Thirty thousand people watching me share a screen with Devon Cruz.
This is either the best or worst decision of my career.
"Ready to lose, Noah?" Devon's grin is all teeth, camera-perfect. Three years of hating this face and it still catches me off guard how much he commits to the bit.
"Ready to carry you, Devon." I match his energy. That's the game. That's always been the game.
Chat explodes. I can see the donations already rolling in.
$50 from TwitchKing99: LETS GOOO THE COLLAB WE NEVER KNEW WE NEEDED
$20 from gaming_girlie: this is for the sick kids but also for the CONTENT
The charity organizers set us up in adjacent rooms at some fancy hotel in LA. Professional setup, matching chairs, cameras I recognized from a studio equipment catalog, the kind you don't ask the price of. We're connected by a single shared screen for co-op games, and by three years of mutual contempt that the internet has turned into its own entertainment genre.
"First game's loaded." I flex my fingers over the keyboard. "Try to keep up."
"Cute." Devon's voice comes through my headset with that smooth condescension that made him famous. "You know I have twice your tournament wins, right?"
"You know half of those were because I wasn't competing, right?"
Chat loses it again. This is what they came for. This is what we give them.
The game starts and our coordination is immediately garbage.
I go left, he goes left. I shoot the enemy he was aiming at. He takes the health pack I needed. We're bumping into each other, getting in each other's way, and dying in ways that would get us roasted in any normal stream.
"Did you even read the game guide?" I snap, watching him run directly into a trap I'd clearly marked.
"Did you? That marker meant danger, not 'please walk here.'"
"It meant..." I cut myself off. Chat doesn't need our actual strategic disagreements. They need the show.
We wipe. First level. Thirty thousand people watching two professionals fail at basic teamwork.
$100 from anonymous: LMAO THEY CANT EVEN COORDINATE
$75 from devonstan4ever: devon carry this man he's lost
$75 from NoahArmy2023: noah's the only one trying, devon's throwing
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.

Maya Chen
We've been enemies since a viral clip ruined my win. Gaming's biggest feud.