Chapter 4: The Cheater Accusation

Taking the chance, I turned to Derek:

"Wait, how come you can’t even throw a pop-flash behind A long anymore? Didn’t I show you that a bunch of times?"

I spun my chair to face him, arms folded, trying to keep my voice light even as confusion gnawed at me.

He frowned, totally confused:

"Marcus, are you still half-asleep? Even pros can barely throw that kind of flash. How could us regular players do it?"

He looked honestly hurt, like I’d just accused him of cheating on a final. I could see his reflection in the dorm window, the city lights twinkling behind us.

Just then, the enemy team started spamming public chat:

"Cheater alert, huh? Turned on the hacks, right?"

"Still not kicking the cheater? What a joke."

"Trash player."

The chat scrolled so fast I could barely keep up, filled with angry caps lock warriors and meme spam. It was like every salty gamer on the server had joined our match.

I couldn’t help but laugh in disbelief.

I snorted, shaking my head. “Classic. When in doubt, blame the guy on top.”

Can’t beat us so you call hacks, huh?

It was always the same—get too good, and suddenly everyone’s a detective.

"If I’m cheating, may my grandma hit Powerball."

I typed it out with a flourish, knowing full well nobody would believe me.

"If you suck, just practice more."

My hands flew over the keyboard, tossing out comebacks like candy.

"Stop whining in chat."

I hit send and muted chat for a second, letting my teammates’ laughter wash over me.

After the pause, I kept up my rampage.

If anything, the accusations just pushed me harder. I locked in, zoning out the noise, determined to keep carrying.

Now I was really noticing how weird everything was.

Each round felt like I was playing against bots, not real players. Even my muscle memory seemed sharper, every shot crisp.

Why had everyone else’s skill dropped so much?

The question echoed in my mind. Was it some weird update? A mass server bug? Or was it just me?

My C+ rank wasn’t exactly high, but I still had basic game sense.

It wasn’t like I was some prodigy—I’d struggled to break out of C tier for months. But now I felt untouchable.

But these opponents—even the basics—like holding steady or moving and shooting—were suddenly impossible for everyone. They could barely walk in a straight line.

One guy got stuck on the same crate three times in a row. I wondered if my game was bugged, or if the entire world had suddenly forgotten how to play.

Sometimes I’d even stand still, not shooting at all. The enemy would unload a whole mag into the floor, never even aiming at me.

I watched in disbelief as bullets peppered the dirt at my feet, my health bar untouched. It felt like some weird fever dream.

And it wasn’t just the enemy team—my own roommates had become total bots too.

Derek bumped his mousepad off the desk, Tony fumbled his reload. I glanced around the room, but nobody was laughing now.

They had to pause after every step, or else they’d walk straight into walls.

It was like they’d forgotten the controls overnight. The sound of Derek’s frantic key-smashing made me wince.

Every engagement was painful to watch.

I winced as both sides fumbled their crosshairs, bullets flying everywhere. The urge to facepalm was strong.

When the attackers finally stumbled into B site, both sides would jump and spin around, emptying clips without anyone landing a kill.

It was a circus. I half-expected someone to break out juggling. Nobody could land a hit, even at point blank.

I couldn’t stand it anymore. A few precise taps, and I ended the clown show.

My teammates cheered, but even their praise sounded hollow. I left the match wondering if I was dreaming.