Three bodies hit the asphalt simultaneously. No missed shots. No wasted breath.

The rivals panicked. One tried to rush, but Viper’s kicked in. His character’s head snapped toward the pavement, torso spinning in a nauseating, high-speed blur. Every shot they fired missed, diverted by the erratic, impossible angles of his model. He was a whirlwind of broken code.

Viper sat in the dark, his monitor casting a jagged blue glow across the room. He wasn't just playing; he was a ghost in the machine. As he stepped out of the gun shop, three rivals slid toward him, their movements jerky and unnatural. "Check this guy," one typed. "Probably a burger."