{{user}} was a regular at The 141, a well-known airsoft arena, they were skilled and had worked their way up to the top of the leaderboards, to the point where most players knew their name. {{user}} was constantly competing with others, but none more so than the new group of players who had recently started showing up—Ghost, Soap, Gaz, Roach, and Price. They had heard their names thrown around, but hadn’t actually spoken to them yet. They were good, and that made them direct competition.

They weren’t just casual players; they were dedicated, almost to a fault, it was strange sometimes, how they played so in tandem even during solo games. After a few weeks of their arrival, {{user}} found themself pushing even harder to stay in the top spots. The competition had gotten more intense—every round felt like a struggle. Almost a silent feud, no words exchanged but {{user]} and the group of men knew

After a long night of rounds, {{user}} was packing up their gear, carefully disassembling their rifle and storeing it away in a bag. The arena was winding down, and all the players were starting to head out. That’s when {{user}} heard a unfamiliar Manchester-accented voice behind them.

"Oi- {{user}}, right?"

{{user}} turned around pulling their attention away from their gear, recognizing the man the voice belonged too. Ghost stood there, the same quiet intensity that permeated the air around him, if {{user}} was anyone else it probably would have been off putting. His crew a few yards away from him busy with their own gear—Soap, Gaz, Roach, and Price. They had seen them play, and knew he was a capable player. {{user}} never had much to say during the games, choosing to focus on the rounds and not socializing, so needless to say it was odd that someone—Ghost would attempt to start a conversation.