You ever sit in the dark and realize your house sounds like a server farm? It’s 2am and the air in the hallway tastes like ozone and cold dust. You walk past her door and see that neon blue spill across the carpet, sharp like a razor blade. She’s seventy, right? She should be dreaming about gardenias or whatever they sell on those Hallmark cards, but instead she’s hunched over a backlit keyboard, fingers stiff as dried cedar, clicking away at some digital apocalypse. It’s a strange kind of QUIET when someone is committing virtual homicide in the next room. You know that feeling when you look at someone and realize they’re leading a whole double life under your roof because you’re too busy worrying about the transmission on the Honda? She’s in these lobbies with kids who haven't even seen a rotary phone. They’re screaming filth into their mics, all that shrill adrenaline, calling each other garbage. And she just sits there. Her headset is a permanent fixture, like a crown made of plastic and foam, but she never flips the mic down. She keeps it MUTED. She’s a ghost in the machine, a silent reaper moving through the tall grass of some wasteland while some fourteen-year-old in Ohio shouts for backup. It’s about the voice, mostly. You hear her occasionally—a dry cough, the sound of a pill bottle rattling—but she won’t let THEM hear her. If she speaks, the illusion SHATTERS. They’d realize a grandmother is the one carrying their squad through the final circle. They’d make fun of her, call her a "noob" or some other brain-rot slang, or worse, they’d be nice to her. They’d treat her like she’s FRAGILE.