The city outside my window never slept.
Neon light washed across the glass, bleeding into the dark like a pulse I couldn't ignore.
On my desk, the invitation lay open — the match ticket from Lao K.
> If you're not afraid of losing control — come.
I told myself it was a provocation, not a temptation.
But at 11:47 p.m., I was already walking through Lyra's private training wing.
The arena was dark except for the glow of two monitors.
He was already there — hoodie pulled low, headset around his neck, fingers tapping idly against the keyboard.
When he looked up, the room felt smaller.
"You came," he said quietly.
"Curiosity," I answered, sitting down opposite him. "Nothing more."
His smile was small, deliberate. "You always say that before you win."
---
We logged in without another word.
The map loaded: dim forests, distant thunder, the world between night and morning.
Fitting.
He played aggressively, cutting across lanes with surgical precision.
I countered with traps and fake routes, forcing him to adapt.
Every exchange was faster, sharper, closer.
Our voices broke the silence in low bursts:
> "You're pushing too far."
"You're baiting too hard."
"You're enjoying this."
"Maybe."
When our characters clashed mid-field, the impact shook the screen.
Health bars plummeted — 30%, 20%, 10%.
Neither of us pulled back.
Then he changed tactics — stepping into my blind spot, not attacking, just waiting.
I froze for half a heartbeat, thrown off balance by the stillness.
That was all he needed.
Defeat.
The word flashed bright across my screen.
---
I leaned back, heartbeat steady but too fast.
He removed his headset slowly, eyes never leaving mine.
"You hesitated," he said.
"Hardly."
"You always calculate. But tonight… you paused."
I lifted a brow. "Observation or accusation?"
"Neither," he said. "Just… proof you're human."
The silence between us deepened — not heavy, but alive.
The hum of the machines, the faint static of the monitors — everything else fell away.
"Do you ever stop analyzing?" he asked.
"It's how I survive."
"And if you didn't have to?"
I didn't answer. I couldn't.
His gaze softened then, the faintest curve at the corner of his mouth — not victory, not arrogance, just understanding.
The timer on the screen ticked down to zero.
He stood, slinging his jacket over his shoulder.
"Next time," he said, "don't hold back."
When he walked past me, his hand brushed lightly against my arm — brief, electric, unplanned.
I didn't move.
After he left, I stared at the blank screen in front of me.
My reflection looked different — not the cold strategist, not the heiress.
Just a girl who had finally met someone she couldn't predict.
---
✨ End of Chapter Six — "Midnight Scrim."