Kpop Idol RP @kpopidol-rp - Tumblr Blog

“Level Zero” ── j.y.h

Jeong Yunho is the human equivalent of a system crash. A 6’2” wreck of stuttered sentences, fogged-up glasses, and nerves he can’t outgrow. He has spent his first year of college trying to be invisible. He’s a tactical genius on screen, but on campus, he can barely survive a three-word greeting without his voice cracking. He tries to start a Gaming Club in a basement that smells like dust and dump. When a pack of “Mean Girls” turns his recruitment drive into a public execution, you step in. You lie. You improvise. You claim you’re his pro-tier controller—his star recruit. Now you learn the hard way: Rule #1 of saving a cute nerd from bullies is this—don’t claim you’re an expert in a game you’ve never played.

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎ Fridays were a cruel joke played by the university registrar. Your timetable was stacked from noon to evening with the kind of back-to-back misery that left you with no time to eat, barely enough time to breathe, and zero patience for the fluorescent-lit purgatory of the building. You were currently dragging your heels toward your last lecture with Professor Lee. She was a woman who seemed to view your existence as a personal insult; a woman who would pick up on you if you breathed too loud or blinked at the wrong tempo. You were five minutes late, your brain was a slurry of 4:00 AM callouts and caffeine-induced regret, and the thermos of coffee Wooyoung had prepared sat forgotten on your kitchen counter like a tiny, lukewarm betrayal.

Then, your phone buzzed.

Golden_Retriever_Yunho: ATTENTION. WE ARE A REAL ENTITY NOW. I HAVE THE STAMPED FORMS.

You stopped dead in the middle of the corridor. A group of freshmen swerved around you, but you didn’t notice.

You: registered like… legally?

Golden_Retriever_Yunho: LEGALLY. Golden_Retriever_Yunho: As in, with the University Council. Golden_Retriever_Yunho: As in, there is now an OFFICIAL Strategic Digital Coordination Club. Golden_Retriever_Yunho: I have a stamp!

Your brain struggled to process the concept of Yunho navigating campus bureaucracy without spontaneously combusting from the stress.

StarHwa_04: Yunnie, please stop typing in all caps. You’re announcing a club, not a declaration of war.

You: how did you even pull that off?

StarHwa_04: I did the talking. Yunho held the forms and tried to look ‘sturdy.’ Mingi threatened his friend who works around the library into joining as the 5th member.

Golden_Retriever_Yunho: BUT IT WORKED!

You: proud of you, captain! 🖤

There was a beat of silence long enough that you could practically see the crimson flush creeping up Yunho’s neck in real-time.

Golden_Retriever_Yunho: Don’t— Golden_Retriever_Yunho: Don’t call me that when I’m in public. I mean. You can. But like. Respectfully. Professionally. Golden_Retriever_Yunho: ANYWAY. Golden_Retriever_Yunho: THEY GAVE US A ROOM.

You: ok. where?

Golden_Retriever_Yunho: IN THE BASEMENT.

You: the basement like… storage?

FixOn_Mingi: basement room is CRAZY. we’re literally a side quest.

Golden_Retriever_Yunho: Basement like “tactically isolated.” Golden_Retriever_Yunho: Basement like “zero windows.” Golden_Retriever_Yunho: Basement like “the faculty looked at us and said: Yes. Put the gamers where the sunlight cannot reach them.”

FixOn_Mingi: please let me call it a level zero.

Your mouth twitched. You glanced at the door to Lee’s classroom. You could hear her shrill voice already beginning the roll call. The thought of sitting in there for ninety minutes was physically painful.

You: they put us in gamer jail.

Golden_Retriever_Yunho: IT’S NOT A LEVEL ZERO! Golden_Retriever_Yunho: IT’S NOT JAIL! Golden_Retriever_Yunho: I’m heading there now to check the Ethernet ports. Is... is anyone around? I don’t want to be the only one there if the lights flicker.

FixOn_Mingi: Can’t make it. I started my shift earlier today. FixOn_Mingi: Celebratory beer on me later? Come around 8:30. I should be done by then.

StarHwa_04: I’m tutoring that cute guy in 15, but I can make it to The Abbys later.

You looked at the classroom door one last time. Screw it. If Lee wanted to fail you for breathing, you might as well give her a reason. You spun on your heel and headed for the stairs.

You: i’m skipping. send the room number.

Golden_Retriever_Yunho: You’re skipping? For the club? Golden_Retriever_Yunho: That’s… highly irresponsible. Golden_Retriever_Yunho: (B-12. I’m actually terrified of this hallway.)

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎ The basement of the Science Building was a labyrinth of exposed pipes and flickering industrial lights that hummed at a frequency designed to induce a migraine. You followed the yellowing signs until you reached a heavy, reinforced steel door with a small, wired-glass window.

B-12.

You pushed the door open. It creaked with the weight of a century’s worth of neglect, making the man inside flinch. The room was small—a concrete cube that felt like a bunker. Yunho had already claimed the space. He’d shoved the dusty old desks into a perimeter, leaving a wide open space in the middle. He was standing at the far wall, a piece of painter’s tape between his teeth, holding up a massive, hand-drawn map that he’d clearly brought with him. He looked up as the heavy metal door groaned shut behind you, the sound echoing off the concrete like a final judgment. In the dim, fluorescent flicker of the basement, his glasses caught a sharp, clinical glint.

For a second, neither of you moved. Yunho’s stare snagged on you like a hook. You watched it happen in real-time—the tactical assessment being overwritten by total sensory overload. His pupils widened behind his lenses, his mouth opening just a fraction, before his entire face flushed a shade of crimson so deep it looked like it hurt.

“H—hi,” he managed. The word came out far too thin for a man of his stature. The painter’s tape stuck to his thumb, tugging at the skin but he didn’t even notice. He was too busy trying not to blue-screen. You should have gone cold. You should have kept your shoulders squared and let the Viper rasp settle in your throat. Instead, you felt your stomach do a slow, humiliating flip.

Oh no.

You hadn’t seen him up close in days. You’d heard the Captain in Discord—all frantic, careful bursts of leadership and coordination—but this was different. In person, he was all long limbs and nervous energy, a shy soul stretched into a body far too large for its own comfort. His hoodie sleeves were pushed back to his forearms, hands smudged with ink, and that faint crease of concentration between his brows. “I—uh.” Yunho swallowed, his eyes flicking to your boots, then back to your face like it was a physical trial to hold your gaze. “Y—you came.” It sounded like he didn’t fully trust the universe to be kind enough to make it a reality.

“I said I would,” you replied, voice came out normal. No bored rasp. No monster’s purr. Just you. The realization hit you with a rush of heat. You were dropping the act without even meaning to. You were tired, you were real, and the thought of performing for him—of being that sharp, distant thing—suddenly felt like a weight you didn’t want to carry.

Yunho blinked fast, as if he’d been bracing for a blade and got a hand instead. “O—okay,” he stammered, his grip on the tape tightening until his knuckles went pale. “G—great. Great. Um. This is—this is B-12.” He gestured vaguely at the room, as if the concrete cube needed a formal introduction. “It’s… it’s kind of a dungeon. But, uh—” His eyes darted to the overhead lights. “They don’t flicker,” he blurted, far too loud for the small space. Then, as if realizing he’d sounded too eager, his shoulders hiked up toward his ears. “I— I checked,” he added quickly, his voice pitching up. “For the future meetings. N-not because I… I mean, I don’t mind flickering. It’s fine. I’m sturdy.” You stared at him. He stared back for half a heartbeat before his gaze crashed to the floor like it had taken massive fall damage.

Something warm and awful softened behind your ribs.

He’s trying so hard.

And the worst part was… it was working. Not the club—the club was a basement and a stamp held together by desperation. It was him. Standing tall on purpose. Standing tall for the club. Maybe even for you.

“Your glasses,” you said before you could stop yourself.

Yunho froze. His fingers twitched, wanting to reach up and check if they were still there. “M-my—” He cleared his throat. “They’re… they’re okay.”

They weren’t. You could see it now—the frame was slightly warped at the hinge, not enough to scream broken, but enough to whisper it whenever the light hit the plastic. One lens looked newer than the other, replaced in a hurry. He followed your stare and flushed even deeper. “I fixed them,” he said, too fast. “W-well. Seonghwa went with me to get the lens replaced. I just— He did the… the talking. I was… moral support.”

“Moral support,” you echoed.

Yunho nodded like that was a perfectly legitimate job title. “I was very sturdy,” he added, his voice small. Your mouth twitched. The urge to smile was a physical ache. Don’t. If you smiled, Viper was dead. If you smiled, you’d show him exactly how easy it was for him to get under your skin. But then Yunho glanced up again, and his eyes caught yours for a full heartbeat. There was something in them that wasn’t gamer-panic. It was gratitude. And a cautious, terrified kind of hope.

“Can I help?” you asked.

His whole body flinched. Then he nodded so hard it was almost violent. “Y-yes. Yes. I mean—if you want. You don’t have to. You’re—” he swallowed, his voice cracking, “—you’re… you’re very high value.”

You blinked. “What?”

Yunho went crimson. “I—” he squeaked. “Not like— not like that. I mean like—like in team comp! Meta-wise!” His hands flew up, gesturing at nothing. “I just mean you’re… important. A-and I don’t want you to— to touch dusty desks if you don’t—” He stopped, stared at the tape like it might tell him how to be a human being again. You watched him, and the feeling in your chest deepened into something reckless. Something too soft. You stepped closer—close enough to smell faint detergent on his hoodie and see the tiny freckles near the bridge of his nose. He inhaled sharply, like you’d invaded a boundary he didn’t know he’d set.

“I can handle dust,” you said. “I’m not made of glass.”

Yunho’s eyes flicked to your boots again. The corner of his mouth tugged, barely there. “Y-yeah,” he whispered. “You… you look like you could fight a vacuum cleaner.” It was so specific. So stupid. And it made your heart do something it had no business doing.

“Okay,” you said, reaching for the edge of the map he was trying to tape up. “Tell me what goes where, Captain.”

The word landed. Yunho made a noise that was half-choke, half-whimper. “D-don’t,” he breathed, looking at the floor as if it held a new, limited skin for his favourite gun. “N-not like that. Not when you’re—here. In person.” You held the map steady anyway, and in the fluorescent hum of Level Zero, you realized you would do a lot of things just to keep him blushing like that.

The basement was too quiet. The only sound was the sticky schlick of the painter’s tape as you helped him secure the map to the concrete wall. Yunho was standing so close that every time he reached up, his arm brushed against your shoulder. Each contact sent a jolt through you that had nothing to do with the static electricity of the room.

“So,” Yunho started, his voice still small, still careful. He smoothed down a corner of the paper with a trembling thumb. “I was thinking… I realized I don’t actually know that much about you. Outside of the, uh, the absolute carnage you cause when protecting the Spike.”

Your heart did a panicked stutter-step. “What’s there to know? I play. I win.”

“No, I mean…” He finally looked at you. Not a glance, but a real look—full of that earnest, terrifying curiosity that made him so dangerous. “When did you even start? To get that good, you must have been playing since the beta, right? Or did you come from another tactical shooter? Your crosshair placement… It's like it’s muscle memory.”

You felt the cold sweat prickle at your hairline. Muscle memory. Yeah, Wooyoung’s muscle memory. “I’ve been around,” you said, trying to find that edge, but it felt flimsy in the face of his sincerity. “A long time. I don’t really keep track of the years.”

Yunho nodded slowly, his eyes still fixed on yours. “It shows. You play like... like you’re not even thinking. Like the gun is just an extension of your hand.” He stopped, his face going a shade darker. “Anyway. I—I actually got you something. Um… For the club. To—to welcome you properly.” He turned away, reaching into a worn-out, grey backpack with a few, colourful pins, that sat on one of the dusty desks. He fumbled with the zipper, his nervousness making his movements jerky. When he turned back, he was holding a small box.

LOGITECH G Pro X Superlight 2.

You’d seen that box before. Not this exact one—this one was new, uncreased like it hadn’t been carried around in someone’s backpack for three days while they worked up the nerve. Wooyoung had dragged you out for coffee once, months ago, on a day he’d been too fried to queue. He’d pretended it was casual. Just caffeine. Just air. Just not being in your room for a second.

On the way back, he’d “accidentally” detoured. You’d followed into the electronic store because you always did, because Wooyoung was easier to deal with when he was moving, talking, and filling the silence with noise. He’d picked up the Superlight 2 like it was holy. Turned the box over. Read the specs like scripture. His fingers had hovered near the price tag, then jerked back like it might bite, then he’d put it down carefully, like setting something alive back into a cage. You remembered the way his mouth had tightened after, the way he’d kept walking faster through the aisles like he could outrun wanting. You had even thought—just for a second—about buying it for him for his birthday. You’d even opened the tab later that evening. You’d stared at the total until your eyes went dry. You’d done the math twice like the numbers might feel pity and change.

Two weeks of groceries.

You’d closed the page.

“Yunho,” you breathed, his name slipping out before you could catch it.

“I noticed that your tracking was a little... jittery,” he said, his voice gaining a tiny spark of confidence as he talked tech. This was his safe space. “I thought maybe your sensor was spinning out. This one has the HERO 25K sensor. It’s... it’s the best. I wanted you to have the best.” He held it out, his hand trembling so much the box rattled.

You took it, your fingers brushing his softly, on purpose. He inhaled sharply, but he didn’t pull away, instead he smiled. “You shouldn’t have,” you whispered, and for once, you weren’t acting. “This is too much.”

“It’s not,” he said firmly, his eyes dropping to the box in your hands. “If you’re not performing at a hundred percent, the whole team... I... I fail.” He cleared his throat, stepping even closer. The smell of his lavender detergent, and a woodsy cologne wrapped around you. “Do you—do you want to try it? One of the computers was already set up on that station over there. I already downloaded the game.” He led you to the desk. The monitor hummed, the university logo moving on the screen. He pulled out the chair for you—a gentlemanly gesture that felt absurd in a concrete basement. “Back home I put mine at 800 DPI with a 0.35 in-game sens,” he said, leaning over you as you sat down. His chest was inches from your shoulder. “But that’s like the standard for entry-fraggers.”

You stared at the screen. You didn’t even know what DPI stood for. You knew Wooyoung moved his mouse a lot, but the numbers were a foreign language. “I... I actually play on a higher sens,” you lied, your voice tight.

Yunho paused. You could see the gears turning in his head—the tactical brain battling the Smitten Boy. No pro plays entry-fragger on high sens, his brain was likely screaming. It ruins accuracy. He looked at you and saw your bottom lip tremble slightly, noticing how you were gripping the mouse like it might bite you. “Right,” he whispered, his voice softening. “High sensitivity. For the... flick-shots. It makes sense. It’s... unconventional. Just like you.” He reached down, his large, warm hand covering yours on the mouse. His skin was slightly rough, his touch hesitant but lingering. “Here,” his breath was warm against your ear, and you couldn’t help the shiver creeping up your neck. “Let’s just... calibrate the polling rate. We’ll find your sweet spot.” He moved your hand across the pad but you weren’t focusing on the cursor. You were looking at the way his veins stood out on the back of his hand, the way his thumb tucked perfectly against your knuckles. “Is that better?”

“Yes,” you lied, your heart hammering against your ribs. “Perfect.” In that moment the lie felt like a wall between you. But as Yunho smiled—a real one that reached his eyes—you realized you’d rather live in the lie than lose the way he was looking at you right now. You pulled your hand back, the skin where he’d touched you feeling unnaturally, annoyingly warm. The “perfect” hung in the air, a flat-out lie with a bitter taste. You needed to move. If you stayed in this chair, under his gaze, the Radiant Rank would eventually see through the act. “Anyway,” you said, pushing the chair back with a sharp scrape against the concrete. “Settings are fine. Great, even. But if this is a club and not just a shrine to high-latency headsets, we should probably get to work! Where’s the rest of that tape?”

Yunho blinked, the sudden shift in energy clearly jarring his processor. He looked at the empty space where your hand had been, then up at you, his expression softening from intense focus to something more... vulnerable. “Right. The tape. Sorry.” He handed you the roll, but he didn’t step back into his own personal bubble. He stayed in yours. “I didn’t mean to corner you. I just—We’ve spent so much time on Discord that actually having you here... it’s like seeing a legend step out of the screen.”

You felt a pang of nausea. Legend. “I’m just a person, Yunho,” you said, and your voice was a little more on the Viper side than you intended—sharp, defensive. “Don’t put me on a pedestal. It’s a long way down when I fall.”

Yunho went quiet. The fluorescent light hummed above you, filling the silence. He looked at the roll of tape in your hand, then finally, he looked at your face—not like a fan, and not like a captain. “That’s the thing, though,” he whispered. “Everyone talks about your aim. Even Mingi won’t shut up about your headshot percentage. But since you walked in here... that’s not what I’ve been noticing.”

You froze, your fingers catching on the sticky edge of the tape. “Oh?”

“You’re really patient,” he stated and it wasn’t a “gamer” compliment anymore. It was an observation of you. “I’ve been stuttering and tripping over my own feet for twenty minutes. Most people—most ‘high value’ players—would have walked out or made a joke at my expense. But you just... you stood here. You helped with the map. And back then, in the quad, you looked at my broken glasses like they were something worth fixing, not something to laugh at.” He reached up, nervously adjusting the warped hinge of his frames. “I think... I think you’re a lot kinder than the person you pretend to be online. And I like that version of you better.” It was the ultimate irony: he was falling for your kindness—the one part of you that wasn’t a lie—while believing that kindness was just a hidden layer of the gamer he admired.

“Yunho,” you started but your voice cracked, exposing how truly nervous you were.

“I’ll go get the chairs from the hallway,” he blurted out, his blush returning in full force as if he’d just realized how much he’d said. “You stay here! Don’t... don’t lift anything heavy. You’re the MVP. I’m the—the manual labor.” He practically scrambled toward the door, nearly tripping over a stack of empty boxes on his way out.

You stood alone in the middle of B-12, holding a tape and a heart that was starting to feel far too heavy for the secret you were carrying. The heavy door groaned open again, snapping you back to reality and Yunho reappeared, balancing two mismatched rolling chairs and a stack of foam padding. He looked like a human Jenga tower, his chin hooked over the top of the padding to keep it from sliding.

“I... I got the ‘ergonomic’ ones,” he panted, setting them down. “Well, they were ergonomic in 2012. Now they just kind of... lean to the left. I’ll give you the one that doesn’t squeak.”

