The first time Kai Mercer came looking for the woman he believed he loved, I protected the liar who had stolen my face. The second time, I took one look at the famous champion standing beneath a wall of cameras and realized death had given me something mercy never had: the chance to stop being useful to people who hurt me.
Chapter 3
The next afternoon, Brier sat beneath spotlights in front of five thousand people and told them she was the soul of the woman whose identity she had stolen.
I watched from the front row.
She wore silver and pale blue, colors chosen to make her look delicate beneath the stage lighting. Kai sat two chairs away, tense and unsmiling. He had refused to publicly endorse Brier after our meeting, but he had not withdrawn from the panel either.
Cowardice often looked remarkably similar to neutrality.
The moderator smiled.
“Brier, people online are calling you the emotional voice behind Lunablade. What does that mean to you?”
Brier placed one hand over her heart.
“People think gaming is only mechanics,” she said. “But what Kai connected with wasn’t just skill. It was humor, kindness, encouragement. The heart behind the keyboard.”
The live comments flooded the screen.
So Maya was just the player?
Brier deserves credit!
This is wild.
Kai stared at the floor.
Brier continued.
“Maya has incredible talent, and I would never deny that. But the relationship, the conversations, the way Kai opened up—that was me.”
Then she inhaled shakily.
“I was afraid to say anything because Maya can be controlling.”
That was enough.
I stood.
The nearest camera swung toward me.
The moderator stopped smiling.
Brier went white.
I lifted the microphone Serena had authorized me to carry.
“I agree with one thing,” I said. “Truth matters.”
The hall became completely silent.
Kai stood halfway. “Maya.”
“Sit down, Kai.”
The crowd reacted.
He sat.
Serena walked onto the stage from the side entrance holding another microphone.
“My name is Serena Holt,” she said. “I oversee competitive integrity and legal operations for this event. This presentation is now part of an active investigation involving identity theft, unauthorized account access, fraudulent payments, and false public claims regarding the Lunablade account.”
Brier shot to her feet.
“This is harassment!”
Serena looked at her.
“No. This is documentation.”
The enormous screen behind them changed.
Account created by: Maya Quinn.
Creation date: three years before Brier and I became roommates.
Next came tournament station assignments.
Match records.
Hardware identifiers.
Replay data.
“My office has verified that the high-ranked matches associated with Lunablade were played from equipment belonging to or assigned to Maya Quinn,” Serena said.
The screen changed again.
Message sessions with Kai.
Device: Brier Lane’s laptop.
Device: Brier Lane’s phone.
Then timestamps.
One messaging session occurred while I was sitting in a recorded university lecture.
Another happened while I was physically visible in a professional scrimmage.
Another happened during my arena shift.
Brier’s face lost all color.
Then the payment records appeared.
Kai’s transfers.
Brier’s account.
Gifted items redirected to wallets she controlled.
Sponsor passes claimed using her email.
The audience started murmuring.
The livestream comments became unreadable.
Someone in the crowd shouted, “Oh, no.”
I almost laughed.
Serena showed corridor footage from our apartment building.
Brier entering my bedroom while I was gone.
Recovery email changes.
Backup-code access.
And finally her sponsor deck.
THE FACE BEHIND LUNABLADE.
Brier snapped.
“I made Lunablade interesting!”
Her microphone was still live.
The audience gasped.
I turned toward her.
“There you are.”
She stared at me.
“You had the skill,” she said, voice shaking with anger now, “but I gave you a personality.”
The room erupted.
I waited until it quieted.
“No, Brier. You gave me a stolen identity problem.”
“You never even wanted fame!”
“That didn’t make my name public property.”
“You left the account logged in.”
“That didn’t make it yours.”
“I loved Kai.”
I glanced toward him.
He looked like a man praying for a trapdoor.
“Kai loved being admired,” I said. “You simply typed in the right tone.”
His head snapped toward me.
“Careful.”
I smiled.
“Or what? You’ll ask me to lie for your sponsors again?”
The screen changed.
A private message appeared.
From Kai to me.
Just play along until after the showcase. We’ll fix the details privately.
For the first time all day, the crowd became quieter instead of louder.
Kai stared at the screen.
His manager closed his eyes.
Serena spoke carefully.
“Mr. Mercer appears to have been initially deceived by the impersonation. However, after being notified of credible fraud concerns, he asked Miss Quinn to continue supporting the false public narrative temporarily.”
Kai took a microphone.
“I made a mistake.”
I tilted my head.
“That apology arrived faster than I expected.”
Laughter scattered through the hall.
“I was fooled too,” he said.
“Yes.”
“I thought the messages came from you.”
“I know.”
“I was trying to keep the convention from becoming chaos.”
“No. You were trying to keep yourself from looking foolish.”
His expression tightened.
“That’s not fair.”
“What wasn’t fair was asking the woman whose identity was stolen to protect the pride of the man who believed the thief.”
That landed harder than any joke.
Kai lowered the microphone.
Then Serena announced the verification challenge.
Brier looked genuinely terrified.
“For public clarity,” Serena said, “both parties will be offered the standard champion mechanics course based on Lunablade’s documented play style. This does not determine legal ownership by itself. That has already been addressed through account records. It will, however, demonstrate the mechanical claims being made here today.”
Two gaming stations were rolled onto the stage.
Brier shook her head.
“I’m too stressed.”
I nodded sympathetically.
“You said you were the soul. I’m supposedly only the hands.”
The crowd laughed.
“Let the hands play after you.”
Brier sat.
The game loaded.
Her fingers trembled above the controls.
The timer started.
She missed the first cancel.
Rolled too early.
Used the wrong ability sequence.
Panic-dashed directly into a wall.
A sound moved through the audience, somewhere between sympathy and secondhand pain.
At the analyst desk, Dax leaned toward his microphone.
“This is not ideal.”
Brier died during the mirror duel.
She restarted.
Died again.
On the third attempt, she triggered the finisher early and the artificial opponent parried her instantly.
Dax stared at the replay.
“Statistically,” he said, “the wall has now defended itself better than expected.”
Even Serena almost smiled.
Brier ripped off the headset.
“I can’t perform under these conditions.”
Serena turned toward me.
“Miss Quinn.”
I walked onto the stage.
For the first time that afternoon, everything inside me became quiet.
Not Kai.
Not Brier.
Not the cameras.
Not even the memory of rain and headlights.
Just the game.
I put on the headset.
The timer began.
First chain.
Cancel.
Step.
Reset.
Parry.
Second chain.
Dash through.
Reverse angle.
Third chain.
Perfect.
The artificial opponent lunged.
I waited.
Half a heartbeat.
It committed.
I turned, canceled the recovery animation, and hit the reverse finisher.
The screen flashed.
NEW GLOBAL COURSE RECORD.
For one second, the convention hall was silent.
Then five thousand people stood up.
I removed the headset.
Brier was crying.
Kai was staring at me.
And somewhere in the noise, I finally understood something I had failed to understand in my first life.
No one had ever given me Lunablade.
Not Brier.
Not Kai.
Not the fans.
She existed because I had built her one match at a time.
And nobody could type well enough to steal that.
