energy growing more animated.

“Yeah, one more!”

“Let’s see if you can keep that streak alive!”

“Don’t bail on us now!”

Ethan hesitated. Their excitement was undeniable, almost contagious, but something about the situation didn’t sit right with him. He couldn’t shake the sense that their enthusiasm was less about celebrating his skills and more about pushing him into something he wasn’t entirely comfortable with. Still, the faint flicker of pride warmed him. It wasn’t often that he felt genuinely acknowledged.

“I think I’ve played enough for tonight,” he said with a shrug, trying to sound nonchalant. “Besides, it’s late, and I really should head home.”

His response was met with groans and exchanged glances among the group.

“What’s the rush?” one of them piped up, smirking as he nudged his friend. “You’re the star of the night! You could make some serious cash if you stick around. People would line up to challenge you!”

Ethan stiffened slightly. The idea of making money from games wasn’t new to him. He had, after all, spent years as a professional e-sports player, earning more than he knew how to spend. His bank account was still flush from those glory days.

“I’m not interested in money,” he replied firmly, his voice steady. “I’m just here to have some fun.”

His words seemed to amuse the crowd. Chuckles rippled through them, and Ethan could see a few skeptical smirks.

“Fun’s great and all,” the boy in the cap said, his tone taking on a sly edge, “but you’re crazy good. Why not make it a bit interesting? A hundred bucks, maybe? Easy cash for someone like you.”

Ethan frowned, his unease deepening. The way they framed it made it sound innocent enough, but the undercurrent of their words felt far from harmless.

“No thanks,” he said, his tone sharper this time. “I’m really not interested.”

He turned again toward the exit, determined to leave the situation behind. But before he could take more than a few steps, his path was blocked by a tall, broad-shouldered player.

“Not so fast,” the man said, crossing his arms. His presence was imposing, his stature radiating a quiet menace that made the air feel heavier.

Ethan paused, his pulse quickening. “What’s the deal?” he asked, trying to keep his voice calm.

The boy in the cap stepped forward again, his grin replaced with a more serious expression. “We’ve got a tradition here,” he said, his voice carrying an edge of challenge. “No one leaves on a high note without facing our champion.”

Murmurs of agreement rose from the crowd, their excitement tinged with a darker anticipation.

“Our champ doesn’t play for free,” the tall player added, his smirk widening. “He’s the real deal. If you want to walk out of here tonight, you’ll need to bet. Let’s say… a hundred bucks.”

Ethan’s chest tightened, a mix of frustration and discomfort swirling within him. He didn’t want to cause a scene, but the pressure they were applying felt suffocating.

“I’m not looking to get involved in anything shady,” he said, his voice firm but wary. “I just came here to play a few games and blow off some steam.”

The tall player chuckled, his tone dripping with condescension. “Blow off some more steam by playing the champ. Or you can stay here all night. Your call.”

Ethan’s mind raced, weighing his options. The crowd had closed in around him, their curious and expectant gazes making escape feel impossible. The last thing he wanted was to be cornered into something, but their insistence left him little choice.

“Fine,” he said finally, his voice tight with reluctance. “One game. A hundred dollars. But that’s it.”

The tension in the room broke as the crowd erupted into cheers and laughter, their excitement palpable. Ethan handed over the money, his hands trembling slightly as he placed it on the counter.

The tall player stepped aside, revealing a man seated at a nearby gaming station. The so-called champion was a wiry figure with sharp eyes and an aura of quiet confidence. He didn’t say a word as he took his position, simply nodding in acknowledgment before starting up the game.

Ethan slid into the seat opposite him, his unease giving way to the sharp focus that had carried him through countless matches in the past. As the familiar screen of Blitz Tactics Legends flickered to life, he pushed aside his doubts and prepared for the challenge ahead.

Ethan hesitated as he studied the champion seated across from him. The man—Marshal, as the crowd had introduced him—was an enigma. His unkempt hair hung in greasy strands around his face, partially obscuring features that might have been youthful or weathered.

His hunched posture and rumpled clothes suggested a lack of care for appearances, but the sharp gleam in his eyes told a different story. There was a calculating edge there, one that sent a shiver down Ethan’s spine.

Marshal hadn’t said a word since Ethan had been all but dragged into the seat. The crowd’s energy hummed around them, voices full of anticipation and mischief. Ethan tried to calm his racing thoughts, but the weight of their stares—and Marshal’s eerie silence—gnawed at his focus.

“Alright, let’s just get this over with,” Ethan muttered under his breath, gripping the mouse and keyboard in front of him. He hated how trapped he felt, but with no easy way out, he resolved to handle this match as quickly and cleanly as possible.