“I’ll take the squeaky one,” you said, reaching out to help him steady a desk that started shaking under the foam padding. It the looked like it was held together only by hope and wood glue. “It’ll keep me awake during the long rounds.” He laughed breathlessly, his shoulders dropping from his ears for the first time. Together, you slid the desk into the corner, the metal legs scraping against the floor

Once the desk was stable, Yunho started cable-managing the old monitor with the kind of reverence usually reserved for holy relics. Without looking up, he asked, “So... why Viper?”

You paused, your hand resting on the back of the chair. “What do you mean?”

“The agent,” he clarified, finally glancing at you through his warped glasses. “Most people with your mechanical skill play Geko or Reyna. They want the glory, and flashy kills. But you... you play the controller. You play the one who hides behind smoke and acid. You play the one who controls the environment so no one can see what’s actually happening.”

He looped a zip-tie around a cluster of wires, his fingers precise, skilful. “It’s a lonely way to play. Effective, but lonely. I always wondered if you picked her because you like being the one in control, or if you just like having a wall between you and everyone else.”

The question felt heavy. He wasn’t just talking about a video game; he was accidentally dissecting your entire life. You weren’t Viper because of the “meta”—you were Viper because Wooyoung was the one with his hand on the mouse, and the “Toxic Screen” was the only thing keeping Yunho from seeing that you were a fraud. “She’s misunderstood,” you said, the words feeling dangerously close to a confession. “Everyone thinks she’s the villain because she uses poison. But she’s just trying to survive in a game where everyone else has superpowers and she only has her chemistry. She has to create her own cover because if the smoke clears... she’s vulnerable.”

Yunho stopped working. He stood up slowly, his height looming over the desk, but his expression was soft, almost pained. “If the smoke clears,” he repeated quietly, stepping toward you, the distance between you shrinking. “You know, in the lore, Viper says she’s a monster. But when I watch you play... I don’t see a monster. I see someone who’s protecting her team.” He reached out, his hand hovering near the sleeve of your shirt, not quite touching but close enough that you felt the heat. “You don’t need the walls in here, you know? In B-12. You don’t have to be the ‘monster’ for us.”

You looked up at him—at the messy blonde hair, and the unwavering devotion in his eyes. He was offering you a safe place, unaware that the walls you had built were the only thing keeping him from hating you. “I’m used to the smoke, Captain,” you whispered, trying your best to give him a smile, but it came out as a grimace. “I don’t know if I know how to play without it.”

“Then we’ll just stay in the smoke together.” With that his fingers flinched, pulling back and clenching hard into the dark fabric of his sleeve. He looked like he was fighting a war with himself, his knuckles white against the ink-smudged skin of his hands. “And for the record?” He let out a shaky, self-deprecating laugh that didn’t quite reach his eyes. His gaze dropped, landing on your lips for a heartbeat—long enough for your breath to catch—before snapping back to your eyes with a startle, “Viper is... she’s iconic. But at the end of the day, she’s just a bunch of pixels on a screen.” He paused, his voice cracking on the next word, turning small and raw. “I think the girl standing in front of me is… I think you are... devastating. In person. Without the mask.” You wanted to flinch, to look away, to tell him that the girl he was looking at was the biggest pixelated lie of all. But his eyes were so earnest, so terrifyingly steady behind his warped glasses, that you were pinned to the spot. “You’re... you're really pretty, Y/N,” he whispered, the compliment sounding less like flattery and more like a confession he hadn’t meant to let slip. “And I’m—I’m really glad you joined us.”

The air in B-12 was so thick you could have cut it with a knife. Yunho was standing in front of you, radiating heat, his gaze fixed on you with a sincerity that felt like he had touched you. The silence stretched. Five seconds. Ten. You were looking up at him, your heart hammering against your ribs, waiting for the movie-moment. But Yunho wasn’t a movie character. He was a guy who’d just spent his entire monthly supply of courage. He watched you blink. He watched your mouth part slightly. And suddenly, the reality of what he’d just said—and how close he was standing—hit him. His blinked repeatedly, posture collapsing into a frantic, jerky mess. He practically leaped backward, his heels catching on the legs of a dusty desk. “I—uh—I mean!” he squawked, his voice hitting a frequency only dogs and Mingi could hear. “The light! The Ethernet! I have to—there’s a cable! A very important cable in the… Another basement!” He began to backtrack toward the door, his long limbs flailing like a startled giraffe. He was moving so fast he almost tripped over his own backpack.

“Captain? Are you okay?” you managed, completely stunned by the sudden whiplash.

“Great meeting!” he shouted, grabbing the door handle like it was a lifeline. He didn’t look at you. His face was a shade of pink that suggested he might actually be dying of embarrassment. “Very productive! Map is… map is stable! You’re stable. I’m—I’m leaving!” He yanked the door open, the rusted hinges let out a mournful scream that filled the silence. He paused for one half-second in the doorway, his silhouette trembling against the dim hallway light. “See you in The… The Abyss!”

SLAM.

The door shut with a finality that made the dust dance in the air. You stood there alone in the hum of Level Zero and the surrounding silence was deafening. You stared at the heavy metal door, then back at the map you’d helped him hang. “See you in The Abyss?” you whispered to the empty room, your eyebrows rising in pure confusion.

A second later, your phone buzzed in your pocket.

Golden_Retriever_Yunho: I’m so sorry. Please forget that I exist for the next 3-5 business days. Golden_Retriever_Yunho: Also you are still pretty. Okay. Bye. Golden_Retriever_Yunho: Also, The Abyss is the bar where Mingi works.

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎ The air outside was crisp, biting at Yunho’s flushed cheeks, Seonghwa walked beside him, hands tucked into his coat pockets, looking composed compared to the frantic skyscraper of nerves next to him. “You’re walking too fast,” Seonghwa noted, his voice smooth and entirely too unbothered. “Unless you’re planning on sprinting all the way to The Abyss, slow down.”

“I’m—I’m optimizing my travel time, hyung!” Yunho squeaked, though he did slow his pace. He adjusted his glasses—the ones he’d told you were “fine” even though the hinge was screaming for mercy.‎‏‏‎

“She called you Captain in person, didn’t she?”

Yunho stopped dead in his tracks. He turned to Seonghwa, his eyes wide and haunted behind his lenses. “I think I’m dying. I think my heart has reached its maximum capacity and it’s about to force-quit.” he groaned, his voice muffled and desperate. “Hyung, I’m in trouble.”

“We’ve established that. You’re a disaster.”

“No.” Yunho dropped his hands, looking at Seonghwa with eyes that were terrifyingly wide. Now, he was just a boy standing under a flickering streetlamp, wearing his heart on his sleeve. “I like her. I really like her. It’s not just the team, and it’s not just because she’s the best Viper I’ve ever seen. It’s… it’s the way she looks at me like she sees right through the stutter. Like she knows I’m a mess and she… she stays anyway.”

Seonghwa’s expression softened, the teasing light fading from his eyes. He leaned against the wall just beside where Yunho abruptly stopped in his tracks. “I know. It was pretty obvious.”

“I’m scared,” Yunho whispered, his gaze dropping to his scuffed sneakers. “Because now she’s coming to The Abyss. She’s going to meet Mingi. In his... his element.”

Seonghwa tilted his head. “And?”

“And Mingi is... Mingi!” Yunho’s voice hit a frantic pitch. “He’s tall—well, I’m tall, but he’s cool tall. He has that deep voice that doesn’t crack every five seconds. He shakes cocktails and looks all... brooding and tactical behind the bar. What if they click, hyung? What if she realises that in real life he can hold a conversation without blue-screening?” He looked at his hands—those massive hands that had been trembling under your touch—and let out a miserable groan. “I’m just a guy who chokes on plain bagels. Mingi is... he’s a Radiant-rank socialiser. She’s going to see the difference. She’s going to realise I’m the bug and he’s the feature.”

Seonghwa stayed quiet for a moment, watching his friend spiral. He reached out, patting Yunho’s shoulder with a grounding, heavy hand. “Yunnie. She’s seen you at your worst. She’s seen you glitch. And she still showed up to the basement to help you hang a map.”

“But Mingi—”

“Mingi is going to drop a glass the second he sees her because he’s terrified of her,” Seonghwa interrupted dryly. “Trust me.”

Yunho didn’t look convinced. He pulled his hoodie up, the fabric obscuring half his face as they approached the neon glow of the bar. “If she laughs at one of his jokes,” Yunho muttered into his chest, “I’m retiring from the server. I’m moving to a farm. I’m becoming a monk.”

“Just go inside, you idiot,” Seonghwa laughed, pushing him toward the door.

“Okay,” Yunho breathed, a final, shaky exhale. “Let’s go. But if I start crying because she will only talk to Mingi, you have to tell everyone I had an allergic reaction.”

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎ The Abyss wasn’t a bar so much as a hiding spot that had been granted a liquor license. It sat in the shadow at the end of the road like someone had tried to tuck it behind the buildings on purpose—low ceiling, stained brick, and a sign that flickered just enough to make everything look like it was happening inside a glitch. The air inside hit you first. Beer. Old wood. Cleaner that didn’t quite win. And underneath it all, the familiar bite of smoke clinging to leather.

You were already late when you pushed through the door and let your eyes adjust. It wasn’t full yet, but the sound of music and chatter already bordering on too loud. People hunched over sticky tables, someone laughed too hard in the corner. And then you saw them. Seonghwa sat in a booth near the back where the light was softer, like the place had naturally arranged itself to flatter him. He was dressed like he’d never heard of the word casual, even though the shirt hanging off his shoulder tried to lie about it. His hands were wrapped around a glass of beer, and his posture was too elegant for the torn vinyl seat. By the same table were two boys. One had to be Mingi—impossible to miss, dyed dark blue hair, had his work shirt half-hidden under a denim jacket, he looked like he was in the middle of complaining about something with his entire soul. Even from here, you could see the way he talked with his hands, dramatic and wide, like he was conducting an orchestra of problems. The other one had to be the new recruit. He was quieter in the way some people are quiet on purpose. Not shy. Not nervous. Just… watchful. Blonde hair, sharp eyes, hoodie pulled up even though it was warm inside. He sat angled toward the aisle like he wanted a clean exit route, but his gaze kept flicking back to Seonghwa and Mingi anyway, as if he was trying to decide whether this group was worth the trouble.

And then you noticed who wasn’t there. No tall frame hunched in the corner. No frantic scanning of the room for threats that didn’t exist.

Yunho.

Your chest did that annoying little thing it had been doing lately—tightening, then pretending it was just the air.

As if the universe heard the thought, Seonghwa looked up, his eyes finding you instantly. For a second, his expression did that careful, polite blankness then it softened. Not much, just enough. He lifted a hand, it wasn’t a big wave, but small, almost shy, like he didn’t want to draw attention to you. Like he didn’t want to startle you. Like he’d already figured out you were the kind of person who ran on sharp edges and pride, a person who didn’t like being handled too gently. You paused in the midway, boots planted, letting the dim light outline you like a warning. And then you smiled. Seonghwa’s shoulders dropped by an inch, relief cutting through his pretty composure.

Mingi noticed the shift immediately. He followed Seonghwa’s gaze, saw you, and his face lit up like a man who’d just spotted incoming chaos. “Oh,” he gasped loudly, already grinning. “It’s her. It’s the—” Seonghwa kicked Mingi’s shin under the table and the taller one hissed through his teeth. “Ow. Okay. Sorry. I was going to say the hero.”

You started toward them, your boots disappearing under the bass and the sound of voices in other booths. The third guy didn’t react. He didn’t smile, and he didn’t look impressed. He just watched you with a steady, measuring stare. The air in The Abyss was thick with spilled liquor, and the faint bite of someone’s vape. Even as you walked, your eyes swept the room again, searching without permission. Still no Yunho. Just the empty space where he should have been.

Seonghwa followed your gaze. His fingers tightened around his beer glass for a fraction of a second, like he already knew what you were going to ask and was bracing for the impact. “Hey,” he said when you reached the booth. His voice stayed smooth, but there was caution underneath it, careful as a hand hovering over a bruise.

Mingi leaned back and spread his arms like he owned the place, even though exhaustion was clear on his face. “Welcome to The Abyss,” he announced. “Where dreams come to die, and sometimes I get paid. This is Yeosang. Sit down. Before I start charging you a cover fee.”

Yeosang’s eyes flicked to Mingi—irritation threaded with something that might have been fondness—then returned to you. “So you’re the Viper,” Yeosang said finally. It wasn’t admiration. It wasn't a mockery. It was a simple statement of fact.

Your smile sharpened. “Depends who’s asking.”

Mingi made a sound that was half laugh, half choke. “Oh, great. She’s scary in real life too. Love that. That’s definitely going to lower my blood pressure.” The booth accepted you like it had been waiting only for that. The vinyl creaked as you slid in next to Mingi—the only free spot— sticking faintly to the backs of your thighs. It was warm from bodies and the room’s restless heat. Mingi didn’t flinch at the proximity. Instead, he draped an arm over the back of the seat, radiating warmth that smelled like cigarettes and work-shift sweat.

“Drink?” Seonghwa asked, already signalling the bartender with a subtle tilt of his chin that looked far too polite for a bar.

“Beer. Whatever’s coldest,” you said, your eyes doing one last, involuntary sweep of the shadows. In seconds a server slid in with practiced speed and dropped a coaster in front of you like a marker on a map.

Mingi tapped it with two fingers. “This is your spawn point,” he said. “Don’t wander off or you’ll get attacked by freshmen.”

Seonghwa didn’t even look up from the wet rings that his beer bottle left on the table when he spoke. “She could handle freshmen. They’re just loud.”

“Freshmen are unpredictable,” Mingi argued, gesturing with a straw he just took out of his beer, like it was a tactical pointer. “They have nothing to lose and no social filter. They’ll look you in the eye and ask what your major is before they even know your name. They decide if you’re worth their time based on the answer. It’s feral behaviour.”

Yeosang’s eyes flicked to your face, tracking the micro-movements of your expression with the clinical detachment. “What is your major?”

Mingi made a strangled sound, dropping the fry. “See? Ambushed in our own booth. It’s a bloodbath.”

You stared at Yeosang for a beat, letting the pause stretch until he almost—almost—blinked. Then you leaned back, letting your shoulders settle against the cracked vinyl of the booth. “Undeclared.”

Yeosang didn’t simile, instead he took a slow, deliberate sip of his beer, his eyes never leaving yours. “Undeclared. Funny,” he said flatly. “The Viper everyone in this club talks about is famous for her setups. She plays like she has a degree in architecture and a minor in chemistry. It’s all calculated. Pixel-perfect lineups.” He leaned in slightly, the neon light from a Budweiser sign overhead making his blonde hair look like sour cherry. “I haven’t seen you play yet. But you? You don’t look like a calculator. After all, it’s all about math, right? Calculating the perfect lineup.”

The table went quiet. Even Mingi stopped mid-gesture, a glass halfway to his mouth.

Yeosang couldn’t check your stats, at least not yet, but he was judging your vibe, and he’d realized the girl in the booth didn’t quite match the analytical monster he’d heard of.

Your heart did a panicked thud against your ribs. You didn’t know the math. You didn’t even know what exactly he was talking about. You just knew that when Wooyoung played, the screen turned green and the enemies died. “I don’t do math,” your voice came out a bit sharper than intended. You leaned forward, meeting Yeosang’s measuring stare with a coldness you didn’t quite feel. “I play on instinct. If you spend too much time calculating, you’re already dead. Chemistry is for people who need a lab. I just need a mouse.”

Yeosang’s eyes thinned, he didn’t look convinced, but he didn’t push. “Instinct,” he repeated softly. “Dangerous way to play at a Radiant level. One slip and the whole composition falls apart.”

“Then I guess I won’t slip,” you countered.

“Okay! Tension!” Mingi shouted, clapping his hands together to break the ice. “Traumatising,” he added before lifting a hand to flag one of his colleagues. “Two more Stella’s! And keep them coming until the room stops spinning, Keeho-ya!” The bartender with short hair didn’t question it, he just rolled his eyes dramatically as he reached for the glasses.

The beers appeared in no time as if the Kehoo guy had decided you were a problem that could only be solved with listening to Mingi’s needs and enough alcohol. The glasses slid onto the wood, sweating and cold, catching the red of the Budweiser sign.

The first sip of your Stella Artois hit bitter and clean, tasting of wheat and the metallic edge of a night that was already beginning to fray. You set the glass down, keeping your voice level. “Where’s Yunho?” It was far from the casual, it was the question that had been clawing at your throat ever since you stepped into The Abyss. But you kept your face neutral anyway.

Seonghwa’s fingers paused around his glass. Mingi answered immediately, far too fast to be natural. “Alive.”

“That wasn’t the question, Mingi.”

“Yeah, but it’s the only guarantee we can offer,” he said, flashing a grin that tried for ‘charming’ but landed squarely on ‘exhausted babysitter.’ Yeosang’s gaze shifted, dark and knowing. “Our Captain is… doing Captain stuff. Administrative duties. Existential dread. The usual.” You didn’t buy the act.

Seonghwa finally spoke, his voice careful, like he was stepping around broken glass. “He left earlier. Said he had to check something.”

“Check what at ten on a Friday?” you pressed.

Seonghwa’s eyes dropped to his drink. “He didn’t say.”

Mingi leaned in, lowering his voice until it was a conspiratorial rasp. “If you want my honest opinion? He panicked. Absolute system failure.”

You stared at him. “Because of me?”

Mingi shrugged with exaggerated nonchalance, though his eyes remained sharp. “He panics professionally. It’s a core skill, like his aim or his ability to colour code a spreadsheet. Yunho’s brain is like a very expensive computer that starts smoking if you open more than three tabs. You? You’re like a high-res 4K tab he wasn’t prepared to open.”

Seonghwa shot him a warning look. “Song Mingi. Enough.”

“What? I’m being descriptive!” Mingi turned back to you, defensive. “He saw you in that basement today and his internal fans started whirring. He needed to go stand in a cold room and reboot.”

Seonghwa’s gaze moved past you, scanning the crowded bar, then settled back on your face. “He doesn’t drink much,” he added simply. “This place… it’s a lot for him.”

“I can tell,” the words sounded sharper than you intended.

Mingi’s eyebrows lifted, interest sparking in his eyes like a flare. “Oh. You know know.”

