He Came Back, I Broke Him

Eighteen months ago, the man I loved shattered my heart, claiming everything between us was a mistake. Now, he's back, a ghost of his former self, a rookie tryout in my pro esports team. And I will make him regret crawling back.

Clifton, captain of a legendary esports team, was secretly battling a severe wrist injury that threatened his career, every match a fight against his own body. He pushed through the pain, ignoring doctors' warnings, desperate to maintain his god-like status.

His world was already on the edge, but nothing prepared him for seeing Justice Terry again in the team basement. Justice, pale and trembling, his eyes wide with naked terror, was now a rookie tryout.

Clifton had spent a year and a half trying to forget that rainy Chicago alley, the raw revulsion in Justice's eyes, the whispered "it wasn't real" that had left him heartbroken. Justice had vanished, and Clifton had erased every trace. Now, the boy who once looked at him like he was the sun was back, flinching at his touch, displaying a deep, primal fear. Amidst sponsor pressure and whispers of being "washed," Clifton saw Justice's return as a chance for vengeance. He publicly humiliated Justice on a live stream, forcing him into a suicide mission, then coldly benched him.

Yet, the satisfaction never came. Instead, a hollow emptiness and a torrent of questions: What had truly happened in the past? Why was Justice here, and what trauma had carved such fear into his bones?

Clifton, unwilling to be fooled again, swore to uncover every secret and every lie. He would force Justice to explain why he had returned, even if it meant tearing down everything they both had left.

Chapter 1

CliftonPOV

Clifton's wrist was already screaming when he pushed open the training room door.

It was a familiar pain now—bone grinding against bone, tendons frayed like old rope. The doctors had used words like irreversible and degenerative and manage expectations. Clifton had stopped listening after the third diagnosis.

He stood in the second-floor hallway, letting the air conditioning hit his face. Through the gap in the basement door at the end of the corridor, he could hear them. The new trainees. Dozens of mechanical keyboards clattering like hailstones on a tin roof. Young hands. Healthy hands. Hands that didn't need to be iced after every scrim.

Clifton shoved his right hand into his hoodie pocket and dug his left fingers into the joint of his wrist. The pain sharpened. Good. Pain meant he was still here. Pain meant he hadn't lost yet.

Delmus appeared from around the corner, clutching a stack of evaluation reports. "The electric bill this month is astronomical. These kids never turn off their rigs." He flipped a page. "You should go down there. Put some fear into them. Captain's presence and all that."

Clifton opened his mouth to refuse. Then his wrist pulsed—a sharp, glass-splintering throb—and he thought about fresh blood. New hands. Someone younger, faster, healthier, sitting