Liam’s dad, a former Army sergeant, had walked out three months ago. “Sometimes,” he’d said on the porch, his duffel bag at his feet, “the mission changes, son. You realize the side you’re on isn’t protecting who you thought it was.”

The blinking cursor on Liam’s screen was the only light in his cramped, poster-choked bedroom. Outside, rain lashed against the window, but inside, the world had shrunk to 1920x1080 pixels.

Liam’s jaw tightened. “Don’t care.”

“Did he ask about why ?” Liam snapped, finally turning. His mom’s eyes were red-rimmed, but dry. She looked like a portrait of someone waiting for a storm to pass.

He leaned back, headphones on. The fan in his PC hummed, a low, companionable growl. For the next hour, he watched the percentage tick up: 12%... 24%... 41%. Each gigabyte felt like a door opening in a dark hallway. He wasn’t just downloading a game. He was downloading a permission slip. Permission to be angry. Permission to question. Permission to walk away from everything he thought he believed in.

Liam looked from the screen to his mother. For a second, the choice was real—not in a game, but in his own chest. Follow the Assassin’s path of noble, painful loyalty, or turn and become something else.

She lingered. He could feel her gaze on the back of his neck, heavy as a hand. “Your father called,” she said quietly.

He pressed .

“Later,” he said, not looking away from the screen.

At 89%, his mom knocked. “Liam? Dinner.”

“He asked about you.”

With a deep breath, Liam clicked.

Liam turned back to the monitor. The title screen glowed: a dark ship on a frozen sea, a man in a black coat standing alone. No brotherhood. No creed. Just the cold truth of a choice made.

His mother said nothing. She just closed the door softly behind her.

That felt real. That felt like him .