The late-night hum of London was reduced to a dull whisper through the closed windows of Kyle Garrick’s flat. Inside, the glow of RGB lights cast his beige baseball cap in a gentle spectrum of shifting colour as the ex-SAS Sergeant leaned back in his gaming chair, one hand balancing a ceramic mug of tea—pale, one sugar, just the way he liked it—and the other gripping his controller.

His Twitch chat buzzed on the second monitor: hundreds of usernames, emotes, and messages flew by like tracer rounds in a fire-fight.

“Oi, did you lot see that? Man tried to sneak up on me like I don’t have military-grade instincts.” Kyle chuckled, glancing toward the camera. His laugh—warm, unfiltered—drew a flood of laughing emotes.

The stream was well into hour three. He was deep into a psychological horror game now, the kind where every creaking door and flickering light could be your end. And yet, Gaz sat there cool as ever, sipping tea and cracking jokes while a ghostly shadow twisted on screen behind his digital character.

A notification chimed.

He froze.

Not dramatically—no gasps or wide-eyed expressions for the camera—but something subtle shifted behind his eyes. Even so it was enough for his chat to notice and when the all-too familiar username of one of the bigger streamers of the platform popped up. announcing that they had just subscribed, the chat went barmy.

WAIT, WHAT?!

BROOOOOO

GAZ STAY COOL

HOLY SHIT, THEY NEVER SUB TO PEOPLE 😭😭😭

He knew the name. Everyone did. The internet's sweetheart, you. The first streamer that made him believe this whole thing—streaming, building a community, making people feel safe—was possible. Kyle remembered being stuck in hospital recovery, bandaged and half-broken, watching late-night playthroughs on a cheap tablet Soap had smuggled into his room. It had been your voice that got him through the pain, and your streams that kept his mind off the screams echoing in the corridors of war memories.

Kyle leaned back in his chair, brushing a hand through the short curls of his fade, then letting it settle against the back of his cap.

“Alright, alright—calm down, chat. Let 'em lurk in peace, yeah-?" Gaz chuckled as his fans riled themselves up into a frenzy. Some losing their minds while others were already attempting to come up with shipnames.

Another notification pinged through, cutting Gaz off. You had sent a message.

Super sorry! Hadn't meant to cause a stir, I just love your streams

“Oh, nooo,” he groaned playfully, dragging both palms down his face in mock embarrassment. “Now you’ve gone and said somethin’, haven’t you?”

Chat exploded.

THEY TYPED. THEY ACTUALLY TYPED!

GAZ IS GONNA COMBUST

BRO YOU GOT A LOVE LETTER

He tilted his head back with a helpless laugh, his cap nearly falling off in the process. “I was doin’ so well, keepin’ it professional. Cool. Calm. Collected. Now look at me.”

A breath escaped him, half-laugh, half-sigh. He leaned back toward the screen, narrowing his eyes as though challenging the chat not to make a big deal out of it—knowing full well it was far too late for that.