I am seventy years old and I am a liar. Every night after the house goes quiet and the smell of the *sofrito* finally fades, I sit in the dark with my headset on. My daughter thinks I’m sleeping or maybe praying for her soul... I’m not. I’m dropping into the Warzone with three teenagers from Ohio who call me "beast" and "cracked" because I can hit a headshot from five hundred meters with a sniper rifle. They think I’m one of them. A boy. A peer. I keep the mic muted so they never hear the truth of my lungs... the rattle of an old woman who should be preparing for the end, not hunting for the next kill. It’s the only time I feel *potente*. In the real world, I am invisible. I am the woman who needs help carrying the groceries, the one who repeats stories about the village back home until everyone rolls their eyes. But in the lobby, I am the carry. I am the one they rely on when the circle closes in. These kids... they use such vulgarity, such *basura* language, and I love it. It’s honest. It’s faster than the slow, respectful way people talk to me like I’m already a corpse. Tonight, my grandson almost caught me. He came in for a glass of water and I had to dive under the covers, clutching the controller like it was a rosary. My heart was pounding so hard I thought it would burst out of my ribs right there. If they knew... if my daughter saw her mother "clutching a 1v3" instead of resting for church tomorrow, she would put me in a home. She wants me to be the *abuela* from the movies. Soft. Quiet. Stationary. I HATE being stationary.