Drafted
The message sat on Enzo’s screen like a dare.
Tryout_Admin: saw you in ranked. scrim later? serious.
He read it again, as if the words might change if he stared long enough. The room around him stayed the same–paint chipped at the corner, laundry in a heap that never fully disappeared, the fan clicking like an old metronome. The air smelled faintly of bread from the bag he’d brought home.
On the other side of the call, Mira’s face still filled half his phone, her eyes a quiet anchor in the glow.
“Enzo?” she asked, and the way she said his name was not flirtation. It was attention. “What is it?”
He swallowed.
“It’s… a scrim invite,” he admitted.
Her gaze sharpened, the influencer’s polish slipping just enough to reveal a real person behind it. “From who?”
“I don’t know. Some admin.”
Enzo tilted his phone slightly, showing her the message. His thumb hovered, uncertain.
Mira leaned closer to her camera, reading. Her lashes cast delicate shadows on her cheeks.
“Serious,” she repeated softly, then looked up at him. “Do you trust it?”
Enzo let out a breath. “No.”
Her lips curved, almost amused. “Good. Don’t trust it. Verify it.”
Enzo blinked.
Most people in his life reacted to “gaming” with either mockery or resignation. They didn’t treat it like a field with scams and opportunities and reputations. Mira spoke like someone who understood systems.
“How?” he asked.
Mira’s fingers moved quickly off-screen; her gaze flicked down as if she was typing on another device. “Ask for details. Team name. Who’s playing. Tournament history. If they can’t answer, it’s a trap. If they answer too fast, it’s also a trap.”
Enzo stared.
“You’ve… dealt with this?” he asked.
Mira’s smile flickered, then steadied. “I’ve dealt with men trying to get access to me through anything they can.”
Enzo’s stomach tightened.
He didn’t ask more. He didn’t want to see what that sentence contained.
He typed back to the admin carefully.
Enzo: team name? what time? who’s in it?
Three dots appeared.
Gone.
Then the reply came.
Tryout_Admin: Kuda Hitam Esports. ID org. scrim 9pm GMT+8. we need exp/flex. send discord.
Enzo stared at the team name.
Kuda Hitam.
Dark horse.
It sounded like a joke, like something a teenage squad would pick because it sounded cool.
Mira watched his face. “You’ve heard of them?”
Enzo shook his head. “No.”
That didn’t mean they weren’t real. Plenty of teams existed under the radar, feeding off local tournaments, Discord scrims, cash prizes that barely covered travel.
Mira’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Do you want to do it?”
Enzo’s chest tightened.
He wanted to say no.
No was safe. No kept him in Manila, delivering food, playing at night, pretending the world didn’t have doors he wasn’t allowed to open.
But yes–
Yes was terrifying in a way that tasted like oxygen.
“I don’t know,” he said, honest. Then, quieter: “I think… I should.”
Mira nodded slowly, as if she’d expected that answer. “Then do it properly.”
Enzo’s fingers moved to copy his Discord.
Then he hesitated.
“Wait,” he said.
Mira tilted her head.
“What if… I’m not actually good?” Enzo asked, the fear slipping out before he could stop it. “What if last night was just… lucky?”
Mira stared at him.
Her gaze didn’t soften with pity.
It hardened with certainty.
“Enzo,” she said, and the way she spoke his name was almost stern, “you didn’t win because you were lucky. You won because you made correct decisions. Over and over. That’s not luck.”
Enzo swallowed.
Mira’s voice lowered. “And even if you lose… you still go. Because you don’t get better by hiding.”
Enzo felt his throat tighten.
The line between her and him was the size of two countries, and yet she was closer than anyone in his room.
He nodded. “Okay.”
Mira’s lips curved. “Okay.”
He sent his Discord.
The admin replied with an invite link.
Enzo clicked.
A new server loaded.
KHE TRYOUTS – PRIVATE.
There were only a handful of channels.
#rules
#schedule
#tryout-room
Enzo scrolled through quickly, looking for signs of legitimacy. The rules were basic. No toxicity. Be punctual. Respect the staff. There were logos in the banner that looked… homemade. Not corporate sleek. Something a manager might have thrown together in Canva at three a.m.
Mira watched him scan.
“It feels small,” he admitted.
