Page 7 of Glitched Play

“You disappeared from the internet for four days,” she says carefully.

“Three.”

“Normal people don’t know that.”

Normal people also don’t turn a game into a streaming channel into a billion-dollar empire.

But I did.

Synatrix Global Interactive started in my bedroom with a broken headset, two flat-screen TVs stolen from my older siblings, repurposed as monitors, and an obsession with gaming.

Games are patterns.

People are patterns.

Success is figuring out which one breaks first.

Now the company owns esports teams, game studios, a streaming platform, merch lines, convention partnerships, and the fastest-growing competitive football gaming league in the country.

Two years ago, I expanded into sports gaming with professional football. Of course, I started it with the Austin Armadillos. Now every team in the league has its own esport division. All owned by their respective teams but pay royalties to SGI—me.

Now investors throw around words like revolutionary and market disruptor while Forbes estimates my net worth at a number high enough to make people uncomfortable around me.

I don’t care about the money.

I care that the systems work. But systems simply working doesn’t keep players online, and lately we’ve been losing subscribers.

My thumb brushes over the folded edge of the letter.

Real paper.

Real ink.

Most people stopped writing letters years ago. She never did.

Encrypted messages and voice chats.

Hours spent gaming together online.

I received a letter a few months ago. And every single time, my chest tightens before I open it.

Dara notices where my attention is focused and sighs dramatically. “The mystery woman again?”

“She has a name.”

“You don’t know her name.”

I look up slowly. I do know her screen name.

Dara raises both hands. “Right. Sorry. The mysterious possibly fictional woman.”

“She exists.”

“She also vanished three months ago,” she retaliates and the words hit like a bruise.

Ninety-three days.

Two thousand two hundred and thirty-two hours.