The fluorescent lights of SuprMart buzzed overhead like restless spirits, casting a sickly pallor over everything they touched. Aiden's reflection in the polished counter looked haunted—dark circles under his eyes, shoulders slightly stooped from carrying invisible weights.
Beep.
The scanner in his hand registered another item, another fraction of a dollar added to his paycheck. His body moved through the motions while his mind drifted between calculations.
Three hours of sleep. $1,240 hospital debt. $100 rent. And Lily's voice, still echoing: "Eternal Realms could change everything."
"Hey, Earth to minimum wage! This expired yesterday!"
Reality crashed back as a yogurt container slammed onto the counter, flecks of pink strawberry spattering like tiny bloodstains across the black conveyor belt. The customer—a middle-aged man with the impatient scowl of someone who viewed service workers as personal inconveniences—tapped an aggressive rhythm on the counter.
"I'm sorry about that, sir," Aiden said, the scripted apology rolling off his tongue while his mind cataloged the man's expensive watch. Probably costs more than I make in two months. "Let me get you a fresh one right away."
The chill of the refrigerated aisle bit through his thin uniform shirt as he located the yogurt. For a moment, he stood there, letting the cold sharpen his foggy thoughts. The digital clock on the wall showed 3:47 PM. Four hours and thirteen minutes remaining in his Saturday double shift—a shift that would earn him $58.50.
Enough for groceries. Not enough for Lily's textbooks. Nowhere near enough for Mom's treatment.
His fingers tightened around the yogurt cup. The cold plastic against his skin was grounding, a small anchor to the physical world while his mind spun probability calculations like a desperate gambler.
If I'd skipped this shift and played the tournament instead... potential earnings of $150-300 versus guaranteed $58.50... high risk versus stability...
"Did you get lost back there?" The customer's voice carried down the aisle, impatience sharpening each syllable.
"Coming right up," Aiden called back, his customer service mask sliding back into place.
As he handed over the fresh yogurt, the man barely grunted acknowledgment. The transaction continued—beep, bag, repeat—an endless loop of mundane interactions that paid the bills but drained something essential from his soul with each passing hour.
When his shift finally ended, dusk had fallen over the city. Aiden stood at the bus stop, the weight of the day sitting heavy on his shoulders while $58.50 rested light in his pocket. The bus arrived with a hydraulic sigh, doors folding open like reluctant arms.
"Eternal Realms," he whispered to himself as he climbed aboard, letting the name fill his mouth like a prayer. The game everyone talked about in reverent tones—the virtual reality revolution that could transform skilled players into digital aristocracy.
The thought kindled something warm in his chest—not quite hope, but its stubborn cousin that refused to die even when logic insisted otherwise.
...
The Golden Mouse Internet Café greeted him with its familiar cacophony—a symphony of clicking keys, muttered curses, and the hiss of energy drinks being opened. The scent of instant ramen and electronics wrapped around him like an old blanket, worn but comforting.
"Architect's here," someone whispered as he made his way to station 23.
The chair creaked beneath him—a familiar complaint from an old friend. His fingers hovered over the keyboard, muscle memory taking over as League of the Ancient's loading screen washed his tired face in blue light. His balance—1,890 gold—glowed in the corner, a digital representation of last night's victory against Elena.
He rolled his shoulders, feeling the tension of the day begin to uncoil. Here, he wasn't just a convenience store clerk or a struggling caretaker. Here, he was The Architect—feared, respected, in control.
Marcus's broad silhouette occupied station 17, his tank build dominating the screen in a 1v1 match. Aiden watched his friend's methodical dismantling of an opponent, appreciating the brutal efficiency of each move.
[Architect]: Good night?
The message blinked onto Marcus's screen, and Aiden saw his friend's lips curve into a small smile.
[FortressWall]: Solid. You in for a team-up?
Aiden nodded to himself, accepting a solo duel to warm up. His battlemage moved with fluid grace across Arena 3, each spell chain precisely calculated to maximize damage while conserving mana. His opponent—a flashy mage with more cosmetic effects than tactical sense—fell quickly.
[System]: Victory! 50 gold transferred. Current Balance: 1940 gold
As the victory screen flashed, Aiden felt a prickle at the back of his neck—the distinct sensation of being watched. His eyes lifted from his screen, scanning the café with the same tactical awareness he applied to game maps.
"Yo," Marcus said, his massive frame casting a shadow over Aiden's station. "You notice that guy in the corner? Terminal 12, hood up. Been eyeballing us all night."