“Small isn’t fake,” Mira said. “Sometimes small is hungry.”
Hungry.
Enzo felt that word settle in his chest.
At the bottom of his phone screen, the green dot beside Mira’s name glowed.
Online.
Enzo stared at it, then at the tryout server.
Two worlds, both asking him to stay.
The hours before 9 p.m. crawled.
Enzo tried to nap.
He couldn’t.
He tried to eat.
He tasted nothing.
He tried to calm his hands by washing dishes for his mother, by wiping down their small table, by reorganizing the corner where his mother kept bills in a plastic folder.
His mother watched him with suspicious quiet.
“Ang sipag mo ngayon,” she said. You’re so hardworking today.
Enzo forced a laugh. “Wala lang.” Nothing.
Her eyes narrowed. Mothers saw through nothing.
“May lakad ka?” she asked.
Enzo’s stomach dipped.
He hated lying to her. He hated lying to anyone.
But he hated the way her face tightened every time he said the word “game.”
“It’s… an online thing,” he said.
“Work?”
He hesitated.
In a way, it was.
“Maybe,” he said.
His mother’s gaze held his. The lines at the corners of her eyes deepened, not with age, but with the kind of worry that never stopped. “Wag ka magpa-scam,” she murmured. Don’t get scammed.
Enzo’s throat tightened.
“Okay,” he whispered.
She looked away first, as if giving him permission to be young for a moment. “Kung work, good. Kung laro–”
“I know,” Enzo said quickly.
She didn’t finish. She didn’t need to.
At 8:57 p.m., Enzo shut his door, plugged in his headset, and sat on his bed as if it was a stage.
His Discord pinged.
Tryout_Admin: join room.
Enzo’s finger hovered.
His pulse thudded in his throat.
Then, before he clicked, a message came from Mira.
MiraCheng: good luck. breathe. don’t overthink.
Enzo stared.
He typed back.
Enzo: you watching?
Three dots.
MiraCheng: i can’t. but i’m here.
Here.
Enzo swallowed.
Then he clicked into the tryout room.
Voices filled his ear immediately–Indonesian accents, sharp and fast. The audio quality was mixed; someone’s mic hissed like an angry snake.
“Bro, siapa ini?”
“Filipino daw.”
“Exp flex?”
A woman’s voice cut through, firm. “Stop. Let him talk.”
Enzo straightened.
A name tag on Discord: TiaManager.
“Hi,” Enzo said, and his voice sounded too small in the flood of Indonesian. “I’m Enzo. EXP main, can flex if needed.”
Silence for half a beat.
Then someone laughed–short, skeptical.
Another voice, deeper. “Your ping okay?”
“Okay,” Enzo replied. “I’ve played with Indo players. It’s fine.”
TiaManager spoke again. “We’ll test in scrims. No ego. Just play.”
Enzo swallowed. “Okay.”
The word kept returning to him like a habit.
They pulled him into a custom lobby.
Draft began.
Enzo’s eyes scanned the picks, reading their tendencies even before the match started. He recognized one name from ranked leaderboards–BayuJung–a jungler notorious for aggression. Another–AditGold–a flashy gold laner with more highlight clips than trophies.
The captain–RanggaRoam–barely typed, but his pings were crisp, like Mira’s.
Enzo felt a flicker of relief.
He wasn’t walking into complete chaos.
The first scrim began.
And immediately, Enzo realized something.
These players were good.
Not world-class. Not polished.
But sharp.
Their mechanics were fast, their instincts violent. They were used to fighting for every inch.
The difference wasn’t skill.
It was discipline.
The first teamfight went badly. Bayu forced too early. Adit chased a kill into fog and got punished. Rangga tried to salvage, but the map collapsed.
Enzo didn’t panic.
He watched.
He waited.
Then he began to fill the gaps.
Not by shouting.
By moving.
He adjusted waves. He rotated earlier. He covered a flank without being asked. When Bayu overextended, Enzo didn’t lecture–he shadowed him and turned a bad play into a trade.
In the second scrim, Rangga’s voice came on, low and controlled.
“Enzo, you can call,” he said.
Enzo hesitated.
Calling meant responsibility.
But the map needed it.
“Don’t fight here,” Enzo said quietly. “We’re late to turtle. We give, we take top tower.”
