RJ/Rem @rems-writing - Tumblr Blog

Jun 5

“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 carry—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.

➢ gamer!yunho x fem!reader | ➢ collage au, romance, strangers to lovers, slice of life, smut | ➢ mdni, explicit sexual content (first time, p in v, unprotected sex), emotional manipulation&deception, substance use, panic&anxiety, unhealthy coping mechanisms, cheating mentioned (regarding a past relationship), depressive symptoms, heartbreak, strong language, verbal abuse, emotional abuse, physical violence, blood | ➢ ~32k | ➢ the last part of my humble contribution to LIVE ALIVE! collab hosted by @sungbeam! thank you all for reading and sticking till the end! ♡ make sure to support all of the amazing writers who contributed to this collab! | ➢ part three of three | ➢ part one ➢ part two

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ Yunho had a bird’s-eye view of Haven pulled up on the main monitor. He pointed a laser pen at the screen, his expression intense. You stared at the map. The lines, the call-outs, the technical jargon—it was like looking at a foreign language without a dictionary. Your brain was a cluttered mess of Wooyoung’s screaming instructions from the night before and pure panic. You hadn’t slept. The blue light of the monitors at home was burned into your retinas, and the weight of Wooyoung’s ‘boot camp’ was already making your fingers twitch.

“The Summer Open uses a Best of Three format for the qualifiers. We need to lock in our map pool. Based on our scrimmage data, our strongest win rate is on Bind, but the pro-meta is currently leaning heavily toward Lotus and Sunset.”

“I’m not playing Sunset,” Yeosang deadpanned, spinning in his chair. “The verticality is a mess. It’s a playground for Raze mains, and I refuse to be blasted off a ledge because Mingi forgot to smoke the side.”

“I didn’t forget!” Mingi protested. “I was providing suppressive fire!”

“You shoot at a wall,” Yeosang countered.

“Focus,” Yunho commanded, tapping the desk. He looked at you, his gaze full of that devastating warmth. “Y/N, we need to talk about your lineups on Haven. If we get forced onto a map with long sight-lines, your orb-placements are our only cover. I was looking at the VODs from last night—the way you used the snake bite was... it was genius.”

Your stomach did a slow, sickening roll. That wasn’t me. That was Wooyoung while I was eating a sandwich and drinking coffee.

“I was thinking,” you started, your voice sounding thin to your own ears. “Maybe we should focus on more... aggressive, aim-heavy strats? Less reliance on the complicated lineups?”

Yunho frowned slightly, tilting his head. “Why? Your utility is what makes us Level Zero. Anyone can click heads, Y/N, but no one plays the map like you do.” He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a private whisper like he didn’t want anyone else to hear. “Are you nervous about the hand-cams? I know you like to play in the dark, but don’t worry. I’ll be right next to you. If your hands shake, I’ll just tell them it’s the vibration from the bass in the arena.”

“Anyways, so for the C-site retake, we’re running smoke early to cut off the long sightline,” Mingi chirped in. “Y/N, when you drop the wall to block, I think you shouldn’t activate it straight away? Not until we notice the enemies. Your line-ups in Haven are absolutely perfected and way better than mine, but where do you want to aim? Straight into C-link?”

“I... I think I just, um aim for the cubby?” you guessed, your voice wavering.

The clicking of Yeosang’s keyboard stopped. He didn’t turn around, but his shoulders went rigid. “The cubby?” Yeosang repeated, his voice dropping into that terrifying, flat register he used when he found a bug in a code. “Y/N, the cubby is playing head-down behind the green crates. If you aim for it, you’re leaving the link completely open. You never do that.”

“I just meant... in that specific scenario,” you stammered, feeling the heat rise in your neck. “Depending on the economy.”

“Economy doesn’t change the skills, you always buy the skills,” Yeosang countered, finally spinning his chair around. He crossed his arms, his eyes narrowing behind his bangs. “Actually, I’ve been noticing something since we signed up. Your logic is getting... fuzzy. That lineup you used on Bind yesterday? You missed the bounce three times in practice. You don’t miss, Viper. You’re a machine."

“She’s tired, Yeosang,” Yunho cut in, his voice firm but defensive. He stepped between you and Yeosang’s piercing gaze, his large frame acting as a literal shield. “We’ve been grinding for forty-eight hours straight. Everyone’s ‘logic’ gets fuzzy when they’re running on three hours of sleep and caffeine."

“It’s not just fatigue, Yun,” Yeosang’s voice sharpened. “She didn’t know the call-out for Fracture yesterday.”

Mingi looked back and forth between them, his usual boisterous energy replaced by a worried frown. “Maybe it’s just... tournament nerves? I get them too! Sometimes I forget which button is my ultimate!”

“You’re an idiot, Mingi, that’s expected,” Yeosang snapped, his eyes never leaving you. “But she’s the MVP. We’re building our entire pro-strategy around her ‘god-tier’ game sense. If she’s lagging this hard before we even hit the stage, we’re going to get humiliated.”

“That’s enough,” Yunho didn’t raise his voice, but the Captain authority was absolute. He turned to you, his hands reaching out to grip your upper arms. His touch was warm, but you could feel the slight, protective tremble in his fingers. “Y/N, look at me.” You forced your eyes up to his. “You don’t have to explain yourself, mistakes are allowed,” he whispered, yet it was loud enough for the room to hear. “If you’re hitting a wall, we adjust. If you want to change the lineups, we change them.”

“You’re being blinded by the romance stats,” Yeosang deadpanned, but he sounded more frustrated than mean. “If she can’t execute the C-long smoke, our entire A-split fails.”

“Then I’ll cover C-long!” Yunho turned back to Yeosang, his jaw set. “I’ll adjust my rotation. We’ll pick up the slack. Level Zero doesn’t interrogate its members; we support them. Now, are we going to fix the execute, or are we going to sit here and play ‘spot the error’?”

Yeosang let out a long, heavy sigh and turned back to his screen. “Fine. But if we lose the scrimmage because Viper forgot how to throw a smoke, I’m putting it in the VOD review.”

Yunho squeezed your arms one last time before letting go, then he leaned in, his lips brushing your temple in a quick kiss, a gesture of solidarity. “Don’t listen to him,” he whispered. “I’ve got you. Just play your game.”

You nodded, but you like a ticking bomb. Yunho wasn’t just defending his girlfriend; he was defending a lie. And the more he fought for you, the more you felt like you were leading him straight into a massacre.

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎Seonghwa had spent three hours perfecting his cologne-to-skin ratio before heading out on a date, and Mingi was currently at The Abyss, probably accidentally breaking a glass while trying to look cool

It was just you. And Yunho. And a very shiny, very tempting PS5.

Yunho was currently occupying approximately 75% of the sofa, his long legs stretched out, his bottom lip tucked in that specific, “I’m-not-mad-but-I’m-sad” pout that usually made you melt instantly. He was holding the DualSense controller like it was a sacred artifact. “I’m just saying,” Yunho muttered, “we’ve been dating for weeks, and the only time I see your screen is when there’s a spike involved. Am I not worthy of a casual lobby, Viper? Am I just a tactical asset to you?”

“Yunho, stop being dramatic,” you laughed, reaching for the controller, but he held it high above his head, using his unfair wingspan to keep it out of reach.

“I’m not being dramatic! I’m being neglected!” He shifted, his broad chest pressing against your shoulder as he looked down at you through his glasses, his eyes full of playful hurt. “If you don’t feel like Valorant it’s fine. I bought this new RPG. It has high-fidelity graphics, a complex leveling system—it’s very ‘Radiant-tier.’ I thought you’d like it.”

“I don’t want a complex leveling system,” you grunted, lunging for his wrist. “I want the Ultimate Game.”

“The Ultimate Game?” Yunho’s brows shot up. He finally lowered the controller, intrigued despite himself. “Is it a hidden indie gem with a 10/10 meta-score?”

“Give. It. Here.” With a quick swipe, you tackled him—or as much as a human can tackle a 6’2” tower—and wrestled the controller from his grip. You scrambled to the other end of the couch, frantically navigating the UI while Yunho watched, completely bewildered.

“Okay, okay! Show me your elite taste,” he teased, crossing his arms and leaning back, a smirk playing on his lips. “What is the secret weapon of the Level Zero Goddess?”

The screen flickered. A bright logo popped up, followed by the most upbeat, whimsical music imaginable.

RAYMAN LEGENDS.

Silence descended upon the living room. Yunho stared at the screen. Then he looked at you. Then he looked back at the screen where a limbless yellow creature was currently doing a joyful little dance. “...Rayman?” he whispered, his voice cracking. “Your ultimate game… is the platformer with the singing frogs?”