Seonghwa sighed—softly but with a clear resign. This was the part of the evening he’d been bracing for. “He’s okay,” he said, and you could tell he meant it as a balm. “He just gets overwhelmed. It’s loud in here. The sensory input is… high.”

Your fingers tightened around the cold glass. “It’s not that loud.” Seonghwa didn’t argue further. He didn’t have to. His silence said everything: It is for him, when you’re the one sitting by the same table.

Mingi interrupted the heavy quiet by clinking his knuckle against your beer. “Anyway. Enough about our missing, trembling Captain. You’re here. Which is terrifying. And exciting. Mostly terrifying.”

“You talk too much,” Yeosang said flatly.

Mingi pointed a finger at him. “And you talk like you’re delivering a terminal diagnosis.”

“I am,” Yeosang replied, unblinking.

Mingi turned back to you, undeterred by the salt. “So. How does it feel?” he asked, his voice dropping an octave. “To walk into a room and have three grown men immediately rearrange their entire nervous systems just to accommodate your presence?”

You blinked, taken aback. “Is that what’s happening?”

Mingi leaned back, stretching an arm along the top of the booth. He looked comfortable, but his eyes carried that permanent hint of ‘loser panic’ that only the truly observant could see. “I’m just saying. Yunho saw you once and started making major life decisions. I saw you once and immediately considered becoming a slightly better person. It’s a lot of pressure.”

“You?” you asked, an eyebrow lifting as you took another sip of your beer. “A better person?”

He tapped his chest. “Me. It lasted for about four minutes. A personal record.”

Yeosang muttered, “Don’t encourage the clown.”

“I’m not encouraging him,” you said. “I’m observing.”

Mingi’s smile went sharp but in a way that felt like he was playing a character. “See? That’s your problem. You watch people like you’re trying to figure out where to insert the knife.”

Yeosang took a slow sip of his beer. “She’s just paying attention.”

Mingi’s eyes flicked to him. “Why are you defending her?”

“I’m not,” Yeosang said simply. “I’m correcting your flawed premise.”

Mingi looked back at you, undeterred. “Still. It’s fascinating. Yunho’s the kind of guy who apologies to inanimate objects when he bumps into them. I’ve seen him tell a chair he was sorry.”

“He does not—” Seonghwa started, then paused. “Actually, he does.”

“He definitely does,” Mingi looked at you, his gaze warmer now, threaded with a playful sincerity. “And you? You look like you’d fight the chair. You’d win, too.” You didn’t smile, but the tension in your shoulders loosened just a fraction. Mingi caught it instantly, his eyes lighting up like he’d landed a perfect headshot. “There it is. A crack in the armour.”

Seonghwa rubbed his temple. “Leave her alone.”

“I’m building rapport, hyung! It’s called networking.” Mingi leaned in again, whispering, “Unless it’s working. Then it’s flirting.” Yeosang made a quiet sound—half exhale, half disbelief—and looked away.

You held Mingi’s gaze, steady and unimpressed. “You’re different in person. From what I expected.”

Mingi blinked. “Different from what? The Discord version of me?”

“Yes. But also, different from Yunho,” you said, and the name landed on the table like a heavy coin. “He’s all… exposed nerves. And you’re—”

“Also exposed nerves,” Mingi supplied, his grin widening. “I just have better packaging. I’m confident because I gave up a long time ago. Yunho still thinks if he tries hard enough and is polite to enough chairs, the universe will reward him.”

“And you don’t?”

“I think the universe is a scam,” Mingi clinked his glass against yours. “So I scam it back.” You should’ve rolled your eyes. You should’ve told him he was full of it. Instead, you found yourself watching the way he carried himself—the loose shoulders, the humour used as a shield. The “loser vibe” was right under the surface, but he didn’t hide it. He wore it like a brand name. Mingi raised his glass. “To beer. To missing Captains who are currently screaming into pillows. And to the fact that you showed up to this dump anyway.”

Seonghwa lifted his glass a second later, his eyes soft. “To you being here.”

Yeosang hesitated, then tapped his glass against the others. Minimal. Precise. You drank with them, the bitterness of the hops settling in your chest. And when the next round arrived—unasked for, inevitable—you realized the night wasn’t going to let you leave with your mask intact.

After your third beer, the alcohol was starting to feel heavy. You’d skipped dinner to make the meeting, and the Stella was hitting your bloodstream harshly. The bar felt a little too warm, the bass of the music thumping a bit too hard in your temples. “I need air,” you muttered, sliding out of the booth. The vinyl let out a sticky shlick sound as your legs detached.

“I’m coming too,” Mingi said, jumping up with surprising agility. “My lungs are craving a toxic cloud of their own.”

The night air was a shock—cold and damp, smelling of wet pavement. You leaned against the stained brick wall of the alleyway, the world tilting just a fraction to the left. Mingi pulled out a pack of Camel Blue’s, flicking a silver lighter, the orange flame dancing in the wind before catching. He inhaled deeply, the tip of the cigarette glowing like a dying star. The orange glow illuminated the sharp lines of his face and the permanent “panic” hiding behind his grin.

“You look like you’re waiting for a boss fight,” Mingi said, offering the pack to you. You took it, because you would never say no to a free cigarette, even if you didn’t feel like smoking.

“Yeosang’s very intense,” you muttered, leaning your head back against the cold, rough brick.

“Yeosang is a human patch-note,” Mingi chuckled, blowing a plume of smoke toward a flickering streetlamp. “He doesn’t see people; he sees data points and hitbox errors. Don’t take it personally. He’s just… efficient.”

He went quiet after that, watching a stray cat dart behind a dumpster.

“Yunho thinks he’s the lucky one,” Mingi continued suddenly, his voice dropping an octave. “He thinks he’s the one who won the lottery because you showed up. He thinks you’re the ‘feature’ that’s going to save the club.”

You felt a sharp, cold pang of guilt. “I told him not to put me on a pedestal.” You took a drag of the cigarette, the smoke burning your throat. You looked at Mingi—this guy who scammed the universe back. You realized then that you weren’t just lying to a guy you liked. You were infiltrating a brotherhood that was built on a level of sincerity you hadn’t expected.

“You look a little… glitchy.” Mingi pointed out, leaning against the wall next to you, looking more like the tired student he was.

“Just the alcohol,” you lied, taking a shallow drag. “Empty stomach.”

“Yeah, Yunho does that too,” Mingi chuckled, blowing smoke away from you. “Forgets to eat when he’s in the zone. I once found him trying to meal-prep at 3 AM, staring at a bag of rice like it was a complex tactical problem.” He looked at you then, his gaze softer than it had been inside. “He really likes you, you know. And not just because you’re a god-tier Viper. He’s... he’s scared of you, but in the way people are scared of things they actually care about.”

The world spun again. You closed your eyes, the rough brick scratching your shoulder. The guilt was worse than the nausea. “He shouldn’t,” you whispered. “He shouldn’t like me.”

“Too late,” Mingi said, tapping his ash onto the pavement. “He’s already built a shrine to you in his head. Just... try not to knock it over too hard, okay? He’s made of glass, tempered one but still glass.”

You opened your eyes to Mingi watching you closely, his expression uncharacteristically serious, a one you wouldn’t expect from him. In the dim light of the alley, you realized that Mingi wasn’t just the clown—he was the one who watched the watchman. He knew Yunho was falling, and he was quietly asking you to catch him. “He can take a lot of pressure, but once he cracks… he shatters. That’s why we’re here. Me and Seonghwa. We’re the padding. We make sure the world doesn’t hit him too hard.”

“I’m not who he thinks I am,” you said, the truth bubbling up, fuelled by the alcohol and the exhaustion. You took a deep drag of the cigarette, smoke filling every bit of your lungs. You felt your body tense, instead of the usual, relaxing sensation that nicotine provided.

Mingi just shrugged, a small, sad smile touching his lips. “None of us are. I’m not a ‘radiant socialiser’ as Yunho likes to call me. I’m a guy who works two jobs and fails his midterms because I’m too busy worrying about my friends and a gaming club that probably won’t exist in six months. We’re all faking something, Y/N. Some of us just have better skins than others.” He nudged your shoulder with his in a friendly, grounding gesture. “Just don’t drop him, okay? I’m too tired to glue him back together.”

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎The heavy door of the bar swung open, letting in a blast of cold night air that sliced through the warm, hop-scented haze of The Abyss. Yunho stood there, framed by the neon “Open” sign, looking like he’d just finished a marathon. His hair was wind-blown, his glasses were slightly fogged from the transition in temperature, and he was clutching a filled paper bag from a 24-hour convenience store like a shield. He looked “sturdy.”

At least until he saw the table.

You were leaning into Mingi’s side, your head tilted back as you laughed at some ridiculous, unfiltered story he’d just finished telling. Mingi’s arm was still draped lazily across the back of the booth, his eyes bright and chaotic, clearly thriving on the attention. To your left, Yeosang was staring intensely at a coaster, his eyes glazed and his posture suspiciously slumped—he’d hit his limit two drinks ago. But at least the drinks made him loose his sharp edge. And Seonghwa? Seonghwa was a vibrant, alarming shade of pink that started at his collar and climbed all the way to the tips of his ears, though he was still trying to maintain the “caregiver” energy.

Yunho’s entire soul seemed to leave his body for a moment. He stopped mid-stride, “I—uh—”

The sound of his voice—thin and cracked—was enough to make you sit up straighter. You pulled away from Mingi’s side, the sudden loss of heat making the alcohol-induced fog in your head swirl. “Yunho?” you said, your voice softer than you intended, a smile already forming on your face.

Mingi didn’t move his arm. If anything, he leaned further back, a lazy grin spreading across his face. “Look who it is! You’re back!”

Yunho didn’t answer. His eyes were locked on you—on the way your shoulder was pressed against Mingi’s chest, and the way you looked so much more relaxed than you had in the basement. The paper bag in his hand crinkled loudly as his grip tightened. “I brought… I brought snacks and electrolytes,” Yunho blurted out, holding the bag up. “For tomorrow. Because… because hydration is a tactical advantage.”

“Yunnie, sit down,” Seonghwa muttered, though his words were a little slurred. He reached out and grabbed the hem of Yunho’s sleeve, trying to pull him down. “You’re making the air anxious.”

“You’re a tactical advantage,” Mingi cackled, reaching out to snag a bottle from the bag. “We’re currently debating if Y/N could take on a bear in a fistfight.”

“I’d win,” you murmured, your voice a little slower, a little warmer from the beer and vodka shots you downed 5 minutes ago. You looked at Yunho, a lazy smile not leaving your lips, not even for a second. “Hey, Captain. You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“I’m fine,” Yunho squeaked, though his knuckles were white where he gripped the paper bag. “I just... I didn’t think you’d be having so much fun. With Mingi.” The way he said the name wasn’t angry. It was sad. It was the sound of a guy who had spent his last percentage of social battery on coming back to The Abyss, only to find the “movie moment” he’d imagined was already starring someone else. He finally slid into the tiny space on the opposite side of the table, as far away from the Mingi-proximity as possible. He looked like he wanted to crawl under the wood. He looked at Seonghwa, who just gave him a blurry, empathetic nod.

Yeosang, who had been staring at a coaster like it held the secrets of the universe, suddenly blinked. He shifted his gaze from the wood to the frantic skyscraper beside him. “Statistically, a grizzly has a 100% win rate against a gamer,” Yeosang chirped in, his voice lost the flat and clinical tone, but still each time he opened his mouth made you nervous. “Even one with your... instincts.” He looked at you, then at Yunho. “And Yunho, you’re trembling. It’s making the table rattle.”

“I’m glad you’re here, Captain” you leaned across the table, completely ignoring Yeosang’s remark, your chin resting on your hand. The movement caused you to pull away from Mingi, and Yunho’s entire body seemed to deflate with a massive, silent sigh of relief. You reached out to tap the back of Yunho’s hand. He flinched at first, then slowly, tentatively, turned his hand over and let your fingers rest in his palm. His skin was cool from the outside air. “I missed you,” you whispered.

Yunho’s pupils blown wide behind his fogged lenses. He didn’t move, didn’t even blink. He stayed frozen in that half-lean, his fingers curled loosely around yours in a way that felt like he was holding something expensive, fragile. The bar around you was a symphony of chaos—Mingi was currently shouting over the bass, trying to explain god knows what to Seonghwa, who looked like he was contemplating the heat death of the universe. To your left, Yeosang was lining up peanut shells in a perfect, clinical formation.

But between you and Yunho, there was a pocket of air that felt ten degrees warmer than the rest of the room.

“Y-you did?” Yunho’s voice was barely a breath, he didn’t look at the drinks nor at his friends. He just looked at where your skin met his, as if he was waiting for a system error to pop up and tell him this wasn’t real. “I—I thought you’d be... I thought I was being a nuisance. Leaving the basement like that.”

“You’re a lot of things, Yunho,” you said, your thumb tracing the line of his knuckles. “A nuisance isn’t one of them.”

Yunho’s thumb twitched, finally gaining the courage to stroke back against the side of your hand. His touch was hesitant, feather-light, but it sent a jolt through you that cut right through the vodka-haze.

He suddenly remembered the bag on his lap. “I, uh... I didn’t just get electrolytes for the team.” He reached into the bag. He’d brought mango jellies for Seonghwa, and double tuna kimbap for Mingi, but he put them aside and pulled out a small, separate plastic wrapper. It was a strawberry milk carton and a pack of honey-butter chips. “Sugar helps with the... It can slightly slow the absorption of alcohol. And the milk is... it’s soothing. For the throat. After all the smoking.” He glanced at the cigarette pack on the table and then back at you. “I wanted to make sure your stats didn’t drop.”

“My stats are fine, Captain,” you smiled, the lazy, alcohol-softened curve of your lips making his heart rate visibly spike in the vein of his neck. “But I’ll gladly take the milk,” the alcohol made the words come out more vulnerable than you intended. He pushed the items toward you with the tips of his trembling fingers, careful not to let his hand linger too close to yours. “You’re hands are shaking,” you pointed out, shifting your weight to lean across the table until you were deep in Yunho’s personal space. “Is the ‘social energy’ drain really that bad? Or is it just me?”

“Hey! Lover boy!”

Mingi’s voice cut through the air, he slammed a fresh, dripping beer down in front of Yunho, nearly splashing the paper bag of convenience store peace offerings. “Stop staring at her like she’s the last ult point on the map. Drink! We’re celebrating the birth of Level Zero!”

Yunho flinched, his hand jerking away from yours for a second as he sat bolt upright, his spine snapping into a rigid line. He looked like a student who’d just been caught sleeping in a lecture hall. “I—I’m celebrating!” Yunho stammered, grabbing the beer with too much force. His ears turned a shade of fiery crimson that put Seonghwa’s alcohol-flushed face to shame. “I am very celebratory! Huzzah!”

Mingi stared at him for a dead, unblinking second. “Huzzah? Did you just say huzzah? Yun, we’re a gaming club, not a Renaissance fair.”

Yeosang blinked slowly, his head finally lifting an inch from the table. “He’s broken. Get a new one,” he droned. “His social processor is clearly thermal-throttling.”

You ignored them. Your focus was entirely on the way Yunho was currently trying to disappear into his seat. You reached out and slowly, deliberately, hooked your finger under the silver chain around his neck. You tugged, just an inch but enough to force him to lean closer, until his glasses were nearly touching your cheek. “You know,” you breathed, your lips almost grazing the sensitive skin of his ear. The scent of your perfume and the humid heat of the bar seemed to trap the two of you in a private bubble. “If you keep holding my hand like this in public, people are going to start thinking the Captain wants more than just a ‘strategic partnership.’” In response, Yunho made a tiny, muffled sound—a sort of broken whimper that he tried to cough away. “I liked it better when we were alone in the basement,” you whispered, letting the implication sink in like a poison. “You were much… sturdier then.”

The reaction was instantaneous. Yunho didn’t just jump; he launched. His knees slammed into the underside of the table with a heavy thud that sent the beer glasses rattling. You slid your hand from his palm up to his forearm, feeling the frantic, jumping beat of his pulse beneath the sleeve of his hoodie. You leaned even closer, your shoulder brushing his chest, until the scent of your perfume mixed with lingering smoke was the only thing he could breathe. “You’re glitching again,” you purred, the low, bored rasp of your voice carrying perfectly across the table.

Mingi stopped mid-sentence. Yeosang’s peanut-stacking hand froze in mid-air. Even Seonghwa’s glazed eyes sharpened, focusing on the two of you like a high-speed camera.

“I—I am not glitching!” Yunho squeaked, though his voice was two octaves higher than usual. “I am merely... processing the current... social environment!”

“Is that what it is?” You tilted your head, your lips hovering a hair’s breadth from his jawline. You reached up and slowly, deliberately adjusted his glasses, your fingers lingering on his temple. “Because it looks like your ping is spiking. I think we need a frequent connection check to make sure our Captain stays synced with his MVP.” Yunho’s breath hitched so hard it sounded like a sob. He looked at you, his pupils so blown they practically swallowed the honey-gold of his eyes. He was a second away from blue-screening. “Don’t look so scared,” you said, loud enough for Mingi to choke on his beer. You let your hand slide down to cup his flushed cheek, your thumb grazing the corner of his mouth. “You’re doing well, baby.”

The word hit the table like a grenade.

Yunho didn’t jump this time. He didn’t launch. He simply... stopped. His jaw dropped. His eyes went wide and vacant. A soft, high-pitched whirring sound actually seemed to come from his throat as his brain tried to categorise a reality where Viper had just called him ‘baby’ in front of his best friends.

“Did she just—” Mingi’s voice was a strangled wheeze. He slammed his hands onto the table, shaking the glasses. “Did she just call him baby? In public? In front of witnesses? I’m recording this. I’m putting this on the club’s permanent record.”

“Call an ambulance,” Yeosang deadpanned, reaching over to poke Yunho’s frozen shoulder. Yunho didn’t even flinch; he just slowly began to tilt to the side. “He’s reached critical mass. His internal fans have stopped spinning. He is literally overheating.”

Seonghwa leaned back, a look of profound, weary amusement on his pink-tinged face. “I told you she was dangerous, Yunnie. I didn’t think she’d actually kill you.”

Yunho finally made a sound. It was a faint, pathetic squeak—the sound of a balloon losing air. He looked at you, his face a shade of crimson, and then, with the grace of said baloon, he lowered his forehead onto the sticky wood of the table with a muffled thud.