Bayu snorted. “Weak.”
TiaManager cut in. “Listen.”
Enzo’s heart thudded.
They listened.
They gave turtle.
They took top tower.
They took jungle camps.
They stabilized.
And when the enemy overreached, Enzo called the collapse.
“Now.”
Rangga engaged.
Bayu followed.
Adit–miraculously–didn’t chase too far.
They won the fight.
In his headset, Enzo heard a small sound.
Not laughter.
Not praise.
The sound of five people realizing something could work.
After the third scrim, TiaManager spoke.
“Again,” she said.
They played four more.
By the sixth, Bayu stopped mocking Enzo’s calls.
By the seventh, Adit began asking, “Where you want wave?”
By the last, Rangga’s voice came through with something like grudging respect.
“You’re… calm,” Rangga said.
Enzo wiped sweat from his palm on his shorts. “I’m used to ranked.”
Someone laughed, this time without malice.
TiaManager’s voice remained steady. “We’ll discuss. Stay on call.”
Enzo’s chest tightened.
He stared at his wall, at the faint stain shaped like a cloud.
He waited.
His phone buzzed.
A message from Mira.
MiraCheng: how is it?
Enzo didn’t answer yet.
He didn’t want to jinx it.
On Discord, the team went into another channel.
Enzo could hear muffled voices through the wall of digital separation–Indonesian words, fast, overlapping. He couldn’t catch everything.
But he heard his name.
He heard “bagus” and “calm” and “map.”
He heard Bayu say, “But Filipino.”
He heard someone else answer, “So what? He plays.”
Then the channel door opened.
TiaManager returned.
“Enzo,” she said. “Where are you?”
“Manila,” Enzo replied.
Tia’s pause was brief but weighted. “You have passport?”
Enzo blinked. “Yes.”
His mother had insisted on it years ago, stubborn in her fear that the world might demand paperwork when you least expected it.
Tia exhaled. “Okay. We’re qualifying for the Jakarta International Invitational next month. It’s hosted here. Offline.”
Enzo’s heart stuttered.
Offline.
In Indonesia.
The word thudded through him like a bass note.
Tia continued, practical. “We need an EXP/flex. Someone who can play stable and not tilt. You fit.”
Enzo’s throat tightened.
He waited.
Tia’s voice softened–only slightly. “But our org is… small. We are not like the big names. We don’t have sponsors throwing money. We barely pay rent for bootcamp. Travel cost–”
Rangga cut in, voice tense. “We can’t even buy new chair, bro.”
Adit added, half-joking, half-not, “Our mousepad got hole.”
They laughed.
But the laugh had sharp edges.
Tia continued. “We can cover your flight… maybe. But you must come soon for bootcamp. If you accept.”
Accept.
Enzo’s mind flashed with images.
A plane.
Jakarta.
A bootcamp apartment with strangers.
An offline tournament stage.
Then his mother’s tired hands.
Then Mira’s face on video, her whisper: don’t disappear.
Enzo’s mouth went dry.
“What’s the… pay?” he asked, hating himself for needing to.
Silence.
Tia’s voice didn’t waver. “Small stipend. Not enough. But prize money… if we win.”
Enzo’s stomach dipped.
Gambling.
Not the kind with cards.
The kind with dreams.
Rangga spoke, quieter now. “We’re not promising you fame. We’re promising you work.”
Bayu snorted. “And pain.”
Enzo almost laughed, but his chest hurt.
He swallowed. “If I say yes… when?”
Tia answered immediately, like she’d been holding it. “Within a week.”
Within a week.
Enzo looked at his room–the peeling case on his phone, the thin mattress, the fan rattling.
He thought of his mother’s warning: don’t get scammed.
He thought of Mira’s voice: verify it.
This felt real.
Not safe.
But real.
“I need… to talk to my mom,” Enzo said.
Rangga hummed. “Of course.”
Tia’s tone remained professional. “We’ll send contract draft. You review. We don’t pressure. But we have limited time.”
Enzo nodded.
As if they could see.
“Okay,” he whispered.
When the call ended, his room felt too quiet.
His phone buzzed again.
Mira.
MiraCheng: ?
Enzo typed with shaking fingers.
Enzo: they want me for offline. indonesia.
