Group Stage - Barely Breathing

Chapter 6

By the time the shuttle dropped them at the venue, Enzo’s nerves had already learned to hide.

They sat deep in his ribs, quiet and hot, like coals he didn’t dare stir. Jakarta’s morning had the blunt brightness of a city that didn’t apologize for existing–sunlight off glass and steel, humidity clinging to skin, scooters weaving through traffic with the arrogance of insects that knew they were the majority.

The arena rose ahead like a block of intention.

Not a stadium–too small for that kind of myth.

But big enough.

Big enough to swallow a team like Kuda Hitam and spit them out as a story.

The shuttle doors hissed open and sound rushed in. Vendors calling, plastic bags snapping, distant bass from a promotional booth. Somewhere, a local radio DJ’s voice bounced through loudspeakers, hyping the day like a festival.

Bayu stepped out first, shoulders squared, jaw already tight.

Adit followed, bouncing on his heels like he wanted the cameras to find him.

Rangga came last, scanning the environment the way he scanned a minimap–eyes flicking to exits, to security lines, to the flow of people.

Tia walked beside the driver with a clipboard and a phone that looked permanently fused to her palm.

Enzo climbed down with his backpack slung over one shoulder, hoodie pulled up despite the heat. He could already feel sweat gathering along his spine. He wiped his palms on his jeans before anyone noticed.

“Remember,” Tia said without looking back, voice flat but sharp. “No interviews unless I say. No side comments. Don’t joke. Don’t tweet. Don’t like posts. Don’t exist online except to play.”

Bayu snorted. “Hard for Adit.”

Adit raised both hands. “I’m innocent. I’m a monk.”

Tia’s eyes cut to him. “A monk who has fifteen fan accounts tagging him.”

Adit’s grin faltered.

Enzo felt the weight of that truth.

They were being watched.

Not because they were famous.

Because they were convenient.

The leaked photo had turned them into a rumor people could feed on between matches. A spice added to the tournament’s main dish–China versus Japan, Turkey versus the reigning SEA powerhouses, the golden road of Bosphorus Titans gliding toward the finals like fate itself.

And Kuda Hitam–

Kuda Hitam was the cheap thrill.

The broke Indonesian squad with the Filipino import and the rich influencer shadow.

He could feel the story hovering over his shoulder like a hand.

He tried not to look for it.

The entrance tunnel swallowed them into air-conditioned chill. The sudden cold made Enzo’s skin tighten, goosebumps rising along his forearms.

Inside, the venue was a machine.

LED screens cycled through sponsor logos and players’ portraits. Staff in lanyards moved with practiced urgency. Teams in matching jerseys crossed paths like schools of fish, each group tightly clustered, each person’s gaze slightly distant as if their mind was already on a map that wasn’t visible.

Enzo caught glimpses of other worlds.

A Chinese team walking by with identical duffel bags, their jerseys crisp, their movements synchronized. Their coach spoke into a tablet, his Mandarin rapid and clipped, and their players nodded like soldiers.

A Japanese squad–Shinobi Arc–passed with quiet discipline, hair neatly styled, hands clasped behind their backs. They didn’t laugh. They didn’t look around. They moved like they’d rehearsed being calm.

Bayu muttered, “So serious.”

Rangga murmured back, “That’s why they win.”

Enzo watched them disappear down another corridor and felt something shift in his chest.

Not envy.

Clarity.

This wasn’t ranked.

This wasn’t Discord scrims where the worst consequence was a muted mic.

This was the kind of place where one late rotation could cost your year.

Tia stopped near a check-in desk, sliding passports across, speaking in quick Indonesian. The staff nodded, handed them badges.

Enzo’s badge read:

KHE – PLAYER

Under his name: ENZO REYES

He stared at it for a second too long.

His name printed cleanly.

Not a username.

Not a tag.

A real label.

A staff member pointed them toward the warm-up rooms.

“Group A staging,” he said.

Group A.

Enzo already knew their group.

They all did.

It had dropped two days ago, sandwiched between the leak drama and the tournament hype.

Group A:

Shinobi Arc (JP)
Jade Dynasty (CN)
Selat Strikers (MY/SG)
Kuda Hitam Esports (ID)

On paper, it was a slow death.

Japan’s macro.

China’s mechanics.

A SEA hybrid team with disciplined rotations and midlane pressure.