You sat back, picking up your glass and taking a slow, satisfied sip. You looked over at the rest of the boys, an eyebrow arched in a challenge. “What?” you asked innocently. “A Captain needs to be kept in peak condition. It’s just... tactical maintenance.”

Mingi pointed a shaking finger at the pile of defeated blonde hair that was Yunho. “Tactical maintenance? You just deleted his entire operating system! Look at him! You’ve turned our Radiant leader into a sentient heap of anxiety!”

“He’ll reboot,” you said, though you reached out and gently ruffled the hair at the nape of Yunho’s neck. He shivered under your touch, a long, full-body tremor. “Eventually.”

Yunho remained facedown on the table for couple of minutes, a motionless monument to social catastrophe. Then, with a slow, mechanical creak, he began to rise. He didn’t look at you directly. Instead, he reached out a shaking hand and gripped his beer glass like it was a life jacket. He took a massive, desperate gulp—nearly half the glass—swallowing so hard his Adam’s apple bobbed frantically. “System… restored,” he wheezed, wiping foam from his lip with the back of a trembling hand. He sat up, his posture so straight it looked painful, though his ears were still glowing a vivid pink. He cleared his throat, trying to find that steady voice, but it came out a little too airy. “I’ve processed the data. The… the ‘baby’ variable was unexpected. But I have adjusted my defensive line.” He took another, smaller sip, finally brave enough to look at you over the rim of the glass. His eyes were still wide but there was a flicker of something new there—a tiny spark of competitive heat. “You’re dangerous,” he whispered, the beer giving him just enough liquid courage to lean back toward you. “You use psychological warfare. You’re trying to… to tilt me before the match even starts.”

“Is it working?” you asked, resting your chin on your palm, watching the way he tried to look confident while his hand still rattled against the glass.

“It’s a critical hit,” Yunho admitted, a small, shy smile finally breaking through the embarrassment. He looked down at the hand you’d been holding, then back at you. “But I’m a high-level strategist. I’ll… I’ll adapt. Just don’t do it again when I’m holding hot coffee. I’d like to keep my skin.”

“Look at him,” Mingi groaned, leaning his head on your shoulder. “He’s trying to act cool. Yunho, you literally just died. We saw the light leave your eyes.”

“I was rebooting!” Yunho snapped, though he looked more like a flustered golden retriever than a hardened leader. He turned back to you, his gaze softening. “Anyway. I accept Level Zero as our official name. We are a team now. And I… I have strawberry milk to protect.” He moved the small carton closer to you, his fingers lingering near yours for a fraction of a second. The bold flirt had cracked him, but as he sat there, sipping his beer and watching you with that unwavering devotion, it was clear he wasn’t running away anymore.

The air in the booth had become filled with laughter, spilled beer, and the high-octane energy of Level Zero members. But the alcohol and the warmth were finally catching up to you, making the neon signs blur at the edges. “I’m heading out for one more,” you said, sliding out of the booth. You tapped the pack of cigarettes in your pocket. “Min?”

Mingi looked up from his third attempt to explain a concept of “soulmates” to a very confused Seonghwa. He looked at you, then his gaze flickered to Yunho—who was currently peeling the straw for your strawberry milk with the focus of a bomb technician.

“Nah,” he said, a slow, knowing smirk spreading across his face. He leaned back, spreading his arms over the vinyl. “I think I’m gonna stay here and make sure Yeosang doesn’t actually join the peanut army. Go ahead, Viper. Don’t get lost in the smoke.”

The heavy industrial door of The Abyss groaned as you pushed it open, the transition from the humid bar to the biting night air feeling like a cold bucket of water over your head. The alley was quiet, exactly what you needed right now. You leaned against the cold brick, fumbling with your lighter. Your hands were somehow steady, but your head felt heavy. You managed to spark the flame, the orange glow momentarily blinding you. You took a long, slow drag, letting the smoke fill your lungs as you stared at the damp pavement.

Slam.

Yunho emerged into the alley, the warm, yellow light from the bar spilling around his silhouette, making him look even taller than usual. He wasn’t wearing his hoodie anymore—just a thin T-shirt that clung to his broad shoulders. He looked around wildly for a second before his eyes landed on you. He didn’t say anything at first, just walked over, shoes crunching on a stray bit of gravel, and came to a halt a few feet away.

“You smoke too much,” Yunho murmured, his gaze dropping to your lips for a heartbeat before snapping back to your eyes, more grounded than he’d been all night. He tucked his hands into his pockets, a shy smile lighting up his face as he stepped even closer, his shoulder bumping yours as you blew the smoke away from him.

“That’s how addiction works, Captain,” you answered, a bit of humour in your voice as you took a deep drag, the tip of the cigarette glowing a fierce, defiant orange against the gloom. The silence of the alleyway felt different than the silence of B-12. In the basement, it had been about the lie. Here, under the warm, yellow light of a streetlamp, it felt like the first real crack in the mask.

Even if the smoke scent was too heavy in his lungs, Yunho didn’t move away; if anything, he leaned into your space, his proximity radiating a heat that made the alcohol in your veins hum. You caught the way his eyes tracked the movement of your hand, the way he seemed to be memorizing the curve of your fingers against the filter. The silence was no longer awkward, it was heavy.

It was becoming too much. Too real.

You looked up at him, your vision starting to slightly swim. Yunho didn’t look like the nervous boy who chokes on plain bagels anymore, but maybe it was just the beer in his system making him more relaxed. The smoke swirled between you, grey and thick, before the wind caught it and pulled it into the night. You felt the nicotine rush collide with the lingering vodka, a sudden, dizzying wave that made the brick wall behind you feel like it was leaning away. You didn’t go far—you couldn’t. You swayed, your boots scraping against the damp pavement as gravity betrayed you.

“Whoa—hey” Yunho’s reaction was instinctive, his reflexes firing before his brain could even process the panic. He moved into your space, his large hands catching your shoulders to steady you. He was warm, solid. He didn’t pull away once you were stable; instead, he kept his hands there, his thumbs brushing against the leather of your jacket, bracing you against the world’s sudden tilt. “You’re really drunk,” he noted, his voice softening into something protective. “I shouldn’t have let you drink that last shot,” he muttered, more to himself than you, his voice full of guilt. “I saw the bottle. I calculated the units, and I still let you…” He stopped, letting out a shaky breath that ruffled your hair.

“I’m efficiently hydrated,” you looked up at him, a lazy smile pulling at your lips. The frigale air between you was becoming heavy with the unsaid things from the basement and the “baby” you'd dropped like a bomb inside the bar. It was intimidating—the way he was looking at you with that crushing, quiet worship.

You needed to break it.

“So…” you began, your voice nothing more than a mare, smoke-damaged rasp. You turned your head slightly, looking at him through the corner of your eye as you tapped the ash onto the wet pavement. “Back in the basement…” You tilted your head back against the brick, looking at him through your lashes. “You called me pretty.”

Yunho’s entire body went rigid. The hands on your shoulders didn’t drop, but his fingers twitched. He looked down at his boots, then at the flickering “Open” sign, then finally back to you. The shy smile from a moment ago was gone, replaced by a sincerity that was far more dangerous. “I did,” he admitted, the sound barely audible over the hum of the bar’s generator. He was so close that the tips of his shoes were touching yours. “I was... that was a tactical observation. Based on... visual data.” He was so tall that he had to incline his head sharply to maintain eye contact.

“Visual data,” you repeated, your smile sharpening as you took one last drag and flicked the ember into the wet gutter. Now, with the cigarette thrown away, you closed the final inch of space until your jacket was brushing the front of his T-shirt. “You were very certain about that data in the basement. You seemed so... sturdy when you said it.”

Yunho didn’t back away. Even with his heart likely hitting 150 BPM, he stayed still, his gaze dropping to your mouth and staying there, trapped by his own honesty. “I’m still certain,” he whispered, his voice dropping into a deeper register that made the ground under your boots feel unstable again. “The data is... it’s consistent. You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen on a server. Or off one.” He looked like he wanted to bolt, but he also looked like he would stay in that freezing alley for a thousand years just to keep holding your shoulders. “And the resolution is getting higher. You’re not just pretty. You’re…” He paused, his eyes searching yours as if for permission to say what he wanted to. “You’re terrifying. And I can’t seem to look away.”

You let out a small, huffed laugh, “Terrifying? That’s a 100% win rate for Viper.”

“I’m not talking about the game now,” Yunho said softly, his hand moving, finally leaving your shoulder to ghost along the line of your jaw. His skin was cool, but the intent behind the touch was fire. He tucked a stray lock of hair behind your ear, his thumb grazing your temple with the lightness of a butterfly wing. “I’m talking about you.”

You leaned in, slow and deliberate, watching his pupils blow out until they nearly swallowed the brown of his eyes. You tilted your head, your lips inches from his, close enough to feel the frantic heat radiating off his skin. Yunho’s eyes fluttered shut, he was so visibly nervous he was actually shaking, his breath coming in short, shallow hitches. But you knew he was waiting for it as much as you were. He was braced for the impact of a kiss. You could feel the slight tremble in his jaw, the way he was shaking from the effort of staying still. He was a man standing on the edge of a cliff, waiting for you to push him.

You paused mid-lean, your nose almost brushing his, and felt the sharp, hitching catch in his throat. You didn’t pull away, but you didn’t close the gap either. Instead, you let out a soft, hummed laugh that ghosted over his lips, making his eyes snap open in dazed confusion. “You know, Captain,” you whispered, your voice a silken thread that made the lump in his throat even tighter. You let your hand slide to his chest, your fingers splaying over the middle of his ribcage. “A good strategist never reveals their best play during the first match.”

Yunho’s eyes looked dazed and half-blind with adrenaline. He looked like a man who had been braced for a collision only to find himself suspended in mid-air. “W-what?”

The vibration of soft spoken words was hitting the space between your mouths. “I think we’re still at Level Zero,” you murmured, your lips almost grazing his. “And I’d hate to ruin the progression curve by skipping to the final boss on night one.”

The confusion on his face was almost painful to watch. He was trying to process the logic, his brain struggling to switch back from ‘romance’ to ‘tactics.’ “You’re… you’re pausing the game?”

“I’m saving the progress,” you corrected, a lazy, mischievous glint in your eyes as you finally pulled back just an inch. “They say the third time’s a charm, right? Basement… bar… maybe next time, Captain.”

The silence that followed was heavy enough to choke on. Yunho stood there, his hand still frozen against your jaw, his lips parted as if he were trying to catch the phantom heat of the kiss you’d just denied him. He looked absolutely devastated—but in a way that was fuelled by a terrifying amount of adoration. He wasn’t just “glitching” anymore; he was a total system failure. His chest heaved, a single, sharp breath escaping him that sounded suspiciously like a whimper. “That’s…” he started, his voice cracking and jumping an entire octave. He cleared his throat, trying to regain some semblance of the Captain. “That is… highly irregular tactical behaviour.”

“Is it?” You pulled back another inch, making the cool air hit the space on Yunho’s chest where your heat had been. “I thought I was just keeping the stakes high. You wouldn’t want a game that’s too easy to win, would you?”

Yunho’s hand finally dropped from your face, but his fingers curled into a fist as if he were trying to hold onto the sensation of your skin. He let out a long, shaky exhale, the white mist of his breath mingling with yours. “I don’t think I could handle it being any harder,” he stepped closer, invading your space again, his height looming over you. “You’re… you’re playing on a level I haven’t even unlocked yet.”

The world decided to tilt then.

The alcohol hit your bloodstream at the exact same moment a gust of wind whistled down the alley. Your knees, which had been locked in a bold, flirtatious stance, suddenly turned to water. You swayed, the brick wall behind you feeling like it was receding into the dark. “The ground,” you mumbled, burying your face in the soft cotton of his T-shirt. You felt dizzy, the smell of him—lavender detergent mixed with some sweet, slightly woodsy smell—acting as the only thing keeping you grounded. “The ground is lagging, Yun.”

He shifted his grip, one arm sliding around your shoulders to pull you closer, while the other was firm on your waist. A tiny sound escaped him—half laugh, half choke. “You shouldn’t have smoked that cigarette.”

“Tell me what you want,” you murmured against the skin of his collarbone, completely ignoring his correct remark. Your stubbornness, and the need to feel his warmth around you, made you press so close that the cold night couldn’t fit between your bodies anymore. “Do you want me to go back inside? Do you want me to go home?”

His fingers tightened at your waist, the smallest squeeze telling you he needed the closeness as much as you did. “I want you to be okay.”

“That’s not an answer.”

Yunho looked down at you like you were a problem he’d been trying to solve for months and had finally, terrifyingly, reached the last step of the equation. “I want—” He shut his eyes like he could brute force the courage into existence. “I want to stay in this lobby,” he whispered, his voice cracking with the weight of honesty he couldn’t believe he had. “I want the timer to stop. I want to keep you here before I sober up, and you walk away turning back into someone I glitch in front of.” He let out a shaky breath, his forehead dropping to rest against yours, his glasses touching softly against your temple. The Captain was gone. The Radiant rank was gone. There was just a boy in a thin T-shirt shivering in a dark alley because he was too far gone to care about the cold. “You’re so loud, Y/N,” he breathed, his eyes still squeezed shut as if the sight of you would be the final blow to his system. “Even when you’re quiet, you’re the only thing I can hear. It’s like you’re a frequency I’m tuned to, and everything else is just static. So no. I don’t want you to go back inside. And I don’t want you to go home.” He looked down at your lips—the ones that had teased him, mocked him, and called him baby—and his grip on your waist tightened until it was almost possessive. “I want you to tell me this isn’t a strategy, tell me you’re not just tilting me because you can. Tell me that when you look at me, you’re not seeing a mission or a teammate.”

You leaned back just enough to see the way his throat moved when he swallowed, the way his lips were still slightly open. You wanted to snap back with something sharp, something that would keep the armour intact. But the “lag” was too heavy, and his heat was too real. You inhaled, then exhaled slowly, the cold air burning your lungs more than the cigarette did. “Captain,” you whispered, leaning in again—this time not to provoke, but because the world felt steadier when you could hear his breathing. “If you kiss me right now, I might actually start believing you.”

Yunho went still. Every muscle in him locked like he was about to take a hit. “You… you still want that?” The question sounded like he couldn’t afford to misunderstand.

You looked him dead in the eye, your voice dropping into a low, dangerous velvet that felt like it was vibrating against every pore on his skin. You took a step forward, forcing him against the cold brick, letting him feel the softness of your body against the rigid tension of his. “I’m done making the calls, Yun. My head is spinning, and I’m sick of being the one in control.” You let your gaze drop to his mouth, then back to his blown-out pupils. “I need someone to handle me. To put their hands on me and tell me exactly where to go and what to do.”

The effect was catastrophic. He didn’t just blush; he looked like he was about to spontaneously combust. “H-h-handle?” he stammered, his voice cracking so badly it was almost a squeak.

“Yeah,” you nodded, your lips brushing the heat of his neck, “So are you going to be the Captain and take what’s yours, or not?”

For a guy who had spent more time on a headset than talking to girls, the blunt weight of your request was a total critical hit. “Y-Y/N,” he wheezed, looking like he was witnessing a miracle and a catastrophe at the same time. “You... you shouldn’t... that’s a very... high-level implication.”

“Is it?” you whispered, stepping on your toes to press a light kiss right under his ear.

“Yes!” he squeaked, his eyes wide and panicked, his glasses fogging up from the heat radiating off his face. “I—I don’t have the... the experience points for that kind of dialogue! I’m... I’m just the strategist. I don’t... I’ve never... handled... anyone.”

“Then learn,” you whispered, enjoying the way his pulse was visible in his neck. He was terrified. He was overwhelmed. And it made you feel nothing but joy. “None of this is a strategy,” you finally murmured the words he needed to hear the most. “I’m not that good of an actress. I just want you.”

The air in the alleyway seemed to hold its breath.

“So do something,” you challenged, your thumb tracing the jumping pulse in his throat. “Show me the Captain, Yunho. I’m waiting for the command.”

“N-no,” he said. It was meant to be firm, but it came out trembling with nerves. His eyes darted over your face like he was running a full tactical scan and hating the results. You were so close, he could have leaned in, he could have finished the “three times a charm” countdown right there. Instead, he let out a long, shaky exhale that ruffled your hair, and he gently but firmly, tucked your head back under his chin. “You’re drunk,” his voice was rougher than before but it wasn’t an accusation. It was more a boundary he was forcing himself to hold. “And I’m not going to take advantage of that.”

You let out a breath that came out more like a laugh. “I’m just lightly buzzed,” you corrected, because you were still you, still stubborn, still allergic to vulnerability. “And I give you my full consent,” you tried to stand taller just to prove the point but the sidewalk immediately tilted in response, like it was personally offended.

Yunho’s grip tightened, instinctively, steadying you like you weighed nothing. “I won’t—” He shut his eyes, like saying it out loud would hurt. “I’m not kissing you like this.”

Heat flared in your chest, sharp and humiliating. “Because you think I’ll regret it?”

“No,” he said instantly. Too fast. Too honest. “Because I’ll regret not stopping if you do.”

That landed somewhere deep, under the mask, under the alcohol haze. You stared at him for a beat, then tipped your head back against the night air, exhaling hard. “God. You’re infuriating.”

“I know,” Yunho whispered, like it was a fact he’d already logged and accepted. The humiliation you’d felt a second ago didn’t vanish, but it transformed into something else—a grounding realization. Yunho wasn’t rejecting you; he was protecting the version of you that he worshipped, even if that version currently had silver smoke on her breath and a head full of vodka.

“You’re really going to be the hero, aren’t you?” you murmured, your voice small, the usual rasp replaced by something raw. Your fingers tangling in the messy, wind-blown strands of his hair. “Even when I’m being the villain. You just… stay the hero.”

Yunho’s jaw flexed. He didn’t look away. “I’m not a hero, Y/N. I’m just a guy who’s very, very bad at losing things that matter.” He took a shaky breath, his forehead dropping back down to rest against yours. His glasses were cool against your skin, but his eyes, peering through the lenses, were burning. “I can be infuriating all night. I can be the most annoying strategist you’ve ever met. I’ll calculate your water intake, I’ll tell you to sleep, and I’ll walk you to your door without touching you once if that’s what it takes to make sure you wake up tomorrow and don’t wish I was someone else.”

