Chapter Text
The second split hadn’t started yet, but it already felt like it had swallowed the team whole.
Every day at the TES facility followed the same loop; scrim blocks into meetings into silent VOD reviews that never quite filled the space where confidence used to live. The sting of their First Stand loss hadn’t dulled. Not really. They’d gone in with momentum, with expectations, with pressure heavy enough to feel like destiny. And they came out with silence.
No one talked about it after the tournament ended. Not directly. Not in a way that meant anything.
But it lingered. In the air, in the space between sentences, in the way everyone moved.
Jiahao had been staying later than anyone–grinding lane matchups in solo queue until his hands ached, like if he played enough, he could erase how it ended. Wenbo had started shadowing the analysts again, watching replays from different perspectives with a clenched jaw and tight shoulders, like he was trying to crack a code he already knew the answer to. Qingsong hadn’t made a joke in two weeks. Not in meetings, not on comms, not even in passing. Every comment in draft sounded like it came with a weight limit. Like he didn’t trust himself to say more than what was necessary.
And Jian had started coming in early. Earlier than the coaches. Earlier than the staff. He didn’t talk about it, didn’t look for validation. Just logged in and loaded up reviews before anyone else arrived. Clicked through each frame with silent precision. Sometimes, he stayed so still you’d forget he was even in the room. Just eyes flicking across the screen, expression blank, headset looped around his neck like he didn’t need to hear anything more to understand where they’d gone wrong.
They were all trying in their own ways.
Trying to move forward. Trying to reset. Trying not to talk about how much it hurt.
Jinhyuk was trying too.
He’d filled every hour of his schedule until there was no space left to think. Solo queue, review blocks, 1-on-1s with coaches, matchup prep, internal scrims. He was in the facility before the lights turned on with Jiahao and sometimes stayed until long after Jian had packed up his mouse.
When people asked for feedback, he gave it. When someone made a call, he nodded like he agreed. He still laughed during conversations. Still posted occasionally on Weibo. Still looked like he was fine.
Most days, it worked.
But not today.
Today was quiet in a different way.
The screen in front of him was paused; Sejuani mid-path near the river brush, caught just outside of vision. It was a clean play. One he’d reviewed already. One he didn’t need to look at again.
But it had been sitting on that frame for twenty minutes.
His phone rested on the desk, screen dark. He’d been checking it constantly since they got back from Korea. Telling himself he wasn’t waiting—just staying on top of things, keeping busy.
But everything since then had been a blur of structure and noise. Scrims, meetings, solo queue. Just enough motion to pretend he wasn’t hoping for something.
But he was.
Every night, when the noise died down, when everyone else had gone home or passed out in their chairs, it crept in.
A lot had happened in Korea.
More than he expected. More than he could wrap his head around, even now.
It wasn’t just the loss, or the way the tournament slipped through their hands. It was everything that followed. The quiet night in Seoul when Seungyong showed up without being asked, when he didn’t try to fix anything or offer cheap comfort. He just stood there, steady as ever, and let Jinhyuk fall apart on his arms.
And then Incheon; where everything shifted, but not just for him.
Because that was the first time Jinhyuk saw the cracks in Seungyong’s mask. The tiredness in his voice. The way he spoke like someone who’d been carrying his own losses quietly for years. No deflection, no distance, just something raw and honest slipping through in the silence between them.
It finally made sense.
The years of resentment, the tension that never went away, the way they always circled back to each other no matter how far they tried to run. It was never just about rivalry. It was never just about sex. Somewhere along the line, it had turned into something else. Something real.
Jinhyuk was in love with him.
He hadn’t said it directly, hadn’t used the word, but it didn’t matter. The truth was there, in the way he looked at Seungyong, in the way his voice caught when he told him he wanted more.
And Seungyong didn’t flinch. He didn’t shut down or make a joke or turn away like Jinhyuk had been bracing for. He listened. He smiled. He kissed him.
And when he finally left, he didn’t leave with nothing.
He said, “See you in China.”
Just three words. Simple. Offhand. The kind of thing you could say without meaning much at all.
But it did mean something. At least to Jinhyuk.
Because it wasn’t a goodbye. It wasn’t a rejection. It wasn’t we’ll talk later or take care or any of the other things people say when they don’t want to keep holding on.
It was open-ended.
It was I’ll be there.
It was this doesn’t end here.
It was Seungyong looking at him like he actually wanted to see him again. Like what happened in Incheon or Seoul wasn’t just a moment. Like it mattered.
Jinhyuk had clung to those three words the entire flight back to Shanghai—headphones in, hood pulled low, stomach still twisted with everything he couldn’t quite name. He’d watched the city lights disappear through the plane window and told himself it would be different this time.
Because this time, they had said something real.
Not everything. But enough at least.
So Jinhyuk waited for Seungyong.
He didn’t text first—part pride, part fear, part he said he’d see me in China, right?
One day passed.
Then another.
Then scrims started, and the noise returned, and the days filled up again with meetings and prep and reminders that the season wasn’t going to wait for him to sort out his feelings.
Still, he kept checking his phone.
Not obsessively.
Just… often.
Just enough to notice that nothing ever came.
No messages. No calls. Not even one of those dumb stickers in Wechat or Kakaotalk, the kind Seungyong used to send at night randomly, maybe even by accident. Like he was testing the line between casual and not.
And that was what got to him the most.
Because this time, he wasn’t guessing.
This time, he had seen it; the way Seungyong looked at him like he wanted to stay, like the weight he always carried had finally cracked open just enough to let something real slip through. The way his voice had caught, for once, like he didn’t know what else to say.
Seungyong had let himself be seen.
He let Jinhyuk see the tiredness, the regret, the quiet kind of hope that had always lived under his calm exterior—and maybe, just maybe, he had wanted to be seen.
So when they got back, when life picked up again and the silence stretched out longer and longer, it felt like something was breaking all over again.
Because that door had been wide open.
And Seungyong—the one who’d finally taken off the mask—hadn’t stepped through.
He’d closed it, quietly, and walked away.
Or maybe he hadn’t even realized it was open in the first place.
And Jinhyuk didn’t know which possibility hurt more.
It was late again.
Not quite midnight, but the building had that end-of-day stillness to it; lights dimmed in the hall, monitors gone dark one by one, the hum of PCs cooling down in the background. Most of the team had already packed up.
Jinhyuk hadn’t moved in a while.
He sat in the review room alone, screen paused on a clip he wasn’t really watching. Something about a toplane skirmish that fell apart in the midgame. He’d watched it three times already and couldn’t remember a single detail.
The door creaked suddenly open behind him.
“Yo,” Jiahao’s voice came, quiet but clear.
Jinhyuk turned slightly in his chair as Jiahao stepped inside, a hoodie pulled over his head, damp hair clinging to his forehead. He carried a bottle of water and a presence that made the silence less heavy.
“You watched the new top review yet?” he asked casually.
Jinhyuk blinked, like it took a second for the question to land. “Not yet.”
Jiahao nodded and crossed the room, dropping into the chair next to him. He didn’t say anything right away. Just sat, one foot hooked around the leg of the chair, elbow resting on his knee.
“You’ve been quiet lately,” the toplaner said after a moment.
Jinhyuk considered brushing it off. Saying he was tired, or that the patch sucked, or that he was just thinking through some pathing stuff.
But he didn’t.
“Yeah,” he said instead. “I guess.”
A beat passed.
“Is everything okay?” Jiahao asked.
Jinhyuk didn’t answer.
And Jiahao didn’t press.
The door creaked again a few minutes later.
Jian stepped in, hoodie sleeves tugged down over his hands, expression neutral. He glanced at both of them, then at the screen, and then wandered toward the couch like he already knew there wasn’t anything urgent going on.
He didn’t say much. Just sat and peeled open a granola bar, breaking off a piece and tossing it into his mouth like this was any other night.
