Ego Check: The Game That Changes Everything Rewrite

The days bled into each other, a monotonous cycle of school, gaming, and sleep. By the time Friday rolled around, the week had already blurred into a frustrating haze for Raxian. He trudged through his school obligations with practiced indifference, keeping his grades just good enough to stay in his dad's good graces. His friends' banter barely registered anymore—he wasn't in the mood for their teasing or their half-serious jokes about his rank.

"Yo, Rax, you in for a get-together this weekend?" one of them asked as they crowded around their lockers after the final bell. "We're thinking of hitting the arcade and grabbing some food. It's been a while, man."

Raxian shook his head, slamming his locker shut with a little more force than necessary. "Not this time," he muttered. "Got stuff to do."

"Let me guess," another chimed in with a smirk. "Grinding League?"

"Something like that," he replied curtly, slinging his bag over his shoulder. "Catch you guys Monday."

He didn't wait for their responses, striding out of the school building with the kind of purpose that discouraged further questions. It wasn't that he didn't like spending time with them—he did, occasionally. But after last weekend's disaster on the Rift, there was no way he was wasting another second. He had to get back on track.

—--------------------------------

Friday night blurred into Saturday morning, and then Saturday slipped away entirely. Raxian's room became his whole world—a cocoon of glowing screens and endless matches. He stared at his rank after every loss, Emerald II glaring back at him like an unbreakable curse. Every game felt like the same tired story: a feeding teammate, a useless jungler, a disconnected player. The excuses ran through his mind like a mantra.

He told himself it wasn't his fault. It couldn't be. He was landing his skill shots, winning his lane, doing his part. But none of it seemed to matter. His rank stayed stubbornly the same, mocking every ounce of effort he poured in.

By Sunday night, his frustration was at an all-time high. Another weekend had come and gone, and he was no closer to climbing. As the new school week began, Raxian barely paid attention in class, his mind stuck in a loop of strategies, counters, and what-ifs. His friends teased him as usual, throwing in snide comments about his "big climb to Diamond," but their remarks barely phased him anymore. They didn't understand. They couldn't.

—--------------------------------

The grind continued, week after week. Raxian felt like a prisoner in his own rank, stuck in what the community had dubbed "Emerald Hell." Every game was a battle against more than just the enemy team—it was a fight against the overwhelming weight of failure.

He didn't go out with his friends. He didn't bother joining their conversations unless it was unavoidable. His focus was singular, almost obsessive: climb. But as the weeks dragged on, progress felt like a distant dream. He was stuck in place, no matter how much time or effort he poured into it.

The frustration built slowly at first, like a simmering flame. But by the end of the month, it had turned into a roaring fire, consuming every ounce of patience he had left.

—--------------------------------

It happened late one Saturday night. He was mid-game, the clock ticking past midnight as his team spiraled into another loss. He clenched his jaw, his knuckles white against his mouse. His top laner was afk. His jungler had given up and was farming chickens while the enemy team tore through their base.

"Just end it already!" he snapped at the screen, slamming a frustrated fist on his desk. His team refused to surrender, and the agony of dragging out the inevitable defeat made his blood boil. When the "Defeat" screen finally appeared, Raxian let out a frustrated growl and ripped off his headset, tossing it onto the desk.

"Are you kidding me?" he muttered, his golden eyes fixed on the glowing rank that hadn't budged for weeks. Emerald II, 40 LP. The same cursed number he'd started with. He'd been here for a month. An entire month of grinding for nothing.

His fingers trembled with anger as he leaned back in his chair. He stared at the screen, his vision blurring slightly as the sheer weight of it all crashed down on him. Without thinking, he slammed his hand against the keyboard, the sharp crack of plastic breaking the silence.

He froze, staring down at the shattered remains of the spacebar, the jagged edges mocking him. "Great. Just great," he muttered, tossing the broken keyboard onto the floor. He ran a hand through his hair, his frustration boiling over into something heavier, something darker.

If he couldn't climb out of this rank, if he couldn't make progress, what was even the point? League was everything to him. It was his passion, his purpose, the thing that gave his life direction. And now? Now it felt like an endless prison, a treadmill he couldn't escape.

