Raxian had been grinding more than usual lately—ever since that match with AkarisLite, he felt a gnawing pressure every time he queued. But the harder he tried, the worse it got. Loss after loss stacked like weights on his back. By the end of the week, his Emerald I 75 LP had tanked all the way down to Emerald III 75 LP.
He just sat there in disbelief after the demotion screen flashed. Defeat was nothing new—he'd had bad streaks before—but this one felt different. The tilt wasn't just in the game; it was crawling under his skin, lighting every nerve. If this kept up, he knew he'd lose his mind.
Naturally, he vented in the group chat. Jake was the first to pile on.
"Dude, maybe you're just washed.""Skill issue, bro.""Imagine getting carried to Emerald just to int it all away."
It was classic Jake, every line designed to poke. Raxian bit back with curses, but it only made the gang banter worse. Then Jake threw out the challenge:
"1v1 me after school. For old time's sake. Let's see if you're even Emerald material."
---
By the time classes ended, they had a custom lobby set. The whole gang—Marcus, Tess, Ava, Logan, Bruce—jumped into spectator, while Jake and Raxian locked in their champs. The Discord call was buzzing, everyone hyped to watch the duel.
But once the game started, Raxian couldn't lock in. His rhythm was off. His mechanics felt stiff, panicked, like his own fingers were working against him. Every trade he took went badly. Every skirmish ended with Jake walking away with a sliver of health while the call erupted in laughter.
When Jake finally sealed it with a clean outplay, the scoreboard was ugly—Raxian hadn't just lost, he'd been crushed.
The call went silent for a beat. Nobody wanted to say the wrong thing. Then Jake, of course, broke it:"Damn, bro. Not even close."
Raxian couldn't take it. He ripped off his headset, letting the mic catch the clatter as it hit the desk. He didn't even bother closing the client or leaving the call. He just collapsed onto his bed and buried his face in the pillow, every muscle tense with rage and shame.
The gang stayed quiet in the call for a few moments, unsure if he'd come back. Eventually, they trickled out one by one.
---
Over the next few days, nobody mentioned League. Not Tess, not Bruce, not Logan. They knew better. Every time Jake brought it up, he caught a glare sharp enough to cut. He'd laugh it off, but even he started pulling his punches after the third or fourth warning look.
For once, the game wasn't the center of the conversation anymore—and that silence was louder than any defeat screen.
---
Raxian's miserable state didn't go unnoticed. Heads turned the moment he slouched into his seat, eyes half-lidded, jaw set like he hadn't slept in days. He dragged his bag across the desk instead of setting it down, earning a few side glances from the row behind him. It didn't take long before the whispers began.
"Oh, that's just Raxian," someone muttered near the window. "Probably too caught up with the game again."
"I wouldn't be so sure," another voice countered, lower but sharper. "Have you seen his match history? Dude's on free-fall. He tanked like seventeen games in a row. Emerald 1 to E3 75 LP. Brutal."
The murmurs spread, bouncing from desk to desk. Someone else chimed in, "Didn't Jake stomp him in a duel the other day?" followed by a chuckle.
By the time lunch rolled around, it had snowballed into half the class talking about him like he wasn't even there.
And of course, it landed right where gossip always landed — in Mira's lap. The self-crowned queen of chatter was practically glowing when she leaned across Leah's desk. "I swear, he looked like he was about to pass out just walking in. Raxian of all people—slipping? That's news."
Leah, ever calmer, tapped her pencil against her notebook, eyes flicking toward Raxian's hunched figure at the far end of the room. "Maybe he's just tired."
Mira smirked, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. "Tired? Please. That boy's been living off caffeine and ego since forever. You think he's finally breaking?"
Fayne, seated close enough to overhear, froze at the sound of Raxian's name. She'd noticed, of course. She didn't need Mira's theatrics to tell her he wasn't himself. His sharp energy, the fire in his eyes, even the cocky way he usually carried himself — all dulled, hollowed out.
It wasn't hard to guess why. That game.
Her mind drifted back to when they were kids. They weren't exactly close — more like neighbors stuck together on playdates neither of them asked for. Raxian had never been much of a talker back then either, not about anything real. But when it came to the game, it was like he lit up. Suddenly he had endless words, buzzing with energy, as if that screen gave him a language he couldn't find anywhere else.
