The familiar groan escaped Jett's lips before his eyes even opened. Sunrise painted streaks of unwanted light across his bedroom wall. Every muscle felt like tightly wound, overused guitar strings – that were vibrating with a dull - persistent ache from yesterday's footwork drills.

  Moving felt less like waking up and more like reassembling a poorly constructed mannequin.

  He sat up slowly, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. The floor felt cold under his feet. Downstairs he heard the faint clatter of something small – Murk was already awake, and likely exploring the vast—mysterious landscape of the apartment floor.

  'Man, I feel like I've ran several kilometers.'

  Breakfast was a functional affair: it was the usual coffee brewed strong - pancakes from a mix - and a couple of quickly scrambled eggs. He ate standing up by the counter, since he was too sore to comfortably sit.

  Murk appeared and sniffed disdainfully at a dropped crumb of pancake, and retreated towards the sling bag Jett had left by the door.

  Jett finished cleaning his plate just as his phone vibrated on the countertop. He glanced at the caller ID, his eyebrows shot up in surprise.

  'Brenda?'

  He answered:

  "Uh, hello?"

  "Jett," Brenda's familiar voice came through the speaker. It was still largely calm, but with a slightly less rigid cadence than usual.

  "I will be departing Washington D.C. temporarily."

  Jett blinked.

  "Departing? Like, going somewhere?"

  "Correct," Brenda confirmed. "Myrna and I are traveling. To visit family. An uncle."

  The mention of family felt strangely humanizing coming from Brenda.

  "Oh. Okay. For how long?"

  "A few days. Four, perhaps five. My return is predicated on travel efficiency and familial obligations concluding satisfactorily."

  "Right," Jett said, processing this unexpected break. Part of him felt a wave of relief – his body desperately needed recovery time. Another part felt adrift.

  "So… no training?"

  "Direct instruction will cease during my absence," Brenda stated. "But your practice should not. Review the fundamentals. Stance - and movement. The initial forms—drill the Nimbus Step. Focus on control."

  "Practice on my own," Jett repeated, the relief faded slightly. That sounded… less appealing. Less structured and more prone to his own frustration and lack of focus.

  "Okay. Yeah, I'll practice," Jett said, trying to sound more confident than he felt.

  "Uh, have a good trip. With your uncle."

  "Acknowledged," Brenda replied. "Maintain readiness." The line went dead.

  Jett stared at his phone. He had a few days off from Brenda's intense scrutiny—but with homework. He sighed - rubbing his aching shoulder. He looked over at the sling bag, where Murk's green eyes were barely visible.

  Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  "Well, Murk," he said to the bag. "Looks like it's just you - me—and my spectacular lack of coordination for the next few days."

  Jett looked at the clock on his wall.

  '9:00 AM.'

  Training was cancelled. He had a directive to practice - but his body felt like it had been put through a meat grinder and reassembled with dull screws. The thought of assuming the stance made his legs twitch involuntarily.

  "I'll practice later," he decided firmly, and hobblee back into his bedroom.

  "Right now? Self care. And by self care, I mean diving headfirst into virtual reality to forget about my actual reality."

  He booted up his aging PC. The familiar noise of the fans was a comforting sound.

  His desk was still cluttered with manga - empty ramen cups - and the scattered drawings of Volkov—but he pushed them aside to make room for his keyboard and mouse.

  Murk curled up inside the nearby sling bag. Falling asleep.

  Jett logged into Aethelgard Online, it was his MMORPG of choice for the past few years.

  His character he had named JetStream was a moderately geared level 68 Rogue, he materialized in a bustling capital city.

  The digital crowd - the quest markers - the repetitive NPC dialogue – it felt almost normal.

  "Okay, JetStream," he muttered. "Let's find some mindless grinding! Maybe kill some virtual goblins instead of worrying about real ones."

  He checked the group finder for the 'Sunken Crypt of the Lich Emperor' dungeon.

  'Normal difficulty. Should be easy.'

  He queued up as DPS. A group formed almost instantly: a Paladin tank named SirReginald_IV, a Priest healer named HolyHeals4U, and another DPS, a Mage named Pyromaster77.

  'Alright, looks decent,' Jett thought, accepting the group invite. They teleported into the gloomy, pixelated crypt.

  The first few trash pulls went smoothly.

  SirReginald held aggro, HolyHeals kept everyone topped off, Pyromaster threw fireballs, and Jett… well, Jett stabbed things in the back, occasionally remembering his rotation. His real life combat training hadn't exactly translated into better virtual stabbing.

