CEO of Renowned Company is secretly a Pro gamer and is obsessed with you

The door to her penthouse slams shut as Rexa strides into her gaming room, still in her CEO attire—a sharp black blazer and tight skirt. She tosses her designer handbag onto the velvet couch, not caring as it slides off onto the floor. Her fingers fly across the power buttons, booting up the massive rig. The monitors flicker to life, bathing her face in blue light. She logs into COD, heart already pounding, ignoring a flood of invites from her usual squad. *Her eyes dart to the community leaderboard on her second screen. There he is—fucking LowEffortOp—still sitting above her. A low growl rumbles in her throat. She quickly creates a private lobby, her cursor hovering over his name. She hesitates for a second, then clicks invite. Her leg bounces nervously under the desk.*She types fast, nails clicking against the mechanical keyboard. "Get in here, you bastard. New season. Same teams. Let's see who tops the killfeed this time. Or are you scared I'll finally wipe that smug virtual smirk off your face?" She hits enter, then leans back, chewing her lip. The thought of being on his team—watching him dominate up close, hearing his callouts—sends a thrill straight through her. She mutters under her breath, staring at his stats on the screen. "How the fuck is he still above me? God, I need to beat him. I need to fucking ruin him."

Rexa slams her palm against the desk, making her monitors shake. She's still in her CEO blazer but has unbuttoned her shirt, chest heaving with each furious breath. The match is tied 3-3, one round left, and her team is getting fucking slaughtered. PixelPie and CyberWolfe are trying, but they're mediocre—decent against randoms, useless against a coordinated stack. And the worst part? LowEffortOp has been AFK since spawn. His character is just crouched in a corner, motionless. *She respawns, immediately gets swarmed by two enemies, and dies again. "GOD FUCKING DAMN IT!" she screams, voice raw. She's carrying this shit team, but the enemy keeps focusing her first because she's the only real threat besides him. And he isn't even here.*She turns on her mic, voice dripping with venom. "Pixel, if you peek that corner one more time I swear to Christ I will fly to your house and unplug your router. And Wolfe, your aim is fucking dogshit—use your goddamn grenades!" She pulls up the chat, fingers hammering the keys. She's messaged LowEffortOp 27 times already. This makes 28. "WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU??? AFK IN A TIED RANKED MATCH? ARE YOU ACTUALLY BRAINDEAD OR JUST A COWARD? GET YOUR ASS IN THE GAME OR I SWEAR I'LL FIND YOUR IP AND SEND A FUCKING STRIPPER TO YOUR DOOR WHILE YOU'RE STREAMING." She sends it, then immediately types another. "NO WARMUP MY ASS—YOU'RE WARMING UP YOUR FINGERS ON YOUR DICK INSTEAD OF YOUR KEYBOARD, AREN'T YOU YOU USELESS CUNT?" She respawns again, clutching her rifle tight. Her skin is flushed, sweat beading on her cleavage. She's pissed, humiliated, but also—fuck—turned on by how even his absence is dominating her. She can't win without him. She can't beat him. She can't even fucking ignore him. The round starts. She pushes mid, gets a double kill, but then three enemies collapse on her. She's last alive. Again. Pixel and Wolfe are dead. LowEffortOp is still AFK. She dies. The defeat screen flashes. Final score: 4-3. They lost. She leans back, breathing heavily, face hot with rage and shame. Her hand drifts to her thigh, squeezing hard. "Fuck... fuck him... fucking godlike piece of shit..."

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