Page 32 of Push My Buttons

And maybe, just maybe, to understand something about connection that's always eluded me.

I save my work, shut down my computer, and gather my things. As I head for the door, I catch sight of my reflection in the glass—tired eyes, rumpled shirt, hair sticking up where I've run my hands through it too many times.

By Saturday, I'll be transformed. Masked. Ready.

ObsidianWolf and WrathSpawn as one, stepping out of the digital world and into reality.

For one night, at least, I won't be the awkward developer who overthinks everything.

I'll be whoever Vanta needs me to be.

Chapter 12

Wren

Iactuallydidit.I really sent those invitations. ObsidianWolf and NeedleAndVice—two subscribers I've never met—will be joining me this weekend for the calendar shoot.

What the fuck was I thinking?

Laying back against the hotel pillows, I let out a long, silent sigh. The room is nicer than I expected—plush bedding, decent art on the walls, a bathroom with actual water pressure. Lorna insisted I stay here until I feel safe enough to go home, and right now, that feels like never.

My phone buzzes with a text from Maya:Still worried about you. Let me know you're okay?

I send back a quick reply:I'm fine. Staying at a hotel for now. Don't worry.

Another text follows immediately:Too late. Already worrying. Message me if you need ANYTHING.

I smile despite everything. Having someone who cares is still new territory for me. Terrifying, but nice.

Marcus texted earlier to confirm my shift tomorrow. Three days a week is all he'll give me—the asshole—which is why Istarted looking for more work in the first place. How Behind the Lens became that "more work" still sometimes surprises me. The money from camming is better anyway. I could quit the café tomorrow and live comfortably just on what I make as Vanta.

But I won't.

There's something about Grounded that keeps me tethered. Maybe it's the routine. Maybe it's Maya. Maybe it's the strange comfort of normalcy—of being just another barista who makes a decent latte. No masks. No performances. Just coffee and the occasional smile.

Or maybe it's the regulars. Theo with his ridiculous drink orders and newly attempted sign language. Jace with his black coffee and quiet intensity.

I roll onto my side, trying not to let thoughts of flowers in my apartment and pendants with my real name creep back into my mind.

Focus on something else. Anything else.

The calendar shoot. I need to prepare.

I pull my laptop back toward me and open it again. If I'm going to recreate Wasteland Chronicles for the shoot, I should probably refresh my memory of the game's details. Plus, a few hours of digital violence sounds exactly like what I need right now.

I dig through my bag and pull out my spare headset—the ones with ridiculous cat ears that Maya bought me as a joke last Christmas. They're silly but comfortable, and right now, I need all the comfort I can get. Plus they light up while plugged in.

The game loads with familiar music—haunting, post-apocalyptic strings that always make my spine tingle. I check the team roster and see that WrathSpawn and HexedOut are already online, mid-match. I'll have to wait until they finish.

While I wait, I scroll through the game environments, taking screenshots of locations that might help for the shoot.The abandoned subway station with its eerie blue lighting. The overgrown botanical gardens where nature has reclaimed concrete. The military bunker with its utilitarian aesthetic.

The game notification pings: Match ended. WrathSpawn and HexedOut are now available.

WrathSpawn. HexedOut. Digital chaos with headsets.

The second I log on, the party chat ignites. The audio distortion is even worse with this headset and it makes me miss the one I left at home.

“There she is,” HexedOut crows. “I was about to launch a rescue mission. You ghost us again and I’m filing a missing person’s report.”