Chapter 7: First Attempt

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Chapter Seven

Just as I was puzzling over how to play this game, a sudden burst of noise filled my ears.

It started as a faint static, then exploded into a chaos of voices and keyboard clatter, like stepping into the middle of a LAN party at full tilt.

The clattering of keyboards was nonstop, and teenage voices shouted curses with unrestrained passion.

"No way, dude! That's totally OP!" "You lagged out, that's why you lost!" Laughter and groans mixed with the unmistakable smell of cheap pizza and energy drinks.

"Hey manager, can we get a couple of sodas and some chips?"

Someone banged on the front counter, and a bored-looking teen in a backward cap rolled his eyes before shuffling to the fridge.

The sudden commotion startled me.

I nearly fell out of the old desk chair, heart pounding like a bass drum. My own house was never this loud—just the ticking of the wall clock and the hum of the fridge.

My home had always been so silent—when had it become so lively?

I looked around, blinking in confusion. The room was gone—replaced by rows of battered PCs, posters of esports teams, and a sticky floor littered with candy wrappers.

But when I looked up from the computer screen, what I saw made my eyes widen in disbelief.

It was the same gaming lounge—down to the flickering sign, the grimy windows, the old arcade machine in the corner.

This... was clearly a gaming lounge.

The air was thick with excitement and adolescent bravado, a place that belonged to a different lifetime.

I rubbed my eyes, hardly daring to believe it.

My heart hammered in my chest. Was I dreaming? Had I lost my mind?

Even more unbelievable, the people sitting on either side of me were familiar faces—my son's best friends from back then.

There was Marcus with his wild curls, Jayden with his always-broken glasses, and little Benji—who'd grown a foot since middle school but was still the runt of the group. They looked just as they had the last time I'd seen them together.

Not only that, they looked exactly as they had five years ago.

Not a hint of stubble, no college hoodies—just baggy jeans and faces full of mischief, their voices still breaking on the high notes.

By now, they should have taken the SATs, gone to college, grown up, and changed.

I'd seen their parents' Facebook updates—prom photos, acceptance letters, first road trips. But here they were, frozen in time.

But what I saw were the same boys from five years ago, not a bit different.

Their sneakers were scuffed, fingers stained with Dorito dust, faces shining with the kind of energy I'd long forgotten.

I was stunned.

For a moment, I forgot to breathe, afraid that even a blink would shatter the illusion.

And those few looked at me in confusion.

They whispered to each other, shooting nervous glances in my direction.

After a long silence, one of the boys finally gave me an awkward smile. "Uh, sir, why are you sitting at Tyler's seat playing games?"

He scratched his head, looking more curious than scared. The other boys nodded, waiting for my answer.

Tyler was my son's name.

Just hearing it again—so normal, so alive—felt like a punch to the gut. My throat tightened, and I had to swallow hard before answering.

I gripped the edge of the sticky desk so hard my knuckles went white, half-expecting the whole place to dissolve if I let go.