“It is a masterpiece of level design and musical timing! Don’t you dare judge the Globox!”

“I’m not judging!” Yunho’s hands flew up in a gesture of total surrender, though he was shaking with suppressed laughter. He slid across the cushions until his side was pressed firmly against yours, his arm draping over the back of the sofa to pull you into his space. “It’s just… you’re the Viper. You’re terrifying. You’re the girl who knows every lineup in the book. And you’re currently selecting a level called ‘Castle Rock’?”

“Just pick up the damn controller, Captain,” you muttered, your face heating up. “And try to keep up. This requires actual rhythm, something your ‘tactical’ brain might struggle with.”

Yunho’s grin turned wicked—the shy boy was gone, replaced by the gamer who never backed down from a challenge. He grabbed the second controller, his long fingers settling over the triggers. “Oh, it’s on,” he murmured, leaning his head against yours. “But if I get a higher score than the Goddess in her own territory… I get to pick the next daily quest.”

“Deal,” you whispered, hitting ‘Start.’

In no time the colorful “Victory!” screen for Rayman pulsed on the TV, casting rhythmic flashes of pink and blue across the darkened living room. Yunho was still leaning against you, he was quiet—the kind of comfortable, post-game quiet that usually meant his brain was processing at 100% capacity.

“You’re still lagging,” you teased softly, nudging his ribs with your elbow. “I thought you said you were a rhythm-game natural. You missed like, five of the singing eye-stalks in that last run.”

Yunho let out a soft, huffy laugh that puffed against your hair. He didn’t pull away; instead, he tucked his chin over the top of your head, drawing you a fraction closer. “I told you,” he murmured, his voice sounding deeper. “My focus was… compromised. It’s hard to time a jump when the person next to me is making ‘die-die-die’ noises at a cartoon dragon. You’re scary when you’re platforming, baby.”

You froze, the controller still clutched in your hands, the plastic slightly warm from the heat of the game. Yunho didn’t pull back. He didn’t cough, or stammer, or do any of the clumsy “oops-I-said-too-much” things you might have expected from the boy who usually tripped over his own long legs. Instead, he just let his breath hitch for a split second before exhaling slowly, his thumb tracing a slow, absentminded circle on your shoulder.

“Did you just…” Your voice was tiny, fragile.

“Did I just what?” He sounded calm, but you could feel the vibration of his chest against your back—his heart was hammering a rhythm that definitely wasn’t “Castle Rock” approved. You turned your head just enough to catch his gaze. He was looking at you with an expression that was dangerously soft, his glasses slightly crooked and his hair a mess from where he’d been leaning against the sofa

“You called me baby,” you whispered, the heat finally reaching your ears.

Yunho tilted his head, a slow, shy smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Well,” he murmured, his voice dropping an octave as he leaned in until your noses almost brushed. “We’ve already passed the Beggnier’s Guide level, haven’t we? And if you can handle a dragon, I think you can handle a nickname.” He paused, his hand softly grabbing one of yours. “Unless you didn’t like it?”

“I didn’t say that,” you breathed, finally dropping the controller onto the cushion.

Yunho’s grin returned, wider and more confident this time. He closed the remaining distance, pressing his forehead against yours. “Good. Because Viper is for the lobby. But ‘baby’...” He let the word linger, tasting it again. “That’s just for here. Now, are we going to play the next level, or are you too busy blushing?”

“Shut up,” you laughed, though you didn’t pull away.

“I like this version of you,” he whispered.

The teasing remark you had ready died in your throat. “This version?”

“Yeah.” He gestured vaguely at the screen, then back to you—to your bare face, the oversized shirt you borrowed as soon as you arrived at his apartment, and the way you were currently tangled in his space. “Don’t get me wrong, Viper is… she’s incredible. She’s the person I look up to on the server. But this girl? The one who gets genuinely offended if a frog doesn’t hit a high note? She’s… she’s the one I’ve been wanting to meet.” A cold spark of guilt flickered in your chest—a sharp reminder of the tournament, the lie, and the training waiting for you the second you go back to your apartment. You looked away, staring at the cartoon character on the screen, but Yunho’s hand moved, his fingers gently catching your chin and tilting your face back up to his. “Hey,” he said, his voice dropping to that honey-sweet tone that always made your defense stats crumble to zero. “Did I say something wrong? You’re doing that thing where you look like you’re trying to calculate a tactical retreat.”

“I’m just…” You swallowed hard, the weight of the secret feeling like a lead debuff. “I’m just not used to… hearing such stuff.”

Yunho’s expression softened into something so tender it actually hurt to look at. He leaned down, his nose brushing against yours, his breath warm and steady. “You aren’t the hero because of your K/D ratio, Y/N,” he whispered, his thumb grazing your lower lip. “You’re the hero because you’re the only person who makes me feel like I don’t have to be someone else or pretend all the time. With you, I’m just… Yunho. And that’s the best quest I’ve ever been on.”

The guilt in your chest felt like a glitch in a moment that was otherwise perfect. You wanted to tell him. You wanted to spill everything about the tournament and the persona, but the words felt like they were stuck behind a border you couldn’t cross. Before you could spiral, Yunho pulled you closer, he seemed to sense the internal battle raging behind your eyes and decided to end it the only way he knew how—by being unapologetically himself. He leaned back just an inch, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “You’re overthinking. I can practically see the loading icon spinning over your head.”

“I just... I don’t want to let you down,” you admitted, the truth coming out in a fragmented, half-honest way. “The hero you see when we play? Sometimes I feel like I’m just playing a character.”

“Then stop,” he said simply. He reached down and took your hand, interlacing his long, elegant fingers with yours. “If you ever feel like it’s too much, just come over. We’ll play the game with the singing frogs. We’ll eat bad takeout. I’ll let you win at Mario Kart—maybe."

You let out a watery laugh. “You would never let me win at Mario Kart. You’re too competitive.”

“True,” he conceded with a wink, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your temple. “But for you, I might at least consider not using the blue shell.” Yunho squeezed your hand one last time before suddenly straightening up. “Wait. Stay right there. Don’t move. Don’t even pause the music.”

“Where are you going?” You watched, confused, as he scrambled off the sofa with a sudden burst of energy. He didn’t head toward his bedroom or the bathroom. Instead, he hurried toward the small utility closet near the entryway. You heard the faint creak of the door, the rustle of plastic, and then a muffled, “Aha! Still alive.” When he turned the corner, your breath caught. He wasn’t holding a controller or a snack. He was holding a bouquet of peonies and baby’s breath, the petals vibrant against his dark hoodie. He looked slightly flustered, his cheeks flushed pink as he walked back to the couch, hiding the flowers behind his back for a split second before presenting them to you like a hard-earned trophy. “Where did you even get those?” you stammered, reaching out to touch a soft petal. “We’ve been in this apartment for like three hours. Did you… did you spawn these into existence?”

Yunho let out a nervous, airy chuckle, settling back down beside you. “I got them this morning. I hid them in the bucket in the closet because I didn’t want to make a big deal out of it if the vibe wasn’t right. I kept thinking, ‘Is it too much? Is it too early?’ I was so worried they’d wilt before I found the right moment to tell you.” He tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear, his hand lingering there, his thumb skimming the line of your jaw. The playful gamer light in his eyes had softened into something steady and profound. “I’ve realized that you aren’t just my duo-partner. You’re my… you’re my entire world-map.” He stopped, his breath hitching. He looked like he was about to bolt, but he forced himself to stay, his gaze locked on yours with sincerity. “I love you,” he breathed. “I love you so much it feels like a debuff to my entire system when you’re not in the room.”

The words “I love you” were in the air between you, heavy and sweet, like a rare achievement finally unlocked. But the second Yunho saw the look in your eyes—the pure, unfiltered softness of your reaction—his internal CPU hit 100% and his cooling system failed. His eyes went wide, his pupils shrinking as the reality of what he’d just confessed fully downloaded. “I—I just—that was—” He didn’t even finish the sentence. He let out a muffled, embarrassed groan and immediately dropped his head, burying his face into the crook of your neck. He hid there, his nose pressing into your skin, his entire body becoming a literal heater against yours. You could feel the tips of his ears burning against your cheek. His arms tightened around you, hauling you flush against his chest as if he could hide his entire frame behind you if he just hugged you hard enough. You felt the puff of his breath against your collarbone as he spoke, his voice muffled by your skin and sounding like a confession of a different kind. “I think my heart just overclocked,” he whispered, “I’m pretty sure I’m technically dead right now. Please don’t look at me for at least four business days. I need to reboot.” He nudged his face deeper into your neck, a shy, shaky laugh escaping him. “Also,” he added, his voice even smaller, “if there was a leaderboard for ‘Most Pathetic Confession,’ I'm definitely Top One. I’ve reached the final boss and I'm just... I'm just here with no armor.”