"What's the point?" he whispered to himself, his voice barely audible over the hum of his PC. The question hung in the air, heavy and unanswered.

Raxian tumbled onto his bed, his head sinking straight into the pillow. His body felt heavy, like every ounce of energy had been drained from him. The faint glow of his powered-down monitor cast long shadows across the dark room, but he didn't care enough to turn it off completely. He couldn't take it anymore—the grind, the failure, the endless cycle of disappointment. It was as if he was stuck in an endless loop, doomed to repeat the same frustrations over and over again.

For the first time in what felt like forever, the thought crept into his mind: Maybe I should just give up.

Giving up had always seemed like an impossible concept for him. It went against everything he believed in, everything he'd told himself he was. But now? Now it felt like the only option. What's the point of trying if nothing ever changes?

The thought sat like a stone in his chest, weighing him down further.

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By the next morning, Raxian had made up his mind—he wasn't going to school. Not today. He was done with the routine, with the forced smiles and the constant teasing from his friends about his rank. Pretending to be sick was easy enough. His voice sounded rough from yelling at his screen the night before, and the exhaustion clinging to him wasn't exactly difficult to fake.

He knew, of course, that his mom would see through it. She always did. But he didn't care. Not about school, not about games, not about anything. When she knocked on his door to check on him, he mumbled something about feeling sick, his voice muffled by the pillow. There was a pause, then the sound of her footsteps retreating down the hall.

Raxian sighed, burying himself deeper into the blankets. He knew his mom was worried, but he didn't have the energy to reassure her. She'd let it slide, he was sure. She always did. Whatever it was, she trusted him to figure it out. She always said as much, even when he doubted himself.

—----------------------------------------------

That afternoon, as Raxian lay in the dark, the muffled hum of life outside his room was the only reminder that the world hadn't stopped spinning. He stared blankly at the ceiling, his thoughts a tangle of frustration and self-doubt.

Then, a faint rustle caught his attention. He turned his head slightly, just in time to see a small note being slipped under the crack of his door. He stared at it for a moment, hesitant to move, before finally rolling off the bed and onto his knees. The handwriting was unmistakable—his mom's neat, looping script.

"I love you. I hope you feel better soon. Let me know if you need anything. ❤️"

Raxian felt his throat tighten as he read the words. His mom had always been the kind of person who believed in quiet gestures over loud declarations. She wasn't pushy, wasn't the type to force a conversation, but she was always there, always watching over him in her own way.

He folded the note carefully and placed it on his nightstand. It didn't fix anything, didn't take away the weight pressing down on him, but it reminded him that she cared. That someone cared.

—----------------------------------------------

For the rest of the day, he didn't leave his room. The curtains stayed drawn, blocking out the sunlight, and the faint glow of his PC screen provided the only light. He lay in bed, his mind looping back to the same thoughts over and over. What's the point of trying if nothing ever changes?

Depression had never been something Raxian thought would creep into his life. He wasn't the type to sit still, wasn't the type to wallow in his own head. But now, lying there in the dark, he felt like a hollow version of himself. The drive, the determination that usually fueled him, had been smothered by the weight of his failures.

He thought about the game, about the rank that refused to budge no matter how hard he tried. He thought about his dad, about the disappointment that seemed etched into the man's face every time their paths crossed. He thought about his mom, about how she tried so hard to keep everything together, even when it wasn't fair to her.

The longer he lay there, the deeper the darkness seemed to seep into his chest, until even breathing felt like an effort.

—----------------------------------------------

The rhythmic tap of Fayne's pen against her desk filled the small bubble of silence around her, a steady, absent sound that seemed to match her wandering thoughts. Her sharp blue eyes kept drifting to the empty desk near the front of the classroom—Raxian's desk. It had been empty all week, and now, yet again, he was a no-show.

Another day, another absence. This wasn't like him.

Even through a cold, Raxian usually managed to pull through, showing up to class with his mask on and his usual confident stride. Fayne couldn't remember a time he'd missed this much school, not even when things got rough. Had he gotten seriously sick? Or… was it something else?