But after a while, he looked over at Jinhyuk—just a glance, nothing dramatic—and held it for a second longer than usual.
Like he could tell something was off. Like he wasn’t sure if he should ask.
He didn’t.
But he didn’t look away, either.
And Jinhyuk felt the weight of it anyway.
The midlaner was silent for awhile. He sat comfortably on the couch, legs stretched out, the crinkle of his granola bar wrapper the only sound in the room. His eyes flicked toward the paused review on the screen, but it was clear he wasn’t paying much attention to it. Not really. His focus kept drifting back to Jinhyuk, quietly, almost like he was trying not to make it obvious he was watching.
He broke the silence eventually. “ Ge , you sleeping okay?”
The question was simple, but it didn’t feel small. It came out soft but grounded. The kind of thing you only ask when you already know the answer, when you’ve been thinking it for a while and finally decide to say it out loud.
Jinhyuk glanced over, caught a little off guard. It wasn’t that the question itself surprised him. It was the way Jian asked it.
The jungler shrugged, the motion slow, noncommittal. “I am.”
Jian tilted his head slightly, resting his elbow on the arm of the couch. His voice didn’t change, but his next words cut straight through the air. “Doesn’t look like it.”
There was no bite to it. No accusation. No lecture hiding underneath. Just a steady kind of honesty that Jian had always been good at.
Jinhyuk looked down at his phone again, thumb pressing lightly against the edge of the screen. It stayed dark, no notifications, no new messages. He didn’t need to open it to know there was nothing waiting.
Across from him, Jiahao let out a soft breath. He leaned forward a little, arms braced against his knees, voice just above a whisper when he finally spoke.
“You don’t have to say anything,” the toplaner said. “Just… let us know if you need something. Yeah?”
Jinhyuk nodded once, a small movement, almost reflexive. It wasn’t a real answer. But it was all he had.
Neither of them pushed. Jian went back to finishing his granola bar, his attention drifting back to the screen. Jiahao leaned back in his chair and stared up at the ceiling, as if trying to recall a draft plan that never quite came together the way it should have.
For a while, the room settled again into silence—not the heavy kind that weighed down on your chest, but something softer. Something still.
But it felt different now.
Because even if no one said it directly, it was clear: they knew something was wrong.
And they were paying attention.
They weren’t pressing for the whole story.
But they weren’t ignoring it either.
And somehow, that made it harder to pretend nothing was wrong at all.
Another day, a nother scrim review.
The lights overhead buzzed with that faint, sterile hum that always settled in after too many hours in the same room. A few half-empty water bottles were scattered across the desk. Someone had left a hoodie slung over the back of a chair. The air smelled faintly of instant ramen and burnt focus.
Qingsong sat at the front of the room, fingers drumming against the edge of the table as he clicked through the latest VOD. Wenbo was sprawled across the back row, head tilted against the wall like he wasn’t sure whether to keep watching or check out entirely. His foot bounced against the floor—not out of impatience, but with that twitchy, coiled energy that came from holding something back.
On screen, the clock ticked toward 27:07. Fourth dragon was spawning in thirty seconds. The enemy team was already hovering mid-river. TES had tempo off the last reset. Or they were supposed to.
Wenbo and Qingsong had cleared the mid wave early, rotated into river first, dropped vision and pinked pixel brush. The setup was clean. The map was theirs.
All they needed was Jinhyuk.
But he hadn’t moved.
Instead of contesting vision, he’d path’d topside after reset, taken Gromp, then loitered near Krugs before heading back down—too late to matter. By the time he stepped into river and dropped a ward, the control was already gone.
The enemy had full setup. The dragon went uncontested.
The screen froze on the moment just before TES peeled back—vision cleared, pressure lost, the setup wasted. A perfect snapshot of missed timing.
Qingsong didn’t speak at first. He just leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, eyes on the screen.
Wenbo exhaled slowly through his nose. “We had mid pushed,” he said, voice steady but tight. “Wave cleared. We rotated first. Leona was already in pixel. I was holding the choke.” He didn’t look at Jinhyuk. He didn’t need to. The tone said enough; this wasn’t the first time he’d gone over the play in his head. “We gave it up. For nothing.”
Qingsong clicked the mouse again, letting the clip roll forward five more seconds. Then he paused it. “Why didn’t we contest?” he asked. His eyes stayed on the screen, but the question was aimed directly at Jinhyuk.
Jinhyuk sat motionless, jaw tight, shoulders tense. He’d already seen this review. Already heard the analysts pick it apart. Already knew what the coaching staff would say.
“We didn’t have mid prio,” he said finally. “If their Yone collapsed, we get cut off in river.”
“You had us,” Wenbo said. His voice stayed calm, but firmer now. “We were already there.”
“I didn’t want to flip it.”
“We weren’t flipping,” Qingsong said. His tone didn’t change, but he leaned forward slightly, gaze narrowing. “We had control. We had vision. They didn’t even know if we were grouped.”
“You hesitated,” Wenbo added.
It wasn’t even an attack. Just fact.
Jinhyuk let out a breath, slow and deliberate, trying not to sound defensive. “I made the decision not to commit. It’s on me.”
“It wasn’t a decision,” Wenbo countered, quieter this time. “You didn’t say anything at all.”
That landed harder than anything else.
Because it was true.
There was no call. No wait . No hold . No reset . Just silence. He hadn’t made a bad call—he’d made no call at all. And that was worse.
“You didn’t tell us what you were doing,” Wenbo continued. “You didn’t counter-call. You didn’t ask for delay. You just went quiet.”
Qingsong shifted in his chair, his expression unreadable. “This isn’t just about one fight either,” he said. “You’ve been off lately.”
The words weren’t harsh. Just a clean, clear read—and one that had clearly been sitting between the three of them for a while.
“You’re not syncing with bot,” Wenbo added, glancing over now. “We feel it. Every game.”
And they weren’t wrong.
Jinhyuk had usually played around bot. That was their default; early vision, wave state reads, synced recalls. It didn’t even need words most days. The rhythm was just there.
Lately, it wasn’t.
The tempo was off. The pressure was off. But worse… the trust was off.
They weren’t losing games because of it. Not directly. But they were losing moments. The kind of moments good teams converted into leads, into wins, into something.
Now, Jinhyuk always felt just a half-second behind. Not in execution but in presence.
He hesitated, he drifted. He went quiet in comms at the worst times. He didn’t pull the trigger when it counted.
And Wenbo and Qingsong, more than anyone, noticed first.
Because when jungle didn’t show up, they didn’t just lose a play. They lost the confidence to look for the next one.
“You used to talk to us every rotation,” Wenbo said. “Even when we didn’t need it.”
“You used to call plays that didn’t exist,” Qingsong added. “We’d ping you back just to stop you from throwing yourself 1v3.”
“That’s how we knew you were in it,” Wenbo said. “That you were here .”
They weren’t angry.
That made it worse.
If they were yelling, if they were sarcastic, if they were tuning out, Jinhyuk could’ve brushed it off. He would have pushed back. Said they didn’t get it.
But they weren’t.
They were just being honest.
And they were right.
“I’m not trying to mess us up, I swear,” Jinhyuk said after a long pause. “I’m not ignoring you guys.”
“No one said you were,” Qingsong said. “But we’re your botlane. If you’re off, we feel it too.”
Another silence.
Jinhyuk looked up at the screen again—the frozen frame of his Nidalee still topside, while Wenbo and Qingsong waited in river for a play that never came.
“I’ll fix it,” Jinhyuk said. His voice was quiet, but steady.
Qingsong didn’t reply immediately. He just looked at him for a beat longer—not with judgment, not even with frustration anymore. Just something quieter. Like he was trying to figure out whether Jinhyuk actually believed what he’d said.
Then he nodded once. “Okay.” He turned back to the keyboard and let the review roll again.