And Kuda Hitam–

A team with a couch that had a torn armrest.

Bayu had stared at the bracket and laughed once, without humor.

“Nice,” he’d said. “We got the boss rush.”

Tia had responded with a tired shrug.

“Then we level up.”

Enzo had said nothing.

Because his mind had gone somewhere else.

A green dot.

A girl in hijab.

A family that could buy a tournament if it wanted.

The warm-up room smelled like sweat and disinfectant.

Rows of PCs sat on folding tables. Chairs lined up like borrowed soldiers. The air hummed with the sound of fans and muffled voices.

Teams occupied corners of the room like they were claiming territory.

Enzo found their station and sat down. His fingers moved automatically, plugging in his headset, adjusting sensitivity, testing his mouse. He flexed his wrists, then his shoulders.

Bayu dropped into the chair beside him with a grunt, cracking his knuckles.

Adit rolled his neck dramatically. “My hands are cold.”

Rangga ignored him, already scribbling draft notes on a small pad.

Tia stood behind them, arms folded, watching the room the way Rangga watched the minimap.

Enzo could feel her anxiety like static.

Not because she didn’t believe in them.

Because she knew what losing meant.

They didn’t have a cushion.

They didn’t have a second chance in life, even if they had one in bracket.

The tournament was not just a trophy.

It was rent.

It was credibility.

It was the difference between being “almost” and being “real.”

Enzo’s phone buzzed in his pocket.

He didn’t pull it out.

Tia had eyes like a hawk.

He waited until she turned away to speak to a staff member, then slipped his phone into his lap and glanced down.

A message.

MiraCheng: today starts?

His throat tightened.

He typed quickly, keeping his hands low.

Enzo: group stage. first match soon

Three dots.

MiraCheng: i’ll be online

The familiar line.

Like a ritual.

He stared at it, then typed before fear could stop him.

Enzo: don’t do anything risky

Three dots.

Then:

MiraCheng: i’m not meeting you. i promise.

Enzo’s chest tightened.

Not meeting you.

As if seeing him had become a dangerous activity.

As if his face was a liability.

He swallowed and typed:

Enzo: i mean… with your family

A pause.

Three dots appeared, disappeared.

Then:

MiraCheng: they’re already moving. just focus. please.

Enzo’s stomach dipped.

Moving.

He imagined contracts, calls, clauses.

He imagined Tia receiving a polite voice offering help.

He imagined strings tightening.

He typed one word.

Enzo: okay

Mira replied almost instantly.

MiraCheng: okay

Their word.

He locked his phone and slid it away.

Across the room, Shinobi Arc sat in a neat line, their coach standing behind them with hands clasped. None of them looked at their phones.

Enzo exhaled.

He wished he could be that clean.

But he wasn’t.

And neither was his story.

The first match was against Shinobi Arc.

When they walked into the staging area, the sound hit Enzo like a wall.

Crowd noise wasn’t a single thing. It was layered–cheers, chants, the squeal of plastic clappers, laughter, the roar that rose and fell like a tide responding to the casters’ voices.

The stage lights were bright enough to flatten reality.

Enzo sat at his station and felt his face become a mask.

The headset went on.

The world narrowed.

On the big screen above them, the draft interface filled the arena.

Casters’ voices boomed.

“…and here comes Kuda Hitam Esports! The underdogs, the dark horses, the team everyone is watching–both on and off the stage!”

Enzo’s stomach tightened.

Off the stage.

The crowd laughed in a way that wasn’t cruel, not fully.

But it wasn’t kind either.

Bayu leaned in, voice low through comms. “Ignore.”

Rangga’s voice came, calm. “Draft. We play our game.”

Tia stood off-stage behind a barrier, eyes fixed on them.

Enzo forced himself to breathe.

The draft began.

Shinobi Arc banned two of Bayu’s comfort picks immediately, then removed Enzo’s safe EXP hero.

Not random.

Targeted.

A polite execution.

Rangga’s voice remained steady. “We pivot. Enzo, you can play this?”

Enzo swallowed. “Yes.”

He locked in a hero he could pilot, but it wasn’t comfort.

It was work.

The game loaded.

From minute one, Shinobi Arc’s macro was suffocating.

They rotated with purpose, not for kills, but for pressure. Their roamer appeared in lanes like a ghost, and when they vanished, it was never because they were lost. It was because they were setting a trap.

