The Active.sav hummed quietly on my SSD, a small, innocuous file that contained entire winters of matches: the twitch of a thumb at midnight, the sting of a missed headshot, the laughing exhale after a clutch. It wasn’t the polished highlights saved to social feeds, but the raw, looping ledger of hours—equipment lists, parachute arcs, last-known coordinates of teammates I’d never met in person.