She never understood it. Back then, it seemed silly — watching him ramble about characters and plays she couldn't keep up with. But now, years later, sitting in a classroom where his slump was loud enough to spark whispers, she finally started to understand.
League wasn't just a pastime anymore. It was woven into everything. Their school even had a leaderboard in the hallway, next to exam scores. Teachers referenced it offhand. Classmates measured each other by it. League wasn't just a game; it was status.
And seeing Raxian — that boy who once couldn't shut up about it — sliding down that ladder in front of everyone's eyes… something about it made her chest tighten, though she couldn't quite say why.
---
During lunch break, Raxian waved his crew off with a half-hearted, "Go ahead, I'll catch up."Bruce lingered, giving him that steady, concerned look of his."You sure?""Yeah," Raxian muttered, shoving his hands into his pockets. "I need a minute."
Bruce didn't push. None of them ever really did — not when he sounded like that. One by one, they drifted down the hall, their chatter fading into the hum of lunchtime noise.
Raxian stayed behind, leaning back against the cool metal of his locker. His eyes drifted to the window across the hall, down toward the courtyard. Students buzzed like static — laughter, shouts, the occasional squeak of shoes against pavement. He spotted his gang slipping into the crowd. Marcus with his easy swagger, Tess already talking with her hands, Jake probably cracking some loud joke that earned him a shove. Ava and Logan, as usual, a pair of shadows side by side. Bruce trailed after them, shoulders slouched, a quiet anchor in the chaos.
For a second, Raxian almost felt separated from it all by glass thicker than it was. Like he wasn't really in it anymore. Just watching.
His chest tightened. He'd been off lately — not just a little tired or distracted, but completely out of sync with himself. Like he'd missed a step somewhere and never caught up.
And the worst part? He knew exactly where it started.
If he couldn't focus on League, the one thing that had always mattered most to him, the one constant that gave him drive — then what the hell was the point of anything? School, hanging out, even being here at all… none of it made sense if that spark was gone.
His reflection in the glass window looked hollow. Lost. And the word scraped at the back of his mind like sandpaper.
Lost. That's what I am.
---
Raxian stayed slouched against the lockers, staring blankly out the window, when a voice cut through his haze.
"You're spacing out."
He turned, blinking. She was leaning against the locker beside him like she'd been there all along, arms folded, posture casual but not careless. Dark hair brushing her cheek, eyes sharp but unreadable.
"…Sable," he muttered, more statement than greeting. He'd heard enough whispers to recognize her instantly. The transfer. The one people claimed had a rank high enough to shut entire conversations down.
She didn't confirm or deny it, just tilted her head slightly. "You don't look so untouchable right now."
Raxian bristled, instinctively ready to snap back — but the words caught in his throat. He hated how right she was.
"…What's it to you?" he asked instead, forcing some edge back into his tone.
"Nothing." Her answer came quick, simple, and carried no weight. But she didn't walk away either. Instead, she studied him, the kind of look that wasn't pity, wasn't judgment — just observation, steady and unnerving.
"You've been off. People notice," she said at last.
Raxian scoffed, looking away. "Yeah? Let them. It's not their business."
Sable shrugged. "True. But if you can't focus, that's your problem. And you don't strike me as the type who likes being a problem to himself."
Her words hit harder than he wanted to admit. He glanced at her again, narrowing his eyes. "You talk like you know me."
"I don't." A faint smirk flickered, the first sign of expression on her otherwise calm face. "But I know the game. I've seen what it does to people."
That made him pause. The rumors… right. "So it's true. You play."
"Of course I play." Her tone made it sound ridiculous to question. She pushed off the locker, straightening. "But I don't let it play me."
Raxian's lips parted, but nothing came out. For once, he didn't have some cocky retort locked and loaded.
Sable slung her bag over her shoulder. As she moved past him, she gave him a light nudge with her elbow — barely a touch, but enough to pull him out of his spiral.
"Get your head back in the game, Raxian," she said quietly, almost as if only he was meant to hear. "Or you'll keep losing before the match even starts."
And just like that, she was gone, leaving him with nothing but the echo of her voice — and a sudden, gnawing curiosity.
---
"Get your head back in the game."How the hell was he supposed to do that?
Her words wouldn't leave him alone. They pressed at the back of his mind while the League client flickered on his monitor, its glow making him feel boxed in. His match history stared back at him: red defeat after red defeat. He clicked through it, jaw tight, hoping maybe the numbers would blur, maybe he'd feel that old spark again. But the more he looked, the worse it got. Each loss felt heavier, each mistake louder. His hand hovered over the queue button, but he couldn't bring himself to hit it.