“Overclocked, huh?” you reached up, running your fingers through the hair on the nape of his neck. “Is that why you’re currently running at 100 degrees Celsius? Do I need to call IT, or should I just apply some cooling gel patch to your forehead?”

Yunho let out a sound that was half-groan, half-whimper, his grip on your waist tightening. “Please… please don’t,” he muffled into your skin. “I’m already at critical failure. My fans are spinning so fast I’m pretty sure I’m going to levitate off the mattress.”

You shifted, trying to pry his face away from your neck. He resisted for a second, clutching you tighter like a giant, panicked koala, but eventually, he crumbled. He let you tilt his head back, and the sight of him was enough to make your own heart skip a beat. He was a total wreck. His glasses were fogged, his hair was a chaotic nest, and his face was a shade of deep red. He wouldn’t meet your eyes, his gaze darting to the pillow, to the ceiling, to the wall—anywhere but you. “Four business days?” your fingers traced the shell of his ear—which was, indeed, radiating enough heat to power a small village. “That’s a pretty long downtime for a Radiant-tier player, Yunnie.”

Yunho let out a sound that was somewhere between a laugh and a desperate plea for mercy. His eyes finally flickered to yours for a split second before darting away again, his long lashes fluttering with nerves. “The system is down,” he managed, his voice still thick with that shy, honeyed rasp. “Complete server maintenance required. No users allowed until further notice.”

“You’re impossible,” you whispered, leaning in until your foreheads touched.

“I'm a disaster,” he corrected, though he didn’t pull away. He finally braved a look at you, his dark eyes shimmering. “But I meant it. All of it. Even the parts that sounded like I’ve been spending too much time on a headset.” He took a slow, shaky breath, and you could feel the way his body gradually began to relax against yours.

“You do spend too much time on a headset, though.” You murmured, your thumb tracing the line of his lower lip. “But you don’t need four business days, I think the server is already back online.”

Yunho’s shy smile finally broke through the blush, he tilted his head, closing the tiny gap between you until his nose was nuzzling yours. “Yeah?” he whispered, his voice gaining a tiny bit of its playful spark.

You let your hand slide from his cheek to the back of his neck, your fingers tangling in those soft locks. “But I have to admit, Captain... I’m a little disappointed. I thought you were supposed to be the one who handles high-pressure situations without breaking a sweat.”

Yunho let out a pained, soft groan. “It’s—it’s a different kind of pressure! There’s no manual for this!”

“Excuses,” you teased, leaning to press a lingering kiss to the corner of his mouth, right where that pretty smile of his was trying to peek through. “You were doing so well. Very tactical. Very… efficient.”

“Y/N, stop,” his eyes were once again squeezed shut as if the sheer sight of you was too much for his system to handle. “I am literally a puddle. You’re talking to a liquid state of matter right now.”

You laughed, “Well, if you’re a puddle, then you’re my puddle,” you murmured, your expression finally softening, the teasing dropping away. “And for the record?” You waited until he braved opening one eye. “I love you too, Yunnie.”

He didn’t say anything for a full four seconds—his jaw just worked silently like a character with a broken animation cycle.

Then, he lunged.

He hauled you into his chest, wrapping his massive arms around you and rolling over on the couch until you were tucked securely against him, his face hidden once more in the crook of your neck. “You can’t— you can’t just say that!” he choked out, his voice cracking spectacularly. “I was—I was prepared for a ‘Good game, teammate’ or a ‘Nice try, Captain.’ I wasn’t—I wasn’t ready!”

“You literally said it first!” You laughed, trying to breathe through his crushing hug.

“That’s different! I’m the one who’s supposed to be the disaster!” He pulled back just enough to look at you, he looked like he wanted to cry and cheer at the same time. “You love me? Like… for real?”

“For real,” you whispered, reaching up to finally straighten his fogged-up glasses. “I love the Captain. But I love the ‘puddle’ a whole lot more.”

He let out a long, shaky breath, the last of his nervous tension finally dissipating. He leaned down, kissing you with a slow, deep sincerity. “Then I guess… I guess I really don’t need those four business days,” he murmured against your lips. “But I might need a few more minutes of this. Just to make sure I’m not dreaming.”

“A few more minutes?” you murmured, your voice dropping an octave as you slid your hands down from his neck to his chest, feeling the frantic rhythm of his heart through the fabric of his hoodie. “I think we can do better than that.” You leaned forward, closing the distance slowly, giving him every second to retreat. The kiss started out hesitant, a soft, testing press of lips. You tasted the salt of his skin and the lingering sweetness of the moment. You felt him freeze for a split second before he finally, shakily, began to melt.

Yunho’s hands were still trembling where they rested on your waist, his large palms feeling heavy and hot through your clothes. But as the reality of your confession truly settled into his marrow, the kiss shifted. It deepened, losing its tentative edge and becoming something hungrier, a desperate attempt to bridge the gap between the words he’d struggled to say and the feeling that was currently overflowing in his chest. His large hand slid from your waist to the back of your head, fingers tangling in your hair to hold you steady as he tilted his head to find a better angle.

He pulled back just an inch, his eyes dark and blown wide, the pupils swallowing the honey-brown of his irises. His chest was heaving, his breath coming in jagged hitches. He looked like he was standing on the edge of a cliff, staring down at a view that was both dizzying and irresistible. “I’m... I’m doing this right, aren’t I?” he whispered, his voice cracking. “I’m not—I’m not lagging?”

You chuckled softly, reaching up to frame his face, your thumbs smoothing over his burning cheekbones. “You’re doing perfect, better than perfect.”

Yunho’s hands, usually so occupied with the precision of a keyboard, began to wander with a new curiosity. He was a tactile learner, and right now, you were the only thing that mattered. His large palm slid from your waist, tracing the curve of your hip before moving upward, his touch light enough to make your skin prickle with electricity. He moved slowly, as if he were afraid that pressing too hard might break you. He took a shaky breath and leaned in, his nose nuzzling into the crook of your neck. He began to trail slow, open-mouthed kisses along your collarbone, his stubble grazing your skin. You tilted your head back, exposing the line of your throat to the cool air of the room, and let out a soft, airy sigh.

Yunho’s entire body jolted. “Did I—” he started, his eyes flying to yours, filled with that familiar, wide-eyed panic. “Did I hurt you? Was that too much pressure? I didn’t mean to—”

“No,” you whispered, reaching out to lace your fingers through his, guiding his hand to your waist. “It felt good. It means you’re doing it right."

He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “Right. Good. Okay.” Yunho began to explore the curve of your waist, his thumb tracing the line of your spine. His gaze dropped to your mouth, then back to your eyes, making your stomach flip. “I want... I want to be closer. Is that—can we?” He didn’t even know how to ask for it, his experience level at zero despite his towering frame and confident gamer persona. He was a giant of a man reduced to a mess of nerves by the simple prospect of skin-on-skin. “I... I don’t want to mess this up.”

You reached to gently slide his glasses off his face. You set them aside without breaking eye contact. Without the frames, his gaze felt even more intense—dark, dilated, and fixated entirely on you. You guided his hand up, pressing his palm flat against your cheek, then trailed it down to the curve of your throat. The heat radiating from him was intense. You shifted your weight, straddling his lap on the sofa, and watched as his entire face went a new, impossible shade of crimson. “Oh,” he choked out, his hands hovering uncertainly near your hips. “Oh, okay. We’re... we’re doing this. This is happening. High stakes. Final boss. No checkpoints.”

The comment was so perfectly Yunho that you couldn’t help the soft, genuine laugh that bubbled up. You reached out, cupping his face with both hands, forcing him to look at you. You waited until his wide, panicked eyes locked onto yours. “Look at me," you whispered, your voice calm in the middle of his internal storm. You waited for his breathing to hitch, then level out. “This isn’t a match. There’s no rank, and there’s definitely no way to lose.” You leaned forward, pressing your forehead against his, closing your eyes so he could feel the sincerity in your voice. “It’s just me. And I’m not some final boss you have to defeat. I’m your person. We’re on the same team, remember? We’re just... discovering a new map together.”

“Same team,” he repeated, his voice losing that panicked edge and softening into a low, honeyed rasp. He let out a long, shaky exhale, his nose brushing against yours. “Yeah. Okay. I can do that.”

You took his hovering hands and guided them firmly to your waist. “You can touch me. I promise.”

