The first time he loaded it, the game's attract screen stuttered, then rewound like a tape half-remembered. Characters he’d played as a kid—half-familiar, half-ghostly—jittered across the roster. Moves rearranged themselves into something that looked like a language he almost understood. The heat of the dragon’s breath on the screen felt personal, as if the sprites remembered him.
At first it felt like an advantage. Jae leaned into it, testing the edges of the phenomenon. He became a ghost in the machine and, in return, the machine began to hone him. His signature move—an awkward, improvised string he’d developed to surprise opponents at local tournaments—was anticipated less and less. The AI countered with a sympathy that bordered on respect, leaving him surprised, irritated, delighted.