Her brow furrowed slightly as she tapped the pen again, her mind piecing together the pattern of his behavior over the past few weeks. He'd seemed off, even before his absences started piling up. Quieter than usual. More irritable. The kind of mood that even his friends couldn't joke him out of. Fayne wasn't close enough to know what had been eating at him, but she had a feeling it wasn't something small.

"Rax... whatever it is, I hope you're pulling through," she thought to herself, brushing a strand of silver hair behind her ear.

Before she could delve further into her thoughts, the classroom door swung open, and the familiar chatter of Leah and Mira filled the room. Fayne glanced up as the two girls made their way over to her table, their usual energy radiating through the space. Leah was mid-laugh, her golden-brown hair bouncing with each step, while Mira followed close behind, flipping through her phone with an amused grin.

"Morning, Fayne!" Leah greeted, dropping her bag onto the desk beside her. "You're here early again. You're going to make the rest of us look bad."

Fayne offered a small smile, her pen pausing for the first time. "Habit, I guess."

"You mean you don't wake up five minutes before class starts and hope for the best?" Mira teased, sliding into the seat across from her. "You're too responsible for your own good, Fayne."

Leah leaned on the desk, resting her chin in her hand as she looked around. "Raxian's still out, huh? That's… weird. He's, like, always here. What do you think's up with him?"

Fayne's grip on her pen tightened slightly, but she kept her tone even. "I don't know. Maybe he's sick."

"Sick? Sure, maybe," Mira said, shrugging. "But Rax doesn't seem like the type to skip for a little cold."

"He's not," Fayne murmured, her voice quieter now as her thoughts wandered again. Whatever the reason, Raxian's absences felt off. Out of character. And for some reason, they gnawed at her more than she wanted to admit.

Leah and Mira launched into their usual banter, the kind of lighthearted chatter Fayne was used to tuning out. She nodded and responded when needed, but her mind was elsewhere, focused on the boy who wasn't there.

She glanced at his desk one last time, the chair pushed neatly under the table as if waiting for him to return. Fayne exhaled softly, running a hand through her hair. "Rax…" she thought again. "You better make it back soon."

—----------------------------------------------

The low hum of the teacher's voice droned on, filling the room with the monotony of the day's lecture. Fayne rested her chin in her hand, her pen poised but unmoving over her notebook. She had been pretending to take notes, but her focus had long since drifted. Her thoughts inevitably circled back to Raxian's empty desk at the front of the room.

A soft buzz against her thigh pulled her from her reverie. Fayne blinked, glancing down at her lap as her phone screen lit up. Carefully, keeping her movements subtle, she slipped the device out from under her desk and angled it to avoid the teacher's line of sight. The name on the screen immediately brought a faint smile to her lips.

Milo: Hey.

That was all it said, but coming from Milo, it wasn't as curt as it might seem. He wasn't one to initiate conversations unless he had a reason, and with everyone else, his texts were usually businesslike and straight to the point. But with her, a simple Hey was enough to start something lighter.

Fayne's fingers tapped out a quick reply.

Fayne: Hey. What's up?

The response came almost immediately.

Milo: Just checking in. How's school?

Fayne tilted her head, her lips curving into a faint smirk. Milo wasn't the type to check in about school unless something specific prompted him. Her reply reflected her curiosity.

Fayne: It's fine, same as usual. Why the sudden interest? You bored or something?

There was a longer pause this time, and she could almost imagine him scratching his head, trying to figure out how to word his response. Finally, the reply appeared.

Milo: Not bored. Just… figured I'd see how you're doing. Haven't talked in a bit.

Might be bored.

Fayne stifled a laugh, biting the inside of her cheek to keep her expression neutral. The teacher glanced her way, and she quickly scribbled something in her notebook to maintain the façade of engagement.

Fayne: I'm fine. How about you? How's work?

Milo: Busy. Client meetings, replay reviews, scrims. The usual.

That was Milo in a nutshell—concise, focused, always professional. Yet with her, there was a softness behind the formality, a hint of genuine care that made their conversations feel different from the ones he had with anyone else.

Fayne: Don't work yourself to death, Milo.

