Claimed By The Ruthless Esports Boss

The deafening roar of the crowd bled through the soundproof walls of the Los Angeles Esports Center green room. It was a physical vibration, rattling the half-empty water bottles on the glass table.

Harlon Caldwell sat in the corner gaming chair, his eyes closed. The noise outside was a chaotic storm, but inside his head, there was only a sharp, rhythmic throbbing.

He slowly opened his eyes and looked down at his right wrist. It was wrapped tight in black kinesiology tape, the adhesive pulling at his skin.

Harlon tested it. He rotated his wrist just a fraction of an inch.

A sharp, electric spike of pain shot directly from his median nerve straight up his forearm. It hit like a bucket of ice water dumped over his chest.

He clamped his back teeth together so hard his jaw popped. He forced his facial muscles to remain completely blank, swallowing the somatic tremor that tried to shake his shoulders.

The heavy door swung open. Coach Miles strode into the room, a tactical clipboard gripped in his hand.

Miles didn't look at the monitors. His eyes snapped straight to Harlon's right hand.

Harlon immediately shoved his right hand deep into the pocket of his black TTC team jacket. He leaned back, cutting off the line of sight.

Miles let out a heavy breath and walked over, stopping inches from Harlon's chair.

"What did the physical therapist say?" Miles asked, his voice low enough that the rest of the room couldn't hear.

"I'm fine to play a full BO5," Harlon replied. His tone was absolute ice. Flat. Unyielding.

Miles stared directly into Harlon's dark eyes, searching for the micro-expressions that would give away the lie.

Harlon didn't blink. He stared back with the suffocating dominance that made him the best jungler in the league. He projected total control, even as his wrist pulsed with a sickening heat inside his pocket.

Miles broke eye contact first. He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck, before turning around and clapping his hands loudly.

"Alright, listen up! Bring it in!" Miles yelled.

On the opposite side of the room, Chester, the team's mid-laner, violently flinched on the leather sofa.

Chester's hand scrambled over the table, grabbing his phone and slamming it face-down against the glass.

As Harlon's gaze swept over the glass table, he caught a brief, illuminated glimpse of Chester's screen before it went dark. He didn't see the specific words, but he saw the sender: a long string of random numbers, an unsaved contact. More importantly, he saw the sheer terror in Chester's reaction as he slammed the phone down.

Harlon's eyes narrowed. He caught the unnatural jerk of Chester's arm.

He stared at the side of Chester's face. A thick layer of unnatural, cold sweat was beading along Chester's hairline. The mid-laner's breathing was shallow and erratic.

Chester felt the weight of Harlon's gaze. He immediately dropped his head, his hands frantically digging into his peripheral bag, pretending to untangle a perfectly straight mouse cord.

Harlon stood up. He walked across the room, his tall frame casting a long shadow over the sofa. He stood right in front of Chester, looking down at him.

"Are you sick?" Harlon asked.

Chester's head snapped up. "N-no. No, I'm good. Just... just nervous about the semifinals."

Harlon pulled his left hand out of his pocket and placed it heavily on Chester's shoulder. He squeezed, letting the physical pressure communicate his warning.

Chester's entire body went rigid. He felt like a block of concrete under Harlon's palm.

The door opened again. A headset-wearing staff member poked his head in. "TTC, you're up in two minutes."

Harlon released Chester's shoulder. He turned his back and walked toward the door, his posture rigid and cold.

The moment Harlon turned away, Chester let out a long, shaky exhale. The air rushed out of his lungs like a punctured tire.

Chester reached out with violently trembling fingers, grabbed his mouse from the table, and shoved it into his bag.

Down the dark corridor leading to the main stage, Harlon stopped in the shadows. He didn't look at the flashing stage lights ahead. He turned his head and stared back at Chester trailing behind the group. His jaw tightened again.

Jess Brennan shoved his high-fidelity black gaming headset over his ears and pulled the microphone down to his mouth.

He clicked the 'Go Live' button on Twitch. The stream title read: LCS Semifinals Toxic Channel.

Within three seconds, thirty thousand viewers flooded in. The chat box on his right monitor turned into a waterfall of scrolling text.

Jess picked up a can of sugar-free energy drink from his desk. He popped the tab with one hand, the metallic snap echoing in the mic.

He took a massive gulp, swallowed hard, and let out a sharp, mocking laugh.

He clicked his mouse, switching his main monitor to the official LCS broadcast. The draft phase was just starting.

The chat was moving so fast it was unreadable, but Jess knew exactly what they were asking. They wanted blood. They wanted his take on TTC.

Jess leaned back in his two-thousand-dollar ergonomic chair and casually crossed his legs.

"You want my thoughts?" Jess said, his voice dripping with venom. "Chester's mid-lane pick is absolute garbage. It's a joke."

He didn't pause for breath. He launched into a rapid-fire breakdown, listing three fatal flaws of the champion in the current meta, his words slicing through the official casters' polite analysis.

A wave of TTC fans in the chat started spamming angry emotes, calling him a wannabe who didn't understand pro play.