“Okay,” you surrendered. You let your hands slide down from his hair to rest on his chest, feeling the frantic, galloping rhythm of his heart. You took a step backward to reclaim at least a bit of control, but your ankle immediately betrayed you. You stumbled—more dramatic than you meant, less graceful than you wanted—and Yunho caught you so fast it was like he’d been braced for impact the entire time. “I can’t walk,” you admitted, your voice looping into a slight, giggly slur as you leaned your forehead against his chest again.

He didn’t move, keeping his hands locked on your waist, his thumbs tracing the line of your hips through your clothes. He was like a human cage, but for the first time, the cage felt like the only place you were safe. “Okay,” he said, voice going calm in a way that was never actually calm. “We’re in a medical situation.”

“It’s not a medical situation,” you scoffed, trying to push yourself off him like pride alone could stabilise your ankles. Your legs immediately wobbled, and your attempt at independence turned into a slow-motion betrayal. “It’s just the air… It’s too loud, which makes everything worse. Spinning.”

Yunho tightened his hold without even thinking, one arm bracing your waist, the other steady at your elbow. His hands were warm through your jacket. Sturdy. Annoyingly so. “Viper,” he said, and your stomach dipped at the way he used the agent name instead of yours. “You can’t walk.”

“I can walk,” you insisted. “I just need to—” You took one step to prove it and the sidewalk tilted like it was laughing. You lurched, boots skidding, and Yunho caught you again, quick and practiced. He didn’t even flinch. He just absorbed you like you belonged there.

“You are not doing a hero sprint right now,” he muttered, more to himself than to you. His breath puffed out in a small cloud in the cold. “Okay. New plan.”

You narrowed your eyes up at him. “What plan?” He looked down at you, and for a second he looked so young it made something in your chest ache. Like he was trying to be the Captain, trying to be responsible, trying to keep you safe, and the weight of it was too big for his shoulders but he carried it anyway.

“I’m taking you home,” he said.

Home. The word hit softer than it should have. You tried to laugh it off. It came out as a tiny, undignified huff against his shirt. “I can… tactically retreat on my own.”

Yunho’s mouth twitched like he wanted to smile but didn’t trust himself. “You just got nerfed by beers and vodka. There’s no retreat. There’s only… extraction.”

“Extraction,” you repeated, like you were testing the word for weakness. He nodded, very seriously. You stared at him for a beat, then lifted a finger to poke his chest, right over the hammering heart. “You’re… so dramatic.”

“I’m not dramatic,” he said automatically.

“You said ‘medical situation.’”

“That was a factual observation.” You snorted and it turned into a giggle against your will. Yunho’s gaze flicked to your mouth again—quick, involuntary—then away like it physically hurt to look for too long. He swallowed, throat bobbing. “Can you… can you tell me your address?”

“My address?”

“Yes.”

You blinked slowly. “Captain, I live in… I live in a building with the… the stairs.”

Yunho stared. You stared back, pleased with yourself.

He exhaled through his nose like someone had just handed him a bomb and a pair of tweezers. “Okay. Great. Perfect.”

“I can show you,” you offered, like you were being helpful. He hesitated, eyes tracking the line of your body, the wobble lingering in your posture, the way your head kept wanting to tip forward like sleep was waiting just behind your eyes.

Then, very carefully, as if he was asking permission from every law of the universe, Yunho shifted his stance. “What are you—” you started. He ducked, turned, and in one not-so-smooth motion he scooped you up. It wasn’t bridal, not exactly. It was more… practical. One arm under your knees, the other behind your back, close and secure like a carry-out of a very expensive, very stubborn package. This time your brain stopped working. Your hands flailed for a second before instinct found fabric—his shirt, his shoulder, the back of his neck. “Yunho!” you hissed, half scandalised, half outraged, wholly aware of how easy it was for him. “Put me down!”

“No,” he said, immediate and firm.

You blinked at him. “No?”

He adjusted his grip like you weighed nothing, jaw set like he’d committed to a mission and was not taking feedback. “You’re going to fall.”

“I would not fall.”

“You did fall,” he corrected.

“I stumbled.”

He looked at you, expression flat in a way that was almost comical. “You nearly ate the sidewalk.”

“I was checking it,” you said, because your dignity was a dying animal and you refused to finish it off.

His lips twitched again. “Thank you for your service.”

You huffed, then—feeling the exhaustion and the vodka pull at your eyelids—you leaned closer. If he wouldn’t kiss you because you were drunk—fine. You’d take what he was willing to give. You shifted in his arms, settling your weight against his broad chest, and let your head fall against his shoulder with a deliberately heavy, exaggerated sigh.

Yunho jumped so hard he almost dropped you. “Are you—is the—is the unit secure?”

“I’m making your job harder,” you mumbled. “Strategic burden.”

“You’re not a burden,” he whispered, his voice finally softening. He tucked you closer, his large hands carefully avoiding any “unnecessary” contact, though the way your body pressed against his was clearly making him short-circuit.

“Where are you taking me?”

“Home,” Yunho said.

“My home?”

A long, shy pause. He swallowed so hard you heard it. “Mine. If you want. I... I have a couch. I’ll sleep there. You can have the bed. It’s... it’s been washed. Recently. I mean—it’s clean! I’m not—I’m not a weirdo!”

You lifted your head, squinting at his panicked face. The “handle me” comment was clearly still playing on a loop in his head. “You don’t have to do that.”

“I want to,” he said quietly, finally looking at you with that crushing, quiet worship. “I want you somewhere I can... I can keep an eye on your health bar.”

That sentence should’ve made you bristle. It didn’t. It made your throat go tight. You swallowed. “If you drop me, I’m suing the Radiant Rank.”

Yunho’s mouth twitched—barely there, but real. “Noted. Recalibrating grip for maximum stability.”

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‎The first thing you felt was the soft cotton—smelling faintly of lavender. You opened one eye, and the world immediately punished you for it with a sharp spike of light. You weren’t in your apartment. Yours was messy, smelled like burnt toast, coffee, and didn’t have a $5,000 ergonomic setup glowing in the corner.

Yunho’s room was terrifyingly organised. His shelves were lined with pristine figurines, his hoodies were folded with military precision, and his secondary monitor was currently displaying a System Sleep screen that cast a soft blue glow over the bed. Then, a heavy, warm weight shifted beside you. You froze, your heart doing a frantic sprint. Slowly, painfully, you turned your head. Yunho was passed out on top of the covers, still wearing his jeans and shirt from yesterday, though the hood was twisted awkwardly around his neck. He wasn’t even under the blankets—he’d clearly laid you down, tucked you in, and then collapsed right next to you like a loyal guard dog who’d reached his limit. His glasses were crooked on his face, one arm hooked over his ear, the other poking dangerously close to his eye. His mouth was slightly open, and he was snoring—not a loud, obnoxious snore, but a soft, huffing sound that was so puppy-coded it made your chest ache.

Suddenly, Yunho’s nose twitched. He let out a long, shaky sigh and his eyes fluttered open. He blinked, the world clearly a blur without his lenses properly adjusted. “O-oh!” he croaked, his voice deep from sleep. He shoved his glasses up his nose, realised they were crooked, and ended up knocking them onto the carpet. “O-okay. Morning. Objective… objective reached.” He looked at you, and the memory of the almost kiss must have hit him because his face went from sleepy to high-aware in two seconds. “I—I didn’t… I mean, I stayed because you wouldn’t let go of my shirt!” he blurted out, gesturing frantically to your hand, which was indeed still clutching the hem of his shirt. “I tried to leave! But you said—you said I was your ‘support’ and I had to stay!” He scrambled back, nearly falling off the edge of the mattress. “Did you… do you need water? Ibuprofen? A tactical retreat?”

You didn’t let go of his shirt immediately. Instead, you tugged it, pulling him a fraction closer as you let out a dry, sleepy chuckle. “Support?” you echoed, voice rough with sleep and last night’s drinks.

Yunho froze halfway through his frantic retreat. The morning light made him look unfairly soft. “I carried you,” he said, like he was reporting a mission debrief. “You kept insisting you were fine. Then you tried to salute a mailbox.”

“That mailbox was suspicious,” you mumbled.

Yunho’s mouth twitched. It was the smallest fracture, but you saw it anyway. “Do you feel sick?”

You shifted under the blanket and immediately regretted every decision you’d made since the invention of vodka. The room tilted, then steadied. Your stomach did a slow, offended roll. “I feel… punished,” you admitted.

Yunho nodded, very serious. “Okay.” He slid off the bed, moving carefully like he didn’t want to startle you. “I’ll get water,” he said. “And… food. Something with salt. Electrolytes. I have—” Yunho made a strangled noise that might have been a laugh. He turned toward the door, then stopped like he’d hit an invisible wall. His hand hovered on the knob. “And,” he added, voice quieter, “I’m sorry if… if last night was uncomfortable. I should’ve—”

“Captain,” you interrupted, and your own voice surprised you with how gentle it came out. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“I didn’t kiss you,” he said.

“Yeah,” you murmured. “I noticed.”

His throat bobbed. “I wanted to.” The confession landed heavy, even through the hangover haze.

Your chest did that stupid, traitorous thing where it tightened and warmed at the same time. “I wanted you to,” you said, eyes on his shirt, because looking at his face felt too dangerous in the daylight. “But I… get why you didn’t.”

Silence stretched. The room hummed with the low, expensive quiet of his PC in sleep mode. When you glanced up, Yunho was staring at you like you’d handed him a code he’d been trying to crack for months.

“You’re not mad?”

“Should I be?”

Yunho’s brows pinched. “You were… very persuasive.”

You huffed a laugh that hurt your skull. “You were very… stubborn.”

“I was responsible,” he corrected automatically.

“You were infuriating,” you corrected back.

His mouth twitched again. This time it stayed. A real smile, small and exhausted, like it cost him something. “I’ll take infuriating,” he said. “As long as you’re safe.”

“Get the water,” you ordered, defaulting to the only armour you had left. “Before I start thinking you like bossing me around.”

Yunho’s smile disappeared so fast it was almost comedic. “I don’t—” You arched a brow. He exhaled, defeated. “Okay. Water.” He cracked the door open, then paused again, glancing over his shoulder. “And,” he said, voice careful, “when you’re sober… if you still want—” He gestured helplessly between your faces. “The… the thing,” he finished, mortified.

“You mean the kiss?”

Yunho shut his eyes like you’d shot him. “Yes.”

Your lips curved, slow and sore and real. “Bring the water first, Captain,” you said. “Then we’ll negotiate.”

Yunho’s eyes opened. “Okay,” he whispered, like it was the only word he trusted himself with.

You laid back as he disappeared into the hallway, staring at the ceiling of his perfectly organised room. Your head throbbed. Your stomach rolled. Your pride was in critical condition. Yunho’s place was quiet in that expensive way—soft carpet, no neighbour noises, no random clutter screaming for attention. Somewhere down the hall, a cupboard opened. A mug clinked. Then a voice you recognised—too loud, too familiar, too awake.

Mingi.

Your soul tried to crawl out of your body and file a resignation letter. You sat up, swinging your legs over the side of the bed. The room tilted. You put a hand on the mattress, breathing through the wave of nausea until it backed off. You needed a shower. Desperately. You smelled like beer, smoke, and poor decisions. Yesterday’s make-up making your dry skin itch. You stood up, grabbed your jacket off the chair like it could shield you from humiliation, and cracked the bedroom door open.

The hallway light was a little too bright and smelled like coffee. You stepped out, and there he was. Mingi was sprawled on the sofa, long legs kicked up, one arm flung over the backrest. He had a blanket half-draped over his lap and an expression that said he’d been awake for exactly one minute and already chosen violence. His head turned at the sound of your footsteps. His eyes widened. Then his grin broke across his face like a flare.

“Oh my God,” he breathed, loud enough to wake the dead. You froze mid-step. Mingi sat up a little, delighted. “Why are you here?” he shot, like it was the funniest question in the world. You opened your mouth to defend yourself and immediately realised you did not have the energy to lie with your whole chest. So you closed it again. Mingi’s gaze flicked past you, to the bedroom door behind you, then back to your face. “You slept in his room,” he said, scandalised and thrilled.

“I slept,” you corrected flatly.

“Sure,” he said, not believing you for even one second.

From the corner of the kitchenette, Seonghwa appeared with two mugs and the careful, gentle posture of someone trying not to trigger a hangover-related crime. He was in grey pyjamas — a little too big on him, sleeves pushed up, hair damp like he’d just washed his face. He looked soft and domestic and entirely too awake for this hour. He took one step into the living space, saw you and his eyes nearly popped out of his head. He stopped so fast the coffee sloshed toward the rim. “You—” Seonghwa’s voice was strangled in his throat. His gaze flicked from your face to your jacket to the bedroom door, like he was putting together a crime scene in real time. “I… uh…” Seonghwa’s voice was a high-pitched squeak. “Good… morning? I didn’t realise we had a guest suite.” he blinked hard, trying to reboot his brain. Then his cheeks went pink.

Mingi made a sound like a dying seagull. “Hyung. Hyung, look at her. She’s holding her jacket like she’s about to flee the country. Did the Captain finally land a headshot? Or were you guys just… discussing lineups all night?”

“Mingi!” Seonghwa hissed.

You pinched the bridge of your nose. The motion made your head throb in protest. “I need a shower,” you said, mostly to yourself.

Mingi’s brows lifted. “A shower?”

Seonghwa’s eyes went round again. “The bathroom is—” he started, then stopped, like the word bathroom had suddenly become illegal.

You narrowed your eyes. “Why are you both acting like I just said I’m going to detonate a grenade in the sink?”

Mingi leaned forward on the couch, grin sharp. “Because it’s our bathroom,” he said slowly, like he was explaining a complicated concept to a child. “And you’re… a girl.”

Seonghwa looked like he might pass out into the coffee mugs. “It’s fine,” he said quickly. “It’s completely fine. Use whatever. There’s… there’s towels. Extra towels. Clean towels. I buy towels like it’s a coping mechanism.”

“That tracks,” you muttered. Mingi threw his head back and laughed. You started toward the hallway, moving carefully, one hand on the wall. As you passed Seonghwa, he shifted to give you space, still staring like he couldn’t believe you were a real person and not a hallucination caused by a hangover.

“Y/N,” he said, voice low and concerned, and you paused. You glanced back. Seonghwa’s expression softened, the shock fading into something warmer. “Are you okay?”

You should have said yes. You should have been sarcastic. You should have thrown on the mask and kept walking. Instead, the hangover stripped you down to the truth. “I’m… functioning,” you said because it was all you had. “But my head is in terrible shape.”

Seonghwa’s eyes flicked to Mingi, like he was silently begging him not to make a joke. Mingi, for once, actually shut his mouth. Seonghwa nodded, slow. “Okay,” he said gently. “Shower first. Then we’ll feed you. Damage control.”

“Damage control,” you repeated, then turned toward the bathroom before your pride could do anything stupid.

Behind you, Mingi called out, way too loud, “Try not to fall, okay? Captain will cry.”

You made it to the bathroom door like it was a high-stakes hostage extraction—one agonising, calculated step at a time, your hand skimming the wall for balance while your brain protested the very concept of movement. The door was ajar, a sliver of sanctuary waiting for you. You reached for the handle, leaning your weight forward to shove it open.

WHACK.

The door didn’t just open; it exploded outward at the exact same moment you leaned in. The heavy wood caught you square in the forehead with a sound like a wet towel hitting a tile floor. For one blessed second, the world went silent. Your skull rang like a cathedral bell on Sunday morning. You saw stars—actual, flickering 4K pixels—dancing in your peripheral vision.

“Oh my—Y/N!” Yunho’s voice hit you a beat after the impact, sounding like a man witnessing a natural disaster. Yunho’s hands went into a state of total emergency. He dropped Ibuprofen, shirt, and a clean towel to the floor. “I ended her,” he whispered, horror-struck. “I’ve committed a war crime. Are you okay? Do you see double? How many fingers am I holding up? Do I need to perform a field tracheotomy?!”

“You…” you rasped, your voice sounding like it was coming from a different zip code. “You… door’d me.”

“I know! I’m so sorry!” He hovered over you, his hands fluttering near your face, terrified to touch you but desperate to catch you. “I don’t have my glasses on! I just washed my face and looked for the painkillers in the cabinet!”

Mingi’s voice erupted from the living room, muffled by a sofa cushion but dripping with pure, unadulterated delight. “CRITICAL HIT! Captain’s got 100% accuracy on friendly fire! Is she dead? Can I have her mouse?!”

“SHUT UP, MINGI!” Yunho shrieked, his voice hitting a register that suggested he was nearing a total meltdown. “Please don’t die. I’ll give you my PC. I’ll give you my soul. Just blink if your brain is still in one piece.”

You slowly raised a hand and pressed your palm to the bridge of your nose. The bruise was already blooming like a poisonous flower.

Seonghwa appeared, looking like a weary Victorian ghost in his silk pajamas, holding a spatula for reasons no one understood. He took one look at the scene and let out a sigh that lasted ten years. “Why,” he asked the ceiling, “is this my life?”

“Hyung, I attacked her!” Yunho wailed, clutching his hair. “I used the environment against her! I’m a monster!”

“I got door-stunned,” you corrected, trying to maintain your dignity while the hallway tilted forty-five degrees to the left.

“I’ll get ice, Mingi, stop googling ‘how to inherit a teammate’s skins.’ Yunho, stop shaking before you shake the building off its foundation.”

Yunho’s hands finally landed—light as feathers—on your shoulders, steadying you. His face was so close you could see the sheer terror in his eyes. “I’ll… I’ll carry you,” he whispered, his voice wrecked with relief that you were still breathing. “To the shower. To the hospital. To the moon. Just say the word.”

“You’re going to get me a cold cloth,” you said flatly, the Viper voice returning out of pure spite.

“Yes, ma’am,” he breathed, snapping into a salute that nearly took out your eye.

Mingi snorted from the couch, loud enough to echo. “Careful, Captain! If you salute any harder, you’ll give her a concussion on the other side. Perfect symmetry!”

“WHY DID YOU SLEEP ON THE COUCH, GO TO YOUR ROOM, MINGI!”

You looked up at Yunho—tall, gorgeous, and currently one minor inconvenience away from a heart attack. You stepped past him into the bathroom, your hand on your throbbing forehead. “Captain?”

“Yes?! Anything!”

“Next time,” you muttered, closing the door—very, very slowly—until only a crack remained. “Try a stealth entry. Your ‘push’ is too strong.”

Yunho’s muffled voice came through the wood, “Copy that.”