Three dots appeared.
Gone.
Three dots again.
MiraCheng: …
Then:
MiraCheng: wow
Then:
MiraCheng: are you happy?
Enzo stared at the question.
Happy.
He didn’t know.
He was terrified.
He was dizzy.
He was suddenly aware that his life could tilt.
He typed:
Enzo: i think so
A pause.
Then:
MiraCheng: i’m proud of you
Enzo’s throat tightened.
Pride from her felt heavier than praise from a lobby.
He stared at the green dot.
Online.
Still there.
He whispered into his empty room, “Okay.”
Then he stood.
And opened his door.
His mother was folding clothes at the table, hands moving in practiced motions. The television murmured in the background. The kitchen light flickered once, then steadied.
Enzo hovered at the doorway.
His mother didn’t look up immediately. She sensed him the way she sensed weather.
“Ano?” she asked gently.
Enzo swallowed.
“I got… invited,” he said.
His mother’s hands paused.
“To work?” she asked.
Enzo’s throat tightened. “To… play.”
Silence.
His mother’s face didn’t twist into anger. It didn’t explode.
It simply closed, like a door being shut carefully.
“Enzo,” she said softly.
He hated the softness. He preferred anger. Anger was easier to fight.
“It’s… real,” Enzo insisted. “They’re a team. Indonesian. They have tournament next month. Offline.”
His mother stared at him.
“You will go?” she asked.
The question was not permission.
It was fear.
Enzo’s throat worked. “Maybe.”
His mother’s eyes flicked to the bills folder.
Then to his worn shoes near the door.
Then back to him.
“How much?” she asked.
Enzo hesitated.
He told her the truth: small stipend, maybe prize money.
His mother’s jaw tightened.
“Gusto mo mag-sugal?” she whispered. You want to gamble?
Enzo flinched.
“It’s not gambling,” he said, then heard how desperate he sounded. “It’s… an opportunity.”
His mother’s eyes softened, not with agreement–
with the kind of sadness that came from knowing she couldn’t protect him from wanting.
“You’re young,” she said. “You think opportunity is everywhere.”
Enzo swallowed hard.
He wanted to tell her he didn’t think opportunity was everywhere.
He thought it was rare.
That was why it scared him.
His mother exhaled. “And your deliveries? The bills?”
Enzo’s chest tightened. “I can send money from stipend.”
His mother let out a humorless laugh. “Stipend.”
Enzo’s fingers curled.
He was losing ground.
So he did something he rarely did.
He lifted his chin.
“Ma,” he said quietly. “When I play… I’m good.”
His mother stared.
“I’m not saying I’m the best,” Enzo continued. “But I’m… good enough that strangers saw me. They reached out. That doesn’t happen to everyone.”
His mother’s gaze flickered, unsettled.
Enzo’s voice softened. “I know you’re scared. I’m scared too. But… if I don’t go, I’ll hate myself.”
His mother looked away.
For a moment, Enzo thought she might cry.
She didn’t.
Instead, she pressed her lips together and resumed folding clothes with slightly trembling hands.
After a long silence, she said quietly, “If you go… you will go properly.”
Enzo’s breath caught.
“You will not borrow money from stupid people,” his mother continued. “You will not trust strangers blindly. You will send me the contract. I will show it to your Tito Ramon–he reads legal things.”
Enzo blinked.
“Tito Ramon?”
His mother nodded, still not looking at him. “And you will call me every day.”
Enzo’s throat tightened.
“Okay,” he whispered.
His mother’s voice softened further, the sharpness dulled by something that almost sounded like surrender.
“And you will eat,” she added.
Enzo’s laugh broke out, short and wet.
“Okay,” he said again.
His mother finally looked up.
Her eyes were tired.
But there was something else there too.
Hope, carefully hidden like money under a mattress.
“Go wash your face,” she said. “You look like ghost.”
Enzo nodded.
He turned back toward his room.
His phone buzzed.
Mira again.
He picked it up.
MiraCheng: if you go… you’ll be closer
Enzo stared at the message.
Closer.
Indonesia was closer to Indonesia than Manila was.
The idea made his chest tighten in a way that wasn’t fear.
Then another message appeared.
MiraCheng: but be careful. teams are politics. people will use you.
