I don’t do mornings so I dress up when Erik falls asleep. I watch him for a few minutes, he’s so damn handsome. I bend down to kiss him goodbye and get the last taste of him. His sleeping mind is so soothing. I’ve never met anybody like Erik, to be honest. I could spend countless hours in him. But I know I can’t.

I lov---

I stop myself in my thoughts. What was I just thinking? Erik doesn’t know me. Not really. He just likes my face and body. That’s it. If he knew the truth about me, he would probably run away and call me a freak. No, I can’t get attached for this exact reason.

*****

My apartment isn’t as fancy as Erik’s place but compared to my previous tiny room at grandmother’s, it’s heaven. Rents in Prague are extremely high and sharing would be much cheaper, but my telepathy makes it impossible for me to have flat-mates. I also don’t want others to know how I make a living.

I put down a package that I picked up downstairs from the delivery repository and sigh. The box isn’t that heavy but I’ve always had difficulties carrying stuff that weights more than a few kilos. I’ve tried exercising several times but I could never develop any muscles.

I suspect that my frail body might be somehow connected to my telepathy. What else could it be than some strange genetic mutation? But being scared of doctors and hospitals in general, I’ve never gone to any major medical check-up to confirm it.

Besides, I shiver at the thought of what would such confirmation mean. They’d probably never allow me to leave hospital ever again and run all sorts of experiments on me. I mean—real telepathy. The scientists would go crazy.

All of a sudden, my stomach starts grumbling in discontent. I guess my Thai dinner didn’t quite agree with me even though it’s a dish Erik orders regularly for me. But weak digestion is another thing I’ve learnt to live with.

 To distract myself, I log into my account to check my current balance. The developers sent me 500 Euro for yesterday’s raid that was streamed on the official game channel. As I’ve already paid the rent for next month, I send the whole amount to pay off another little bit of my huge debt.

“Fan mail,” a reminder AI speaks up.

“I know,” I nod to myself and switch on the holographic projector.

Many famous streamers want their true face to be known but I dread it. Being asked out on a date by random strangers, often quite pervy, is bad enough. I don’t need more attention. Also, I can’t spare money for an apartment with better security. VR celebrities are always under attack by their own fans and have stalkers. That’s why I’ve never told anyone who I am in real life. As a telepath I wouldn’t be able to handle it.

I set the holographic projector to materialise a cosy coffee shop scenery behind me and cover my appearance with a 3D version of my ingame avatar. I start to open fan mail, commenting on exceptionally nice letters written on real paper by hand and thanking senders for any little presents inside. Fans love their nicknames being mentioned.

Of course, I get most fan mail digitally but handicrafts had their second renaissance recently so it isn’t unusual that I get cute hand-made plush toys of ingame pets and knitted bracelets with game logos. Once I got a very nice winter scarf that I love wearing ever since.

“Thank you, Liu24net, a beautiful picture,” I smile and hold up to the camera a drawing of my ingame avatar in a rather erotic pose.

Majority of my fans are girls with such fantasies and I present myself as openly gay so it only gives them more fuel. Another reason not to ruin their illusions by revealing my true identity. Well, I’m quite confident that they’d most probably like my true face because it isn’t that different from my game avatar but I suspect that these fangirls are mostly into my fictional inhuman parts.

“And now time for real work,” I smile to myself.

I lie down on my bed, put on the latest VR helmet—courtesy of my game employer—and log in. The game starts the initialisation process.

I’m standing in front of a cave, the last spot I was in before my last log off. I can hear birds singing, the wind pushing into the trees and a nearby river. But for me it’s like total silence because I can’t read anyone’s thoughts or feel their emotions here. VR is the only place apart from sleep where my brain can truly rest.

I suddenly hear voices, several players are approaching. I quickly pull a cloak out of my digital inventory and put it over my wings. It can’t hide the fact that I have them because they’re too huge for that but I just need to cover their colour. At the last second I pull a hoodie over my silver hair.

“Hey, somebody’s already here,” says a Dragonkin who appears out of the forest. He’s in full-plate armour and is carrying a shield and a sword. His scales are dark green and black horns on his head exceptionally big.

He’s followed by a mixed party consisting of a Clawfang wolf, an Earthborn with a bow and one more Dragonkin of a monk class.

“And it’s a Celestial, lucky us,” says the Clawfang girl. “Wanna join us? We could really use some magic in there. What’s your level and class?”

“Sorry, I’m waiting for my own party,” I lie.

“What’s up with the cloak?” the Earthborn asks. “I thought you Celestials hate to cover your wings.”

“I’ve been in a different location and it was raining,” I lie again. “Please, don’t mind me. This dungeon is a private instance anyway.”

The first Dragonkin, who looks like their party leader, shrugs. Any other race might be a player killer waiting to ambush unsuspecting victims but Celestials aren’t built for that so he isn’t wary of me.

When they disappear into the entrance, I quickly take off my cloak. The Earthborn archer was right, Celestials hate wearing anything over their wings. It simply isn’t comfortable. But my pure white wings are unique in Draconia so unless I want to deal with fans—or haters for the matter—I have to mask myself.

“Okay, let’s do it!” I say to myself enthusiastically and start streaming for my channel. “Going solo to the Forgotten Cave, attempt number 4.”