Clifton POV

Clifton's eyes snapped open. He was still in the Aegis kitchen. His fingers had dragged across the marble countertop, leaving wet streaks.

The phantom of Chicago clung to his skin like damp clothing.

He pulled out his phone. Stared at his blocked list. There it was—the Discord account he had erased. The one that now went by a different name.

Ember.

The ID Justice had chosen for himself. As if he still believed there was something inside him worth burning for.

Clifton's jaw tightened. He would not be fooled twice.

He left the kitchen and walked straight to the data analysis room. Pressed his thumb against the biometric scanner. The heavy lock clicked open.

The room was freezing. Rows of servers hummed with a low, vibrating drone. He sat at the main terminal and typed in his senior admin password.

Dozens of headshots scrolled across the monitor. Clifton's eyes locked onto the boy in the black baseball cap.

He clicked open Justice Terry's file. Skipped past the insane KDA stats and win rates. Scrolled straight to the bottom.

Recommender: Branson Powell.

Clifton's vision went red.

Branson. The first team's backup fragger. A snake in human skin. Justice had tried to use Clifton to climb into the pro scene, and when that failed, he'd just found another target. Another stepping stone.

Clifton let out a harsh laugh. This liar was so desperate to stay in the game that he'd tolerate a piece of trash like Branson.

The door opened. Delmus walked in. He saw Clifton's screen and smiled.

"Branson really pulled through this time. The numbers that Justice kid is putting up are breaking base records."

Clifton spun his chair around. "What were the terms?"

Delmus shifted uncomfortably. "Branson brought him in. He demanded a thirty percent cut of Justice's first-year salary as a finder's fee."

Thirty percent. A bloodsucking contract. And Justice had signed it.

"Anything else I should know?"

Delmus sighed. "PR is bad right now. Reddit is tearing you apart. They're saying you're slacking, that your hours are dropping." He paused. "There's a rumor that Branson brought this kid in to replace you next season."

A sharp, drilling spike of agony fired deep inside Clifton's right wrist.

He grabbed the joint with his left hand, squeezing hard to stop the tremor. His face remained blank. No one could know. Not Delmus. Not the sponsors. Not the vultures circling his chair.

"Set up a scrim for two o'clock," Clifton said. "First team versus the rookies."

He looked back at Justice's photo. The gaunt face. The dark, haunted eyes.

Let's see what you're made of, liar.

Clifton POV

Clifton found Branson in the second-floor lounge, slouched into the leather sofa, scrolling through Instagram.

He kicked the bottom edge of the sofa. Branson's head snapped up. A fake smile stretched across his face, but Clifton caught the flash of jealousy underneath.

"Where did you find Justice Terry?"

Branson sat up, puffing his chest. "High-Elo ranked. Kid slid into my DMs begging for a tryout."

Slid into my DMs. The words made Clifton's blood temperature drop.

He leaned down, invading Branson's space. "Don't think you can build your own little clique in my team."

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

Clifton scoffed and turned away. He walked toward the pantry, his mind still churning. Eighteen months. Eighteen months since that rainy alley, and the wound was still festering. He'd told himself he was over it. Over him.

He was lying.

He rounded the corner and collided with a body.

Hot liquid splashed. Paper cups. Two of them. Justice stumbled backward, clutching the cups like shields, his dark eyes going wide with panic.

Up close, the boy looked even more fragile than he had in the basement. Sharp cheekbones. Shadows under his eyes. Skin that hadn't seen sunlight in months. He smelled like cheap laundry detergent and faint tobacco.

"Watch it," Clifton snapped.

Justice didn't respond. His chest started rising and falling with rapid, shallow breaths. He tried to squeeze past Clifton's shoulder, desperate to escape without making contact. His hands were shaking so badly that his right wrist jerked.

The plastic lid on one of the cups popped loose.

Boiling black coffee sloshed over the rim and splashed onto the bare skin of Justice's right hand.

Justice sucked in a sharp breath. A suppressed, strangled sound of pain escaped his throat—the kind of sound made by someone who had learned, long ago, that crying out only made things worse.

Clifton reached for Justice's arm without thinking. Muscle memory older than his anger. Older than the betrayal.

But the moment his fingers entered Justice's peripheral vision, something behind the boy's eyes shattered.

Justice didn't dodge. He didn't flinch away.

He just… stopped.

