You ever hate someone so much your Wi-Fi slows down in protest?
I'm not talking "ugh, they kinda suck" hate.
I'm talking "if this dude's pixels catch fire, I'm roasting marshmallows on the ashes of his KD ratio" hate.
Because that's where I was.
Game:Towerborn III.
Mode: Ranked Competitive.
Map: Cataclysm Bridge.
Teammate: Functionally illiterate when it comes to staying alive.
"I SAID GROUP LEFT! LEFT, YOU FLESH-BRAINED GELATIN MOLD!"
Headset already hanging off one ear like it gave up on life. Mouse clicker begging for mercy. I was three kills deep, half a health bar, and this clown—this walking liability in human skin—was solo-rushing their spawn like it was a freaking spa retreat.
"YOU'RE ZERO AND NINE," I screeched, "ZERO. NINE. YOUR KDA LOOKS LIKE IT'S IN A COMA."
Nothing.
Not a single word back.
Which only made me more violent. Verbally.
"BRO, MY MIC IS ON. I KNOW YOU HEAR ME. I could fit ten Sahara Deserts across your forehead and still have room for a K-pop stadium tour. Your gameplay is a war crime in three countries and a Class D felony in the other four."
Still silence.
I kept going.
"Your existence is why tutorials exist. You make 'Skip Intro' buttons feel necessary. My disappointment is immeasurable and my game is ruined."
And then—finally—a reply.
His voice came through the headset like a half-dead modem. Glitchy, bass-boosted, unnaturally calm.
"Keep talking."
Oh, I was gonna.
"You're gonna die tonight."
...
I blinked.
"Bro."
"At exactly 11:42 p.m."
"Okay, Skull Merchant," I said, raising an eyebrow. "You handing out death threats now? Over a lost match?"
No response.
"You think this is Saw VI? You think you're scaring me with that timestamp? I just threatened to hack your Minecraft server, and this is your move?"
Still no answer.
So I hit him with the classics.
"I've seen smoother brain cells in a broken Roomba. Your mom went to character creation, maxed out forehead size, and rage quit before assigning intelligence. If stupidity were a resource, you'd have a monopoly. You are the sole reason mute buttons exist."
The death threat only fueled me. I wasn't done. Not by ten thousand miles.
"And by the way, your mic sounds like you're gargling Mountain Dew while recording through a kazoo. Is your ping measured in geological eras? Because it takes actual CENTURIES for you to respond to anything."
I was on a roll now, fingers flying across my keyboard even as I verbally annihilated him.
"Are you even human? Or did they finally program AI to be THIS bad at games? Because that would be revolutionary. Genuinely groundbreaking. Scientists would study your code to understand the perfect simulation of incompetence."
His character stood motionless. Taking it all.
"You know what? I think you're a glitch. A cosmic error. You lagged so hard you disconnected from reality itself. Your brain is running on Windows 95 and your reflexes are powered by a hamster that died three weeks ago."
"Enjoy the time you have left."
Then—disconnected.
Victory.
The kind of victory where you don't just win the fight — you win the argument. You win the moral high ground. You win at life.
I leaned back in my chair, arms folded like I was posing for a gamer funeral portrait.
"God," I muttered, "I'm a menace."
Then I spun in my chair. Full rotation. Twice. Arms up like I'd just won the digital Olympics.
"BANKAI!" I screamed at absolutely no one, quoting anime I hadn't watched in years. "YOUR WEAKNESS DISGUSTS ME!"
I grabbed an empty can of Monster and held it to my face like a microphone, deepening my voice to sportscaster levels:
"Yeah, you know, we really saw an opening in their mental game. Once we identified the weakness, it was just about exploiting it. Big dub for the team today."
I stood up, bowing to my imaginary audience.
"That's how Faker would've handled it," I declared, comparing myself to the greatest League player of all time despite being hard-stuck in Bronze II for three seasons straight. "Psychological warfare. Just like the pros."
I threw up finger guns at my webcam. Which wasn't even on.
Then I alt-tabbed and closed the game like a war hero returning from battle.
And that's when the existential boredom hit.
The kind that makes you open three different apps and forget why you opened any of them.
I clicked open Twitter. Saw a thread about anime betrayal scenes. Liked it. Replied with "pain."
Scrolled Instagram. Saw a reel of a raccoon stealing someone's shoe. Watched it five times. Sent it to three group chats I hadn't spoken in since 2022.
Opened Discord. Ghost town. Closed it again.
TikTok sucked me in next. My For You page knew me better than my own mother.
"Dude, how is this cat playing piano?" I muttered, watching a feline paw at keys with suspicious precision. "That's gotta be fake."
Still watched it seven times.
A cooking video appeared next – some chef making a perfect chocolate soufflé rising in time-lapse. For some reason, it hit me emotionally.
"LOOK AT IT RISE," I whispered, inexplicably teary-eyed. "So beautiful. So TEMPORARY. Just like life, man."
Swiped.
Someone's relationship drama unfolded across twelve parts.
"Don't care," I said, immediately clicking part one and settling in for the entire saga. "This is stupid."
Twenty minutes later: "SHE DID NOT JUST SAY THAT TO HIM. GIRL. WHAT ARE YOU THINKING?"
I found myself doom-scrolling through the comments, invested in strangers fighting about whether "Emma" should have told "Brandon" about the Vegas incident before meeting his parents.
Then Google. Sweet, enabling Google.
"Do dreams mean anything if you dream in third person" "Why do I always die in my dreams" "Is remembering dreams bad" "Dream interpretation falling but never hitting ground" "Can you die if you hit ground in dream"
My body still buzzing from digital combat, my brain did what it always does at this hour: descended.