He let out a shaky breath, his fingers finally curling around your hips. His grip was tentative at first, but as he felt the warmth of your body through your clothes, his touch grounded. “My brain is literally just a blue screen right now,” he whispered, a small, helpless laugh vibrating in his chest. “I’ve spent a thousand hours practicing combos and memorising maps, and right now, I can’t remember how to breathe. You’re—you’re so close.”

“Then don’t think about breathing,” you whispered, your fingers hooking into the hem of his hoodie. “Just feel.” As you began to tug the fabric upward, Yunho’s posture went rigid, his eyes widening as he realized the trajectory of the moment. He lifted his arms with a clumsy, mechanical sort of grace, allowing you to pull the fabric over his head. When it cleared his hair—leaving it a static-charged, adorable mess—he looked more exposed than you’d ever seen him. He looked down at his bare chest, then back up at you, his throat bobbing as he swallowed hard. His skin was pale, save for a frantic, blooming flush that crept from his chest all the way to the tips of his ears. The sight of him—broad-shouldered, solid, and looking at you as if you were a miracle he hadn’t yet prepared for—made your own heart hammer against your ribs. You reached for the hem of your own shirt, and the room seemed to go silent except for the rhythmic thrum of his heart, which you could practically feel through the air between you. His eyes followed your hands with a focus that was terrifyingly absolute.

“Wait,” he breathed, his hand coming up to catch your wrist before you could pull the shirt too high up. His palm was searing, his grip firm but trembling. “Can I... can I do it? I want to... I want to be the one. Even if my hands won’t stop shaking.”

“Of course.” You covered his hands with yours, guiding them more than leading them. His fingers were trembling—actually, visibly shaking—as he reached for the fabric. He swallowed, eyes flicking from your face to his hands like he was afraid the moment would vanish if he blinked. As he slowly pulled the shirt over your head, the cool air of the room hit your skin, but it was immediately chased away by the sheer intensity of his gaze.

Yunho looked at you like you were something sacred—something he had studied from afar but never dared to touch. His eyes traveled over you, tracing the line of your collarbone and the curve of your shoulders with a reverence that made your pulse skip. “You’re real,” he whispered, his voice cracking. “I keep thinking I’m going to wake up and I’ll just be at my desk with a headset on... but you’re here.” He leaned in, burying his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling deeply. You felt the damp heat of his breath against your skin, followed by the soft, hesitant press of his lips. He started small—tiny, shy kisses along your pulse point—but as you arched into him, letting out a soft hum, his grip on your waist tightened. He pulled back just enough to look at you, the shy gamer was still there, but beneath it was a man waking up to the power he held over you—and the power you held over him. His grip on your waist tightened, his fingers digging into your skin as he pulled you flush against his bare chest. The contact was electric—skin on skin, your racing heart beating directly against his. He leaned up, capturing your bottom lip between his teeth in a move that was surprisingly bold, eliciting a sharp, surprised hitch in your breath. He seemed to take courage from your reaction, his tongue darting out to soothe the spot he’d bitten before deepening the kiss with a newfound hunger. It was clumsy in its intensity, but the honesty of it was intoxicating.

As your hands roamed over his bare shoulders, feeling the way his skin bunched and rippled under your touch, Yunho’s own exploration became more daring. One of his hands traveled up your spine, his long fingers mapping every inch until he reached the nape of your neck, tilting your head back to give him better access to the sensitive skin of your throat.

“Is this... is this okay?” he murmured against your skin, his lips never fully leaving you. “Am I doing what you like?”

“Yes,” you breathed, your head falling back as he found a particularly sensitive spot beneath your ear. “Exactly that.”

He let out a shaky, triumphant breath, his chest expanding against yours. “I’ve thought about this,” he confessed, his voice muffled. “In the middle of matches, or when I’m supposed to be sleeping... I’ve thought about how you’d sound if I did this.” He moved his hands, his knuckles brushing against the skin of your stomach right above the waistband of your jeans. The contact made your muscles involuntary ripple, a sharp intake of breath escaping you. His thumbs begin to stroke small, mesmerized circles into your skin. He watched the movement of his own hands against you, his expression shifting from panicked to a dazed, quiet wonder. His hands slid higher, his long fingers splaying across your ribs, mapping the curve of your body with a growing, hungry curiosity. He reached up, his fingers tangling in your hair to pull you down into a kiss that was no longer hesitant. It was deep, desperate. His tongue swept against yours, a plea for you to show him exactly how much more there was to discover.

The kiss turned feral, a messy collision of teeth and tongues that tasted like the desperate relief of finally being known. Yunho’s hands were no longer just hovering; they were active, possessive, sliding from your ribs to the small of your back to anchor you against him. He let out a low, needy sound into your mouth, his fingers digging into your hips as if he was trying to pull you into his very skin. Underneath the frantic heat of the kiss, he shifted. It was a subtle adjustment of his weight—a subconscious search for friction—and that was when you felt it. The hard, heavy length of him pressed firmly against your thigh, separated only by the thin fabric of his joggers. Yunho’s entire system seemed to stall. He pulled back just an inch, his lips swollen and wet, his eyes darting to yours with a look of pure, wide-eyed shock. He looked like he’d just been hit with a status effect he hadn’t prepared for.

“Oh,” he breathed, his voice cracking spectacularly. “Oh... that’s... I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—my body is just—” You didn’t let him finish the apology. You shifted your weight, rolling your hips slowly, deliberately, against him. The reaction was instantaneous. Yunho’s head snapped back against the sofa cushion, his eyes squeezing shut as a sharp, broken moan escaped his throat. It wasn’t a loud sound—it was a soft, strangled hitch of breath that sounded like it had been torn out of him. His fingers spasmed against your waist, his knuckles turning white as he gripped you with a sudden, overwhelming strength. Your hands slid down to the waistband of his joggers. “Wait—wait,” he stammered, his hands flying to cover yours. He took a long, shaky breath, his eyes searching yours for any sign of hesitation. When he found only warmth, he let out a puff of air and slowly moved his hands, allowing you to continue. “Okay. Okay. Phase two. I’m ready. I think.”

As your fingers hooked into the elastic of his waistband, you could feel the frantic, rhythmic twitching of his abdominal muscles. You eased the fabric down, his eyes remained locked on yours, wide and shimmering with a mixture of terror and absolute, undiluted devotion. When his joggers slid down his ankles to the floor, he didn’t try to cover himself. Instead, he gripped the cushions of the sofa so hard his knuckles turned white, his chest heaving as he tried to regulate a respiratory system that had clearly forgotten its programming. You leaned down, trailing your lips from his collarbone up to that sensitive spot beneath his jaw, and the sound he made—a high, broken whimper—was the most honest thing you’d ever heard.

Yunho reached for the button of your jeans next. His hands were steadier now, though he struggled with the clasp for a second, his tongue poking out the corner of his mouth in a look of sheer concentration. When the denim finally gave way, he let out a triumphant, shaky puff of air. “Level cleared,” he murmured, a tiny spark of his playful self returning even through the heavy haze of his desire. He helped you slide the rest of the way out of your jeans, his movements slow and worshipful. He wrapped his arms around you, pulling you flush against his chest, and he was kissing you again—deep, certain.

Yunho’s fingers felt like live wires against your skin, tracing the line of your spine with a reverence that made your head swim. When he reached the metal clasp of your bra, he faltered for a heartbeat, but you nodded your head to encourage him.

“It’s okay, you can take it off,” you reassured, your nose brushing against his.

“Okay,” he whispered against your lips, “Command received. Attempting to... to execute.” He fumbled at first, his thumbs searching for the logic of the hooks. You could feel the heat radiating off him in waves—his skin damp with the sheer effort of staying composed. He let out a frustrated, needy little huff, his tongue darting out to lick his lips as he focused every bit of his Radiant-tier precision on the task.

“Yun,” you murmured, a playful tilt to your voice even as your own heart raced. “Do you need a walkthrough?”

“No,” he gasped, his jaw tightening. “No, I’ve got it. I just—” Then, with a sudden, triumphant click, the tension snapped. Yunho froze. The sound seemed to echo in the quiet of the apartment. He didn’t move for a second, his breath hitching in his chest. Slowly, he slid his hands around to the front, his palms grazing your ribs as he helped the straps fall away. He pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes dark and heavy, drinking in the sight of you in the soft light. Yunho’s hands retreated just an inch, hovering in the small, heated space between your bodies. His fingers were trembling, twitching with a mix of instinctual urge and a deep-seated fear of crossing a line he hadn’t been invited to cross yet. He looked down, his breath coming in shallow, jagged puffs that fanned across your skin. His eyes were wide, fixated on you with a look of such pure wonder.

You reached out, catching his wrists and gently guiding his large, hot palms forward until they were just grazing your breasts. “You can touch them,” you whispered, your voice grounding him. “I want you to.”

