I am 15 chapters ahead on my patreón, check it out if you are interested.
https://www.patréon.com/emperordragon
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Chapter 78: Headshots and Plushie Mysteries
Jon's Perspective
Sunday morning drifted in softly, like a gentle breath through an open window. It was the kind of morning that felt almost too good to be real—quiet, golden, and utterly free of obligations. No blaring alarm, no frantic scrambling for school books, no looming football practice. Just peace, sunlight, and the comforting stillness of his room.
Jon remained sprawled across his bed, still partially tangled in the warmth of his blankets. One arm was tucked beneath his head, the other loosely draped across his chest, as he stared lazily at the slow ballet of dust motes dancing in the slant of sunlight. But it wasn't the sunlight that held his focus—not really.
His kitten, Ghost, was up and alert, tiny paws padding softly across the floor with that curious, prowling energy only kittens seemed to possess. The object of the kitten's obsession was resting on the table just a few feet from the bed: a Luffy plushie Jon had picked up on impulse at the mall the day before.
And Ghost had been enamored ever since.
At first, the kitten had been cautious. He'd approached the plushie like it might explode, ears twitching, body low to the ground. He'd circled it multiple times, each pass a little closer than the last, tail flicking with indecision. Was it a friend? A foe? A fuzzy god? It was hard to say. Ghost had certainly been giving it enough thought.
After the initial recon, the sniff test had followed—meticulous, cautious sniffs all over the plushie's soft fabric. Satisfied, Ghost had finally taken things to the next level.
This morning, the kitten's feelings were clearer than ever.
Ghost was positively enamored. He rubbed his tiny, fluffy face against the plushie's oversized grin like it was a long-lost sibling. Occasionally, he'd bat at its arms or tug at the hem of its little straw hat with his teeth, then retreat to observe the results. He had even made a valiant, if clumsy, attempt to drag the plush into his cat bed sometime during the night. That had ended in failure, so now he'd settled for the next best thing—curled up beside it, his small body half-draped over the plushie like it was some kind of treasure.
Jon watched all of this with a mixture of amusement and confusion, his head tilted slightly. "You really like that thing, huh?" he murmured, more to himself than to Ghost.
Ghost, ever dramatic, responded by giving the plushie's hat a loving lick, as if sealing some unspoken vow.
Jon squinted suspiciously. "Okay, but seriously—is it the hat? The face? The vibes? What's going on here?"
He didn't get an answer. Not from Ghost, anyway.
From the hallway, a voice pierced the tranquility. "Jon! Can you come here for a sec?" Manny's voice rang out, sharp and urgent.
Jon exhaled through his nose, more amused than annoyed. He pushed himself upright, giving Ghost and the plushie one last skeptical look. "Stay out of trouble, captain," he said to the plushie, like he was leaving it in charge. Ghost, now deeply committed to his new best friend, didn't even twitch an ear.
Jon made his way to Manny's room and found a scene of chaos: explosions on the screen, rapid-fire gunshots, and a dozen brightly colored usernames zipping across what appeared to be a virtual war zone. Manny was hunched over his desk, headset askew, fingers clenched around his mouse with a tension that suggested he was losing. Badly.
"You rang?" Jon asked dryly, folding his arms.
Manny whipped his head around, looking equal parts desperate and embarrassed. "Luke installed this game—Strike Assault II: Reloaded—and I am getting completely obliterated. Like... I am someone's personal punching bag in this game."
Jon raised an eyebrow. "Didn't you just rage quit that medieval rpg game like two days ago?"
"That was different," Manny insisted. "This time they're calling me names. One guy called me 'frag bait.' I think that's like, the gaming version of a punching bag."
Jon let out a low chuckle. "Okay, but what do you want me to do? I don't even know how to play this thing."
Manny gestured frantically to the screen. "Just... sit. Beat them. Wipe the floor with them. Use your athlete reflexes. Make them regret ever mocking 'Manny47.' Please."
Jon rolled his eyes good-naturedly, but stepped forward all the same. "Fine. But if I accidentally shoot myself, it's on you."
He slid into the chair, adjusted the headset, and placed his hands on the mouse and keyboard like they were foreign objects. For the first few minutes, his movements were clunky, every turn and shot a gamble. He was a newborn fawn with a semi-automatic rifle. But slowly, instinct kicked in. The effects of quick reaction drills, hand-eye coordination, and fast-paced football plays had built a kind of muscle memory he didn't know applied here.
Bang. Headshot.
Bang. Double kill.
"YES!" Manny whooped from behind him, practically jumping in place. "That was amazing! You just took out three of them in a row!"
Jon grinned. "I think I'm starting to get it."
From that moment on, it was like watching a sports highlight reel in real-time. Jon darted around corners with ease, lobbed grenades like practiced Hail Marys, and fired with precise, lethal accuracy. The kill feed at the bottom of the screen filled with his name in rapid succession.
On the other end of the chat, confusion reigned.
"Wait, is 'Manny47' cheating?" one of the opposing players grumbled.
"Is this a smurf account?" another whined.
Manny leaned over, beaming with pride. "That guy who just rage quit? 'RazorVenom13'? That's Luke's friend's cousin. You made him quit!"
Jon kept his tone casual. "Honestly? This is kind of fun."
When the match ended, Jon was at the top of the scoreboard, stats so ridiculous they looked fake. Manny stared at the screen like he'd just witnessed divine intervention.
"Thank you," he said breathlessly, like Jon had rescued him from a burning building instead of digital defeat.
Jon stood and gave a lazy stretch. "Happy to help. Now go tell RazorVenom13 he just got wrecked by a guy who doesn't even know what button makes you crouch."
Manny was already typing furiously, trash-talking with renewed confidence.
Jon headed back to his room, a half-smile still playing on his lips. Ghost had fallen asleep directly on top of the plushie now, one tiny paw draped possessively over its face like it was the most important object in the universe.
Jon let out a quiet laugh, shaking his head as he collapsed back onto his bed. "Today's been weird," he muttered to no one in particular.
But he couldn't help smiling as he said it.