He Came Back, I Broke Him

Eighteen months ago, the man I loved shattered my heart, claiming everything between us was a mistake. Now, he's back, a ghost of his former self, a rookie tryout in my pro esports team. And I will make him regret crawling back.

Clifton, captain of a legendary esports team, was secretly battling a severe wrist injury that threatened his career, every match a fight against his own body. He pushed through the pain, ignoring doctors' warnings, desperate to maintain his god-like status.

His world was already on the edge, but nothing prepared him for seeing Justice Terry again in the team basement. Justice, pale and trembling, his eyes wide with naked terror, was now a rookie tryout.

Clifton had spent a year and a half trying to forget that rainy Chicago alley, the raw revulsion in Justice's eyes, the whispered "it wasn't real" that had left him heartbroken. Justice had vanished, and Clifton had erased every trace. Now, the boy who once looked at him like he was the sun was back, flinching at his touch, displaying a deep, primal fear. Amidst sponsor pressure and whispers of being "washed," Clifton saw Justice's return as a chance for vengeance. He publicly humiliated Justice on a live stream, forcing him into a suicide mission, then coldly benched him.

Yet, the satisfaction never came. Instead, a hollow emptiness and a torrent of questions: What had truly happened in the past? Why was Justice here, and what trauma had carved such fear into his bones?

Clifton, unwilling to be fooled again, swore to uncover every secret and every lie. He would force Justice to explain why he had returned, even if it meant tearing down everything they both had left.

Chapter 1

CliftonPOV

Clifton's wrist was already screaming when he pushed open the training room door.

It was a familiar pain now—bone grinding against bone, tendons frayed like old rope. The doctors had used words like irreversible and degenerative and manage expectations. Clifton had stopped listening after the third diagnosis.

He stood in the second-floor hallway, letting the air conditioning hit his face. Through the gap in the basement door at the end of the corridor, he could hear them. The new trainees. Dozens of mechanical keyboards clattering like hailstones on a tin roof. Young hands. Healthy hands. Hands that didn't need to be iced after every scrim.

Clifton shoved his right hand into his hoodie pocket and dug his left fingers into the joint of his wrist. The pain sharpened. Good. Pain meant he was still here. Pain meant he hadn't lost yet.

Delmus appeared from around the corner, clutching a stack of evaluation reports. "The electric bill this month is astronomical. These kids never turn off their rigs." He flipped a page. "You should go down there. Put some fear into them. Captain's presence and all that."

Clifton opened his mouth to refuse. Then his wrist pulsed—a sharp, glass-splintering throb—and he thought about fresh blood. New hands. Someone younger, faster, healthier, sitting in his chair.

He nodded once. Cold. Sharp.

They walked toward the stairs. Clifton descended into the noise, the frantic keyboard clatter growing louder with each step. He stopped outside the half-open double doors.

The basement was a warehouse of fluorescent light and gray-uniformed boys. But Clifton's eyes slid past the main pit, toward the corner by the server racks. A small alcove sat in perpetual shadow—a graveyard of broken chairs and obsolete equipment.

A single monitor glowed in that darkness.

Someone was sitting there. Back facing the door. Faded black baseball cap pulled low.

Clifton's stomach dropped before his brain caught up.

He knew those shoulders. That rigid, pulled-tight posture. The way the mouse moved—microscopic adjustments, terrifying frequency. He'd studied that movement for months, rewatching old VODs in hotel rooms, trying to understand what he'd done wrong.

The boy in the cap hit his enter key. Then, slowly, he turned around.

Under the brim was a face Clifton had tried to forget. Pale. Gaunt. Deep, dark eyes that had once looked at him like he was the sun.

Now those eyes were wide with naked terror.

Justice Terry.

The man who had taken Clifton's heart, thrown it on the ground, and vanished into a Chicago rainstorm eighteen months ago.

Justice's lips parted. His throat bobbed. He tried to speak and failed.

Clifton expected him to flinch. To look away. To run. Instead, Justice just sat there—frozen in his chair, bony hands gripping his jeans, knuckles white. He looked like a man bracing for a blow.

The trainees in the main pit had stopped moving. They stared at their legendary captain with a mix of awe and fear.

Clifton's voice came out cold. Razor-sharp. Loud enough for everyone to hear.

"Their mental fortitude looks pathetic."

Justice's shoulders jerked. He pulled his head down, hiding his face under the cap.

Clifton spun on his heel and walked out. He didn't stop until he reached the first-floor kitchen, his back pressed against the cold wall, his chest heaving.

He pulled out his phone. Stared at the blocked number in his contacts.

Eighteen months. Eighteen months of silence, and now Justice was here, in his basement, wearing a cheap hoodie and acting like a kicked dog.

Clifton didn't unblock the number.

He opened the rookie evaluation file instead.

He was going to find out exactly what Justice Terry wanted. And then he was going to make him regret crawling back.