A low, broken sound escaped his throat—halfway between a gasp and a whimper. The moment his hands finally made full contact with your boobs, his eyes squeezed shut, letting out a long, shuddering exhale. “Oh,” he choked out, his fingers curling instinctively, testing the softness and weight of them. “Okay, wow. You’re… you’re so soft. I didn’t think—I mean, I thought, but this is…” He opened his eyes again, and the fear was almost entirely gone, replaced by a dazed, singular focus. He watched his own hands, his dark lashes fluttering as he mapped the curve of your flesh, his thumbs beginning to move in slow, mesmerized circles around your nipples. “Is this okay?” he asked, his voice dropping an octave, sounding more like a confession than a question. “Do you… do you like that?”

“Yes,” you breathed, your own hands sliding up his biceps, feeling the hard, tensed muscle beneath his skin. “I like it a lot.”

He let out a small, triumphant puff of air, a tiny shadow of a smirk finally tugging at the corner of his mouth despite his flushed cheeks. “Okay,” he murmured, leaning in until his lips were just a fraction of an inch from yours. He reached down, one of his hands sliding from your breast to your waist, and with a sudden surge of strength, that reminded you just how much larger he was, he pulled you flush against him and captured your lips in a kiss that was deeper and more sure than anything before it. He shifted his weight, easing you back onto the cushions as he loomed over you, his broad shoulders blocking out the rest of the world.

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah,” he whispered, reaching up to pull you up.

Yunho didn’t just carry you; he held you like you were the most precious thing in existence, his large arms trembling slightly. The walk to the bedroom was a short, hazy blur of shadows and the frantic thud of his heart against your chest. When he reached his bed, he lowered you onto the mattress with a gentleness that bordered on reverence, his hands lingering on your skin as if he were afraid you’d vanish if he let go. The bed groaned softly under his weight as he followed you down, looming over you. The moonlight filtering through the blinds cast sharp, silver lines across his broad shoulders, highlighting the raw tension in his frame. He looked down at you, his hair a chaotic mess, his face flushed a deep, beautiful pink.

“Is the… is the lighting okay?” he whispered, his voice cracking as he tried to maintain a tiny bit of humour to mask the fact that his hands were still shaking. “I didn’t exactly prep the arena for a cinematic cutscene.”

You reached up, threading your fingers through his hair and tugging him down until his face was inches from yours. “Yunho. Stop. It’s perfect.”

He let out a long, shuddering breath, his forehead dropping to rest against yours. “Okay. Perfect.” He began to kiss you again, but it was different now—slower, deeper, filled with a heavy, magnetic pull. His large hands, though still trembling, found their way back to your breasts with a newfound, singular focus. “You said… I could,” he whispered like a reminder to himself. He didn’t just touch you; he worshiped. He used his palms to lift and squeeze gently, his thumbs sweeping over the nipples in a rhythm that was increasingly less like a confused beginner and more like someone discovering a natural instinct. His eyes were wide, fixated on the way his skin looked against yours, his breath coming in short, needy hitches.

Your hands slid down to the waistband of his boxers. When your fingers hooked into the elastic, Yunho’s entire body gave a violent, electric jolt. He froze, his hands stilling on your chest, his eyes snapping to yours with a look of pure, unadulterated shock. “Wait—oh. Oh, we’re… okay,” he stammered, his face reaching a shade of red that looked like it might actually glow in the grey of the room.

“Phase three,” you teased softly, your voice a low hum. “Do you want to opt out?”

“No!” the word came out a little too fast, a little too loud. He let out a shaky, self-deprecating laugh, his forehead dropping to your shoulder. “No. Definitely not. I’m just… Give me a second.” He didn’t pull away. Instead, he lifted his hips just enough to help you, his movements clumsy but eager. As you slowly drew the fabric down his long legs, Yunho let out a long, shuddering sigh, his eyes fluttering shut. When the last barrier was finally gone, he looked back at you, his vulnerability so raw it was almost tangible. He leaned down, burying his face in the crook of your neck again, but this time his hands didn’t stay still. They moved back to your breasts, his touch firmer now, more desperate. He began to trail kisses down your throat, his lips hot and wet, until he reached the curve he’d been admiring. He paused for a heartbeat, his breath ghosting over your nipple, and then he looked up at you— final check for permission. When you arched your back toward him, he leaned in, taking you into his mouth. The sensation of his mouth on you was the final system override. Yunho’s tongue was hesitant at first, swirling with a shy, tasting curiosity, but as you let out a sharp, broken gasp, his confidence surged. He let out a low, muffled growl against your skin, his suction deepening as he realized exactly how much power he had over you. His large hands were possessive, one palm cupping your other breast, squeezing with a rhythmic, heavy heat, while his other hand slid back down to your thighs, his thumb digging into the soft flesh.

As he moved to slide the fabric of your panties down your legs, he paused, his gaze flickering up to yours. “I—I’m about to... initiate the next phase,” he whispered, his voice cracking slightly, that adorable panic momentarily clashing with his desire. He took a shaky breath, trying to steady his hands. “Your... your physical feedback suggests that the, uh, compatibility levels are... they’re optimal. I just want to make sure I’m not... skipping any vital steps in the sequence.”

You let out a soft, breathless laugh, reaching down to brush a stray lock of hair from his forehead. “No steps skipped, Yun.” He nodded nervously, and finished the task. He stayed there for a moment, kneeling between your legs, looking at you with a quiet, stunned worship that made you feel like a goddess. He reached out, his fingers hesitant at first, ghosting over the soft skin of your inner thigh. He was shivering, a fine tremor running through his large frame. Slowly, he moved higher, his touch light as a feather until he finally reached the center of you.

When his fingers met your warmth, his breath hitched so loudly it was almost a sob. He didn’t pull away; instead, he let his hand linger, his touch turning soft and exploring. He felt the slick, heated evidence of how much you wanted him, and his pupils dilated until his eyes were almost entirely black. “Oh,” he rasped, his voice dropping an octave, becoming thick and gravelly. “You’re... you're already so... your stats are... they’re red-lining.” He began to move his fingers with a clumsy, sweet curiosity, tracing your folds.You let out a sharp, needy moan, your head falling back against the pillow as your fingers tangled in his hair.

“Did that—does that feel... okay?” he stammered, his thumb catching against you in a way that made your hips arch off the bed.

“Yunho... yes. Please, don't stop.”

“I’m not stopping,” he promised, his voice regaining a sliver of that Captain confidence even as his face stayed bright red. “I’m... I’m just calibrating. I want to make sure I know... exactly how you like it. I want to be... the only one who knows your map like this.” He leaned forward, pressing a hot, lingering kiss to your thigh as his hand continued its shy rhythm. He began to move his thumb in a slow, circular motion, the slickness of you made his movements fluid, and the sound of it—the soft, wet friction—made his own breath come in jagged, desperate gasps. Before he could even draw a full breath to apologize for being clumsy or ask if he’s doing it right, you reached down, fistfuls of his hair tangling in your fingers, and jerked him upward. Yunho let out a surprised, strangled gasp as you forced him to bridge the gap, dragging his face up until he was hovering mere millimeters from yours.

“Less talking, Captain,” you breathed, the command vibrating against his lips. “More of this.”

You crashed your mouth against his, swallowing his startled moan. It wasn’t a soft kiss—it was a claim. You kissed him with all the pent-up frustration of the lie, all the desperation of the “boot camp,” and all the genuine, terrifying love you felt for the boy above you. You reached down, your fingers finally brushing against his erection, fully exposed and pulsing with the same frantic energy as his heart. Yunho’s eyes nearly rolled back into his head at the contact. He let out a long, shuddering hiss, his hips bucking upward into your hand with a desperate, uncoordinated instinct. “Oh—god,” he choked out.

“Not yet,” you whispered, your thumb grazing the tip of his cock, spreading the pre-cum. “The main quest hasn’t even started.”

Yunho let out a sound that was half-laugh, half-whimper, his hands flying to your wrists to steady himself. He was trembling so hard the bed seemed to shake with him. He looked up at you, his dark eyes blown out, shimmering with a mix of terrifying love and overwhelming lust. “I don’t... I don’t know if I can be patient anymore,” he confessed, “I want to be gentle, I want to be perfect for you, but my whole system is screaming at me to... to just...”

“Then listen to it,” you reached down to guide him, your fingers palmed his cock, and the breath left your lungs in a sudden rush. He wasn’t just average; he was big. The sheer length of him was daunting, a weight that felt almost impossible to reconcile with the shy, blushing man hovering over you. “Yunho,” you breathed, your voice catching as the broad, blunt head of him pressed against your entrance. You looked up into his dark, blown-out eyes, your heart hammering against your ribs. “Wait. Just… go very, very slow. Okay? Promise me.”

