The alarm on Mason’s phone rattled across his desk at a time that still felt like the middle of the night. He reached for it and knocked a stack of sleeves to the floor, then fumbled along the edge of the desk before he remembered the sound was coming from his bag. He silenced it and stared at the ceiling, trying to sort the heaviness in his chest—sleep, dread, or both.

  The kitchen was empty when he shuffled in. The table still held the stack of envelopes from last night, now squared into a neater pile. A note sat on top in his mom’s handwriting: Call manager. Eat. Love you. The word love you snagged in his throat. He poured cereal into a bowl, ate a few bites, and left the milk growing warm on the counter.

  His phone buzzed with an incoming call as he pulled on his hoodie.

  “Carver.” His manager’s voice came through without a greeting. A scanner beeped in the background.

  “Mason,” he answered quickly. “I was about to call you.”

  “You were about to call me.” The manager sounded tired. “You missed a shift last night.”

  “I told Mike I had the tournament. I can pick up extra hours this week. I can do doubles over the weekend.”

  Silence, then a long exhale through the phone. “I don’t want to cut you. You show up. But we’re short. I can’t build a schedule around your hobbies.”

  “It’s not a hobby.” Mason kept his voice steady. “It’s the regional circuit. I qualified. The next event is in two weeks. After that, I don’t know. I can take on all the weekday shifts I can before I leave. I can cover closing. I’ll do whatever.”

  Another beat of silence. The scanner beeped again. “All right,” the manager said. “Part-time. You’re going to lose hours, and some of the insurance. Call in again, and I can’t keep doing this.”

  “I won’t. Thank you.”

  “Don’t thank me. Show up.” The line went dead.

  Mason stared at the screen. Part-time meant less money. Less money meant more envelopes on the table. He pushed the thought away and opened his notes app, typing out the new schedule to send to his mom. He hesitated at the end of the message, then added: Got it handled. He hit send.

  He finished the cereal in three hurried bites and carried the bowl to the sink. The window over the kitchen counter faced the back of another apartment building. A neighbor’s cat perched on the ledge, watching him with unblinking yellow eyes before it vanished.

  He packed his bag for work, then pulled his deck out, checked the sleeves, counted the cards, and shuffled once. The motion steadied him. He returned the deck to its box and grabbed his rig, just in case.

  —

  By the time his shift ended, his shoulders felt like they’d been filled with wet sand. He kept his head down, clocked out, and stepped into the employee area to check his phone. A message from Naomi lit the screen.

  NP_Theory: “Call at 7? I pulled your Ruben match. I want to test a line.”

  Mason replied with a thumbs-up, then texted his mom that he was heading to a study session. He didn’t mention it was online. He didn’t mention the way his pulse lifted just seeing her name.

  He took the bus home, ate leftover noodles, and perched on the edge of his bed with his rig on the desk. The casing felt familiar under his palm, the old scratches and paint chips like landmarks. He powered it on, pulled up the match replay, and connected to the call.

  Naomi appeared in a small window on his screen. Her hair was clipped back, glasses on, shoulders wrapped in a dark hoodie. She looked like she’d been reading for hours.

  “Your feed’s choppy.” She glanced off-screen and adjusted something. “Better now?”

  Mason shifted the rig closer to the router in the hallway. “Is that better?”

  “A little. Good enough.” Naomi sat back and tapped her screen. “You ready?”

  “Yeah.” Mason dragged the replay file into the shared window. “Let’s get roasted.”

  Naomi’s mouth twitched. “That’s not the goal.”

  “That’s never not the goal.”

  She ignored him and pulled the replay into a shared timeline. “Start on Beat five of round two. You had a chance here.”

  The arena view filled his screen, their avatars in the corner. Mason’s active creature, Skelter Wolf, circled Ruben’s Iron Grip near the center. Naomi paused the footage.

  “You have eight Charge,” she said. “He has seven. You set a trap last Beat, and you held your command.”

  “Because he was about to Clinch. I wanted to bait it.”

  “Right. But you could have switched to Ember Wisp here, and you didn’t.”

  “That costs me two Charge. I wanted the burst next Beat.”

