The harsh glare of fluorescent lights buzzed overhead as Lance faced his monitor in Greylock''s computer lab. The room hummed with the sound of computers, their cooling fans creating a mechanical undertone that matched his racing pulse. His fingers hovered over the WASD keys, sweat beginning to bead on his forehead despite the aggressive air conditioning. Across the room, separated by rows of occupied stations, Phantom sat with perfect posture. Thin fingers danced across his mechanical keyboard with practiced precision. The 1v1 Valor Strike championship match was about to begin.
"You''ve got this," Reid whispered from behind, squeezing Lance''s shoulder with steady pressure. Jasper bounced nearby, his hoodie a blur of motion as he vibrated with nervous energy. Maya watched silently from her perch on a nearby desk, her sketchbook forgotten in her lap. Her blue-streaked hair fell across her face as she leaned forward in anticipation.
The countdown began: 3... 2... 1...
Lance''s first attempt was hesitant, marked by cautious corner checks and conservative positioning. He played defensively, trying to feel out Phantom''s style while preserving his virtual life. It proved disastrous. Phantom aggressively pushed every angle, utility grenades forcing Lance from cover before precise bursts of gunfire eliminated him. The score mounted quickly: 0-3, 1-6. Each death felt like a personal failure, each lost round burning into his consciousness.
GAME OVER flashed across his screen in bold red letters, the harsh font searing into his retinas.
The world lurched sideways, reality distorting like a funhouse mirror. Colors smeared like wet paint. Suddenly, Lance was back at the start. The same fluorescent lights cast harsh shadows, nervous energy crackled through the air, and the countdown timer ticked away precious seconds.
"You''ve got this," Reid said again, exactly as before, his hand providing identical pressure on Lance''s shoulder.
This time, Lance pushed aggressively, determined to throw Phantom off balance. He rushed corners with reckless abandon, took risky shots through smoke grenades, and tried to overwhelm his opponent with pure momentum and unpredictability. But Phantom adapted instantly, using Lance''s aggression against him. Each overextension was punished with ruthless efficiency; precise headshots ended Lance''s rushes before they could begin.
GAME OVER.
Reset.
Lance tried playing mind games, switching strategies mid-round, mixing up his timing between aggressive and passive plays. He managed to take the first round before Phantom seemed to read his soul, predicting every move with uncanny accuracy. Flash grenades appeared in Lance''s face the moment before he peeked around corners. Pre-fired bullets caught him rotating through smoke. It was as if Phantom could see through walls.
GAME OVER.
Reset.
"Your positioning is weird," Jasper commented during the fourth attempt, leaning so close his breath tickled Lance''s ear. "Maybe try holding tighter angles. You''re giving him too much space to work with."
Lance followed the advice, playing more conservatively than ever. It was even worse than his first try. Phantom simply waited him out, then executed perfect utility usage to flush him from cover. Molotov cocktails forced him into crossfire. Smoke grenades cut off his retreat paths. He felt like a rat in a maze, every turn leading to death.
GAME OVER.
Reset.
By the eighth iteration, frustration boiled over. Lance slammed his mouse down with enough force to make the plastic crack, earning startled looks from his friends and nearby competitors. "Sorry," he muttered, but they had already reset to their original positions, the outburst erased from memory like everything else.
The red text haunted him now, burning in his vision during every quiet moment. When he closed his eyes, GAME OVER branded itself against his eyelids like a digital ghost. Each reset felt like another failure, another reminder that he couldn''t help his mom, couldn''t overcome this obstacle, couldn''t escape this temporal prison of his own making.
"Maybe try watching his patterns?" Maya suggested during attempt twelve, her artistic mind seeking underlying structure. "Every player has habits, tells that give away their next move."
Lance nodded mechanically, having heard similar advice in previous loops. But she was right about patterns—not just in Phantom''s play, but in the loops themselves. Reid always squeezed his shoulder at exactly 7.3 seconds before the match started. Jasper''s bouncing followed a three-beat rhythm. Even the air conditioning cycled in predictable bursts, cold air washing over the room every 42 seconds.The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.
GAME OVER.
Reset.
On his fifteenth attempt, Lance broke. The accumulated frustration of countless failures erupted in a moment of blind rage. He ripped off his headset and lunged across the room at Phantom, hands reaching for his opponent''s throat, wanting to feel something real instead of this endless digital defeat. Reality snapped back before he made contact, leaving him with the phantom sensation of violence in his fingers.
"You''ve got this," Reid said again, unaware of Lance''s near-violent outburst moments—or lifetimes—ago.
The next loop, Lance sat paralyzed, letting the timer run out. His hands remained still on the keyboard and mouse as seconds ticked away. Automatic forfeit. Even defeat through inaction couldn''t break the cycle.
GAME OVER.
Reset.
