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.

Clifton POV

The next round began. Clifton bought the sniper rifle. Full shields. All equipment.

The barrier dropped. He didn't wait for his team. He pushed straight toward the same site where Justice had killed him. Planted himself in the exact same position. Scoped in on the exact same angle.

Come on. Do it again. I dare you.

Justice's character model appeared at the edge of his scope, crossing the same gap. The name Ember glowed red in Clifton's crosshair.

Clifton didn't adjust. He didn't flick. He just waited for Justice to walk into it.

The sniper rifle thundered.

Ash eliminated Ember with a headshot.

No duel. No exchange. An execution. Justice had walked directly into a bullet that was already waiting for him.

Across the room, Justice's hands flew off his keyboard. The gray death screen reflected off his pale, startled face.

Clifton stared at the kill feed. The words gave him nothing. No satisfaction. Only a hollow, gnawing frustration.

Killing Justice hadn't answered any of his questions. It had only made him more aware of how badly he wanted answers.

For the rest of the match, Clifton played like a demon. He led the first team on an absolute slaughter. The academy team couldn't get a single round. First team closed it out with a crushing, humiliating scoreline.

The moment the match ended, the bright overhead lights snapped on.

Coach Alger kicked the door open. His face was thunderous. "Everyone to the VOD review room! Now!"

Clifton POV

The VOD review room was suffocating. On the massive projector screen, the clip of Clifton missing his shot and getting eliminated by Justice played on a continuous, humiliating loop.

Alger slammed his tablet onto the table. Pointed a thick finger at Clifton's face.

"What the hell was that missed shot?! Your flick used to be the one thing I never had to worry about! Now you're getting out-aimed by a rookie who just walked into our base three days ago?!"

Clifton sat slouched in his chair, arms crossed. His face was stone. He absorbed the coach's fury without a word.

He couldn't explain that his wrist felt like it was tearing apart. He couldn't say he missed because he was distracted by the liar's burn.

Standing in the back row, Justice bit down hard on his lower lip. He watched Clifton getting screamed at. A flash of intense guilt crossed his eyes.

Suddenly, Justice took a step forward. His voice was hoarse and shaky.

"It wasn't his fault. I… I exploited a blind spot. It was a lucky angle."

Clifton snapped his head around. His glare was so vicious, so full of warning, that Justice flinched as if struck.

Shut up.

To Clifton, Justice pleading for him was the ultimate humiliation. The winner throwing crumbs to the loser.

Justice shrank back into the corner, shoulders hunching, making himself as small as possible.

Alger finished tearing into Clifton and turned his fire on Branson, ripping into his chaotic comms and garbage positioning.

After the review, Alger kept Clifton behind.

"Are you dealing with a physical issue?"

Clifton's stomach tightened. He forced a careless smirk. "No. Just didn't sleep well. Won't happen again."

Alger sighed. He didn't believe a word. "The sponsors are pissed about our lack of exposure. You have a streaming hours obligation. You need to go live on Twitch tonight."

Clifton's jaw clenched.

"That new kid, Justice? He's practicing sixteen hours a day. You're the captain. You can't be the one leading the rot."

Justice's name hit Clifton like gasoline on a fire.

He stood up and walked out, letting the door slam behind him.