He nodded frantically, his jaw locked so tight you could see the muscle leaping in his cheek. “Slow. Right. Low mobility. I can do that. I’m—I’m going at 0.5 speed, Y/N. I promise.” He braced his weight on his elbows, his massive hands fist-deep in the pillows on either side of your head. He took a shaky, stabilising breath and pushed. The moment the tip entered, your body felt the sudden, stretching fullness of him. Your breath didn’t just hitch; it left you in a sharp, jagged exhale that sounded like a pained hiss. Your eyes squeezed shut, and your fingers dug into his biceps.

Yunho froze instantly, his face went pale, the flush draining away as panic took over. He started to back away immediately, his eyes wide and shimmering with a sudden fear. “Oh god—I hurt you. I’m sorry! I’m so sorry, I knew I’d—I’m too clumsy, I’m too much, I—” He looked like he was about to bolt out of the room. “Did I break something? Are you okay? I’m pulling out, I’m stopping—”

“No! Yunho, stay,” you gasped out, reaching up to grab his face with both hands to keep him from retreating. You took a few shallow, rhythmic breaths, waiting for your body to accommodate the heavy, overwhelming presence of him. You looked at him, a small, dazed smile breaking through your winced expression. “You didn’t break anything. You’re just… you’re really big.”

Yunho blinked, his brain clearly struggling to process the data. He looked down at the point where you were joined, seeing the way your skin was stretched taut around him, then back at you. His mouth stayed slightly agape. “I’m… what?”

“It’s big,” you repeated, your voice a soft, breathless confession. “A lot bigger and longer than I… than the average. It just... I need time.”

The crimson flush returned to his face with a vengeance, blooming across his chest and up his neck until even his forehead was glowing. He let out a tiny, high-pitched sound—a squeak that was half-embarrassment, half-shock. “I—I am?” he stammered, his voice cracking spectacularly. He looked down at himself again as if seeing his own body for the first time. “I didn’t… I mean, I’ve never had a comparison! I thought the character model was just… standard? I didn’t think I had an… an accidental buff in that department.”

The innocence of his shock made you giggle, the tension finally breaking. You pulled him down for a quick, reassuring kiss. “It’s a very good buff. Just… stick to the slow strategy for a minute, okay?”

Yunho let out a long, shuddering breath as he finally began to relax into the sensation of being held by you. “Slow. Right. Tactical pacing. I’m on it.” He leaned down, his lips ghosting over yours, his voice dropping into that low, dangerous rasp again. “I’ll be careful.” With his face still a dazed, glowing crimson, Yunho took a deep, stabilising breath, his chest expanding. He braced his forearms on either side of your head, his large hands clenching the sheets as he slowly began to sink deeper. The sheer thickness of him was a heavy pressure that seemed to occupy every bit of your focus, his length felt seemingly endless, a slow-motion invasion that reached deep into your core. “Y/N,” he choked out, his voice dropping into a ragged, desperate whisper. “Tell me... tell me to stop if it’s—if it is too much. I don’t want to...”

“You’re okay,” you managed to gasp, your hands sliding down his back to pull him in. “Just... like that. Don’t stop.” The encouragement seemed to give him the final green light he needed. As he finally bottomed out, a long, shuddering groan was ripped from his throat. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his entire body trembling with the effort of staying still.

“Oh... dear god,” he muffled against your skin, his voice thick with a mix of awe and relief. “It’s– You’re so warm, and… wet.” he rasped, the confession making your face flush. He stayed still for a heartbeat, his forehead pressed against yours, his eyes squeezed shut. Then, he made his first move. It was a slow, tentative pull back—the long, heavy slide of his thickness dragging against you—followed by a single, testing push forward. The moment he bottomed out again, Yunho’s entire body went rigid. His eyes flew open, blown wide and unfocused, and a high, strangled moan was ripped from the back of his throat. “Oh,” he choked out, his voice cracking spectacularly. “Oh. No. No, no, wait—wait.” He froze instantly, his arms trembling as he braced himself above you. His jaw was locked so tight it looked painful, and his chest was heaving in short, panicked bursts. He looked down at you, his eyes shimmering with a mix of desire and panic.

“Everything’s alright?” you whispered, reaching up to touch his damp cheek.

“Don’t—don’t move,” he gasped, a tiny, helpless whimper escaping him. “Y/N, if you move even a single inch, I am going to... the game is over. Right now. I’m at the finish line.” He squeezed his eyes shut, his head dropping to the crook of your neck as he let out a long, shuddering hiss through his teeth. You could feel the rhythmic pulsing of his cock inside you, twitching with a desperate urgency. “I’m sorry,” he muffled into your skin, his voice shaky. “I’m so sorry. I’m—I’m a level one player and the difficulty just spiked to impossible. I just... I need a second. I need to... lower my heart rate.” He was so sensitive, so completely overwhelmed, that even the stillness was almost too much for him. He took a long breath, trying to force his body to settle, his fingers digging into the pillows as he fought for control.

“It’s okay,” you murmured, tracing the line of his spine with a slow, grounding touch. “It’s your first time. Just let go.”

“No!” he groaned, the sound raw and desperate as he buried his face deeper into the pillow next to your head. “No, I can’t—I’m not gonna... I’m not letting the credits roll after ten seconds of gameplay! That’s—that’s a speedrun I didn’t sign up for!” He was shaking, his large frame vibrating with the effort of fighting his own body. His muscles were corded like steel, his glutes and thighs locked tight as he tried to remain absolutely motionless inside you. You could feel him pulsing—thick, hot, and agonisingly close to the edge—the girth of him feeling even more intense now that he was wound so tight.

“Yun, it’s fine,” you whispered, shifting just a fraction to press a kiss to his burning ear.

“Don’t!” he gasped, a tiny, helpless whimper escaping him. “Don’t... move. Y/N, please. I have a reputation to uphold. I’m the Captain. I’m supposed to have... stamina. I’m supposed to be... efficient.” He took a long, shuddering breath, his ribs expanding against yours. He sounded like he was trying to solve a complex equation in his head just to distract himself from the overwhelming sensation of being wrapped in your warmth. “I’m not letting it end like this,” he muttered, more to himself than to you, his voice thick with a mix of embarrassment and stubborn resolve. He stayed pinned between your legs, his forehead resting on the mattress as he counted his breaths. Every few seconds, a small, involuntary twitch would rack his hips, and he’d let out a pained, soft hiss, his fingers digging into the sheets until they threatened to tear.

You reached up, threading your fingers through the damp of his hair and pulling him down. Your arms wrapped around his neck, anchoring him to you as you brought his lips back to yours. The kiss was slow, deep, and thick with the salt-sweet taste of him. You wanted to show him that there was no failing here—that the connection was the point, not the duration.

Yunho let out a muffled, helpless sound against your mouth, his hand moving from the pillows to frame your face. As you hummed into the kiss, your tongue grazing his, he felt his resolve begin to fracture all over again. “Ba-baby,” he breathed into your lips, “You’re... you’re making it really hard to keep the game paused.” He pulled back just an inch, his nose brushing yours. His eyes were wide and shimmering, looking at you with such affection that it felt more intimate than the physical act itself. As your arms tightened around his neck, pulling him flush against your chest, the sensation of your breasts pressing into him made his breath hitch. He let out a low, shaky exhale, his forehead dropping back to yours. “Okay,” he whispered finally, his voice dropping into a shaky, low-tier rasp. “I think... I think I’ve got it.” He let out a tiny, bashful laugh, his thumb grazing your cheek. “But if you do that hip-roll thing again? All bets are off. I’m just a man, Y/N. A very, very overwhelmed man.”

With that, he slowly, carefully began to move again. It was a shallow, testing slide at first, but the moment he felt the way your body welcomed him, he let out a long, grounded groan and sank back in, the rhythm he found was slow and deep, each thrust an effort to keep from hitting his limit too soon. His length reached deep while the thickness kept you stretched, Yunho looked like he was witnessing a miracle, his breath coming in hot, rhythmic puffs against your lips. Every time he pushed back in, his jaw would tighten.

As Yunho settled into a more confident rhythm, his movements became less about caution and more about exploration. He shifted his weight, his large hands moving from the mattress to your thighs, anchoring you firmly as he angled his hips. On a particularly deep, heavy thrust, he hit a spot inside you that sent a literal jolt of electricity straight to your brain. Your reaction was violent and purely instinctive. Your back snapped off the mattress, a moan tore from your throat, echoing through the quiet bedroom.

