The staging corridor feels narrower than Mason remembers.

  Plastic crates of merch and folded metal chairs lean against the walls, stealing space from the strip of concrete between him and the door marked COMPETITOR ENTRY. The muffled roar from the main room bleeds through, a fluctuating wash of crowd noise laid over the constant hum of the Core Field.

  A staffer in an AstraForge polo waits by the door with a clipboard. “Match three?” he asks.

  Mason lifts his badge. “Yeah. CoreRiff versus Dunn.”

  “Right.” The guy checks a box. “You’re on after this round. Deck’s locked?”

  Mason taps his messenger bag. “Yeah.”

  “Rig good? Charge, haptics?”

  “As good as it gets.”

  “Cool.” The staffer’s smile is practiced but not fake. He nods toward the small light over the door. “When that goes green, it’s showtime. Your opponent’s already in.”

  Mason nods and drifts a few paces back, but still close enough to feel the vibration against his palm when he rests it on the door. The Field’s hum on the other side tingles through skin and into bone.

  Inside, the commentators’ voices bleed through in tinny fragments.

  “…and that’s round one to FrostByte—clean Titan play there. Dunn’s gonna have to adjust if he wants this set…”

  Dunn. Same last name as his own opponent. Grappler mirror across the earlier table, now him. The Dunn family is busy today.

  He closes his eyes and runs the openers in his head, the patterns so familiar they almost overwrite the noise.

  Beat one: float Charge. Beat two: Blitz Fang, Rank-2 Striker. Beat three: trap or Hazard Wisp, depending on what Dunn brings. Grapplers want to close, lock, squeeze value out of Clinch; he wants to pull them just out of comfort range and punish each whiff.

  He imagines the other side: some sturdy, low-Rank Grappler trundling in with its arms already reaching, eager to grab anything that comes close. Grapplers live inside reach. Mason lives on the edge of it.

  The crowd swells, then drops into a tide of applause. A buzzer blares on the other side of the wall.

  The staffer flicks a switch on the control panel. The light over the door flips from red to green. “You’re up,” he says.

  Mason checks his rig strap one more time, then pulls his deck box from his bag and slides it into the older model’s slot. The casing clicks; his display lights as it syncs.

  “CoreRiff?” someone calls from inside.

  He swallows around a dry throat. “Yeah.”

  He pushes through the door.

  The arena space opens around him like stepping onto a different floor of reality. The circular stage is raised a few feet, ringed by a transparent barrier. Above, the dome of the Core Field hangs like a glass shell, faint lines of light crawling across its panels. The hum of containment is louder here, not noise exactly, but a pressure in the air.

  His opponent stands opposite him at the far edge of the circle.

  “Dunn?” Mason asks.

  “Yeah.” The other player nods. “Jason.”

  He looks a little older, maybe nineteen, with a wrestler’s build—compact, solid, forearms roped with muscle. Dark hair pulled back with a band, plain T-shirt, worn jeans. His rig is a mid-range gray model with fewer scars than Mason’s but nothing fancy. J.D. is scratched neatly into the plastic by the screen.

  Jason lifts his arm for the pre-match salute.

  Mason steps forward. Their rigs tap together, chime syncing.

  “Good luck,” Jason offers.

  “You too.”

  The system throws the match overlay up in the air between them: CORE RIFF vs J. DUNN. Below that, archetypes in smaller text: STRK / CTRL HYBRID vs GRP MAIN.

  Around the barrier, faces pack in. Regulars, parents, kids balancing on stools. Off to one side, the camera crew positions itself for a clean angle. Further back, Kellen leans against a pillar, hands in his jacket pockets, watching with the unhurried focus of someone who expects to be entertained. For now.

  “Welcome back, folks,” the play-by-play caster booms over the PA. “We’re on match three here at Harper’s Core local qualifier. On blue side, J. Dunn—the region’s Grappler specialist, loves to drag Strikers into deep water.”

