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He warms up aim for hours straight,
Practicing till it's past too late.
Crosshair placed, his wrist locked tight,
Dreaming of that perfect fight.
Ranks don’t matter—only skill,
He top-frags just to flex his will.
Callouts crisp, his strats are grand,
But still, he blames his “bot” teammates’ hands.
Sweat drips down, the clutch is near,
One-vs-five, he shows no fear.
Yet all it takes—a misthrown nade,
And boom—his comeback dream’s delayed.
But next round starts, he’s locked back in,
Determined still that he will win.