Patch Notes v0.1
𓆰𓆪 Quillshot | Kima’s POV
“QuillShot.” Lost in this game, again.
This Sova is annoying. I stayed calm.
“Sage! Bro, I need healing! You’re choking, you little shit!” the duelist, Jett—of course. Always Sage’s fault when he dies. I rolled my eyes.
Someone called me out for dozing off mid-match in Valorant.
Yeah, that FPS game. I’m Gold III at best, and now everyone’s screaming in my headphones.
“You should fucking tell me if you’re gonna push, so I can trade you! Fucking noob!”
And yet—despite the chaos—I clutched the 1v3 and won the damn round.
Final score: 12–10. My teammates? Useless.
No game sense, no map control, nothing. Again, useless.
"GG, Sage. Thanks for the carry,” someone said. A calm voice, not the one who had been yelling at me earlier for not healing him. He died to the enemy Sova—because he peeked mid like an idiot.
“GG, Omen. Good smokes!” I replied.
He did well. Top fragger. I was second. We carried the whole team, and the bottom-fragging deadweight had the audacity to call me shit.
“Stupid girl, stay in the kitchen, Sage!” and of course our Fade, who did NOT initiate anything. Ah yes, the misogyny. So refreshing.
The game ended.
I checked the leaderboard.
Gh0st—that was Omen’s username.
I closed the app and stared at my half-finished draft.
My manager’s going to murder me if I don’t submit a storyline soon.
And I have... absolutely nothing.
I was staring at the blank page again when a Discord ping broke the silence.
△ Gh0st: gg earlier. u down to duo?
I hovered over the message, blinking. The Omen from last game.
My fingers hovered over the keyboard. I should say no.
I should be writing.
My manager’s already threatened to yank me off the project if I don’t submit something usable by the weekend. But honestly? The block was so bad I couldn’t even remember the last time I had a coherent thought that didn’t start with “Enemy spotted.”
I replied.
▵QuillShot: sure. Invite.
I joined his lobby.
No small talk.
No awkward voice comms.
We just queued.
And... something weird happened.
We played. Then we queued again. And again.
He even called me out after the round ended.
△ Gh0st: “Ah. I see. So the Phoenix gets the heals now.”
▵QuillShot: “He was on fire—literally. You? Just lurking in corners.”
△ Gh0st: “I call it strategic positioning.”
▵QuillShot: “You were hiding in A sewer.”
We were playing on Split. His voice had this static-y sound, maybe his headphones, but it was deep, warm—inviting, if you asked me.
△ Gh0st: (dryly) “I was watching the rotation. And bleeding out, apparently.”
▵QuillShot: (laughing) “Oh my god. Fine. Next round, I’ll patch up your emo smoke-daddy energy, okay?”
△ Gh0st: “I’d appreciate that. A man can only heal so much with brooding alone.”
And then...
Six hours blurred together in headshots, clutches, saves, comms that didn’t need words.
It was calm. Unforced. No one screamed. No one tilted.
Every smoke landed where it should.
Every heal had purpose.
Every flank timed like it was scripted.
We were in sync. Like we’d rehearsed it a hundred times before.
We didn’t even notice it was 4:23 a.m. until I yawned and let my mic pick it up.
“Sleepy?” his voice crackled through, quiet for the first time.
“Writer’s block,” I murmured.
A pause.
“That explains the name.”
I smiled, small and stupid.
“Thanks for playing,” I said, hovering over the disconnect button.
“Anytime,” he replied. “You make a good Sage.”
That was it. I logged off, crawled into bed, and for the first time in weeks, my head wasn’t full of static.
It was full of smokes, flashes, and one calm voice cutting through it all.
-
I woke up to my phone buzzing like it was having a seizure.
I face down in a tangle of hoodie strings and guilt, I groaned, pawed at the sheets, and finally found it. Bright screen. Blurry vision.
27 messages.3 missed calls.1 angry producer.
MIRA - PRODUCER (DO NOT IGNORE)
Great. I braced myself and started scrolling.
MIRA: Kima. We need to talk.
MIRA: You didn’t submit anything. Again.
MIRA: I swear to god if you ghost me today I will file your resignation for you.
MIRA: Call me the moment you wake up. No excuses.
MIRA: Hello?
MIRA: Seriously?
There were also voice notes. I didn’t play them. I already knew they’d sound like death threats wrapped in passive-aggressive cheer.
My head throbbed.
My back hurt.
My limbs felt like they’d been poured in concrete.
But the worst part? I knew I deserved it.
I’d told myself I’d submit something last night. Just a rough draft. Just a goddamn outline.
Instead, I spent the whole day and night playing — with a stranger, nonetheless
I dragged myself to my desk.
Made brewed coffee.
Open laptop.
6,000 words of... something. Probably trash, but at least it existed. That was new.
I leaned back, let my head fall against the chair.
Just breathe.
And then, out of habit, I checked Discord.
My DMs were blinking.
△ Gh0st.
I clicked.
yo. u alive?
no duo today?
or maybe you’re just healing someone else again. Smh.
I stared at the last one a second too long.
It was dumb. Just a joke.
But it still hit that weird spot in my chest—the one I didn’t want to admit existed.
I hadn’t thought about games all day. Or Gh0st. Which was... strange.
I should’ve opened the doc Mira’s been breathing down my neck for. I really should’ve.
Instead, I opened Valorant.
Just one match. Just to clear my head.
Maybe two.
My cursor hovered over Sage like it always did—but I didn’t click.
Not tonight.
Mira’s voice was still in my head. Deadlines. Chapters. Edits. Fix it. I muted her with one click.
Tonight, I was Reyna.
No heals. No revives.
Just kill or be killed.
And God, did that sound good.
MATCH FOUND
Comms clicked on automatically.