  His partner’s tone is lighter. “And on red, we’ve got CoreRiff. Local hybrid player, Striker/Controller. Last time we saw him on broadcast he missed lethal, but apparently Denise didn’t kick him out, so he’s back for more.”

  Polite laughter ripples through the crowd.

  Mason’s ears burn. He keeps his face still and eyes on the UI blooming around them: twin Core Integrity bars at twenty, Charge meters at three, a round counter ticking up from zero. A huge countdown hangs high over the dome.

  3

  His rig vibrates in a low, steady pulse.

  2

  The air feels thinner inside the Field, like something has been pulled out of it.

  1

  GO.

  Charge jumps to four. Beat one.

  He holds.

  “Both players floating on Beat one,” the caster notes. “A little patience to start—nobody wants to walk straight into a trap.”

  Jason waits too. His expression doesn’t change, shoulders loose, not giving anything away.

  Beat two.

  Charge ticks to five. Time to flip the first card.

  Mason flicks his wrist to bring up his hand HUD. Virtual cards spill across his display: Blitz Fang gleaming at the edge of his vision.

  “Summon,” he murmurs, focusing on Blitz Fang’s sigil.

  Charge drops by two with a hiss through the haptics.

  On his half of the Field, space warps. The translucent surface ripples in a tight knot, then snaps into shape. A lean, canine form hits the arena with claws extended, weight low and coiled.

  Blitz Fang is a blur of dark blue fur marked with electric teal streaks. Its eyes are white fractures in a narrow face, teeth metal-bright as arcs of energy crackle along its jaw. When it lands, the floor under its paws shivers.

  It inhales. His rig’s haptics vibrate with the motion.

  It sounds like actual breath.

  “Red side opens Blitz Fang,” the caster calls. “Rank-2 Striker, seven attack, three defense. Classic opener—fast, explosive, loves punishing Openings.”

  Jason’s Charge dips by three as his own sigil lights. The shimmer in front of him thickens, then resolves into a squat humanoid shape with arms like tree trunks and legs like stumps. Its skin is the color of packed earth, crossed with metallic bands hugging its wrists and ankles. Its head is a low dome with a heavy brow ridge and a wide, set jaw.

  “Blue responds with Grudge Clincher,” the color caster says. “Rank-3 Grappler, six attack, eight defense, Clinch value two. If that thing gets its hands on you, you’re not going anywhere for a while.”

  Grudge Clincher rolls its shoulders like a fighter loosening up. The mass of it makes the platform under Mason’s boots vibrate.

  Beat three.

  Charge ticks to six.

  Mason queues Blitz Fang to Reposition left, staying just outside arm’s reach. With his other hand, he slides a Tactic from his digital hand onto the Field: Stagger Net, cost two. Its sigil appears briefly on the floor halfway between starting lines, then sinks beneath the surface, invisible to the eye but outlined faintly on his HUD.

  His Charge drops back to four.

  On the other side, Jason sends Grudge Clincher straight down center, no Tactics yet, conserving resources.

  “Early trap from CoreRiff,” the color caster notes. “Good instinct against Grapplers. You want to fight them on your terms, not theirs.”

  Beat resolves.

  Blitz Fang darts in a shallow arc, paws scraping tiny lines into the smooth surface. Grudge Clincher trundles forward, each movement heavy and deliberate, arms spreading in anticipation.

  Beat four.

  Mason sets a feint—Blitz Fang dips in, then angles back, ready to snap forward if an Opening appears. Hazard Wisp floats on his HUD, tempting, but fielding a second body now will complicate spacing.

  Jason finally dips into Tactics. Grudge Clincher flashes with a halo as he activates Charge Grip, cost one, buffing its pull on the next Clinch.

  “Boosted grab coming,” the play-by-play voice warns. “If Dunn connects, it’s going to hurt.”

  Beat resolves.

