The Owl Esports HQ towered above the Makati skyline, a jagged silhouette of glass and carbon-fiber panels catching the weak morning sun and reflecting the city's faint haze. From street level, the building looked impossibly sleek, a digital monolith planted in the heart of a city that never slowed.
Inside, the air was heavy with the scent of recycled ozone and burnt coffee, a subtle perfume that clung to the walls, the furniture, and the barely awake players within. It was the smell of long nights and short mornings, of machines working harder than the people operating them, and the kind of aroma that pressed itself into memory.
Jin sat at the head of the long obsidian conference table, visor set aside like a forgotten relic. Beside it rested a half-finished bottle of NeoFuel, condensation beading against its sides. The liquid glimmered faintly under the overhead lights, a reminder of the artificial stimulants that kept players functional when sleep was optional.
Across the table, four other members of Owl Esports PH slouched in varying degrees of exhaustion. Dark circles rimmed their eyes, fingers drummed subconsciously on tablet screens, and shoulders sagged under the invisible weight of repeated scrims and strategy sessions. The hum of air conditioners blended with the low buzz of laptops, the occasional soft beep of notifications echoing like distant warnings.
Even in this sterile, high-tech environment, there was a human rhythm—grinding, restless, urgent. Each player a small island of fatigue and focus in a room that pulsed with the unspoken energy of a team built on sleepless nights and digital victories.
Jin's gaze drifted toward the glass wall overlooking Makati's streets below, where morning traffic crawled like ants and holographic ads flickered on building facades. For a moment, the outside world felt impossibly far away, a stark contrast to the internal pressure cooker of strategy, stats, and the quiet, simmering tension that always seemed to linger before the first match.
The central holo-screen dominated the room, its cold light bouncing off the obsidian table and the pale walls. The same Crossfire: Daytime match replay looped relentlessly—the moment that had shattered Jin's unbeaten streak. Every muzzle flash, every pixel of smoke, every twitch of movement frozen in digital memory.
"Pause." Coach Ren's voice cut through the hum of the room. The footage froze mid-shot, Drumstickkk's muzzle flash caught in perfect symmetry, a frozen echo of timing and precision.
Ren leaned forward, elbows on the table, rubbing the bridge of his nose as though he could massage the mistake out of existence. "Explain what happened here."
Migs shifted in his seat, fingers tapping a tablet absentmindedly. His voice was quiet, almost hesitant. "He… pre-fired through smoke, coach. No assist. No neural prediction. Just… raw timing."
Ren's gaze swung to Jin, sharp and exacting. "And you, Jin? Owl's rookie ace. Never lost a ranked 1v1 until this. What went wrong?"
Jin's jaw clenched, the tension in his neck visible even under the dim LED lighting. His hands hovered over the table, curling slightly as if to grip the edges. "He wasn't supposed to see me. Full neural overlay, 0.1 latency. I had it all. He… just reacted faster. Like he already knew my next move."
A low whirring of the servers filled the pause that followed, punctuated by the faint flicker and hum of overhead LED panels, casting brief, stuttering shadows across the room.
Above them, the Owl Esports insignia rotated slowly on the wall—a sleek, metallic owl with amber eyes glowing softly, staring down on them as if silently judging, its wings etched in precise, digital feathers.
Aria scoffed, leaning back with arms crossed. "Old meta, huh? Guy's still rocking an M4 Black Gold Royal like it's Season 12. How the hell—"
"Enough." Ren's tone snapped across the room, sharp as glass. "Excuses don't change leaderboards. You lose, you learn. Reset and focus. Prelims are next week."
With a sharp gesture, he deactivated the holo-screen, and the room's light dimmed by half as the floating panels powered down. Ren left, his footsteps echoing against the polished floor, leaving behind a vacuum of authority.
The silence that followed was heavier than the loss itself.
Jin's eyes drifted to his visor lying on the table. The faint reflection of his tired, nineteen-year-old face blinked back at him. For the first time, the confident aura of the rookie ace wavered. Every unbeaten streak, every flawless run—all suddenly fragile. Doubt settled like dust in the corners of the room, thick and inescapable.
He swallowed hard, the taste of adrenaline and disappointment sharp in his mouth. The office lights reflected off the visor, flickering across his eyes like digital ghosts of every match he'd ever played—and every one he had yet to win.
Owl Esports wasn't just a gaming team—it was an empire, a well-oiled machine where every action rippled into profit, prestige, and perception. The HQ itself smelled faintly of electronics and recycled air, a constant reminder of the lives tethered to blinking screens and server hums.
Contracts weren't casual arrangements—they were carefully calculated agreements tied to viewership shares, ad impressions, and merchandise performance. A ranked win didn't just pad pride; it triggered sponsor bonuses, activated product placements across streams, and secured lucrative streaming rights. A loss? Every misstep rippled outward: dips in profit, declining market confidence, and whispers from investors questioning the team's dominance.