Enzo held his lane.

He didn’t die.

He didn’t feed.

But he could feel the map slipping.

Turtle contested.

They arrived late.

Objective lost.

Gold deficit.

Bayu forced a fight anyway, because Bayu hated slow death.

They lost three.

Adit’s voice cracked through comms. “My bad–”

Rangga cut in. “No blame. Reset.”

Enzo swallowed.

Reset.

He repeated it in his head like prayer.

Reset.

But Shinobi Arc didn’t let them reset.

They took towers without overcommitting.

They invaded jungle at precise timings.

They never gave Kuda Hitam a clean teamfight.

At thirteen minutes, the lord went down.

At fifteen, their base was cracked.

At seventeen, the game ended.

Not in a dramatic massacre.

In a quiet, methodical dismantling.

As the defeat screen flashed, Enzo’s ears filled with the crowd’s reaction–cheers for Shinobi, sympathetic murmurs for the underdogs.

Then a chant started, somewhere in the middle of the stands.

Not loud.

But it spread.

“Mi-ra! Mi-ra!”

Enzo’s stomach dropped.

He couldn’t see faces.

The stage lights blinded.

But he could hear it.

The influencer’s name, chanted as if she belonged to the tournament.

As if she was part of the entertainment package.

Bayu ripped his headset off after the handshake line, jaw clenched.

“Bastards,” he muttered.

Rangga’s face stayed calm, but his eyes were tight.

Adit looked pale.

Enzo walked back to the warm-up room with his hands cold despite the arena heat.

Tia met them in the corridor.

She didn’t scold.

She didn’t comfort.

She only said, “No tilt. Next match.”

Bayu spat, “They’re chanting her name.”

Tia’s eyes flickered. “I know.”

Enzo glanced at her.

Tia looked like someone swallowing acid.

“Focus,” she repeated.

Because focus was the only thing she could afford to give.

They had one hour before the next match.

Enzo sat at their warm-up station and opened his phone despite himself.

The notification stack made his stomach turn.

Tags.

Memes.

Clips.

A post from a major esports page:

“KHE falls to Shinobi Arc. Will they recover, or will distractions cost them?”

Distractions.

The word burned.

He scrolled past quickly.

Mira’s chat was near the top.

A message timestamped ten minutes ago.

MiraCheng: i heard the crowd.

Enzo’s throat tightened.

He typed:

Enzo: sorry

Then he deleted it.

He remembered her earlier: don’t say sorry like you did something dirty.

He typed again.

Enzo: ignore them. they don’t know you

Three dots.

Then:

MiraCheng: they think they do

Enzo swallowed.

His fingers hovered.

He wanted to ask if she was at the venue.

He didn’t.

Asking would be tempting fate.

Instead, he typed:

Enzo: we lost. but i’m okay

Three dots.

MiraCheng: you’re not okay

Enzo blinked.

Even through text, she saw him.

He typed, slower.

Enzo: i’m angry. but i can use it

A pause.

Then:

MiraCheng: good. use it on the map, not on people

Enzo felt his mouth twitch.

Even now.

She was guiding him.

A message popped up from Tia in the team group chat.

Tia: No phones during match windows. Put it away.

Enzo’s stomach dipped.

He shoved his phone back into his pocket.

Across the room, Bayu was pacing like a caged animal.

Adit was watching replay clips of Shinobi Arc, jaw clenched.

Rangga was drawing draft options.

Enzo breathed.

He forced his focus back into his hands.

Their second match was against Selat Strikers.

A SEA team with a disciplined style–fast rotations, midlane pressure, coordinated dives.

Not flashy.

Dangerous.

The casters framed it like a redemption.

“…Kuda Hitam needs this win to keep their hopes alive! Will the dark horses rise, or will they be trampled?”

Enzo’s palms were damp.

He wiped them again.

Rangga’s voice came through comms, steadier than Enzo felt.

“Play slow early,” Rangga said. “We don’t fight for nothing.”

Bayu grunted. “If they come, I fight.”

“Fight smart,” Rangga replied.

The draft was better this time.

They got comfort picks.

Selat Strikers didn’t ban Bayu’s hero.

Maybe they underestimated.

Maybe they thought KHE was already broken.

The game started.

For the first five minutes, it was quiet.