  Grudge Clincher lunges. For a creature that looked lumbering a second ago, it covers the distance in one ugly, efficient surge, thick arms snapping outward. Blitz Fang skids backward, claws digging for purchase, sliding just outside the closing hands.

  The Clinch radius flares empty. Overlay text pulses: CLINCH FAILED – 1 BEAT OPENING.

  “Beautiful spacing from CoreRiff,” the caster crows. “He tempts the Clinch, dodges it by a hair, and now he’s staring at a full Beat of vulnerability.”

  There it is. The opening he practiced in his head.

  Beat five.

  He doesn’t think, just moves.

  “Fang, in,” he breathes, already tapping the attack command.

  Charge ticks to five; he spends three on Overload Lunge. The Tactic’s art—Blitz Fang mid-air, surrounded by crackling arcs—flashes across his HUD, then dissipates into the Field.

  Electric lines run up Blitz Fang’s legs, pooling along its spine and into its jaw. The Striker launches, an arc of muscle and fury, straight into Grudge Clincher’s exposed chest.

  Impact kicks his rig hard enough to sting. Numbers flare overhead: ATTACK 7 + 3 vs DEFENSE 8. Grudge Clincher’s health bar drains; two excess points spill into Jason’s Core Integrity, shaving his total to eighteen.

  “Opening punish!” the caster shouts. “That’s how you play Striker into Grappler. Bait the grab, let it whiff, and slam them before they can reset.”

  Jason’s face stays composed, but he adjusts his grip on the rig, thumb shifting, fingers settling into a more deliberate posture. He queues another Clinch attempt and layers in Body Drop, cost two, a slam Tactic.

  Beat six.

  Grudge Clincher catches Blitz Fang.

  The Grappler’s arms snap around the Striker’s torso, fingers digging in. The Field outlines the connection in a faint halo. Text floats above them: CLINCH ESTABLISHED – 2 BEATS.

  Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.

  Blitz Fang’s back legs scramble, claws scratching for friction. Its jaws snap inches from Grudge Clincher’s arm. The Grappler hauls it up like a sack.

  Jason’s Charge dips as Body Drop fires. Grudge Clincher twists and slams Blitz Fang hard into the floor.

  The Field’s filters keep it within safe parameters, but the visual still lands in Mason’s gut. Blitz Fang’s spine arches on impact, ribs compressing. The arena shudders.

  His rig buzzes like someone hit it with a mallet. His Core Integrity drops from twenty to sixteen as the overflow leaks through.

  “Dunn fires back,” the color caster says. “That’s the Grappler gameplan. You get in once, you make it count.”

  Beat seven.

  He’s already queued his answer.

  Reversal Spike glows on his HUD, cost two, only usable while one of his creatures is Clinched. He threw it in months ago on Denise’s advice. More than once, he nearly cut it for something flashier.

  He’s glad he didn’t.

  On the Field, as Grudge Clincher hauls Blitz Fang up for a second slam, a sigil ignites under the Striker’s paws. Blitz Fang’s body tenses, energy focusing along its neck.

  At the apex of the lift, it twists with the motion, using Grudge Clincher’s own momentum. Instead of being driven straight down, Blitz Fang rides the torque, corkscrew-turning over the Grappler’s shoulder and sinking its fangs into the thick muscle there.

  They still hit the ground, but the angle is all wrong for Jason’s card.

  Overlay text stutters into a stack, then resolves: REVERSAL TRIGGERED – DAMAGE REDUCED – COUNTER APPLIED.

  Body Drop’s damage halves. The counterstrike rips chunks out of Grudge Clincher’s health bar. Jason’s Core Integrity drops again, eighteen to sixteen.

  The barrier crowd howls.

  “Reversal Spike!” the caster yells. “That was clean. You don’t see that card used that well very often. Denise has clearly drilled this kid on Grappler sequences.”

  “Yeah, Dunn’s on autopilot a bit there,” his partner adds. “Once you’ve played that Clinch line a thousand times, it’s easy to forget there are reversal windows built in. CoreRiff just reminded him.”

