Brrrrrap!
A digital explosion lit the screen. A red kill counter ticked upward. On his headset, Julian let out a triumphant cackle that echoed through his dim, LED-lit room like a demon blessed with surround sound.
"Let's fucking GO, BABY!" he screamed, slamming the controller against his thigh. "Y'all see that shit? Man got clapped so hard his ancestors lagged."
Laughter burst from his headset as his friends howled in response.
"You're such a degenerate, bro," came Mapalo's voice, static-ridden but unmistakably laughing. "How the hell you do that while eating chips? You literally ADS'd mid-chew."
Julian didn't skip a beat. "It's called multitasking, my G. Something your mama should've tried before having you."
"Damn!" Mapalo shouted. "This man really out here with the fatherless insults today."
"Bro," said Fredrick, deep-voiced and tired sounding as always, "Julian's got the energy of a cracked-out Twitch streamer and the moral compass of a GTA V NPC."
"Facts," Julian said proudly, one hand adjusting his headset as the other worked the analog stick like a pianist on a warpath. "And y'all still need me to carry this team like Atlas on creatine."
The trio was knee-deep in a ranked match of a sweaty shooter—their screens filled with muzzle flashes, sliding players, and the constant drone of voice chat chaos. Julian's room throbbed with RGB glow, empty switch cans on the desk, and half a Shawarma sweating on a napkin beside his keyboard.
It was a mess. But it was his kingdom.
"Watch the flank!" Fredrick barked.
"I am the flank," Julian replied, sliding into a hallway and snapping a headshot before the enemy even knew what spawned him.
"Holy sh—"
"Man just hit a triple headshot like he's writing poetry in bullet," Mapalo muttered. "Why aren't you in esports, again?"
Julian grinned. He knew why. But he let the question hang like a victory flag. "Because, my sweet insecure sons," he said in his best smug-TV-villain voice, "I'm too powerful to be contained by sponsorships and brand deals."
Then:
Kill Streak Unlocked.
"Bro. BROOOO." Fredrick was losing it. "Julian's literally on demon time."
Julian chuckled, voice dipped in a kind of rhythmic confidence. "I was born on demon time. Baptized in 360 no scopes. Forged in MW2 lobbies."
Mapalo groaned. "Someone get this man a girlfriend before he starts speaking in Shawarma runes."
"You're just mad your KD is shaped like a fucking sine wave," Julian shot back. "Up-down, up-down. Looking like my grades in uni."
Everyone exploded into chaotic laughter. The kind of laugh that comes from years of knowing each other's embarrassing stories.
Another kill. Another whoop from the team.
They were winning. And not just by a little.
Julian leaned back slightly in his chair, sweat glistening at his temples, the beat of some hard synthwave track still pumping in the background.
"Easy game," he said, wiping his hand on his shorts. "Next lobby please. Preferably with less toddlers."
"Imagine being this cocky without even having passed your driving test," Fredrick muttered.
"Hey. Some of us prefer speedruns in life. Not tutorials."
The round ended. Victory screen.
"Alright, break time," Julian announced, stretching like a cat that just murdered a mouse. "Gotta let y'all recover from the humiliation."
"Thank you for your service, Sergeant Sweat," Mapalo replied with fake reverence. "May your KD remain inflated."
Julian ripped his headset off and stood up, walking over to his mirror with the slow, dramatic posture of a man who thought very highly of himself—and loved it.
He stared at his reflection: shirtless, toned without trying, caramel-brown skin glowing with sweat and LED backlight. His hair was messy but perfectly framed his face like it belonged in a billboard for chaos.
He grinned.
"God, I'm gorgeous," he whispered.
Then paused.
He looked around, hand on the edge of his desk. The light of his screen flickered against the wall, casting broken shadows on a poster of a samurai holding a bloodied blade under a cherry tree.
For a flicker—just a second—he thought he saw something move in the screen reflection.
He blinked. Nothing.
Probably the fan.
Probably.
He chuckled, shaking his head, brushing the weird feeling away like a notification.
Then he flopped back into his chair, grabbed his phone, and texted the group chat:
[Julian]: boys pull up tonight. got something wild. my place. trust me ;)
He smiled to himself.
The kind of smile that suggested he didn't even know what the night was going to bring.
Only that it was going to be unforgettable.
He then leaned forward, clicking open OBS with a practiced ease, the software springing to life like an old friend. He dragged the game footage from the session into his editing timeline—no cuts, no polish. Just raw gameplay, loud commentary, and insults sharp enough to peel paint. He titled the upload:
"Clapping kids so hard I got reported in 3 languages"
and hit publish without hesitation. He knew the algorithm would lap it up.
The channel—"JulesTheMenace"—was huge, and it had vibes. A growing crowd of watchers came for his gameplay, but stayed for his chaotic charm. He leaned back, arms behind his head, watching the upload bar crawl forward, already hearing the comment section in his head.
"Bro's carrying not just his team, but my depression."
"POV: You got dunked on by Jules and now you're questioning your life choices."