Install Steam
sign in
|
language
简体中文 (Simplified Chinese)
繁體中文 (Traditional Chinese)
日本語 (Japanese)
한국어 (Korean)
ไทย (Thai)
Български (Bulgarian)
Čeština (Czech)
Dansk (Danish)
Deutsch (German)
Español - España (Spanish - Spain)
Español - Latinoamérica (Spanish - Latin America)
Ελληνικά (Greek)
Français (French)
Italiano (Italian)
Bahasa Indonesia (Indonesian)
Magyar (Hungarian)
Nederlands (Dutch)
Norsk (Norwegian)
Polski (Polish)
Português (Portuguese - Portugal)
Português - Brasil (Portuguese - Brazil)
Română (Romanian)
Русский (Russian)
Suomi (Finnish)
Svenska (Swedish)
Türkçe (Turkish)
Tiếng Việt (Vietnamese)
Українська (Ukrainian)
Report a translation problem

SYRIAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
dodaj do znaj prosze, mam pytanie
nwm dlaczego, ale nie moge dodac ci z maina
Where Tilt and Despair so often reside,
There rises a hero with flicks so divine —
Oxtavius, ruler of Bombsite B’s shrine.
With crosshair like razor, his shots never stray,
Opponents get wrecked before they can pray.
A deagle? A blade? It matters not much —
He wins 1v5s with a smoke and a hunch.
He reads the whole map like a book in his mind,
Predicts every flank, every push, every bind.
While others go eco, he's rich from pure skill,
Dropping AKs with the calm of a kill-hardened will.
His spray is a sermon, his movement — a dance,
He bunnyhops past you before you can glance.
Each match is a canvas, each kill a bold stroke,
Opponents just rage-quit or blame it on smoke.
And when Lil Polski throws flashes in spawn,
It’s Oxtavius alone who still carries on.
He’s the heartbeat, the legend, the aim-god, the brain —
The MVP etched on the side of your pain.