Zed wasn’t exactly the social type.

Shy. Nonchalant. A little too quiet for someone his age, but he was content that way. His world revolved around two things: academics and gaming—particularly Call of Duty: Mobile.

He was a university student by day, a lowkey ranked warrior by night.

And while he never said it aloud, CODM was where he felt most alive.

There was something about slipping into that digital battlefield, headset on, controller in hand, crosshairs steady. It was an escape. A space where no one cared how you looked, how you dressed, or if you stumbled over your words. In the game, skill talked louder than personality ever could.

Zed had a tight online circle: Mike, Arthur, and the rest of the squad he met through random matches and Discord calls. They were loud, chaotic, often reckless—but in all the best ways. They made jokes, cursed out enemies, and raged at campers, but they always had each other’s backs.

Despite never meeting in real life, they felt like real friends.

Zed wasn’t exactly comfortable around girls. He’d never had a girlfriend—NGSB (No Girlfriend Since Birth), as Mike always teased. It was a running joke in their group. He'd laugh along, even if the truth of it stung a little sometimes.

One rainy afternoon after class, just as Zed got back to his small dorm, a message from Mike popped up:

> Mike:

"Bro, tara ranked. Si Arthur online, kulang kami isa."

> Arthur:

"May dinagdag akong player. Di ko pa kabisado, pero solid daw."

Zed hesitated. He didn’t like playing with strangers. Especially when there was a chance it might be a girl. That always made things awkward—he’d overthink, underperform, or worse, stay dead silent the whole match.

Still, he joined.

The lobby loaded. Four players. Three familiar names. One stood out.

StreamerMode.

The user was in “silent mode”—name masked, no avatar, no bio. Gender unknown. Zed felt a flicker of unease.

Mike’s voice rang out, excited. “Okay, bet. MVP gets 500 GCash from me. Let’s go.”

The match started.

Right from the get-go, something was off—in a good way. StreamerMode was... impressive. Precision aim. Smooth strafes. Tactical flanks. The kind of gameplay that made even Mike, who rarely praised anyone, curse in awe.

“Who the hell is this?” Arthur said between laughs.

“Lods siya, bes,” Mike added, impressed.

The match ended. Scoreboard flashed.

MVP: StreamerMode.

Mike kept his word and sent the 500. No complaints.

Arthur chimed in, “Pwede ka ba sa GC namin? Solid ka eh.”

Then came the question no one could resist.

> Mike:

“Boss, girl ka ba or boy?”

There was a moment of silence.

Then, through the private lobby chat, a voice came through. Soft. Confident. Slightly amused.

“Hmm. Secret.”

Zed froze.

It wasn’t just that she was a girl—it was her tone. Calm. Unbothered. A little playful. It echoed in his head like a melody stuck on loop.

He didn’t speak for the rest of the call.

Before logging off, the voice returned. “Just call me Leyn.”

From that day on, Leyn became a regular in their squad. No one asked for her socials. No video calls. Just her voice—and her game sense.

Zed found himself joining lobbies more often, especially when she was online.

And soon, he realized… he wasn’t just waiting to play.

He was waiting to hear her voice again.

The next few weeks blurred into a rhythm.

Classes. Assignments. Instant noodles. Late-night ranked games.

And always, somewhere in between—Leyn.

Zed wouldn’t admit it, but he’d rearranged his schedule just to be online when she was. Sometimes he told himself it was coincidence. Other times, he didn’t even bother lying to himself. The moment her soft “game?” message popped up in the Discord server, his hands were already on the controller.

He still didn’t know much about her.

Leyn kept things minimal. No school talk. No photos. No social media links. She wasn’t even part of their full group chat yet—just their voice lobbies and duos. But her voice, calm and steady, was starting to feel like part of Zed’s daily routine. Sometimes, the only part that made it better.

More often now, they queued together without Mike or Arthur.

It started casually. Then it turned into running jokes—her calling him “the silent carry,” him teasing her rotations. Then came the unspoken chemistry. It wasn't obvious. It wasn’t romantic. Not yet. But it was something. Something that made Zed's heart pace just a little faster when he saw her username light up.

“Zed, right side—flank incoming,” she’d say during a tense match.

“Copy,” he’d reply, keeping it short. His voice didn’t shake anymore.

She’d tease him after victories. “You’re too quiet. You're scary when you don't talk.”