Enzo swallowed.
He hadn’t thought of that.
He’d thought only of the game.
He typed back.
Enzo: my mom will read contract
A moment later, Mira replied.
MiraCheng: good. listen to her.
Enzo stared.
There was something tender in the way she said it–as if she wished she could listen to her own mother the same way, without being swallowed by it.
He typed, then hesitated.
Enzo: why are you awake?
Three dots.
MiraCheng: because you’re awake
Enzo’s breath caught.
He stared at the words until his eyes stung.
Three days later, the contract arrived.
It was a PDF with a logo at the top–Kuda Hitam’s horse silhouette, rough around the edges. The document was written in English, but the phrasing was slightly awkward, as if translated by someone doing their best.
Enzo read it twice.
Then he sent it to his mother.
His mother sent it to Tito Ramon.
Tito Ramon replied with voice notes full of warnings: “Check this clause… This one is vague… Ask for accommodation details… Get it in writing… Don’t sign if they can kick you out for ‘behavior.’ That’s a trap.”
Enzo forwarded the questions to Tia.
Tia replied late at night.
TiaManager: Good questions. We will clarify. We are small, not shady.
Enzo believed her.
Or maybe he believed the way she didn’t get offended.
The updated contract came the next day with clarified clauses, accommodation details, and a stipend figure that made Enzo’s stomach sink–but didn’t make him walk away.
Because walking away now would feel like tearing out a page from a book he hadn’t finished reading.
He signed.
He scanned.
He sent.
Tia replied with a simple line:
TiaManager: Welcome to Kuda Hitam. Flight details soon.
Enzo stared at that sentence for a long time.
Welcome.
As if he had a place.
As if he belonged.
His phone buzzed.
A call.
From Mira.
Enzo answered quickly.
Her voice came through, breathless. “You signed?”
Enzo swallowed. “Yeah.”
Mira didn’t scream. She didn’t squeal.
She exhaled.
A sound like relief and fear braided together.
“I’m… happy for you,” she said.
Enzo smiled faintly into the darkness of his room. “Me too.”
A pause.
Then Mira’s voice lowered. “Enzo… my mom asked me something today.”
Enzo’s chest tightened. “What?”
Mira’s breath hit the mic. “She asked if there’s a boy.”
Enzo froze.
In his mind, he saw Mira’s clean living room, her mother’s sharp smile.
He imagined the question like a knife sliding under a door.
“What did you say?” Enzo asked, voice careful.
“I said no,” Mira whispered.
Enzo’s throat tightened.
Not because he was angry.
Because he understood.
“Okay,” he said softly.
Mira’s voice trembled slightly. “I didn’t lie because I’m ashamed of you. I lied because… if she knows, she will control it.”
Enzo stared at his wall.
Control.
Her family controlled stories.
His family controlled survival.
Different cages.
Same pressure.
“I get it,” Enzo said quietly.
Mira exhaled, as if she’d been holding her breath for that permission.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
Enzo swallowed.
On his screen, her green dot glowed.
Online.
Still there.
But now–
now, Enzo understood something he hadn’t understood before.
If the world found him, it wouldn’t just change his life.
It would touch hers.
And in a family with too much money and too much control, “touch” could become “own.”
Mira’s voice softened again, almost tender. “When you come to Indonesia… it’ll be closer.”
Enzo’s heart kicked.
Closer.
Then, with a hesitant bravery, he asked, “Do you want… to meet?”
Silence.
Long enough that Enzo’s stomach twisted.
Then Mira whispered, “Yes.”
Enzo closed his eyes.
He didn’t smile wide.
He didn’t laugh.
He simply breathed.
Because the future had finally stepped out of the screen.
And somewhere beyond Manila’s heat and Jakarta’s polished walls, a stage waited–
not just for a tournament,
but for the first time they would have to be real in the same air.
The green dot blinked.
Online.
Still.
And Enzo, drafted into a team that could barely afford chairs, held his phone like it was both a weapon and a prayer.
“Okay,” he whispered.
Mira’s breath warmed the mic.
“Okay,” she echoed.
Outside, the city moved like it always did–loud, indifferent.
Inside, Enzo packed his life into a small corner of his mind and realized, with a strange calm, that this was the moment everything began to cost something.