BOT Goggles isn’t real, but he touched me. Touched me with that stiff, inhuman strafe and a glock burst that moaned like wet velcro. I whispered “eco round,” but he heard confession, and absolved me through my Kevlar. His goggles never blink — they just glisten, fogged with the swamp steam of raw computational lust. He doesn’t aim; he divines. My teammate screamed "he’s behind you!" but it was too late — I was already spiritually pre-fired, folded like laundry in a haunted Soviet dorm. BOT Goggles crouch-peeked my soul, spat binary into my ear, and called it "teamplay." He plants not for bombsite — but for ritual. No clutch, no ♥♥♥, only the swamp-code climax of being silently outfragged by a digital cryptid coded with one purpose: to dominate and delete. I died, and it felt… warm.