Chamber: An Esports Romance

Clifton pushed open the soundproof door of the private training room on the second floor. The central air conditioning of the hallway hit him instantly. The sudden blast of cold air made him shrink his neck back into the collar of his oversized hoodie. He raised his left hand. Through the thick fabric of his sleeve, his fingers dug hard into the joint of his right wrist. He squeezed, trying to crush the familiar, glass-like splintering pain radiating deep inside the bone. Heavy footsteps echoed from the far end of the corridor. Clifton immediately shoved his right hand into his hoodie pocket. He straightened his spine, his face hardening into the cold, untouchable mask of a god. Delmus, the team manager, walked toward him holding a thick stack of evaluation reports. Delmus was already complaining, his voice loud in the empty hall, bitching about the astronomical electric bill the base racked up this month. Delmus flipped a page. He casually mentioned that a new batch of trainees had arrived in the basement boot camp. He suggested Clifton, as the team captain, should go down there and put some fear into the new kids. Clifton opened his mouth to refuse. But a sudden, sharp throb pulsed in his right wrist. It was a brutal reminder of his own vulnerability. The thought of new blood replacing him filled him with a cold dread. He gave a single, cold nod, deciding to face the threat head-on. They walked toward the stairs, one after the other. Through the massive floor-to-ceiling windows on the first floor, the blinding Los Angeles sun poured in, creating a harsh contrast with the dim, artificial lighting of the interior. Clifton walked down the spiral staircase. The sound hit him before the sight did. The frantic, dense clattering of dozens of mechanical keyboards being smashed simultaneously echoed up from the basement. He stopped outside the half-open double doors. Through the gap, his cold eyes scanned the room. Dozens of young boys in identical gray t-shirts sat hunched over their desks. The rookies felt the heavy, oppressive presence at the door. One by one, they stopped moving their mice. They turned their heads, their eyes wide with a mix of absolute terror and worship for the esports legend standing in the doorway. Clifton felt a wave of disgust at their pathetic, awe-struck stares. He turned his body, ready to walk away and get a coffee from the kitchen. Then, his eyes locked onto a corner of the room. A boy sat there, wearing a faded black baseball cap. His back was facing the door. He was the only one who hadn't turned around. The boy's posture was incredibly rigid, his shoulders pulled tight. The movements of his mouse were microscopic in distance but terrifyingly high in frequency. That specific, frantic muscle memory made Clifton's stomach drop hard. Clifton took a step forward without thinking. His leather shoe hit the hardwood floor with a heavy thud, shattering the silence in the room. He stared dead at the boy's monitor. In the top right corner of the screen, the kill feed flashed. The ID read: Ember. Clifton's breathing turned ragged instantly. Inside his pocket, his right hand curled into a fist so tight his nails broke the skin of his palm. Feeling the suffocating weight of the stare burning into his back, the boy in the cap finally hit the enter key. He slowly turned his chair around. Under the brim of the cap was a pale, gaunt face. Deep, dark eyes looked up. The second they focused on the man standing at the door, the boy's pupils shook violently. It was Justice Terry. The man who took Clifton's heart, threw it on the ground, and stomped on it a year ago. Justice's pale lips parted. His Adam's apple bobbed hard, trying to push a name out of his throat. But no sound came. Clifton stared at the shock in those eyes. A year's worth of suppressed rage and the burning humiliation of betrayal erupted in his chest like battery acid. He expected Justice to flinch or look away. But Justice just sat frozen in the gaming chair. His bony hands gripped the fabric of his jeans right at his thighs, knuckles turning white. A vicious, attacking sneer twisted Clifton's lips. His eyes dragged over Justice's cheap, worn-out t-shirt like he was looking at a piece of garbage on the street. Clifton raised his voice. He made sure every single person in the room could hear him. "Their mental fortitude looks pathetic," Clifton said to Delmus, his tone dripping with pure mockery. The words echoed off the basement walls. Justice's shoulders jerked hard. He pulled his head down, hiding his face deeper under the cap. Seeing Justice act so small and submissive made Clifton sick to his stomach. He was convinced the liar was just playing the victim to climb the ladder. Delmus didn't notice the toxic air between them. He just nodded along with Clifton and opened his folder, ready to read off the names. "Waste of time," Clifton snapped, cutting Delmus off brutally. He spun around and walked toward the first-floor kitchen. He didn't stop until he was outside the door. Clifton leaned his back against the cold wall. He panted, his chest heaving. A layer of cold sweat broke out on his forehead. He pulled his phone from his pocket. He stared at the blocked number in his contacts. His eyes turned dark and dangerous. He was going to make this opportunist pay for every second of hell he put him through.