The neon sign above Tom's Back Alley Internet Café flickered like a dying firefly, casting a sickly pink glow over the potholed sidewalk. Inside, the air smelled of burnt coffee, old pizza, and the faint, perpetual hum of overworked gaming PCs. Elias Thorn slouched in a creaky office chair in the corner, his hood pulled low over his eyes, one hand resting lightly on the mouse—calloused fingers, a faint scar running along his wrist, a reminder of years of gripping a controller until his knuckles turned white.
"C'mon, Ghost, you gonna stand there afk all day or actually play?" A high-pitched voice crackled through his headphones, courtesy of a random teammate named "NoobSlayer69" who'd been spamming the chat for five minutes. "Heard you used to be a big shot. Looks like retirement hit you harder than a stray bullet."
Elias didn't reply. He just clicked his mouse once, and his in-game character—a lean, black-clad Defender with a scuffed sniper rifle slung over his shoulder—moved silently toward the map's west corridor. Three years. Three years since he'd been called "Ghost" without a sneer, since he'd lifted the Nova World Championship trophy, since his name had been synonymous with "tactical genius" instead of "cheater." Now, he was just Elias, the guy who played Nova Arena for tips in a back-alley café, streaming to a grand total of 17 viewers—most of whom were here to mock the fallen legend.
"Old Tom's gonna kick your ass if you don't make at least $20 in tips today," a gruff voice said from behind him. Tom, the café's owner, leaned against the wall, a cigar tucked behind his ear, his belly hanging over his jeans. He tossed a half-eaten donut onto Elias's desk. "Kid just came in, says she wants to challenge the 'so-called Ghost.' Loud as hell. Been yelling about how you're a fraud since she walked through the door."
Elias's jaw tightened. He'd had enough of challenges—teenagers with something to prove, washed-up players trying to relive their glory days, trolls looking for a reaction. But before he could say no, a blur of neon pink and black slammed into the chair next to him, nearly knocking over his coffee.
"You're the Ghost?" The girl was young, maybe 20, with curly black hair tied back in a ponytail, a nose ring glinting in the neon light, and a Nova Arena hoodie that was way too big for her. She slammed her fist on the desk, her eyes blazing. "I'm Lena. Lena Rodriguez. And I'm gonna beat your ass so bad, you'll wish you stayed banned."
Elias blinked. He'd expected anger, arrogance, maybe even fear—but this girl looked like she was about to explode with excitement. Her hands were shaking, but not from nerves—from anticipation. And when she leaned in, he could see the fire in her eyes, the same fire he'd once had, back when he was just a kid playing Nova Arena in his mom's basement.
"Why?" he finally said, his voice rough from disuse. "You don't even know me."
"I know enough," Lena said, pulling up her own game client. Her screen lit up, and Elias's eyes flickered to her character—an Attacker, decked out in pink and orange, wielding a fully customized assault rifle with a neon scope. "I watched your old games. The way you moved, the tactics… you're not a cheater. And I'm gonna prove it—by beating the best version of you there is. The real Ghost."
Before Elias could argue, Lena sent him a duel request. Map: Urban Ruins. Mode: 1v1, First to 10 Kills. Weapon Restriction: Any, but no traps—she wanted a fair fight, or as fair as you could get with a rookie vs. a legend.
He accepted. The loading screen popped up, and Lena let out a high-pitched squeal, bouncing in her chair. "Don't go easy on me! I wanna get my ass kicked by the real thing, not some washed-up old man!"
Elias almost smiled. Almost. But then the game started, and he slipped back into old habits—cold, calm, precise. He spawned as a Defender, grabbed a sniper rifle, and took position on the roof, his crosshair locked on the alley below. Lena spawned seconds later, and she didn't waste time—she charged forward, firing blindly, her character zigzagging like a headless chicken.
"Whoa, slow down!" Elias muttered, even though he knew she couldn't hear him. He pulled the trigger, and a bullet grazed her shoulder, reducing her health to 70%. Lena yelped, spinning around, firing at the roof—completely missing.
"Hey! That's cheating!" she yelled, slamming her fist on the desk. "You camped!"
"It's called tactic," Elias said, switching to his pistol and jumping down from the roof. He snuck up behind her, but before he could fire, Lena spun around and fired a shotgun—point-blank, right into his chest. His health dropped to 30%.
"Ha! Got you!" Lena cackled, doing a little dance in her chair. "Who's washed up now, old man?"
Elias didn't laugh. He just rolled to the side, pulled out his sniper rifle, and fired. Headshot. Lena's character collapsed to the ground, a digital blood splatter spreading across the screen.
"No fair!" she whined, but there was no anger in her voice—just excitement. "You tricked me!"
The duel went on like that for 20 minutes. Lena was chaotic, reckless, her tactics non-existent—she charged in, fired first, asked questions later. But she was fast. Incredibly fast. Her reflexes were sharp, her aim improving with every kill. By the time the score hit 9-8 (Elias in the lead), she'd stopped yelling and started thinking—flanking him, using the map's destructible walls to her advantage, even setting a trap (even though she'd said no traps).
"You said no traps!" Elias said, his voice rising for the first time all day. He'd stepped on a proximity mine, his health dropping to 10%.
"Rules are for chumps!" Lena yelled, charging at him. "Prepare to lose, Ghost!"
Elias grinned. Actually grinned. He spun around, fired his sniper rifle—blind, just a guess—and hit her square in the head. The screen flashed: Victory. Ghost: 10, Flash: 8.
Lena stared at her screen for a second, then slammed her head down on the desk, groaning. "I almost had you! Almost!" She looked up at Elias, her eyes shining. "Do it again. Best of three. I'll beat you this time."
Elias was about to say no. He was tired, his wrist ached, and he still needed to make those tips. But then he glanced at his stream chat. The 17 viewers had grown to 42. "Ghost is back!" one comment read. "That girl's fire AF," another said. And then, a notification popped up on his screen—Steel Dawn's official stream, showing Victor Walker, his old teammate, holding up a trophy, sneering into the camera.
"The Ghost is gone," Victor said, his voice smooth and cruel. "Good riddance. Legends die for a reason—they're not strong enough to stay on top."
Lena noticed his stare. She leaned over, squinting at his screen, and her face turned red with anger. "That's Victor Walker? The guy who framed you? What a tool!" She slammed her fist on the desk. "We should kick his ass. You and me. Team up. Show him what the Ghost and the Flash can do."
Elias looked at her—young, reckless, full of fire—and then at his own hands, the scar on his wrist, the weight of three years of shame. He thought about the trophy, about the战术 he'd invented, about the game he still loved, even when it had broken him.
"We're not a team," he said, but his voice was softer than before. He clicked on the duel request again. "But you can try to beat me. One more time."
Lena's face lit up, and she pumped her fist in the air. "Yes! You won't regret this, Ghost! I'm gonna be the best assaulter you've ever seen!"
Old Tom chuckled from across the room, taking a drag on his cigar. "Told you that kid was gonna be trouble. Good trouble."
Elias didn't reply. He just focused on the screen, his fingers moving smoothly over the mouse and keyboard. For the first time in three years, he didn't feel like a washed-up cheater. He felt like the Ghost. And maybe—just maybe—he was ready to come back.