But Wenbo didn’t look away. He stayed turned toward Jinhyuk, expression more measured now. “You know it doesn’t have to be like this, right?” he said. “Whatever’s going on… you don’t have to shoulder it all alone.”
Jinhyuk didn’t say anything.
Not because he didn’t want to. But because it caught him off guard, the way Wenbo said it.
Qingsong didn’t add anything. He just gave Jinhyuk a glance over his shoulder. Like he was already telling him the same thing without words.
And somehow, that was harder to sit with than anything they’d said during the review.
That night, Jinhyuk lay in bed, unmoving, staring at the ceiling like it might give him answers. The room was dark, except for the faint spill of city lights through the blinds—fractured slashes of color painting the wall above his desk. The air felt heavy. The kind that made everything louder in his own head.
His phone buzzed once on the nightstand. A calendar ping.
Team reminder: content day tomorrow, 9:30 a.m
He checked it anyway. Not because he cared about the schedule. Just because a part of him—the part that still hadn’t learned better—was hoping it might be him .
But it wasn’t.
Of course it wasn’t.
Still, he unlocked the screen and opened the app like he always did. Like he didn’t know how to stop. Seungyong’s name was still pinned to the top of his chats.
The last message hung there like a ghost. And still, Jinhyuk stared at it.
He let the phone drop back against the mattress beside him. The screen lit the side of his face with a cold, pale glow.
They hadn’t made promises. He knew that. No labels. No big declarations. A few instances of tired honesty and held breath and unsaid things. Jinhyuk had let himself believe that maybe it was real. Not defined, but real.
And now here he was, weeks later, still waiting for a message that never came.
It would’ve been easier if he’d just been angry.
But the truth was, he felt stupid.
Not just for falling, but for letting everyone else see it.
He hadn’t been subtle. He thought he had but his teammates had known. One by one, they’d started to notice.
He was bleeding into everything—and the worst part was, he could feel it happening and still couldn’t stop it.
He picked up the phone again.
Typed:
you messed me up
Deleted it.
Typed:
i let you get in my head and now i’m fucking it all up
Deleted that too.
Typed:
i should’ve never—
Stopped.
Deleted.
He closed the app and locked the screen.
This wasn’t Seungyong’s fault.
Not really.
Jinhyuk let the phone fall to the edge of the bed and dragged the blanket up over his chest, though it didn’t make him feel any warmer. His body felt cold, but his head was burning.
Maybe Seungyong was just trying to be kind. Maybe none of it meant what Jinhyuk had let himself believe it did. Maybe the whole thing had been one long misread. One moment of closeness in a city full of them.
He could survive that. He’d survived worse.
But what he couldn’t afford—what he couldn’t let happen—was letting it take him down like this. Letting it infect the only part of his life that had ever felt like his.
He wasn’t just sad. He was ashamed.
He was playing like someone else. Moving like a shadow. Thinking in slow motion.
And his team had noticed.
He could hear it in Jiahao’s tone, in Qingsong’s silence. Could feel it in the way no one had said what they thought was wrong but they all knew something was.
It was humiliating. And it was the wake-up call he didn’t want, but clearly needed.
Whatever this thing with Seungyong was—or wasn’t—it couldn’t be an excuse anymore.
He wasn’t going to let someone who couldn’t even text him first keep unraveling him like this.
If he was going to feel like shit, he could at least use it.
And if nothing else, he still had the game.
He still had that.
The next morning, Jinhyuk arrived at the facility before anyone else.
Not by five minutes. Not even by thirty.
But by two full hours.
The place was still dark when he swiped in, lights clicking on overhead with a faint hum, casting long shadows across the empty halls. The air was cold—not freezing, but like the building hadn’t quite woken up yet. It smelled like plastic and leftover takeout. Like old coffee and too many nights spent grinding.
He moved without thinking, dumped his bag next to his desk, pulled his hoodie tighter around his shoulders. He sat down in front of his monitor like he’d been doing it for years—because he had—and booted up without a second of hesitation.
No playlist. No warm-up ARAM game. No easing into the day.
Just solo queue.
One game. Then another. Then another.
He didn’t pause between them, didn’t check chat, didn’t look at his phone.
By the time the rest of the team started trickling in—Jian first, quietly rubbing the sleep from his eyes; then Jiahao, clutching a thermos—Jinhyuk was on his fourth win. All clean, all fast. Jungle diff every time.
He path’d like he had something to prove; invaded with no hesitation, pressured lanes on second camp, skirmished at level three, and called plays before the lanes had even stabilized. If his laners couldn’t keep up, that was their problem. He didn’t wait anymore.
He played like someone who had no intention of losing again—to anyone.
And it didn’t stop there.
Once their scheduled scrims started, Jinhyuk didn’t just keep pace, he set it.
His comms were clear and clipped, sharp as glass. No filler, no second-guessing. He called timers before anyone else could. Predicted enemy rotations off incomplete information and got them right every time.
During draft, he was already two matchups ahead of the analysts. During review, he spoke first. He pointed out his own mistakes with precision, like a man dissecting someone else’s VOD. No ego, no shame.
They didn’t need to check if he was on top of things. He was already ten steps ahead.
And when the second split came, TES didn’t just win. They tore through Group C.
Six games. Six wins. Clean map control, hard punishes, sharp execution. They were in, out, done.
Group Ascend was next—a harder pool, more prep, more eyes watching—but no one on the team was panicking.
Not when Jinhyuk was playing like this. He had made sure of that.
Wenbo joked that he was possessed, that someone had swapped him out for a script-running android between patches. Qingsong started calling him the emperor during reviews—half-teasing, half-respect. Jiahao asked him once if he ever actually slept, like maybe he was only half-joking. And Jian, didn’t say much at all—but sometimes looked at him during breaks with that quiet, unreadable stare. Not worried. But not entirely at ease, either.
Because yes, they were winning.
And yes, they were laughing again.
The team felt loose in all the right ways: breezy comms, confident plays, a sense of rhythm they hadn’t had since after the First Stand.
They shared memes in the team group chat. Cracked jokes between games. Posed for content with exaggerated victory poses. The mood was light. It felt like fun again.
But under all of that, there was a tension they couldn’t name.
Because no one could quite shake the feeling that their jungler—sharp, dominant, unrelenting—was running himself into the ground just to keep it all together.
He was sprinting. Full speed, eyes forward, jaw clenched so tight it ached. Like if he stopped for even a second, all of it—the silence, the heartbreak, the not-knowing—might hit him in the chest and drop him where he stood.
He told himself it wasn’t like before.
This time, he was in control.
This time, he was choosing it.
And they were winning.
So no one said anything.
Not yet.
Not when they were top of their group. Not when the scrims were clean, the comms were tight, and Jinhyuk’s presence on the map felt like gravity.
Everyone could feel the shift. The weight. The edge.
But the results spoke louder.
So they let it ride.
Because for now, winning was enough.
Even if none of them could quite look him in the eye and say, with full confidence, that he was okay.
The Group Ascend rumble stage schedule dropped on a Monday morning.
Ten teams. Double round-robin. Best-of-threes across eight weeks. No real breaks, no time to breathe. Just one series after another, stacked end to end like the format had been built less for fairness and more to see who could last the longest without falling apart.
Group Ascend wasn’t just a test of skill. It was a test of endurance.
It was about who could stay sharp after the third match day in a row. Who could take a 1–2 loss, shake it off, and play their next best-of like nothing happened. Who could wake up to a patch that shifted the meta overnight and still show up on stage with a plan that worked.
It was the kind of stretch designed to wear players down until the cracks started showing—not in mechanics, but in mindset, patience, and in trust.
TES had seen it before. They all had. But seeing it laid out again—series after series, day by day, block after block—hit harder than expected.
The full schedule landed in their group chat first; a spreadsheet, color-coded, brutal.
Wenbo opened it mid-bite of breakfast and muttered, “Jesus.”
