Clifton left the kitchen and walked straight down the hall to the data analysis room. He pressed his thumb against the biometric scanner. The heavy electronic lock clicked open.

The room was freezing. Rows of servers hummed with a low, vibrating drone. He pulled out an ergonomic chair and sat down at the main control terminal.

He typed in his senior admin password. On his secondary monitor, a muted VOD of a German VCT tournament played, the casters' rapid-fire analysis something he translated effortlessly in his head-a lingering habit from his early days scrimming in European servers. He bypassed the standard files and directly pulled up the background checks and application forms for every rookie in the boot camp.

Dozens of headshots scrolled across the monitor. Clifton's eyes scanned them rapidly until they locked onto the photo of the boy in the black baseball cap.

He clicked open Justice Terry's file. He didn't care about the insane KDA stats or the win rates from public matches. He scrolled straight down to the bottom. To the 'Recommender' field.

The name printed there made his jaw tight.

Branson Powell. The first team's backup fragger.

Clifton's eyebrows pulled together into a hard line. His index finger tapped aggressively against the plastic shell of the mouse. Click. Click. Click.

Clifton's brain immediately connected the dots back to a year ago. Justice had tried to use Clifton to get into the pro scene. When that failed, he just found another target. He found another stepping stone in Branson.

Clifton let out a harsh, mocking laugh. It was pathetic. This liar was so desperate to climb the ladder he was willing to tolerate a piece of trash like Branson.

Clifton opened a new tab. He pulled up Branson's latest Twitch VOD to look for proof.

On the screen, Branson was screaming into his mic, bragging to his chat about discovering a genius in ranked queue. The chat was spamming praises for Branson's eye for talent.

But Clifton wasn't looking at Branson. He was listening to the background audio. Every few minutes, he heard Justice's voice calling out enemy positions. It was incredibly brief. Cold. Distant.

To Clifton, that cold tone wasn't shyness. It was the exact same 'aloof' persona Justice used to reel him in a year ago.

The door to the analysis room opened. Delmus walked in. He saw Clifton watching Branson's stream and smiled, thinking the captain was just checking on his teammates.

"Branson really pulled through this time," Delmus said, leaning against the desk. "The numbers that Justice kid is putting up in tryouts are breaking base records."

Clifton spun his chair around. He looked up at Delmus with dead eyes.

"What were the terms to sign him?" Clifton asked.

Delmus shifted his weight, looking a little uncomfortable. "Branson brought him in. He demanded a thirty percent cut of Justice's first-year salary as a finder's fee."

Clifton sneered in his head. A predatory contract. The fact that Justice signed a bloodsucking deal like that only proved how greedy and desperate he was to get into the first team.

Delmus let out a heavy sigh. "Look, Clifton. The PR right now is bad. Reddit is tearing you apart. They're saying you're slacking, that your hours are dropping."

Delmus paused, lowering his voice. "There's even a rumor going around that Branson brought this kid in to replace you as captain next season."

The second Delmus said that, a sharp, drilling spike of agony fired deep inside Clifton's right wrist.

Clifton grabbed his wrist with his left hand, squeezing hard to stop the tremor. He kept his face completely blank, hiding the pain.

The fans didn't know. Delmus didn't know. Nobody knew that Clifton wasn't slacking. His wrist had severe, irreversible Repetitive Strain Injury. He was at the end of his lifespan as a pro.

He was cutting his training hours to manage the pain, trying to survive just a little longer. He couldn't say a word, or the sponsors would drop the team instantly.

Clifton looked back at the monitor. He stared at Justice's photo. His chest tightened with a messy knot of rage, bitterness, and a faint, suffocating sorrow.

He had bled for this team. He would rather die than let a snake like Branson and a heartless liar like Justice take it over.

Clifton stood up violently. The wheels of the chair scraped harshly against the floor.

"Set up a scrim for two o'clock," Clifton told Delmus. "First team versus the rookies. I want to see what this genius is made of."

