Chapter 1: New Player

Friday mornings were a scam—sunny, crisp, full of the lie of promise, but still dragging Rocky Merchant through the same old grind of his life. He sat slumped at the old creaky kitchen table in his dad ‘s cramped and weathered two-story Craftsman tucked into a quiet suburban street. Rocky and his father live in Westview, the run down corner of Wolferton where rusty pickup trucks outnumber sedans. Westview’s got that working-class, almost-rural feel—think dive bars, auto shops, and weedy lots—despite Wolferton’s gleaming almost futuristic downtown just a few miles away.

The house’s faded cedar shingles and sagging front porch betraying years of deferred maintenance. The exterior, once a proud forest green, now peels in patches, with overgrown rhododendrons crowding the walkway, their blooms long since wilted. A rusted basketball hoop hangs crookedly above the garage, a relic from Rocky’s childhood, while the driveway was stained with oil from his dad’s old pickup. The house felt like it’s holding its breath, caught between memories of livelier days and the slow creep of neglect.

Inside, the home is a cluttered time capsule of mismatched furniture and faded decor. A masculine relic devoid of the softness of his mother Karen’s touch. The living room is dominated by a bulky recliner, its leather cracked from years of use, facing a boxy TV that still plays VHS tapes. Gone were the colorful throws and framed art Karen used to brighten the space. Dusty shelves hold tattered paperbacks and photos of Rocky and his dad from fishing trips, but the walls lack her cheerful paint choices or family collages. The kitchen smells faintly of burnt bad coffee and old bacon grease, with a linoleum floor curling at the edges and a table piled with unopened mail. Every room feels heavy with the weight of a man’s solitary habits and the void left by his wife’s departure.

Upstairs, the bedrooms underscore Karen’s long absence. Rocky’s old room remains a shrine of band posters and comic books, untouched since he was a kid, with no motherly hand to tidy or update it. His dad’s room is stark, just a made bed and flannel-filled closet, lacking the decorative pillows or curtains Karen once insisted on. The bathroom’s cracked tiles and dripping faucet haven’t seen her insistence for repairs or her knack for keeping things spotless. Without her, the house clings to a rugged, stubborn warmth in its creaking floors, but it’s a shadow of the lively home it was, forever marked by the absence of Karen’s nurturing presence.

Rocky started his morning like many teens, picking at a bowl of soggy cereal, his slightly cracked phone propped against a juice carton. The clock on the wall slowly ticked toward 7:15 a.m., ten minutes until he had to haul himself to school. Dad was already gone, off to his construction job, leaving behind a note on the fridge: Home late. You’re on your own for dinner. Do your damn homework. Rocky snorted. Like he needed a reminder to half-ass his algebra. While he wouldn’t admit it, he missed having his mom making his lunch before walking him down to the bus stop.

Since his mom had left, his Dad Dwayne had collapsed in on himself. He is a burly guy in his mid-50s, with a scruffy beard, sun-creased skin, and a wardrobe of faded flannel shirts and worn-out Carhartt jeans, stained from years of tinkering with his beat-up Ford pickup in the driveway. He worked as a welder and would come home smelling of sweat and metal, his hands perpetually grimed with grease. His dreams of running his own crew dashed by his overdrinking and grumpy mood. Rocky often heard his mom stay Dwayne was stuck in time, clinging to memories of when life was rowdier and his wife was still around. The gentle giant replaced by a loud-talking, no-filter redneck with a rare laugh like a chainsaw and a temper that flares when the whiskey’s flowing. He spends evenings in his cracked leather recliner, cracking open Coors Lights, watching old NASCAR tapes or wrasslin’ on the clunky TV, cussing at the screen like it owes him money.

Last night’s fight still hung in the air around Rocky like smoke. Dad had been on the phone with Mom, their voices booming through the duplex’s paper-thin walls.

“You can’t keep blowing off child support, Karen!” Dad had yelled.

“And you can’t pretend you’re father of the year!” Mom snapped back, her voice sharp even through the speaker.

Rocky had been forced to crank his headphones, blasting the latest album from Yungblud to drown them out, but it didn’t help. At sixteen, he was used to their war—divorce didn’t stop the battles, just moved them to phone calls and passive-aggressive texts—but it still made his chest tight. He was always caught in the crossfire, a pawn in their stupid game, with no say in anything. He shoved the cereal bowl away, milk sloshing onto the table. The duplex was a mess—dishes in the sink, a pile of laundry by the couch, a faint smell of burnt toast.

Rocky grabbed his backpack, already packed with a crumpled history textbook and a half-dead vape pen he’d swiped from a senior. He wasn’t a delinquent, not really—just bored, restless, and done with rules that didn’t make sense. School, home, it was all the same: follow orders that don’t make sense, keep quiet, stay stuck. He wanted to be the one calling the shots, even if he didn’t know what that looked like yet.

