The week before the tournament unfolded like a fever dream. Lance hunched over his laptop in the dim glow of his dorm room, the familiar sounds of gunfire and explosions from Valor Strike becoming his constant companions. Empty energy drink cans littered his desk, their neon logos reflecting the blue light from his screen. The clock tower''s illuminated faces cast shifting shadows through his window, each face displaying a slightly different time as he ground through match after match, his fingers dancing across the keyboard with increasing precision.


    "Your reaction time is insane," Chris commented during Monday night''s practice session, his voice crackling through Discord. The familiar icon bounced as he spoke, a small reminder of home. "Like, actually impossible. You''re hitting shots before people even peek corners."


    Lance gripped his mouse; a knot of guilt twisted in his gut. Droplets of perspiration gathered along his brow, incongruous with the chilled air around him. He had noticed it too—instances where time would warp unpredictably, granting him split-second advantages. Sometimes the world seemed to decelerate just enough for him to line up perfect headshots, enemy players moving sluggishly while his own movements remained sharp. Other times, his opponents appeared to hesitate in place, making them easy targets, their characters freezing mid-action like glitched NPCs in a broken game.


    "Just lucky, I guess," he muttered, though the pressure building behind his temples suggested otherwise. His vision blurred slightly at the edges, a recurring sign that time was acting up. These anomalies were becoming more frequent, more intense during his practice sessions, and harder to ignore.


    Across the room, Reid lounged on his bed, his economics textbook forgotten in his lap as he watched Lance''s gameplay with increasing fascination. The soft glow of his desk lamp created a warm bubble of light around him, contrasting with the harsh blue from Lance''s monitor. "Dude, you''re actually really good at this. Like, scary good. I''ve never seen anyone play like that."


    Jasper, who had invited himself over to watch, bounced on his heels beside Reid''s bed, his lanky frame vibrating with barely contained excitement. His orange hoodie seemed to glow in the dim room, matching his energetic personality. "Yeah, man! If you keep this up, you''ll be a legend! The Greylock Gaming God!" His enthusiasm filled the small room, momentarily drowning out Lance''s growing unease. "You''re going to destroy everyone in that tournament!"


    Tuesday brought new challenges. During an afternoon practice session, Lance found himself "blipping" forward in time. He''d start a match, then suddenly find himself three rounds in with no memory of how he got there. He still produced an astronomical kill count. The disconnect between his conscious mind and his actions grew more pronounced with each temporal skip.


    The distant ticking of the tower''s mechanisms seemed to sync with his heartbeat, creating an eerie resonance that vibrated through his bones.


    That evening, Maya stopped by their dorm room, her blue-streaked hair catching the light from Lance''s monitor. The soft scent of strawberries followed her as she moved, a calming presence in the chaos of his practice space. "I''ve got something for you," she murmured, drawing a leather-bound sketchbook from her worn messenger bag. "These are some focus exercises we use in meditation. They might help with your tournament prep."


    Lance felt warmth spread across his face at her thoughtfulness, noticing how the irregular flow of time seemed to stabilize when she was nearby, as if her presence anchored him to normalcy. They spent an hour working through breathing techniques, her quiet guidance helping him find moments of stability.


    Wednesday''s practice brought Emma into the mix via video call. Her familiar face on the screen made his heart ache with homesickness, but something was off. Her movements appeared jerky, desynchronized, like a video buffering on poor internet. The pixels of her image sometimes stretched and distorted, creating unsettling moments where she barely looked human.


    "Lance," she said quietly during a break between matches, her voice carrying the weight of genuine concern, "something''s off. It''s like watching a glitched recording. This app sucks."


    He forced a laugh, adjusting his webcam to hide his trembling hands. "Probably just the university internet acting up."


    "No," Emma insisted, leaning closer to her camera until her face filled the screen, her artist''s eye catching details others might miss. "It''s like... like you''re moving between frames sometimes. Like the camera can''t quite keep up with you."Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.


    Before he could respond, time stuttered. Emma''s worried face froze mid-sentence, then jumped forward several seconds like a skipped DVD chapter. When reality stabilized, she was staring at him with wide eyes, her face pale even through the screen''s poor color balance.


    "Was that lag?" she asked. "It looked so crazy."


    Lance ended the call, claiming poor internet connection. His hands shook as he closed his laptop, the screen''s reflection showing his own haunted expression. Emma had always been perceptive, but this was dangerous territory. He couldn''t explain what was happening when he barely understood it himself.


