It’s poetic, really. All the names I’ve gunned down to get here—players I admired, streamers I used to think were untouchable—and now? Now it’shim.
The same piece of shit who used to call me emotional when I missed a shot. The one who thought “constructive feedback” meant telling me to smile more. Who humiliated me over comms mid-match when I outscored him. The one who made me question whether I belonged in this world at all.
He’s standing at spawn on the other side of the map.
My fingers flex on the mouse. My team’s waiting for my cue. The match kicks off and I fly.
Dylan tries to push right. I shut it down before he can blink. He flanks? I bait. He hesitates? I capitalize. Every time he thinks he has me in his sights, I’m behind him, unloading hell and walking away before he can blink.
The crowd is screaming. My chat is scrolling so fast I can’t even read the comments. Dylan takes a cheap shot toward my teammate, and I see red. I sprint across the map, slide into position, and unload a full clip right into his back before he can gloat. Final kill.MYkill.
My headphones are pulled off before I’ve even caught my breath. The stage lights hit like fire, but I don’t care. My screen lights up with a massiveVictory.
Carter’s on his feet in the VIP section clapping as hard as he can and Tate’s still in his match but Iknowhe saw.
I beat him, and this time there’s not a single fucking thing he can say about it.
For a second, I don’t move. The screen is still lit up in front of me, the victory banner pulsing with the numbers locked in place.
My hands are still on the mouse and keyboard, fingers curled.
“You’re clear,” someone says behind me, and that’s what finally breaks it.
I pull my headset off slowly, the noise of the arena crashing back in all at once, louder than before, heavier now that I can actually hear it.
I step back from the station, one hand brushing the edge of the desk to ground myself. I glance up toward the spectator screens without thinking.
Carter’s voice cuts through everything a second later. “Haven.”
He’s pushing through the edge of the section. “You—” he starts, then stops, shaking his head like there aren’t words for it.
I laugh, breathless, still trying to catch up to myself. “I know.”
He steps closer, and I close the distance, throw my arms around him, and he holds on tight.
“You did it,” he says into my hair.
“I did.”
“You’ve got 20 minutes before next round.” A rep call out. Shit.
31
Carter
The VIP room smells like cold coffee and stress sweat.
It’s a little too bright in here for me, the overhead fluorescent humming just loud enough to be annoying—and the cheap leather couch I’ve been sitting on creaks every time I shift. There’s a muted stream playing on one of the monitors across the room, just a few seconds behind the one on my phone.
I can’t stop watching.
My knee bounces restlessly as I watch her dominate another round, her voice sharp and controlled over comms, her aim lethal. Every time her name flashes with another elimination, I feel it like a shock to the chest.
Haven fucking Thomas. I can’t look away.
It’s not just that she’s good—she’s always been good—it’s that there’s this intensity behind every movement now. She’s finallyletting the world see what I’ve known from day one, and god, I’m so proud of her.
So fucking proud I can’t breathe straight. I glance toward the screen again, just in time to see the kill cam replay her final shot, dead center.
