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Ethan slammed the joystick all the way forward, fingers battering the final button combination as if his life depended upon it. The screen flashed. My character landed first. Game over. Again. For the fourth time in a row.

“Wow, Ghost Boy ghosted you in the tracks,” Max uttered.

Ethan glared at the screen, blinking back at it as if it had personally offended him. "Okay," he muttered. "Something's broken."

"Yeah," I said, crossing my arms. "Your streak."

He gazed at me, mouth open. "No way. I'm a good player at this game."

"Clearly not good enough." I crept closer, voice dropping to a smug whisper. "Rematch? Again?"

Ethan glared at me like a predator sensing a trap. "This is a fluke. You're hacking the machine."

"Ah yes," I said, gesturing toward the duct-taped-together-with-trauma old arcade machine. "The classic Clark Code. I coded it in Morse."

He groaned, raking both hands across his face. "I don't lose. I don't lose."

"Then what do you even refer to this as, then, hmm? A character-building experience?"

He pointed a dramatic finger at the machine. "One more round. Winner takes dignity."

"I already have your dignity," I said to him. "Swiped it away from you during round two. I keep it in my bag along with your excuses."

He settled back on his heels with a laugh, the sour sting of loss at last giving way to something less tense. "Alright. Alright. You've won. I accept my loss like a man."

I grinned. "I didn't quite hear you. Say it louder.”

He wagged a finger at me, pretending to be stern. "Don't push it."

"Too late. I'm etching this in the pages of history. Want me to sign your forehead?"

He stood up, slapping me on the back. "You're the worst."

"And undefeated."

He shook his head, smiling now—something between impressed and slightly betrayed.

Just when I thought everything was going fine, Joy spotted the karaoke machine. Instinctively, I knew we were doomed.

“Ohhh, YES.” She grabbed the mic like she was about to drop the greatest performance of the century. Which, of course, meant absolute auditory suffering.

She tapped the mic. “Ladies, gentlemen, and non-magical beings, prepare yourselves for the experience of a lifetime.”

Max, already grinning like a maniac, raised his fists. “LET'S GOOO!”

The music started.

And then Joy sang.

And by “sang,” I mean she howled like an overenthusiastic banshee at a rock concert.

Mia, because she had absolutely no sense of self-preservation, joined in, dancing around Joy with reckless abandon.

Shun, ever the neutral party, simply spectated while casually sipping some mystery drink.

Max, on the other hand, decided that this was the perfect time to grab Shun's waist and pull her into a chaotic mix of kissing and twirling that somehow managed to be both romantic and horrifically uncoordinated.

The sight of Max and Shun spinning around like a malfunctioning blender was definitely not something I needed to witness.

I took a step back. Then another. And that’s when I noticed—

I was alone.

With Ethan. Again.

He turned to me, looking entirely too entertained by my obvious discomfort.

“Wanna dance with me?” he asked, his voice smooth, teasing. Then, with a smirk, he added, “Or should I flirt with the gaming machine instead?”

I scoffed. “I’m sure the gaming machine would love that.”

Ethan chuckled. “You’ve been avoiding me all day. You think I wouldn’t notice?”

Some part of me knew he’d notice. Ethan wasn’t stupid. He was insufferable, yes, but not stupid.

I avoided his gaze. “I haven’t been avoiding you.”

“You definitely have,” he countered, tilting his head. “But you’re not gonna tell me why, are you?”

I said nothing. Because what was I supposed to say? “Hey, sorry for dodging you, but your entire existence is currently triggering some unresolved trauma I’d rather not unpack?”

Yeah. Not happening.

Ethan sighed but didn’t push further. Instead, he reached out. “Come on, Ghost Boy. Just one dance.”

I hesitated.

But for some reason, I found myself stepping forward.

We started moving, slow and unsure.

I noticed something then—this was the closest we’d ever been.

The warmth of his presence. The way his hand guided mine. The fact that, despite his ridiculous personality, he was… actually kind of graceful?

And then—

Something snapped.

It was too much.

The noise. The lights. The weight of the moment. My own stupid brain screaming at me to leave.

I let go.

I took a step back. Then another. Then I turned and walked away.

I heard Ethan call my name, but I didn’t stop.

I just needed a breath. Just one breath.

Maybe it was my social anxiety. Maybe it was something else.

But I couldn’t stay there.

Not now.

1,2,3,4—breathe.

1,2,3,4—breathe. I did my social anxiety exercise to calm my nerves as I strode to the wide opening outside.

Moments later, Shun found me, leaning against the cool brick wall of the arcade. She didn't say anything at first—just stood next to me, scrolling through her phone like we were just two people existing in the same space.

And honestly?

I was grateful for her presence.

Then, she shoved her phone in her pocket and crossed her arms, watching the neon lights flicker in the arcade.

“You okay?” she asked, her voice low but steady.

I exhaled, rubbing my face. “Yeah. Just… needed a second.”

Shun didn’t push. She never did. Instead, she tilted her head toward the chaotic mess inside.

“It’s fine to take breaks, y’know. You don’t have to force yourself into every moment.”