Too quiet.

Enzo held his lane, trading minimally.

Adit farmed with discipline.

Bayu invaded only when Rangga had vision.

It felt almost… clean.

Then Selat Strikers made their move.

A three-man dive top.

Enzo saw it early–minimap flicker, missing mid, roamer disappearing.

His heart kicked.

He called it.

“Top. Three. Now.”

Rangga’s voice snapped. “Rotate.”

Bayu hesitated.

Not fear.

Calculation.

Then he moved.

Enzo backed off, pulling the dive deeper, baiting them into tower range.

At the last second, Rangga arrived from river bush.

Engage.

Bayu collapsed.

Adit rotated from gold lane, surprisingly early.

The fight was messy.

But it was theirs.

Two kills.

A defensive hold that felt like oxygen.

The crowd reacted.

Not a roar.

A surprised cheer.

Enzo’s chest tightened.

They weren’t dead.

They weren’t a joke.

They were still here.

The game snowballed slowly.

Not in kills.

In objectives.

Tower.

Turtle.

Vision.

By twelve minutes, the gold was even.

By fifteen, they had momentum.

Selat Strikers tried to force a lord contest.

Rangga called patience.

Bayu’s voice was tight. “We can fight.”

“Wait,” Enzo said quietly. “Let them start. We punish their entry.”

Silence.

Then Rangga, calm. “Okay. We wait.”

They waited.

Selat Strikers committed.

Enzo’s flank came from fog like a blade.

Adit held his position, didn’t chase.

Bayu secured the objective.

Teamfight won.

Lord taken.

They pushed.

They ended.

Victory flashed across the big screen.

This time, the crowd roared.

Not because they loved Kuda Hitam.

Because underdogs are addictive.

Because everyone likes a comeback as long as they can leave afterward.

Enzo took off his headset and felt his hands trembling.

Not fear.

Adrenaline.

Bayu let out a sharp laugh, this one almost joyful.

Adit raised both arms like he’d won a championship.

Rangga allowed himself a small exhale.

Tia’s eyes, watching from off-stage, looked like they wanted to soften.

But she didn’t let them.

She clapped once.

Then pointed.

Back to the warm-up room.

No celebration.

Not yet.

Because the group wasn’t done.

With one win and one loss, Kuda Hitam sat on a knife edge.

Jade Dynasty, the Chinese powerhouse, had beaten Selat Strikers cleanly.

Shinobi Arc had beaten Jade in a slow, disciplined war.

The group standings twisted like a knot.

Everyone could still qualify.

Everyone could still fall.

Their next match was against Jade Dynasty.

Enzo felt it in the air before the match even started.

Jade Dynasty moved like a brand.

They walked into the staging area in a straight line, jerseys immaculate, hair styled, expressions unreadable. Their coach didn’t speak loudly. He didn’t need to.

The players sat down and adjusted their setups with the calm of people who had never had to wonder if their chair would collapse.

Bayu muttered, “Rich.”

Adit’s voice was tight. “They’re going to kill us.”

Rangga’s tone stayed steady. “We play our plan.”

Enzo’s palms were dry now.

That wasn’t good.

Dry palms meant he was too cold.

Too controlled.

He forced himself to breathe deeper.

In.

Out.

The draft began.

Jade Dynasty banned with surgical cruelty.

They targeted Bayu.

They targeted Enzo.

They left a trap in the final ban phase like a smile.

Rangga’s voice tightened slightly. “They want us to take this.”

Tia’s voice came through their private comms, clipped. “Don’t fall for comfort if it ruins draft.”

Enzo’s stomach tightened.

They pivoted.

They locked a composition built for patience.

For counter-engage.

For scaling.

It was a gamble.

The game started.

For the first four minutes, it was quiet.

Then Jade Dynasty’s jungler appeared in mid at a timing that felt impossible.

First blood.

Their midlaner rotated top.

Dive.

Enzo barely escaped, flicker burned.

Their roamer invaded Bayu’s jungle like he owned it.

By eight minutes, KHE was bleeding.

Not in kills.

In map control.

Enzo could feel the suffocation again.

Different from Shinobi’s methodical grip.

This was brute pressure.

China didn’t choke slowly.

It crushed.

Bayu’s voice rose. “We fight!”

Rangga’s voice held. “Not yet.”

Adit’s breathing was loud in the mic.

