The stage was set. All five players stepped forward for the pre-match handshake.

  Ethan’s grip was firm, unwavering. His smirk barely concealed his amusement as he leaned in close to Alex’s ear.

  “Hope you’re practicing your soft voice, princess. You’ll make a great femboy streamer after this.”

  Alex didn’t flinch. He just stared—cold, unreadable—before tightening his grip in return. The tension between them was suffocating.

  They sat down in their chairs as the champion pool appeared on screen.

  Alex’s first roll: Shaco.

  He frowned. Not terrible, but not ideal. He hit the reroll button.

  Yone.

  Diego’s laughter rang through the voice chat. “Oh man, we are so screwed. Don’t worry, I’ll carry all of you.”

  The final team comp:

  Alex - Yone

  Jordan - Rengar

  Diego - Lee Sin

  Leon - Jhin

  Eric - Braum

  Meanwhile, Ethan’s team locked in:

  Ethan - Syndra

  Kai - Xerath

  Felix - Ziggs

  Malik - Varus

  Roman - Volibear

  The Twitch chat erupted with laughter.

  “Melee diff incoming LUL.”

  “That’s a GG at loading screen.”

  “Bro’s about to get poked to death before he even moves.”

  Soo-Ah’s voice came through the broadcast. “Oof. Three melee champs into heavy poke and Volibear for engage? I hope these guys like pain.”

  Alex cracked his fingers. Let them laugh.

  As expected, the match started brutally for Alex’s team.

  Varus and Ziggs kept constant pressure, forcing them to last-hit under tower. Every attempt to engage was met with instant punishment—Varus’ Piercing Arrows, Syndra’s Scatter the Weak, Xerath’s Arcane Barrage.

  Jordan and Alex, too aggressive for their own good, both dove in early and paid the price.

  “First Blood.”

  “Double Kill.”

  The screen flashed gray for the second time. Alex respawned, jaw clenched.

  Across the map, Ethan casually pressed Syndra’s bow emote, just subtle enough to suggest one thing:

  Surrender now.

  At four minutes, their first tower fell.

  At six minutes, their gold deficit was nearly 3,000.

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

  "FF 15?" Eric muttered, his voice tight with anxiety. The weight of the contract loomed over them—fail here, and their esports careers were over.

  Jordan exhaled sharply, rubbing his temple. "This ain't it, chief... This ain't just another game. If we lose here, we're fucking done." His usual cocky demeanor cracked, just for a second, revealing the fear underneath.

  Alex’s grip on his mouse tightened. His blood boiled.

  "Are you all actually this fucking useless?" he snapped through the headset.

  Diego snorted. "Look who's talking, dumbass. You’ve died twice already."

  "Yeah? Because I actually try to play the game instead of sitting under tower like a coward." Alex’s tone was venomous. "If you’re scared, go apply to the MPL. I hear they love spineless shitters."

  A brief silence followed. Then Leon chuckled darkly. "So what’s the move, fearless leader? Gonna int for a third time?"

  Alex’s knuckles cracked. He exhaled sharply.

  “Watch and learn.”

  Faker sat in a sleek, high-tech command center, a room that felt less like an office and more like the control deck of a starship. The ambient lighting pulsed with a soft blue hue, matching the glow of the holographic monitors that surrounded him in a semi-circle, each one streaming a different player's POV, alongside heat maps, reaction times, and split-second decision logs. The air was crisp and cool, maintained at the perfect temperature for focus. A single Korean herbal tea sat steaming on his desk, untouched.

  At the corner of his desk, a chibi Revoltech figure of himself stood, arms crossed, wearing the classic SKT1 jersey. A quiet, almost humorous reminder of his legendary status.

  His AI assistant materialized in midair—a floating chibi Teemo with oversized goggles, bouncing slightly with each word it spoke.

  “Projected win rate: 87% for Ethan’s team. It’s statistically improbable for Alex’s team to recover.”

  Faker didn’t respond immediately. His eyes stayed locked on Alex’s screen, his expression unreadable.

  Then, finally, he spoke. “Nothing is guaranteed yet.”

  The AI tilted its head. “What do you see that contradicts my analysis?”

  Faker leaned back, folding his arms. “Tell me, Teemo—what do a player’s item choices, decision-making, and roaming timers tell you?”

  Teemo blinked. “Their mechanical skill, their game knowledge, their reaction to pressure. The ability to land skill shots, maintain proper CS, execute perfect kiting, these are all marks of a high-level player.”

  Faker shook his head slightly. “That is only the surface.”

  Teemo tilted its head. “Then what else is there?”

  Faker leaned forward, fingers interlocked. “Esports is human nature distilled into pixels and stats. Every build, every pathing choice, every roam—it all reveals something deeper. Look at a player’s first item. Do they rush a Legendary, or do they buy an early Grievous Wounds? That tells you if they’re thinking of themselves or thinking of controlling the enemy’s win condition.”

  Teemo adjusted its goggles. “So decision-making is a reflection of personality?”

  Faker nodded. “A player who greedily chases every kill, who builds full damage without survivability—they believe in dominance through destruction. A player who wards deep, who denies vision, who controls the pace of the game? They believe in suffocation, control. They aren’t just playing to win—they’re playing to crush their enemy's will to fight.”

  Teemo processed for a moment. “So it’s not about mechanics. It’s about how a player asserts dominance over the map.”

  Faker’s gaze remained steady. “Exactly. Mechanics are the foundation. But the greatest players aren’t just skilled—they make the enemy feel powerless.”

  Faker nodded. “And beyond that?”

  A pause. “Their instincts. Their ability to adapt.”

  Faker smirked slightly. “And what do instincts reveal about a person?”

  Teemo hesitated. “Their place in the hierarchy.”

  Faker exhaled. “Exactly. In a game like this, dominance isn’t measured just in gold leads and KDA—it’s about control. Every action, every roam, every purchase... they reveal a player’s mentality.”

  He gestured toward Alex’s screen, where Yone had just respawned. “Watch him closely. He’s lost, but he hasn’t submitted. That’s the difference.”

  Teemo adjusted its goggles. “Are you saying he’s still a contender?”

  Faker’s gaze remained steady. “I’m saying he still has the chance to force the pack to follow.”

  Teemo floated slightly closer, its oversized goggles reflecting the data on the screens. “But what if the pack doesn’t follow?”

  Faker’s eyes darkened slightly. “Then the Alpha Wolf dies.”

  A pause.

  “Or he turns into something even worse.”

  The next wave crashed. Ethan’s team, smelling blood, stepped forward to zone them again.

  But Alex didn’t wait.

  He flashed in with Yone—an absolute suicide move under normal circumstances.

  Instantly, Syndra reacted with Scatter the Weak. She missed.

  Ziggs panicked and tossed a Satchel Charge. Too slow.

  Alex hit three people with Soul Unbound, snapping back into Braum’s passive auto. Diego’s Lee Sin followed up, landing a perfect Dragon’s Rage kick on Volibear, sending him flying into Ziggs and Xerath.

  Leon’s Jhin activated Curtain Call. Four bullets. Four perfect shots.

  Jordan executed Varus in the chaos.

  Alex died, but they wiped four of them.

  Chat Reaction:

  “HOLY FUCK YONE ACTUALLY DID SOMETHING.”

  “ALEX REDEEMED?!”

  “Nah bro that was clean as hell.”

  Ethan, the only survivor, watched his team’s corpses litter the Howling Abyss.

  His smirk faltered.