Chapter 2: Dorm Room Glitch

I used to be just a regular college student.

Back then, my days revolved around lectures, cheap coffee, and late-night gaming marathons. Not that different from any other kid at a Midwestern state school.

Mostly, I liked playing "Perfect Gunfight" with my roommates.

We weren’t pros or anything—just a bunch of dudes crammed into a sticky-floored dorm suite, pizza boxes piling up in the recycling, laughter echoing down the hallway. The faint thump of bass from a party two floors down mixed with the click-clack of keyboards and the tang of microwaved ramen. The game was our way to unwind, trash talk, and forget about finals for a while.

That day after class, I came back to the dorm as usual and pulled a few of my roommates online for some squad games.

The familiar ritual: toss my backpack onto my unmade bed, click open Discord, and shout down the hall for Derek and Tony to log in. Someone always brought a bag of Hot Cheetos, and the smell of cheap cologne mixed with old gym socks hung in the air.

But after just one round, I realized something was seriously off.

It was the little things at first. My teammates hesitated, moving awkwardly, missing shots they’d normally hit blindfolded. The air in the room got tense, like everyone was waiting for the punchline to a bad joke.

How did these guys get so bad overnight?

Seriously, Derek had top-fragged the night before. Now he was whiffing point-blank shots. I stared at my monitor, wondering if this was some secret April Fools’ patch.

We were playing on the map Desert Black.

A classic—midwestern server, ping was good, everyone knew the callouts. The kind of map you could run in your sleep.

The enemy, on offense, rushed B straight out of spawn.

No hesitation. It was like they didn’t care about the meta anymore, just full-sending five guys down the tunnel like it was a casual Friday night.

Even though they had cash to spend, they didn’t throw a single piece of utility.

I waited for the flashbang that never came. No smokes, no mollies, nothing—just five silhouettes sprinting right at me, guns blazing. It was like watching a YouTube fail montage in real time.

They just dry-pushed, AR-15s in hand, spraying like maniacs while running.

Bullets flew everywhere except at me. Their tracers zig-zagged up the wall, one guy even shooting at his own feet. I couldn’t help but snort-laugh.

I was holding B tunnels, pre-threw a molotov, and easily mowed them all down with a five-man spray transfer.

Felt like playing whack-a-mole at the state fair. The molly landed right on the choke point, and all five melted in a single, perfect line. My roommates lost their minds.

A couple of my roommates next to me couldn’t help but shout:

"Dude, that was insane! Did you finally sell your soul or something?" Tony’s voice cracked with excitement, chip crumbs flying from his lap. Derek practically jumped out of his seat, slapping my back so hard I almost spilled my drink.

"Bro, teach me your ways. Seriously."

Derek grinned, shaking his head like I’d pulled off some kind of black magic. Tony tossed a wadded-up napkin at me in mock jealousy.

At first, I thought he was just roasting me for my usual potato utility skills.

After all, I’d been infamous for botched nades—once blinded our whole squad during playoffs. I shot him a look, half laughing, half ready to toss a snappy comeback.

I laughed it off and shot back, not thinking much of it.

I flashed him a goofy grin, wiggling my eyebrows. "What can I say? Maybe I’ve just got that dog in me now."