“Leo,” Danny said, voice flat. “The aimbot. Did you use it again?”
It was 2006, and Danny’s world had shrunk to the size of a 17-inch CRT monitor. The battlefields of Call of Duty 2 —the shattered ruins of Stalingrad, the dusty alleys of Toujane—were his true home. He was a god with the Kar98k, a phantom with the MP40. But there was a problem.
“Please, Danny,” Leo whispered one night, peeking over Danny’s shoulder. “Just one match. Let me use your account. Just to feel what it’s like… to be good.”