In truth, Ryl was neither. He was a pattern now.
Ryl’s mother watched him play from the doorway of his darkened room. She saw him smile—just once—when the announcer said Victory and his scoreboard flashed a damage-taken stat higher than anyone else’s. He had kept his carry alive. Again. Even though there was no one left to thank him.
Auto Pick Ryl. He never queued alone. He just queued for someone who couldn’t queue back.
The community called it a quality-of-life change. A few old-timers joked, “It’s the mourning mode.”
Ryl hadn’t spoken in seventeen months. Not since the accident. But every night at 9:47 PM, his hands remembered.
Auto Pick Ryl.