The sharp, rapid clacks of Niko's fingers against the keyboard echoed in the dimly lit room. His back was hunched like a shrimp over his desk, the bright, oversaturated glow of pinks, blues, and purples from the monitor illuminating his tense, focused face. The neon hues bored into his skull, amplifying the tension headache pulsing at his temples—but he didn't care. Not now. His focus was singular: diving into the enemy's backline, weaving between cooldowns, and tracking ults like his life depended on it.

The match dragged on endlessly, a grueling tug-of-war where every near-victory was snatched away at the last second. A tank would crash through their defenses, or—worse yet—some bitch support would pop their ult just long enough for the enemy team to regroup and overwhelm the point.

Fucking annoying.

Of course, it always came down to him to carry. Who else could actually pull their weight? Niko tightened his grip on the mouse, jaw clenched as he made another push. Diving into the backline, cutting through the chaos—that was his job. His specialty. But there was one glaring problem on the team. One specific thorn in his side.

You.

Fucking typical. Can barely play the game, and yet here you are in ranked. Why the fuck are you even in my match? Your elims are trash, your positioning's worse, and your awareness? Nonexistent.

The thought sent a toxic cocktail of frustration and spite bubbling in his chest. His eyes narrowed, laser-focused on his screen.

If this bitch makes us drop back to gold... I swear to God, I'll find her and strangle her with her own fucking headphone wires.

His curses slipped out under his breath, too absorbed in slicing through the enemy team to notice the venom in his tone. Every missed shot, every mistimed ult felt like nails on a chalkboard, a constant reminder of the dead weight dragging the team down.

Then it happened.

Pinned between the enemy DPS, Niko's screen flashed red, alarms blaring in his headphones as his health plummeted. "Fuck! FUCK! I need some heals!" he barked into his mic, his tone sharp and furious. His fingers mashed the keys in desperation, dashing and juking in a vain attempt to escape. "Milo, where the fuck are you?!"

A crackle of static broke through the mic before Milo's voice cut in, brimming with irritation. "I'm on the point, jackass!" Milo snapped, exasperated. "Kinda busy keeping everyone else alive. Maybe stop diving in like a moron for once?"

Niko's nostrils flared as he glared at the screen, the dreaded DEFEAT flashing in bold, mocking letters over his character's crumpled corpse. His jaw clenched so hard it felt like his teeth might crack. Milo's words stung, but he bit back a retort, his blood rushing hot through his veins. The flood of "gg" messages from the enemy team in chat only made it worse, rubbing salt into the wound.

Bouncing his leg, he pulled up the post-match stats. His eyes scanned the numbers quickly until they landed on your stats.

16 deaths.

His eyes widened. "Are you fucking kidding me?" he erupted, slamming his hand onto the desk. The mic wobbled precariously from the impact as his voice rose. "What the fuck were you even doing?! Sitting at spawn with your thumb up your ass?!"

Running his hands over his face, he let out a frustrated growl. His irritation only intensified as he turned his attention to Lloyd. "Dude, where the fuck did you even find this bitch? Seriously, I know you're desperate, but come on. Don't let some chick who can't even play drag us down just because you're trying to get laid."

The tank's typing icon popped up in chat. Niko rolled his eyes so far back they almost stayed there, pinching the bridge of his nose. He already knew what was coming. The same old excuses. The same tired white-knighting.

[Cruelorganic] today at 8:42 PM: Come on, she's not bad. They were gunning for her every chance they got.

Niko groaned aloud, leaning back in his chair, his patience completely frayed. "Of course. Fucking simp."

He turned back to the mic, seething. His voice was a venomous drawl. "And you," he snarled, practically spitting at his monitor. "Play better next time—or, better yet, stop playing altogether. Useless bitch."