He’d laugh under his breath. “Better quiet than trash-talking.”

One night, after two hours of grinding, they found themselves in a crucial 2v4 match. Everyone else was offline. Just the two of them. Match point. Tense silence.

They pushed. Enemies flanked from both sides. Leyn was taken out.

“Zed, it’s on you,” she said, calmly. “Four left.”

Four enemies. One Zed.

He felt the adrenaline, the familiar chill crawling up his spine. But instead of freezing, he focused.

He moved fast—slide peeked from cover, threw a well-timed grenade, flicked his aim to the rooftop, then dropped the last two with precise bursts.

Victory.

There was silence in the call.

Then Leyn, her voice lower than usual, said: “Lods.”

Zed chuckled, heart still racing. “Swerte lang.”

“No,” she said, “You’re just… underranked.”

That word hit differently.

Not just in the game.

In life.

Zed had always been the background character. The quiet one. Average grades. Average looks. Always overlooked. But in that moment, with just a few words, Leyn saw something more in him than most people ever had.

And she didn’t even know his face.

“Thanks,” he said, almost whispering.

Leyn didn’t reply right away. Then she said, “You play like someone who doesn’t know how good he is.”

He didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.

But something in him shifted.

He wasn’t just playing the game anymore.

He was playing for something. Maybe not for Leyn—not exactly—but for the version of himself he felt like when she was watching.

When they logged off that night, her voice lingered in his mind longer than the scoreboard did.

And suddenly, CODM wasn’t just a game anymore.

It started like any other evening—rain against the window, a half-finished cup of coffee on Zed’s desk, and the familiar buzz of the Discord server lighting up.

> Leyn:

“Ranked?”

He didn’t hesitate this time.

> Zed:

“Game.”

They loaded into the lobby like muscle memory. Mike and Arthur were already mid-match, so it was just the two of them again. Lately, that had become a pattern. And Zed liked it that way—just the two of them, quiet between rounds, then completely in sync once the gunfire started.

He could hear the soft hum of Leyn’s mic in the background—occasional keyboard taps, a distant electric fan. It was weird how comforting that became. Just knowing she was there, even if she wasn’t speaking.

Tonight’s matches were clean. No losses. Three wins in a row.

They were halfway through their fourth game when Mike suddenly joined the call.

“YO! Anong oras na, grind pa rin kayo?”

Zed flinched. Leyn didn’t respond right away.

“Solid pala ‘tong secret duo na ‘to, ha,” Mike teased. “Zed, umamin ka nga—may crush ka na kay StreamerMode eh.”

Zed froze.

Leyn laughed—a soft, amused chuckle that cut through the tension like a knife.

“Ikaw talaga, Mike,” she said.

Mike wheezed. “Uy! First time ko narinig tumawa si Leyn! Grabe, Zed, pinatawa mo pa. Next level ka na!”

Zed tried to change the subject. “Focus muna. May kalaban sa flank.”

They won that match too. Another MVP for Leyn.

After Mike logged off, it was just the two of them again. The silence that followed wasn’t awkward—it was full. Comfortable.

Until Leyn spoke.

“Hey… Zed?”

“Yeah?”

There was a pause. Then she said, “Ever wonder why I never turn on my mic around the others?”

He blinked. “Honestly? Yeah.”

Another pause.

“People treat you different when they know you’re a girl,” she said. “In games, I mean. Especially if you’re good. They either flirt, try to discredit you, or accuse you of cheating.”

Zed nodded slowly. “Yeah… I’ve seen it happen.”

“That’s why I play quiet. Play masked. I don’t need attention. I just want the game to be real.”

Zed understood. And for a moment, he didn’t know what to say.

But then he said the only thing that came to mind.

“You’re safe here. You don’t have to hide.”

Leyn went quiet. Then, without warning, her mic clicked—and her voice came through crystal clear.

No background noise. No filter. Just her.

“I know,” she said. “That’s why I wanted you to hear my real voice. Not just the one I use in-game.”

Zed’s heart stuttered. It wasn’t just the sound of her voice—it was what it meant.

It was trust.

“Leyn…” he started, but the words failed him.

She laughed gently. “Don’t overthink it, Zed. I just wanted you to know me a little better.”

And in that moment, he realized:

He wasn’t falling for a voice.

He was falling for the person behind it.