Chapter 5: Viral Fame and Fallout

The next few games, I kept dominating.

It didn’t matter who queued in. My K/D climbed with every match, my confidence growing in step with my confusion.

The enemy team just kept spamming chat, calling me a cheater.

Every time I pulled off a headshot, a new wave of hate rolled in. I stopped reading chat altogether, focusing on my game.

After I pulled off another spray transfer, all my roommates were stunned.

Derek’s jaw dropped. Tony whistled low, shaking his head like he’d just seen a magic trick.

Derek even came over to my desk, checking my setup back and forth.

He crouched next to me, squinting at my monitor, checking my USB ports and peeking under my keyboard. He even lifted my mouse to check for any hidden switches.

After confirming I wasn’t running any cheats, he looked at me like I was some kind of alien.

His eyes were wide, a little scared even. “Bro, are you sure you’re not, like, possessed or something?”

Honestly, I was even more confused than he was.

I shrugged, hands up. “Dude, I swear, I’m just playing the way I always do.” But deep down, I was starting to worry.

That night, after my roommates went to bed, I went to a 24-hour gaming lounge by myself to test my theory.

The place was mostly empty, except for a couple of night owls and a sleepy attendant. The blue glow of monitors cast long shadows. I grabbed a Red Bull from the fridge, sliding a crumpled five across the counter to the bored attendant. I ordered a terrible cup of coffee from the vending machine and settled in for a marathon session.

I played all night. By morning, I’d ranked up from C+ to B+ without losing a single match.

My hands ached, but my heart was racing. I hadn’t dropped a single game, my win streak plastered across the in-game leaderboards.

My match history was nothing but MVPs. I was averaging over four kills per round.

Screenshots of my score were stacking up. A couple of other late-night players shot me wary glances, probably wondering if I was cheating too.

It was like I was bullying five bots by myself.

I felt a little guilty, but also a little high. This was the kind of run I’d dreamed about for years.

Other players either called me a cheater or accused me of smurfing. I didn’t care—if anything, it just confirmed my suspicion.

I muted chat, cranked up my playlist, and kept fragging. The haters were just fuel now.

The overall skill level in "Perfect Gunfight" had tanked—by a huge margin.

It was official: I was living in a world where everyone else had forgotten how to play, and I was the last gamer standing.

With this, wouldn’t hitting Demon King S rank be a piece of cake?

I grinned, imagining my name in neon at the top of the leaderboard. It didn’t seem impossible anymore—just a matter of time.

I went back to the dorm, planning to catch up on sleep before grinding more later.

My head hit the pillow and I was out in seconds, visions of headshots and highlight reels dancing in my mind.

But when I woke up, my roommate sent me a video link.

The notification buzzed me awake. My phone screen lit up with a YouTube link from Tony: “Bro… you’re famous.”

I clicked it. Turns out, a famous anti-cheat content creator had made a video about my matches last night and posted it online.

The thumbnail was my in-game avatar, face blurred, with giant red text: “CHEATER EXPOSED?!”

This guy, "Big Dandelion," had a massive following.

He was infamous for his witch-hunts, always first to call out hackers and cheaters in the scene. His voice was instantly recognizable, snarky and sharp as ever.

He analyzed every move I made, frame by frame, and confidently declared I was using wallhacks, aimbot, and headlock.

He slowed down my clips, drew red circles and arrows on screen, narrating every headshot with theatrical disbelief. “See that? No way a human could do that.”

"Guys, if this dude’s not cheating, I’ll eat my mouse."

He held up a computer mouse to the camera, fake-biting it for dramatic effect. The chat exploded with laughing emojis.

"Look at him pre-aiming and wallbanging, not even trying to hide it."

Slow-mo replay. I recognized the play—my lucky wallbang at mid. “Totally obvious,” he declared, “Nobody hits that shot without ESP.”

"And those instant flicks. Even the top pros can’t do that anymore."

He pulled up side-by-side clips of real pros missing the same shots, just to hammer it home.

The video hit a million views overnight.

Comments piled up, the like counter ticking higher every time I refreshed. My DMs filled with strangers demanding I confess.

The chat and replies were all convinced I was cheating.

"Obvious cheater. Or is he? Let’s watch again."

Some tried to play devil’s advocate, but the tide was against me. The mob mentality was brutal.

"His stats were negative half a month ago, now he’s suddenly cracked?"

One commenter posted old screenshots of my C+ days, circling my garbage K/D.

"Such blatant headlock and the platform doesn’t ban him?"

Another tagged the devs, calling for an instant permaban.

"No wonder America can’t win at shooters."

Ouch. My pride stung a little. I couldn’t help but roll my eyes.

"The game’s gone to hell."

Doomers everywhere. Some people just wanted to watch the world burn.

Even worse, someone found my squad games with my roommates, and they got roasted too.

Clips of Derek whiffing flashes and Tony walking into walls went viral. I texted them apologies, but they mostly just sent me memes back, trying to laugh it off.

I scrolled through the comments, thumb trembling. Was I really that much better—or had I crossed some invisible line? I started to text my mom, then my old friend from high school—just a quick, "You believe me, right?" I stared at the message for a long time, then deleted it before hitting send.