  Jason exhales once through his nose. No theatrics. He dials back his aggression, starts varying timing, feinting Clinches to see if Mason bites.

  The rest of the round settles into a rhythm.

  Beats eight through twelve are a blur of circling and contact. Blitz Fang clips Grudge Clincher’s legs to shave health; Grudge Clincher answers with shorter, grinding throws that chip Mason’s Core. Charges tick up and down in a staccato dance of cheap Tactics—Quickstep, Low Guard Break, Iron Brace.

  By Beat twelve, both summons are rough. Grudge Clincher’s metallic bands glow a strained orange, fissures creeping along them. Blitz Fang’s fur is ragged with rough-edged digital scars, its breathing shallow, each exhale translating into a buzz through Mason’s rig.

  The timer hits zero; the buzzer sounds.

  The system freezes the creatures in place. Numbers scroll in a tight burst, tallying damage, control, style. Then the overlay blinks to a verdict.

  ROUND ONE: CORE RIFF – DECISION.

  “Edge to CoreRiff,” the caster announces. “Those Openings early and the Reversal gave him enough points on the board, even though Dunn got his licks in.”

  “Not a blowout either way,” the color caster adds. “If you’re Dunn, you don’t panic yet. Grapplers thrive in longer sets.”

  Jason’s shoulders go up and down in a single measured breath. He looks across at Mason and nods once.

  “Nice read,” he calls.

  “You too,” Mason answers, forcing his own lungs to match the slow cadence. “That Clinch hurt.”

  That pulls a faint, wry curve from Jason’s mouth.

  Creature sigils on their HUDs spin back into decks. Core Integrity bars refill. Charge meters reset.

  Round two.

  Jason wastes no time.

  Beat one, he dumps all three starting Charge on a different Grappler: Griplock Ape, Rank-2. It manifests in front of him as a hunkered, gorilla-shaped creature with arms longer than its body and spiked metal bands around its fists. Its knuckles press into the arena floor, shoulders bunching with stored power. Small eyes glitter from behind a ridge of bone.

  “Dunn goes more mobile,” the color caster notes. “Griplock Ape. Lower defense, but it gets a free advance each Beat. Great for running down Strikers who think they can dance forever.”

  Griplock beats its chest once, then starts forward, each movement eating the space between them.

  Blitz Fang would normally come down here, but with Griplock’s constant advance and those fists, that match-up is a gamble.

  Beat two.

  He pivots.

  Hazard Wisp’s icon pulses on his HUD. Cost two, Controller body, low stats, nasty tricks.

  “Wisp, let’s go,” he mutters.

  Charge drops. The Field on his side flickers, then a fox-sized creature coalesces, more suggestion than solid. Its body is made of smoke and glitching pixels, edges in constant jitter. Two points of bright light serve as eyes.

  Hazard Wisp tilts its head up toward him for a fraction of a Beat, ears pricked, then whirls and streaks toward Griplock.

  Red side sets a command for it to circle, leaving brief static-slick marks on the floor.

  “Interesting call,” the caster says. “He’s stalling instead of matching Grappler with Striker. Hazard Wisp can warp movement timing if you set it up right.”

  Beat three and four become a cat-and-mouse. Griplock surges in its ugly, knuckle-driven run, each Beat yanking it a tile closer through that passive advance. Hazard Wisp darts around its path, leaving smears of interference. When Griplock stomps through one, the next step lands fractionally short, its body lagging behind intent.

  Text flashes briefly: PHASE MISSTEP – MOVEMENT OFFSET.

  It buys time. Not a lot. Enough to breathe and charge.

  Griplock’s fists finally find their mark. A backswing catches Hazard Wisp mid-flicker. The Controller’s body smears like smoke on impact, but its health bar plummets.

  Hazard Wisp sags, one foreleg dragging slightly.

  Charge is at six. He has his window.

  Beat five.

  He reaches for Crossline Raider.