Also, please tell me you're eating actual food and not just cup noodles.

The three-dot typing indicator appeared, then disappeared, then appeared again. She could almost hear him sighing through the screen.

Milo: Cup noodles count.

And I order out sometimes.

Fayne shook her head, suppressing a smile. She could picture him perfectly—perched in his cluttered apartment, surrounded by takeout containers and game notes, his headset still hanging around his neck. He had managed to carve out a life for himself as a professional League coach, but domestic responsibilities like cleaning and cooking had always been low on his priority list.

Fayne: You need to take better care of yourself. Maybe hire a chef next to go with the cleaning service.

Milo: Very funny.

Anyway, I'll survive. Just wanted to check in.

You sure you're good?

Her fingers hovered over the screen for a moment. Milo always asked that question—not casually, but with purpose. It was his way of making sure she wasn't brushing things off, a habit he'd picked up over years of knowing her.

Fayne: I'm fine. Just a little tired, I guess. School's been dragging.

Milo: Dragging how?

Fayne hesitated, glancing at Raxian's empty desk again. She debated whether to mention it but decided against it. Milo didn't know Raxian, and it wasn't like she had much to say anyway.

Fayne: You know. The usual. Same routine every day. Feels like nothing changes.

Milo's reply took a little longer this time.

Milo: Yeah, I get that.

Sometimes feels like that for me too, even with everything going on.

It was rare for Milo to open up, even in small ways. Fayne appreciated it when he did—it reminded her that even though he seemed so sure of himself, he had his own struggles too.

Fayne: Guess it's just life, huh?

Milo: Maybe. But hey, it's not all bad. We've got League, right?

Fayne rolled her eyes, though a small laugh escaped her. Milo's way of lightening the mood was subtle but effective, even if he wasn't exactly the type to crack jokes.

Fayne: League doesn't fix everything, you know.

Milo: Maybe not. But it helps.

The teacher's voice pulled her attention back to the front of the room, and she quickly stuffed her phone back into her lap, scribbling more nonsense into her notebook. Her focus on the lecture was halfhearted at best, but at least her mood felt a little lighter now.

As the class dragged on, she found herself smiling faintly, her mind replaying the conversation with Milo. He wasn't the kind of person to reach out often, but when he did, it was always enough to remind her that he cared—even if he'd never say it outright.

—----------------------------------------------

Switching out of her school uniform into the soft, familiar fabric of her apron felt like shedding a layer of weight. Fayne let out a quiet breath of relief as she exited the staff room, her footsteps light against the polished wooden floor. The gentle hum of the small flower shop greeted her, the faint scent of blossoms mingling with the crisp, earthy aroma of freshly cut stems.

She adjusted the straps of her apron, the embroidered logo on the chest—Bloom & Co.—adding a touch of charm to the already aesthetic space. The shop was her mother's pride and joy, a quaint haven filled with neatly arranged bouquets and delicate displays that seemed to glow in the soft afternoon sunlight streaming through the large front windows.

Fayne moved into the main area, her gaze sweeping across the rows of vibrant flowers. Roses in shades of red and blush pink stood elegantly in their vases, while bright sunflowers leaned toward the light as if basking in it. Delicate sprigs of lavender and baby's breath added subtle pops of texture to the arrangements, their faint fragrance filling the air.

She couldn't help but smile. Working here wasn't just about helping her mom or earning a bit of extra money—it was calming, almost meditative. There was something grounding about being surrounded by all this natural beauty, even when the customers were demanding or the orders piled up.

"Fayne, could you check the new shipment of lilies? They're in the back," her mom's voice called from behind the counter, warm and familiar.

"On it," Fayne replied, tying her apron snugly around her waist. She slipped behind the counter, carefully stepping around a bucket of freshly cut stems as she made her way to the storage area.

—----------------------------------------------

Unpacking the lilies was a small task, but it gave her a sense of purpose, her hands moving deftly as she trimmed the stems and inspected the petals for any imperfections. This was her quiet escape, her reprieve from the noise of school and the worries she didn't always know how to put into words.

