“Been watching your runs,” she says, rolling her shoulders like she’s shaking off nerves. “You’re fast.”
I smile, just a little. “So are you.”
She grins, then looks away, back in her own head.
“Stations are ready!” someone calls.
Carter squeezes my shoulder once. “You’ve got this.”
I take a breath, then step forward. The moment I slip on my headset and settle into my station, the rest of the world ceases to exist.
The lights, gone. The sound of the arena crowd, muted.
Even the internal screaming that’s been living rent-free in the back of my brain since I signed up for this damn tournament? Vanished.
All that’s left is the glow of the monitor and the cool press of my fingers on the keys.
The gaming arena is a monster. Bigger than I pictured. Built like a concert stage swallowed a spaceship. Tiered LED panels climb behind us in dizzying lines of light, each one pulsing in sync with the bass of the announcer’s voice. Overhead, a sea of rigged camera arms hang like mechanical spiders, swinging to follow every flick of the wrist, every play, every expression.
The crowd is a living thing. Hundreds of bodies packed into a space that was clearly designed for maximum chaos. Rows of glowing foam sticks, and creams that rise and fall in waves. Flashing signs—some digital, some hand-painted—declaring favorite teams, usernames, ships.
My station is dead center on the right bracket wing, the wordHavenHexedemblazoned on the plexiglass divider behind me in high-gloss lettering that flickers with rainbow static whenever my profile pops up on the main screen. The setup is immaculate, a full RGB tower glowing beneath the desk, gold-accented headset hooked into the armrest, custom keyboard synced to my stream theme. There’s even a discreet little bottle of branded iced water beside the mousepad. Twitch Premium doesn’t play.
Tate’s across the stage from me in the opposing bracket wing, shadowed in crimson lighting like he was summoned straight from hell. His name, NOONEGHOST smolders acrossthe divider behind him in deep red, the ‘O’ glitching every few seconds like the feed’s about to drop. He hasn’t moved since the moment we logged in. Just hands on keys, his jaw set and yes hidden behind the lower edge of his mask, but I feel them. Ifeelhim.
And of course center row, leftmost station is Dylan.
His sleeves rolled up, custom mouse perched between his fingers, his signature black-and-white logo stitched onto the collar of his hoodie. His bracket placement was controversial as hell—skipped rounds, shady alliances—but he’s here. Right where he wanted to be. Sitting three stations down from me like we aren’t in the same history book, like he doesn’t know exactly how I play. He keeps glancing over, like waiting for me to crack.
He’s going to be disappointed. Around us, the rest of the finalists are settling in.
To my left, the neon-haired streamer is flexing her wrists, bouncing in her seat to whatever beat is blasting through her earbuds. She’s got stickers all over her monitor frame, unicorns, flames, pastel knives. To my right, BoilerX is cracking his knuckles, big and burly with a headset that looks like it was made for military ops, not gaming. He’s the type to main heavy loadout and rush choke points.
The arena lights shift again. A massive projection screen unfurls overhead. One half shows the bracket tree in slick animated gold. The other half shows our cams. The countdown appears center screen.
5.
4.
3.
I grip the mouse tighter.
2.
1.
This is the part I know how to do. Click, breathe, move, react.
Each round flies by faster than the last. My team’s tight, coordinated. We’ve got strategy and timing on lock. They trust me to lead, and I don’t hesitate —shot-calling when it counts, backing off when necessary.
I know Tate is doing the same. Even without looking, I can feel the heat of his gameplay.
I don’t have time to check my phone, but I catch a glimpse of Tate’s stream on the spectator monitors overhead. He’s just scored a kill so clean the crowd literally gasps. His masked face is lit by the screen. The clip replays. Someone in the arena blurts, “Ghost looks like he’s hunting for someone.”
I smile. Yeah, me too.
My breath comes in short bursts, fingers flying across the keys. I glance once at the screen showing the global bracket results and see itNoOneGhostsitting just one spot beneath mine.