When Everyone’s Chasing the Rooster’s Thunder, I Just Want to Cry

I used to think winning was sacred—until I realized no one was chasing victory. They were chasing noise.

The game calls it ‘Thunder’ like Zeus hurling lightning across Olympus. But the sky here? It doesn’t glow. It hums. Late at night, in my Manhattan apartment, I scroll through reels of wins others post—and feel nothing.

The Ritual Isn’t Luck. It’s Loneliness.

My mother ran a tea shop in San Francisco. She taught me that fortune is quiet: steam rising from a ceramic cup, not from a dice roll. In her world, luck wasn’t random—it was ritual. Now? The algorithms are louder than any oracle.

I watch young women press ‘spin’ like prayers—each click a tiny offering to gods who don’t answer back.

They Call It ‘Reward.’ I Call It Grief.

‘Bonus packs.’ ‘VIP tiers.’ ‘70% win rate.’ These aren’t incentives—they’re echoes.

A 19-year-old student texts me: ‘I just need one win.’ She hasn’t slept in three days.

I don’t fix her game—I sit beside her until dawn.

There Are No Gods Here.

The RNG is fair—but fairness doesn’t heal loneliness. The myth is beautiful—but beauty doesn’t feed hunger for meaning. The rooster crows every seven seconds—and no one hears it cry.

I Write Because Someone Must Be Heard.

Not for clicks. Not for coins. But because behind every screen is someone trembling—not with excitement… because they are waiting—for silence—to finally be seen.