Even outside of matches, the world of COD: VR had become a sprawling economy:
Tournaments rewarded winners with cryptocredits, often transferred directly into team coffers or converted into cash for high-stakes trades.
Crafting and trading rare skins had evolved into legitimate professions, with marketplaces monitored like stock exchanges.
VR cafes replicated real-world franchises, selling digital food, limited-edition merchandise, and boosters to thousands of players online.
Betting syndicates transformed matches into speculative spectacles, where every round swung like market trends, fortunes made and lost in seconds.
For pros like Jin, every duel was more than a game—it was currency, reputation, and opportunity, each encounter meticulously tracked by stats, analytics, and sponsors' dashboards.
And that loss—the one to Drumstickkk—wasn't just a crack in his win streak. It was a dent in revenue, a hit to his standing, a subtle whisper that the rookie ace wasn't invincible. Every trophy, every endorsement, every projected payout now flickered with uncertainty, leaving him staring at his visor with a newfound wariness.
Hours later, the team reconvened in the strategy room, the afterglow of their scrims lingering like static in the air. Laptops were open, data screens hovering mid-air, casting pale reflections across their faces. Energy drinks, half-empty NeoFuel bottles, and crumpled snack wrappers littered the long obsidian table. The faint scent of coffee and burnt electronics hung in the air, blending with the subtle hum of the server racks lining the walls.
Migs was mid-joke, waving his hand at a floating map of Nordica's frost terrain. "I swear, if the glacial glitch triggers again, we're all frozen before the first checkpoint—"
The holo-screen behind them blinked red. A sharp tone cut through the room, slicing through the casual chatter.
PACIFICA NEWS NETWORK — BREAKING UPDATE
The conversation died instantly. Even Migs froze mid-gesture.
The anchor's voice was crisp, confident, and unmistakable, echoing slightly against the metal-and-glass room:
"Breaking News: System confirms the twelfth Legendary Vanguard in the Pacifica Region, and the second from Neo Philippines. Codename: Drumstickkk."
The holo-feed switched, and footage filled the room. Golden sigils spiraled around a lone figure, armor pulsing like molten data. Every movement shimmered with precision, a light trail tracing each gesture as though the world itself acknowledged him.
Migs' jaw slackened. "Wait… no way."
Aria leaned forward, eyes wide, fingers clutching the edge of the table. "Bro… that's him. That's your guy!"
Jin's chest tightened. His hands hovered over his keyboard, then dropped to his lap. The cold hum of the servers seemed louder, pressing against his ears. His visor lay idle beside him, reflecting the flickering golden glow from the holo-feed.
For a long moment, he simply stared.
Drumstickkk—the name that had haunted so many unranked duels, the ghost in his memory—was real, legendary, and now on everyone's radar.
The room felt smaller suddenly, the air heavier, the quiet punctuated only by the soft whirring of hovering screens. Jin's mind raced, each statistic and match replay flashing through his memory like lightning.
Somewhere between awe and dread, he realized: this wasn't just a player. This was a shift in the meta—one that he couldn't ignore.
It felt like the air had been punched out of him. The figure on the holo-feed—slim, precise, unnervingly calm—radiated the same aura he remembered: poised, deliberate, untouchable.
The screen zoomed in, focusing on the sigil hovering just above Drumstickkk's avatar.
Pacifica Region #12 — Neo Philippines #2.
The title burned like a brand across the feed, golden letters pulsing against the dim glow of the strategy room.
Migs leaned forward, nudging his shoulder. "Yo, Jin… you alive?"
But Jin barely registered the words. His pulse thundered in his ears, drowning out the ambient hum of the servers and the low buzz of the hovering screens.
Memories flashed unbidden, sharp and jagged: the echo of that familiar voice over Crossfire's streets, taunting, guiding, daring him.
"I prefer the old meta, young blood."
His hands trembled slightly, fingers curling into loose fists on his lap. The reflection of the golden glow in his visor mirrored the storm brewing in his mind.
"H…holy…that's fucking him," he whispered, the words barely audible over the ambient whir of electronics.
Aria and Migs exchanged glances—half shock, half awe—while Jin's eyes remained glued to the feed, pupils dilated, chest rising and falling unevenly. The air in the room felt thicker, heavier, as if the servers themselves were holding their breath.
Somewhere deep inside, a spark ignited. The humiliation of that earlier loss twisted into a sharp, burning drive. Disbelief curdled into obsession.
Drumstickkk wasn't just a relic of the past anymore. He was real. He was here.
And for the first time in months, Jin felt something he hadn't in a long while: the raw, unfiltered hunger to win.
This time, the young blood wouldn't lose.