Amy stared at the "YOU DIED" screen, her face a mixture of indignation and disbelief. Her chat, predictably, offered no sympathy.
[ Hahaha, Grandma was so focused on the lock, she completely forgot she was on the clock! ] [ Mrs. Jones is an absolute menace. She probably takes that AK with her to buy groceries. ] [ Amy, just give up. This hardcore stuff isn't for you. Go back to playing something easy. ]
"How is this my fault!?" Amy whined, her voice cracking. "The developer is the real sadist here! Who makes you learn actual lockpicking just to play a game!?"
Some in the chat feigned support. [ Don't listen to them, Amy. Haters gonna hate. ]
Her pride stung, Amy slammed her fist on the desk. "No! It's just a lock! I'll do it! I'll open it!"
And so began the cycle of suffering.
Amy, refusing to be beaten, pulled out her phone and searched "how to pick high-security locks" on YouTube.
"The internet is a magical place," she declared, finding a highly-rated tutorial. "A three-minute video can teach you anything!"
[ You sure you're watching a 'proper' tutorial, Amy? ] [ She's so smart, she'll watch it at 2x speed and learn in ninety seconds! ]
After studying several videos, Amy was brimming with a newfound, and entirely misplaced, confidence. "I've got it!" she announced. "One-shot clear, here I come!"
She restarted the level, waited for Mrs. Jones to leave, and approached the front door. Staring at the complex lock and the array of professional tools, she took a nervous gulp.
"Okay," she mumbled, fumbling with the controls. "So, you put the tension wrench in... like this... and then you use the pick to find the pins... like... this?"
SNAP.
The sharp, metallic crack echoed in the quiet game world. The tip of her lockpick had broken off inside the lock.
The chat roared. [ LMAO, even I could tell that was the wrong move, and I'm just watching! ] [ THIS GAME IS TOO REAL! THE PICK ACTUALLY BROKE! ] [ My God, I actually feel like I'm committing a crime right now. ]
Amy stared blankly at the screen. A classic meme came to mind. Her Brain: I've learned it! Her Hands: You've learned absolutely nothing!
"This is BULLSHIT!" she yelled. "How can the pick break!? I mean... I guess that's how it works in real life, but... DAMN IT, THIS IS A GAME!"
"Does it have to be this realistic!?" she complained on her next attempt. "I'm starting to think this developer actually wants to go to jail."
SNAP. The pick broke. Mrs. Jones returned. Rat-a-tat-tat.YOU DIED.
The game offered a "helpful" tip on the death screen: [ For any lock, there is never just one way to open it. ]
Amy restarted, re-watched the tutorials, and tried again. "Okay, for real this time. I've got it."
Rat-a-tat-tat.YOU DIED.
For three straight hours, under the watchful eyes of tens of thousands of viewers, Amy was gunned down by Mrs. Jones. The cycle was relentless. Her once-neat pigtails were now a frazzled mess. Her bright eyes were bloodshot and strained. The smile had long since vanished from her face.
"I... I, Amy..." she whispered, her voice weak and hoarse, "...will definitely... open this lock... today." Her spirit was visibly draining away.
Her chat could sense the impending doom. [ Oh no. She's entered the final stage before a total psychotic break: insanity. ] [ I'm genuinely scared she's going to have an aneurysm live on stream. ] [ This game is brutally hardcore. If I had half this game's determination, I wouldn't be single. ] [ Who watches a three-minute tutorial video for THREE HOURS? Anyone would go crazy! ]
After what felt like an eternity of failed attempts, she tried again. She maneuvered the pick, her movements slow and deliberate. She felt a pin click into place. Then another. And another.
Then, suddenly…
CLICK!
It wasn't the sound of snapping metal. It was the soft, beautiful, triumphant sound of the lock turning. It was open.
The chat exploded. [ HOLY SH************T! SHE DID IT! ] [ WE ARE THE CHAMPIONS! ] [ Okay, not gonna lie, that was mostly luck... but who cares! She did it! ]
Amy's eyes widened in disbelief. Surprise, joy, and pure, unadulterated relief washed over her. Three hours of bottled-up frustration erupted in a single, cathartic scream.
"I... I, AMY, I FINALLY DID IT!" she shrieked, her entire body trembling with ecstatic energy.
And at that exact moment, a calm, familiar voice came from behind her character.
"Who are you? What are you doing at my front door!?"
It was Mrs. Jones, back from her daily outing. Amy had spent the entire fifteen-minute window on the lock.
For one beautiful, horrifying second, Amy and her entire ten-thousand-viewer chat were frozen in absolute, petrified silence. The triumphant music in their heads screeched to a halt.
Then came the collective realization. [ Wait... I almost forgot the mission was to STEAL THE JEWELRY, not just pick the lock! ] [ SHE SPENT THE ENTIRE FIFTEEN MINUTES ON THE LOCKPICKING! ] [ THIS GAME DEVELOPER IS A MONSTER. A TRUE, GENUINE SADIST. ] [ ATTENTION ALL UNITS! THIS IS A CODE RED! I REPEAT, THIS IS NOT A DRILL! ]
The silence was shattered by Amy. She opened her mouth and let out an ear-piercing, soul-shattering shriek that peaked her microphone and probably deafened half her audience. It was a sound that rivaled an air-raid siren.
"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH—"
[ RUN! SHE'S GONE FERAL! ] [ NON-ESSENTIAL PERSONNEL, EVACUATE THE CHAT! ]
Huge, fat tears began rolling down her cheeks. "DAMN IT ALL!" she sobbed. "WHAT IS THIS TRASH GAME!? WHAT KIND OF SADISTIC DEVELOPER—"
BANG. BANG. CRACK.
She began smashing her keyboard against her desk. Keyboard HP: -10000.
"I CAN'T PLAY THIS!" she screamed between sobs. "IS THIS EVEN MADE FOR HUMANS!?"
Happiness, it is said, is a zero-sum game. It is not created or destroyed, merely transferred from one person to another. And at that moment, every last drop of Amy's happiness and sanity was being mainlined directly into Leo.
He was reclined in his chair, clutching his stomach and laughing so hard that tears were streaming down his own face.
[ DING! HOST HAS INDUCED A TOTAL MELTDOWN. TILT POINTS +1000 ]
But Leo wasn't done. As Amy was reaching the peak of her despair, he delivered the coup de grâce. Using his sock-puppet account, he posted the screenshot he'd taken earlier—the one of her beaming from ear to ear while fawning over his donation.
[ Excuse me, is this the streamer in this picture? (screenshot.jpg) ]
The rest of the chat, like sharks smelling blood, immediately began to copy-paste the message.
Amy saw the image of her past self—polished, beautiful, and happy—and then glanced at her own reflection in the dark monitor—a disheveled, crying, red-eyed mess.
It was the final, devastating blow. Her grief turned back into pure, white-hot rage.
"AAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH—"
"YOU MERCILESS, SOULLESS BASTARDS!!!"
[ DING! HOST HAS TRIGGERED A SECONDARY MELTDOWN. TILT POINTS +1000 ]