A faint smile lingered on PK's face.
Like everyone else, he owned a modest mobile phone—capable of calls, messages, and little more. No flash. No attention. Exactly how he preferred it.
Later that evening, he logged into Facebook on his laptop. The account was old, created long before—there was no need to make a new one.
As he scrolled through videos, something caught his eye.
A clip from the very game he had played.
The uploader's tone was heated, accusing an unnamed player of cheating—claiming impossible survivability, abnormal performance, and unfair advantages. The comments were flooded with speculation.
PK paused.
Good, he thought calmly. They don't know it's me.
What surprised him more were the responses below.
Official replies from the game's development team.
"We have reviewed the match data and found no evidence of cheating."
"Our systems are actively monitored."
"We will provide a formal clarification soon."
PK leaned back slightly.
They had checked.
And still found nothing.
Satisfied, he closed the tab and shut his laptop.
That night, back at the dorm, his roommates insisted on playing the same game together. Sam and Rich were excited, Max unusually competitive. PK agreed casually, joining as if it were nothing more than a way to pass time.
The match began.
Within minutes, the difference became obvious.
PK's character moved with precision. His health barely dropped. Damage that should have crippled him barely registered. Level after level, he stayed untouched.
His roommates stared at the screen.
"Bro… how are you not dying?"
"That's not normal."
"Are you sure this is the same game?"
PK only shrugged, eyes fixed on the screen.
"Maybe I just understand it better," he replied.
But inside, he knew the truth.
The system wasn't broken.
It was simply being played by someone who understood it too well.
And for the first time, others had begun to notice.