Enzo watched the minimap.

He saw one small opening.

Jade Dynasty’s gold laner overextended for a wave.

Just one step too far.

Enzo’s heart kicked.

“Now,” Enzo said, voice low.

Rangga didn’t hesitate.

Engage.

Bayu collapsed.

Adit arrived.

The gold laner died.

A clean pick.

For a second, the arena roared.

Because even a titan could bleed.

But Jade Dynasty answered immediately.

They took two towers.

They secured turtle.

They punished Bayu’s jungle.

The pick didn’t change the map.

It only delayed the inevitable.

At fourteen minutes, Jade Dynasty took lord.

At sixteen, they cracked base.

At eighteen, the defeat screen flashed.

Enzo’s chest felt hollow.

He’d known they might lose.

But losing still hurt.

Because it was public.

Because it was recorded.

Because the internet would cut it into memes.

As they walked off stage, the casters’ voices boomed.

“…Kuda Hitam fights, but Jade Dynasty proves why China is a powerhouse!”

Then, with a familiar sting:

“…and you have to wonder how much of this pressure is coming from outside the game…”

Outside the game.

Enzo’s jaw clenched.

Bayu slammed his fist lightly against his thigh.

Adit looked like he might vomit.

Rangga’s face was stone.

Tia met them backstage.

She didn’t scold.

She only said, “We still can qualify.”

Her voice was steady.

But her eyes were tired.

Because qualifying now meant a tiebreaker.

A final match.

A decider.

Kuda Hitam versus Selat Strikers again.

Win–and they scraped through.

Lose–and they were out.

No bracket.

No story.

No chance.

Just a leak that would outlive them.

They returned to the warm-up room and the air felt thicker.

Rangga gathered them close, speaking low.

“We have one job now,” he said. “We beat Selat. That’s it.”

Bayu’s eyes were sharp. “We can.”

Adit’s hands trembled on his phone, then he shoved it into his bag like it was poison.

Tia stood behind them, arms crossed. Her phone buzzed again.

She glanced at the screen.

Her expression tightened.

Enzo noticed.

He didn’t ask.

He didn’t want to know.

But Tia stepped away and answered quietly in Indonesian.

Enzo caught only fragments.

“Ya… iya… saya paham… sponsor… keluarga Cheng…”

Enzo’s stomach dropped.

Cheng.

He stared at the floor.

So Mira wasn’t exaggerating.

They were moving.

The machine was already at Tia’s door.

Tia returned, face unreadable.

Rangga looked at her. “What?”

Tia hesitated.

Then, because she couldn’t hide everything, she said, “We got an offer.”

Bayu’s eyes narrowed. “From who?”

Tia’s gaze flicked briefly to Enzo, then away.

“A private sponsor,” she said. “Big money. Very fast. Very… specific.”

Adit’s eyes widened. “We need it.”

Bayu’s jaw clenched. “We don’t take money with strings.”

Tia’s mouth tightened. “All money has strings.”

Silence.

Rangga’s voice stayed calm. “After tiebreaker.”

Tia nodded. “After tiebreaker.”

Enzo’s chest tightened.

He felt his life tugged from both sides.

The team needed stability.

Mira’s family offered it–

with a leash.

Enzo’s phone buzzed.

He didn’t check.

He couldn’t.

The tiebreaker clock was ticking.

When they walked back onto stage for the decider, the arena felt different.

Not louder.

Sharper.

The crowd loved a do-or-die.

The lights seemed brighter.

The casters’ voices sounded like they were tasting blood.

“…this is it! One match to decide who advances! Kuda Hitam, the underdogs under pressure–Selat Strikers, the SEA contenders–who survives?”

Enzo sat down and felt his heartbeat in his fingertips.

He adjusted his headset, then his posture.

He forced his face neutral.

Inside, he was a storm.

The draft began.

Selat Strikers adapted.

They banned Enzo’s hero.

They banned Bayu’s.

Rangga’s jaw tightened.

Tia’s voice came through their comms, quiet but sharp. “No panic picks.”

Enzo swallowed.

They drafted something unfamiliar.

Not comfort.

Not flashy.

A composition built for one thing.

Survival.

The game loaded.

From minute one, Selat Strikers played aggressively.

They wanted to break KHE early.

They wanted a tilt.

Bayu’s voice rose. “They’re invading.”

