The arena lights scorched like miniature suns suspended in the void above him, their harsh beams slicing through the haze of fog machines and sweat-soaked air, illuminating a sea of a thousand screaming faces.
Below them, a single screen narrowed into focus, its edges blurring as the world outside ceased to exist.
Zephyr Kain's hands danced across his interface with frantic precision, fingers striking keys in a rhythmic frenzy that mirrored the pounding of his heart.
He was a specter in the chaos—his lean frame hunched forward like a predator coiled to strike, the neon-blue streaks in his tousled dark hair flickering under the erratic glow of the holoboards.
Every nerve in his body screamed with electric intensity, reflexes sharpened by countless years in brutal digital warzones.
His entire being was tethered to that one unyielding truth, pulsing through his veins like adrenaline-fueled fire:
Win.
And yet—
"WHAT?!"
The crowd's roar exploded like thunder, drowning out his disbelief as a laser bolt defied physics, curving midair with unnatural grace before tearing through his avatar's defenses like a hot knife through melting butter.
His screen flared crimson, the killstreak bar plummeting to zero in a heartbeat.
[You have been eliminated.]
Again.
For the third time in this godforsaken tournament.
The match didn't fade into quiet defeat.
It shattered into raw, gut-wrenching disbelief.
"Impossible," Zephyr muttered through gritted teeth, his jaw locked so tight it ached, his storm-gray eyes widening in furious incredulity.
The replays looped mercilessly in slow-motion on the side panels, taunting him: his enemy's aim snapping a perfect 180 degrees mid-shot—straight through a solid wall.
No recoil. No network lag.
Just flawless, aimbot-tier precision on what was supposed to be the most secure global tournament server in existence.
The chat exploded in a torrent of digital venom, scrolling so fast it blurred into a wall of mockery:
[lol get good scrub]
[hax crybaby detected]
[ZKAIN DOWN BAD LMAO]
[#RiggedRun2025 trending hard]
"Unbelievable," he growled under his breath, ripping his headset off with trembling hands.
His heart hammered against his ribs like a war drum, each beat echoing the rage boiling in his chest.
"They didn't even bother hiding it this time... those bastards."
A subtle vibration rattled through the desk, sending a shiver up his spine.
The holoboards scattered across the arena floor pulsed with intrusive ads—NEW PATCH COMING SOON! TRY THE COSMOCORE VR EXPERIENCE! ENTER THE VOID AND CLAIM YOUR DESTINY!—but all Zephyr could focus on was his own distorted reflection in the blackened monitor.
His eyes were hollowed from endless sleepless nights grinding in isolation, that forced smirk he plastered on for the cameras now crumbling into a mask of exhaustion and betrayal.
In the background, the match announcer's voice boomed like a mocking echo, amplified to ear-splitting levels.
"And once again, DominusPrime reigns victorious! Our reigning champion shuts down Zephyr Kain in a stunning finish that will go down in esports history!"
Stunning?
Yeah, if "stunning" meant a rigged spectacle bought and paid for by corporate overlords propping up their golden boy.
Zephyr's hands finally fell limp from the keyboard, his fingers numb and aching from the strain.
The stadium's roar blurred into a muffled, underwater hum, as if the world itself was pulling away from him.
He sat there, frozen in the chair, the initial surge of anger ebbing into something deeper, more hollow—a bone-deep weariness that clawed at his soul.
Three grueling years of scraping his way back from the abyss.
Three years of solo grinding after that brutal team betrayal that left him shattered and alone.
Three years without a single sponsor, no contracts to fall back on, no second chances from a cutthroat industry that devoured its own.
All that sacrifice, all that pain, erased in an instant by a paid-off prodigy and some server-side cheat code that screamed foul play.
He stared at the dead screen, his jaw hanging slack, a bitter taste rising in his throat like bile.
"...Screw this. Screw all of it."
With a surge of defiant fury, he yanked the plug from the wall.
The entire rig emitted a low, mechanical whine, as if protesting the abrupt end to its digital life, and the screens faded to black one by one.
The crowd?
Still howling in ecstasy.
The announcers?
Still hyping the farce like it was the greatest show on Earth.
But Zephyr Kain, once hailed as The Last Legend—the unbreakable force who dominated leaderboards and inspired legions—rose from his seat, hurled his headset onto the desk with a clatter, and strode away without a backward glance.
Nobody tried to stop him.
No one even spared him a pitying look.
He was yesterday's hero, invisible in the shadow of the new regime.
Backstage felt like stepping into a frozen tomb—cold metallic walls echoing his footsteps, the air thick with the sterile scent of polished steel and lingering ozone from overworked servers.
A janitor glanced up from his mop, eyes dull with disinterest as he swept up the remnants of someone's spilled energy drink, more focused on the sticky puddle than the washed-up esports relic storming past like a ghost haunting his own downfall.
Zephyr didn't give a damn.
Let them ignore him.
Let the world forget.
He burst into the locker pod, slamming the door behind him with enough force to rattle the hinges, and collapsed onto the bench as if gravity had suddenly multiplied, dragging him down into despair.
His breath came in ragged gasps, shaking his chest like sobs he refused to let escape.
"Not worth it," he whispered to the stale, recycled air, his voice cracking with raw emotion.
"Not the game that's rigged against me. Not the people who stab you in the back for a paycheck. Not even the win that was never mine to begin with."
He leaned back against the cold wall, tilting his head to stare at the flickering fluorescent ceiling, willing the numbness to swallow him whole.
But then—a flicker. Subtle, almost imagined.
The locker's built-in screen twitched erratically, just for a split second, sending a chill down his spine.
"...Huh?"
He blinked hard, rubbing his eyes with the heel of his hand.
The faint hum of the rig's battery backup whirred to life, unbidden.
Then the overhead light buzzed louder, flickering like a dying star.
The air grew thin, charged with an electric tension that made the hairs on his arms stand on end.
A soft blue glow began pulsing from the edge of the locker—emanating from his portable console, still plugged in and forgotten in his haste.
Its interface spasmed wildly, strings of corrupted text racing across the screen like digital lightning.
[COSMOCORE SYSTEM INITIALIZING…]
[ERROR: NO USER AGREEMENT FOUND.]
[ENGAGING FAILSAFE: ADMIN NODE DETECTED.]
"What the hell—?" Zephyr bolted upright, his heart slamming back into overdrive, a mix of confusion and unease twisting in his gut.
The screen ignited in a blinding white blaze, flooding the pod with an otherworldly light that seared his vision.
Zephyr didn't have time to stand. Didn't have time to scream or even process the surge of panic flooding his system.
Just a single, frantic heartbeat—and then—
The locker vanished, swallowed by the void.