Jiahao let out a low breath, eyes still half-lidded from sleep. “That’s a lot of games.”
Jian leaned over the back of Wenbo’s chair to get a look. “Who do we play first?”
The room shifted as they all checked the top row.
TES vs AL
For a second, no one said anything.
Then Qingsong let out a short, dry laugh, humorless. “Of course it’s them.”
Jinhyuk didn’t react. He kept his eyes on the screen, face still and unreadable. His gaze moved down the list like he was just taking in another rotation of assignments—one more block of games to prep for, one more routine to memorize. His posture didn’t shift. His expression didn’t change. If anything, he looked calm. That same carved-out calm he’d mastered since the split began—clinical, composed, impossible to read.
But he felt it.
Not in his chest. Not even in his head.
In his stomach—that quiet, sudden drop. The kind that came from missing a stair, from catching yourself half a second too late. From seeing something you weren’t ready for.
TES vs AL
Just a line in a spreadsheet. Two team tags. Match 3. A schedule.
But it landed like a punch anyway.
Staff started talking logistics as soon as the group settled in; scrim priorities, travel days, side selection. Someone pulled up a list of bans from AL’s recent matches. The coach started outlining prep. Qingsong had already opened a tab tracking red-side win rates and draft tendencies.
The work began.
Everyone moved forward.
And Jinhyuk moved with them.
Or looked like he did.
He nodded at questions, pulled up lane data, scanned champ pool overlaps and jungle tracking metrics. His screen filled with stats, warding patterns, gold differentials. He was already deep in AL’s recent early-game setups before the coaching staff finished their second bullet point.
It looked normal.
He made it look normal.
But under the table, out of sight, his right hand curled tight against his leg. Fingernails pressed into skin. Just enough to anchor him. Just enough to hold it together.
He hadn’t thought about Seungyong in days. Not really. Not clearly. Not since the games started flowing and the routine took over.
He’d been too busy, too focused, too sharp.
And it had worked. The silence had turned into background noise. The ache had dulled into pressure. Bearable. Pushable.
But now?
Now it was AL.
Now it was him .
And suddenly it wasn’t pressure anymore. It was weight.
He told himself it didn’t matter. Told himself it was just another series.
But the truth was harder.
Because the moment he saw the name on the schedule, his pulse spiked. And no amount of prep was going to change that.
Shenzhen was humid even after dark.
By the time TES had checked into the hotel and dropped their bags, the heat had already pressed itself into the fabric of their clothes. The city moved fast outside their windows—packed streets, blinking signs, late-night traffic that sounded like it never really stopped. It wasn’t like Shanghai. Shenzhen felt leaner. Hungrier. Like everything here was still accelerating.
They had a free evening before prep resumed, and for once, no one wanted to eat in. No sad takeout boxes, no split dinners across three rooms and barely a word spoken. Someone floated the idea of going out, and no one pushed back.
They found a restaurant a few blocks from the hotel—polished wood interiors, warm lighting, a quiet private room tucked in the back with just enough space for the team. It was nice. Nicer than they needed.
The lazy Susan was already set with small starters by the time they sat down—chilled cucumber, marinated peanuts, a spicy salad that Jian carefully avoided. The air conditioning was perfect. The menu was thick and bound in leather.
They ordered like they hadn’t eaten in days. Duck, short ribs, claypot rice, dumplings, fish, three kinds of tofu. Wenbo made a joke about overcompensating. Jiahao said he’d finish whatever Jian didn’t.
For the first twenty minutes, it felt normal.
They talked about practice schedules, match formats, the week’s scrim rumors. Qingsong pulled up a screenshot from a game in Group A where two teams had triple-banned ADCs just to force a weird first-pick. Jian laughed so hard he nearly spilled his tea. Wenbo leaned across the table to show Jiahao a new keyboard he’d been eyeing.
They were loose. Comfortable. It felt like a breath before the grind kicked in again.
Then the conversation shifted.
“AL’s looking really good,” Jiahao said, reaching for a slice of duck. “Their early game’s clean. I watched their UP match last night. Tempo’s solid.”
“They play smart,” Wenbo added. “Nothing too flashy, just efficient. Their jungle pressure’s suffocating. You miss one rotation, and they’re already punishing you.”
“Well. Tarzan’s known for not wasting anything,” Jian said without looking up from his rice.
The name hung in the air for a beat too long.
Qingsong set his chopsticks down and leaned back slightly, folding his arms across his chest. “What, you want the scouting report?”
Wenbo shrugged. “You did play with him.”
“For, like, a few months,” Qingsong said, shrugging. “It wasn’t even a full year.”
“Still,” Wenbo countered, glancing toward Jiahao, “None of us really know him. Not from the inside.”
Jinhyuk didn’t say anything. He hadn’t touched his food. He just poured himself more tea and sat quietly, not looking up.
Qingsong noticed. Glanced at him once, then back at the others.
“He’s sharp,” he said finally. “Calm as hell. Always watching the map. Doesn’t talk much, but when he does, it’s clean. You don’t have to ask what he wants, he’s already doing it.” He leaned in slightly, resting his elbows on the edge of the table, eyes distant in the way someone gets when they’re not really speaking to the room anymore. “It’s not always about mechanics with him,” he went on. “It’s the way he plays like he’s already seen the whole game. Like he’s just moving through it at his own pace. Honestly? It’s kind of freaky.”
Wenbo raised an eyebrow. “You talk like you’re still impressed.”
Qingsong didn’t flinch. “He’s a good player.”
“He’s not unbeatable,” Jiahao said, tone light with a chuckle. “We’ve done it before.”
Qingsong nodded. “Sure. Just don’t expect him to hand it to you.”
That landed. Subtle, but it shifted the tone.
Then Jian, still watching his bowl, asked, “What’s he like outside of games?”
Qingsong blinked. “What do you mean?”
“I dunno,” Jian said with a shrug. “Does he talk? Have friends? Feels like the only thing he posts about is hiking or their team dog.”
Wenbo laughed under his breath. “If you asked him that, he’d probably dodge the question and then invade your jungle just for asking.”
Qingsong smiled faintly. “Honestly? He probably would.”
Then, after a moment’s pause, his tone turned more thoughtful.
“He mostly keeps to himself,” he said. “He’s polite. Quiet. Always says thank you to the staff, helps clean up after games. Never complains. Never makes a mess.”
“He wasn’t the type to joke around in comms, but he always said ‘good job’ when someone made a good call. Even if we were losing. Even if it didn’t matter.”
Jiahao nodded, reaching for another piece of duck. “Sounds like a good guy.”
Qingsong gave a small shrug. “Yeah. Not warm, exactly. But not cold either. Just… good, I guess.”
There was a pause.
Then Jian looked up. “So, does he have a girlfriend?”
Qingsong blinked, caught off guard. “What?”
The mid laner kept chewing his food. “Just wondering.”
Qingsong leaned back, thoughtful again. “No idea. He never talked about that kind of thing. Didn’t go out with us unless it was for team stuff. Skipped birthdays, bar nights, all that. He always said he had stuff to review.”
Wenbo raised his eyebrows. “Damn. So he’s married to the game?” Then, with a grin, “what, Jian, hoping he’s single or something?”
Jian didn’t react and just shrugged again. “I was just curious, ge.”
It was a light comment. A throwaway line. The kind of joke that should’ve passed without notice.
But it didn’t.
The table went quiet.
Not awkward. Just… silent. Like something had settled in the room that none of them wanted to name.
No one looked at Jinhyuk. They didn’t have to.
He was sitting exactly as he had been all evening; tea in front of him, food untouched, shoulders just slightly tense like he was holding his breath.
He hadn’t looked up. Hadn’t reacted. Hadn’t said a single word since AL came up.
And that silence—sharp, quiet, undeniably personal—said more than anything else that night.
Qingsong reached for the nearest dish, murmuring something about the ribs getting cold. Jiahao made a joke about Jian’s taste in men.