  The Rank-4 sigil spins across his HUD, weighty even in virtual form. Cost four. High-risk this early in a bracket, but Hemming and hawing gets you dead.

  He confirms.

  The Field in front of him twists, light condensing with a rising whine. A tall, armored figure steps out, a polearm resting against one shoulder. Dented plates cover its chest and legs; a torn cloak hangs from one shoulder. The cross-shaped spear blade at its tip hums with restrained force. Faint orange light glows behind the visor slit.

  Crossline Raider rolls its neck, metal creaking, and plants its back foot.

  “CoreRiff drops his ace,” the caster says, a thread of excitement in his voice. “Crossline Raider. Rank-4, twelve attack, five defense, with that nasty Cross Step ability that lets it cheat positional lines. You either answer it fast or you get run over.”

  Across the ring, Jason’s jaw tenses. He doesn’t bother looking at the crowd. He just cycles his hand, spends Charge on Iron Clinch, then cues Griplock straight at Raider.

  Hazard Wisp takes another hit buying space and dissolves into fragments, its sigil sliding to cooldown on Mason’s HUD.

  Beat six.

  Raider moves.

  Its ability triggers, Cross Step letting it cut diagonally across positions at a discount. Instead of backing up in a straight line, it slides in a wide, controlled stride to one side, spear leveled.

  Griplock charges, arms open for a low grab, Iron Clinch shimmering around its fists.

  From Jason’s perspective, the timing looks perfect.

  From Mason’s, it’s a half-step off.

  “Step through,” he whispers, fingers tight on the rig.

  Raider plants, pivots, and steps across the vector of the incoming Clinch. Griplock’s arms close on empty air where Raider’s torso was a moment before.

  CLINCH FAILED flashes.

  The spear arcs down in a brutal diagonal.

  Numbers slam up: ATK 12 vs DEF 4. Griplock’s health bar disintegrates, then Jason’s Core Integrity drops from sixteen to thirteen under the overflow.

  The barrier crowd surges with noise.

  “That’s why you respect Crossline Raider,” the caster laughs. “You misjudge distance by a hair, you go from ‘comfortably grabbing’ to ‘eating twelve attack to the face’ in one Beat.”

  Griplock crumples, then dissolves upward in a flare of particles, lost to containment.

  Jason doesn’t swear, just huffs once and queues his next beast—Iron Grip, Rank-3. Chunkier than Grudge Clincher, even more armored, massive gauntlets sheathing its hands.

  The next several Beats grind.

  Iron Grip trundles forward behind raised forearms. Raider hammers its defenses, each hit ringing against metal. The vibrations run up through the platform into Mason’s chest. Jason layers in cheap Tactics: Anchor Weight to slow Raider’s Cross Step, Guard Breaker to soften its defenses.

  Mason works to slip lines in around those, trying to keep Raider from ending up square in front of both gauntlets. A clipped Strike here, a diagonal cross-hop there. He spends Charge carefully; with a Rank-4 out, mistakes cost.

  By Beat eleven, both Core bars are low. Jason sits at nine, Mason at seven. Iron Grip’s health sliver flickers. Raider’s armor is spiderwebbed with glowing cracks.

  “Last Beat of the round,” the color caster narrates. “If nobody drops, judges decide. Dunn’s had more positional control this time. CoreRiff’s had the flashier moments. It’s close.”

  He doesn’t want the judges touching this. Not when he can put the decision in his own hands.

  Beat twelve.

  Charge caps at twelve, but big cards won’t resolve in time. He needs something instant, something that hits now.

  He picks the worst possible option on paper.

  Full Commit Strike is sitting in his hand—a high-damage Raider technique that leaves his creature wide open if it misses. Grappler specials eat that move for breakfast.

  Unless he messes with perception.

  He tosses Feint Echo into the stack at the same time, the one-cost Tactic that slightly desyncs his visible command execution from the actual timing.

  He queues Full Commit Strike and flicks Feint Echo into place with his thumb.