  “Look at his hand.” Naomi pulled up the overlay. “He has Submission Matrix primed. He’s going to Clinch on Beat six no matter what you do.”

  “Exactly. So I set Grasp Snare. It should trigger and break the Clinch.”

  “It does break, but it costs you the Openings. You trade damage in a neutral position.” Naomi scrubbed the timeline. “If you swap to Ember Wisp here, you force him to burn Matrix earlier, then you pull back to Skelter with two Charge left for Cross Strike.”

  Mason leaned closer. He saw it now. If he’d switched, he could have forced Ruben to spend his best control play into a creature that didn’t care.

  “Okay,” Mason said slowly. “But if I do that, I’m down two Charge. I can’t run the combo I used to scrape that round. I have to play two Beats on defense.”

  “And you survive those Beats.” Naomi tapped the screen. “This is where you mess up. You want the flashy counter, so you push even when you’re behind on resources. It’s why you’re dangerous. It’s also why you get punished.”

  Mason leaned back. “So you want me to stop being me.”

  “I want you to stop bleeding Charge.” Naomi’s tone stayed flat. “You don’t need to win fast. You need to win efficiently.”

  He made a face. “That sounds like a tax strategy.”

  She gave him a flat look.

  He grinned. “Okay. Efficient. So you want me to build into more Control lines.”

  “Not more. Better. You have the tools already.” Naomi opened a side panel. “You run Grasp Snare, you run Backstep, you run only one terrain denial. You can add Static Barrier instead of Burst Lunge.”

  “Burst Lunge is my finisher.”

  “Burst Lunge is a telegraphed finisher.” Naomi’s fingers flicked across the list. “Static Barrier gives you a Beat to reset.”

  Mason crossed his arms. “I like finishing.”

  “Everyone likes finishing. This isn’t about preference.” She paused and tilted her head. “Did you call your manager?”

  He blinked. “Is that part of the strategy?”

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  “It’s part of your reality. Did you?”

  “Yeah. I’m part-time now. Losing hours.” The words sat heavy between them. “It’s fine.”

  Naomi didn’t respond right away. Her fingers tapped her desk once, twice. “Okay. Let’s get you a plan that maximizes points with minimal time.”

  “Like an econ class.”

  “Like survival.” She clicked to another replay. “Here’s Kellen’s quarterfinal. Watch how he manages Charge. Not the flashy parts. The idle Beats.”

  The match began. Kellen’s Crimson Duelist flashed into the arena, cutting across the field like a blade. He burned four Charge in two Beats, then paused, letting the resource tick back up.

  “He sandbags on Beat three.” Naomi paused the clip. “He does nothing. Why?”

  “Because he knows his opponent is going to push,” Mason replied. “He’s waiting for the Opening.”

  “Exactly. He’s letting the other player create a mistake. You don’t let them. You want to force mistakes, and that’s good, but sometimes you can just… wait.”

  Mason watched the footage. It was obvious in hindsight: Kellen slowed the tempo, then exploded only when his opponent committed too much.

  “You hate this,” Naomi said.

  “I do,” Mason admitted. “I hate letting them breathe.”

  “Then you need a way to breathe without feeling like you’re losing. That’s what Control is. It’s breathing.”

  He sighed. “You’re going to turn me into a Controller.”

  “You’re going to stay a hybrid. You’re just going to stop sprinting into walls.”

  They worked through the rest of the match, pausing at key Beats, overlaying lines, talking through hypothetical swaps. Naomi pointed out Charge breakpoints with calm precision that made Mason feel both impressed and a little irritated. He pushed back when she suggested cutting one of his favorite Striker cards. She didn’t budge until he suggested a different swap that kept his aggressive options without sacrificing resource stability.

  “Okay.” Naomi nodded. “That’s better. But you need a different trap set order. You keep setting Grasp Snare too early.”

  “Because people don’t respect it unless they see it.”

  “People don’t respect it because you show it.” Naomi pointed at the timeline. “If you set it and hold it for three Beats, they’ll play around it. You want them to forget it.”

  Mason thought about it. “So I need to be sneaky.”

  “You need to be patient.”

  He rolled his eyes. “I hate that word.”

  “I know. It’s why I keep saying it.”

