Saturday sunlight sliced through the battered blinds of Alayah's apartment, painting harsh stripes across her cluttered living room.
She lounged on the faded couch, feet propped on a pile of laundry, controller in hand. The air hummed with the artificial thump of gunfire and chaos.
On screen, her character sprinted through an abandoned factory, shotgun blazing. Some guy on the other end of the headset was screaming about hackers and cheating demons—he had no idea how literal that last bit was.
Alayah smirked, flicking her thumb, and sent another opponent to digital hell. Headshot. The little notification glowed across the bottom of the screen.
Another shriek echoed through her cheap headphones. If she closed her eyes, she could almost convince herself this was relaxation: the low buzz of adrenaline, the mindless repetition, the thrill of winning in a world where nobody knew her face.
She'd joined the university's video game club out of boredom and a lazy kind of curiosity.
Most of them had been awkward, noisy kids who stammered when she walked into the room—except for Zoe, who'd babbled about "badass demon vibes" and then asked if Alayah wanted to join their "Call of Duty squad."
They'd handed her a battered gaming headset, a membership form, and a mountain of snacks. Alayah hadn't even filled out the form.
She'd spent the morning grinding kills and half-waiting for her magic to recover. After last night's firestorm, her reserves were still shot—black flames banked low, muscle aches crawling down her back. Fighting monsters was one thing.
Playing hero for her rival was another.
Alayah snorted to herself, blasting another player into pixels. Saving Lyra. What a joke. But the memory lingered anyway: Lyra's weight in her arms, blood on her hands, that stubborn refusal to die.
A sudden pounding rattled her front door, slicing through the drone of the game. She frowned, pausing her match with a thumb and yanking off her headset.
Who the hell could it be? Nobody from the demon council would come here, too messy, too human.
The university didn't do house calls. Her landlord, maybe? Unless Zoe got lost again, or worse: some overeager fangirl from the math department.
She stomped to the door, bracing herself for trouble, and swung it open with practiced nonchalance.
Lyra stood on the threshold, framed by the too-bright morning light.
Her silver hair was pulled back in a loose braid, cheeks flushed pink from the walk, and she was clutching a paper bag that smelled suspiciously of actual, edible food.
Not takeout, not pizza, real food, the kind humans made with intention.
Alayah blinked. "Did you get lost?"
Lyra glared, clearly regretting this already. "No. I…" She shoved the bag at Alayah's chest, nearly toppling her backwards. "I brought breakfast. Or brunch. Whatever. Take it."
Alayah took the bag, weighing it in one hand. "What is this, an apology? Or are you trying to poison me?"
Lyra's jaw twitched. "Just open it."
Inside: croissants, still warm. Some kind of pastry with fruit and sugar dust. A Tupperware container with what looked suspiciously like scrambled eggs. And, nestled at the bottom, a single, tiny bottle of honey.
Alayah raised a brow, more amused than anything. "Wow. This almost makes up for all the times you've tried to burn me alive."
Lyra huffed, eyes darting to the cracked linoleum floor. For a moment, the world paused, awkward and strangely fragile.
Then Lyra leaned in, almost too quietly to hear, and mumbled, "Thank you. For saving me."
It was so soft that Alayah almost missed it. But the heat in Lyra's cheeks, the stubborn set of her jaw, said it all.
Alayah blinked. For a moment, she honestly didn't know if she should laugh, flex, or pull Lyra into a bone-crushing hug just to see her squirm. Instead, she cleared her throat and did what came naturally—she went big, dramatic, and a little bit ridiculous.
"Thank me? That's it? You almost died in my arms, princess, and all I get is breakfast? You should be singing my praises in the town square. Maybe writing a ballad. Or groveling. Yeah, I like the groveling idea."
Lyra shot her a death glare that could have withered a weaker demon. "Would you rather I tried to kill you again? Because I'm feeling much better."
Alayah snorted, stepping aside and motioning grandly. "Come on, then. Let's see if your gratitude is real. I'm feeling generous, so here's the deal: come inside, play a game with me, and if you can win even once—just one game—I'll consider us even. No more debts. No more lectures. Deal?"