In desperate frustration, he tabbed out between rounds and downloaded an aimbot from a sketchy website. His hands trembled as he installed it, guilt warring with desperation. The hack worked for exactly two kills before the tournament anti-cheat detected it. His screen went black—a different kind of game over.
GAME OVER.
Reset.
"Your crosshair placement looks off," someone commented during attempt twenty-three. Lance couldn''t even tell who spoke anymore. The voices blurred together, an endless echo of well-meaning but useless advice bouncing around his skull like bullets in an empty room.
He tried everything: different weapons, different positions, different timings. Nothing worked. Phantom remained unbeatable, almost omniscient in his ability to counter every strategy Lance attempted. It was like playing against a machine, or a god, or his own inadequacy given digital form.
GAME OVER.
Reset.
Around attempt thirty, Lance stopped counting. Time became meaningless, a flat circle of repeated moments. He played mechanically, going through the motions while his mind drifted through memories of better days. The fluorescent lights buzzed their eternal song. The air conditioning hummed its regular rhythm. Reid squeezed his shoulder with clockwork precision.
"Maybe take a break?" Maya suggested during one loop, her artist''s intuition sensing his fragmenting mental state. "Clear your head?"
Instead of playing that round, Lance opened his digital art program. He sketched while the match timer ran down, trying to capture the feeling of being trapped in time. Dark spirals and fractured clockfaces emerged under his stylus. Maya watched over his shoulder, offering quiet suggestions about color and composition. When the forfeit timer ran out, he almost welcomed the reset, having created something real in this unreal loop.
GAME OVER.
Reset.
Before the next match, Lance pulled out his phone and called his mom. His fingers shook as he dialed the familiar number. "Hey sweetie!" her voice carried warmth even through the tinny speaker. "Shouldn''t you be getting ready for your tournament?"
"I love you, Mom," he said simply, emotion thick in his throat. "I''m going to figure this out. I promise."
Her pause spoke volumes, maternal concern evident even across the digital divide. "Lance, honey, are you okay?"
The loop reset before he could answer, but something had changed. The conversation centered him, reminded him why he was fighting. He studied Phantom with renewed focus, really watching this time instead of just reacting.
Patterns emerged like constellations forming from random stars. Not just in Phantom''s gameplay, but in everything. The way light reflected off monitors, the rhythm of keystrokes, the flow of movement across the map. Lance began to see it all as one interconnected dance, a ballet where every performer followed their choreographed steps without realizing it.
GAME OVER.
Reset.
But this time, the failure felt different. He understood more. Each loop added to his knowledge, building a complete picture. Phantom wasn''t unbeatable—he was predictable. Like everyone else trapped in the loops, he followed patterns, written in time instead of code.
The next attempt, Lance moved with purpose. He threw grenades at exact angles, catching Phantom retreating through his favored routes. He timed his peeks perfectly, knowing when Phantom would reload down to the econd. The first round went to Lance, his crosshair finding its mark with precision.
Then Phantom adapted, switching positions. But Lance was ready. He''d seen this adjustment before, dozens of loops ago. Phantom''s composure cracked slightly, visible even from across the room. His mechanical precision gave way to frustrated aggression. Lance predicted the rushes, turned Phantom''s own patterns against him.
The second round was his too, victory achieved through prediction and targeted skill.
Victory flashed across the screen in gold letters.
The loop didn''t reset.
The crowd erupted in genuine surprise and appreciation. Reid and Jasper tackled him in a celebratory hug while Maya clapped from her perch, her smile knowing somehow. Phantom stood and walked over, offering a grudging handshake, his earlier confidence replaced by confused respect.
"How did you read me so perfectly?" Phantom asked, genuine confusion in his voice. "It was like you knew what I would do before I did it."
Lance just smiled, too exhausted to explain the impossible truth. "Lucky guesses."
The tournament organizer approached with the prize check, but Lance barely saw it. His phone buzzed—a text from his mom: "Whatever happens, I''m proud of you." The simple message meant more than any victory.
"Let''s get food to celebrate!" Jasper bounced excitedly, a blur of motion once again. Reid’s eyes lit up, "I know this great sandwich place—"
"No!" Lance cut him off sharply, remembering all too well the ancient sandwich from previous temporal adventures. "I mean... maybe somewhere else? Anywhere else?"
His friends laughed, not understanding his vehemence. As they walked into the evening air, Lance felt lighter than he had in countless loops. He''d learned something valuable about time, about patterns, about human nature itself. Every person followed their own rhythms, their own cycles. Understanding those patterns was the key to breaking free of them.
The clock tower silhouetted against the darkening sky, its faces finally aligned at the correct time. Lance smiled up at it, feeling like he''d passed some crucial test. The prize money would help his mom, but the lessons learned might prove even more valuable.
They piled into Reid''s car, debating restaurant choices with the easy familiarity of true friends. Lance leaned back in his seat, letting their friendly bickering wash over him.
Time, he realized, was both prison and teacher. You just had to learn its lessons before it would let you move on.