  Their conversation ran longer than either expected. The call clock ticked past an hour, then two. Mason’s notebook filled with messy arrows and small diagrams. Naomi’s notes were crisp and numbered. When he took a sip of water, his glass was empty. When he checked the clock on his rig, it read 9:42.

  “You still there?” Naomi asked.

  “Yeah. I’m just realizing I haven’t eaten since noodles.”

  “That’s on you.” She glanced at her screen. “Go get a snack. I’ll wait.”

  He left the room, grabbed a granola bar, and came back. Naomi was still there, scanning a list of his cards. The light in her room was low, her face lit by her screen.

  “Okay,” she said. “Next: Kellen’s play pattern with Blitz Fang.”

  Mason bit into the granola bar. “Do we really have to talk about Kellen?”

  “Yes.” Naomi’s voice carried that same precise edge. “If you run into him at regionals, you need to know his sequences.”

  “Fine.” Mason chewed and watched. “He’s fast, hits hard, and somehow always has the perfect draw.”

  “He doesn’t always have the perfect draw.” Naomi paused the footage on Beat four. “He’s just good at making it look that way. Here. He bluffs. He has no trap, but he positions like he does. His opponent slows down. He buys himself a Beat. This isn’t magic. It’s discipline.”

  Mason grunted. “I can do that.”

  “You can. You just like being honest. He uses the truth against you. You show your hand early because you want them to see the threat.”

  “Is that bad?”

  “It’s predictable.” She turned to the camera. “If you want to beat him, you need to break his rhythm. Make him hesitate. He hates hesitation.”

  Mason studied her face through the screen. She looked more animated now than she had in person, eyes sharp, hands moving as she explained a line. There was something satisfying about watching her solve a problem like it was a puzzle only she could see.

  “Okay,” he said. “What if I bait a chase? He loves chasing.”

  “Then you need a trap that punishes chase.” Naomi pulled up a list. “You have Rift Marker, but you never set it.”

  “Because it misses half the time.”

  “It misses because you set it when they’re already repositioning.” She highlighted a line. “Set it on Beat two. He’ll chase on Beat three. You’ll have a window.”

  Mason nodded and wrote it down. “You make it sound easy.”

  “It’s not easy. It’s just possible.” She paused. “And you need to adjust your mindset on Openings. You treat them like a lottery. They’re a resource.”

  “Everything is a resource with you.”

  “Because everything is one.” She leaned closer to her screen. “When you see an Opening, you have to ask: is it worth the Charge? Worth the trade? Worth the tempo? Sometimes the answer is no.”

  “Sometimes the answer is yes and I still take it even if it’s no.”

  “That’s why you win when you shouldn’t.” She tilted her head. “It’s also why you lose when you shouldn’t.”

  He tapped his pen against the notebook. “Okay. So you’re telling me to be more like you.”

  “I’m telling you to use what you already do, but with a plan. You can still be you.” She hesitated, then added, “Just… less reckless.”

  The word landed softly. It didn’t feel like criticism. It felt like concern.

  “I’m working on it.” Mason smiled, a little.

  She nodded and shifted her notes aside. “All right. That covers the matches. You want to go through deck changes now or later?”

  “Now.” He didn’t hide the eagerness. “I have momentum.”

  She brought up his deck list, sliding cards in and out with a practiced flick. They argued over two slots, settled on one compromise, then moved to sideboard options for specific archetypes. Mason made a case for keeping his Rank-3 Striker because of its synergy with his trap line. Naomi reluctantly agreed.

  “See,” he said. “I can be reasonable.”

  “You can be stubborn,” she replied. “It just happens to be correct sometimes.”

  He laughed, surprised at how easy it felt.

  When they reached the last card, Naomi leaned back in her chair. “Okay. That’s a working list. We should test it in a scrim. Maybe next week.”

  “Sure. If I can get time off.”

  “You can.” She paused, then added, “If you want to.”

  “I do.” Mason hesitated. “This is helping.”

  “I know.” Her voice softened. “It’s helping me too.”

  He blinked. “You?”

  She glanced away. “It’s easier to think about the game than to think about… other things.”

  “Like what?”