Lyra hesitated, glancing past Alayah into the messy apartment. "What kind of game?"
"Call of Duty," Alayah said, smirking. "It's easy. You just have to shoot everyone else before they shoot you. Think of it like magic dueling, but with less fire and more explosions."
Lyra looked deeply skeptical, but after a beat, she stepped inside, nose wrinkling as she took in the chaos.
Piles of laundry, a coffee table littered with empty cans and snack wrappers, textbooks with notes scrawled in three different alphabets.
Alayah's gaming setup was a chaotic nest: tangled cords, glowing keyboard, a battered second controller perched atop a stack of notebooks.
Lyra put the food on the table and hovered by the far edge of the couch, seating herself at what might generously be called a "safe" distance—about as far as the furniture would allow, as if Alayah might bite.
Alayah bit back a laugh, sprawling beside her, knees spread wide, completely at ease. "Relax. I don't bite. Not unless you ask nicely."
Lyra rolled her eyes, but there was a hint of a smile. "I've never played games like this."
Alayah grinned, tossing her the spare controller. "Let me teach you."
She set up a local match—no online chaos, just the two of them in a neon-lit virtual city, digital weapons at the ready.
The loading screen flashed, showing Lyra's avatar: all default settings, nothing personalized, still stuck with the generic "Player 2" tag. Alayah's, in contrast, wore heavy armor, cyberpunk tattoos, and a blood-red shotgun.
Lyra squinted at the controls, thumbs stiff and awkward. "So I just… move with this?"
"Left stick to walk. Right stick to look around. This one shoots. Try not to aim at the sky the whole time."
Lyra mumbled something unprintable under her breath and fumbled her way through the opening seconds. She ran straight into a wall, then managed to throw a grenade at her own feet. On screen, her avatar exploded, rag-dolling across the pavement.
Alayah howled with laughter. "Nice start. At this rate, you'll be the first player in history to lose without anyone else shooting you."
Lyra flushed, refusing to give up. She respawned and inched her way across the map, shooting wildly at anything that moved—including her own shadow.
Meanwhile, Alayah stalked her from the rooftops, sniper rifle in hand, waiting for just the right moment to strike.
"Head up! You're about to—"
Alayah fired. Lyra's avatar went down in a spray of digital gore. The words "You Died" flashed in bright red.
Alayah leaned over, voice low and teasing. "You owe me more than breakfast now, princess."
Lyra glared. "Rematch. I wasn't ready."
"Fine, but I'm turning up the heat."
Game after game, Alayah destroyed her, sometimes with style, sometimes with lazy nonchalance. Lyra refused to quit. She got better well slowly.
She stopped shooting at the sky, started aiming with something like intent, even managed to blow up Alayah once with a stray grenade.
"See? You're learning," Alayah drawled, elbowing her. "One more death and I'll consider letting you win out of pity."
Lyra set her jaw, eyes fierce. "Don't you dare. I'll win on my own."
Alayah grinned, feeling something electric—half rivalry, half delight. It was so easy to fall into this rhythm: teasing, pushing, seeing how far she could make Lyra bend before she snapped back.
They played until the food grew cold, the room filled with laughter and trash talk, the world outside forgotten.
For a little while, they were just two girls on a couch—no monsters, no magic, no blood debts. Just competition and possibility.
When Lyra finally set the controller down, she glared at Alayah with mock outrage. "How many times did you kill me?"
Alayah shrugged, smug. "I lost count after the first dozen."
Lyra scowled, but there was a spark of genuine amusement in her eyes. "You're insufferable."
Alayah shot her a lazy grin. "And you're terrible at video games. But hey, at least you're brave enough to show up."
She stretched, arms above her head, bare midriff flashing as she yawned. "Want to go another round, or admit defeat and buy me lunch next time?"
Lyra opened her mouth—maybe to accept the challenge, maybe to insult her again—but paused, caught between pride and something softer.
Alayah leaned in, eyes glittering with challenge. "Come on, princess. Let me teach you. You might actually have fun."
And Lyra, after a moment's hesitation, smiled—just a little. "Fine. Teach me. But don't think this means we're friends."
Alayah snorted, tossing her a controller. "Wouldn't dream of it."