Fayne carried the lilies out to the front, arranging them in a tall glass vase near the window. The way the white petals curled delicately at the edges, catching the sunlight, was almost hypnotic.

She brushed her hands off on her apron, glancing around the shop. Despite the occasional rush, the flower shop rarely felt chaotic. It was small but cozy, with pastel walls and wooden shelving that gave it a rustic charm. Tiny potted succulents lined the counter, and a handwritten chalkboard menu of bouquets and prices hung on the wall near the entrance.

As Fayne worked, her mind drifted. She thought of her classmates, her friends, even Raxian. What was he doing right now? She shook the thought away, focusing instead on the flowers. This is your space, she reminded herself. This is where you can breathe.

—----------------------------------------------

The evening had settled comfortably over the city, casting everything in shades of deep blues and purples. Neon lights flickered to life, bathing the streets in their vibrant glow. Fayne adjusted the strap of her bag on her shoulder as she walked home, her steps light against the pavement. Her mom had stayed behind at the shop to finish a few more arrangements, insisting that Fayne go on ahead without her. It was a familiar routine, and Fayne didn't mind. The quiet evening walks gave her time to think.

The city was alive with its usual buzz—cars humming along the streets, faint music spilling from nearby cafés, and the distant chatter of people enjoying the nightlife. Fayne kept her gaze forward, her thoughts drifting as they often did, but as she passed by the park, something caught her attention.

At first, she didn't pay much mind to the lone figure sitting on a bench. He was dressed sharply, his outfit distinctly classy yet artistic—an open black blazer with subtle embroidered designs, a crisp white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and tailored pants that gave him an effortlessly polished look. A silver chain dangled from his neck, catching the light every time he moved. Even seated, there was a sense of confidence about him, like he belonged to the rhythm of the city itself.

A thin trail of smoke curled from the cigarette between his fingers, dissipating into the cool night air. Fayne wrinkled her nose slightly at the smell but didn't slow her pace. It wasn't until she caught snippets of his conversation that her steps faltered.

"...I'm just saying, it's not like him. He's been... I don't know. Absent. Not keeping in touch like he used to." His voice was smooth but carried a hint of frustration, tinged with worry.

Fayne's gaze flicked toward him briefly, her curiosity piqued. He had a phone pressed to his ear, his other hand gesturing slightly as he spoke. The tone of his voice, low and measured, suggested he was someone who didn't often wear his emotions on his sleeve—yet they were there, just beneath the surface.

"Yeah, he's always been intense, but this feels different," the man continued, exhaling a plume of smoke. "It's like he's shut himself off completely. I'm trying to give him space, but... it's hard not to worry, you know?"

Fayne wasn't one to eavesdrop, but something about the description struck her. She slowed her steps, pretending to adjust the strap of her bag as she listened. Her sharp blue eyes flicked back to the man, taking in the faint tension in his expression. His striking hair—a mess of dark strands with streaks of electric blue and neon green—gave him an almost otherworldly look under the streetlights.

He paused, listening to whoever was on the other end of the line. Then, after a moment, he sighed. "Yeah, I know. He'll probably be fine. It's Raxian, after all."

Fayne's heart skipped a beat. Raxian?

Her gaze snapped back to the man, studying him more closely now. She hadn't been sure at first, but the mention of Raxian's name confirmed it. Whoever this guy was, he knew him—and he was worried. The idea of Raxian being "absent" wasn't surprising; after all, he hadn't been himself for weeks. But hearing it from someone else, someone older, gave it a new weight.

She adjusted her bag again, her steps picking up as she moved away from the park. She didn't want to seem like she was prying, and besides, she wasn't sure what she'd even say if the man noticed her. Still, his words lingered in her mind, mixing uneasily with her own concerns.

"...It's like he's shut himself off completely."

The city lights blurred as she walked, her thoughts swirling. Fayne didn't know who the man was—maybe a relative, maybe a friend—but his worry was clear, and it mirrored her own. She shook her head, trying to push the thought aside as she turned onto her street.

"Rax... whatever it is, I hope you're pulling through," she murmured under her breath, the memory of the man on the bench staying with her long after she'd reached home.