Aiden followed Marcus's subtle nod toward the dimly lit corner of the café. A lean figure hunched over a keyboard, screen angled away from casual observation. Even with his face partially hidden by a worn hoodie, Aiden recognized him—Liam, the café's ghost. Always present but never quite visible, materializing for matches and dissolving back into the shadows afterward.
"Scouting, probably," Aiden replied, keeping his voice neutral while his mind raced ahead, analyzing patterns. "He's sharp. Stays off everyone's radar."
Marcus's expression darkened, the fluorescent lights casting harsh shadows across his face. "Too sharp. I caught him using my anchor stance in a match last week. Exact same timing, same follow-up. Won him 150 gold."
Something cold slipped between Aiden's ribs. He pulled up Liam's match history on his phone, cross-referencing it with their own. The evidence materialized in digital black and white—four of Liam's recent victories employed strategies that mirrored their own. His terrain traps. Marcus's defensive feints. Even the low-mana combinations that Aiden had spent weeks perfecting.
"Liam's been ripping us off," Aiden said, the words tasting bitter. "He's copying our builds, move for move."
Marcus's knuckles whitened as his hands clenched. "That's our work he's profiting from."
Aiden felt a flare of anger, hot and sharp, but he forced it down. Anger clouded judgment, and judgment was currency he couldn't afford to waste. Instead, he examined the situation with the same detached precision he applied to game mechanics—mapping angles, calculating approaches.
Liam was no button-masher. His assassin builds were meticulously crafted, optimized for small, consistent wins rather than flashy victories. He stayed under the radar, picking off smaller targets at the café's periphery. Copying their strategies gave him an edge, but it also meant he was encroaching on their territory—a territory that barely sustained them as it was.
"Let's handle it," Marcus said, already half-rising from his chair, his imposing frame tensing for confrontation.
"Hold up," Aiden said, laying a restraining hand on his friend's arm. The muscles beneath his palm felt like steel cables pulled taut. "We don't rush in blind. Let's see what he's playing."
They queued for a 2v2 match, deliberately selecting opponents who favored early aggression—the perfect canvas to showcase Marcus's signature shield-wall technique. As the match loaded, Aiden cast a quick glance toward terminal 12. Liam's screen had dimmed, the match he'd been playing concluded. Now his attention was fully on them, his face impassive but his eyes sharp beneath the hood.
Watch carefully, Aiden thought, turning back to the screen. This one's for you.
The match unfolded exactly as planned. Their opponents charged, overextending with predictable aggression. Marcus's Rising Bulwark caught them mid-strike, and Aiden's perfectly timed arcane chain sealed their fate. Health bars plummeted, and the victory screen flashed with satisfying finality.
[System]: Victory! 200 gold transferred. Current Balance: 2140 gold
Aiden felt a small smile tug at his lips as he glanced toward terminal 12. Liam was still watching, his expression unreadable, but the intensity of his gaze betrayed his interest.
"He got the whole show," Marcus said, standing. "Time to talk."
The café seemed to quiet as they crossed the floor, conversations dropping to murmurs as regulars sensed the approaching confrontation. Liam didn't flee, didn't flinch. He simply leaned back in his chair, hands resting lightly on the desk, the picture of casual indifference—except for the wary calculation in his eyes.
"Architect. FortressWall," he greeted them, voice soft but clear, carrying an undercurrent of tension. "Something on your mind?"
"You've been studying us," Aiden said without preamble, keeping his tone level. "My traps, Marcus's stances. You're winning bets with our plays."
Liam's gaze flicked between them, assessing the threat. His hands remained relaxed on the desk, but Aiden noticed the slight tensing of his shoulders—a fighter's instinct, recognizing when retreat paths were closing.
"Game's open source," Liam replied with a small shrug that didn't match the intensity of his eyes. "I see what works, I use it. No rule against learning."
"There's a rule against stealing," Marcus growled, his bulk casting Liam in shadow. "That's our grind you're cashing in on."
Liam raised his hands, palms out, a universal gesture of peace that did little to soften Marcus's glare. "Not stealing. Adapting." Something flickered across his face—a brief crack in his careful mask. "I'm not here to flex—I'm here to survive. You know how it is."
The words hung in the air between them, heavy with unspoken realities. Aiden studied Liam more carefully now—the worn edges of his hoodie, the faded jeans that had seen too many washes, the hollowness in his cheeks that spoke of skipped meals. His gear was patched together, secondhand at best, and his fingers bore the calluses of someone who worked with their hands when not at a keyboard.