Before Delmus could argue, Clifton walked out of the room. He was going to find Branson.

Clifton walked into the second-floor lounge with a dark cloud hanging over him. He spotted Branson immediately. Branson was slouched deep into the leather sofa, one leg crossed over the other, scrolling mindlessly through Instagram on his phone.

Clifton walked straight up to him and kicked the bottom edge of the sofa with his heavy shoe.

Branson's head snapped up. A fake, practiced smile stretched across his face, but Clifton caught the quick flash of jealousy and defensiveness in his eyes.

"Where did you find Justice Terry?" Clifton asked. His voice was flat and cold.

Branson sat up, puffing his chest out a little. He looked proud. "Ran into him in high-Elo ranked. The kid actually slid into my DMs begging for a tryout."

Hearing the words 'slid into my DMs' made the temperature in Clifton's eyes drop to absolute zero. It was the perfect confirmation of his theory.

Clifton leaned down, invading Branson's space. His voice dropped to a dangerous warning. "Don't think you can hire a gun to build your own little clique in my team."

Branson's face lost some color, but he threw his hands up, playing the victim. "Come on, cap. I'm just looking out for the future of the team."

Clifton let out a disgusted scoff. He didn't want to hear another word of bullshit. He turned around and walked toward the open-concept pantry next to the lounge.

As he stepped into the narrow doorway of the pantry, a thin body suddenly turned the corner, walking right into him.

It was Justice. He was holding two steaming paper cups of hot Americano, clearly running errands for the rookie coaches.

They were inches apart. Clifton could smell the cheap, generic laundry detergent on Justice's clothes, mixed with the faint, bitter scent of tobacco.

The second Justice saw Clifton's face, his entire body locked up like he had been hit with a stun gun.

Those deep eyes instantly flooded with raw, uncontrollable panic. His pupils shrank to pinpricks.

Clifton stood tall, looking down at him. His eyes were heavy with judgment. He deliberately planted his feet, refusing to step back and clear the doorway.

The narrow frame forced them into a tight, suffocating proximity. Justice's chest started rising and falling with rapid, shallow breaths.

Desperate to escape, Justice turned his body sideways, trying to squeeze past Clifton's shoulder. But his nerves were completely fried. As he moved, his right wrist violently jerked.

The plastic lid popped off. Boiling hot black coffee sloshed out of the cup and splashed directly onto the bare skin of Justice's right hand.

Justice sucked in a sharp breath through his teeth. A suppressed, strangled sound of pain escaped his throat. His fingers gave out. The paper cup hit the floor, splattering dark liquid everywhere.

Without thinking, driven by a muscle memory older than his anger, Clifton reached his hand out to grab Justice's arm to check the burn.

But the second Clifton's fingers moved toward him, Justice flinched backward with terrifying violence, like he was dodging a knife.

Justice stumbled back so hard he crashed into the metal trash can behind him. It tipped over with a loud crash.

Across the room, Branson popped his head over the sofa to see what the noise was.

Justice didn't even look up. He grabbed his bright red, scalded hand, tucked his chin into his chest, and bolted down the hallway like a terrified animal.

Clifton's hand was left hanging in the empty air.

Slowly, his fingers curled inward, forming a tight, shaking fist. He shoved it deep into his hoodie pocket.

He stared at the spilled coffee on the floor. The anger in his chest flared up, mixing with a dark, suffocating frustration.

It was exactly like that rainy night. Justice treating him like a disease. Running away the second Clifton tried to touch him.

Branson walked over, looking at the mess. He let out a loud, mocking laugh. "Jesus. The rookie's mental state is garbage."

Clifton snapped his head to the side. He glared at Branson with eyes full of pure murder. "Shut the fuck up."

Clifton stepped over the puddle of coffee. He walked toward the stairs. His blood was boiling. He wanted to get into the game and tear that coward to pieces.

He pulled out his phone and typed a message into the team group chat.

Scrim at 2 PM sharp. Nobody is late.