Marshal didn’t respond. He simply clicked his way through the menu, setting up the game with methodical precision. His silence wasn’t the kind that indicated nervousness or disinterest; it was unnerving, deliberate. Ethan had faced plenty of opponents in his time as a professional gamer, but Marshal’s quiet intensity was unsettling in a way he couldn’t quite place.

As the match began, Ethan felt the familiar rush of adrenaline coursing through him. His hands moved with practiced precision, and for a moment, he forgot the tension in the room. Blitz Tactics Legends was a game he knew well, a battlefield where he could let his instincts take over. He focused on his strategies, adapting to Marshal’s calculated moves and countering them with ease.

But something was off.

Marshal’s playstyle was erratic, a mix of brilliant tactics and baffling decisions. It was as if he were testing Ethan, poking at his defenses to see how he would react. Ethan adjusted accordingly, quickly finding his rhythm and exploiting Marshal’s missteps. The tide began to turn in his favor, his advantage growing with each passing minute.

The crowd’s murmurs shifted, their excitement turning into disbelief as Ethan started dominating the match. Whispers of admiration and surprise floated through the air, but Ethan barely registered them. His focus was razor-sharp, his movements swift and deliberate.

Marshal, on the other hand, began to falter. His erratic strategies became more desperate, his calculated calm replaced by a noticeable edge of frustration. The man’s shoulders tensed, his fingers hitting the keys with increasing force.

And then, for the first time, Marshal spoke.

“You’re good,” he said, his voice low and gravelly, cutting through the hum of the café. “Too good for some random kid off the street.”

Ethan glanced up briefly, caught off guard by the sudden interruption. Marshal’s eyes were locked on him, sharp and probing, as if trying to peel back the layers of Ethan’s identity.

“I’ve played before,” Ethan replied cautiously, keeping his tone neutral.

Marshal leaned back slightly, his fingers hovering over the keyboard as he studied Ethan. “Played before? That’s an understatement. You’re playing like someone with years of experience, someone who knows this game inside out.”

Stolen novel; please report.

Ethan’s hands faltered, a momentary lapse that Marshal immediately seized upon. The champion launched a sudden counterattack, throwing Ethan off balance and forcing him to scramble to regain control.

“Maybe you’re someone who’s hiding something,” Marshal continued, his tone laced with suspicion. “A pro, maybe? Someone trying to fly under the radar?”

The crowd leaned in, their curiosity piqued by Marshal’s words. Ethan felt the weight of their stares intensify, his discomfort mounting.

“Or maybe you’re just a coward,” Marshal added, his voice taking on a mocking edge. “Too scared to play with stakes that matter.”

Ethan gritted his teeth, forcing himself to refocus on the game. Marshal’s words were designed to rattle him, to chip away at his confidence and throw him off his rhythm. He’d faced similar tactics before in high-pressure tournaments, opponents who relied on mind games to gain the upper hand.

But this was different. This wasn’t just a match; it was a confrontation. Marshal wasn’t trying to win the game—he was trying to unmask Ethan, to expose whatever secrets he thought he was hiding.

“You talk too much,” Ethan said finally, his voice steady despite the storm brewing within him.

The crowd erupted in laughter, the tension breaking for a moment as they reveled in Ethan’s retort. But Marshal didn’t seem amused. His lips curled into a thin, humorless smile, his eyes narrowing as he doubled down on his efforts.

Ethan felt the pressure mounting, every move requiring more precision, more focus. Marshal was relentless, exploiting every minor misstep with ruthless efficiency. But Ethan wasn’t about to let him win.

Drawing on his years of experience, he adjusted his strategy, switching to a more aggressive playstyle that caught Marshal off guard. The crowd gasped as Ethan turned the tables once more, his movements fluid and decisive. Marshal’s defenses crumbled under the onslaught, and within moments, the match was over.

Victory flashed across Ethan’s screen, the triumphant sound of the game’s end filling the café.

The crowd erupted into cheers and applause, their excitement washing over Ethan like a wave. But Marshal remained silent, his expression unreadable as he stared at the screen.

Ethan rose from his seat, his hands trembling slightly from the intensity of the match. He felt a mix of relief and triumph, but also a lingering unease. Marshal’s probing words and calculated tactics had struck a nerve, and Ethan couldn’t shake the feeling that this encounter was far from over.

As the crowd continued to celebrate, Ethan slipped away, determined to leave the café and its enigmatic champion behind. But deep down, he knew that the memory of this match—and the questions it had raised—would stay with him.

