The moment he answered the phone and heard the voice on the other end, something shifted—drastically. Whatever rare sliver of good mood Neville had managed to find that morning vanished almost instantly, like a shadow swallowed by the setting sun. His expression, once relaxed and carefree, hardened in a flash. His jaw clenched, and a heavy frown carved its way deep into his brow.
Bad news. That much was clear.
"There's a problem with the sponsored team," came the secretary's voice, strained and hesitant. "Today's match—against the state's top team—it's at serious risk. One of our core players just pulled out. Some sudden 'injury.' Very last-minute."
Neville didn't reply right away. His silence stretched long enough to be uncomfortable. His jaw locked tighter, and his eyes narrowed as he stared off into the distance, mind already racing. Something about this didn't feel right. The timing was too clean. Too convenient. Almost as if someone had planned it. Someone playing dirty, pulling strings from the shadows. And deep down, he had a nagging feeling he already knew who might be behind it.
But he didn't have time to chase theories or get lost in frustration. Right now, there was one thing that mattered more than anything: saving the match before it slipped away completely.
This wasn't just business for him. Neville wasn't some faceless investor sitting comfortably on the sidelines. As the owner of JollityJunction Interactive—a powerhouse in the gaming and esports industry—he had poured not just money but pride and personal passion into this team. And let's not forget the rather significant personal wager he had riding on tonight's outcome. It wasn't just about numbers or sponsorships anymore. This was personal.
His eyes darkened as he turned the possibilities over in his mind. He knew the game. Not just from watching, but from living it. Years ago, he had trained hard, competed fiercely, and even stepped in for practice matches under an alias when needed. He hadn't forgotten the feel of it—the pace, the pressure, the thrill.
He wasn't just qualified to play. He was ready.
And if he moved quickly, if he pulled a few strings here and there… this could still work.
Turning away from the kitchen counter, Neville began pacing slowly, each step deliberate. He spoke into the phone with calm certainty, voice low and unwavering.
"Get the coach on the line," he said. "Tell him I'm stepping in."
There was a pause, then the secretary's voice came back, tinged with disbelief. "Sir?"
"You heard me," Neville replied, voice flat and final. "Have my gear delivered to the private lounge at the arena. And make sure the setup meets competition specs. No shortcuts. I'm playing tonight."
"But what about—?"
"I'll handle the rest," Neville cut her off before she could finish. "Just make it happen."
With that, he ended the call. He slipped his phone into his coat pocket, then let out a long, sharp breath through his nose. This… this wasn't just about a single match anymore. It wasn't even just about the prize or the bet. This was about something bigger—his reputation, his pride, and not letting whoever was pulling strings in the shadows get the upper hand. Not today.
His eyes shifted, landing on Vivi.
She was still sulking by the dressing room entrance, arms crossed, her glittery, all-pink outfit radiating frustration. She refused to look at him, and he could guess why. They were supposed to be spending the day together.
Neville offered a small, almost apologetic smile and muttered under his breath, more to himself than to her, "Looks like daddy has to work now."
And just like that, the game was on. Both the one played on screen—and the one playing out behind the scenes.
The moment they stepped into the private training room, everything changed. The shift in energy was immediate and unmistakable. The space buzzed with tension and focus. Rows of screens lit up the room with cool, blue-white light. High-backed chairs sat in military-precise alignment, each rig customized down to the keystroke. Players in matching sleek black jerseys hovered over gear, warming up fingers or quietly discussing last-minute strategies.
It felt less like a game room and more like a command center preparing for battle.
And right in the middle of it all, Vivi's bright, sparkly outfit stood out like a burst of bubblegum in a sea of shadows—pink, glittery, and completely unapologetic. She looked around curiously, clearly fascinated, despite her earlier sulk.
The game on the line was NovaCore League—one of the most-watched strategy-based team shooters in the entire country. Five players per side. Each player held a defined role: the striker, tactician, hacker, sentinel, and scout. Victory came not just from aim and speed, but by controlling zones across the map, managing energy nodes, and countering enemy abilities—all in real-time, and all under immense pressure.
Neville stepped in as striker—the aggressive, forward-charging role. A bold choice, considering the stakes and the visibility. But for him, it wasn't just the obvious move—it was the right one. He knew the role inside out. He didn't hesitate.
"Everyone," Neville said, his voice as composed and even as always, "this is Vivi."
Five heads turned in perfect sync, the entire team pivoting to look at the tiny pink creature now standing at Neville's side. She blinked back at them with wide, curious eyes, both hands clutching a juice box like it was a sacred artifact.
There was a beat of silence. Then one of the players leaned forward slightly, eyebrows raised in disbelief. "This… is your kid?" he asked, flicking his gaze between the child and Neville, clearly trying to make sense of the pairing.
Neville didn't flinch. Just lifted an eyebrow. "Temporarily."
From across the room, Coach Yorin—massive, buzzcut, and usually unfazed by chaos—looked genuinely caught off guard for the first time in a decade. "You brought a child," he said slowly, like the words tasted strange, "to tournament prep?"
"She's quiet," Neville said with a shrug. "Usually."
As if on cue, Vivi turned her face up to the coach and beamed, flashing a mouthful of tiny teeth. "Hi, Mr. Big Bosh!"
A few players instantly broke. Snorts of laughter escaped before they could even try to contain them.
Neville sighed, running a hand through his hair like he was already regretting life choices. He reached down and gave Vivi's head a light pat—awkward, but familiar, like how one might ruffle the fur of an overly enthusiastic puppy.
"This little sugar gremlin," he muttered, "is Vivi. She doesn't bite. Just—don't feed her spaghetti. And for the love of all that's good, no loud sounds unless you want to keep your fingers attached."
Vivi spun around to face the team, chest puffed out with dramatic pride. "My daddy go boosh-boosh and win the pizza trophy!"