“Yo—wait. Reyna?” Gh0st’s voice came through, amused.
I didn’t answer right away. Just bought my Sheriff and hovered near spawn.
“You ditching your Florence Nightingale arc or what?”
He filled the silence like he always did. “Damn. I thought we were the wholesome support–controller duo. You know, dreams and healing and tactical smokes.”
I smirked despite myself. “Dreams are dead. So is everyone else.”
A short beat. Then his laugh—low, crackly, familiar.
“Alright, Reyna. Let’s get you some souls.”
The round started.
-Gh0st’s POV-
No comms from her. Just footsteps—fast, direct, reckless.
Too reckless.
This was Haven. Three sites. I moved to cover her Garage but saw her darting up C-long, alone.
“Quill?” I called.
No answer.
Then shots. One tap. Two. A third flick.
Three enemies down.
Reyna’s ult voice line echoed—
“They will cower!
“She’s pushing site alone—” our teammate started, but stopped as another kill came through.
Four.
My fingers hovered over my keyboard, frozen for half a second.
Spike down. One enemy left.
I watched, stunned, as she double dismissed into back site, caught the last enemy off guard with a dirty crouch-peek, and dropped him before he even fired.
ACE.
The team exploded.
“Damn, Reyna!”
“Holy shit—carry us, Mommy.”
I blinked, finally unmuting.
“...Okay,” I said slowly. “Remind me never to piss you off.”
She didn’t reply.
Just reloaded and bought armor like it was nothing.
I leaned back, watching the kill feed replay across the top of the screen.
That wasn’t her usual style. That was unhinged, beautiful violence. Pure instinct. No hesitation.
And somehow, it didn’t feel like a flex.
It felt like a scream.
I kept playing.
I didn’t talk much—never did—but I watched her every round.
Not just the kills, but the way she moved.
Sharp corners.
Fast swings.
Like she had something to prove and no one left to prove it to.
Most people online are blurred together.
Same complaints. Same bad mic audio.
But she was different. She knew the maps.
Knew when to push, when to anchor.
And when she raged, it wasn’t nonsense—it was precision fire.
Controlled chaos. I muttered under my breath
I’d never duo’d more than once with anyone before.
But this girl?
I could play all night.
-QuillShot/ Kima’s POV-
My heart was still racing from the ace.
My fingers hovered over the buy menu, but I wasn’t really looking.
I heard Gh0st say something—joking, probably. I couldn’t even process the words.
The rush hadn’t helped.
If anything, it made it worse. The heat in my chest, the tight coil in my ribs.
I’d thought a match would clear my head, but instead it cracked something open.
I stared at Reyna’s smirking portrait.
“I’m burned up, Gh0st,” I said before I could stop myself.
My voice barely sounded like mine.
“I couldn’t stop myself. Didn’t wanna heal tonight. Just... kill.”
There was a beat of silence. No smartass reply, no laugh. Just the empty buzz of the buy phase counting down.
I stared at the corner of my screen. His name was still lit up green.
He was listening.
I bought my Vandal on autopilot. Armor. Ghost.
“Reyna felt right,” I said, quieter now. ”She doesn’t flinch. She feeds.”
I moved forward.
Didn’t wait for him to answer. I couldn’t.
If I stopped, I might actually feel it all—the pressure, the deadlines, the loneliness, the guilt from ignoring Mira, the weight in my chest I’d been pretending wasn’t there all damn day.
So I pushed.
Let the violence speak for me.
I expected him to joke.
Something dumb like “Someone’s off their meds today,” or a meme voice saying “Reyna mains be like.”
But nothing came.
Not even a chuckle.
Just the faint hum of his open mic and the steady click of his keys.
His Omen didn’t fall back this time.
He moved with me—close enough to watch my flank, far enough to let me run.
He smoked off angles right before I peeked them, timed flashes just as I dismissed into the next fight.
Every time I thought I was dead, he was there.
A smoke.
A ping.
A sudden paranoia that saved my ass without words.
It wasn’t flashy.
It wasn’t loud.
But it made me faster.
Sharper.
Deadlier.
Round after round, we cut through them like we’d rehearsed this dance.
My aggression, his cover.
My chaos, his calm.
I realized—I wasn’t winning because I snapped.
I was winning because he let me snap, and made it safe to do so.
He didn’t ask questions. He didn’t try to fix me.
He just played like someone who saw me cracking—and still held the line.
That hit deeper than any voice line.
I stared at the scoreboard between rounds. Top frag. Barely a death.
He was right behind me.
A laugh bubbled up, bitter at the edges.
“Guess I’m not the only one who swapped roles tonight,” I muttered under my breath.
Still no response.
Just his Omen blinking into the next round with me, silent and steady.
And somehow, that said more than anything he could’ve typed.
Next round started.
I flicked forward, still hot off the last multi-kill, and—
Smoke.
He was already there.
Blocking off my blind side before I could even check it.
I didn’t say thank you. Didn’t have to.
We knew this language.
I was mid-reload when he pinged the spike for me—precise, quiet, patient.
And that’s when I said it.
Not in a whisper.
Not in a breakdown.
Just... honest.
“You’re everywhere tonight,” I muttered, breath catching as I dismissed out of danger again. “Like you already know where I’m gonna fall.”
A pause.
Then, his voice—low, calm, not teasing this time.
“With you, always.”
Three words.
Just that.
It hit harder than it should’ve.
I froze, just for a second.
Enough for my heart to stutter and the game to blur around the edges.
No smirk in his tone.
No wink.
Just fact.
He was still playing like normal, like he didn’t just reach past the screen and steady my whole damn spine.
I blinked fast.
Refocused.
“Copy that,” I whispered back, voice cracking around the edges of something I wasn’t ready to name.
And then we moved—together.
-End of CHAPTER 1-
