Chapter 2: Accusations in the Dark

Everyone froze. Nobody moved. Nobody typed.

No one even typed. The in-game chat was dead. For a second, I wondered if everyone else had just logged off, but I could still see their avatars moving, standing perfectly still in the base.

Who would've thought she'd turn around and blame us?

I swear I could hear a collective gasp. The disbelief crackling through the headsets. This was way beyond the usual late-night drama.

Even the roughest guy on our team, the jungler, changed his tone and tried to calm her down: "Look, don't do anything crazy. Get your kid out and call 911, maybe there's still a chance..."

His voice was softer, almost pleading. The tough-guy act had vanished, replaced by real concern. You could tell he was rattled.

But QueenOfGames just kept sobbing:

"It's useless," [sobbing] "as soon as I picked him up, his skin just peeled off..."

"He felt like a water balloon, all soft... blood and water everywhere, I couldn't stop it..."

"There's no way to save him, he's gone..."

"It's all your fault, all your fault..."

Each word was like a nail being driven in, relentless and accusing. I could almost picture her, clutching the controller with trembling hands, tears streaming down her face.

The marksman typed in chat to the mage: "Just surrender already! Support's got an emergency at home! If not, turn on your mic!"

He threw in a couple of exclamation points, his usual sarcasm replaced by real urgency. No sarcasm this time. Even the in-game banter had given way to something heavier.

The mage typed back: "Jeez, support's so dramatic, just surrender already."

He hit surrender. We all agreed.

Even though QueenOfGames was still crying and blaming us, the game finally ended.

The victory or defeat screen flashed by, but nobody cared. The room felt emptier than before, like the shadows had gotten deeper. I just sat there.

I let out a long breath.

My hands were still on the keyboard, but I couldn't bring myself to queue up again. The adrenaline had drained away, leaving only a hollow ache in my chest.

There was no way I could play another round after that. The whole thing had totally killed my mood.

I spun my chair away from the desk, rubbing my eyes, trying to shake off the chill that had settled over me. The house was too quiet. Every little creak. Every shadow.

But then something even weirder happened—

My Discord pinged with a friend request. The note said: "Jungler from last game."

The notification popped up in the corner. That familiar sound, suddenly jarring in the silence. I stared at it for a second, not sure if I should laugh or worry.

It felt a little weird, but I accepted. He messaged me right away: "Dude, we're screwed. You think that woman really burned her kid? Is she coming for revenge?"

The message came in quick bursts, like he was typing as fast as he could. He was just as spooked as I was. I could almost picture him hunched over his keyboard, eyes darting around his dark room.

I couldn't help but ask: "How did you get my Discord?"

I hesitated before hitting send. The question felt bigger than it should have, like I was poking at something best left alone.

He replied, one line at a time:

"Are you kidding? You can check in the local lobby."

"That match was set to local matchmaking."

"That means the support was someone nearby, too!"

"She said she wouldn't let us off. Maybe she really can find us!"

Each message hit a little harder, and by the last one, my palms were starting to sweat. The idea that she might actually be nearby—maybe even in the same apartment complex—made my skin crawl.

I wiped my hands on my jeans, trying to convince myself it was all just a weird coincidence. But the unease wouldn't go away.

After a second, I tried to brush it off, more for my own sake than his: "Don't make it sound so creepy. It's not that easy to track someone down!"

I tried to sound casual. But even in my own head, my voice was shaky. The words felt hollow.