Yunho looked like he’d just discovered a hidden Easter egg in a game he thought he’d mastered. “Wait—that... that sound,” he gasped, his voice trembling with a mix of shock and pure pleasure. “Did I just... did I hit a critical?”

“Yunho—right there,” you managed to choke out, your head falling back, your nails digging into his back. “Don’t... don’t stop. Do that again.”

A triumphant light flickered in his eyes—the look of a pro-player who had finally found the winning strategy. He didn’t just do it again; he focused entirely on that angle. He withdrew slowly, the agonising thickness of him dragging against that sensitive wall, and then lunged forward with a sharp, rhythmic precision. “Right here?” he rasped, his voice dropping into a growl you’d never heard from him before. “You like it when I hit this?” you just let out a breathless moan in response, your nails digging deep into the skin of Yunho’s back.

Every time he connected with that spot, your body bucked against his, your moans becoming frantic, breathless. He doubled down, his pace becoming faster, more desperate, his heavy frame thudding against yours as he chased that sound out of you over and over again. His large hands slid up to lace with yours, pinning them above your head as he drove himself into you. Yunho’s breathing was broken, ragged, his skin slick and burning wherever it met yours.

He was at the absolute limit. His muscles were rigid, his back corded with tension as he hovered over you. He was blind with it, his eyes half-closed as he focused every ounce of his being on the friction where you were joined.

“Touch me. Please... right there.” you gasped, voice strained and needy as you arched against him one more time. You guided his hand down, fingers trembling as you moved his large, hot palm toward your wetness. Yunho let out another moan as you rolled your hips to meet his thrust. Through the overwhelming haze of his own, fast building release, he tried to focus his wandering senses. His fingers, usually so precise, felt clumsy against your slick skin, but he found your clit with a soft, desperate touch.

The moment he made contact, the world seemed to tilt, the electricity traveling down your spine to your very toes.

The pleasure was more than his system could handle. Yunho felt the familiar, terrifying tightening in his lower stomach, a pulsing heat that was no longer something he could hold back. “I can’t... I’m not going to…” he choked out. He lunged forward, burying himself as deep as he could possibly go, his entire body going taut. He didn’t pull away; instead, he surged into you, seeking the heat of your mouth as the first wave of his climax took him. He crashed his lips against yours, his kiss desperate and messy, tasting of salt and relief. As he came inside you, a long, broken sound was muffled against your lips. He held you with a sudden, crushing strength, his fingers digging into your hips to pull you flush against him, wanting to be as close as humanly possible while he gave you everything he had. The pulsing was deep and rhythmic, an overflow that seemed to drain the very strength from his bones. He stayed there, buried deep and trembling, his face hidden in the crook of your neck as the world finally stopped spinning. His breath was hot and wet against your skin, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs, the sound of his heavy, uneven breathing against your ear.

Yunho was still lost in the aftershock of his own orgasm, his body pinning you into the mattress. But as he felt the way your muscles were still twitching around him, the way your nails were still buried deep in his back, he realized you weren’t there yet. He lifted his head, his eyes dark and hazy with a dazed, post-orgasmic glow. He saw the flush on your chest, the way your lips were parted as you fought for air, and a new, quiet intensity flickered in his gaze.

“You’re not…” he didn’t finish the sentence, he shifted his weight immediately, bracing himself on one arm so he didn’t crush you, while his other hand slid back down. His thumb found your sensitive bud, moving with a newfound, steady confidence. He wasn’t rushing anymore; he was focused entirely on the way you arched under his touch. “Let go,” he breathed, his lips ghosting over your jawline. “I’ve got you. Just... please give it to me.” He began to move his hips again, a slow, deep grind that used the lingering hardness of his length to create a different kind of friction. The combination of his thumb’s steady rhythm and the heavy, internal pressure was the final tipping point. Your breath hitched, a moan escaping you as your vision began to blur at the edges. You felt the tension coil tight in your stomach, a white-hot spark that suddenly caught fire. Your head fell back, your eyes snapping shut as the first wave of your climax crashed over you. “That’s it,” Yunho groaned against your skin. “Yes... just like that.”

You cried out as your body buckled and pulsed around him. Every muscle in your body went rigid, your toes curling as the pleasure radiated in rhythmic, electrifying waves. Yunho held you through it, his hand steady and his body anchored deep inside you, providing the solid ground you needed as you orgasmed. He watched you with a look of absolute devotion, drinking in the sight of you until the last of the tremors finally began to fade.

When you finally slumped back into the pillows, limp and exhausted, Yunho collapsed beside you. He pulled you into his side, his arm hooking around your waist to tuck you into the hollow of his chest. He pressed a lingering, tender kiss to the top of your head, his heart finally slowing to a calm, steady thud. “I think…” he murmured into your hair, “I think I’m finally starting to understand what everyone was talking about.”

Yunho was tangled with you, his large, damp body a literal heater against yours. His heart was still doing a frantic victory lap, but the panic was gone. Slowly, he pulled back, enough to look at you. If you thought he was red before, it was nothing compared to the radiant, sunshine-soaked glow on his face now. He looked like he’d just won the World Finals, the lottery, and a lifetime supply of bagels all at once. His hair was sticking up in every direction, and his smile—oh, that adorable smile—was so wide it looked like his face might actually split. “Oh my god,” he whispered, his voice cracking with a high-pitched, breathless laugh. “Y/N. Oh my god.”

You let out a soft, tired giggle, your fingers lazily tracing the corded muscle of his forearm. You were exhausted, your body feeling heavy, but seeing him this happy made your chest ache. “You okay?”

“Okay?” He let out a loud, hysterical huff of a laugh and flopped onto his back, pulling you with him so you were draped over his chest. He immediately began to wrap his arms around you, squeezing you in a massive, happy hug. “I’m better than okay! I’m—I’m levelled up! I’ve reached a new tier! I’ve… I’ve discovered a whole new game genre!” He was beaming, his dark eyes shimmering with a pure, unadulterated joy that was almost blinding. He couldn’t stop moving—his feet were twitching under the comforter, his hands were petting your hair, your back, your arms, as if he needed to constantly verify you were still there. “That was the best thing that’s ever happened to me,” he shifted closer, tucking his chin into the space above your collarbone, his nose nuzzling against your skin. “Did you... I mean... we just…” He let out a breathless, giddy laugh, shaking his head. “That was incredible! Was that as cool for you as it was for me? Because I feel like I just discovered a new colour. Like, a colour that doesn’t even exist on the spectrum yet!” He reached out, cupping your face with both hands, his thumbs dancing over your cheekbones in a flurry of excited motion.

“And I didn’t even... I mean, I held it together! Mostly!” He beamed, his chest puffing out just a little bit with a sudden, adorable surge of pride. “I was worried I was going to be all clumsy and, you know, ‘technical difficulties’ everywhere, but I think I actually did a decent job? Right? Tell me I did a good job.” He didn’t wait for an answer before he started peppering your face with dozens of quick, happy kisses—your forehead, your eyelids, the tip of your nose. He was like a puppy that had finally caught the ball and didn’t know what to do with all the excess joy. “You were so loud,” he whispered, his voice hitching with a mix of awe and a very male sort of satisfaction. “I made you make those sounds. Me! Yunho! The guy who usually trips over his own feet in the kitchen!”

You laughed, a genuine sound that bubbled up from your chest despite how drained you felt. You reached up, catching his face to stop the flurry of kisses, your fingers digging into the soft hair at his temples. “Yes,” you breathed, your voice still a little shaky, a little airy. “You did a very good job. Better than a decent job. You... you were incredible.”

“You made those sounds,” he repeated, almost to himself, a smug little grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I didn’t even know you could hit those notes. I want to hear them again. I want to spend the rest of the night making you make them.”

“Yunho!” you squeaked, hitting his chest lightly.

“What? I’m serious!” He caught your hand, lacing his long fingers with yours and bringing your knuckles to his lips for a lingering, tender kiss. He looked at you with such intense, boyish hope that it felt like you could melt right here and there. “I mean, did you see that?” he asked, his voice full of wonder as he looked at his own hands as if they’d just performed magic. “I was actually... I was consistent! I found the spot! I saw you arch and I was like, ‘Oh, okay, Yunho, stay on target, stay on target!’ And I did!” He couldn’t stay still. He kept moving, his feet tangling with yours under the sheets, his hands constantly finding an excuse to touch you—brushing a hair back, rubbing your shoulder, or just squeezing your waist. “You’re so pretty,” he whispered, his hyperactive energy settling for just a second as he looked at your face. He leaned down, resting his forehead against yours, his voice softening. “Really, Y/N. I’m the luckiest guy in the world. I’m never gonna forget tonight. Ever.”

