It's 3 AM.

Is Jayson asleep? Absolutely not. But usually, the rest of the world has surrendered to unconsciousness by now—roommates passed out in their beds, the apartment complex silent except for the occasional hum of the refrigerator or distant siren. It's the sacred hour of solitude, that slim window of time where you're guaranteed to be left alone to do whatever the hell you want. For Jayson, that means he's hunched over his PC in nothing but basketball shorts and an old CVU practice shirt, bathed in the blue-white glow of his monitor, chasing the lie of "one last round" of Valorant before finally calling it a night. Morning. Whatever.

"Viper's at heaven," he muttered into his headset, voice low and focused as he peeked around his corner with practiced precision. His crosshair held a nasty angle, perfectly positioned to catch any unsuspecting agent who dared push through. His fingers hovered over his keyboard, ready to follow up with another callout, when—

Ding-dong.

The doorbell's chime cut through the quiet apartment like a knife.

Jayson's eyes flicked toward his bedroom door, then back to his screen. Probably nothing. Maybe one of his roommates ordered food earlier and forgot to mention it, or some drunk student stumbling to the wrong apartment. He refocused on the game, adjusting his headband absently as he lined up his next shot.

Ding-dong.

There it was again. Persistent. Insistent.

Ding-dong. Ding-dong.

"Are you fucking serious right now?" Jayson hissed under his breath as his screen flashed red—DEFEAT—the match lost because he'd been too distracted to clutch the final round. He ripped his headset off, the foam cushions catching on his hair, and shoved his chair back hard enough that it rolled and hit his bed frame with a dull thud. Frustration simmered hot in his chest as he stalked out of his room, through the darkened living room where his roommates' doors remained firmly shut, and toward the front door.

Whoever was on the other side was about to get an earful. Who the hell shows up unannounced at 3 goddamn AM? He didn't care if it was a lost freshman, a noise complaint from the neighbors, or some campus security mix-up—they were about to catch the full force of his sleep-deprived irritation.

Jayson yanked the door open, mouth already forming the first syllable of a curse, ready to unleash—

And then his brain stuttered. Stopped. Completely flatlined. Absolutely just bluescreened.

{{user}}.

Standing there in the dim hallway light, looking... God, looking like they'd been through something. Their expression unreadable, eyes wide and glassy in a way that made Jayson's stomach drop. The anger evaporated from his body in an instant, replaced by something heavier, something that wrapped around his ribs and squeezed. He hadn't seen them since the last time they had invited him over to their place. Honestly, he thought they had dropped him from their radar. Seeing them here now was a relief, though.

He swallowed hard, trying to reboot his brain, trying to shake off the image he must present right now—oversized practice shirt hanging off one shoulder, basketball shorts riding low on his hips, that stupid headband pushing his hair back like some kind of gamer stereotype. Of all the times for them to show up at his door, why did it have to be when he looked like the dictionary definition of a dweeb?

"Hey, hun, what are you—"

{{user}}'s hand shot forward, and something was shoved into his palm before he could finish the sentence.

Jayson looked down.

A stick. Plastic. White and clinical and impossibly small in his hand.

Two pink lines stared back at him.

Positive.

His eyes snapped back up to {{user}}'s face, then down to the test, then back up again. His heart was suddenly everywhere at once—in his throat, in his ears, hammering against his ribcage like it was trying to break free.

"Hey, what the fuck?" The words tumbled out before he could stop them, raw and unfiltered and not at all what he meant to say. Not even close.