I huffed out a small laugh. “I didn’t force myself. Ethan and Joy dragged me.”

Shun smirked. “Fair.”

A comfortable silence settled. Then—

The arcade doors slammed open.

Max strolled out like a man with a mission.

“Alright, nerds. We’re playing another game,” he announced.

Just like he had announced the other day. Remember? The day when my life turned into this hell.

I shot him a look. “Did Joy finally shatter the karaoke machine?”

“No, but she did break my will to live.” He clapped his hands together. “Shooting game. Maze. Neon lights. Absolute carnage.”

Shun’s lips curled into a knowing smile. “Sounds like the perfect time for a little revenge.”

I raised a brow. “On who?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” she mused. “Maybe… anyone who’s been screwing up the documentary?”

I snorted, taking a breath. Max could use a fake bullet, if not a real one, for being such a jock. Then, with a sigh. “Alright. I’m in.”

We walked back in, being navigated by Max.

The shooting arena looked like a fantasy dungeon swallowed by a cyberpunk nightmare—glowing walls, pulsing symbols, and a fog machine going way too hard.

Our team: Me, Joy, Shun, Mia, and Fred.

The enemy: Max, Ethan, and the rest of the jocks.

We were totally screwed even before we began.

A robotic voice boomed overhead: “GAME START!”

The maze lit up.

We ran.

Shun took the lead, darting behind neon pillars like a creature forged for mayhem. “Clark, stick close,” she said.

“Why?”

“Because if you wander off, you’re going to get destroyed.”

She had a point.

Meanwhile, Joy had gone feral. I caught a glimpse of her tackling Fred—her own teammate—just because she could.

Mia, ever the documentarian, was dodging shots while filming.

And me?

I was terrible.

Every time I tried to aim, I got hit.

Every. Single. Time.

Guess what? Physics had abandoned me in this one.

Shun sighed. “Clark, aim first, then shoot.”

“I am aiming!”

“No, you’re panicking and flailing.”

I turned to argue—

Pew!

Another shot splattered against my vest.

I hate this game.

Ethan passed by, smirking like he knew I was struggling. He didn’t shoot me—he just gave me this look. Like he found my suffering endearing.

That was somehow worse.

I clenched my jaw. Oh, he’s going down.

I picked up my gun. Took aim.

Missed.

Got shot in the back.

By Joy.

“For fun,” she cackled before sprinting away.

Shun sighed, shaking her head. “You are so bad at this.”

I groaned. “I know.”

The game went on fine. Well, as fine as it could go when I was running through a glowing maze with a team that was half-decent and an enemy side filled with overenthusiastic jocks.

I was bad at this game—miserable at it—but I was still breathing, still dodging glowing projectiles, still pretending I wasn’t low-key using Shun as a human shield.

Until I wasn’t.

Somehow, somewhere in the mess of it all, I ended up alone.

The fog curled around my ankles like something alive, swallowing the neon-lit pathways in every direction. The sounds of the game—the distant echoes of laughter, running footsteps, the occasional yelp of someone getting shot—faded into a dull hum.

I took a breath, adjusting my grip on my glowing weapon, peering through the maze for any sign of movement.

Then, from the corner of my eye, I saw him.

A silhouette. A figure in the shadows, half-lit by the eerie glow of the game’s neon lights.

Holding a gun.

Pointed at me.

I turned—and everything inside me froze.

Because it wasn’t a jock. It wasn’t Ethan, or Max, or even some random stranger.

It was him.

My stepfather. My assumed-dead nightmare.

He stood there like a phantom dredged up from my worst memories, his presence warping the already surreal neon glow of the maze.

His face—Gods—his face hadn’t changed much.

Still sharp. Still cruel. His skin was sickly pale under the black lights, the gaunt lines of his face drawn too tight, like something stretched over a skull.

But it was his eyes that sent every nerve in my body into panic.

They glowed.

A deep, unnatural, demonic light—a color that shouldn’t exist, like burning void and molten gold, flickering in the darkness like something wrong.

My breath hitched. My grip on the gun faltered.

No. This isn’t real. He’s dead. He’s gone.

And yet—

He smiled. A twisted, knowing thing.

And then he pulled the trigger.

I didn’t have time to react.

The shot hit me straight in the chest, a burning-hot impact that sent me staggering backward. The force wasn’t supposed to hurt—the game was designed to mimic real battle without any actual pain—but this wasn’t like the other hits. This seared.

I gasped, clutching the left side of my chest, fingers brushing against something warm.

A neon ew. The game’s hit marker.

Proof that this wasn’t a dream.

The world tilted.

Then, from somewhere beyond the haze, a voice cut through.

“Clark?!”

Joy.

I sucked in a sharp breath, blinking rapidly as the vision of him flickered—once, twice—before vanishing like smoke.

I stood there, still clutching my chest, still breathing too hard, as Joy rounded the corner.

“There you are,” she said, completely oblivious to my state. “Did you get lost in here or something?”

I opened my mouth. Nothing came out.

Because I didn’t know how to say, “I think I just saw my dead stepfather.”

Because I didn’t know if she’d believe me.

Because I wasn’t even sure if I believed myself.