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.
