The room was silent.
Not the peaceful kind of silence—but the kind that presses against your ears, broken only by the soft hum of a charging phone and the faint crackle of headphones. Outside, the world slept. Inside this room, a war was about to begin.
He sat on the edge of his bed, shoulders relaxed but mind razor-sharp. The phone rested in his hands like a weapon. This wasn't just another late-night game.
This was the last match.
One win would mean progress.
One loss would mean starting over.
The lobby loaded.
Match Found.
His squad appeared on the screen—random names, random voices. No history. No trust. Just four players tied together by chance.
The countdown began.
3…
He adjusted his grip.
2…
A slow breath in.
1…
The plane thundered across the map, slicing through the digital sky. Below lay Bermuda—bright, beautiful, and unforgiving.
"Where are we landing?" someone asked.
A moment of silence.
"Clock Tower," he finally said.
There was hesitation on the mic. Everyone knew Clock Tower. High loot. Higher danger.
But before anyone could argue, he jumped.
The wind howled as his character dropped. Enemy parachutes filled the sky like dark warnings. This wasn't a quiet start. This was a battlefield.
The moment his feet hit the ground, gunfire erupted.
Glass shattered. Footsteps echoed. Chaos bloomed instantly.
One teammate went down within seconds.
"I'm knocked!" a voice cried.
He grabbed the nearest gun—nothing fancy. Low ammo. No armor. No time.
He moved carefully, not rushing, not panicking. Every step had purpose. Every sound meant something. Gaming wasn't just fast fingers—it was decision under pressure.
Footsteps on the stairs.
He waited.
The door opened.
Bang.
A clean headshot. Enemy down.
Before the body even hit the floor, another enemy rushed in, spraying bullets wildly. His health dropped fast—red flashing, danger screaming. He threw up a gloo wall at the last possible second, reloaded, leaned out—
Bang.
Second enemy down.
"Yo, nice!" someone shouted.
No reply.
A grenade rolled across the floor.
Boom.
The explosion shook the screen. Health dropped to almost nothing.
Another teammate fell.
Now there were only two voices on mic—and fear had entered both.
"Bro, play safe," someone said. "Just hide."
He didn't answer.
Because hiding never won legends.
He jumped out the window, flanked around the building, using sound and instinct. The enemies were confident now. They thought the fight was over.
They were wrong.
One enemy tried to heal.
He rushed.
Another tried to aim.
He strafed.
The last one froze.
Triple kill.
Silence returned to Clock Tower.
As the match continued, the circle shrank, forcing survivors closer together. Every fight became sharper. Every bullet mattered. Medkits felt rarer than gold.
His squad stayed alive—but barely.
Final zone.
Two squads left.
Gunfire exploded from the rocks ahead. One teammate went down instantly.
Then another.
Again, it was just him.
Alone.
The enemy squad rushed together, coordinated and confident. This was supposed to be their win.
He slowed down.
Focused.
Used smoke. Used cover. Cracked armor. Took damage. Healed once. Started healing again—then cancelled it.
No more waiting.
He pushed.
Jump.
Slide.
Aim.
The last shot rang out.
Time froze.
Then the screen lit up with a single word—
BOOYAH!
For a second, he didn't move. The room felt unreal. The silence felt loud.
A voice finally broke through the mic.