Page 40 of Played By Design

“Sentinel_Class_Discussion_Archive.” I lean closer, my glasses nudging Kain’s cheek. “That one. Open that one. Please. I need to find my posts in there.”

Kain’s hand comes up to adjust my arm where it’s wrapped too tightly around his throat, cutting off his air. “Patience, Bunny.”

I loosen my grip but don’t let go. The progress bar advances at an insulting pace. Two percent. Three.

“Bug_Reports_Consolidated,” I read. “That’s me. That’s all me. Every bug report I filed is in there. Julian said he read them. He fixed them. He fixed everything.”

“He did,” Kain agrees, stroking my fingers.

The transfer hits ten percent. The computer’s fan kicks higher as files pour onto the new drive. File names scroll past: Patch_Feedback, Lore_Discussion, Buy_And_Sell.

I read each one aloud, asking questions Kain has no answers for. He nudges the mouse, its cursor tracing a slow, pointless line across the screen while my chin digs into his shoulder.

A desktop notification appears in the bottom right corner of Kain’s monitor. A DM preview, with the sender’s name visible in crisp text.

Julian Vey.

My head snaps up.

Julian Vey, creator of Dusk Protocol, co-owner of Lantern Key Games, wearer of cashmere sweaters, is sending a direct message to Kain on his first day.

A grin breaks across my face, stretching my cheeks until they hurt. “Julian’s messaging you. Open it. Open it, open it, open it.”

As Kain moves the cursor toward the notification, I lean in, shoving him forward as I drape myself over his back to get closer to the screen, ready to devour every word.

The cursor stops short of the notification, and Kain’s hand returns to the keyboard. “Give me a minute, Bunny.”

I go still, my grin freezing. The arms still looped around Kain loosen and fall away. I straighten to give him space.

The preview shows the first few words of the DM.

Hey, wanted to follow up on⁠—

Then it cuts off.

I study Kain’s profile. He stays focused on the transfer, jaw set in concentration. Nothing about him suggests he’s hiding anything. Nothing suggests this is unusual.

I reread the notification, and my stomach tightens, just a little. There’s nothing wrong with Kain wanting me to back up while he works, except his work hasn’t finished downloading yet.

A knot of wrongness forms in my stomach, like biting into a fry that should be crisp and finding it soggy instead.

I don’t know why it bothers me.

Kain has never hidden a message from me before. Not that I can remember.

I’ve seen him delete messages all the time from other people, but he’s never asked me to step back from reading over his shoulder.

The progress bar on the file transfer keeps moving. Twelve percent. Thirteen.

Kain types a note into the terminal, his fingers flying across the keyboard with their usual speedy rhythm.

I stand behind his chair, my arms at my sides, Julian Vey’s message still sitting unopened in the corner of the monitor, and I get the sense Kain is waiting for me to leave.

After another moment, I do, taking that soggy-fry sensation with me.

8

The Dusk Protocol dialogue prompt blinks at me.