“It’s just a bumper,” Leo said.
He drove recklessly. He smashed through a fence, clipped a postbox, and skidded to a halt in a cul-de-sac.
A hand pressed against the inside of his monitor glass. Small, pale, with a nickel balanced on the thumb. The reflection in the game’s mirror wasn’t on the screen—it was behind him. In his room. The air turned the temperature of a walk-in freezer.
# You forgot to add the flake.