His eyes squeezed shut. His shoulders hunched upward, curling inward like a turtle retreating into its shell. His whole body went rigid—not like someone avoiding a blow, but like someone who had learned to wait for it. To endure it. To survive it.

Clifton's hand stopped mid-air.

This wasn't fear of him. This was something older. Something carved into the boy's bones long before Clifton had ever entered his life.

Justice's eyes flew open. He looked at Clifton's suspended hand, then at Clifton's face. Something like shame flooded his expression. He'd revealed too much.

He stumbled backward. His shoulder caught the metal trash can behind him, sending it crashing to the floor.

Branson's head popped over the sofa. "The hell was that?"

Justice didn't look up. He grabbed his scalded hand, tucked his chin into his chest, and bolted down the hallway.

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

Slowly, he curled his fingers inward. Formed a fist. Shoved it deep into his hoodie pocket.

He stared at the spilled coffee spreading across the floor. That wasn't guilt he'd seen in Justice's eyes. It was expectation. The expectation of being hit. The expectation of pain.

What the hell happened to you?

Branson sauntered over, looking at the mess. "Jesus. The rookie can't even carry coffee."

Clifton snapped his head around. The look in his eyes made Branson take a step back.

"Shut your mouth. Or I'll shut it for you."

Clifton stepped over the puddle and walked toward the stairs. But his mind wasn't on Branson, or the scrimmage, or even his own burning rage.

It was on the way Justice had braced himself.

Like he'd been doing it his whole life.

Clifton POV

At exactly two o'clock, the lights in the first-floor training room dimmed. Ten monitors cast harsh blue-white glows across the players' faces.

Clifton slid his noise-canceling headphones over his ears. On his screen, the operative select screen glowed. He locked in his signature defensive operative without hesitation. His in-game name burned beneath the portrait: Ash.

He rolled his right wrist, testing the tension. Black kinesiology tape wrapped the joint tightly. The dull ache was there, but he forced his brain to compartmentalize. Focus on the match. Nothing else.

First round. Pistol round. Clifton bought light shields and positioned himself at B site. The barrier dropped.

The academy team came out aggressive. Gunfire erupted at A. Buster traded kills. The round ended fast—first team won, but it was messy. Branson had overextended and nearly thrown.

Round three. First full buy. Clifton finally had his sniper rifle. He positioned himself deep in B site, scoped in on the narrow gap where attackers would have to cross.

He was hunting. Specifically, he was hunting Ember.

In his headset, Branson was barking chaotic callouts from mid. He'd died early again, forcing himself into a backseat shot-caller role.

Then the kill feed lit up.

Ember eliminated Aegis_Buster with a headshot.

Clifton's jaw tightened. Buster had been holding A main. That angle should have been safe.

"Fuck," Buster muttered. "He swung me so fast. I didn't even see him."

Clifton didn't respond. He kept his scope trained on the gap.

Footsteps. Multiple. B main.

The first attacker crossed—a blur of motion. Clifton fired. The sniper rifle's thunderous crack echoed through the map. Body dropped. One down.

But the second attacker was already through. And it was Justice.

Clifton saw the character model slide past the gap with a perfect shoulder-peek. The movement was fluid. Precise. Every pixel had a purpose.

The coffee burn. The image of Justice's red, blistering hand flashed into Clifton's mind. That suppressed cry of pain.

Clifton's right hand hesitated. A fraction of a second.

"Captain! He's pushing you! Left side!" Branson screamed in the voice channel.

Clifton snapped back. He swung his crosshair violently left, aiming to flick onto Justice's head.

The sudden movement sent a drilling spike of agony through his wrist. A rusty nail driven into bone.

His crosshair jerked off target by pixels. He fired. The bullet grazed past Justice's shoulder and sparked against stone.

Justice didn't miss.

Two clean shots. Double-tap to the head.

Clifton's screen turned gray.

Ember eliminated Ash with a headshot.

The training room fell into deathly silence. Everyone paralyzed. The esports god had just lost a straight sniper duel to a rookie holding a rifle.

Branson's voice came through the comms, dripping with fake sympathy. "Wow, Cap. Looking a little rusty today."

Clifton took his hands off the keyboard. Stared at the gray screen.

He hadn't lost to skill. He'd lost to his own damn softness. He'd lost because he was worried about a liar's burned hand.

He looked over the top of his monitor. In the alcove by the servers, Justice was frozen. Hands off his keyboard. Staring at his own screen like he couldn't believe what he'd just done.

Next round, Clifton promised himself. I won't hesitate.