  Across from him, Jason’s hands tighten. He goes for what has worked all match: Iron Grip lunging in with a Clinch, counting on Raider making the “obvious” safe play.

  Beat resolves.

  From Jason’s HUD, Raider looks like it’s holding the line for a fraction too long, telegraphing a hesitant block. Iron Grip’s gauntlets shoot out, arms sweeping in for a sure grab.

  Instead, Raider moves earlier than that false tell.

  It surges forward, entire frame thrown behind the thrust. The spear’s cross-blade glows white-hot as it punches between Iron Grip’s extended arms and right into the Grappler’s chest.

  Overlay text tumbles across the Field: FULL COMMIT STRIKE – FEINT ACTIVE – CLINCH FAILED.

  Jason’s Core Integrity drops from nine straight to zero. Iron Grip’s health bar slams empty in the same instant.

  The buzzer blares, raw and final.

  ROUND TWO: CORE RIFF – KNOCKOUT.

  Silence hangs for half a heartbeat, as if the Field itself inhales.

  Then the room goes off.

  “Two-oh to CoreRiff!” the caster roars. “He stares down a Grappler in Clinch range on the final Beat and goes all-in. That timing with Feint Echo was razor-thin.”

  “Yeah, that’s not luck,” his partner agrees. “He planned that stack. You mis-time Feint by half a tick there and Iron Grip’s arms are wrapped around you while you’re stuck in recovery. That’s gutsy.”

  On the Field, Raider holds the impaled Iron Grip for a suspended instant, then both bodies disintegrate into shards of light that float upward and dissolve into the shimmer overhead.

  Victory pattern thrums through Mason’s rig: a rising pulse along his forearm.

  His knees feel oddly loose.

  He lowers his arm slowly, rolling his shoulders back to keep them from shaking. His Core bar on the overlay resets to twenty, ready for another round that isn’t coming.

  Jason lets his rig drop to his side, then walks to the centerline.

  “Guess you shook off that last stream,” he says.

  Mason huffs out a breath that almost counts as a laugh. “Yeah. Took a few weeks.”

  They tap rigs again in the post-match salute.

  “Good set,” Jason adds. “You’re reading Clinches real well. That reversal was nasty.”

  “You forced it out,” Mason replies. “I was one slam away from tasting the floor.”

  Jason’s smile is quick and small. He glances up once at the screen where the match’s highlights already play in fast cut—Blitz Fang’s reversal, Raider deleting Griplock, the last spear thrust—then steps off his side of the platform and disappears down his ramp.

  Mason turns for his own.

  The moment he crosses the invisible boundary where the Field’s influence recedes, the noise shifts. The Core hum drops into the background, replaced by the general arcade mix—chatter, notification chimes, the low clatter of someone dropping a deck box.

  His hands are shaking again.

  He fumbles with his deck slot and almost sends the box clattering to the floor. He steadies himself, presses thumb and forefinger into the release latch until it pops.

  His cards slide into his palm in a small, familiar stack. Blitz Fang sits near the top, glint of foil dulled by wear.

  On an impulse, he pulls it free.

  The cardstock is warm between his fingers.

  He knows it’s not alive—knows it’s just residual heat from his grip, or static from the rig. The logical part of his brain files that as obvious.

  The rest of him remembers the way Blitz Fang looked on the Field when Reversal Spike triggered. For a moment, as it twisted out of that slam, its head had snapped up, eyes tracking past Grudge Clincher’s shoulder, locking straight onto his platform. Not the vague forward stare early-generation summons used to have, but something like focus.

  Now, under fluorescent arcade lights, the printed eyes on the card feel different. Less generic. More aimed.

  His stomach gives a quick, cold twist.

  He exhales slowly and forces a crooked grin at his own brain.

  “You did good,” he tells the card softly, thumb brushing near the worn corner. “You’ve earned a breather.”

  He slides Blitz Fang back into the stack and closes the box with more care, then steps off the ramp fully and into the main floor.

