Not the explosions. Not the interrogation dialogue. The pause . The shared breath between the player, the machine, and the polygonal guard who had no idea how close he came to being a statistic.

Leo froze. He didn’t breathe. The Mac’s fan was a scream. The guard grunted, flicked his cigarette into a puddle, and moved on.

His iMac’s fans whirred into a jet engine whine. The frame rate chugged. When Leo moved Sam from cover to cover, the world stuttered, then smoothed out, then stuttered again. Fifteen frames per second. Maybe.