Page 2 of Game Over

The irony isn’t lost on me. I’ve built a billion-dollar empire selling cybersecurity solutions and promising digital privacy to corporations and governments worldwide. Yet here I am, violating every principle my company stands for and every law I claim to protect against.

For her, I’d burn it all down.

TikTok loads on her screen, her view visible on my screen. Her For You Page algorithm knows her better than her friends do, but not better than me. I’ve been feeding it for weeks, carefully manipulating what she sees.

“Let’s see what you’re in the mood for tonight,” I murmur, as her thumb pauses on my video.

A muscled man, shirtless and covered in tattoos, fills the frame. The Ghost mask from Call of Duty obscures his face as he performs a slow, suggestive dance. Since we met, I’ve been posting these videos under the GhostDaddy account—content made specifically for her, disguised as general thirst traps. The algorithm delivers them perfectly.

She doesn’t scroll past, biting her lip as she taps to see the creator’s page.

“That’s it, baby. Go deeper,” I encourage.

Kira bites her lip as she watches another video featuring the same masked figure running hands over tattooed abs—my tattooed abs. The lighting is low, and the music is pulsing. I filmed it in my private gym last week, knowing she’d see it eventually. Each movement is carefully choreographed to highlight the muscles I’ve built through obsessive workouts, the ink that covers my skin telling stories she can’t yet read.

A small, breathy sound escapes her lips—a moan so quiet she probably doesn’t realize she made it. My body responds instantly. She leans back in her gaming chair, her free hand sliding beneath the waistband of her sweatpants.

“Fuck,” I hiss, adjusting myself. Watching her watch me—even if she doesn’t know it’s me—creates a loop of desire. Her eyes remain fixed on the phone as she touches herself, captivated by the masked stranger who’s actually been playing games with her every night. The same man she’s been gaming with for the past three months now has her writhing in her chair, unaware that both men are the same.

Another video auto-plays. Another performance I crafted specifically for this moment follows trends as I thrust my hips toward the camera while the lights dim in and out. Her breathing changes, growing heavier. I lean closer to my screen, unwilling to miss a second of what I’ve orchestrated.

I unbutton my jeans with one hand, never looking away from the screen. The power of this moment—seeing her touch herself to my videos, completely unaware I’m the man behind the mask—is intoxicating. Every pixel of her face is mine to devour.

“That’s right,” I urge, wrapping my hand around my cock. “Show me how much you want me.”

Kira’s eyes flutter closed briefly on-screen before opening again, fixating on another of my videos. The irony is delicious—her gaming partner witnesses her most intimate moment while being the very fantasy she’s getting off to. The manipulation makes my dick throb in my palm.

I stroke myself slowly, matching her rhythm. Her breathing grows more erratic, tiny moans escaping those plump lips. I’ve memorized every sound she makes during our gaming sessions—her frustrated sighs when she loses, her victory squeals, and her hums when she is concentrating. But these sounds? These belong to me alone.

“We’re connected in ways you can’t even imagine,” I groan quietly, increasing my pace. My free hand flies across the keyboard, pulling up another window showing the inside of her phone. I can see exactly which video she’s got open—one where I slowly remove my shirt while wearing the Ghost mask, revealing the tattoo of the same mask inked over my heart. A tattoo I got a week after I first found her stream.

My shareholders would be horrified if they knew their CEO had permanently marked his body for a woman who doesn’t even know his real name. The Ghost mask tattoo—at odds with the polished image I present in boardrooms—is my private tribute to the only real thing in my life.

Every detail of her bedroom is etched into my memory: her LED lights cast a purple glow across her skin, the stuffed gaming characters lined up on her shelf, and the collection of empty energy drink cans she hasn’t bothered to throw away. I know her better than anyone in her life.

Her movements grow more urgent, and mine follow suit. The synchronicity between us and her not knowing sends fire through my veins. She’s performing for me without consent, and I’m performing for her under false pretenses.

Her back arches, her movements growing more intense. My breathing matches hers, and we climb toward the same peak, separated by miles and screens. The distance is temporary, a detail she doesn’t know yet.

The digital connection between us pulses like a living thing. Every moan, every silent gasp feeding the obsession that’s consumed me since I first heard her voice in that lobby three months ago. Most people think hacking is about stealing data or money. They have no idea the intimacy you can steal.

The video on her phone loops—my tattooed torso flexing beneath dim lights, Ghost mask obscuring my identity. I’ve spent hours on these videos, studying what makes her linger on certain TikToks. The algorithm learns her desires, but I’m the one teaching it.

“Come for me,” I groan, pressure building as I stroke faster. “Let me see what you hide from everyone else.”

Her movements become erratic, her phone falling to the side as both hands disappear beneath her waistband. The sight pushes me closer to the edge. Power surges through me, as I witness her most vulnerable moment while she has no idea I’m here or that I engineered this entire scenario.

A strangled sound escapes her lips as she comes, her body tensing and then relaxing in waves. The sight triggers my own release, intense and sharp. For a moment, we’re synchronized in our pleasure, connected in a way she can’t comprehend.

As she recovers, her chest rising and falling, a lazy smile spreads across her face. She picks up her phone, still open to my GhostDaddy account, and taps the follow button.

“Gotcha!” I wipe my hands on a nearby towel. Another connection was established, and another thread binds her to me.

She stretches and yawns, unaware of my presence as she stands and heads toward her bathroom. I could watch her all night, but patience is part of the game. I’ve waited this long. I can wait a little more.

I close her webcam feed but leave the connection intact. Tomorrow, we’ll play games again—Rogue and MistressOfMischief—and she’ll never suspect that her gaming partner and her new TikTok fantasy are identical.

Or that, in the end, fantasy and reality will collide.

---