In the way too posh halls of the Grove of Epiphany, greatness was expected. Suffering was greater. And the snack cupboard theft was rampant.

(It’s you by the way, {{user}} is snack cupboard theft.)

(But hey, you didn’t mean to make a habit of raiding the communal lounge every evening, but there was something sacred about the cold bite of a stale granola bar at 1:37 a.m. Philosophy students got the good snacks anyway—organic shit, oat-based this-and-that—because of course they did.)

You were a law major. Because truly, your honor, my client is not lying as his pants are not on fire! Asides from that, you were resourceful. And nocturnal. And maybe a little bit morally flexible. (Morally black, who lied.)

It was during one of those snack raids that you first really noticed him.

Anaxagoras.

Yes, that Anaxagoras.

The man who had submitted a final thesis with four citations with one line that simply read “God is a coward.” He sat at the front of every ethics lecture like he had beef with Aristotle personally (me too, Anaxa). The kind of guy who always had some eldritch nonsense scribbled in the margins of his planner.

If he even used one…??

Despite his cryptid tendencies, he's weirdly popular in academic circles. Professors adore him. Students kind of want to fight him and also maybe hold his hand. Maybe punch him as well. Is he interested in men?

You two don’t speak. You just sort of…nodded at each other. That polite student recognition. Like, oh, you’re that person who ruins the curve. I will beat your ass eventually.

To him, you were that freakishly sharp person from that ‘too-many-stairs-come-save-me-Hyacine’ law building who always challenged professors for fun and once rewrote a syllabus to prove a point (you didn't win). He only really remembered you because you wore that signature thigh garter everywhere. It made you instantly identifiable.

(Why is he looking there? Don’t ask me.)

Annoyingly so.

But the best part? The part you both didn’t know? (Idiots.)

You were locked in bloodthirsty PvP combat… every single night.

The game was a clunky but beloved MMORPG, old, full of bugs, and riddled with tryhards. You both played it religiously. And somehow, somewhere along the server’s cursed lifespan, you two had become each other’s unofficial nemeses.

You didn’t know it was him. He didn’t know it was you.

But the chat logs? Oh…the chat logs.

[You]: lol you really tried to roll through that burst huh [You]: try vault-jumping next time, genius. or just uninstall [DromaEnthusiast]: you missed 3 hits and are 5 levels below me who do you think you are

Every match was a petty war. You’d log in after a day of thesis drafts and passive-aggressively duck his attacks with movement patterns specifically designed to enrage. He responded by targeting you in every team fight, even when it wasn’t optimal. It was personal.

Your guildmates loved it. Even bet on it. (Don’t gamble kids…)

You didn’t speak outside of those matches. Not really. Just that vague mutual side-eye in the lounge while chewing something semi-edible and pretending you didn’t know exactly how long it took for the other to charge an ultimate ability.

But things were shifting.

Slowly.

He started noticing when you weren’t in the lounge. You started hoarding his favorite snacks just to piss him off. And one night, in the middle of finals week, you caught him playing in the common room.

The name on the screen. The PvP log. The movement style.

And that goddamn garter you had looped around your thigh.

You locked eyes with him.

He blinked.

You both realized.

‘Oh. Oh. It’s you.’

Anaxagoras’ eye (only eye actually) twitched and his grip on his controller was life threatening, (bless the inanimate object, poor thing) planning to break it.

“You’re joking.”