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.

Clifton walked into the massive, open-concept American kitchen. His fingers were shaking slightly as he pressed the extraction button on the espresso machine.

The loud grinding noise of the coffee beans drowned out the sound of his heavy breathing. He planted both hands flat on the cold marble counter, staring blankly as the dark brown liquid dripped into the cup.

Buster Williamson, the first team's entry fragger, shuffled into the kitchen wearing slides. He was holding a mug with an anime girl printed on it.

Buster instantly felt the suffocating low pressure in the room. He stepped cautiously toward Clifton.

"Sponsors on your ass about streaming hours again?" Buster asked.

Clifton picked up the shot of espresso. He drank it black. The bitter, acidic taste burned his throat.

"No," Clifton said coldly.

Buster leaned against the stainless-steel fridge. He lowered his voice like he was sharing gossip.

"I just saw Delmus looking pale on the stairs. Did you go down to the basement and rage at the kids?"

Clifton's fingers clamped down on the small ceramic cup. The skin over his knuckles stretched white. The dark liquid inside shook violently.

He turned his head. He looked at Buster with eyes so cold they could freeze blood.

"Do you remember the Fire Cup tournament in Chicago a year ago?" Clifton asked, his voice rough.

Buster blinked, surprised. Then he slapped his thigh.

"Hell yeah. That was our peak. How could I forget?"

A smile completely void of warmth pulled at the corner of Clifton's mouth.

"That trainee in the corner. The one with the cap. That's Justice Terry."

Buster's fingers went slack. The anime mug slipped from his hand. It slammed onto the marble counter with a loud crack. Buster's eyes went wide with pure shock.

"Wait," Buster stuttered. "The guy who vanished right after the finals? The one you went crazy looking for for a whole month?"

Clifton didn't answer. He just slammed his empty espresso cup down onto the counter. The heavy thud echoed in the kitchen.

Buster realized how bad this was. He looked around nervously, checking the hallway to make sure no one was listening.

He stepped closer to Clifton.

"Why the hell is he at Aegis? Is he here to beg for you back?"

Hearing the words 'get back together' made Clifton feel like he was being stabbed. A heavy, violent rage flashed in his eyes.

He ground his teeth together. "He told me it wasn't real. That night in Chicago. Everything. Said it was a mistake. That he didn't mean for any of it to happen."

Buster sucked in a sharp breath. He looked confused.

"But... the way he used to look at you. It was like you were his whole world."

Clifton ran a hand aggressively through his hair, cutting Buster off.

"It was an act. He's a liar. A fucking actor."

Buster looked at the raw pain twisting his captain's face. He swallowed hard.

"What do you want to do? Should I tell Delmus to kick him out right now?"

Clifton let out a dark laugh. A dangerous, predatory light sparked in his eyes.

"No. If he crawled through hell just to get into the first team, let him stay."

Clifton turned his back to Buster. He walked to the floor-to-ceiling window, staring out at the blinding California sun.

"I'm going to rip his mask off in front of everyone," Clifton said, his voice dropping to a deadly whisper.

Buster felt the crushing weight of Clifton's aura. He swallowed again, too scared to say another word.

Right at that second, a faint metallic clank sounded from the hallway outside the kitchen. Like someone had bumped into a wall.

Clifton snapped his head around. He moved like a startled leopard, crossing the kitchen in three massive strides. He grabbed the sliding door and shoved it open.

The hallway was empty. But a few feet away, a metal trash can was swaying back and forth. Someone had just run away.

Clifton stared at the swaying metal. Suspicion and paranoia spiked in his chest.

He stepped back into the kitchen. He pointed a finger at Buster.

"Not a word of this to anyone. Especially Delmus and the coach."

Buster nodded frantically. He made up a quick excuse about needing to start his stream and practically ran out of the kitchen, desperate to escape the suffocating tension.

Clifton stood alone in the kitchen. He looked out at the green lawn. His right hand instinctively reached up to massage his throbbing wrist. But his mind was completely gone, dragged back to a rainy night in Chicago one year ago.

Clifton closed his eyes. The bright sunlight of the kitchen faded into black. His senses were violently dragged back to a humid, drizzly October night in Chicago, one year ago.

In his memory, his fingers were wrapped tightly around the heavy metal of the Fire Cup MVP trophy. His adrenaline was surging, pumping wildly through his veins from the championship victory just minutes prior.

He was pulling Justice by the wrist. Justice was just an amateur player then. They ducked into a dark, narrow brick alley behind the stadium to escape the screaming fans and flashing cameras.

The alley smelled like wet garbage and stale rain. A single, rusted streetlamp flickered above them. Puddles on the uneven ground reflected the faint, blurry neon lights of the city.

Clifton pushed his back against the wet brick wall. His chest heaved as he tried to catch his breath. He turned his head and looked at Justice standing next to him.

