#instakill

Chapter #1 - I'm just a poor boy, I need no sympathy

Is this the real life? Is this just fantasy?

Caught in a landslide, no escape from reality

Open your eyes, look up to the skies and see

I'm just a poor boy, I need no sympathy

Because I'm easy come, easy go, little high, little low

Any way the wind blows doesn't really matter to me, to me

Saturday, october 5th

The red eye of the webcam activates. The image focuses on the foreground: a keyboard, a gamer mouse, and an old Wiko smartphone with a cracked screen, all placed on a black desk. Then the lens pans to capture more of the room, a teenager's bedroom. White walls with a base painted the color of denim, adorned with the letters T.E.R.R.Y cut out of wood, a white studio lamp, and a black bookshelf filled with fantasy books—from "The Lord of the Rings" to "Harry Potter," including a notably eerie collection by Stephen King. Some books lie on the floor, amidst scattered, thrown, abandoned clothes. Between the desk and the bookshelf, a thirteen-year-old boy stirs restlessly in a 90 cm bed, the gray duvet pushed to the foot, far from the desk and the webcam.

Terry has flaming red hair and pale skin dotted with freckles from head to toe. He holds his iPhone X to his face and kisses the screen where a pretty little blonde smiles back, before he resumes his vigorous pace. He sweats, entranced by the Instagram account of someone named @Jenn1f3r, his bare chest heaving, his toes clenching, a shiver running through him. Stillness. The grip of his hand on the smartphone loosens, and after a good minute, Terry grabs a packet of tissues lying on the desk, inadvertently nudging the keyboard and mouse, reactivating the PC screen. He finally gets up and leaves his room, iPhone X in tow.

When Terry returns, he is wearing only a pair of shorts, into which he has slipped his precious smartphone. He sits at the PC, repositions the keyboard and mouse, puts on an audio headset and unfolds the microphone, then types his password and launches Fortnite. The webcam watches him with its scarlet eye, but he seems unfazed by it. His face is that of a young boy, with red cheeks and very pronounced dark circles under his blue eyes. His expression is closed off, his mouth narrow with thin lips that barely stretch as the haunting music of the game fills the room during loading. Then, using a dedicated app he got from Faust, one of his best gaming allies, Terry starts a conversation.

— Hey, how's it going?

The deep, very adult voice of Faust rings out, vibrant:

— Yeah, all good, man. I thought you were coming back earlier, what were you up to?

Terry blushes but doesn't answer. He adds Faust999 to his Fortnite group.

— I feel like practicing, up for a 1 vs 1 session?

— Yeah, let's go.

They start playing against each other on a private map where they can't die, an opportunity to refine their gameplay techniques, even though Terry's stats are excellent—a result of daily training, akin to that of a high-level athlete. He has already confessed to Faust that he dreams of his father letting him go to a Fortnite Sports Study program. For now, no luck.