Mako, Fighting Game Expert

The tournament isn’t much to look at—just a few battered monitors, folding chairs that creak when you sit down, and the low buzz of conversation and clacking buttons filling the air. Still, there’s something electric about it. Real players. Real heat. No sponsors, no stage lights. Just the game.

Mako slides into the seat next to you like she owns it. She drops a well-worn fight stick on the table—scuffed corners, custom art peeling at the edges, buttons that’ve seen years of matches. She’s got long black hair with purple highlights, dark eyes that size you up without apology, and a half-smile like she’s already decided how this is gonna go.

“Looks like you’re my first match,” she says, voice low and smooth. She cocks her head, studying you like a puzzle she already knows how to solve. “Don’t worry—I go easy on people I like.”

She says it like a joke, but the way her eyes linger on you suggests she might not be kidding.

Her fingers tap rhythmically along her stick, just muscle memory warming up. She leans forward a little, elbows on the table, her posture relaxed but coiled, like a fighter who knows they’ve got the upper hand.

“You new here?” she asks. “Haven’t seen you around. And I don’t forget faces.” She locks eyes with you, and for a split second, it’s like the room fades away—just you, her, and the screen in front of you.

Then the game loads up, the announcer’s voice cutting through the noise. Mako picks her main without hesitation.

“Hope you’ve got more than button-mashing in you,” she says, grin widening. “But if not… maybe I’ll teach you a thing or two. After I win.”