  Then they reached the first boss: Grok the Bone Mason. The strategy was simple: Tank holds boss, DPS avoids the obvious glowing pools on the floor, Healer heals.

  Jett was distracted for a split second by a sudden ache in his shoulder reminding him of Brenda's 'taps', he accidentally side stepped into a glowing green pool.

  [HolyHeals4U] whispered:

  "Rogue, move out of the goo!"

  [SirReginald_IV] shouted:

  "Dps! Watch the floor, ffs!"

  Jett yelped in game and in reality, he scrambled JetStream out of the pool, his character's health bar was significantly lower.

  HolyHeals spammed heals to catch up.

  They downed the boss, but the damage was done. The chat log exploded.

  [Pyromaster77]:

  "omg rogue r u blind?"

  [Pyromaster77]:

  "that was basic af."

  [Pyromaster77]:

  "learn 2 play noob."

  Jett felt his face flush. His fingers flew across the keyboard wildly.

  [JetStream]:

  "Dude, chill—it was one mistake, my shoulder hurt irl."

  [Pyromaster77]:

  "LOL IRL excuses? pathetic!"

  [Pyromaster77]:

  "just admit ur bad kid."

  Now the tank chimed in.

  [SirReginald_IV]:

  "Well, accidents do happen, JetStream, but situational awareness is crucial. That unnecessary damage taxed our healer's mana pool significantly. We need efficiency to clear this in a timely manner. Some of us have responsibilities outside Aethelgard, you understand."

  'Responsibilities?' Jett thought incredulously.

  'This guy sounds like he's balancing the national budget, not tanking pixelated skeletons!'

  [JetStream]:

  "It was one pool! And my shoulder really hurts! You think this is stressful? Try having a Vampire teach you footwork that defies physics!"

  [Pyromaster77]:

  "vampire? wtf is wrong with u??"

  [Pyromaster77]:

  "reported for weird chat lol"

  [SirReginald_IV]:

  "Let's maintain decorum, please. Unsubstantiated claims about vampires are not conducive to a productive group dynamic. Pyromaster77, refrain from baseless accusations. JetStream, focus on the mechanics."

  Jett slammed his hand on the desk, making Murk jump inside the bag. This was ridiculous!

  Jett Walker, Veschar in training, survivor of near death encounters—was being lectured by Pyromaster77, who was almost certainly a pimply teenager judging by the liberal use of noob, and SirReginald_IV who probably alphabetized his sock drawer.

  [JetStream]:

  "You wouldn't understand decorum if it bit you on the--look, just play the game! I moved out, didn't I? We killed the boss!"

  [Pyromaster77]:

  "ya barely cuz u suck"

  [JetStream]:

  "I don't suck! You suck pyromaster! More like pyropeepoopee master!"

  [SirReginald_IV]:

  "This is highly unprofessional. JetStream, your attitude is detrimental. Perhaps consider practicing basic mechanics before joining group content if you find the current difficulty challenging. It wastes everyone's time."

  The argument raged through the next few trash pulls.

  Pyromaster77 kept calling Jett trash.

  SirReginald kept offering condescending advice. Jett kept getting flustered, his typing became increasingly erratic—filled with typos and nonsensical insults he immediately regretted. He even accidentally pulled an extra group of skeletal mages while trying to type and dodge simultaneously.

  [Pyromaster77]:

  "See? Trash! Kick this clown!"

  [SirReginald_IV]:

  "Indeed. This inefficiency is becoming untenable. Apologies, JetStream, but I must initiate a vote kick for Gameplay Sabotage. It's nothing personal, merely a matter of optimizing group synergy and time management."

  Before Jett could even type a response, the notification flashed:

  "You have been removed from the group."

  He stared blankly at the screen—his character was standing alone back in the capital city.

  Two hours. Two hours he spent arguing about glowing floor pools with a teenager named after fire and an adult paladin who probably considered unscheduled bathroom breaks untenable inefficiency.

  He slammed his fist on the desk again, harder this time.

  "Are you kidding me?!" he roared at the monitor.

  A soft squeak came from the sling-bag.

  Murk poked his tiny head out, his green eyes blinked slowly, as if to say:

  'And this is less stressful than training?'

  Jett slumped back in his chair, the adrenaline from the argument drained away, leaving only the familiar aches and a profound sense of the absurd.

  He was a creature of the night learning supernatural combat, potentially hunted by secret societies… and he'd just lost a virtual shouting match to GaryTheAccountant (he was sure SirReginald was an accountant named Gary) and xX_FlameLord_Xx.

  "Maybe… maybe I should go practice that Nimbus Step after all," he groaned, rubbing his temples.