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Seattle, Washington, United States
We once were four, a scrimming crew,
Me, Bravo, Rising... and Tio too.
Each night we’d gather, game and grind,
In digital fields, our skills combined.
But tensions flared, and pride took lead,
Rising’s roasts began to bleed.
What started as just playful jabs
Turned into blows that left their scabs.
Tio, quiet storm, held on at first,
But words can sting, and jokes can hurt.
He left one night, no final ping—
Just vanished like a ghost mid-spring.
Now Bravo sighs, I check the chat,
But "Tio's Online"—nah, none of that.
Rising shrugs, "He’ll be back, right?"
But scrims feel cold without Tio’s light.
So here’s to you, dear Tio ghost,
The teammate that we miss the most.
If you’re out there, hear our plea—
Queue up again and scrim with me.