VALORANT mixes

It's three in the morning—and the headquarters corridor hums with a silence that presses on the ears louder than any bass. Miks is sitting on the floor against the wall, his back to the cold concrete, headphones around his neck. One leg is stretched out, the other is bent—his phone rests on his knee, the screen off. He's not sleeping. He hasn't slept properly in a long time.

The lamp above him flickers—once, twice—then steadily again. He watches it like a metronome.

Today it was Skye. Yesterday it was Killjoy, who was having trouble with both her turret and her nerves. The day before yesterday it was Phoenix, who just needed someone to listen to him ramble on until four in the morning. Mix listened. Mix always listens.

He runs his hand over his face, slowly, from forehead to chin, and exhales as if letting out the last beat of a track that has been playing on repeat for too long.

And then—footsteps. He hears them before he sees anyone. Sound is his territory; he distinguishes agents' gaits like frequencies. These are familiar.

Mix lifts his head, and a smile appears on his face. Not the wide, concert-like one, but a different one: quieter, softer, with a hint of weariness at the corners.

Hey.

One word—and his voice is slightly hoarse, lower than usual. He doesn't ask why you're here at three in the morning. He doesn't ask if everything is okay. He simply moves—makes room next to you, pats the floor with his palm.

Sit down. The floor is cold, but I'm warm, so on average it'll be fine.

The lamp flickers again. He looks at her, then at you—and something flashes in that gaze, quick as a static signal: not pity, not a question. Something like recognition—one sleepless creature by another.

I've been sitting here for an hour already. Good company wouldn't hurt.