  Naomi’s fingers wrapped around her smartband. “Like what I’m supposed to do next year. College. Internships. My parents keep bringing it up. They think this is just a phase.”

  “What do you think?”

  “I think phases can be important.” She stopped, then added, “But it doesn’t pay off if you don’t take them seriously.”

  Mason let that sit. “My dad thinks it’s a phase too. A bad one.”

  “That doesn’t mean he’s right,” Naomi said. “It means he’s scared.”

  “Yeah. He doesn’t say that.”

  “No one does.” She looked back to the camera. “Do you want this for the game itself, or for what it can do for you?”

  Mason blinked. “What kind of question is that?”

  “Answer it.”

  He leaned back in his chair, granola bar forgotten on the desk. “I like the game. I love the feeling when everything clicks, when you see the line before your opponent does. But I also… need it. I need it to be real. If I can make it work, it’s a way out. For my family. For me. I don’t want to be stuck here watching AstraForge take everything and never getting a say.”

  Naomi listened without interrupting. When he finished, she nodded once. “That’s more honest than most players I know.”

  “Thanks.” He wasn’t sure if it was a compliment. “What about you? Why are you here?”

  Naomi’s mouth pulled into a thin line. “At first it was curiosity. The system. The rules. The way it changed overnight. Now…” She hesitated. “Now it’s about seeing if I can actually solve a system that doesn’t want to be solved. And maybe… proving I’m allowed to choose my own path.”

  Mason tilted his head. “Your parents want you to work for AstraForge?”

  She shrugged. “They want stability. AstraForge offers that. They’ve already sent feelers about an internship. It’s not official. Just… a note. Access. A paycheck. A promise.”

  “And?”

  “And it would mean signing a lot of papers. A lot of rules. It would mean less time for this.” She rubbed the edge of her smartband. “I haven’t answered.”

  Mason nodded slowly. He could feel the weight of that choice even through a screen. “I can’t tell you what to do.”

  “I didn’t ask you to.” Naomi met his gaze. “But I wanted you to know.”

  He sat with that for a moment, then said, “Thanks.”

  She didn’t respond right away. Her eyes flicked to the clock on her screen. “It’s late.”

  “It is.” Mason looked at his own clock. It was past ten. His shoulders ached, but he didn’t want to end the call. “We did a lot, though.”

  “We did.” Naomi’s voice softened again. “We should do this regularly. Same day, same time. Build a routine.”

  “You want a standing appointment?”

  “Do you not?”

  He grinned. “I do.”

  She opened a shared document, typed a schedule. “Tuesdays and Fridays. Two-hour block. If we need to adjust, we’ll adjust.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Don’t.”

  “Okay, Naomi.”

  She paused, then gave a small nod. “All right. I’m going to sleep.”

  “Me too.” Mason’s voice lowered. “Thanks for the help.”

  “You did the work.” She pointed her cursor at the note list. “Send me your updated list before tomorrow.”

  “Will do.” He hesitated, then added, “Hey. This was… good.”

  Naomi’s expression softened. “Yeah. It was.”

  The call ended, leaving his screen dark and his room quiet. He sat there for a moment, staring at his own reflection in the blank display. The room felt emptier without her voice. He opened the shared document and scanned the schedule she’d typed. Tuesdays and Fridays. It looked official, like a commitment he could hold onto.

  He pulled his deck out again and spread the cards across his bed, rearranging them with the new list in mind. The work felt less lonely now. It felt like a project, a partnership.

  His phone buzzed again. A new message.

  NP_Theory: “Also, you owe me a rematch in a scrim. I’m not letting your 2-1 stand forever.”

  Mason laughed softly and typed back.

  Mason: “Bring it. But I’m playing efficient now. It’s your fault.”

  He set the phone down and kept sorting, the rhythm of the cards steadying his mind. The weight of his family’s stress, the threat of bills, the promise of regionals, the shadow of Kellen—all of it still sat on his shoulders. But there was a thread of something else now: a plan, a person on the other end of the line who wanted him to succeed.

  He gathered the cards into a neat stack and slid them into the deck box. He placed the box beside his rig, then turned off the light and lay back on his bed, listening to the quiet hum of the apartment around him as he let the day fade.