At the World Champions Cup, I was reported for match-fixing by the shooter I personally raised. I was banned for life, scolded by the whole internet, and all my information was deleted by the team overnight.
When we meet again, I am the new coach of the women's team and he is the star player.
The girls I led used the hero he was best at to achieve a perfect quadruple kill in front of him.
During the post-match interview, the camera focused on me: "What does the coach want to say to his old teammates?"
I smiled and put my arms around the girls' shoulders: "Excuse me, it's a former teammate." There was a thick, sweet smell in the air, like spilled cheap syrup mixed with rust. The bright lights on the roof of the venue were blindingly white, and they hit straight down, illuminating every particle of dust floating on the stage and making the faces of the losers look miserable.
