Silence. The PC fans whirred. In the background, the faint sound of Leo’s dad watching cable news upstairs filtered through the floorboards.
Leo didn’t answer. He just moved his mouse, the ancient Logitech G402 that Sam had given him for his fifteenth birthday. The plastic was worn smooth where his thumb rested. On screen, his character, a scrappy Mil-Sim operator, dashed across the street. Bullets cracked the air. He slid, aimed, and put three rounds into the enemy’s knees. The body crumpled. call of duty black ops 2 split screen pc
The match started. The countdown hit zero. Both their characters sprinted forward—old muscle memory overriding the rupture between them. Leo took the lower deck, Sam climbed to the yacht’s bridge. They didn’t communicate. They didn’t need to. They had spent 2,000 hours in this game together. They knew each other’s routes, each other’s tells, each other’s blind spots. Silence
He just watched his mother laugh, forever, on a beach that no longer existed. Leo didn’t answer
They weren't fourteen anymore. That was the problem.
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