Jonathan’s door was unlocked, as if daring the world to try him. The inside of the condo looked nothing like what Theo expected from a global pop phenomenon: the space was massive, sure, but the walls were brick or some brick veneer, most of the windows still clad in something to give off the impression that they were unfinished, and the only furniture in the living room was a low sectional, a vintage arcade cocktail table, and an honest-to-God hammock stretched between two custom anchors in the ceiling. There was no trace of interior design, no curated aesthetic—just the stuff of a grown-up who’d been left unsupervised with an unlimited credit limit and a sincere love of all things fun.
The kitchen island was buried under empty La Croix cans, two pizza boxes, and a haphazard pile of mail that Jonathan swept aside in one motion. “Make yourself at home,” he said. “Want a drink? I’ve got caffeine, hydration, and regrets in equal measure.”
Theo grabbed a seltzer and followed Jonathan to a den at the back of the unit, where the real show started: triple-monitor battlestation, peripherals in soft neon, every cable managed with a zeal bordering on the religious. The desk was built from black walnut, the kind of thing that cost as much as a high-tier GPU, and on the shelves above were equal parts gaming trophies, music awards, and bobbleheads: Michael Jordan, Lara Croft, and himself, twice.
Jonathan fired up the PC, the fans spinning up in a soft whirr. “You play mouse and keyboard or controller?” he asked.
“Keyboard. Unless I want to lose,” Theo replied.
“Respect,” Jonathan said, already queuing up Call of Duty. “Most of my friends are controller lifers. It’s like their thumbs are unionized.”
They played, first a warm-up match, then into the ranked queue. The rest of the world vanished: it was just them, headsets on, comms live, the glow of the monitors and the shared language of people who had spent far too many late nights chasing adrenaline through digital worlds.
Theo was good—better than most, but Jonathan was relentless, a ruthless operator who loved to bait the other team and then rush in for the clutch. They played with an unspoken rhythm, callouts and jokes, a seamless trash talk that made it feel like they’d been gaming together for years.
“Behind you, left stairwell,” Jonathan said, not even looking up.
Theo spun, dropped a double kill, and whooped. “That’s teamwork baby.”
“You ever thought about going pro?” Jonathan teased. “You’ve got the reflexes of a thirteen-year-old hopped up on G Fuel.”
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“My best asset,” Theo replied, “is that I have no social life.”
Jonathan laughed, leaning back in his chair. “You’re killing me, man. We need to do this more often. My usual squad is garbage.”
They finished a set, then switched to a less frantic mode, co-op. Jonathan cracked another seltzer, stretched, and grinned. “So, real talk; how does a guy like you end up in the penthouse? You running a VC scam, or did you invent a sexier kind of Bitcoin?”
Theo almost choked on his drink. “None of the above. I just… work a lot. Compounding interest, I guess.”
Jonathan nodded, eyes sharp but friendly. “You must work like a beast. Most engineers I know are lucky to afford a Prius, let alone that unit. No judgment, just respect.”
“Thanks,” said Theo, a little guilty for letting the misunderstanding ride, but also grateful. “You ever get tired of all this?” he asked, gesturing at the room, the world, the stardom implied by every trophy and every piece of mail with a personalized logo.
Jonathan looked at the screen for a long time, then shrugged. “Sometimes. But honestly? The only thing I ever wanted was to play games, make music, and not have anyone telling me what to wear. I lucked out, my label doesn’t care as long as I don’t tank the metrics.”
He switched games again, this time a pixel art roguelike. “Most of the time, it feels like I’m waiting for someone to figure out I’m a fraud. But then I remember, half the world is faking it, too. At least here”—he tapped the desk—“the only thing that matters is skill.”
Theo nodded. “That’s the dream, I guess.”
Jonathan gave him a long look. “You seem like a guy with a lot going on. No offense, but you don’t strike me as the type to just coast. If you ever want to talk, or you know, just hang out and kill zombies, I’m usually around. Building gets weird at night. A lot of famous people, but not a lot of actual people.”
Theo smiled, genuinely this time. “I’ll take you up on that.”
They played on, the hours dissolving into clicks and shouts and the simple, hypnotic pleasure of being exactly where you wanted to be.
For a little while, it was possible to believe in the illusion—two guys, an endless night, and no obligations but the next respawn.
The clock crept past eleven, then midnight. Jonathan’s aim never faltered, but after their third winning streak, he let the game idle and said, “You married? You got anyone waiting for you up there?”
Theo hesitated. “Not exactly.”
Jonathan raised an eyebrow, but didn’t push. “You’re lucky. I tried dating another musician once, and it was like living with a mirror that always judged your falsetto. These days, it’s just me, my games, and whatever my publicist says I’m allowed to eat.”
Theo laughed. “That’s bleak.”
Jonathan shrugged, but his smile didn’t fade. “Eh, it’s honest. Most people want to be around you for the wrong reasons. You can spot it after a while.” He fixed Theo with a look that was both sincere and a little sad. “That’s why I like this. No hype, no bs. Just kills and assists.”
“Let me know if you ever want a rematch,” Theo said.
“Count on it,” Jonathan replied, and this time the handshake was more a slap, a celebration, like they’d won something important.
Theo said goodnight and walked the few doors down to his own unit, the hallway echoing with the hush of after-hours. For the first time in what felt like months, he wasn’t thinking about Kristina, or Apex, or the next day’s schedule. He was just a guy with a new friend, in a building full of secrets, and for tonight, that was more than enough.
