Please rise, Lightning Dancer Ene.

The plethora of ersatz applause bellowed through her beloved headphones, spurring a wave of deafening cheers that enveloped the dubious space reminiscent of a vandalized junkyard. A quivering effect mimicking the sensation of wind twirled past, as her tresses of hair fluttered in accordance.

Each step emitted more conviction than the last, as she felt the traces of anxiety from her strides diminish to nil. She was practically the sovereign of the battlefield, in her own right. The dominance was hers to assert and enforce in the deathmatch, relishing in the daunting adoration players possessed for her image.

The expressions of encouragement fed music to her sensitive ears, messages flooding one after another in rapid succession. She couldn't help but to feel loved, and feared simultaneously. Harnessing such power sent scintillas of satisfaction down her spine; she suppressed a shaky smile from the simple sensation of it.

It was not the time to wallow in conviction. It was time to fight, for the free-for-all may as well have been her last.

The princess of the spotlight was more than prepared to dance with barrages of bullets, since it suited her much better than what was perceived as traditional ballroom dancing. Several clicks resonated in the air, as she presented herself with one final gloss over her stats before settling into a typical battle stance, pistols gripped in position.

As if it was irrefutably her final contribution to the expansive gaming world, she intended to make it count. If not for those she deemed friends or family, it was more saliently for herself.

Steadily, she sucked in a breath, allowing her eyes to rest for a mere handful of seconds, if only to calm herself before the match. She never ceased to drown out the excessive attention, as the crowd only amplified in animation. It was common knowledge that the arena was far from a haven of tranquility to begin with, however.

An abrupt chirp interrupted her brief cogitation, as her eyes fluttered open from the daze. A notification stretched across her screen, written as clear as day.

Right before the tournament... goddammit! she mused, furrowing her eyebrows in bewilderment.

A chat request sat in her invitation box, anticipating to acquire acceptance. Although she could have sworn muting her private messages, as she had no time for idle chit-chat during an event of such caliber, the system seemed to maneuver a mind of its own. Without delay, the appeal was accepted, superficially against her own will.

AKANE: Pride comes before a fall, and what follows is a city soaring out of control, caged in corrupt chaos.

AKANE: Enomoto Takane.

ENE: ...?!

ENE: And who might you be?

AKANE: 'Just another die-hard Ene fan'... is what I'd like to say. Ehehe~ But unfortunately, that doesn't appear to be the case.

AKANE: Did you know? This is more than just a shooting game you play for leisure.

AKANE: No, let me correct myself. It will be more than just a game. Not now, but very soon.

AKANE: Ruminate the tournament you're entering.

AKANE: If the fate of this vile world were to be left in your hands in midst of this match, would you play the 'hero' to save everyone? More importantly, would you emerge victorious?

AKANE: Or... would you simply let the world wither? ᕕ( ᐛ )ᕗ

ENE: What the hell is this? I don't have time for the philosophies of a doomsday believer.

ENE: Now, if you'll excuse me...

AKANE: Of course. ໒( •́ ∧ •̀ )७

AKANE: Pathetic. And you claim to be the second best in the country? Your time is running out.

AKANE: Truth be told, you will not survive in the real world with such inadequate skill.

AKANE: Regardless... Good luck.

AKANE is offline.

With a bemused, yet pensive expression written across her features, she hesitated. She reluctantly allowed the prompt deliberations following the fleeting colloquy to spill, as the gears of her mind started to gyrate.

If life was indeed 'just a game', then the justification for living would erode. She imagined that there was no satisfaction in an aberrant game of life; the motivation to continue would not be instigated by pursuing interests alone, but rather, the stimulus spurred from the incentive of achieving the next 'level'. It left an appalling aftertaste to think about humans just like her, driven by the pleonexia of success and the promise of a Hollywood ending.

Time was running out, in more ways than one.

She clicked her tongue from the dwindling seconds until the grand finale, her hues of red darting across the tattered field with the expectation of permitting the trial to commence. The other aspirants more or less remained in their starting positions, almost unnervingly still as the same thought surfaced within their distinctive minds.

It was showtime.

Her opponents were competently formidable, however, it was only a matter of true luck and skill in which the winner would materialize. It was an outward assumption that the odds were in her favor from her nearly unparalleled ranking, although within the boundaries of the ghastly battlefield, even the most improbable of events stood a chance.

The roaring applause proceeded to engulf the once desolate space, but she felt nugatory all the same. Phrases of optimism and toxicity alike exploded within the chat, as spectators confidently placed their stakes. The tides of eager anticipation gradually ebbed until the ruins were dead silent, and what awaited was a stentorian proclamation.

"Contestants! Are you ready?"

The inquiry was futile; ready or not, the game would inexorably advance to its terminus. She hinted at the subtlest of nods, analyzing the trashed junkyard for the most intricate stratagems to attain triumph. She couldn't disappoint them, not now.

The ultimate countdown pealed through blaring speakers into her headphones, its constant rhythm parroting a firm heartbeat. Once the digits reached zero, the scope would be marked as a point of no return.

"Three, two, one... begin!"

A thunderous buzz echoed, indicating the dawn of termination. The scuffle began with sprinted footsteps towards a metal pillar, seeking temporary refuge amidst the scattered heaps of rubble. She executed her scheme akin to a hit-and-run, sneaking in several shots from pristine revolvers at the targets of the abyss.

The prey failed to flinch.

She kept her breaths shallow, disregarding her own sweaty palms from an uneasy inkling. Though it was more of a subconscious notion, she was only now aware that from the very beginning, something seemed off. Particularly about the very stage she stood on, and the way her fellow competitors were set-up.

In a deathmatch of luck and skill, had she really been qualified to survive?

What was most terrifying in a malicious game transforming into reality was the danger. A computer screen exhibited all the senses and hazards to be wary of online, but in a game of life, jeopardy was not an essence up for prediction. It came as a surprise, never realizing what was coming, and that was what frightened her the most.

Was the Lightning Dancer truly the destined overlord of the tournament, or had the claim been washed with falsity all along?

A shivering numbness stroked her limbs, her reflexes progressively plummeting as the clicks of her mouse and the taps of her keyboard declined. She found herself staring into a hazy blur of void, eyelids heavy as she struggled to cling on to her connection with the world. Her malady was acting up, at the worst time possible.

Down to her last life, respawning was no longer plausible, in theory.

A prolonged beep filled her ears, as the headphones finally slipped off of her figure, and the bullet of providence came tearing at the seams.

GAME OVER.