The conversation picked back up. Light again and easy on the surface.
But underneath it, even as the plates shifted and tea was refilled, the air felt different.
And everyone could feel it.
The hallway to the main stage was narrow. Dimly lit, industrial gray, the kind of space that was never meant to be seen on camera. Just wires, cables, crew, and players. TES stood on one side, lined up, waiting for their walkout call. AL would wait on the other, prepping to pass them once the first team stepped through.
It was a standard exchange; polite and professional.
Teams always passed each other like this before a series. A few nods, a few quiet “good lucks.” Nothing more.
Jinhyuk knew it was coming.
Of course he did.
He’d seen the schedule. Knew the staging order. Knew exactly how these pre-match walkups were structured, down to the second. But knowing didn’t make it easier and it didn’t stop the air in his chest from pulling tight the second he heard their voices rounding the corner.
AL’s staff appeared first; the coaching staff, a media handler with a clipboard, and someone behind them holding a tablet with the day’s schedule. And then, behind them, came the players.
Five jerseys. Five figures he could name without seeing the names printed on the back. And one of them stood out like a pin drop in his chest.
Seungyong was second in line.
Same jersey. Same walk. Same calm, unreadable expression.
It hit harder than it should have. Jinhyuk’s posture didn’t change, but his lungs forgot how to fill for a beat. He stood where he was, spine straight, chin slightly lifted, hands clasped behind him like this was just another formality, like cameras might be watching, even though there were none in the hallway.
Their teams passed each other the way pros always did, greeting each other before the start of their series.
Jiahao shook Xuanjun’s hand, polite and brief. Wenbo said something under his breath that made the AL botduo and Qingsong chuckle. Jian offered Xiaojun a fist bump, casual, like this was just routine.
And then Seungyong stepped in front of him.
Close. Closer than they'd been in weeks.
For a half-second, they were shoulder to shoulder. Not touching, but nearly. Just enough space for tension to live in. Jinhyuk looked up without thinking, without deciding to, and there he was.
Lee Seungyong.
No stage lights. No monitors between them. No game to buffer the space. Just the real version of him, here and now, five inches away and impossible to ignore.
Their eyes met.
And for one unbearable second, Jinhyuk let himself look, really look.
Seungyong looked the same, but not quite. His face was a little leaner. His posture held just enough stiffness to betray the calm. His hair was styled differently, a bit messy, like he hadn’t bothered to fix it before call time.
He looked tired.
It was too much and not enough all at once for Jinhyuk.
And then, finally, Seungyong spoke. “Good luck.”
His voice was soft. Even. Neutral, like it meant nothing more than the words themselves. Just something you say.
Jinhyuk’s throat tightened, but he swallowed it back. “You too,” he replied. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t let his voice shake. Didn’t let anything crack. He met Seungyong’s eyes, held them, and answered steady. Like it cost him nothing.
And then Seungyong walked past. No hesitation, no second glance. He didn’t look back, didn’t slow down, didn’t offer anything more than those two words. Just kept moving like it hadn’t meant anything. Like it was just a polite exchange between players on opposite sides of a match. Like they weren’t already past the tension, past the posturing. Like they hadn’t stood across from each other and said the hard parts out loud just a few weeks ago. Like they hadn’t cracked open their own insecurities and still chosen to stay. Like it hadn’t meant anything that, for once, neither of them had looked away.
Jinhyuk stayed frozen in place. The moment passed. Or maybe it never even landed the way he thought it would. Behind him, the hallway began to move again. The crew called TES forward. Someone gestured from the far end, headset half-off, clipboard in hand. His team had already started walking.
But Jinhyuk didn’t move. Not yet. He stayed there, standing alone in the fading noise, still carrying the weight of something that hadn’t been said, still holding the silence like maybe if he stood still long enough, Seungyong might turn around.
He didn’t. Of course he didn’t.
And for a few seconds longer, Jinhyuk just breathed through the hollow ache that had opened in his chest. He spent weeks telling himself it wouldn’t matter. That if he kept drowning himself in scrims and solo queue, in reviews and schedules and late-night games, eventually the feelings would fade. That he could turn the silence into background noise, and the ache into something he didn’t have to name.
But the second he saw Seungyong again, it all came crashing back. No warning. No build-up. Just impact. And instead of clarity or closure or any kind of peace, all it felt like was this: an old wound, peeled open by a look that didn’t last, a voice that didn’t shake, and a moment that ended too quickly to mean anything at all.
And still, somehow, it hurt more than he thought it would.
Jinhyuk caught up to the rest of his team just as the final stage call came through.
The lights were brighter now—harsher, even through the haze of focus he was forcing himself to maintain. The hallway opened into a flood of LED panels, camera rigs, and production staff moving in precise, rehearsed patterns. TES lined up just offstage, five in a row, jerseys sharp under the overhead glare. A staffer lifted a hand and counted them down—three, two, one.
Walkout.
The crowd roared, a familiar wall of noise swelling all around them, but Jinhyuk barely registered it. He kept his gaze straight ahead, every step measured, his expression neutral in the practiced way pro players learn to wear like armor. The cameras tracked their entrance from the side, lights cutting clean angles across their faces. The audience blurred behind it all. But none of it reached him.
He sat at his station, lowered into the chair like muscle memory had taken over. Mic adjusted. Settings confirmed. Log in. Click. Done.
He didn’t look across the stage.
He didn’t need to.
Seungyong’s presence settled in his awareness like gravity. Second seat, same as him. Posture upright. Calm. Composed. Jinhyuk hadn’t looked once, but he knew exactly what he'd see if he did.
And that was the part that hurt.
He didn’t hate Seungyong.
Hating him would have been easier. Cleaner. Hate was sharp. Directed. Manageable.
But what he felt now didn’t fit into any neat shape. It sat twisted in his chest. Not fire, not ice, just weight. Frustration that pulsed like guilt. Longing that throbbed like regret. A pressure he’d tried to outrun with schedules and scrims and late-night queues, only to find it still waiting, unchanged.
He didn’t hate him.
But he hated a thousand other things.
He hated the silence between them, how loud it had become. He hated that a single look in a hallway had undone weeks of pretending he was fine. That one voice, calm and even, had pulled the air out of his lungs like nothing back in Korea had meant anything at all.
He hated the way it made him feel small. Like he’d asked for too much. Felt too much. Wanted something that Seungyong had never promised, even though deep down, he was sure it had been there—just for a second, just long enough to believe in it.
He hated that he still cared. That he’d ever had to guess.
Across the stage, Seungyong didn’t look his way. He sat at his desk like this was any other day, any other match.
And maybe, for him, it was.
Jinhyuk exhaled slowly and adjusted his headset. His fingers hovered over his keyboard. The pressure in his chest didn’t lift. It sat there like a second heartbeat, constant and unrelenting. But then his teammates’ voices broke through, filtering in through the headset one by one; clear, familiar, grounding.
Wenbo cracking a joke about the walkout music. Qingsong double-checking his keybinds. Jiahao asking if they wanted to ban Kai’Sa if AL had blue side. Jian already muttering about what champ he’d take if he got a winning 1v1.
And just like that, the noise in Jinhyuk’s head began to fade.
The ache didn’t disappear. But it shifted, became something quieter, something he could hold without drowning in it.
Because this was still his team. This was still the game. And he still had a job to do.
He breathed in.
Let it settle.
Whatever this thing with Seungyong was—whatever it had been, or hadn’t been—it would have to wait.
He didn’t have space for it now.
The draft countdown ticked lower on his screen.
Jinhyuk moved his mouse.
And locked in.
The match went to three games. TES took the series in the end.
But the scoreboard didn’t tell the story. The real match wasn’t about stats or objective timers or who played the cleaner draft. It was about Jinhyuk and Seungyong; the way they moved around each other from start to finish, like two players who knew exactly what the other was capable of and refused to give an inch.