Jess raised an eyebrow. He leaned closer to the monitor and read a username out loud.

"'TTC_Fanboy99' says I don't know what I'm talking about," Jess sneered. "Listen to me, idiot. If I was sitting in that chair right now, I'd zone their mid-laner so far out of the experience range he'd have to pay rent to look at a minion."

The viewer count skyrocketed. The arrogance was a magnet for haters, and Jess fed on it.

Then, the official broadcast cut to a close-up shot of the jungle player.

Harlon's cold, sharp profile filled Jess's secondary monitor.

Jess's crossed legs instantly dropped to the floor.

His spine snapped completely straight. He sat up, his shoulders squaring up to the desk as if Harlon could see him through the screen.

Jess cleared his throat. When he spoke again, the razor-sharp edge in his voice was suddenly cut in half.

The chat instantly caught the shift. A wall of question marks flooded the screen.

One comment caught his eye: Road looks like trash today too.

Jess's stomach dropped, replaced immediately by a hot spike of anger. His eyes went dead cold. He locked onto that specific comment.

He clicked the user's name and permanently banned them from the channel.

Jess pulled the microphone closer. "Banned," he said, his voice dropping an octave, dead serious. "Don't bring your bronze-level analysis of the best jungler in the world into my chat. It's embarrassing to read. If you can't see the macro difference he's making despite his dead-weight mid-laner, get out of my stream."

The chat froze. The sheer hypocrisy of the internet's most toxic streamer defending a player shocked them into a five-second silence.

Jess quickly clicked back to the game loading screen, pretending his heart wasn't beating a little faster.

He rested his hand on his mouse. His thumb began to anxiously rub the side buttons, back and forth, back and forth. It was a nervous tick that gave away everything he was trying to hide.

The game officially started. Jess forced his eyes away from Harlon's champion and stared at the mid-lane. The predatory look returned to his face.

Minute one. Chester missed three cannon minions in a row.

Jess slammed his palm flat against his desk. The loud smack echoed in the stream. He let out a sound of pure, unadulterated disgust.

The game timer hit fifteen minutes. TTC was bleeding gold.

Jess leaned so close to his monitor his nose almost touched the glass. His eyebrows were pulled together in a tight, angry knot. He was staring exclusively at the mid-lane wave.

Chester's champion suddenly walked forward, past the river line, into complete darkness. No vision. No backup.

"Is he out of his mind?!" Jess screamed into the microphone. "There is a jungler sitting right in that bush!"

The second the words left his mouth, the enemy jungler leaped out of the brush, closing the gap instantly.

Chester panicked. He burned his Flash spell. But he didn't flash toward his own tower. He flashed completely sideways.

The champion materialized directly on top of the enemy mid-laner's lethal skill shot.

Chester's screen turned gray. First blood.

Jess ripped his headset off his ears and slammed it down onto the desk. The plastic cracked against the wood.

He stood up, took a deep, ragged breath, and sat back down. He picked up the headset. His knuckles were completely white from how hard he was gripping the plastic.

"My grandmother could hit a better Flash using her feet," Jess said, his voice a low, dangerous sneer.

The chat exploded into a wall of 'LMAO's and brutal insults directed at Chester.

The broadcast abruptly switched to the jungle. Harlon was trapped.

He was trying to contest the dragon objective, but because Chester was dead, four enemy players collapsed on him from all sides.

Harlon's mechanics were flawless. He dodged two spells, traded a kill, but the math was impossible. His champion collapsed.

Jess watched Harlon die. A sharp twitch pulled at the corner of Jess's left eye. His chest tightened, a physical ache blooming right behind his ribs.

He violently whipped his head back toward the post-fight stats. He needed a target for this pain.

Jess pulled up the damage graph. He pointed a shaking finger at Chester's pathetic damage bar.

"Look at this," Jess spat, pronouncing every syllable with lethal intent. "This guy has done less damage the entire game than the neutral Scuttle Crab in the river."

The chat lost its mind. Scuttle Crab Damage began spamming across the screen so fast it blurred. A new meme was born in real-time.

A few viewers typed: He's just having a bad game, Soft. Chill.

Jess let out a dark, humorless scoff. He opened the replay tool, slowing the footage down to 0.25x speed. He zoomed in on Chester's mouse clicks.

"Watch this," Jess demanded. "Right before he dies. Look at his character model."

He paused the frame. "Two full seconds. Two seconds of zero inputs. He didn't click. He didn't move."

Jess leaned into the mic. "This isn't a bad game. This is a professional attitude problem."

On the main screen, the enemy team pushed into TTC's base. The Nexus shattered into blue shards.

Game two was over. The series was tied 1-1.

Jess slumped back in his chair. His face was so dark it looked like a storm cloud was trapped in his apartment.

He stared at the official player cam. Chester was staring blankly at his screen, showing absolutely zero emotion. No frustration. No anger.

Jess's fingers hovered over his keyboard. He typed out the word Match-fixing in his stream chat box.

He stared at the letters. His heart hammered against his ribs. He hit the backspace key, deleting it rapidly.

His eyes narrowed into sharp, dangerous slits.