Rocky kicked a pebble down the sidewalk, his sneakers scuffing the pavement. The air smelled of spring grass and gasoline from a neighbor’s lawnmower. His phone buzzed in his pocket—a text from Russel Hill, his best friend and resident nerd: Yo, u alive? Meet me at the flagpole. Got a new Warhammer strat to school u with.

Rocky grinned, typing back: Dream on, loser. Be there in 20.

Russel was the only person who made Westview bearable, a lanky geek who’d rather paint tiny knights than chase girls or grades. They’d been tight since seventh grade, when Rocky sporting his own black eye, punched a bully picking on Russel and got detention for two weeks. Best decision he ever made.

Westview High loomed at the end of the street, a squat brick building with faded banners hyping the football team. The tension of home melted away as Rocky slipped through the front gates, weaving past clumps of kids—jocks tossing a football, theater nerds rehearsing lines, the usual cliques. He spotted Russel by the flagpole, hunched over his phone, his messy brown hair flopping into his eyes.

“Yo, Captain Nerd!” Rocky called, dodging a freshman on a skateboard. “You ready to flunk chem with me?”

Russel looked up, smirking. “Flunk? Speak for yourself, you asthmatic slacker. I’m acing that quiz.” He was wearing a T-shirt with some obscure metal band logo, probably older than both of them. “You look like you slept in a dumpster. Rough night?”

Rocky shrugged, falling into step as they headed toward the main building. “Dad and Mom were at it again. Phone fight, round fifty. I’m over it.”

He didn’t elaborate—Russel got it. His own family wasn’t exactly a sitcom, with a grumpy stepdad and a mom who treated chores like a military op. They walked through the crowded halls, past lockers plastered with stickers and posters for prom. Rocky’s grades hovered at C-minus, enough to skate by without teachers riding him too hard. He wasn’t dumb, just uninterested. Algebra, history, whatever—none of it felt like it mattered when his life was a tug-of-war between two angry adults.

In history class, Mr. Grayson droned about the history of Wolferton. His chalkboard diagrams a blur of arrows and dates. Rocky slouched in the back, doodling skulls in his notebook. Russel, two rows over, was scribbling notes like his life depended on it. Typical. Rocky’s phone buzzed—a group chat blowing up about some party tomorrow night. He ignored it. Parties were fine, but he wasn’t in the mood for fake laughs and warm beer. He wanted something ... bigger. Something that made him feel like he wasn’t just along for the ride.

“Mr. Merchant,” Mr. Grayson called, snapping Rocky out of his haze. “Care to tell us what sparked the Battle of Beacon Hollow?”

Rocky blinked, caught off guard. Half the class turned to stare. “Uh ... some dude invaded somewhere?” he mumbled, earning a few snickers.

Mr. Grayson sighed. “Close enough. Pay attention.”

He moved on, but Rocky felt the familiar sting of being dismissed. Russel shot him a grin, mouthing, Nice one. Rocky flipped him off under the desk, smirking. Screw it. He’d survive this place, one way or another.

By lunch, Rocky was done. He and Russel grabbed trays of soggy pizza and sat at their usual table in the cafeteria, a corner spot by a window with a view of the parking lot. The room buzzed with chatter—gossip, homework complaints, the usual chaos. Rocky picked at his food, his mind drifting back to the morning’s fight. Dad’s voice, Mom’s silence, the way neither of them asked what he wanted. He hated it—hated feeling like a prop in their drama, powerless to change anything.

“You going to that party?” Russel asked, snapping him out of it. He was dunking fries in ketchup, his Warhammer rulebook open beside his tray. “Heard it’s at Tina Lopez’s place. Her parents are out of town.”

“Nah, don’t think so,” Rocky said, leaning back. “Not feeling it. You?”

Russel snorted. “Me? At a party? I’d rather paint my entire army than deal with drunk jocks.” He flipped a page in his rulebook. “Wanna come over this weekend? I got new figs, and Alan’s working overtime, so he won’t be up my ass. Mom’ll be chill as long as I do chores.”

Rocky perked up. Russel’s house was his escape hatch—no yelling, no expectations, just snacks and dumb arguments about movies or games.

“I’m in,” he said. “Whole weekend, if your rent’s don’t kick me out.”

“Mom won’t. She’s used to you,” Russel said, grinning. “Just don’t eat all the chips again.”

“No promises,” Rocky shot back, tossing a fry at him.

Russel dodged, laughing, and for a moment, things felt okay. But the weight was still there, a knot in Rocky’s chest. He wanted more than okay. He wanted control—over his day, his life, something.