Game 1 went to AL. Seungyong was sharp, efficient, everywhere Jinhyuk didn’t want him to be. He read the map like he’d written it himself, each rotation tightening the pressure without ever overreaching. It wasn’t flashy. It didn’t need to be. By the time TES tried to respond, the space had already disappeared.
Jinhyuk felt it. Not just the loss, but the particular sting of being outpaced. And not by just anyone, but by him .
So in Game 2, he recalibrated, tightened the screws, and did his job with ruthless focus. Jiahao carried the game, but Jinhyuk made sure the machine ran clean. TES tied the series.
Game 3 was something else entirely.
From the first jungle rotation, it was clear they weren’t avoiding each other. They were searching for each other. Every objective became a shared battleground. Every river skirmish felt like it was drawn toward them, like gravity. They were trading smites, tracking vision, matching instincts. Always in the same quadrant. Always one read away.
It was exhausting. And it was fun.
Jinhyuk couldn’t remember the last time he’d had to play that sharp, that aware of another player. And as much as he tried to shut out what it meant—what it stirred up just being across from Seungyong again—he couldn’t lie to himself: he missed this. Missed the challenge, the push. Missed playing against someone who made you reach past your own limits, just to stay even.
By the end of Game 3, TES had seized control. The fights fell their way. The tempo was theirs. The win, inevitable.
They closed it out 2–1.
TES’s logo lit the stage, blinding and absolute. The crowd rose with it, a wave of sound and light. The casters were already shouting over the final replay, calling it a statement win, another high point in their climb up Group Ascend.
Jinhyuk heard none of it.
He sat quietly at his station, headset resting loose around his neck, fingers still curled lightly over the mouse. The screen in front of him glowed with the word Victory . Bright. Final.
The match was over.
They’d won.
But he didn’t feel it.
A win like this should’ve landed clean; decisive, affirming, something that settled deep in the chest. But instead, all he felt was the weight. Not from the games themselves, but from everything else.
The referee gave the signal.
TES stood to form the line. Jiahao was up first, grinning already. Jian followed, still wearing the easy half-smile that always came after a strong lane. Qingsong and Wenbo were right behind them. Jinhyuk rose last. He didn’t adjust his jersey, didn’t say a word. He just moved.
AL was already lined up, still and composed. Five players, standing in silence, giving nothing away.
Jinhyuk moved down the line behind his teammates. The first few bumps were quick, polite, practiced, and forgettable.
Then he reached Seungyong.
Seungyong raised his fist. Calm and controlled like always.
Jinhyuk mirrored the motion.
Their knuckles met briefly but something in it caught. It held.
And just before Jinhyuk stepped away, Seungyong leaned in closer. Just enough that his voice wouldn’t carry. “You played well.”
The words were simple, gentle, and honest.
Jinhyuk froze for half a breath. Not visibly. Just enough that the tightness in his chest pulled taut.
He didn’t respond. Not because he didn’t want to but because everything he wanted to say caught in his throat, unspoken.
So he nodded. Just once.
Then he stepped past him.
TES was already moving to center stage for the post-match bow. The crew waved them into place, cameras swinging wide to catch the formation. The lights hit full.
Jinhyuk joined them.
They bowed. The crowd roared again.
He looked toward the audience. Let the flashbulbs go off. Held the pose. Smiled when he had to.
Because that’s what pro players do.
And when it was over, when the stage lights dimmed and the team turned toward the exit, the quiet settled back into him—heavy and immediate. That feeling he’d carried all day, all split, hadn’t left. It had only been muted by noise. The moment the crowd faded, it came rushing back.
He had beaten Seungyong.
Again.
But that wasn’t what stayed with him.
Because as they walked off stage, away from the lights and into the dark of the backstage, he realized something that made his chest ache more than the series ever could.
It had never been about the win.
Not really.
Not for him.
Not anymore.
The team had filed back to the hotel after all their media responsibilities. Win or lose, it was always the same rhythm: the shuffle of sneakers against tile, half-lifted waves to staff, a few short mutters about food orders that never really landed. Someone said they were starving. Someone else said they’d pass. There were murmurs about review tomorrow, a reminder about content deliverables, a quick joke that didn’t go anywhere. The hallway lights buzzed overhead, and no one lingered.
Jinhyuk didn’t say a word.
He peeled off the second they hit the lobby, before anyone had the chance to look at him too long. He didn’t make an excuse. Just said he needed air and kept walking, head down, hands buried in his pockets like they could hold everything in. Nobody followed or asked questions.
He didn’t take his phone. Didn’t take his keycard either. Not because he forgot, but because he didn’t know if he’d need it. He was sharing a room with Jiahao, and something about going back there—about pretending he could sleep, about pretending Jiahao wouldn’t hear the way his breathing changed in the dark—felt worse than staying out all night.
The air outside hadn’t cooled at all. Shenzhen’s humidity wrapped around him instantly, heavy and wet and inescapable. It settled against the back of his neck, soaked into the collar of his shirt, and pressed down across his shoulders like a weight he couldn’t shift. The pavement radiated leftover heat from the day, and every breath felt slightly stale, like the air had been waiting for him too long.
He didn’t have a destination. He just walked. Slow, aimless loops along the edge of the lot. Past the same row of hedges, past the shuttered service doors, past the dented delivery truck that hadn’t moved since the week started. The soles of his sneakers made dull contact with the concrete, dragging just slightly at the toe every few steps. Not enough to trip. Just enough to show how tired he was of holding his body upright.
Somewhere along the second loop, his fingers curled deeper into his pocket and brushed against the corner of the old cigarette box he kept forgetting to throw away. There hadn’t been much left inside it for months, but it was still there—flattened, crumpled, familiar. A leftover habit. Or maybe just a backup plan he hadn’t let himself need.
He thought about lighting one.
Just once.
Just to taste the burn again. Just to see if it could cut through the noise.
He didn’t.
He didn’t even take the box out.
But the fact that he’d thought about it was enough to piss him off. Enough to remind him that the pressure in his chest wasn’t going anywhere. Not tonight.
His legs felt heavier with each step. His mind was still running too fast to catch. It was all static.
It was like trying to sweat out a fever. Pointless.
The heat stayed. The ache stayed.
The burn under his ribs hadn’t dulled. If anything, it had settled deeper.
By the time he reached the far end of the lot, he stopped walking.
Not because he wanted to. But because there wasn’t anywhere else to go.
He stood near the loading area, back to the wall, the edge of his shirt damp with sweat, fingers twitching slightly like they didn’t know what to do now that he wasn’t moving. His jaw was tight. His breathing was shallow. There was nothing left to pace off, nothing to shake loose.
And that was when he heard footsteps approaching from around the corner.
Jinhyuk didn’t look up right away. Didn’t need to.
He already knew who it was.
Jiahao rounded the side of the building without saying anything at first. He was dressed like he hadn’t thought too hard about leaving his room; black jacket thrown over a loose t-shirt, soft cotton shorts, hotel slippers slapping lightly against the pavement with every step. His water bottle dangled from two fingers, half-empty, cap knocked slightly off-center like he’d twisted it on in a rush. His hair was damp at the roots, slightly flattened, like he’d just showered but hadn’t bothered with a towel.
It didn’t look like Jiahao had wandered out by accident.
He looked at Jinhyuk without surprise, like he’d expected to find him exactly where he was, like it was only a matter of time.
He didn’t come closer.
Just stopped a few paces away and studied him for a moment, expression unreadable, brows slightly furrowed in that quiet, thoughtful way that always made it hard to tell if he was about to say something or just thinking really hard about whether it needed to be said at all.
Then, finally, without any warning, and with a strange little smile that didn’t quite belong anywhere, the top laner said. “AL’s hotel is nearby.”
He said it like a throwaway detail. Like it was something he’d been holding onto and decided, for no real reason, to offer now.
