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Your hands feel bare, the fight’s not won.
Once you flexed with style so clean,
Now your loadout’s lost—what does it mean?
That Doppler shine, that crimson fade,
The way your gloves just matched your blade.
Gone are the days of flex and flair,
Now you’re stuck with default wear.
The rounds feel cold, the vibe is off,
Your empty hands, they make me scoff.
No Karambit spins, no Butterfly tricks,
Just factory skins—this ain't it, fix!
So, Code, it's time—let’s set things right,
Get your gear and grip it tight.
The game feels dull, the flex is low,
Bring back the drip—we need that glow!
Dialed in, crosshair tight.
Flashes pop, he leads the way,
Milk’s behind—but… slightly delayed.
He clears the site, pre-fires strong,
Milk’s still lost, her callouts wrong.
"He's mid!" she yells—Code checks twice,
No one's there… oh, that’s not nice.
Code plants fast, a perfect strat,
Milk buys a Negev… and aims at a cat.
She jumps while shooting, sprays the wall,
Code sighs deep—he’s seen it all.
But when it’s clutch, and hope runs thin,
Somehow, some way, Milk pulls a win.
A lucky shot, a random spray,
“Planned it,” she smirks—Code walks away.
They queue again, ‘cause win or lose,
CS2’s best duo? You know who.
With every flick, your aim cuts through.
A master of angles, swift and clean,
The deadliest force the game's ever seen.
From Mirage to Inferno’s fiery hold,
Your clutch plays turn the weak to bold.
Your entry frags, your perfect sprays,
Still haunt my mind from past game days.
But time has passed, the queue runs dry,
No rush B calls, no smokes to fly.
Where have you been, my trusty mate?
The server waits—it’s not too late!
So load up, Code, let’s play once more,
Like days of old when we would score.
For CS2 is not the same,
Without your skill, without your name.