The café erupted with laughter and jeers as Marshal's defeat became the topic of the hour.

“Can you believe it?” someone scoffed. “Marshal, losing to a rookie like that? He’s supposed to be our champion!”

“And here we thought he was unbeatable,” another chimed in, their tone dripping with sarcasm. “Guess he’s not as great as he lets on.”

The mocking continued, growing louder and bolder, but Marshal remained an immovable figure. He didn’t flinch at their words, nor did he retaliate. He simply sat there, his gaze fixed on the screen, his fingers drumming lightly on the table. If he was angry or embarrassed, he didn’t show it.

This unnerving calm seemed to enrage his supporters more than the loss itself. A small group of them clustered together, their faces a mix of indignation and simmering fury. They cast sharp glares in Ethan’s direction, their voices low but filled with menace.

“You see how cocky that kid was?” one of them growled. “Waltzes in here, beats Marshal, and now he thinks he’s hot stuff.”

“We can’t let him just walk away after that,” another hissed.

______

Ethan stepped out of the café, his hands shoved deep into his jacket pockets. The cold night air was a stark contrast to the chaotic warmth inside, but he welcomed it. The adrenaline from the intense match against Marshal still hummed faintly in his veins, though it was quickly being replaced by an odd sense of unease.

The streets were quieter now, the sounds of the bustling café fading as he put more distance between himself and the building. He headed toward the subway station, eager to leave the area and retreat to the safety of his home. Yet, something didn’t feel right.

A prickling sensation crawled up the back of his neck, making his steps falter. He glanced over his shoulder but saw only the empty street illuminated by the faint glow of streetlights. Still, the feeling lingered, heavy and insistent.

It’s nothing, he told himself, quickening his pace.

The station wasn’t far, just a few blocks away. He could already see the distant glow of its entrance sign. But as he turned a corner, he caught the faint sound of footsteps. They were faint, deliberate—too synchronized with his own to be a coincidence.

Ethan’s heart rate spiked. He didn’t dare look back again, opting instead to subtly test his suspicion. He slowed his pace, nearly to a stop, and listened. The footsteps slowed as well.

Definitely not my imagination.

A wave of panic surged through him, but he forced himself to stay calm. Running outright would only confirm to whoever was following him that he was aware of their presence. Instead, he veered off the main street, heading down a narrow alley that cut through to another road parallel to the one he’d been walking.

The alley was dimly lit, its walls lined with graffiti and overflowing dumpsters. It wasn’t the most reassuring path, but it offered him a chance to lose his pursuers. Ethan moved quickly, trying to make as little noise as possible, his ears straining to pick up any sound behind him.

He emerged on the other side, glancing around. The street ahead was just as deserted, but his nerves remained taut. The sense of being watched hadn’t dissipated. If anything, it had grown stronger.

He turned down another street, weaving through the neighborhood in an attempt to throw off anyone tailing him. But no matter how many turns he took, the feeling persisted.

Finally, his patience snapped. He ducked into a dark, unmarked building on impulse, its faded sign illegible under years of grime. The glass door creaked as he pushed it open, and the faint smell of dampness and old wood greeted him.

Inside, the dim lighting revealed a cluttered interior that seemed like a mix between a pawnshop and an arcade. Shelves were lined with dusty gaming peripherals, old consoles, and stacks of outdated magazines. At the far end of the room, a few ancient gaming machines flickered dimly, their screens displaying pixelated images of retro games.

Ethan moved deeper inside, hoping the building would serve as a temporary hiding spot until he was sure the coast was clear. He crouched behind a rack of used game cases, his breathing shallow as he strained to hear anything outside.

Minutes passed in tense silence. The only sounds were the low hum of the arcade machines and the occasional creak of the building settling. Ethan slowly began to relax, convincing himself that he had managed to shake off whoever had been following him.

Just as he was about to stand and leave, the door creaked open.

Ethan froze, his pulse spiking. Footsteps echoed through the room, slow and deliberate. He couldn’t see who had entered, but the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end.

He ducked lower, pressing himself against the shelves as the footsteps grew closer. A shadow passed over him, momentarily blocking the faint light from the machines.

“You can’t hide forever,” a voice drawled, low and taunting.

Ethan’s heart pounded in his chest. Whoever it was, they weren’t here to browse old games.

He weighed his options. Running blindly through the building could lead him into a dead end, but staying hidden wasn’t a guarantee of safety either.

The footsteps paused, the silence stretching unbearably. Then, with a sudden crash, one of the shelves near him was shoved aside.