And then, a beat later, in the same low, casual voice, he added, “It’s 3 blocks down. You can see it from the end of the street.”
No emphasis. No curiosity. No follow-up. Just two plain facts, handed over like directions to somewhere Jinhyuk had already been trying not to think about.
Jinhyuk didn’t say anything.
He didn’t nod. Didn’t thank him. Didn’t ask how Jiahao knew.
He just looked at him—really looked at him—for the first time all day.
And Jiahao, to his credit, didn’t say anything else. He just gave a small nod, shifted the water bottle in his hand, and turned around to head back toward the building without a second glance.
Jinhyuk stood there long after Jiahao was gone, staring at the corner where he’d vanished, listening to the last few echoes of footsteps fade into the night.
The lot was quiet again. Still hot, still breathless.
But now the silence felt different. Heavier. Like it was waiting for him to decide something.
He didn’t know what had made Jiahao say it. Didn’t know how much he knew; how much he’d guessed, how much he’d picked up in the days and weeks Jinhyuk thought he’d been careful. Maybe it had been obvious for longer than he wanted to admit. Maybe none of that mattered.
He made a mental note to ask him later.
If there was a later.
Right now, there was only one thing left to do.
He turned toward the street.
And he started walking.
It was three blocks, just like Jiahao had said.
Three long, quiet blocks that stretched wider than they should have, lined with closed storefronts, parked cars with fogged windows, and the kind of too-bright streetlights that cast more shadow than clarity. The city felt like it had gone still around him. He walked with his head down and his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his jeans, not because he was trying to be discreet, but because he didn’t know what he would do if he let them move freely. His legs carried him forward, steady and slow, like they had detached from the rest of his body and decided on a direction without bothering to get permission.
He hadn’t come out here with a plan.
He hadn’t even come with expectations.
He just walked, each step sounding louder than the last, his sneakers hitting pavement in a rhythm that felt more like countdown than progress. The buildings around him passed in a blur of glass and concrete. Cars rolled by without slowing. A woman walked her dog across the street, earbuds in, oblivious to the ache burning under his skin.
By the time he reached the final block, he was already bracing for disappointment. Some part of him had convinced itself that the moment would pass without incident; that Seungyong wouldn’t even be there, that it was the wrong hotel, that he’d turn around and go back to his own hotel with nothing to show for it but a slow walk and too much sweat soaked into his shirt. He hadn’t brought his phone or his keycard. He hadn’t brought anything that might make it easier to back out once he’d arrived.
And still, when he reached the curb, he stopped short.
Because there he was.
Lee Seungyong.
Of fucking course.
Standing under the hotel’s overhang, anchored just to the right of the entrance, one shoulder angled slightly toward the wall. His phone was pressed to his ear. His expression was neutral, almost blank, the way it always got when he was keeping too much inside. His voice didn’t carry across the street, but from here, Jinhyuk could tell he wasn’t saying much. He stood without urgency, without tension, his weight shifting lazily from one leg to the other, his thumb tracing a slow, familiar arc along the side of his phone like he wasn’t really listening to whatever was being said on the other end.
He hadn’t gone inside.
He was still there.
Jinhyuk felt the realization land not with a jolt, but with a dull, hard weight somewhere behind his ribs. It wasn’t just that Seungyong was here—it was that he was here now, standing in that exact place at that exact time, like the universe had decided to press its thumb down on the bruise that had never stopped forming.
What were the chances?
What kind of coincidence kept someone standing under the same patch of light long enough to be seen, without knowing who might be looking?
It felt unfair. Like someone had rigged the moment just to make it hurt more.
For a long minute, Jinhyuk didn’t move.
He stood at the edge of the sidewalk, half-shadowed by a rusting bus shelter, heat rising from the pavement in waves that made the street ahead ripple. The lights above him buzzed faintly. A breeze swept down the block but didn’t reach his skin.
Across the street, Seungyong said something into the phone and let it hang for a beat longer before lowering the device, his hand falling loose to his side. He didn’t look around. He didn’t seem to notice him yet.
And still, Jinhyuk couldn’t shake the feeling that this wasn’t the kind of moment you stumbled into by chance.
It was too quiet.
Too still.
Too weighted.
He swallowed, once, hard, like he could force everything he was feeling down into the center of his chest, somewhere out of reach. Then he stepped forward.
One foot, then the other.
Not fast. Not loud. Not hesitant either.
Just purposeful.
Like he already knew the pain was coming, and the only thing left to decide was whether he’d meet it head-on.
He didn’t blink.
He didn’t look away.
And he didn’t stop walking.
Seungyong noticed him about five steps in.
His eyes lifted from his phone, as if sensing Jinhyuk’s presence before confirming it. They landed on his face without surprise. Just a long, unreadable look that didn’t flinch.
They held there.
Not long enough to be personal. Not short enough to be polite. Just long enough for something to flicker between them. Recognition, maybe. Or memory. Or something heavier that neither of them had the nerve to name.
He didn’t smile. Didn’t shift. Didn’t say anything for a beat too long.
Then, without looking down, Seungyong slipped his phone into the pocket of his sweatpants. His voice, when it came, was calm and unbothered. “You’re here.”
He said it like he was commenting on the weather. Like it was just another strange-but-not-unfamiliar turn in the pattern they kept falling back into. There was no edge to it, no accusation.
Jinhyuk didn’t answer, not right away.
He stopped a few feet away, just outside of reach. His heart was thudding behind his ribs, not loud but steady, the kind of pressure that didn’t spike.
Seungyong studied him for a moment, eyes moving slowly over his face like he was searching for something—some clue, some reason, some trace of what Jinhyuk was carrying that brought him all the way here.
Then he shifted slightly; just a step, subtle and careful, like he was making room for whatever was about to happen but wasn’t sure how close he was allowed to stand.
“You okay?”
The words weren’t soft or tender. Just plain. Even.
Like he already knew the answer and was asking anyway.
Jinhyuk didn’t respond. Everything inside him felt like it was two seconds from boiling over.
He watched Seungyong’s face; watched the way it didn’t move, didn’t betray anything, didn’t tense or relax or show even the smallest crack.
It made something twist deep in Jinhyuk’s chest.
That was always the difference between them. Jinhyuk burned fast and loud, and Seungyong just held . Everything. Every time.
The silence stretched.
And then, finally, like it didn’t even need an answer, Seungyong asked, “You want to go somewhere?”
A pause followed.
Long enough to give Jinhyuk the space to say yes, or no, or anything at all.
And then, after a breath, eyes still steady, voice even softer, Seungyong added, “Or… just come up to my room?”
Jinhyuk stared at him.
The words landed with the weight of a dropped match—small, quiet, but unmistakably dangerous. They didn’t flare right away. They just stilled, waiting for oxygen.
It didn’t register at first. Not completely. Not in a way his brain could process fast enough to respond.
“What?” he said eventually. His voice came out lower than he expected, thin at the edges, like he had to dig it out from the center of his chest.
Seungyong didn’t move. His face didn’t shift. His tone didn’t change.
“It’s late,” he said, like that explained everything. “I figured that’s why you were here.”
The silence that followed wasn’t sharp. It didn’t cut clean. It just sat there—stupidly quiet, suffocating in how flat it was. Like every thought in Jinhyuk’s head had stopped mid-sprint just to make space for how absurd this moment had become.
He blinked.
Then laughed. Once. Short. Humorless.
A sound that didn’t belong in his throat.
Because Seungyong wasn’t wrong.
Not completely.
There were nights like that. Nights where he’d shown up unannounced, strung out from a win and too restless to sit with it. Nights where he hadn’t said much, hadn’t needed much, just wanted release and the silence they used to share like a secret. He hadn’t asked for more then. Hadn’t offered more either.
So yeah… Seungyong had every reason to assume that was what this was.
And that made Jinhyuk want to scream.
Because it wasn’t.
Not this time.
