A Son's Tragedy

"One short! He’s flanking! Kill him!"

"I killed him, but watch long. Why did you all leave the site?"

"Ah, I’m dead! Screw this game!"

"When did he get to us? That was fast."

"That’s because you’re a noob. Why did you leave the site? You were supposed to watch long!"

"—Because I’ve lost hope! We can’t make a comeback!"

The voice chat exploded into a cacophony of blame and defeat. It was a familiar noise, the soundtrack of Yuriy Kozlov’s life.

*Clack.*

Yuriy ripped his headphones off and slammed them onto the desk. The glowing "DEFEAT" screen on his monitor mocked him. He had been so close. One match away from the highest rank—the server’s apex. And now, thanks to a team that crumbled like wet paper, he was tumbling back down the ladder.

His hand hovered over the mouse, ready to send it flying into the wall. The urge to break something surged through his veins, hot and violent.

*Beep. Beep. Beep.*

The rhythmic, mechanical sound from the next room cut through his rage like a cold knife.

Yuriy froze. The adrenaline in his blood turned to ice. The anger vanished, replaced by a heavy, suffocating guilt. He took a deep breath, smoothing down his hair, and forced his voice to steady.

"Coming, Mom."

He pushed away from the desk and stepped out of his room. The country house was old and frail, smelling perpetually of wet dirt and the chemically sharp scent of bug spray. Rain hammered against the roof, a constant reminder of the war-torn world outside these walls.

He pushed open the door to his mother’s room.

"Yuriy... my son..." Her voice was weak, barely a whisper.

She lay in the center of the bed, her face pale. But it wasn't just sickness keeping her there. Her left leg was gone, amputated after a shell had shattered their home—and their lives—two years ago.

"What is it, Mom?" Yuriy kept his voice low, respectful.

She hesitated, her cheeks flushing a faint pink. She looked away, embarrassed. "Well, you know..."

Yuriy didn't need her to finish. He bit the inside of his cheek. *Idiot.* He cursed himself. *You were too busy screaming at a screen to realize she needs help.*

He moved to her side, his expression hardening. With a gentleness that belied his muscular frame, he lifted her. He supported her weight as he helped her onto the bedside commode.

After setting her down, he stepped back, his mind drifting. He stared at her leg, or what was left of it.

"Yuriy..." she murmured.

He snapped back to reality. He was staring. He looked away quickly, his face burning. "I’m sorry! I—I’ll wait outside."

He turned to leave, but his feet felt like lead. He stopped at the doorway, his hand gripping the frame. The silence in the room was louder than the game had been.

"Mom," he said, his voice cracking. "I’m sorry. For everything. For being loud. For... for being a terrible son."

He remembered the plate he had thrown out the window when he was thirteen because there was no chicken for dinner. He remembered screaming at his parents just for walking past his door. And now, his father was dead, buried in the rubble of the front lines, and his mother was broken.

He couldn't take it back. All he could do was serve his sentence.

A soft laugh drifted from the bed. "You’re a good boy, Yuriy. You really are."

Yuriy didn't turn around. He couldn't let her see the tears stinging his eyes. Men in his family didn't cry. They were bold. They were stoic. But the guilt was a poison he couldn't spit out.

"Maybe this leg was a blessing," she added softly. "It brought you back to me."

He stepped out and closed the door, sliding down until he sat on the floorboards.

***

*Beep. Beep. Click.*

Yuriy’s fingers danced across the keyboard. It was two weeks later.

The monitor bathed his face in blue light. His eyes were bloodshot, but his mind was sharp—razor sharp.

*"Enemy pushing B."*

He didn't need voice chat to know. He could hear the footsteps in his headset. He anticipated the enemy's movement before they even made it.

*Headshot.*

*Headshot.*

*Ace.*

The chat box in the corner of his screen exploded. [GG] [Who is this guy?] [He predicted that perfectly!]

He wasn't just playing anymore; he was dissecting. He was calculating. He had turned his obsession into a science. Pro players were adding him. Lobbies were filling up the moment he logged on. They had a name for him now.

"The Philosopher."

He stared at his rank. The highest tier. The gleaming badge he had sacrificed his sleep, his social life, and his sanity for.

He spun his chair around and grabbed his phone. He had to tell her.

"Mom! I did it! I hit the top rank!"

He rushed into her room. She was propped up on her pillows, knitting a scarf. Her face lit up, the wrinkles around her eyes deepening as she smiled.

"That’s wonderful, Yuriy! I told you that you could do anything."

"I’m going to start streaming," he said, pacing the small room. "I bought a camera. A microphone. I’ll set it up tomorrow. People will watch, Mom. They’ll donate. We’ll have money. Real money. I won’t have to leave you to go work in the city. I can stay right here."

He knelt by her bedside, taking her frail hand. "We’re going to be okay."

She patted his head, her fingers cool and soft. "I know, my son. I know."

The house felt warm that night. Despite the empty chair where his father used to sit, and the silent memory of the brother who died before drawing his first breath, the house was filled with hope.

***

The next morning, the rain had stopped.

Yuriy walked back from the neighboring city, a large box balanced on his shoulder. Inside was his future: a high-definition camera, a professional condenser microphone, and a ring light.

He whistled a tune he’d heard on the radio. He imagined his first stream. *“Hey everyone, I’m The Philosopher. Welcome to the stream.”* He imagined the subscribers rolling in. He imagined buying his mother a new prosthetic leg. A real one, imported from abroad.

The village came into view. He squinted, his step faltering.

Something was wrong.

There were people outside his house. Not just one or two, but a crowd. Ten, maybe twelve neighbors, standing in a tight circle in the mud.

Yuriy’s chest tightened. The box on his shoulder suddenly felt incredibly heavy.

He broke into a run.

"H-Hi?" he called out, his voice wavering. "Why is everyone...?"

The crowd turned. Old man Ivan. Widow Marina. The baker from down the road. Their faces were pale, their eyes cast downward. The silence was deafening.

"I’m talking to you!" Yuriy shouted, panic seizing his throat. "What’s happening?"

He didn't wait for an answer. He shoved past them, dropping the box in the mud. He didn't care about the camera. He didn't care about the stream.

He burst through the front door.

"Mom!"

Her bedroom door was open.

He skidded to a halt inside the threshold.

The neighborhood women were there, huddled around the bed. They were weeping, wailing a song of sorrow that Yuriy felt in his bones.

Through the gaps in their shoulders, he saw her.

She was lying back against the pillows. Her chest was still. No movement. No breath.

But her face... her face was calm. She wore that same warm, encouraging smile she had given him the night before. The smile that told him he was a good boy.

She had left him. She had gone to the other side without saying goodbye, leaving him alone in the quiet house, with his useless rank and his broken promises.