Chapter 1: Vodka and Victory
The glow from my monitors is the only light in the room, a cold, electric blue that paints everything in stark shadows. My main screen is a riot of color—Valorant’s Icebox map, all sterile whites and chilling blues. The second monitor is a scrolling waterfall of Twitch chat, emojis and bits flying by. The third, usually for Discord or a video edit, is dark except for a single browser tab left open: my bank account. I don’t look at it.
My feet are cold against the cheap laminate floor. I’m wearing just an oversized band t-shirt, the hem frayed, and a pair of black boy shorts. The AC unit grumbles in the window, pushing a stream of air directly onto my legs. I should get up and adjust it. I won’t.
“Okay, chat, listen up,” I say, my voice smooth and amplified by the microphone suspended just out of frame. It’s a practiced tone, half-serious, half-mocking. “They’re saving. They’ve got nothing but classics and a dream. We push A, we do it clean.”
My character, Jett, dances on the spot, knife flicking in and out. My hands are dry. I lick my lips and taste the artificial cherry of the energy drink I crushed an hour ago. Next to my mousepad, a large stainless-steel water bottle sweats condensation onto the wood. It’s three-quarters full.
Lenz carry us!
don’t throw pls
ur so cute when ur focused lol
“I’m always focused, you degenerates,” I murmur, a smirk pulling at my mouth. The game countdown ends. “Execute time.”
We move as a blob of five. The sounds are crisp in my headphones: the scuff of boots on virtual metal, the clack of a reload, my own breath in the mic. I lead the way into the site, my fingers a fluid patter across the keyboard. A flick, a click. One down. A dash to the left, a spray of phantom bullets. Another.
My heart is a steady, reliable drum in my chest. This is the good part. The part where my mind is nowhere and everywhere, where the anxiety that usually buzzes in my skull like a trapped fly is silenced by pure, demanded concentration.
We plant the spike. I take an aggressive position, listening. My crosshair holds an angle. Someone peeks. A single, clean headshot. The round ends with the metallic clang of victory.
“And that, my friends, is why you don’t save against us,” I announce, leaning back. The chair creaks. The performance slides into place effortlessly. I grab the water bottle, unscrew the cap, and take a long, deep pull.
It’s not water.
The vodka hits the back of my throat, warm and familiar, a spreading heat that immediately takes the edge off the cold in my toes, off the slight tremor that had been building in my left hand. It tastes like gasoline and relief. I swallow, keeping my face perfectly neutral toward the camera, and set the bottle down. A slow, pleasant fog begins to blur the sharpest corners of the room.
“One more game, guys,” I say, my voice a little richer, a little looser. “Then I’m done. Promise.”
NOOO
5 more
Sub goal for overtime?
I ignore the pleading chat, my eyes drifting to the bank tab on the dark monitor. The number is smaller than I’d like. Rent is due. A sponsorship review is coming up. They expect consistency, a positive brand alignment. The thoughts are sharp, needling. I take another, smaller sip from the bottle. The thoughts dull, becoming distant, less personally mine.
The queue pops. We load in. My Jett is locked, my skin is the nice one, the one a fan gifted me. I feel good. Loose.
The first half goes well. My aim is snappy, my calls are sharp. The chat is loving it. I’m loving it. The warm buzz is a cocoon, a buffer between me and the pressure of the thousand watching eyes. I’m funny. I’m chill. I’m Lenz.
By the twelfth round, the cocoon has thickened. The world has softened. My reactions are a millisecond slow. I miss a shot I should have hit. My teammate’s voice in my ear, a kid named Dex, is tinged with frustration. “Jett, what was that? You had him.”
“I’m aware, Dex,” I drawl, the words coming out syrup-slow. “His head moved. Rude of him.” I take a drink. Not so hidden this time; I bring the bottle into frame, waggle it. “Hydration is key, kids.”
Is that water lol
She’s drinking like it’s a Friday night
Lenz is fuckin wiped
The room tilts, just a little, when I stand to use the bathroom during the half-time switch. I steady myself on the desk, my bare feet sticking to the floor. In the harsh fluorescent light of the bathroom, I look pale. My eyes are a little too bright, the pupils wide. I splash water on my face, but it doesn’t touch the warmth beneath my skin, the steady, comforting hum.
Back in the chair, the second half is a blur. Literally. The edges of the screen seem to bleed. My crosshair wanders. I’m relying on game sense, on muscle memory, but the connection between my brain and my fingers is lagging. We lose a clutch round. Then another.
“It’s fine,” I tell chat, my voice a low slurry. “We got this. Economy round. Play smart.”
We do not play smart. I buy a sheriff, intent on a hero play. I swing into mid, miss three shots, and get instantly deleted.
Silence on the comms. The chat is a mix of L and F and concern-trolling.
The loss screen flashes up. Defeat. My rank point loss is significant. A flicker of something hot and acidic cuts through the vodka—shame. I drown it immediately with a last, long pull from the bottle. It’s empty.
“Welp,” I sigh, stretching my arms over my head. The shirt rides up. I don’t care. “That’s what I get for trying to carry you animals. I’m spent.”
I manage to end the stream, the software closing with a final beep. The sudden silence is enormous. The room is dark save for the RGB glow from my PC, painting the empty vodka bottles on the nightstand in a sickly rainbow light. The one by my mousepad is just a water bottle to anyone who doesn’t know. But I know.
The performance is over. The persona is off.
I slump back into the chair, the weight of my own body suddenly exhausting. The good feeling is still there, but it’s sinking, settling into a heavy, pleasant lethargy. My brain is quiet. The anxiety about the bank account, the sponsorship, the rent—it’s all on the other side of a thick, soundproof glass. I can see the worries, but I can’t hear them anymore.
This is the best part of the day. The only part that is entirely, unquestionably mine. No audience. No expectations. Just the hum of the computer and the beautiful, blanketing silence in my head.
I push myself up. The floor is cold again. I pad over to the small fridge under my desk and pull out a new bottle of the cheap, decent vodka. I don’t bother with a glass. The cap twists off with a satisfying crackle of plastic.
At my desk, I open a video edit for tomorrow’s YouTube short. Clips of tonight’s early round, the clutch wins. None of the later, messy ones. I’ll cut it to a hype track, add some flashy effects. The narrative will be one of dominance, of a cool, collected carry.
As the timeline renders, I drink. The video edits are easy, mechanical. My body is warm. My feet are finally not cold. I light a cigarette, the smoke curling up into the monitor light, and take a drag, then a drink. The combination is perfect, a practiced rhythm.
Later, I’ll stumble to bed. Later, I’ll sleep a deep and dreamless sleep. Later, I’ll wake up with a dry mouth and a pounding head and the first, faint whispers of that buzzing anxiety, already reaching for the energy drinks, already planning the performance.
But not yet.
Right now, there is only the soft click of the mouse, the slow burn of the cigarette, and the deep, forgiving stillness that comes from the bottle. The third monitor glows, the bank tab still open, a dim, ignored monument to tomorrow. I take another drink, and the numbers blur into a meaningless, friendly light.