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.