At last he shoved the mouse aside, muttered screw it, and picked up his phone. His thumb hovered over the contact for a moment—half-embarrassed, half-desperate. He hadn't called Raze in months; most of their conversations lived in messages and Discord calls these days. But this wasn't something he could type out. This needed to be spoken.
The line barely rang once."Yo." Raze's voice came through, low and calm like always.
"Hey," Raxian said, rougher than he meant. "Uh… you got time to meet up?"
There was no hesitation. Just the sound of a lighter click, then Raze exhaling. "Where and when?"
Raxian leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling. The answer came out without him even thinking: "Skatepark. By the vending machine."
A beat of silence, then Raze's quiet laugh. "Old haunt, huh? Been a minute."
"Yeah." Raxian rubbed the back of his neck. "Just… tonight. After sundown."
"Done."
That was all it took. No questions, no judgment, just solid ground under his feet again. And when the sun dipped that evening, bleeding orange against the skyline, Raxian made his way to their spot—the vending machine at the edge of the park, where Raze had first taught him how to stand steady on a skateboard. It wasn't just a meeting place. It was history.
---
The vending machine buzzed as Raxian leaned against it, the whirring hum almost louder than his own thoughts. The sky above was dipped in fading orange, the kind of sunset that painted the skatepark in warm strokes of gold and shadow. The place was quiet now, the chatter of kids on boards and bikes dying off with the day. For Raxian, this was more than just cracked pavement and rails—it was where it had all started. Where Raze had first shoved a beat-up board into his hands and said, "You'll figure it out, just don't eat shit too hard."
Raze appeared a moment later, striding up with that familiar tired calm in his eyes. He had that look again—like he'd already lived three lives in the short twenty-two years he'd been around. His hair was dark, shaggy, a little longer at the back like he hadn't bothered with a trim in months, with those iconic blue highlights. A hood was half-draped over his head, sleeves pushed up, revealing the faint ink on his forearm. His jeans were scuffed, paint-splattered from college projects, and his sneakers had seen better days. Somehow, it suited him—like the world tried to beat him down and he just wore the scars as part of his style.
"Yo," Raze said simply, cracking open a can of soda he'd pulled from the machine. He offered one to Raxian. "You look like you've been losing sleep, man. What's up?"
Raxian rubbed his face. "I don't know what the hell's going on with me. I sit down, open up League, and it's like—my brain just blanks. I can't focus. I can't grind. And it's all I've ever wanted, right? But if I can't even do that—then what's the point of doing anything?"
Raze cracked a grin, sipping his soda. "Damn. AkarisLite really did a 180 on you, huh?"
Raxian shot him a look. "Don't start."
"I'm just saying!" Raze laughed, nudging his shoulder. "One smurf rolls through and suddenly Rax is having an identity crisis? Not like it's the first time, man. You've been stomped before. Hell, you've stomped other people worse."
Raxian groaned, tipping his head back toward the darkening sky. "Yeah, but this was different. I don't know why. It wasn't just some dude dicking around on an alt account. It felt like… I don't know… they saw me. Like they read every move before I even made it. It was—" He clenched his fist. "—infuriating. But I can't stop thinking about it."
Raze tilted his head, smirking. "What, you catch feelings or something?"
"Shut up."
"Hey, I'm serious. Maybe it wasn't about losing, maybe it was about being seen. You're so wrapped up in proving yourself all the time, maybe it threw you off balance when someone actually mirrored your rhythm. Like fighting yourself in a way."
Raxian fell quiet at that, chewing the inside of his cheek. "…Maybe."
For a moment, silence stretched. The vending machine hummed, a board clattered somewhere in the distance. Raze leaned against the railing, his voice softening.
"Look. I get it. I really do. You think I had my shit together when I was your age?" He let out a dry laugh. "Sixteen, my folks kicked me out 'cause I wouldn't stop coming home drunk and pissing them off. I had nowhere to go, so I ended up at your place. Your mom—Lillian—fed me like I was her own, man. Put up with my shit even when she didn't have to. If it wasn't for her, and for you, I probably wouldn't have made it past Seventeen."
Raxian looked over, eyes softening. "Yeah, I remember that."