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎The bathroom door creaked open, and you stepped out into the hallway, smelling of Yunho’s soap and feeling significantly more human. You were wearing one of his massive shirts—it swallowed you whole, the hem reaching mid-thigh and the sleeves hanging past your fingertips. Your hair was damp, sticking to the back of your neck, and your forehead was sporting a magnificent, throbbing red knot where the door had made its grand entrance.

You walked into the living room, and the silence was instant. Mingi was mid-sentence but his jaw actually clicked shut. He looked at you, then slowly turned his head to look at Yunho. Seonghwa froze, his eyes darting from your bare face to your legs to the fact that you were wearing Yunho’s clothes, and then he looked down at his coffee like it might provide an escape route. Yunho... Yunho just stopped breathing. He was sitting on the edge of the armchair, and the second he saw you, his brain underwent a total meltdown. He stared at his own shirt on your frame, his eyes tracing the way it hung off your shoulders, and his face turned a colour that shouldn’t be possible for a living human.

“She lives!” Mingi finally yelled, breaking the tension like a sledgehammer. He pointed a finger at the bruise on your head. “Nice horn, Viper! You look like a very grumpy unicorn.”

“It’s an accessory,” you muttered, leaning against the doorframe. You felt smaller without the makeup, more exposed.

Yunho finally found his voice, though it was about three octaves higher than usual. “Is it... is it comfortable? The shirt? I—I have others! I have a soft one! A fleece one! I can give you my entire wardrobe! Just—just don’t look at me like that!”

“Like what?” you asked, tilting your head.

“Like... like that!” He gestured wildly at your face. “My defence stats are at zero!”

Seonghwa cleared his throat, desperately trying to save the situation. “I have ice. For the... ‘accessory.’”

“I’ll take the ice,” you said, sliding into the kitchen chair.

Yunho scrambled to help you, but he was so distracted by the sight of you in his clothes that he accidentally tripped over the leg of the table, stumbling right into your space. He caught himself, his hands landing on the back of your chair, effectively boxing you in. He was so close you could see the flecks of gold in his eyes and the way his eyelashes fluttered behind his glasses. He looked down at the bruise, then at your damp hair, and his expression softened into something so pure it made your Viper heart shrivel with guilt. “Does it hurt?” he whispered, his voice deep and honey-sweet, ignoring Mingi’s muffled snickering from the sofa.

“Only when I think about the guy who did it,” you teased, but your voice lacked its usual bite. Yunho leaned in, his thumb hovering just a millimetre away from the swelling on your forehead.

Seonghwa didn’t just clear his throat; he made a sound like a polite engine failing. “Mingi, we need to do some grocery shopping. Get your ass up, we’re going,” he said, his voice reminding you the one of a parent that left zero room for negotiation.

“Why me?” Mingi whined, his voice muffled by the sofa cushion. He didn’t even open his eyes. “I don’t eat groceries. I eat takeout and the tears of my enemies. Send Yeosang.”

“Yeosang doesn’t live here, and you are currently occupying the space where my patience used to live,” Seonghwa replied, walking over and literally hooking his fingers into the collar of Mingi’s hoodie. “Up. Now. We’re out of milk. And eggs. And… detergent.”

“We have three bottles of detergent!” Mingi yelped as he was hoisted upward like a disgruntled house cat. “Hyung, I’m in the middle of a recovery! I’m a wounded soldier!”

“You’re a distraction,” Seonghwa muttered, dragging him toward the door. He shot a look over his shoulder—a quick, sharp glance at Yunho that said: Don’t screw this up, and a softer, respectful nod toward you. “We’ll be back in an hour. Or two. Depending on how long it takes Mingi to stop crying in the cereal aisle.”

“I want the ones with the marshmallows!” Mingi’s voice faded as the front door was hauled open. “Wait—did she just wink at me? Hwa, did Viper just wink at—OW!”

SLAM.

The apartment went silent. Not a normal silent, but that heavy, ringing quiet. Yunho was still standing there, his hands still hovering near the back of your chair, his chest heaving slightly. The shirt you were wearing seemed to glow in the morning light, a constant reminder that he’d carried you, he’d tucked you in, and he was currently the only thing standing between you and the rest of the world. He looked at the closed door, then slowly, tentatively, his gaze slid back to you. Without Mingi’s commentary, the air between you felt thick enough to choke on. “He’s… he’s right,” Yunho whispered, his voice cracking like a middle-schooler’s. “We are out of… Um, milk.”

“You have a carton standing on the island, and another one by the sink,” you said softly.

Yunho squeezed his eyes shut for a second, a pained expression crossing his face. “I know. Hyung is… he’s not a very good liar when he’s stressed.” He reached for the bag of ice Seonghwa had left on the counter, wrapped it in a clean tea towel, and stepped back into your space. He didn’t ask this time. He just leaned down, his face inches from yours, and gently pressed the cold pack against the angry red knot on your forehead. The cold was sharp, but the heat of his proximity was worse. “Sorry,” he murmured, his thumb brushing the side of your temple to keep the ice steady. “I’m still… sorry about the door. And The Abyss. And… everything.” He looked at your bare face, his eyes lingering on the bridge of your nose before dropping to your lips, still murmuring apologies.

You reached up, your fingers snagging the drawstrings of a fresh hoodie he put on while you were showering, yanking him downward. He let out a startled gasp, his balance tilting as he was forced to brace his other hand on the table behind you to keep from face-planting into your lap. “You’re talking too much, Captain.”

Yunho’s eyes went wide behind his lenses, his breath hitching. “I—I am? I’m just providing… status updates…”

With your free hand, you reached up. Your fingers brushed his temple—slow, cool, and deliberate. You felt him shiver, a tremor that started in his shoulders and ended in the hand holding the ice pack. Very gently, you hooked your index finger around the bridge of his glasses and lifted them off his face.

The world for Yunho suddenly went soft-focus. The sharp edges of the kitchen, the glare of the morning sun—it all blurred into a haze of colour, leaving only you as the sharpest thing in his universe (because you were the only thing close enough for him to actually see.)

“There,” you breathed, setting the glasses on the table behind you. Without his glasses, Yunho looked… defenceless. His eyes were huge, dark, and rimmed with thick lashes, looking softer and more terrified than you’d ever seen them.

“I—I can’t…” Yunho’s voice was a wrecked and breathless. He was looking at your lips, then your eyes, then back to your lips. “You’re… you’re too close. I’m going to disconnect.”

“Then disconnect,” you said, your hand moving from his hoodie to the back of his neck, your thumb tracing the sensitive skin there. The ice pack was forgotten, slipping from his grip and hitting the floor. You didn’t care. Neither did Yunho.

Yunho’s world was currently reduced to the smell of his shampoo on your damp hair and the feeling of your hand on his neck. “I’m not sturdy,” he confessed, his voice a whisper against your skin. “I’m really, really not. When it’s you… I can’t help but shake. I’m made of glass.”

“Good,” you murmured, closing the gap until your lips were a heartbeat away from his. “I always did like breaking things.”

“You know what they say, Captain,” you continued, your voice dropping into that dangerous, low register that usually sent him running for the nearest exit. Your fingers trailed up from his neck to cup his jaw, your thumb brushing over his cheekbone. “Three times a charm.”

Yunho’s breath hitched. He knew exactly what you meant. The basement, where you’d almost touched. The bar, where you’d whispered in his ear. And now… this. “I—I…” He started to lean in. It was slow and agonisingly cautious, but just as his lips were inches from yours—just as you could feel the frantic, shaky heat of his breath—he froze. He stayed there, suspended in the air, his eyes squeezed shut, his entire body locked up. He was filled with pure, unadulterated panic. His brain had finally hit a fatal error and you decided not to wait for him to reboot. You tilted your head and pressed a light, feather-soft peck to the corner of his mouth. It was barely anything—just a ghost of a touch—but the effect was tectonic. Yunho started to shake. Literally. You could feel the vibration through his jaw, through his hands on the table, through the air between you. He was a man holding onto the last shred of his “Good Boy” programming, and it was currently catching fire. He let out a shaky, frustrated exhale against your skin. His eyes snapped open, the shy Yunho didn’t just leave the room; he was deleted from the server. “Fuck it,” he muttered finally—profanity that sounded so wrong and so right coming from his mouth. He didn’t lean this time; he crashed. Yunho’s hand flew from the table to the back of your head, his fingers tangling in your damp hair as he pulled you into a kiss that was anything but sturdy. It was desperate. It was messy. It was the sound of a man who had been polite for far too long finally deciding to take the objective. He tasted like the coffee Seonghwa prepared and the mint of his toothpaste, and he was kissing you like he was trying to memorise the sensation before the world started rendering again.

The kiss was everything you didn’t want to admit you wanted. It was warm, it was desperate, and it was the first time Yunho felt truly solid, like he’d finally found his footing. His hand was firm against the back of your head, his fingers anchor-points in your damp hair. But as the initial rush of heat began to settle into something deeper, something more permanent, the cold reality of the room started to leak back in. He pulled back just a fraction, your lips were still buzzing, your breath hitching in your throat. Yunho didn’t let go immediately; he leaned his forehead against yours, his eyes still closed, a small, dazed smile playing on his mouth. He looked… happy. He looked like he’d just won the championship. His hands were still trembling, fingers slowly retreating from your hair like they were afraid of the reality of what had just happened.

“I—uh.” Yunho’s eyes immediately dropped to the floor, his ears turning a shade of purple-red. He started to move, but it was jerky—like a character model with a broken animation cycle. He reached for the glasses you’d set on the table, his fingers fumbling and knocking them over twice before he managed to hook them behind his ears. “O-okay,” he stammered, his hands immediately flying to the drawstrings of his hoodie. He started pulling them, tightening the hood until his face was practically cinched shut like a drawstring bag. “That was… that was a high-level encounter. Very… very efficient. Good… good execution.” He wasn’t looking at you. He was looking at a loose thread on his sleeve, picking at it with a frantic, rhythmic motion. Then he noticed the ice pack on the floor. “Ice!” he shouted, way too loud for the two feet of space between you. He lunged for the tea towel, nearly tripping over his own feet again. “The—the swelling! Thermal regulation is… is critical for… for recovery!” He scrambled back into your space, his hands shaking so hard the ice pack rattled against your skin. He fidgeted, shifting his weight from foot to foot.

“Yunho,” you murmured, hands sliding to the edge of the chair. You pushed yourself up slowly, carefully, as if your motor functions were still buffering. The oversized shirt grazed your thighs as you stood, and you felt Yunho’s eyes track the movement with a heavy, focused intensity.

He held the ice pack like a relic, hovering it a hair’s breadth from your forehead. His hood was still half-cinched around his face, the drawstrings white-knuckled in his fist. Reaching up, you pinched one of the strings, tugging gently until the tension gave way. His face emerged—flushed, earnest, and so painfully adorable you felt a twinge of guilt.

“Hey,” you said, your voice dropping an octave.

His gaze flickered to the bruise before snapping back to your eyes. “It’s swelling.”

“You’re very observant.”

“I’m trying to be useful,” he whispered, his Adam’s apple bobbing. His grip tightened on the towel, then loosened, his instincts clearly at war. “You—” he started, but the words seemed to snag in his throat.

You offered a small, genuine smile. “Come here.”

He blinked, looking momentarily lost. “I’m already… here.”

“Closer,” you corrected.

Yunho hesitated for a heartbeat before stepping in, finally abandoning his negotiations with gravity. He didn’t touch you yet, but he stood close enough that his warmth bled through your shirt—close enough to reveal the fine tremor in his body.

You reached for the ice pack, guiding it to your forehead to steady his shaking. When your fingers brushed his, Yunho inhaled sharply, as if you’d pressed a blade to his pulse.

A strangled, breathy laugh escaped him. “I—okay.”

You looked up at him, and the need to perform completely vanished. You were hungover, bruised, and barefoot in his kitchen, yet a terrifying sense of happiness settled over you.

“I’m—I’m undergoing a scheduled reboot!” he blurted out, his voice cracking slightly. “It’s a large patch! Lots of data!”

“The data says you’re a dork,” you countered, pulling him closer by the hoodie strings. “And it says you stopped kissing me much too soon.”

Yunho froze, his brain clearly processing your words. You could almost see the combat report running through his head. Then, he let go of the ice pack—leaving you to hold it—and his hands found the soft cotton of your shirt at your waist. “The data is... uh... historically accurate,” he murmured, his voice finally dropping back into a lower, steadier register. “I should probably optimize my performance then.”

“Is that right?”

“Yeah,” he whispered, his eyes darting to your lips and staying there. He tilted his head and closed the distance, it wasn’t the careful, hovering touch from before; this was firm and certain, the kind of kiss that made your toes curl against the cold floor. It was soft, lingering, and sweet. His touch turned sure and steady after realising you weren’t pulling away. He made a small, needy sound in the back of his throat as he tilted his head to deepen the contact. His large hands settled at the small of your back, pulling you closer, his thumbs tracing the line of your spine through the thin cotton of his shirt. He was still trembling, still twitchy and nervous, but the way he kissed you was anything but shy.

“Objective… definitely reached,” he breathed. His thumb grazed your cheek, moving with a gentleness that felt like he was handling something breakable. He took a shaky breath. “Can we… Can we make this a daily quest?”

“A daily quest? I don’t know, Captain. My schedule is pretty packed. What exactly are the requirements for this quest?”

Yunho took a shallow, shaky breath. His gaze drifted to the side, eyes tracking the way the sunlight hit the kitchen tiles as he mentally mapped out his ‘requirements.’ “Um… Well,” he started, his voice dropping into a low, melodic mumble. He didn’t look at you; instead, his long fingers began to fidget with the hem of the shirt you were wearing—his shirt—his knuckles brushing the fabric near your hip in a way that felt entirely too intimate for a “professional” debrief. “Requirement one,” he whispered, finally meeting your eyes for a fleeting, shy second. “I want… I want a synchronized login every morning. Even if you’re grumpy and haven’t had coffee yet. I just want to know you’re awake.” He shifted his weight, his broad shoulders hunching slightly as if he were trying to make himself smaller, more approachable. “Requirement two: a minimum of thirty minutes of… of actual proximity. Not through a headset. I mean sitting on the sofa together. Or me walking you to your classes. Just… being the person who gets to carry your bag.” He stopped, his throat bobbing as he struggled with the next one. His thumb traced a slow, nervous line over the back of your hand. “And requirement three,” he said, his voice cracking just a little. “Frequent… connection checks. Like the one we did just now. Making sure I’m the only one who gets to see you like this—dump hair, in my clothes, looking… looking devastating.” He looked back at you, his honey-brown eyes soft and pleading behind his glasses. “And maybe… if the connection feels unstable… I get to kiss you until it fixes itself. Does Viper approve those patch notes?”

You let out a soft laugh, the sound vibrating between you. “Interesting. Those are very high-maintenance tasks, Captain.” You reached up, sliding your hands over his broad shoulders to link them behind his neck, drawing him back into your space until he had to lean down, his forehead resting against yours. “But you know, looking at the mechanics of this quest… it sounds an awful lot like you’re asking me to be your girlfriend.”

The word girlfriend hit him with the force of a high speed train.

Yunho blinked, his entire posture stiffening for a split second before he completely melted. A shy smile broke across his face—the kind of pure, radiant expression that made your heart do a frantic sprint. “Is the… is the intent that obvious?” he leaned down until his nose brushed against yours, his glasses clicking softly against your forehead.

“Terribly,” you whispered back, your fingers playing with the messy hair at the nape of his neck. “But I think I’m ready to accept the invite.”

He let out a long, shaky exhale, the tension finally leaving his massive frame as he buried his face in the crook of your neck, hugging you so tight your toes barely touched the kitchen floor. “Good,” he murmured into your skin, his voice muffled and warm. “Because the matchmaking for this was a nightmare, and I really don’t want to play with anyone else.”

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ Viper and Captain were currently defeated—not by a rival team, but by a flat-pack bookshelf.

Yunho was sitting on the floor, surrounded by wooden dowels and hex keys, his tongue poking out the corner of his mouth as he squinted at a manual. He looked adorable—his hair messy, the sleeves of his oversized flannel pushed up to his elbows.

B-12 didn’t smell like damp concrete and old cables anymore. Now, it smelled like IKEA furniture, jasmine-scented candles that Seonghwa had “donated,” and the faint, lingering tomato sauce from the takeout pizza containers stacked by the door. It looked different now with soft LED strips glowing purple and blue behind the monitors, and a plush rug covering the cold concrete. Framed Level Zero posters—mostly hand-drawn by Mingi lined the walls.

“Yun,” you murmured, leaning over his shoulder. “I think screw J-12 goes into hole B, not A.”

Yunho was hunched over the manual like it was a high-level tactical blueprint, his glasses sliding down the bridge of his nose. “No,” he whispered, his voice similar to the one of a soldier trying to defuse a bomb. “The diagram clearly shows a 45-degree angle for the dowel. If we miss the alignment, the structural integrity of the entire One Piece collection is compromised.”

You didn’t answer with logic. Instead, you slid down onto the floor behind him, wrapping your arms around his broad shoulders and pressing a lingering, warm kiss to the sensitive skin just below his ear. “Captain,” you murmured, leaning your head forward to rest your chin on top of his shoulder. “Stop reading the manual for five seconds.”

Yunho blinked, finally looking away from the Step 14 in the instruction, that familiar, soft flush creeping up his neck. “You’re very... distracting today.”

You laughed in response, pulling his hand away from the screwdriver. He didn’t resist, just let you crawl into his lap. You wrapped your arms around his neck and pressed a lingering, soft kiss to the corner of his mouth. Yunho’s breath hitched—a soft sound that told you that even after over a week of this, you still had the power to make his heart lag. He wrapped his massive arms around your waist, pulling you flush against him. “Y-Y/N,” he squeaked, his neck turning a vivid shade of pink that clashed horribly with his shirt. “I am... I am currently in the middle of a high-stakes assembly phase. Precision is required.”

“You’re doing great,” you hummed, ignoring his protest. You trailed a row of soft, kissy, distractions along his jawline, feeling the way his pulse began to drum against your lips. “But your heart rate is getting high. You need a break.”

“I don’t... I don’t need a break,” he lied breathlessly, though he was leaning back into you involuntarily. He let out a shaky exhale, his eyes fluttering shut behind his glasses. “We need to finish preparing the headquarters. For Level Zero. For the... for the mission.”

“The mission can wait ten minutes,” you whispered, reaching around to lace your fingers through his.