One tab became two.
Two became sixteen.
Why? I don't know. Something about the darkness of night triggers the caveman goon switch.
There I was, like a digital archaeologist, excavating the forbidden tombs of Reddit, fan art sites, and search queries like:
"can demons be hot"
"why do anime girls blink like that"
"does emotional trauma increase attractiveness"
I was DEEP in the trenches.
Time? Didn't know her.
Three suspicious tabs opened simultaneously.
"anime demon girl teeth"
"is it weird to like monster characters"
"why do villains have better backstories than heroes"
A pop-up flashed across my screen.
CONGRATULATIONS! YOUR COMPUTER HAS BEEN SELECTED FOR—
"NOPE." I slammed my mouse on the X button so hard I thought it might break. "NOT TODAY, MALWARE. NOT. TODAY."
What was I doing with my life? Why was I looking up "anime demon girl teeth" at midnight? What evolutionary advantage could this POSSIBLY serve?
I only snapped back to reality when I caught myself hovering over a suspicious site named spiritbindersocks.tv and realized I might actually be possessed.
So I closed everything.
Sat there.
Breathing.
Contemplating.
"Okay," I mumbled. "That was a lot."
I stood up. My knees cracked like I'd just survived a 12-hour shift in the underworld.
"My back is KILLING me," I groaned, arching backward with both hands pressed against my spine. "Twenty-two years old with the posture of a gargoyle. This is what gaming does to you, kids."
I twisted side to side, making horrific popping sounds.
"The weak fear the crunch," I announced to my empty apartment. "The strong embrace it."
Stumbled into my kitchen. Which, again, is just a fridge, a sink, and a colony of crumbs that have declared independence.
"They thought I would fall like a side character," I monologued, pacing dramatically between my fridge and microwave. "They underestimated me. They always do."
I struck a pose, pointing at my reflection in the microwave door.
"But I drink straight from the carton. I am the protagonist of THIS kitchen."
Opened the fridge.
Same horrors.
Expired cheese. Mustard bottle with unknown age. One sad pickle floating alone.
And... the milk.
Old. Probably cursed. But still technically within drinkable range, which was good enough for me.
I sniffed it.
Passed the test.
Took a swig.
...
"Why does this taste like a white sticky substance with abandonment issues," I coughed, wiping my mouth.
Still drank more.
Because I'm consistent. And thirsty. And apparently suicidal via dairy.
I leaned back against the counter and looked around the apartment.
Quiet.
Dim.
A stillness that felt... unnatural.
Like the game lobby before the final boss shows up and starts monologuing.
I glanced at the clock.
11:34 p.m.
Huh.
Weirdly close to that time.
But whatever.
I grabbed my phone again and flopped on the couch. TikTok this time.
First video: some guy deep-frying cereal.
Second: someone reenacting light novel plot twists in real life.
Third: a girl saying "if you're seeing this, it's your sign to go drink water."
I stared at my milk carton.
Close enough.
Then... the dizziness hit.
Like reality stuttered.
I blinked. My phone slipped from my fingers and hit my chest. My vision went fuzzy.
I sat up. Fast.
Too fast.
Room spun.
Lights flickered.
"What the hell—"
I stumbled up. Grabbed the wall. Slid toward my desk. My fingers clutched the edge of the chair like it was a life raft.
The clock blinked again.
11:40 p.m.
I shook my head, trying to clear it. "No way. He was just messing with me. Just a coincidence."
I glanced at my phone. Same time. Then at my microwave. The green numbers glowed ominously in the darkness.
11:40 p.m.
A chill slithered down my spine like a snake made of ice cubes.
"This is stupid," I laughed nervously. "What, did he poison me through the internet? Hack my milk? Cast a digital curse?"
But my limbs felt heavier with each passing second.
The shadows in my apartment seemed to stretch, elongating like fingers reaching for me.
My breathing quickened. Heart jackhammering against my ribcage.
"No, no, no," I whispered. "This isn't happening. This CAN'T be happening."
11:41 p.m.
The milk carton slipped from my grasp, splashing white across the floor. I grabbed for the counter but missed, my coordination deserting me.
My vision doubled. Tripled. The room tilted like a ship in a storm.
Oh no.
OH NO.
The forehead guy.
The timestamp.
"Nononono—"
My legs buckled. I dropped to my knees like a failed proposal. Crawled toward the wall like that was gonna help.
The milk carton rolled past me. Judging me.
I tried to reach my phone. Call someone. Anyone.
But it was too far. And time was... wrong. Stretching like taffy.
The air got heavier. Like trying to breathe through wet cement.
The second hand on my wall clock moved with agonizing slowness.
Tick.
Tock.
Each second an eternity.
[Rebirth Protocol Confirmed]
"WHAT?!"
User recognized: Lost Thread #7,321.
"LOST WHAT?!"
Processing Aura Echoes…
"I SWEAR TO EVERY DEITY—"
You will now be replanted.
"WHO EVEN SAYS THAT? IS THIS GARDENING?! AM I A FREAKING TURNIP?!"
Replanting begins in 3…
"I CURSE YOUR BLOODLINE."
2…
"I CURSE YOUR DOG."
1…
"I HOPE YOUR WHOLE FAMILY GETS SPOILED MILK FOR ETERNITY."
Black.
Sudden.
Sharp.
Like someone rage-quit my soul.
[ROOTED SOUL SYSTEM — ONLINE]
But that?
That came later.
First?
I died.
And this time… I was the only one who noticed.