Aiden recognized the hunger in his eyes—not just physical hunger, but the desperate determination of someone clinging to the edge by their fingernails. It was the same hunger that drove Aiden to the café night after night, the same desperation that kept him awake calculating gold-to-dollar conversions while others slept.
"Why our moves?" Aiden asked, his voice softening slightly. "You're good enough to make your own."
Something shifted in Liam's expression—surprise, perhaps, at being acknowledged as skilled. His lips twitched, not quite forming a smile.
"Because you're better," he admitted, the words seemingly costing him. "You don't just win—you break the game down, rebuild it your way." He glanced between them, a flash of vulnerability crossing his face before disappearing again. "I'm not proud, man. I take what I can get to keep the lights on."
Marcus's posture relaxed slightly, his fists unclenching as recognition dawned in his eyes. The café's betting scene was brutal for solo players—small wins barely covering basic needs, with nothing left for emergencies or dreams. Everyone had their reasons, their burdens, their private battles fought in digital arenas because the real world offered even worse odds.
"You're cutting into our bets," Marcus said, but the accusation had dulled to a statement of fact. "We can't all fish the same pond."
Aiden pulled up Liam's match history again, scrutinizing the data more carefully. "He's right," he said to Marcus, showing him the screen. "He's picking different targets. Staying clear of our marks."
"Still ain't cool," Marcus muttered, but the threat had drained from his voice.
Aiden felt something shift inside him, a realignment of possibilities. Liam was a wildcard—unpredictable, independent, driven by necessity rather than loyalty. But his skills were undeniable. The speed of his adaptations, the precision of his execution... those weren't just copied moves; they were refined, integrated into his own style.
With Elena's challenge still fresh in his mind and whispers of Eternal Realms growing louder, Aiden found himself weighing a new equation. A team was no longer a luxury but a necessity for what might come next. And teams needed diversity—not just in skills but in perspectives.
"Here's how it goes," Aiden said, locking eyes with Liam. The café seemed to fade away, the moment contracting to just the three of them and the decision hanging in the balance. "You stop copying our tactics. You want in on our game, you run with us, not behind us. We've got bigger matches coming—team bets, high stakes. You pull your weight, we split fair."
Liam's eyes widened fractionally, genuine surprise breaking through his carefully maintained indifference. "You're serious? A crew?"
"Tryout," Aiden corrected, not wanting to overcommit. "One match, one chance. You ghost us, or compete against us, we're done."
Marcus gave Aiden a skeptical look but remained silent, deferring to his judgment. Liam's gaze darted between them, weighing the offer against what appeared to be deep-seated instincts for self-preservation. Something vulnerable flickered across his face—hope, perhaps, or the dangerous cousin of hope that lived in people who'd learned that wanting things only led to disappointment.
"Alright," Liam said finally, nodding once. The movement was sharp, decisive. "I'm in, for the next team match. No tricks."
"Don't make me regret this," Aiden said, allowing a faint smile to soften his words. "Show up ready."
As they walked back to their stations, Marcus leaned close, his voice pitched low. "You sure about this guy? He's all angles."
Aiden glanced back at terminal 12, where Liam had already immersed himself in a new match, his assassin darting across the screen with deadly precision. "He's surviving," Aiden replied, thinking of his own late nights, the hospital bills stacked on their counter, Lily's textbooks, and their mother's unmoving form in room 412. "Like us. We give him a shot, he might surprise you."
The café roared back to life around them, the momentary lull in activity surging back into its usual frenetic energy. Bets flew, screens blazed, and the night stretched ahead—full of possibilities and pitfalls in equal measure.
Aiden settled back into station 23, the chair's familiar creak welcoming him home. The screen's glow pulled him in, but something had changed. The Saturday shift had grounded him, kept the lights on, but tonight's move felt different—like laying a cornerstone rather than merely surviving another day.
Lily's voice echoed in his mind—Eternal Realms could change everything—and with Marcus's steady loyalty, Elena's unexpected challenge, and now Liam's tentative alliance, Aiden sensed a framework taking shape. Not just for another week's rent or another month's hospital bill, but for a future he could actually build rather than merely endure.
He cracked his knuckles and queued another match, feeling the weight of the day transform into something lighter, more purposeful. The Architect wasn't just surviving anymore—he was planning, designing, creating. One fight at a time, one gold piece at a time, one ally at a time.
Maybe, he thought as the match timer counted down, there's more than one way to architect a future.