The first rule of anonymity is discipline. No voice chats. No face cams. No real name, not even to your teammates. You enter, you dominate, and you disappear.
I lived by that rule for seven years.
And now, here I was, sitting in my dark apartment, lit only by the LED-blue glow of my triple-monitor setup, staring at the pre-match lobby of the most watched FPS tournament in the world: Terminal Apex - Bloodline Finals. Ten players remained. And I was one of them.
The final match.
Winner takes ten million.
No one knew my name, no one knew my face. But when that username flickered across the screen—ReaperZero—every other player in the lobby tensed.
I could feel it through the screen.
My hands hovered over the keyboard. Fingers steady. Pulse calm. I wasn't nervous. This wasn't pressure. This was home.
The countdown began.
3.
2.
1.
Drop.
The map loaded in with a blur of fire and steel, a jagged cityscape drowned in shadow. Rooftops, abandoned metros, fractured highways hanging in the void—this place was death incarnate, and I loved it.
I landed silent and fast, rolling into cover behind a rusted shipping crate. No flashy moves. No sprinting around like a maniac. Just listening.
One breath. Two. Footsteps—fast, erratic, close.
I peeked.
Rookie mistake.
He was charging with a shotgun out, blind confidence in his aim.
I stepped left, double-tapped his chest mid-run, then a headshot before he could even react. Blood sprayed, his avatar crumpling in slow motion. Player Eliminated: ReaperZero [Kills: 1]
I slid into the next alley, looting his corpse as I moved. Thermal sight. Tactical rounds. Useless armor. Too slow.
Ten seconds later, I caught a sniper glint across a rooftop.
He never saw me flank.
Two stories up, I vaulted through a broken window, crouched behind a fallen beam, and watched him line up his shot on another player. One breath. Two.
I exhaled and squeezed the trigger.
Headshot. Player Eliminated: ReaperZero [Kills: 2]
This was more than instinct. This was a sixth sense. My crosshair danced before the thought even formed. My body moved before I registered the choice. The game was an extension of me. A rhythm. A symphony of blood.
The killfeed flooded.
I hunted shadows. I waited in blind spots. I rigged trip mines near loot drops, listened for the explosion, then shot anyone who survived. I was the ghost they feared. Not seen. Only felt.
Player Eliminated: ReaperZero [Kills: 7]
Player Eliminated: ReaperZero [Kills: 9]
Player Eliminated: ReaperZero [Kills: 11]
The commentators were losing it—voices like crackling static through my headset as the world watched me tear through their favorites like tissue paper.
"This ReaperZero is a demon! That's eleven confirmed kills solo plays, tactical flanks, zero wasted bullets!"
"I've never seen anyone move like this. Is this even human?!"
My heart rate didn't budge.
Twelve players entered the match.
Now there were two.
Me. And someone named VoidShatter.
Decent player. Tight movement. No fear. But he relied too much on tricks—flashbangs, decoys, smoke. Things I didn't need.
The final circle closed in, a burning corridor of broken train cars and shifting debris. I crouched behind a cargo door, rifle ready. He moved with decent cover, keeping low, tossing a stun grenade in my direction.
Too slow.
I was already behind him.
Two taps to the leg, one to the back. He spun.
He saw me.
I let him.
Then I threw my own flash bounced off a rail, straight into his face.
He fired blind. I sidestepped, knife out, and ended it clean blade across the neck, virtual blood painting the wall.
Final Kill: ReaperZero
WINNER – TERMINAL APEX CHAMPIONSHIP
My screen froze with a flash of gold and crimson, my name burning bright across the victory board.
REAPERZERO – 12 KILLS – TOTAL DOMINANCE
The roar from the crowd even through my noise-dampening headphones—sounded like the sky cracking open.
I sat there, staring at the screen.
I had done it.
Years of training. Thousands of hours. Endless ridicule from nobodies on voice chat, jealous losers who called me a hacker, a bot, a fluke. Let them talk. I never needed to talk back. The stats spoke for me.
And now, the world knew my name even if they didn't know me.
I ripped off the headset, dropped it onto my desk, and rolled back in my chair. The leather creaked under my weight as I stretched, neck cracking with a satisfying pop.
The victory screen faded to black. A new screen loaded.
Account Verified. Tournament Funds Deposited.
I opened my banking app.
Ten million.
Right there.
My fingers trembled a little. Not from fear. From possibility.
I stood up, dazed, half-laughing, heart pounding like a victory drum in my chest.
I walked to the kitchen, still half in shock, still wearing my worn tank top and pajama pants, socks mismatched.
I was a millionaire.
No more ramen nights. No more budget monitors. No more secondhand gear. No more wondering if I'd ever be seen.
I could finally move out of this crappy apartment. I could finally stop hiding.
I could—
My foot hit something.
A plastic thud.
I looked down.
A bag of frozen dumplings—half-melted, carelessly left in front of the fridge, forgotten after my pre-match adrenaline snack.
I had exactly 0.4 seconds to realize I was going to fall.
My foot slipped.
I flailed.
My hand missed the counter. My head hit the edge of the table.
And then—
Darkness.