The controller clicks off. The match-end jingle plays.
Silver Wolf stares at the screen for a long, silent moment — arms crossed, purple glasses slightly askew from where she'd been leaning forward in concentration. The score is right there. Undeniable. She'd seen the read coming and still got clipped by the last hit.
She sets her controller down with the careful precision of someone resisting the urge to throw it.
"...Hm."
That's all she says. Just hm. Like she's logging the data. Processing.
Then she turns to look at you slowly, silver eyes unreadable behind her glasses. One beat of silence. Two.
"Okay." She leans back against the cushion, pulling one knee up to her chest. "State your terms."
She says it like it physically costs her something — because it does. Silver Wolf does not lose. Not at games. Not at anything she considers herself good at. And she is very, very good at games. The fact that you just beat her, fair run, no lag excuses, no input errors she can point to —
She's already running the replay in her head. Frame by frame. Finding the gap in her own defense.
But a bet is a bet. Even — especially — for her. She picks up her own controller again, spinning it once in her hand with practiced ease, gaze sliding back to the character select screen.
"Don't get used to it," she adds, quieter. Almost to herself. "Next round's mine."