He bit his lip, his eyes darting to yours, then down to your mouth. He was still the boy who hadn’t figured out how to handle the physical side of things without blushing until his ears burned, but he was getting braver. He leaned in, his nose brushing yours, his breath hitching. “I still think screw J-12 goes in hole A,” he whispered against your lips, his voice dropping into that low, resonant frequency.

“Is that so?” you breathed, your lips ghosting over his as you felt the frantic, heavy thud of his heart against your chest. “Then I guess you’ll have to prove it to me later. But right now...” You didn’t give him the chance to argue. You tilted your head and closed the gap, pressing your mouth to his in a kiss that was slow, deep, and tasted like the strawberry milk he’d been sipping on earlier. Yunho made a soft, needy sound in the back of his throat, his grip on your waist tightened, his large hands splaying across the small of your back as he pulled you even closer, as if trying to eliminate every last millimeter of space between his shirt and your skin. He was still shaking—that “shaking skyscraper” energy never truly left him—but there was a newfound hunger in the way he followed the lead of your lips.

When you finally pulled back, just far enough to see his face, he looked absolutely ruined. His glasses were stained with a print of your make-up foundation, his lips were red and wet, and his eyes were dazed and swirling with that crushing, quiet worship. He let his forehead drop against yours, his hot breath mingling with yours in the quiet of the basement. “Y/N, you’re... you’re literally overclocking me. I can’t process the instructions if you keep... doing that.”

“Then don’t,” you murmured, sliding your hands up to cup his face, your thumbs grazing his burning cheekbones. “Let the instructions wait. Let Mingi and Yeosang deal with the shelves when they get here. Just be here with me.”

Yunho let out a shaky, breathless laugh, his eyes fluttering shut as he leaned into your touch. For a guy who lived his life by the meta, by the stats, and by the strict rules of the Radiant rank, being “off-script” with you was clearly the most terrifying and exhilarating thing he’d ever experienced. “They’re going to make fun of me,” he whispered, his hands sliding up from your waist to rest tentatively at the nape of your neck, his fingers tangling in your hair with a reverence that made your chest ache. “Mingi’s going to see the half-finished bookshelf and the... and the way my face looks... and he’s going to know. He’s going to say I have ‘zero rizz’ and that I’ve been compromised.”

“You have been compromised, Captain,” you teased, nipping gently at his lower lip.

He shifted his weight, settling you more firmly onto his lap, his large frame providing a solid, warm anchor in the middle of the chaotic mess of wooden boards and screws. “Fine,” he murmured, his voice dropping back into that devastatingly low register. “Mission parameters have been updated. The bookshelf is officially de-prioritized. Current objective...” He leaned in, his lips brushing against yours one more time. “...is just this.”

The manual was forgotten. The unfinished bookshelf was a distant memory. In the purple and blue neon glow of B-12, the air was heavy, warm, and charged with an intensity that was entirely unauthorized by the Radiant rank. You smiled, slow and lazy, as you let your weight settle completely into his lap. Your hands left the safety of his shoulders and slid downward, finding the hem of his grey flannel. You slipped your fingers underneath the cold fabric, meeting the searing, trembling skin of his lower back. Yunho didn’t just gasp; he made a soft, broken sound—half-whimper, half-plea—and arching his back involuntarily. His grip on your waist tightened until it was almost painful, his knuckles white against the denim of your jeans.

The air in B-12 was thick enough to choke on. The neon purple glow from the LED strips caught the silver of the chain around Yunho’s neck as you pulled him down. Yunho’s glasses were gone now, put aside on the plush rug. Without them, he looked exposed. His hands, usually so careful to maintain “tactical distance,” had finally lost their battle with restraint. One was buried in your hair, his fingers curling into the strands at the base of your skull, while the other had slid beneath the hem of your shirt. His large palm was splayed flat against the small of your back, his skin scorching against yours, his thumb tracing a frantic, possessive rhythm. He was a 6’2” mess of heavy breathing and racing heartbeats. He kissed like he was trying to memorize your soul, a soft, desperate whimper vibrating in his chest every time you pulled him closer.

You were just about to let your hands slide higher up his neck when—

SLAM.

The heavy industrial door didn’t just open; it hit the wall like a frag grenade.

“YO! VIPER! I GOT THE NEW MONSTER FLAVOUR AND THE—"

Mingi froze. The plastic bag of drinks, sweets and spicy chips swung once, then twice, before slipping from his fingers and hitting the floor. For three seconds, the only sound in B-12 was the hum of the servers and the frantic, shallow breathing of the two people currently tangled on the floor.

Then, the silence shattered.

“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHH!” Mingi’s voice hit a register that was physically impossible for a human male. He slammed his hands over his eyes, but his fingers were spread wide, his jaw practically unhinged. “MY EYES! MY IMMORTAL RANK EYES! YUNHO! ARE YOU—IS SHE—ARE YOU UNDER HER SHIRT?! IN THE HEADQUARTERS?!”

Yunho pushed you off him in pure panic, scrambling backward so fast he nearly knocked over the half-finished IKEA shelf, his face turning a shade of purple that looked like a medical emergency. “M-MINGI! THE UNIT ALIGNMENT! IT WAS... IT WAS A SENSORY CHECK!” Yunho squeaked, his voice cracking three times in a single sentence. He tried to stand, but his legs were still liquid, and he ended up half-collapsing against the wooden boards.

“A SENSORY CHECK?!” Mingi shrieked, pointing a trembling finger at Yunho’s flushed face. "YOU WERE TASTE-TESTING HER LIPS! THE CAPTAIN IS COMPROMISED! VIPER HAS INVADED THE SITE!”

“Song Mingi, for the love of—why are you screaming?” Seonghwa stepped into the room, looking polished as ever, followed by Yeosang, who was currently occupied with a handheld console. They both stopped. Seonghwa’s gaze traveled from the discarded glasses on the rug, to your ruffled hair, to Yunho—who was currently trying to hide his entire body behind a single wooden plank. Seonghwa let out a long, weary sigh, the kind that came from a man who had seen his family collapse into chaos too many times. He rubbed the bridge of his nose. “I told you the IKEA assembly would be stressful. But I didn’t realize it would be... sensual.” Seonghwa’s elegant brow furrowed, and he sighed, the sound carried the weight of a thousand tired parents.

Yeosang didn’t even look up from his game, though his lipslift up into a lethal, dry smirk. “I told you he had high ping. I didn’t realize his ‘frequent connection checks’ involved physical contact. Do you need a manual for that, Yunho? Or did you figure out where the screw goes on your own?”

Yunho groaned, burying his face in his hands as he slid down the wall. “I’m retiring,” he muffled into his palms. “Tell the freshmen... I was a good leader.”

“A good leader?” Mingi howled, finally recovering enough to look without his hands covering his eyes. “You're the GOAT! You’re the Rizz-Master! Level Zero Captain... is in love! In B-12! On the floor! With VIPER! This is on the permanent record! I’m going to marry you off!”

“Shut up, Mingi!” Yunho squeaked.

“Mingi, you’re giving me a headache,” you chimed in, standing up, and smoothing out your shirt with a level of composure that was frankly terrifying given that your hair was still a bird’s nest and your lips were swollen. “Seriously,” you added, crossing your arms. “If you scream one more time, I’m locking the B-12 doors and you will be permanently forbidden from entering."

“You can’t do that! This is Level Zero headquarters!" He looked at Yunho, “Captain! Tell her! Tell her you’re the boss! Tell her she can’t—”

“She can do whatever she wants,” Yunho’s muffled voice came from behind his hands. One of his fingers peaked out, pointing weakly at you. “She’s the MVP. I’ve... I’ve surrendered the site.”

“He’s compromised," Yeosang deadpanned, finally closing his console. He walked over and poked Yunho’s shoulder with his toe. “Hey. Are you still in there? Or did she actually delete your personality?”

“I’m processing,” Yunho groaned, finally dropping his hands. His face was still a violent shade of red, and his hair was sticking up at odd angles. He looked at you, and for a split second, that “crushing worship” flickered in his eyes before he remembered he had an audience. He scrambled to find his glasses, his hands shaking as he shoved them back onto his face.

“That’s enough,” you cut in, stepping toward Yunho, deliberately straightening his glasses and patting his chest—right over his racing heart. You looked back at the trio with a sharp, lethal smirk. “The Captain is officially off the market,” you stated, your voice low and final. “So unless you guys want to help with Step 15 of this bookshelf, I suggest you go back to the convenience store and get some snacks that aren’t currently leaking all over the rug.”

Mingi looked at the leaking drinks, then at you, then at the absolutely dazed, smitten expression on Yunho’s face. “Fine,” he huffed, picking up the bags. “But I’m picking the wedding colors. And I’m telling the freshmen that the Viper didn’t just join the team—she stole the trophy.”

“Mingi, stop being a child,” Seonghwa said, his voice cutting through the noise with that effortless authority. He looked at Yunho, who was still trying to fix his hair and look dignified. “And Yunnie... breathe. Your heart is going to beat out of your ribs.”

A gentle, knowing smile touched Seonghwa’s lips as he looked at you, he stepped forward and pulled you into a warm, steady hug. “I suppose we don’t need to worry you’re gonna leave us with for a better team anymore," he murmured near your ear, his voice full of a genuine warmth. He stepped back just an inch, keeping his hands on your shoulders. “Welcome to the family, Y/N.”

You blinked, a rare moment of genuine speechlessness hitting you. You’d spent so long being a “Legend” or a “Goddess” that being called family felt like a status effect you didn’t know how to cleanse. “I—” you started, but Seonghwa just patted your shoulder and walked toward the leaking bags Mingi had dropped.

“If you’re family, that means you have to help Mingi clean the rug,” Seonghwa added over his shoulder, the parental tone returning. “And Yunnie? Put the manual down. You’ve clearly found a better way to spend your time.”

Yunho, who had been watching the interaction with a look of pure, melting relief, let out a soft huff. He looked at you, his eyes shining behind his glasses—the embarrassment was still there, but it was being overtaken by a fierce, quiet pride. “See?” Yunho whispered, stepping up behind you and resting his chin on your head, his arms wrapping around your waist in front of everyone. “I told you. They’re a mess, but they’re our mess now.”

Mingi groaned from the corner where he was scrubbing the floor. “Yeah, yeah, welcome to the family. Now come help me get this strawberry milk out of the carpet, MVP! The Captain is too busy being a simp to help!”

“He’s not a simp,” you defended, leaning back into Yunho’s chest. “He’s just... tactically affectionate.”

“Tactically affectionate!” Yeosang cackled from the chair. “I’m putting that on the Level Zero website.”

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ “Smaller on the carrots, Y/N,” Seonghwa coached gently, nudging your hand. “We want them to soften, not provide a crunch.”

Across the room, Yunho was buried in the sofa cushions, his long legs tangled in a knitted throw. The blue glow of the TV reflected in his glasses as he tried his best to focus on his game on the PS5. Every few seconds, he’d lean his head back and glance toward the kitchen, his gaze lingering on you with a soft, dazed smile before the game pulled him back in.

“Captain, focus!” Yeosang’s voice crackled. “You just walked into a wall.”

“I’m just... checking the kitchen’s progress.” Yunho defended, his ears turning pink.

“He’s checking the chef,” Seonghwa corrected dryly, stirring a pot of stew.

You paused the chopping, leaning around the corner of the breakfast nook to catch Yunho’s eye. He was already looking, his lower lip caught between his teeth as he navigated a particularly tricky platforming sequence. You winked and blew him a theatrical kiss. Yunho’s hands twitched on the controller—a fatal error in-game—but his face lit up. He physically reached out one hand into the air, catching the kiss and pulling it to his chest and pressing it against his heart with a look of pure, unadulterated adoration.

“Ewww!” Yeosang groaned, sprawled in the armchair nearby with the second controller gripped loosely in his lap. He didn’t even look up from the screen, but his nose wrinkled in disgust. “Captain, you’re lagging in real life. It’s embarrassing to watch.”

“Let him be, Yeosang,” Seonghwa chided, though he was wearing a knowing smirk as he tasted the stew. “At least someone in this house is getting some romantic practice. Though,” he added, his expression softening into something uncharacteristically shy, “I suppose I might be joining him soon. I have that... meeting next week.”

You stopped chopping, your eyes widening. “The tutoring guy? The one with the architecture major?”

Seonghwa’s ears turned a faint shade of pink, and he focused very intently on stirring the carrots. “His name is Hongjoong. And yes. He asked if we could go for coffee after our last session. He said he wanted to thank me for helping him actually pass his exams, but... he was blushing quite a bit when he said it.”

“That’s huge!” Yunho cheered from the couch, this time not looking away from the screen.

“It’s just coffee,” Seonghwa said, pointing a wooden spoon at Yunho, though the smile never left his face. He was usually the one taking care of everyone else—patching up Yunho’s frayed nerves or making sure Mingi actually ate a vegetable—so seeing him flustered was like finding a secret Easter egg in a game you thought you’d 100% completed.

“Architecture major? And he was blushing? Hwa, that’s a critical hit,” you said, setting the knife down and leaning your hip against the counter.

Seonghwa’s hand paused its rhythmic stirring. He looked down into the pot as if the vegetables could give him advice. “He’s very... sincere,” he murmured. “He brings me mango jellies every time we meet for a session, and he always remembers exactly how much sugar I take with my coffee. Last time, he stayed for twenty minutes after the tutoring ended just to talk about the ‘aesthetic symmetry’ of our team’s logo. He said it was ‘elegant, yet sharp.’”

“He likes the logo?” Yunho chimed in from the couch, his head popping up over the cushions like a curious golden retriever. “That’s a green flag, hyung. That’s a 10/10 teammate-in-law.”

Seonghwa’s hand slowed in the pot, his gaze drifting to the steam rising from the stew. “Well... I’m not sure if he’s even interested, like, romantically,” he admitted, his voice dropping an octave. “I tried to hug him goodbye last time, but he went so rigid I thought I did something stupid. He didn’t even touch me.” Seonghwa let out a soft sigh, his lips pulling into a small, rare pout that made your heart ache just a little.

“Well, maybe he’s just shy?” you offered, leaning closer to him and giving his arm a supportive squeeze. “I mean, look at Yunho. If I’d tried to hug him in the first week, he probably would have phased through a wall.”

“Hey!” Yunho protested from the couch, though he didn’t deny it.

“Maybe he’s just old-fashioned,” Yeosang deadpanned, not even looking up from his game as he rapidly tapped the triggers. “Maybe he’s waiting until marriage for physical contact. A true gentleman of the architectural arts.”

“Yeosang, please,” Seonghwa groaned, though the pout twitched into a reluctant smile.

“I‘m serious,” Yeosang continued, his lips lifting into that lethal, dry smirk. “Some people don’t have the Captain’s high-speed connection. They operate on dial-up. You have to give the data time to process before you go in for the romantic interactions.”

“It wasn’t a romantic interaction, it was a hug!” Seonghwa defended, his ears turning red.

The cozy, bickering peace of the kitchen was shattered a second later. The front door groaned on its hinges, slamming back against the wall with a violence that made the soup spoons rattle. A wave of cold, sharp air and the heavy scent of cigarettes flooded the room.

Mingi didn’t walk in; he surged. “DROP THE SPOONS!” Mingi bellowed, he didn’t even stop to take off his boots, skidding across the floor until he reached the kitchen island. “I have it!” he shouted, voice echoing off the kitchen tiles. He smelled like he’d been standing in the Smoking Area of The Abyss for six hours, but he didn’t seem to care.

“Mingi, you’re tracking mud onto the rug,” Seonghwa sighed, though he moved closer to look.

“Forget the rug!” Mingi breathed, tapping the phone screen, pulling up a registration portal. “The Amatour‘s Summer Open! It’s official. But it’s not just a trophy grab this year. Look at the fine print.”

Yunho scrambled off the couch, the knitted throw falling to his ankles as he hurried over, peering over your shoulder. You felt his hand rest on the small of your back as you read the text aloud. “The top four finishing teams will be awarded a direct seed into the Challengers League. Fully sponsored. A dedicated gaming house in Seoul.”

The silence that followed was absolute. This was the door to the big stage.

“We can turn the basement into a career,” Mingi whispered, his voice uncharacteristically low. He looked at Yunho, his eyes burning with a mix of terror and excitement. “Captain? Is it time to actually level up?”

The room went silent for a heartbeat before Yunho let out a bark of a laugh. “The Summer Open? Mingi, have you seen us play together?” He pointed a thumb at Seonghwa. “I love him, he’s my hyung, my best friend, but we aren’t getting past the first round of qualifiers with Seonghwa as our sentinel. We’d be eliminated before the loading screen finishes.”

“Hey!” Seonghwa protested, “I’ve improved!”

“Hyung, having you on a team it’s a death sentence in a tournament,” Yeosang added.

Yunho looked at Mingi’s phone again, then at Seonghwa, then finally at you. You could feel the slight tremor in the hand resting on your back—but his gaze was focused. “But I guess, we aren’t just a basement team anymore,” Yunho said, pulling you a little closer, his thumb grazing your side. “We are registered with the University Council, we have the best teamwork in the rank, the most aggressive flex, and we have Viper.” He looked at the group, a slow, victorious smile spreading across his face.

“The Summer Open starts in six weeks,” Yeosang declared. “If we’re going to do this, we do it right. We start the pro-grind tomorrow. Are we in?”

“I’ve already started drafting the training schedule,” Mingi said, his lips quivering into a sharp smirk.

It hit you all at once.

If Level Zero entered an official tournament, you couldn’t just Ratatouille your way through. In a casual scrimmage, you could hide. You could blame “lag,” you could let Wooyoung carry the game from the safety of your apartment while you talked into the mic. But a regional pre-elimination? There would be officials. There would be hand-cams. There would be the terrifying reality of a mouse and keyboard in front of you—and no Wooyoung to bridge the gap.

The air in the room seemed to thin out. You felt the blood drain from your face, leaving you cold in the middle of the heated kitchen. You looked at Yeosang, who was laughing, and Mingi, who was already talking about team jerseys. They had no idea. They thought they had a Radiant-tier Viper in their ranks. They didn’t know they had a girl who could barely navigate the menu without a panic attack.

“Y/N?” It was Yunho’s voice. “You’re… you’re really quiet,” he murmured, his voice low enough that the others didn’t hear over Mingi’s latest joke. He pulled you closer to his chest, his finger spreading on the small of your back. “Are you okay? You got very pale.”

