To cringe, or not cringe, that is the question.

The glow of the dual-monitor setup bathed the darkened room in cold light. Posters of past tournaments—Katowice, Cologne, Stockholm—peeled at the corners, whispering faded glories. BREEZE "Faust" PRIZZY sat alone at his desk, mouse still in hand, cursor hovering over the “Play” button.

A legend in the CS:GO world, Faust had done it all—clutched 1v5s on LAN, earned MVP medals, toppled giants. But now? He felt hollow. The scene had changed. A new generation of cracked twelvies with inhuman aim and zero fear dominated the leaderboards. Sponsors cared more about TikTok views than strategy. And Faust, despite his 300 APM and encyclopedic knowledge of every meta from Dust2 to Ancient, felt like a relic.

“I’ve mastered every angle, every pixel peek,” he muttered, staring blankly at his reflection in the screen. “What else is left?”

He opened a stream — yet another teenager going viral for some flickshot nonsense — and sighed. “It’s no longer about brains. It’s just spectacle.”

His mind spun in loops, darker with each pass. He thought of quitting. Of pulling the plug and walking away from the only thing he ever loved.

And then... the lights flickered.

His monitor glitched, static filling the speakers. The image reformed into something strange — not a server list, but a console window he didn’t recognize.

A message blinked in red:

WELCOME, FAUST.

TIRED OF LOSING TO FATE?

TYPE "ACCEPT" TO RECLAIM YOUR DOMINANCE.

Faust chuckled. “Cute ARG,” he said, cracking his knuckles. “Let’s see where this rabbit hole goes.”

He typed:
accept

A deep voice rumbled through his headset — clear, calm, and unnatural.

“Greetings, Jaden. I’ve watched your plays, your rise, your fall. You seek more. You want meaning again. I can offer it.”

“Who the hell are you? A dev? A hacker?”

“Call me... Mephisto. Let’s say I specialize in deals. You want back your edge — not just to win, but to dominate.”

The room seemed to pulse, shadows stretching unnaturally. Faust hesitated... then leaned forward.

“What’s the cost?”

“Nothing... yet. But once you taste true power, we’ll renegotiate.”

His game loaded instantly. No queue, no teammates. Just him on Dust2 — familiar, yet eerily silent.

Then it began.

Perfect aim. Pre-firing every corner. Knowing enemy locations before they peeked. Faust danced like a god through the bombsite, every headshot a symphony.

When it was over, the scoreboard read:
Faust — 49 kills, 0 deaths.

Twitch chats erupted. Clips flooded Reddit. Old fans resurfaced, calling it a comeback for the ages.

Faust leaned back, heart pounding.

It felt good.

Too good.

But somewhere, deep in his headphones, Mephisto whispered:

“This is only the beginning, my champion.”