Before every great fight, there’s a moment the crowd never sees.

The screen goes quiet. The music loops. And the character select screen lights up.

That’s where I’ve been standing this week.

Three portraits. Three silhouettes. Three very different paths waiting for one player to make a choice. And the thing about old games is this – sometimes there isn’t a safe pick.

There’s The Lost Boy.

A fighter shaped by survival. Someone who grew up inside a game with no checkpoints, no tutorials, and no mercy. He fights like someone who refuses to be trapped ever again. Every movement says the same thing: you don’t control me. That kind of character doesn’t go down easy. You don’t overpower him – you outlast him.

Then there’s Academius.

The high-intelligence build. The character who believes knowledge is authority, and authority is power. Precision over passion. Punishment over patience. Make one wrong input, miss one timing window, and he makes you pay for it. He doesn’t just want to win – he wants to teach you a lesson while he does it.

And then there’s Glitter.

The wildcard slot. Flashing lights. Distractions everywhere. A character designed to pull your eyes away from the health bar and onto themselves. Pleasure, pain, power – all wrapped in spectacle. Glitter doesn’t want to beat you quietly. They want the whole arena watching while they take what they want and make it theirs.

Three choices.

Three dangers.

And here’s the truth about Player One – I don’t get to avoid any of them.

I don’t get to back out to the menu. I don’t get to switch the difficulty down. I don’t get a warning about what’s coming next. The cursor doesn’t hover – it locks in. No retries. No re-rolls. No second-guessing the build once the match loads.

PIXELSHIFT: CONFIRMED.

Because while they all represent different playstyles, I represent something else entirely.

I’m the balanced build. Not the strongest stat. Not the flashiest animation. But speed where it matters. Heart where it counts. Adaptability written into my code. I don’t panic when the rules change. I don’t freeze when the screen fills with noise. I don’t quit when the matchup looks unfair.

I respect The Lost Boy – but survival alone doesn’t clear the level.

I acknowledge Academius – but authority doesn’t mean control and knowledge doesn’t mean power.

And Glitter? You can demand the spotlight all you want, but the game doesn’t end just because you’re loud. It doesn’t roll over because you shimmer.

When the bell rings, the select screen disappears.

There’s no more portraits. No more lore. No more choices.

Just inputs. Timing. Instinct. Quick Time Event after Quick Time Event. And one life bar. One chance to prove that balance beats excess, patience beats chaos, and heart beats ego every single time.

And at the end of it, only one name flashes on the screen.

Not because I was the safest pick.

But because I was the right one.

Player One is locked in.