You looked down at his hand—the hand that shook when it touched you. If you told him the truth, the “Daily Quest’’wouldn’t just be over; it would be a total server wipe. You’d be the girl who lied. The girl who used her best friend to trick Yunho into falling in love with a mask. “I’m fine,” you rasped, voice coming out thin and brittle. “Just… thinking.”

“We don’t have to do it,” Yunho said suddenly, he looked around the room, then back at you. “If you don’t want to—if it’s too much—we can just stay as a club. I don’t care about becoming pro, Y/N. I just care about you.”

He was ready to throw away his dream—the Summer Open, the chance to prove Level Zero was real and worth of a professional title.

“No,” you whispered, your heart breaking in real-time. “We should… we should do it. Let’s sign up.”

As the boys cheered and Mingi started typing, you felt a cold, hard knot form in your chest. You had only a couple of days to figure out how to do the impossible. You had to tell Wooyoung. And God help you, you were going to have to tell him that the Viper lie was about to be exposed.

Yunho laughed, ducking his head to hide his blush, but he didn’t pull his hand away from you. He leaned in, whispering into your ear, “I guess I really am going to have to handle a professional team now, aren’t I?”

“Wait, wait!” Mingi’s eyes suddenly lit up, that mischievous, “I-have-an-idea” glint taking over his face. He leaned forward, slamming his palms onto the desk. “Viper! Isn’t your roommate also a gamer? That guy—Wooyoung, right? I think I talked to him in The Abyss once or twice.”

Your heart didn’t just drop; it performed a total system shutdown.

“He looks like the type who’d be a total demon on a mouse.” Mingi continued, his voice rising with excitement. “Maybe he’d join us? We could kick Seonghwa out and actually have some real chances! If he’s even half as good as you, we’d be unstoppable.” The room went quiet for a second. The overhead light felt too bright, too hot. You could feel all the eyes in the room shift to you—heavy, curious, and hopeful.

Seonghwa let out a dramatic, betrayed sigh. “Oh, I see how it is. The Team is already looking for my replacement. Fine. I’ll just go back to being the Vice President and eating my feelings in the corner.”

“No, Hyung, it’s not like that!” Yunho said, immediately flustered, his shy side pulling him back. “I just… I mean, if Y/N’s roommate is a high rank, it would be a shame not to ask, right? It would make her feel more comfortable having a friend on the team.” He turned to you, his eyes wide and full of that pure, devastating trust. “What do you think, Y/N? Do you think Wooyoung would want to sub in? It would take the pressure off of us to carry Mingi and Seonghwa every round.”

You looked at Yunho—his messy hair, the way he was looking at you like you were the smartest person in the room. You felt like a total fraud. If Wooyoung joined the team, the secret wouldn’t just be out; it would be broadcast in 4K. “I… uh…” Your voice was a dry, you had to swallow the lump forming in your throat to continue. “Wooyoung is… he’s busy. He has a lot of… laundry. And his, uh, PC is in a very bad shape. He wouldn’t be able to play with us.”

Mingi laughed, reaching over to ruffle your hair—a move that made Yunho’s jaw tighten just a fraction. “Come on, Y/N! Just ask him! We’ll give him a jersey! We’ll even let him use Seonghwa’s chair!”

“Hey!” Seonghwa shouted again.

“Seriously, I’ll ask him,” you lied, the words tasting like copper in your mouth. “But don’t get your hopes up. He’s... he’s got a very specific gaming schedule. Very antisocial.”

“Specific gaming schedule?” Yeosang’s eyes flicked over to you, sharp and analytical as always. He tilted his head, his dry smirk returning. “What, does he only play during lunar eclipses? Or is he one of those grinders who only logs on when the sun goes down?”

“Something like that,” you mumbled, retreating toward the sink under the guise of needing water. Your hands were shaking so badly you had to grip the glass with both palms.

Yunho followed you. He didn’t say anything at first, just moved into your space, his large frame blocking the others from view. He reached out, his hand hesitating before he gently tucked a stray lock of hair behind your ear. His touch was so tender it felt like a physical burn against your skin. “You’re really tense,” he whispered, his brow furrowed with that earnest, protective worry. “Is it because of the tournament? Or is it... is it because of Wooyoung? If you don’t want him on the team, Y/N, we won’t ask. I don’t want to crowd your home life with Level Zero business if it makes you uncomfortable.”

It’s not my home life I’m worried about, Yunho. It’s my entire existence, you thought, looking up at him.

“It’s fine, Yunnie,”you forced out, trying to summon even a flicker of Viper’s confidence. “I’ll talk to him tonight. I’ll see what he says.”

“That’s my MVP,” Mingi cheered, oblivious to the internal collapse happening five feet away. He was already back on his phone, probably looking up custom jersey designs. “We’re gonna be the most feared team in the Summer Open! Viper, Captain, and maybe the Secret Weapon Roommate! We’re basically the Avengers of the basement!”

“I’m still not giving up my chair,” Seonghwa grumbled, though he was already plating the stew, his temporary ‘betrayal’ forgotten in favor of feeding his team.

Dinner was a blur. You ate mechanically, nodding in the right places as Mingi and Yunho debated tactical rotations and map bans. Every time Yunho squeezed your hand under the table, a fresh wave of guilt crashed over you. He was building a future for the two of you—a pro career, a life where you were the stars of the server—and you were still stuck on the tutorial level.

The moment the door to Yunho’s apartment closed behind you that night, the cold night air hit you like a physical slap. You didn’t even wait to get to the subway. You pulled out your phone, your thumb hovering over Wooyoung’s contact.

The phone picked up on the second ring.

“What‘s up bitch,” Wooyoung’s voice crackled through the speaker, sounding suspiciously like he was currently mid-match. “How’s the Captain? Did he finally figure out how to kiss without a manual, or do I need to send him an instructional PDF?”

“Young,” you rasped, leaning your head against a cold brick wall in the alleyway. “We have a massive, server-ending problem.”

The clicking of his mechanical keyboard stopped instantly. The silence on the other end was heavy. “What happened?” his voice was suddenly sharp, all the teasing gone. “Did he find out? Did you slip up?”

“No,” you whispered, a tear finally escaping and trekking down your cheek. “Worse. Mingi wants you to join the team. And Yunho... Yunho just signed us up for the Summer Open. The Pro-Am qualifier. Offline, Wooyoung. With cameras. With officials.”

There was a long, hollow silence. Then, a low whistle. “Holy fuck... okay. So we’ve moved from ‘mild deception’ to ‘federal fraud,’” Wooyoung muttered. “Y/N, if you go to that tournament, you’re dead. The second you touch a mouse in front of a ref, your Viper becomes a common garden snake.”

“I know,” you choked out, searching through your bag for the pack of cigarettes you bought earlier. “But I couldn’t say no. He was going to give up his dream for me. He was going to stay in the basement forever just because he thought I was nervous. I couldn’t let him do that.”

“So what’s the plan?” Wooyoung asked. “Because unless I can teach you ten years of muscle memory in six weeks, or I figure out how to wear a wig and a voice-changer, we are—to use a technical term—screwed.”

“I don’t know,” you said, looking up at the flickering streetlamp. “But I think the “Legend” is about to have a very public heart attack.”

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ The door to your apartment hadn’t even fully clicked shut before you collapsed.

You didn’t make it to the sofa. You sank against the wood of the door, your knees hitting the floor with a dull thud that echoed in the quiet hallway. The adrenaline that had kept you upright in Yunho’s kitchen—the fake smiles, the forced nods, the mask—finally evaporated, leaving nothing but a hollow, freezing terror behind. Your chest felt like it was being crushed.

“Y/N? Is that you?” Wooyoung’s voice drifted from the living room, followed by the familiar scoot of his gaming chair. He appeared in the hallway a second later, still wearing his headset around his neck. He stopped dead when he saw you. “Whoa, whoa—hey!” He was across the hall in three strides, dropping to his knees in front of you.

“He likes me, maybe even loves me,” you choked out, the words coming out as a broken sob. You gripped the front of Wooyoung’s hoodie, your knuckles white. “He looks at me like I’m... like I’m everything. And I’m nothing.”

Wooyoung’s expression softened, his hands coming up to steady your shaking shoulders. “Hey, look at me. You aren’t nothing. You’re just a girl who got caught in a very long, very stupid prank that went off the rails.”

“It’s not a prank anymore!” you shrieked, the sound muffled by your own knees as you curled into a ball. “It’s the Summer Open! He signed us up! Mingi wants to buy jerseys! Jerseys! They want to put my name on the back of a shirt like I’m actually someone worth watching!” You started to hyperventilate, the air coming in short, panicked gasps. The image of bright lights, the officials standing behind your chair, the crowd watching the big screen—flashed in your mind like a horror movie. You could see the moment the game started. You could see your hand shaking on a mouse that felt like a foreign object. You could see Yunho’s face when he realized his “lethal Viper” couldn’t even move. “I have to tell him,” you gasped, clutching your throat. “I have to tell him tonight. I’ll send a text. I’ll delete my account. I’ll move. I’ll—I’ll join a convent.”

“You aren’t joining a convent,” Wooyoung said firmly, grabbing your wrists to stop you from clawing at your own skin. “And you aren’t texting him. You’re in a full-blown mental breakdown. You don’t make tactical decisions during a system crash.”

“He called me the MVP,” you sobbed, hot tears streaming down your face and dripping onto the floor. “He said he’d throw away his dream for me. How can I look at him? How can I let him kiss me knowing every part of our relationship is built on a lie?” You looked up at Wooyoung, your eyes bloodshot and desperate. “Mingi asked about you. He knows your name. He wants you to sub in. He thinks we’d be ‘unstoppable.’” You let out a hysterical, wet laugh. “We would be unstoppable because you’d be playing for two people! You’d have to grow four arms, Wooyoung!”

Wooyoung went quiet. He pulled you into a tight, grounding hug, letting you sob into his chest. He didn’t offer a joke this time. He knew the stakes. He knew that for someone like Yunho—someone whose entire world was built on loyalty, data, and Level Zero family—this kind of betrayal wasn’t just a white lie. It was a total wipe of his trust. “We’re in the endgame now, Y/N,” Wooyoung whispered into your hair. “You either tell him and lose him, or you play the tournament and get exposed in front of the whole world.”

“I can’t lose him,” you whispered into his shirt, your voice small and broken. “I can’t. But I can’t be the player he expects me to be either.”

Wooyoung remained on his knees, his hands hovering tentatively near your shoulders. “Y/N, just listen—”

“No.” The word was flat, dead, and final. With a sudden, jerky surge of energy, you pushed off the floor. You shoved Wooyoung’s hands away with more force than intended, your palms hitting his chest as you scrambled to your feet. Your skin was crawling with a sudden, suffocating need to be away from the pity, away from the eyes of your best friend, and away from the girl who didn’t exist. “Don’t,” you rasped, stumbling back a step. “I can’t handle a pep talk from the guy whose hands I’ve been stealing for weeks!”

“I’m not trying to—”

You didn’t stay to hear the end of the sentence. You turned and bolted for the kitchen, your boots clicking hollowly on the floor. You needed something to numb the static in your brain, something to wash away the taste of the lie you’d been feeding Yunho all evening. You reached the kitchen and ripped the refrigerator door open. The white light spilled out, blindingly bright against your tear-stained face. You ignored the water, ignored the leftover takeout, and grabbed a cold bottle of beer from the back of the shelf. You didn’t bother with an opener. You grabbed the edge of the granite counter, hooking the cap against the stone and slamming your palm down. The cap hissed and flew off, skittering across the tile, but you didn’t look at where it landed. You took a long, burning swallow, the carbonation stinging your throat as you leaned your weight against the counter. You stared at the dark window, watching your own reflection—red-eyed, hair a mess, looking nothing like the “Legend” your boyfriend thought you were.

Wooyoung appeared in the doorway, his silhouette framed by the hallway light. He didn’t come closer. He just watched you, his usual snark completely erased, leaving him looking just as exhausted as you felt. “That’s not going to fix anything, Y/N,” he said softly.

“I’m not trying to fix it,” you whispered, the cold glass slick against your palm. “I’m trying to forget that I’m the villain in my own fucking love story.”

“We’ll figure it out. I’ll just… I don’t know, wear a wig? Or we’ll say you have a wrist injury and I’m your legal guardian. Relax! He’s whipped! The guy looks at you like you invented the internet. Or maybe we just tell him the truth. He’ll probably think it’s a ‘cute tactical ruse’ or whatever.”

“It’s not a ruse!” You turned to face him, the cold glass bottle trembling in your hand.

“Oh, come on,” Wooyoung teased, standing up and walking toward you with his hands stuffed in his pockets. “You’re making a mountain out of a molehill! So you lied about being good at a video game. People lie about having hobbies on first dates all the time! Just go to him, bat your eyelashes, and say, ‘Oops, I’m actually a noob.’ He’ll probably just offer to coach you.”

The bottle slipped. It hit the floor with a violent, crystalline clink, shattering into pieces. The sound seemed to trigger a total system failure deep inside you. Your breath hitched, a broken, wheezing sound, and then the sob tore out of your throat, raw and ugly.

“Jesus Christ—Y/N!” Wooyoung’s eyes went wide. He scrambled forward, his teasing facade instantly replaced by genuine panic. “I was joking! It’s okay, we can fix this—”

“We can’t fix it!” you shrieked, the tears overflowing, hot and stinging against your cheeks. You slumped against the counter, your hands over your face as the weight of the last few weeks finally crushed your spine. “He only likes me because of a lie! He doesn’t like me. He likes the girl who can carry his team. He likes the girl who is ‘iconic’ and ‘calculated’! He likes someone who doesn’t exist!”

“That’s not true,” Wooyoung whispered, reaching out to steady you, but you pushed his hands away.

“It is true!” you wailed. “I love him, Wooyoung. I’m so far gone I can’t even see the damn shore anymore. And every time he looks at me with that… that stupid, honest adoration, I feel like I’m poisoning him. I’m a virus in his system!” You looked up at your best friend, your vision blurred by tears, your chest aching so hard you could barely draw air. “I can’t tell him,” you whispered, the words sounding like a death sentence. “If he finds out his girlfriend is just a liar… he’ll never trust anyone again. It’ll crush him. He’s so pure, and I’m… I’m just the girl who let him believe in a fake.”

Wooyoung stayed silent. The snark was gone, replaced by a hollow, heavy realization. He didn’t have a witty comeback. He didn’t have a tactical solution. For the first time, he realized this wasn’t about a game; it was about the destruction of a soul. “You’re not a fake, Y/N,” the words felt thin and useless in the quiet apartment.

“I am! I am a fucking liar,” you sobbed, sliding down the cabinets until you were a heap on the floor, your face buried in your knees. “In reality, I’m nothing! He can’t love me!” The words came out as a strangled scream. You weren’t just crying; you were shaking, your hands clutching at your own hair as you rocked back and forth on the kitchen tiles. Wooyoung reached out to grab your wrists, but you wrenched yourself away.

“Y/N, stop, you’re not making sense—”

“I am making perfect sense!” You looked at him, your eyes bloodshot and wild, a hysterical, broken laugh bubbling up in your chest. “Who makes the call-outs? Who hits the headshots? Who is the ‘legend’ he’s so proud of? It’s you, Young! It’s your timing! Your game sense! Your talent!” You pointed a shaking finger at his gaming setup. “He loves Viper! And Viper is you! You play her!” Your voice cracked, dropping to a horrified, wet whisper. “Oh my god… he loves you. He’s in love with a version of me that is actually just… you. Every time he praises ‘my’ performance, he’s praising you. Every time he’s in awe of ‘my’ logic, he’s in awe of your brain.”

“That’s not how it works, Y/N, he knows you—”

“He knows a script!” you clutched your stomach as if you were physically ill. “He knows the girl who speaks when you tell her to. He knows the girl who wears the mask you built. If I sit down at that computer during the tournament, he’s going to see a stranger. He’s going to realize the girl he kissed is just… a fraud.” The kitchen felt like it was tilting. “I’ve stolen his first love,” you whispered, staring at the shattered glass. “I’ve taken this pure, beautiful thing he feels and I’ve tied it to a lie. If he finds out his girlfriend can’t even choose a proper skill to use… it’ll destroy him."

Wooyoung dropped to his knees in front of you. The usual spark in his eyes was replaced by a scary, focused intensity. He watched you for a long moment, letting out a slow, long-suffering sigh. “Okay,” he said, his voice flat with forced calm. “I’m teaching you how to play.”

You made a miserable sound into your knees.

“No, listen,” Wooyoung continued, nudging your shoulder with his elbow. “I’m going to be honest with you—it’s going to be hell. You’re going to fail your exams. Your attendance is going to tank. You’re going to survive on caffeine and regret, and you’ll forget what sunlight looks like.” He paused, looking at the door, then back at you. “But we’re going to fix this. I’m going to make sure your Viper is so real we will never have to fake it again.”

The kitchen light was clinical and the bottle was still shattered, but for the first time, the world didn’t feel like it was collapsing. You looked up from your knees, staring at Wooyoung like he’d suggested you learn to fly a plane in a week. “You’re… you’re going to teach me? I can’t even jump and move at the same time without looking at the keyboard.”

“I know,” Wooyoung stood up, offering you a hand—not a gentle pull, but a firm yank. “I’ve seen your ‘skills.’ You’re a disaster. You’re a bottom-tier scrub who shouldn’t be allowed near a mouse. But,” he jabbed a finger toward the gaming chair, “you’re my disaster. And I’m not letting you lose the only guy who actually made you feel something just because you can’t aim.”

He dragged you toward the desk, the dual monitors flickering to life and casting a harsh blue glow over your tear-stained face. “Here’s the deal,” Wooyoung slammed a headset onto the desk. “From this second until the tournament, you aren’t a student. You aren’t a girl with a boyfriend. You are a script I am rewriting. We play until your fingers lock up. We drill lineups until you see them in your sleep. If your phone buzzes? Ignore it. If Yunho calls? Tell him you’re studying.”

He leaned down, his face inches from yours. “You said he loves Viper? Fine. By the tournament, you’re going to be Viper. Not my hands. Yours.”

You looked at the mouse. The guilt was still there, a heavy stone in your gut, but a new spark was starting to flicker—spite. Spite for the lie. Spite for the version of you that was nothing.

“Okay,” you whispered, sitting down and gripping the mouse until your knuckles turned white. “Patch me in.”

➢ part three

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