    Thursday''s practice sessions blurred together in a haze of temporal shifts. The tower room became both sanctuary and prison—a place where he could practice for what felt like days while only minutes passed outside. The constant sunbeam never moved, creating an endless afternoon of perfect gaming conditions. Thankfully the campus Wifi reached. His laptop''s fan whirred steadily, the only consistent sound besides his own breathing.


    Chris noticed the improvement in Lance''s gameplay but seemed increasingly unsettled. During their evening session, his voice carried a mix of awe and concern through the Discord channel. "You''re pulling off things that should be physically impossible," he said during one particularly impressive round. "Like, actually impossible. It''s starting to freak me out a little."


    Lance said nothing, focusing instead on the screen where enemy players moved in predictable patterns. He could almost see their future positions, like ghostly afterimages waiting to be filled. A faint humming sound accompanied each temporal shift, a subtle vibration that resonated through his bones and made his teeth ache.


    Reid and Jasper decided to join his practice session that evening, trying to help him prepare. Jasper, though hilariously bad at the game, brought an infectious energy that lightened the room''s heavy atmosphere. His constant commentary and wild theories about game strategies provided welcome relief from the intensity of practice.


    "Watch out, Lance! Incoming virtual missiles!" Jasper shouted, gesturing so enthusiastically that he accidentally spilled an energy drink over his keyboard.


    "Jasper, not now!" Reid laughed, helping clean up the mess with practiced efficiency. "Maybe stick to cheering from a safe distance? We don''t need any equipment casualties before the big day."


    Maya arrived later with food from her favorite campus coffee, setting up shop at Lance''s desk to sketch while he practiced. The aroma of fresh coffee and pastries filled the room, creating a cozy atmosphere that felt almost normal. Her presence helped steady him, though he noticed her watching him with increasing concern when she thought he wasn''t looking. Her pencil moved across paper in smooth strokes, capturing moments between his matches in delicate graphite lines.


    Friday brought the worst temporal incident yet. During an evening practice session, Lance suddenly found himself three hours in the future. One moment he was starting a match at 7 PM, the next he was staring at his monitor showing 10 PM, with no memory of the intervening time. His match history showed dozens of great games, victories he couldn''t remember achieving. The lost time felt like a void in his mind, a black hole where memories should be.


    "Lance?" Reid''s voice cut through his panic. "You''ve been sitting there completely still for like twenty minutes. You haven''t even blinked. Are you okay?"


    Lance turned to find Reid watching him with genuine concern, the economics textbook forgotten in his lap. The room seemed to contract, its walls pulsing in rhythm with the steady, mechanical ticking of the desktop clock. "I can''t breathe," he choked out, jolting upright and sending his chair careening dangerously close to collapse as he lurched forward out of the room.


    Cool twilight winds scattered his meandering thoughts while he wandered the campus paths, autumn leaves whispering beneath his steps. The clock tower silhouetted against the starlit sky, its faces showing four different times as usual, the illuminated numbers seeming to float in the darkness. He found himself drawn to its base, seeking the comfort of the quiet room below.


    But when he tried the door, it wouldn''t budge. For the first time since discovering it, the tower room denied him entry. The handle remained cold and immovable under his grip, as if the room itself had decided he needed to face tomorrow''s tournament without its assistance.


    A vibration from his phone revealed a message from his mom: "Good luck tomorrow, honey!"


    Lance stared at the message, remembering why he''d entered the tournament in the first place. The prize money could help ease her burden, give her some breathing room with the bills. But at what cost? These anomalies were becoming more frequent, more intense. What if he lost control completely during the tournament? What if he did something that couldn''t be explained away?


    Another text arrived, this one from Emma: "Are you okay? I''m worried. Please don''t shut me out."


    He ignored both messages, shoving his phone deep into his pocket. Tomorrow would determine everything. The weight of his mother''s financial struggles pressed against his conscience, driving him forward despite his fears.


    The walk back to his dorm felt longer than usual, each step stretched by his anxiety. When he finally reached his room, Reid was already asleep, a tennis racket propped against his bed as always.


    His last thought before drifting off was of Maya''s words about painting with motion. Perhaps that''s what he was doing—creating art with time itself as his medium. He just hoped the masterpiece wouldn''t tear reality apart in the process.