Raze shrugged, staring out at the empty park. "It took me years to figure out who I was, to get into art school, to stop feeling like I was just floating. And even now? Half the time I'm still winging it. Point is—you don't have to have it all figured out at once. Don't let one stupid game make you think you're lost forever."
Raxian let the words sit with him, heavy but grounding. "…You're really gonna throw life advice at me while drinking a vending machine Sprite?"
Raze smirked. "Damn right."
That cracked the tension. Raxian chuckled, shaking his head.
Raze straightened, stretching his arms behind his head with that laid-back ease he always had. "Tell you what. How about we hop on and run some draft games? Just you and me. No pressure, no ladder, no tilt. Just sync back up. You need your rhythm again, right? Let's get it back the way we used to—me laughing my ass off while you sweat every CS."
Raxian snorted. "You always sucked at last-hitting."
"Still do." Raze grinned, sharp but easy. "But I've got enough to remind you why you play. And who knows—maybe I'll teach you something this time."
It wasn't lost on Raxian that Raze could. Diamond 2. The highest any of them had climbed. Raze never rubbed it in, but everyone knew—he was legit, the one who proved it could be done. Raxian had always sworn he'd catch up, maybe even surpass him, but right now he just wanted to feel the game again.
For the first time in days, the heaviness in his chest loosened. He nodded. "Alright. Let's do it."
And in that moment, under the glow of the vending machine and the last threads of daylight, it felt like maybe—just maybe—he could get back in the game.
---
So that's what they did. The next day, they met up at the gaming café—two battered old headsets, the hum of PCs around them, and the faint smell of energy drinks and instant noodles clinging to the air. Just two bros queuing up together like they had so many times before.
Raze really stretched the "goofing" part by locking in Volibear ADC.
Raxian stared at him across the row of monitors. "You're trolling."
"Correction," Raze smirked, "I'm innovating. Trust the process."
And somehow, against all reason, he convinced Raxian to support for him one game. With Annie.
"Yes," Raze said, dead serious, "The ultimate bear combo. Tibbers and me. It's destiny."
Raxian groaned, rubbing his face. "This is peak clown fiesta."
"Peak genius," Raze corrected. "Watch and learn."
To Raxian's dismay (and reluctant amusement), it actually worked. The moment Raze tower-dove with Volibear's ult and Raxian dropped Tibbers on top, the enemy botlane exploded in chaos. Raze's laughter echoing through the café, while Raxian tried—and failed—to keep a straight face.
"The bears eat themselves fed!" Raze shouted, mangling the expression on purpose, and cackling even harder.
And at last… Raxian had to admit he was having fun. The pressure, the tilt, the self-doubt—it all eased off in the noise of Raze's nonsense. For the first time in days, he wasn't overthinking the game. He was just playing. Just vibing with his brother.
Maybe… just maybe, he was finally getting his groove back.
---
When Raxian logged into the League client that night, a message was waiting for him.From… AkarisLite.
"I can tell you're enjoying yourself again. That's how it should be. Don't forget—it's just a game."
Raxian froze for a second, staring at the text.AkarisLite… had been keeping tabs on him? Or at least checking his match history.But why? What did he care if Raxian was having fun or not?
Confusion prickled under his skin. What the hell was this guy's deal? Some random Diamond smurf with a calm tone and perfect spacing suddenly playing life coach?
He exhaled sharply, shook his head, and decided to ignore it. No point spiraling over some cryptic dude in the client.
He queued up for another draft. Ranked could wait. He wasn't ready to risk it yet—not when he was barely holding together the scraps of momentum he'd found.
"Having fun," huh.He thought about it as the timer ticked down. Was the climb ever really fun?
Not really.Grinding ladder wasn't joy—it was obsession. It was nerves in his stomach before every queue pop, it was smashing the same combo with Ekko over and over because he already knew how to outplay almost anyone. It was the high of watching the bar fill with LP, like a needle pumping adrenaline straight into his chest.
The truth was, he didn't enjoy it. He was addicted to it. Addicted to the rush of progress, the illusion of control, the proof that maybe—just maybe—he wasn't wasting his time.
And yet, sitting there in champ select, locking in something dumb just for the hell of it, he couldn't deny: Raze had reminded him what it actually felt like to laugh at the game. To let go of the weight, if only for a match.
But when the draft ended, and the loading screen took over, the thought lingered:
If it really was just a game… then why did it feel like everything?