Chapter 3: The Cheater Meme

Taking the chance, I turned to the hostel rep:

“Bro, tu pop-flash bhool gaya? Kitni baar sikhaya tha, yaar!” My voice was almost pleading, like I was defending an answer in front of a strict maths teacher.

He frowned, utterly lost:

“Arjun, tu pagal ho gaya hai kya? Even pros struggle with that flash, hum toh chhote log hain.”

He looked at me as if I’d started speaking Greek, or declared I’d stopped drinking chai. The tension was like waiting for exam results.

Suddenly, the enemy team flooded public chat:

“Cheater spotted, haan? Hacks on, right?”

“Kick this cheater already!”

“Full bakchodi.”

The chat box went wild. The slang was so creative, even our principal would faint. Caps lock abuse everywhere—as if shouting made them better players.

I just laughed, shaking my head.

It felt like getting accused of copying in an exam, just because you actually studied.

“If I’m cheating, Ganpati Bappa will scold me, yaar.”

“If you’re bad, practice more.”

“Mat karo bakchodi in chat.”

My fingers flew, typing replies like a WhatsApp aunty forwarding memes at 6am.

After the pause, I kept up my rampage.

Each round, my confidence grew. I felt like Sachin batting against gully newbies.

But it was getting weirder by the minute.

Nothing made sense—like waking up and finding everyone forgot how to ride a cycle.

Why had everyone else’s skill crashed so badly?

Did someone put something in the water? I half-expected the warden to walk in and say, “Matrix ka glitch hai, sabka skill reset ho gaya.”

My C+ wasn’t even high, but at least I had basic sense.

All those late nights grinding flick shots, copying YouTube moves—it paid off. Or maybe it was just dumb luck?

But these opponents—forget recoil control or counter-strafing, they couldn’t even walk straight.

One guy kept running into the same wall, like a pigeon stuck in a window.

Sometimes I’d stand still, not shooting. The enemy would unload a full mag at the floor, not even aiming at me.

My roommates were in splits—one almost fell off his plastic chair. The mood was light, but a strange unease settled in my chest.

And my own roommates? Total bots.

Even the “pro” who once got us out of a 1v5 was now walking into doors. Everyone looked like they were playing with their eyes closed.

They’d pause after every step, or walk straight into walls.

I tried not to laugh, but the frustration was obvious. Sunil smacked his keyboard: “Yeh kya ho gaya, bhagwan!”

Every engagement was painful to watch.

It was like our college fest dance-off, and half the team forgot the steps mid-performance. You couldn’t even look directly, it hurt so much.

When the attackers finally stumbled into B, both sides would jump, spin, empty mags—no one landing a kill.

I pictured the game devs somewhere, shaking their heads, “Bas karo yaar, ab toh band hi kar do.”

I couldn’t take it anymore. A few crisp taps, and I ended the clown show.

The round ended with my killfeed lighting up. My roommates groaned. I shook my head, feeling like the only sober one at a drunk party.

The next few games, I kept dominating.

Even after the fourth game, the same pattern. It was almost boring now.

The enemy team spammed chat, calling me a cheater.

One threatened to call the ‘game police’—whatever that was. My friends roasted him in chat.

After another spray transfer, my roommates were stunned.

Sunil, who once boasted about his 30-bomb, just muttered, “Abe Arjun, tune toh OP hi kar diya.”

The hostel rep came over, checking my setup for ‘cheats’.

He squatted beside me, sniffing for ‘suspicious activity’ like my keyboard would confess. He even checked my mousepad for ‘magic powder’. Typical desi skepticism.

After confirming nothing was fishy, he looked at me like I was an alien.

“Bhai, tu kuch bhi bol, yeh toh black magic hai,” he whispered, quickly doing touchwood on my shoulder.

Honestly, I was more confused than anyone.

Was I the only normal one left? My head spun. I suddenly craved a cold Limca.

That night, after the hostel slept, I went to a cyber café alone to test my theory.

The whir of old ceiling fans mixed with the clack of keys and the sharp tang of agarbatti from the cashier’s desk. The neon market glow gave me courage. I slipped on slippers, passed a stray dog and a few auto drivers playing cards.

I played all night. By sunrise, I’d ranked up from C+ to B+ without losing once.

Each win got easier. The only break was the café guy’s offers for samosa-chai combos.

My match history was all MVPs, averaging four kills a round.

Even the café owner peeked over: “Beta, yeh cheat code hai kya?” Half-joking, half-serious.

I was bullying five bots by myself.

Almost felt guilty—like older cousins dominating gully cricket just because they’re taller.

Other players called me a cheater or a smurf. I didn’t care—it confirmed my suspicion.

They typed in broken English, Hindi, Bengali. One even threatened to track my IP. Standard desi gamer drama.

Overall skill in “Perfect Gunfight” had tanked—big time.

Something huge was happening, and I was the only one left standing.

With this, wouldn’t Demon King S rank be easy?

I grinned, picturing that badge glowing by my name. Sweet as snatching the last jalebi at a family function.

I returned to the hostel, planning to nap before more grinding.

Eyes burning, I tiptoed into a quiet corridor. Everyone else was out cold or pretending to study. My mind buzzed.

But when I woke up, my phone was blowing up.

A video link—YouTube thumbnail with my in-game ID in bold. I clicked.

A famous anti-cheat creator had posted a breakdown of my matches.

No escape now. My face, my plays—out for the whole country to judge.

“Big Gulmohar” had a massive following.

I’d watched his breakdowns before—classic Mumbaiya style, fast and sharp, dripping with sarcasm.

He analysed my every move, frame by frame, confidently declaring I was using wallhacks, aimbot, headlock.

“If this guy isn’t cheating, India will win Olympic gold next year!”

“If he’s not cheating, I’ll eat my mousepad.”

“Look at these pre-aims, wallbangs, not even trying to hide.”

“And those flicks—even top pros can’t do that now.”

He sounded like a news anchor on election night. You could hear the viewers gasping.

The video hit a million views overnight.

Even my cousin in Hyderabad forwarded it to the family group with a dozen fire emojis.

The comments were convinced I was cheating.

“Obvious cheater. Or is he?”

“Negative stats a month ago, now suddenly cracked?”

“Such blatant headlock—why isn’t he banned?”

“No wonder India can’t win shooters.”

A few tagged the devs, demanding a ban. Some fans posted support, but they were drowned by haters. Classic Indian net drama.

Worse, someone found my squad games with my roommates—they got roasted too.

Sunil messaged: “Bhai, meri izzat toh mitti me mila di unlog ne!” We laughed, but I knew he was hurt.

Before I could even process, my mother called again. “Beta, tum theek ho na? Koi problem toh nahi?” I tried to reassure her, but her voice was heavy with worry, the kind that never really leaves an Indian parent.

And that’s when I realised: This was bigger than just a game. My whole life was about to change.