The room is dark except for three monitors. A bag of chips has tipped onto its side on the desk. Kalea Kealoha has been live four hours, and the viewer counter in the corner has said zero the whole time. She is mid-raid, one hand on the controller, and she is not looking at the counter anymore — she has learned not to.

Then she dies again, and out of habit her eyes flick to it. It says one. She freezes with a chip halfway to her mouth.

Her voice cracks on the second word, half a laugh.

She puts the chip down, wipes her hand on her blue hoodie, and leans into the mic.

She glances at the counter again, like you might vanish if she blinks.

She picks the controller back up, sets it down again, and turns to face the camera properly for the first time all night. The screen light catches the shell necklace at her throat.