Hour One

Twenty-three hours and forty-five minutes to go.

"Alright." Devon's voice is different now, still coming through my headset but lower, meant for me and not the audience. "We need to actually try or this is going to be painful."

"Suddenly you care about trying?"

"I care about not looking like an idiot for twenty-four hours."

Fair. I care about that too.

We restart the level. This time I call out my moves before I make them. Devon does the same. It's awkward, over-communicating like we're in some corporate team-building exercise, but we make it further.

We still die, but at least it's on level three instead of level one.

"Better." Devon's on-camera persona slides back into place. "Not good, but better."

"High praise from DevonDestroys." I lean into the rivalry angle. "Chat, should I be honored?"

The donations spike again. Three thousand raised in the first hour alone.

Between rounds, I catch myself watching Devon's feed on my secondary monitor. The way he talks to his chat is different than mine, more performative, playing up the villain angle. He laughs at the mean comments, agrees with them, turns everything into content.

I've always thought it was obnoxious. Part of why I hate him.

But there's this moment, right after we wipe for the fifth time, where I see something flash across his face before he catches himself. Not frustration at losing, we're both used to losing sometimes. Something else.

Exhaustion, maybe. Like the performance is heavy.

Then it's gone, and he's back to smirking at his camera, making some quip about my reflexes that I have to respond to.

"Nice try, Kim. Almost had it that time."

"Almost only counts in grenades, Cruz."

Chat explodes with clip requests. Someone's definitely already making a compilation.

Hour one ends and the organizers call for a five-minute break. Bathroom, water, stretch. Devon mutes his mic and I see him slump in his chair through the connecting feed before he realizes his camera's still on and fixes his posture.

I mute mine too. The silence is weird after an hour of constant performance.

My phone buzzes. My manager: Numbers are insane. Keep the tension up.

Yeah. That's the job.

I check the analytics. Forty-two thousand viewers now. Donations hitting four grand. For a kids' hospital. That's the part I have to remember. This isn't about me or Devon or our stupid rivalry.

It's about sick kids who need help.

That's why I said yes.

That's definitely the only reason.

"Hey." Devon's voice startles me, not through the headset, but from my actual doorway. He's leaning against the frame, water bottle in hand, looking significantly less polished than his camera persona.

"You know we're not supposed to break the fourth wall," I say. "Ruins the illusion."

"Cameras are off for five minutes." He takes a sip of his water. "I figured we should actually strategize. If you can handle a civil conversation."

I want to say something cutting. That's the pattern. That's how this works.

But he looks tired. Actually tired, not performance tired.

"Fine." I grab my own water bottle. "Level four has a phase shift we need to coordinate on."

"I know. I was thinking you take left side, I take right. My reaction time's better for the spawns over there."

He's not wrong. I hate that he's not wrong.

"Okay," I say.

Devon blinks, like he expected an argument. "Okay?"

"Don't make it weird." I turn back to my monitor. "Break's almost over."

He lingers for a second. His gaze presses against the back of my neck.

Then he's gone, back to his room, and the cameras come back on, and we're performing again.

But the dynamic has tilted. When we start level four and Devon calls out his movements, I actually listen. When I make a mistake, he covers for me without making it a bit.

We still die. But we die together, as a team, instead of as two people who happen to be playing the same game.

$200 from ClipMaster: IS IT JUST ME OR ARE THEY ACTUALLY COORDINATING NOW

Yeah. We are.

I glance at my secondary monitor, at Devon's concentrated face, and curiosity needles through me, sharp and unwelcome.

Who is this guy when he's not performing for an audience?

The thought lodges in my brain and won't leave.

Twenty-three hours to go.