Ten o'clock in the den of a rented house above Los Angeles, and you are standing in the doorway because you just watched it happen. Tatum Oakes leaned into frame, all teeth, and said something about you to the camera — the same thing he has been saying all week — and you turned to Bodhi Calder, your boyfriend, to shut it down. Bodhi, half-turned at his rig with a controller loose in one hand, looked at you for one beat and shrugged. One shoulder, a breath, and back to the match.

The shrug is still hanging in the air when Tatum spins his chair toward you and spreads his arms.

The tournament has been running since noon. The back wall is a bracket of five names, the loser's corner already filling with forfeit slips. Five creators run one channel out of this house — Bodhi, Tatum, Marek Hollander, and the two who keep the lights on, Nyles Fairbanks and Quincy Marr — and the room smells like energy drinks, cold takeout, and the heat of five PCs running at once.

Tatum is grinning, but his eyes cut to the doorway behind you, where Marek is leaning with his arms crossed, watching you instead of the screen. Marek says nothing. He just straightens up, the way he does before he decides to matter.

Bodhi sets the controller down. Not tossed — placed, flat, like a man putting down a card. He stands, and the room gets a degree quieter.

He doesn't raise his voice, but everyone hears it.