  Denise appears at his side like she’s been watching the exit.

  “Not bad,” she says.

  He jumps a little. “You watched the whole thing?”

  “The stream’s on every screen, genius.” She gestures at a monitor where a slow-motion replay of Raider’s last strike plays. “You owe me for not letting you cut Reversal when you got dramatic about ‘dead draws.’”

  He snorts. “I was not dramatic.”

  “You were dramatically wrong.” She raps her knuckles lightly against his rig. “Hands stop shaking before your next set, or I’m zip-tying a sandwich to that thing.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “You’re buzzing.” Her eyes flick down to his fingers. “That’s adrenaline. Buzzing drains. Bracket’s long. Pace yourself.”

  He nods, even as his head keeps replaying Blitz Fang’s eyes on the Field.

  Denise shifts her attention past him, toward the far wall. “And now you’ve got extra eyes on you.”

  He follows her line of sight.

  The camera crew is still orbiting Kellen, catching angles as he laughs at something the brand rep says. The prodigy tilts his head toward an overhead screen just in time to catch the replay of Raider skewering Iron Grip. His gaze lingers on the image for a breath, unreadable from this distance, then slides away.

  A few steps down the barrier, someone else stands out less loudly.

  She’s just outside the densest cluster of kids, notebook in one hand, pen resting against her lip. Black hair pulled back in a low tie, rectangular glasses catching the glow of the nearest monitor. Her rig is clipped at her hip, slim and modern, almost blending into the line of her jacket.

  Her eyes aren’t on Kellen. They’re on the replay of Mason’s match.

  He can tell she’s not just watching. Her gaze tracks creature positions and overlay changes with a rhythm that matches Beats, not crowd reactions. When the Reversal triggers in slow-motion, her pen moves. When Raider deletes Griplock, she nods once and writes another short line.

  Then her gaze leaves the screen and sweeps the room.

  For a moment, it lands on him.

  No dramatic double-take, no cartoon sparkle. Just a moment of direct contact. Her expression stays neutral, maybe with the slightest uptick of interest at the corner of her mouth.

  She dips her chin in a small acknowledgment. Then she looks back to her notebook and writes something else.

  “Uh-oh,” Denise mutters.

  Mason drags his eyes away. “What?”

  “NP_Theory just filled a page,” she says. “Means you did something worth clipping.”

  He blinks. “NP what?”

  “Theory. Naomi Park.” Denise folds her arms. “Online, half this room’s probably running her matchup guides and doesn’t know she’s local. Controller brain. Very picky about what she takes notes on.”

  Mason looks back at the girl—Naomi—just as she closes the notebook and tucks it into her jacket. She doesn’t glance his way again.

  “I didn’t know she was—” he starts.

  “Most people don’t.” Denise nudges his shoulder with her elbow. “Which is how she likes it. You can fanboy later. Right now you check the bracket and hydrate before I drop a water bottle on your head.”

  He snorts and lets himself be steered toward the bracket screen. His handle glows in the winners’ column, a tiny highlighted bar edging up a single rung.

  One match. One tangible result, not just late-night imagining.

  The win buzz sits under his skin, warm and bright. It wants to spread, to push out anything else.

  It keeps bumping up against the flash of Blitz Fang’s stare and the fraction of resistance he felt when the recall animation started. Just a heartbeat where the creature’s body seemed to push against the dissolve before the Field pulled it out of existence.

  Old rig, he tells himself. Old Field hardware, minor lag. That’s all.

  The image doesn’t care about the explanation.

  He rolls his shoulders, adjusts his lanyard, and makes himself focus on the bracket where his next opponent’s name is already sliding into place. His fingers find the edge of his deck box and tap out a quiet rhythm that matches the Field’s hum.

  One match down. Core humming. Cards warm. Crowd loud.

  And somewhere under all of that, a new, quieter question beginning to form about what, exactly, he’s been calling from the shimmer all these years.