The cityscape was a ghost of steel and light, half-destroyed towers jutting from the fog like broken teeth gnawing at the night. Neon signs flickered in fractured rhythm, their colors bleeding into the haze like the last pulse of a dying machine. Somewhere far below, gunfire cracked through the silence — crisp, precise, rhythmic. The air itself seemed to hold its breath between each burst. And within that chaos, a single figure moved with terrifying calm.
Reever crouched behind a crumbling barrier, its surface slick with rain and dust. The muzzle of his assault rifle glowed faintly from heat, smoke curling upward in delicate threads. His aim swept over the ruined street — one heartbeat, one target, one decision that would end a life. He squeezed the trigger, and another soldier vanished in a shower of static and digital debris.
His breathing didn't shake. His hands didn't tremble. Every motion had the weight of experience — not mechanical, but honed. The slow, deliberate grace of someone who had spent a lifetime understanding recoil, rhythm, and timing better than he understood his own heartbeat.
The kill counter blinked up again: 119.
He exhaled through his nose, a low sound more habit than relief."One more," he murmured.
A shadow darted through the smoke ahead, fast and desperate. Reever was already moving — a sidestep, a short burst, the faint twitch of a muscle honed by decades of reflex. His finger pressed down, and the rifle barked. The enemy dissolved into glitching fragments, fading from existence just as the match timer hit zero.
Victory.
The notification appeared at the top of his screen in cold, mechanical blue. The music that followed was subdued, almost weary — a fanfare played for the thousandth time. A song that no longer celebrated him, but simply acknowledged his existence.
Reever leaned back in his chair, the old leather creaking beneath his weight like tired bones. He removed his headset and blinked against the glow of the monitor. The aftermath screen faded into view, displaying the scoreboard:
REEVER – 120 KILLS, 0 DEATHS.
There were no fireworks. No audience roaring through speakers. Just the faint hum of his aging gaming PC and the quiet reflection of light glinting off dozens of trophies arranged neatly on the shelf beside him. Dust clung to their edges, softening the shine.
The chat window flickered to life, messages spilling across the screen faster than he could read:
Still unbeatable.Legend!Is this guy even human anymore?
Reever smiled faintly. Not the smile of pride — more a reflex, the kind that comes from repetition. His fingers hovered above the keyboard before typing two simple words:
Good game.
He pressed Enter, closed the client, and sat still for a long moment in the dim blue light. The room felt larger than before — a quiet cathedral of memories. Shelves lined with worn-out keyboards, cracked mice, faded plaques from championships long past. Photos of him on podiums, younger, sharper, surrounded by teammates whose names he hadn't spoken in years. The screensaver rolled across his monitor, displaying fragments of a life lived through pixels:
Call of Duty: Global Series 2049 ChampionLifetime Achievement AwardE-sports Hall of Fame Inductee
Reever's reflection ghosted across the glass. His hand rose to his chest, rubbing lightly where a dull throb pulsed beneath the ribs."Guess the body's finally catching up," he muttered, the sound swallowed by the hum of cooling fans.
The air was still, almost sacred. He could hear the faint tick of the wall clock, steady and indifferent.
When he pushed himself up, his knees protested with a low crack. The floorboards groaned under his weight, and that same ache in his chest sharpened, blooming like fire. He steadied himself on the desk, breathing through the pain.
His eyes found the shelf again — the one holding his oldest trophy. A small, dented cup from his very first tournament, the engraving nearly erased by time and touch:
REEVER — CHAMPION.
He reached for it, fingertips trembling. The metal felt cold, heavier than he remembered.
Then the pain came — sudden, electric, flooding through his chest. His breath caught. The world tilted. The soft blue light from the monitor stretched and blurred as his knees buckled.
He fell beside the desk, one hand clawing at the carpet, the other reaching for the keyboard that had carried him through a lifetime of battles. The clack of his fingertips on the keys sounded almost like a gunshot in the silence.
The monitor, still alive, displayed the game's idle screen:Press Any Key to Continue.
Reever's eyes found it, the glow reflecting in them like a fading flame. His lips moved, voice barely more than a whisper — maybe instinct, something that he had often done after a game.
"Continue…"
Then his fingers fell still, and the light from the monitor was the only thing left moving in the room.