Justice was panting heavily too. His dark hair was plastered to his forehead by the rain. His pale, handsome face was illuminated by the flickering light. Those deep eyes were locked onto Clifton, filled with a fatal, magnetic attraction.

Under the cover of the dark alley and the sheer ecstasy of winning, the love Clifton had been holding back completely shattered his rational defenses.

He let go of the priceless MVP trophy. It hit the ground with a heavy splash, sending muddy water flying onto his shoes. He didn't care.

Clifton took a step forward. He reached out and cupped Justice's freezing cold face with both hands. He tilted his head down and kissed him. It was a forceful, undeniable kiss, driven by pure desire.

The second his lips pressed against Justice's, the passionate response he expected didn't happen.

Instead, a suffocating, terrifying rigidity seized Justice's entire body.

The moment Clifton touched him, Justice reacted as if a high-voltage wire had been jammed into his spine. A violent, full-body spasm ripped through him.

Before Clifton could even deepen the kiss, a massive force slammed into his chest.

Justice let out a sound that was half-gasp, half-animalistic choke. His hands shoved hard against Clifton's chest, pushing him away with desperate, frantic strength.

Caught completely off guard, Clifton stumbled backward. His spine slammed hard into the rough brick wall. A dull, heavy pain radiated across his shoulder blades.

He jerked his head up, shocked. What he saw next burned into his brain, becoming the most humiliating moment of his life.

Justice was looking at him like he was a monster. Justice's hands were clamped over his own mouth, pressing so hard his knuckles were bone-white.

Justice's chest was heaving erratically. It was as if that kiss was a lethal poison. His eyes were wide, filled with naked terror and a visceral, physical revulsion that couldn't be hidden.

Justice stumbled backward, taking two frantic steps away. His foot splashed into a deep puddle. His entire body was shaking uncontrollably. A harsh, dry-heaving sound tore from his throat.

Clifton froze. His hand, still reaching out, hung suspended in the cold air. The rain quickly soaked his sleeve. His heart felt like it had been crushed by an invisible, icy fist.

To a man as proud as Clifton, this reaction was crystal clear. It was raw. It was unfakeable. It was rejection in its purest, most primal form.

The joy of the championship drained from Clifton's face. It was instantly replaced by disbelief, and then, a blinding, humiliating rage at being played for a fool.

He ground his teeth together. His voice shook as he demanded an answer.

"If I disgust you so much," Clifton snarled, "why did you spend the last six months playing duos with me every single day? Why did you look at me like that?"

Justice leaned heavily against a rusted dumpster. He was gasping for air, shaking his head frantically. He tried to speak, but the severe attack locked his jaw. He couldn't force a single syllable out of his throat.

To Clifton, that silence and the shaking head meant only one thing: default. It was the guilt of a liar whose scam had just been exposed.

A bone-chilling coldness washed over Clifton. He bent down and picked up the muddy trophy. He looked at Justice one last time.

"Get out," Clifton spat, using every ounce of his strength to keep his voice cold.

He didn't look back. He turned around and walked out of the muddy alley, leaving that violently shaking figure behind in the rain forever.

That night, back in his hotel room, burning with extreme humiliation, Clifton blocked Justice's phone number, his Discord, his Twitter. He erased him completely.

What he didn't know-what he couldn't have known-was that two hours later, a message was sent from Justice's phone.

It was a single line.

*I'm sorry. It's not you. Please let me explain. *

The message bounced. The number was already blocked.

Justice stared at the delivery failure notification until his phone battery died. Then he sat in the dark, in a cheap motel room paid for with tournament winnings that were almost gone, and tried to breathe through the terror that had seized his body the moment Clifton's hands had touched his face.

He didn't know the word for what was wrong with him. He only knew that the one person who had ever made him feel safe had just become the trigger for something he couldn't control.

By the time he worked up the courage to try again-to find Clifton's team email, to message a teammate, to do anything-Aegis had already flown to a bootcamp in Seoul. And Justice had convinced himself that Clifton was better off without someone so broken.

He was wrong. But he wouldn't understand how wrong until a year later, standing in a basement academy room in Los Angeles, watching the man he'd never stopped thinking about walk through the door with murder in his eyes.

The flashback snapped.

Clifton's eyes flew open. He was still standing in the Aegis kitchen. His fingers had dragged across the marble countertop, leaving a long, wet streak.

The phantom feeling of that rejection crawled over his skin again. His breathing grew heavy. The edges of his eyes turned red with fresh anger.

He pulled out his phone and stared at the Aegis team logo on the screen. His thumb hovered over his blocked list. There it was. The Discord account he had erased. The one that now went by a different name.

Ember.

The ID Justice had chosen for himself. As if he still believed there was something left inside him worth burning for. As if he hadn't already extinguished everything between them in that muddy alley.

Clifton's jaw tightened. He made a silent vow.

He would not let himself be fooled by the same person twice.