Claimed By The Ruthless Esports Boss

The deafening roar of the crowd bled through the soundproof walls of the Los Angeles Esports Center green room. It was a physical vibration, rattling the half-empty water bottles on the glass table.

Harlon Caldwell sat in the corner gaming chair, his eyes closed. The noise outside was a chaotic storm, but inside his head, there was only a sharp, rhythmic throbbing.

He slowly opened his eyes and looked down at his right wrist. It was wrapped tight in black kinesiology tape, the adhesive pulling at his skin.

Harlon tested it. He rotated his wrist just a fraction of an inch.

A sharp, electric spike of pain shot directly from his median nerve straight up his forearm. It hit like a bucket of ice water dumped over his chest.

He clamped his back teeth together so hard his jaw popped. He forced his facial muscles to remain completely blank, swallowing the somatic tremor that tried to shake his shoulders.

The heavy door swung open. Coach Miles strode into the room, a tactical clipboard gripped in his hand.

Miles didn't look at the monitors. His eyes snapped straight to Harlon's right hand.

Harlon immediately shoved his right hand deep into the pocket of his black TTC team jacket. He leaned back, cutting off the line of sight.

Miles let out a heavy breath and walked over, stopping inches from Harlon's chair.

"What did the physical therapist say?" Miles asked, his voice low enough that the rest of the room couldn't hear.

"I'm fine to play a full BO5," Harlon replied. His tone was absolute ice. Flat. Unyielding.

Miles stared directly into Harlon's dark eyes, searching for the micro-expressions that would give away the lie.

Harlon didn't blink. He stared back with the suffocating dominance that made him the best jungler in the league. He projected total control, even as his wrist pulsed with a sickening heat inside his pocket.

Miles broke eye contact first. He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck, before turning around and clapping his hands loudly.

"Alright, listen up! Bring it in!" Miles yelled.

On the opposite side of the room, Chester, the team's mid-laner, violently flinched on the leather sofa.

Chester's hand scrambled over the table, grabbing his phone and slamming it face-down against the glass.

As Harlon's gaze swept over the glass table, he caught a brief, illuminated glimpse of Chester's screen before it went dark. He didn't see the specific words, but he saw the sender: a long string of random numbers, an unsaved contact. More importantly, he saw the sheer terror in Chester's reaction as he slammed the phone down.

Harlon's eyes narrowed. He caught the unnatural jerk of Chester's arm.

He stared at the side of Chester's face. A thick layer of unnatural, cold sweat was beading along Chester's hairline. The mid-laner's breathing was shallow and erratic.

Chester felt the weight of Harlon's gaze. He immediately dropped his head, his hands frantically digging into his peripheral bag, pretending to untangle a perfectly