Spoiled By The Ruthless Esports Captain

Jorden locked his phone and shoved it deep into his pocket.

He pushed open the heavy glass door of the first-floor conference room.

The room was freezing, the air conditioning blasting from the ceiling vents.

He walked to the center console and plugged his tactical tablet into the cable.

The massive wall-mounted screen flickered on.

It displayed a paused video frame of SG's final loss at the Seoul Invitational.

Exactly ten minutes later, the four players rushed into the room.

They were panting, their chests heaving as they dropped into the leather chairs around the oval table.

Jorden didn't look at them.

He pressed play.

The video started moving at half speed.

Jorden picked up a laser pointer.

A sharp red dot appeared on the screen, resting directly on Jax's character just before it died.

"You broke the cover formation," Jorden said. His voice was completely devoid of emotion.

Jax flinched as if he had been struck.

He dropped his head, his hands twisting together under the table. He didn't dare speak.

Jorden moved the red dot.

It landed on the dark area of the minimap.

"Caleb. Your vision control failed here. You let them flank us."

Caleb pushed his glasses up his nose, his fingers trembling slightly.

"I thought they were rotating to the objective," Caleb argued, his voice tight. "It was a psychological read."

Jorden tapped his tablet.

A dense spreadsheet of win-rate probabilities and pathing algorithms replaced the video.

"Your read was wrong. The math proves it. You gambled and got us killed."

The air in the room felt heavy, almost suffocating.

Even Julian, the team's loudest and most irrepressible player, sat perfectly still, holding his breath. He usually had a quip for every situation, a joke to crack the tension, but under Jorden's frozen glare, his mouth stayed firmly shut. Beside him, Rhys stared fixedly at the table, his fingers nervously adjusting the cuff of his sleeve.

Jorden placed both hands flat on the table and leaned forward.

His broad shoulders blocked out the light from the projector.

"Starting tomorrow, we are on the NA schedule," Jorden announced. "Fourteen hours of practice a day."

A collective, pained groan slipped from the players' throats.

Jorden's eyes snapped to them, silencing the noise instantly.

"NA teams play dirty and fast," Jorden said, his voice sharp. "We will crush them with absolute mechanical superiority."

He turned and slammed his knuckles against the whiteboard, right next to the Aegis Cup logo.

"If we don't win this, you all pack your bags and go back to the academy roster."

The brutal lecture dragged on for two agonizing hours.

The tension only broke when Daisy pushed the glass door open.

She was carrying a tray of iced Americanos.

"Lunch is here," Daisy said, setting the tray down. "They need to eat, Jorden."

Jorden glanced at the heavy Rolex Submariner on his left wrist.

He gave a single, sharp nod.

"Dismissed."

The players shot out of their chairs, practically sprinting out of the room to escape the pressure.

Jorden picked up a plastic cup of iced Americano.

He took a long drink.

The bitter, freezing liquid burned down his throat, soothing his dry vocal cords.

He walked over to the floor-to-ceiling window.

Outside, the Seattle rain had started to fall, blurring the glass.

His shoulders dropped a fraction.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out his backup phone.

He opened the Discord chat with Aetheria.

His fingers moved quickly over the glass screen.

"Just pretend to be sick," he typed, channeling Hex's cold, dismissive persona. "Treat the annoying guy like he doesn't exist."

He hit send.

He pictured Aetheria sitting in her room, smiling wickedly at the screen.

A soft warmth bloomed in his chest.

Suddenly, a calendar notification dropped down from the top of his screen.

It was a reminder: Visit the Corbetts.

Jorden groaned, rubbing his thumb hard against his temple.

He closed Discord and opened Google Maps.

He typed in the address Eleanor had sent him.

The app calculated the route. Forty minutes away.

He locked the phone, shoved it back into his pocket, and turned away from the window, heading to the kitchen to force down some food.