Rangga’s voice held. “Give. Trade.”

Enzo’s chest tightened.

Trade.

Not fight.

Trade.

He held his lane, losing small amounts without bleeding kills.

Adit played safe, farming under tower.

Fikri rotated with discipline.

The map stayed close.

At seven minutes, Selat forced a turtle fight.

Enzo saw the angle.

He called it.

“Don’t go river. They set trap. We flank.”

Rangga’s voice snapped. “Okay. Enzo, go around.”

Enzo moved through jungle, hugging fog like a shadow.

He could feel the crowd’s anticipation even through the headset.

He waited.

Selat committed.

Rangga engaged front.

Bayu followed.

Adit held position.

Enzo hit from behind.

The fight exploded.

Health bars dropped.

For a second, it was chaos.

Then Enzo’s timing landed.

A stun.

A burst.

Two Selat members down.

Adit, calm, finished the third.

The crowd roared.

Turtle secured.

Enzo’s chest tightened with relief so sharp it almost hurt.

But the game wasn’t over.

Selat Strikers adjusted.

They slowed.

They stopped overforcing.

They began trading objectives.

The map became a chessboard.

At thirteen minutes, gold was nearly even.

At fifteen, both teams hovered around lord like predators circling water.

Enzo’s palms were damp again.

Good.

He could feel.

He could move.

Rangga’s voice was low. “We wait for their mistake.”

Bayu muttered, “They won’t.”

Enzo stared at the minimap.

He saw it.

Not a big mistake.

A small one.

Selat’s midlaner stepped into fog for half a second too long.

Enzo’s heartbeat kicked.

“Mid exposed,” he said quietly.

Rangga didn’t hesitate.

Engage.

Pick secured.

Lord started.

The crowd rose.

Selat rushed to contest.

The fight was messy.

Bayu’s health dropped dangerously.

Adit repositioned perfectly.

Fikri zoned.

Enzo held the backline.

Then, at the last second, Selat’s jungler dove.

Enzo’s stun landed.

Bayu secured the lord.

The arena erupted.

Enzo’s vision tunneled.

His breath came in harsh bursts.

Push.

Lane.

Tower.

Base.

Selat resisted.

A defense fight.

Adit nearly died.

Enzo peeled.

Rangga called reset.

They backed.

They pushed again.

At twenty-one minutes, the base cracked.

At twenty-two, the enemy core fell.

Victory.

Enzo ripped off his headset and for a second he couldn’t hear anything except his own blood.

Then the crowd noise hit him.

A roar.

Not laughter.

Not chanting.

Just genuine shock and adrenaline.

Kuda Hitam had scraped through.

Not elegantly.

Not cleanly.

Barely breathing.

But alive.

Bayu threw his arms up and shouted something that didn’t translate.

Adit laughed, half-hysterical.

Rangga exhaled like he’d been holding his breath for a year.

Tia stood off-stage, hand pressed to her mouth for a moment before she forced it down.

Enzo looked at the big screen.

KHE ADVANCES.

He felt something inside him loosen.

Not peace.

A temporary permission to keep going.

As they walked off stage, Enzo’s phone buzzed in his pocket.

He didn’t check until they reached the corridor.

Then he pulled it out.

A message from Mira.

MiraCheng: i watched the stream. i couldn’t breathe

Enzo’s throat tightened.

Another message.

MiraCheng: i’m proud of you

Then, a third.

MiraCheng: i prayed for you

Enzo stared.

He didn’t know what to do with that.

Not because he rejected it.

Because it felt too intimate.

Too real.

He typed slowly.

Enzo: thank you

He hesitated.

Then, before fear could stop him, he added:

Enzo: are you okay?

A pause.

Three dots appeared.

They stayed longer than usual.

Then Mira replied.

MiraCheng: i’m okay for now

Enzo’s stomach tightened.

For now.

He read the words like a warning.

He looked up.

Down the hallway, he saw Tia speaking to a man in a crisp shirt with a sponsor lanyard.

The man’s posture was polite.

His smile was practiced.

Tia’s face was controlled.

Enzo couldn’t hear their conversation.

But he could see the shape of it.

An offer.

A leash.

A narrative being negotiated.

Enzo’s fingers tightened around his phone.

He looked back at Mira’s chat.

Online.

Still.

But the meaning had changed.