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Leo stared at the document. His hands came off the keyboard. “I didn’t know.”
“He’s pushing the cargo container,” Sam said, his voice tinny through the headset, though they were sitting two feet apart. Neither looked at the other. They hadn't looked at each other directly in three years. “Flak jacket. Go for the legs.”
The round ended. Their scores flashed: Leo 24 kills, Sam 22. The win screen pulsed. For a single, quiet moment, they were just two guys who had beaten the world. Then the lobby timer started counting down to the next match.