Ethan didn’t wait to see who it was. He bolted, darting between the shelves and heading for the back of the building. He pushed through a curtain that led to a storage area, his mind racing for an escape route.

The storage room was cramped and chaotic, filled with boxes and old arcade machines stacked haphazardly. He spotted a small window high on the wall and immediately made his way toward it.

Behind him, the footsteps picked up again, followed by the sound of someone shoving obstacles out of their way.

Ethan climbed onto a stack of boxes, reaching for the window latch. It stuck at first, but he yanked it hard, and it gave way with a loud creak. He scrambled through the narrow opening, dropping down onto the alley outside.

He didn’t stop to catch his breath. He sprinted down the alley, not daring to look back, until he reached a busier street. The sight of people and the distant rumble of traffic brought a wave of relief crashing over him.

Blending into the sparse crowd, Ethan made his way back toward the subway station, his nerves still frayed.

What the hell was that about? he thought, his mind racing with questions.

As he finally boarded the train, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he had just narrowly escaped something far worse than an angry mob.

Ethan’s pulse hammered as he left the cluttered, unmarked building behind, the narrow alleyway offering him a temporary shield from prying eyes. The shadows stretched long in the dim light, and his breath fogged the air as he quickly made his way toward the subway station. His goal was simple: get home and forget this entire ordeal.

But as he darted out of the alley, a voice stopped him cold.

“Running from trouble, are we?”

Ethan spun around, his heart leaping into his throat. Standing a few feet away, leaning casually against the brick wall, was Marshal. The dim light caught the angles of his unkempt face, and his hooded sweatshirt hung loosely off his wiry frame. The champion from the café looked no different than he had during their match—except now, there was an air of quiet intensity that set Ethan on edge.

“I—uh—wasn’t running,” Ethan stammered, his hands reflexively tightening around the strap of his bag. “Just…heading home.”

Marshal arched an eyebrow, his expression unreadable. “That so?”

Ethan swallowed hard. He wasn’t sure how much Marshal had seen or heard, but the fact that this man had found him here, of all places, wasn’t comforting.

“This is my home, you know,” Marshal said, gesturing vaguely to the shabby building Ethan had just left. “Not the nicest place, but it’s got its charm.”

Ethan’s mouth went dry. His home? That meant Marshal had likely seen him sneaking around, maybe even hiding inside. He tensed, unsure whether Marshal would hand him over to the group that had been chasing him.

“I—I didn’t know,” Ethan blurted, trying to keep his voice steady. “Sorry for intruding.”

Marshal studied him for a long moment, his eyes sharp despite his otherwise lazy demeanor. Ethan felt like he was being sized up, weighed on some invisible scale.

Finally, Marshal shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. But you’ve got people sniffing around for you. You’ll want to move carefully.”

Ethan hesitated, caught off guard by Marshal’s lack of hostility. “You’re not…going to hand me over?”

Marshal’s lips quirked into a faint smirk. “And what would I get out of that? Besides, you’re just a kid. Don’t think anyone chasing you is worth my time.”

Relief flooded through Ethan, though his nerves remained taut. “Thanks,” he muttered, unsure what else to say.

Marshal straightened, his gaze shifting to the mouth of the alley. “Subway station’s not far from here, but you won’t make it if you keep wandering around like a lost puppy. Come on.”

Before Ethan could respond, Marshal began walking, his strides unhurried yet purposeful. Ethan hesitated for a moment before following, unsure why Marshal was helping him but too desperate to get home to question it.

The two moved through the labyrinth of backstreets in silence, the tension of their situation hanging heavy between them. Marshal seemed to know every twist and turn, leading Ethan through a route that avoided any open areas or potential ambush points.

As they approached the subway entrance, Marshal slowed to a stop, his hands shoved into his hoodie pockets. “There you go. Safe and sound.”

Ethan turned to face him, an unexpected wave of gratitude washing over him. “Thanks,” he said again, more earnestly this time. “I…owe you one.”

Marshal gave a noncommittal shrug, his gaze distant. “Don’t mention it.”

But Ethan wasn’t satisfied with that. “Seriously. What do you want in return? I can—”

Before he could finish, Marshal raised a hand, cutting him off. “I don’t need anything, kid. Just stay out of trouble.”

With that, Marshal turned and walked away, disappearing back into the shadows of the alley without another word.

Ethan watched him go, a mixture of relief and confusion swirling in his chest. Marshal’s actions didn’t make sense—why help someone he barely knew and expect nothing in return?

As the subway train pulled into the station and Ethan stepped aboard, he couldn’t shake the feeling that this encounter with Marshal was far from over. For now, though, he was just grateful to be heading home in one piece.