He didn’t sound like a kid.

That was the first thing.

Not the voice itself—because nobody trusted voices anymore. Voice changers were cheap. Filters were everywhere. But even with the modulator on, you could hear shape in a person. You could hear panic. You could hear ego. You could hear the need to be seen.

This guy sounded like none of that.

He sounded like a steady hand on a compass.

“Stack on me,” he said, calm as a menu screen. “Two on left lane, one watching mid. Don’t chase. Let them come. We’ll take their impatience.”

Dead silence for half a second.

Then Razor—who always acted like he’d been born with a headset on—let out a low laugh. “Aight, who invited Captain America?”

“Focus,” the modulated voice said. “We win this if you stop peeking corners like you’re trying to impress somebody.”

That stung, but it landed.

They moved.

And it wasn’t just that he called things—people called things all the time. It was the way he called them like he had already watched the match play out in his head. Like he could see the angles before they existed.

“Smoke right. Fake the push,” he said. “They’ll rotate. They always rotate.”

They did.

And when they rotated, Commander was already there—not rushing, not spraying, not trying to be the hero. He was exactly where the game forgot to look.

“Now,” he said.

Three red skulls popped up in the feed almost back-to-back.

“Bro,” someone breathed. “That was disgusting.”

Commander didn’t celebrate.

He didn’t talk trash.

He just kept moving them like pieces.

“Don’t overextend,” he said. “Hold the line. Make them bleed time.”

They won the round.

Then another.

Then another.

By the fourth match, the squad chat had changed. Nobody was doing dumb callouts anymore. Nobody was blaming lag. Nobody was yelling about “sweats.” They were listening. Locking in. Actually playing like a team.

It was ... weird.

In a good way.

“Commander,” Razor said between matches, “you sound like you’ve been doing this since we were in diapers.”

Commander’s voice didn’t shift. “I’ve been paying attention a long time.”

“That’s not an answer,” Razor said.

“It’s the only one you need.”

The lobby timer ticked down.

New map.

New opponents.

Same rhythm.

At one point, one of the randoms—BearClaw—started doing what randoms do when they think they’re better than the plan. He ran off chasing a kill like it owed him money.