“You’re crazy. Ken Masters is literally the GOAT—”
“Excuse me.”
Both interns jumped like they’d been caught stealing, spinning around to find Leonidas standing behind them with an expression he hoped conveyed professional curiosity and not the quiet dread building in his stomach.
Their eyes went wide.
“Mr. Gazis,” the taller one breathed, his voice cracking slightly. “Oh my God. You’re—I mean—it’s an honor, sir, I’ve watched every single one of your races, the Monaco GP in 2016 was literally the reason I got into motorsport—”
“The way you took that hairpin,” the shorter one added, practically vibrating. “In the rain. With two laps to go. Sir, that was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”
“I have the clip saved on my phone,” the first one said. “I watch it when I’m stressed.”
Leonidas held up a hand, and they both fell silent instantly, still staring at him like he’d descended from Olympus rather than walked down a corridor.
“I’d like to ask you something.” He kept his voice carefully neutral. “About Guile and Ken.”
The interns exchanged glances, and then their faces lit up with an enthusiasm that made Leonidas’s stomach drop.
“You play Street Fighter too?” The shorter one looked like he might actually combust from excitement. “That’s so cool, sir. Who’s your main? I’m a Ken guy myself, but Diego here thinks Guile is—”
“Street Fighter,” Leonidas repeated slowly.
“Yeah, you know—the game? Guile’s the American Air Force guy with the flat-top, and Ken’s the blond martial artist with the red gi—”
The words washed over him like ice water.
American Air Force. Flat-top. Blond martial artist. Red gi.
His wife’s voice echoed in his memory.
He was American. Air Force. Very tall. Muscular. Flat-top haircut. Always wore his dog tags...
Japanese-American. Also blond. Really into martial arts. Had his own dojo. Always wore this red training outfit...
Leonidas closed his eyes.
“Sir? Are you okay?”
He had been jealous—genuinely, furiously, irrationally jealous—of video game characters. He had interrogated his wife about fictional men. He had spent actual mental energy seething over a martial artist in a red training outfit who did not, in fact, exist.
“Fine,” he managed. “Thank you for your time.”
He walked away before they could see the color rising in his face, their confused murmurs fading behind him as he turned the corner and allowed himself exactly three seconds to process the sheer absurdity of what had just happened.
His wife had panicked and invented fake ex-boyfriends using Street Fighter characters.
And he had believed her.
He wasn’t sure if he wanted to laugh or groan or find the nearest wall and introduce his forehead to it repeatedly.
Later, he told himself. He would deal with this particular humiliation later. Preferably never.
****
The tech wing was amaze of glass-walled rooms and humming servers, the air sharp with the smell of coffee and stress. Aivan was in the main control center when Leonidas arrived, standing before a wall of monitors that displayed scrolling data Leonidas couldn’t begin to interpret, his dark hair disheveled and his shirt wrinkled in a way that suggested he hadn’t slept since the breach was discovered.
“Leon.” Aivan turned, and despite the exhaustion carved into his features, there was relief in his voice. “Thank you for coming so quickly.”
