⚡ CHAPTER 9: THE GLITCH IN THE MATRIX
The match loads instantly.
No searching.
No delay.
Just—
in.
Wayan doesn't question it.
Not anymore.
The map unfolds like a memory he hasn't lived yet.
Angles resolve before he looks at them.
Paths exist before he chooses them.
Timings settle into place like they've already happened.
His fingers rest on the keyboard.
Light.
Certain.
Ready.
He exhales.
In.
Four.
Out.
Four.
Sync.
The round begins.
Footsteps echo in the distance.
Predictable.
Everything is predictable.
An enemy swings wide from the left corridor.
Wayan's crosshair is already there.
Waiting.
Click.
The kill registers—
before his finger fully presses the key.
A fraction.
Small.
Wrong.
He pauses.
Just for a frame.
Then continues.
Second enemy.
Tighter angle.
Faster movement.
Doesn't matter.
Click.
Impact.
Then input completes.
Out of order.
Again.
Better.
Cleaner.
Wayan's breathing stays steady.
No change.
No reaction.
The rhythm builds.
Precise.
Unbroken.
Too precise.
The system isn't responding anymore.
It's anticipating.
The third enemy appears at mid-range.
Standard movement pattern.
Nothing unusual.
Wayan tracks.
Pre-fires.
Click.
The model drops—
and flickers.
Not like lag.
Not like a rendering error.
Something else.
The body stretches.
Just for a frame.
Too long.
Too thin.
The face—
is wrong.
Not missing.
Replaced.
Wayan blinks.
The model resets.
Normal.
Gone.
He exhales slowly.
"Rendering bug."
Flat.
Certain.
He keeps playing.
Because it doesn't affect performance.
And that's what matters.
Next round.
Closer engagement.
Narrow choke point.
Enemy pushes aggressively.
Wayan flicks.
Click.
Kill.
But this time—
the body doesn't fall.
It holds.
Suspended mid-motion.
For half a second.
Too long.
The head turns.
Not toward the ground.
Toward him.
Impossible.
The texture tears.
Not like polygons breaking.
Like skin being pulled apart.
Revealing something underneath.
A grin.
Wide.
Too wide.
Eyes hollow.
Dark.
A shape forms—
not complete—
but familiar.
Something ritualistic.
Something ancient.
A suggestion of a Rangda mask—
unfinished.
Learning.
Wayan's fingers stop.
One full second.
The room holds its breath.
Then—
the model collapses.
Normal again.
The match resumes.
Sound snaps back into place.
Gunfire.
Footsteps.
Everything—
working.
Wayan swallows.
His hands move again.
Faster.
Stronger.
Like outrunning something.
"Agus."
His voice cuts through the room.
Calm.
Too calm.
A moment passes.
Then footsteps.
Agus appears in the doorway.
Half awake.
Hair messy.
Confused.
"What?"
Wayan doesn't turn.
"Run diagnostics."
Agus frowns.
"Now?"
"Yes."
No explanation.
No emotion.
Agus shrugs.
Walks to the secondary terminal.
Starts checking.
System logs.
Temperatures.
Network stability.
Wayan keeps playing.
Another enemy appears.
Click.
Down.
Clean.
Perfect.
"PC's fine," Agus mutters.
"Of course it is."
Wayan's voice doesn't change.
Agus keeps going.
"Fiber stable. No packet loss."
Click.
Another kill.
"Frame rate locked. 360."
Click.
Another.
Agus glances at him.
"You feeling okay?"
Wayan doesn't answer.
Because the question isn't relevant.
Only results matter.
Next engagement.
Close range.
Too close.
Enemy rushes.
Fast.
Unpredictable.
Wayan reacts.
Click—
Kill.
Instant.
But this time—
the screen doesn't stabilize.
The model flickers.
Violently.
The face tears open—
wider than before—
and this time—
it looks directly at him.
Not the crosshair.
Not the camera.
Him.
Wayan freezes.
A full second.
The audio distorts.
Gunfire stretches—
warps—
becomes something else.
Layered beneath the noise—
breathing.
Slow.
Close.
Not from the speakers.
From behind.
The screen snaps back.
Normal.
Enemy gone.
Match continues.
Agus turns.
"You lag?"
"No."
Immediate.
Too fast.
Wayan's hands move again.
Faster.
More precise.
The rhythm sharpens.
Because if he stops—
he might have to think.
And thinking—
creates delay.
The room feels colder.
Not the air.
The space.
His fingers—
numb.
Not weak.
Disconnected.
He flexes them mid-round.
They respond.
But slower.
A fraction.
The keyboard sound—
arrives late again.
Click—
then sound.
Out of sync.
Agus frowns.
"You hear that?"
"Hear what?"
Wayan doesn't look at him.
Because if he does—
it becomes shared.
And shared—
means real.
The router hum deepens.
Subtle.
Low.
Constant.
The light pulses.
Blue.
Blue.
Red.
Blue.
Faster now.
The incense—
burns unevenly.
The smoke doesn't rise.
It fractures.
Jagged.
Sharp.
Wrong.
Another round ends.
Victory.
Clean.
Dominant.
Better than before.
Agus stands there.
Watching him.
Uneasy.
"That was weird."
Wayan leans back.
Slow.
Controlled.
"No."
A beat.
"Efficient."
Agus doesn't argue.
But he doesn't agree.
He lingers.
Then leaves.
Door slides shut.
Soft.
Final.
Wayan is alone again.
The room hums.
The screen fades back to lobby.
The reflection appears.
Clear.
Accurate.
Wayan stares at it.
For a moment.
Then—
he sees it.
Behind him.
Not flickering.
Not distorted.
Stable.
A shape.
Tall.
Still.
Watching.
Not hiding anymore.
Wayan doesn't turn.
His breathing remains steady.
In.
Four.
Out.
Four.
Control.
Always control.
The reflection shifts.
The thing tilts its head.
Curious.
Studying.
Learning.
The router light pulses.
Red.
Not blinking.
Holding.
The incense goes out.
No ember.
No smoke.
Gone.
Wayan's fingers rest on the keyboard.
Cold.
Still.
Waiting.
He clicks.
Queue.
Instant.
Too instant.
The reflection—
smiles.
Subtle.
Knowing.
The screen loads.
The match begins.
And Wayan—
doesn't look back.
Because the system is still working.
And that—
is all that matters. ⚡