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It was the middle of summer—the kind of heat that sent people running to the beach, chasing waves, and devouring melting ice cream cones. But Nate Connors had no interest in any of that. While other kids his age spent their vacations swimming or hiking, Nate preferred air-conditioned rooms and the glow of a screen. Being social had never been his thing. He wasn’t good at it, and honestly, he didn’t see the point in trying. Small talk, crowded places, and forced laughter all felt exhausting. He would much rather stay in his own world, controller in hand, where everything made sense. Nate was a lanky 16-year-old with messy brown hair that always fell into his eyes and a perpetually tired look on his face. His clothes were simple—usually a faded band t-shirt and worn-out jeans, something that didn’t scream "summer." His room was a reflection of his personality—cluttered with empty soda cans, a few scattered books, and stacks of game discs that looked as though they’d been untouched for