Vivi tilted her head, eyes still laser-focused. "Is dat called da… da 'super-duper powah move?'" she asked seriously.
"Close enough," Theo said with a smile.
Back in the game, Neville's team had finally cornered the opposing side into a tight choke point near the edge of the map. It was a dangerous spot—one mistake, and it could all fall apart. Most players would've played it safe.
But Neville wasn't most players.
With three enemy characters huddled together, he struck. No hesitation. His fingers moved with absolute certainty, triggering his ultimate move—a blindingly fast dash forward, followed by a spinning vertical slash that tore straight through the enemy formation like it was paper.
Three opponents down in a single, flawless combo.
From the viewing room beyond the prep area, a roar erupted. The crowd had been watching, and they'd just witnessed a masterclass.
His team surged forward, capitalizing on the moment. The match tipped, momentum shifting entirely.
And from the couch, Vivi launched her final cheer with every ounce of energy in her tiny body.
"BOOOOOOOSH!" she screamed, fists flung skyward. "DAT'S MY DADDY!!"
At the top of the screen, the final score ticked in.
Victory.
The room burst into celebration—players leaping up from their chairs, clapping each other on the back, a few even pointing toward Neville with grins of admiration and disbelief. He'd done it again.
Neville removed his headset with calm detachment, leaned back in his chair, and casually cracked his knuckles, as if the whole match had been just another warm-up. No big deal.
But before he could say a single word—thud.
"DADDYYYYY!"
Vivi came hurtling across the room like a pint-sized rocket, her pink blanket billowing behind her like a superhero cape. She barreled straight into him, wrapping her arms around his leg and holding on tight like she never planned to let go.
"You win! You win!" she cried, bouncing up and down against him. "I cheered-ed so loud, right?!"
Neville glanced down, one brow raised, the faintest flicker of amusement on his otherwise unreadable face. "You didn't go hoarse from all that yelling?"
Vivi beamed, unfazed. "I screameded da 'boosh'!" she declared proudly. "I help-ed you beat the baddies!"
Neville let out a low breath that might've been a chuckle. He reached down and ruffled her soft hair, strands of glitter catching the light as his fingers passed through.
"You might've deafened me through the mic," he said dryly, "but sure. Good job."
From off to the side, Theo watched the exchange with a small, knowing smile. The sight of them—Neville, the stone-faced competitive legend, and Vivi, a glitter-covered marshmallow of chaos—was something that never failed to amuse him.
"You know," Theo said with a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth, "you might have to start bringing your good luck charm to every match."
At that, Vivi puffed up with pride, standing a little taller, like a kitten trying to look fierce. "Yesh! I'll be da cheer boss!"
Neville rolled his eyes, but didn't argue. He didn't need to. Because even he had to admit—standing here, with this tiny, pink, nonsense-shouting cheerleader by his side—this win felt different. It tasted just a little sweeter.
By the time Neville, his team, and Vivi made their way into the event hall, the victory party was already in full swing. The place had been transformed for celebration—walls draped in bold sponsor colors, enormous banners bearing the words "Champions Rumble" swaying above the crowd. Tables lined with celebratory cupcakes and sparkling juice in elegant flutes sparkled under the overhead lights. A small stage had been set up near the front, ready for speeches, photos, and whatever came next.
Organizers in sharp suits, earpieces tucked behind their ears, were waiting by the entrance. They greeted the team with raised glasses and hearty congratulations. Flashbulbs snapped as photographers surrounded them, ushering the newly crowned champions toward the stage.
The triumphant underdogs.
Under the heat of the stage lights, Neville stood tall, his expression calm but his posture brimming with quiet confidence. He accepted a glass, lifted it high, and grinned as the crowd erupted into cheers and applause.
Beside him, Vivi clung tightly to Theo's hand, bouncing in place with excitement. Her pink sparkle backpack shimmered with every movement, the energy of celebration nearly vibrating off her.
The trophy sat front and center, polished and gleaming under the spotlight.
Neville stood there with his team, cameras flashing, the crowd roaring—and though his stance was firm, though his smirk held weight, his eyes were sharp. Focused. Even in victory, there was something calculating just beneath the surface.
Yes, this win tasted sweeter.
But it also carried a familiar edge of frustration.
"Thanks, everyone," Neville began, his voice smooth, composed—almost too composed. "We fought hard today, and I'm proud of my team."
The crowd quieted, leaning in.
"Although," he continued, a calculated pause hanging in the air, "I have to say… this win was almost compromised by some very suspicious circumstances."
A low murmur rippled through the audience, the kind that came with the scent of drama.
Neville let the silence linger just long enough before continuing. "My teammate—the core player who was suddenly injured just before the match—that wasn't just bad luck. That was no accident. Someone wanted to throw us off. Maybe even make sure we didn't show up at all."
Gasps and quiet whispers stirred across the event hall like a breeze catching fire.
From the opposite side of the stage, a figure stepped forward—one of the opposing team's representatives, face tight with restrained anger. "We had nothing to do with that injury," he said sharply. "Accusations like that are unfair. And baseless."
Neville smirked, arms folding across his chest with casual challenge. "That's convenient. Your roster was untouched. No last-minute subs. Meanwhile, we had to play without one of our key players at full strength."
The opposing coach stepped up beside his representative, visibly bristling. "Injuries happen," he snapped. "You're making excuses to cover for your nerves."
"Excuses?" Neville's voice dropped a note colder, sharper. "No. Just facts. But it doesn't matter now. A win's a win, and we earned this trophy—every bit of it."
The tension hit a near-boiling point—until the event staff wisely cut in.
"Mr. Jolie," one of the organizers interjected, stepping between them with a too-bright smile. "If we could have you by the presentation table for the official trophy photo?"
A polite tug at his sleeve followed. Protocol. Sponsors. Optics.
Neville's jaw tightened, his words unfinished, heat still flickering behind his eyes. But he gave a curt nod and stepped back, the confrontation unfinished but temporarily shelved.
Just then—