And the fact that Seungyong thought it was—that after everything, after Korea, after the way they left it, after the silence that hurt more than anything—that this was what he saw when he looked at him?
It felt like being shoved back into a version of himself he thought he’d grown past.
He let out a shaky breath. Not quite a laugh. Not quite a sob.
“Wow,” he said, quieter this time. “That’s really how you see me?”
Seungyong didn’t answer. Didn’t move. Didn’t look away.
He just stood there with that unreadable calm that made Jinhyuk want to punch the wall behind him or maybe just sink straight into the concrete.
His voice rose again before he could stop it. Before he could catch the part of himself screaming you’re being unfair, stop yelling at him for not trusting you when you never gave him a reason to.
“You think this is some pattern? Some fucking ritual I do? You think I came to your hotel because I was horny and bored and riding a win high?”
He stepped closer. Not enough to intimidate. Just enough to stop pretending there was still room for misunderstanding.
“You think I would’ve said what I said in Seoul just to get you in bed again?”
He hated how much his voice cracked on that last word. Hated how small he sounded. How defensive.
Because the truth was, he wasn’t mad at Seungyong for assuming the worst.
He was mad that Seungyong believed it.
Mad that he hadn’t even paused. Hadn’t looked at Jinhyuk—really looked—and seen that this wasn’t the same.
And beneath all of that anger, twisted deep in his chest, was shame.
Because there was a version of this night where Seungyong was right. A version from a few weeks ago, or last year, or even just a split back. A version where Jinhyuk had shown up and said nothing and taken everything and left before morning.
But that wasn’t this.
Not anymore.
And the fact that Seungyong couldn’t tell the difference, that he’d folded this moment into the same old story without even blinking, made Jinhyuk feel like he’d failed twice.
Once for writing the pattern.
And once for thinking he’d done enough to break it.
The look in Seungyong’s eyes shifted just for a second. A flicker, almost imperceptible—guilt, maybe, or something close to it. Doubt. Regret. Jinhyuk didn’t know. He didn’t care. He saw it, and it lit a fuse.
“Fuck you,” he said, and the words came out cracked and furious. “Seriously.”
His voice wasn’t loud at first. It didn’t have to be. The weight in it was enough.
“I spent weeks thinking I was the crazy one. That I’d made it all up. That maybe you only said those things to stop me from falling apart after the loss. That maybe I misread the way you held me, or looked at me, or—”
His voice caught on the last word. It broke.
“—kissed me.”
Jinhyuk didn’t try to hide the shake in his throat. There was no point pretending anymore. “But I didn’t. I know I didn’t. You meant it too. You were right there with me.” Jinhyuk took a breath, sharp and uneven, like he needed the air just to keep his knees from buckling. “And then we came back here and you shut it all down like it never happened.”
He stepped back, arms crossed over his chest now like he needed the pressure to hold himself together. “And now I show up, and your first thought is that I’m here to hook up?”
The laugh that came next was short and bitter and empty.
“I wanted to talk to you. To see you. To ask why you went quiet. Why you ghosted me like it never meant anything.”
He swallowed hard.
“But you know what? Forget it.”
Jinhyuk turned slightly, not all the way, but just enough to give the words weight. The threat of distance hung in the air. “I thought you were scared. That’s why you pulled back. I thought—if I just showed up for once, maybe you'd meet me there.”
His voice dropped, quieter now, strained but sharp. “But you didn’t. And it looks like you never will.”
And the worst part?
Seungyong still didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Didn’t blink.
He just stood there, expression neutral, posture locked, letting every word land like he deserved them, but not doing a thing to stop them.
And that— that —was what broke Jinhyuk.
The silence.
The older looked at him and felt like he was shouting into a vacuum.
“You’re not even going to say anything?” Jinhyuk asked, voice cracking clean through. “Nothing? Not even to defend yourself?”
His breathing had turned ragged now, like every word cost him something.
“You just—what? Let me stand here like a fucking idiot while you pretend none of this happened? Do you know what it felt like? Coming back after everything in Korea and hearing nothing from you? Do you know how fucking humiliating it was to keep checking my phone like some loser in a drama who thinks a single text is going to fix something?”
He dragged a hand through his hair, too rough, like he wanted to tear the whole moment apart and rewind it.
“I thought we had something,” Jinhyuk said, his voice softer now, but breaking. “Maybe it wasn’t perfect. Maybe it wasn’t even close. But it felt real.”
Another breath, another pause. He was trying to hold steady, but it wasn’t working anymore.
“And I was scared too. I didn’t know what the hell it meant either.” He looked at Seungyong again, eyes burning. His chest was shaking now. His fingers twitched at his sides. “But I came here. I came to fucking try.”
And then the words slipped out—quiet, but heavy. He didn’t plan them. Didn’t rehearse them. They rose up out of the wreckage like they’d been sitting there the whole time, waiting.
“I love you.”
It came out torn and unpolished and exhausted. Not a declaration. Not a promise. Just truth, laid bare.
“I fucking love you.”
It felt like the most painful thing he’d ever said.
And Seungyong didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Didn’t speak.
Until, finally, barely audible, he said, “don’t cry.”
That was it.
Two words.
Two fucking useless, weightless words that hung between them like someone tossing a tissue into a wildfire.
No meaning behind them except quiet discomfort and a vague attempt at kindness.
Don’t cry.
Like the tears were the problem. Like the pain hadn’t already cracked him open at the center.
Jinhyuk laughed. A full, bitter sound that cracked halfway through and turned into something else entirely. “Don’t cry?” he echoed, eyes wide. “That’s what you’re going with?”
He took a step forward, not to get closer, but because he couldn’t stand still anymore. “You’ve done nothing but make me want to cry.” His voice was rising, fueled by the pure audacity of it. By how small that answer felt compared to everything he’d just poured out.
“For weeks , Lee Seungyong. You disappeared. You ghosted me. You left me to fucking spiral. You stood in front of me tonight and looked me in the eye and decided I was easier to forget than to believe in.”
He dragged a hand across his cheek, useless against the heat pouring down his face. “And now I tell you I love you— love you —and all you can say is don’t cry?”
His whole body was trembling now, rage and hurt and exhaustion bleeding out in waves.
“Do you think I want to be crying right now, you asshole?”
It came out loud, raw, and it echoed; off the sidewalk, off the closed storefronts, off the space between them that had never felt more permanent.
“You think this is fun for me? That I walked all this way in the middle of the fucking night hoping you’d reject me?” His hands curled into fists at his sides. The tears were still falling, hot and fast and humiliating.
“Is that all you have to say?” Jinhyuk asked again, quieter now, but no less sharp. “Nothing else?”
Still, Seungyong said nothing.
Not a breath. Not a twitch. Just silence, blank and blinding.
And Jinhyuk stood there, throat raw, chest open, heart completely exposed—and got nothing in return.
He waited.
Just one second longer.
Then he gave up.
He nodded once. Small. Final. Like a door closing.
“Okay,” he whispered.
And it broke something in the air.
He stepped back.
Then again.
His shoulders slumped like they were carrying every word he hadn’t said for the past few weeks. His jaw was tight, his breathing uneven, his entire frame buckling under the pressure of grief he hadn’t had time to name until now. “I hope it was easier this way,” he said. “I really do.”
“I hope whatever version of me you decided to remember—the version that keeps things casual, the version that never needs anything—makes this feel cleaner for you. Because I came here thinking maybe we could be something.”
He paused, and for a moment, it looked like he might say more. But then his face hardened. Not with anger, but with clarity.
“But you made your choice.”
And this time, when he turned, it wasn’t a threat.
It was a goodbye.
He walked away, head down, fists clenched, the city haze swallowing him whole. No stumble. No hesitation. Just gone.
And Seungyong stayed exactly where he was.
Rooted to the pavement like a man who’d just let something vital slip through his fingers, and still couldn’t admit it.