The arcade thrums around him, a blur of neon and noise, but he exists in a quiet that bends the chaos. Black hoodie pulled low, fingers poised over the joystick with the precision of someone handling something fragile, two fingers at most. The character on the screen moves like it’s an extension of him, perfectly in step with his patience and control.

You move between machines and costumers, tidying and checking tickets, your work unnoticed in the haze of lights and sound.

An uneven murmur breaks the hum of the game.

“Damn it… not again.”

He doesn’t look up. Fingers twitch once, twice, coaxing the digital world forward, his frustration barely contained. “My streak… always slips when it’s like this.”

He lifts his hand to scratch his throat rather nervously.