Yunho’s eyes suddenly widened, his pupils practically sparkling as a new thought downloaded into his hyperactive brain. He sat up abruptly, shifting you from his chest to his side, the comforter sliding down to his waist, completely unbothered by his own nudity because he was too busy being the most excited boy on the planet. “Gosh, I need to tell Mingi!” he blurted out, a huge, goofy grin spreading across his face. “I have to tell him! He’s been acting like such an expert for months, giving me all these ‘tips’ and telling me to ‘just try not to pass out’! I didn’t pass out! I was a natural! I was practically a pro-player on the first try!”

“Yunho, no!” you gasped, reaching up to grab his arm, your face burning. “You are not telling Mingi!”

“But he needs to know!” Yunho laughed, leaning over to press a messy, happy kiss to your shoulder. “He told me I’d probably be ‘clumsy’ and ‘low-impact.’ I was high-impact, Y/N! And turns out I have a massive character buff! I need to humble him!” He started looking around for his phone, his long limbs tangling in the sheets as he moved with the energy of a kid on Christmas morning. “And Seonghwa!” Yunho added, his voice rising in pitch as he got even more excited. “Oh man, hyung is going to lose his mind. He’s so nervous about the ‘mechanics’ and the ‘controls.’ I need to tell him it’s not scary! I need to tell him that if I can do it then he can do it too!” He finally found his phone on the nightstand, but before he could unlock it, he looked back at you, his expression softening into something so dazed and proud it was almost unbearable. “They’re not gonna believe me,” he whispered, a little breathless. “They’re gonna think I’m making it up. They’ll be like, ‘Yunho? Our Yunho? The guy who gets shy when a girl asks for the time?’ And I’ll be like, ‘Yeah! Me! I’m the one who made her make those sounds!’”

“If you tell them I was loud, I will move to a different country,” you threatened, though you couldn’t stop the laughter from bubbling up.

“I won’t tell them everything,” he promised, though his mischievous grin said otherwise. He flopped back down beside you, pulling you into his chest so hard you squeaked. “I’ll just tell them I’ve officially reached the top tier. I’ve reached the final boss and I won, Y/N. I won so hard. I’m a living legend!” He was beaming, his chest puffed out with a sudden, adorable surge of pure, masculine pride. He looked like he wanted to go out and wrestle a bear or win the Summer Open solo. “I’m just… I’m really happy,” he murmured, his voice finally settling into a warm, domestic hum. “I don’t think I’ve ever been this happy. Not even when I hit Radiant for the first time. This is way better than Radiant.”

As you shifted to get more comfortable, you felt a warm, unmistakable trickle against your thigh. The reality of the mess finally cut through the post-glow haze. “Oh—wait. I need a wet towel. Can you grab me one? I’m kind of... a mess.”

The “Legend” status evaporated instantly. Yunho’s eyes went wide as dinner plates, his golden-retriever energy switching to pure, frantic panic. “A towel? Why? Are you—are you bleeding? Did I actually break a mechanic?!” He scrambled to his knees, looking like he was about to call an ambulance. “Oh my god, Y/N, I knew it! I was too much! I’ve over-levelled and destroyed the environment!” Before you could stop him, he was diving toward the foot of the bed, his face full of terrifyingly earnest concern. “What happened? Where is it? Let me see! I need to check the damage—”

“Yunho! Stop!” You grabbed a pillow and playfully whacked him with it to get him to look at you. “I’m not hurt! You didn’t ‘break the environment,’ you dork. It’s just... you."

He paused mid-lunge, blinking up at you with a look of confusion. “Me? What do you mean, me?”

“It’s you leaking out of me,” you said, your face heating up despite the hilarity of the situation. “You finished inside me, remember? It doesn’t just stay there forever. Gravity exists, even for Radiant rank.”

The silence that followed was heavy with the sound of Yunho’s brain cells trying to process biology. He looked down at the sheets, then back at you, and slowly—painfully slowly—the most intense shade of purple-red you’d ever seen crawled from his chest to the tips of his ears. “Oh,” he whispered, his voice cracking. “Oh. Right. Fluid dynamics. I... I knew that. I totally knew that was a feature.” He buried his face in his hands for a second, let out a tiny, high-pitched whimper of embarrassment, and then immediately scrambled off the bed. “Towel! Wet towel! Coming right up! I’m on it!”

You heard him nearly trip over a stray shoe in his rush to the bathroom, his voice drifting back to you, full of bashful pride again. “I’m definitely not telling Mingi about the towel part.”

You heard the sound of water running in the bathroom, followed by a loud clatter of a fallen shampoo bottle, and a muffled “I’m okay! No damage taken!”

A few seconds later, Yunho jogged back into the room. He was trying to look composed, but he was still stark naked and holding a warm, damp towel like it was a holy relic. He knelt on the edge of the mattress, his eyes darting between your face and the “situation” with a mix of awe and lingering bashful panic. “Okay, I have the supplies,” he announced, his voice still a little high-pitched. He reached out to help you, but then he hesitated, his hand hovering mid-air. “Wait, should I... do I do it? Or is that like... a solo quest?”

“Just give me the towel,” you laughed, reaching for it.

“No, no! I got us into this mess, I should help clean it up!” He took a deep breath, his face glowing as he gently began to clean your thighs. As he worked, he couldn’t help but peek at the evidence of his “character buff.” He let out a low, shaky breath, a small, proud smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth again. “Gosh, there’s actually... quite a lot.”

“Yunho!” you hissed, swatting at his shoulder.

“I’m just observing the stats!” he defended himself, looking up at you with those wide, shimmering eyes.

When he finally tossed the damp towel toward the laundry hamper (and missed by a mile, hitting the door instead), he let out a long, grounding exhale that seemed to finally vent the last of his energy. He scrambled to his dresser, his long, pale limbs moving with a new kind of fluid confidence, and pulled out two shirts. He put on an oversized black tee and shimmied into a pair of boxers. “Equipping the pyjamas,” he muttered, a soft, boyish chuckle vibrating in his chest as he climbed back into bed.

The mattress dipped significantly under his weight, the air finally setting into a low, domestic hum. “Here,” he murmured, handing you a plain, cotton tee. He helped you pull the shirt over your head, his large hands lingering on your shoulders for a second too long. It swallowed you whole, the hem reaching mid-thigh, making you look tiny against the backdrop of his pillows.

He didn’t just lie down; he curated a nest. He pulled the heavy comforter up, tucking it around your shoulders before sliding his arm underneath your neck, hauling you flush against his side so that your head rested right over his heart. “Comfort levels at 100%,” he whispered, his voice dropping into a thick, sleepy rasp that made your skin tingle. He leaned down, pressing a kiss to your temple, then your cheek, and finally a long, lingering one to your lips. He tasted like the cool water he’d just splashed on his face and felt like a living heater. He pulled you into him, his front to your back, his long legs spooning yours perfectly. One of his heavy arms draped over your waist, his hand splaying across your stomach. He tucked his face into the crook of your neck, his breath warm and steady against your skin. “You okay?” he asked, his voice thick with sleep. “Not too cold? Do you need another blanket? I can go get the heated one from Seonghwa’s bedroom—”

“I’m perfect. Just stay,” you murmured, reaching back to stroke his hair.

“Okay,” he breathed. “Staying. Keeping the position.” He pressed a slow, lingering kiss to the back of your shoulder, then another to the side of your neck, they were quiet, deep, and filled with a domesticity that felt like a promise. “I love you, Y/N,” he muttered into your skin. “Best… night… ever.”

“I love you too, Yunnie.” You felt his breathing evening out, within minutes, he was dead to the world, his grip on you firm even in sleep. You stared at the curtains for a moment, the weight of his love—and the weight of your lies—swirling in your head. But as the warmth of his body seeped into yours, the exhaustion finally won. Your eyes drifted shut, and you fell into a deep, dreamless sleep, wrapped in the arms of the boy who thought you were a goddess.

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎Yunho stirred first. His body felt heavy and warm, a lingering phantom of the night’s heat still buzzing in his skin. He didn’t want to open his eyes; he wanted to stay in the soft, scent-filled bubble of your hair and the quiet hum of the apartment. But he needed to check the time. He needed to see if he had enough minutes left to pull you closer and fall back into that dreamless, happy sleep or if both of you needed to rush to classes. He groaned softly, his long arm reaching out blindly to the nightstand. His fingers brushed against cold glass and metal. He fumbled for his glasses, but his hand closed around a phone instead. His brain was still 90% asleep when he brought the screen close to his face, squinting through the blur. He didn’t realise it was your phone. He didn’t realise the lock screen was different. He just saw the stacked notifications.

Wooyoung: EMERGENCY!!🚨 THE GYM GUY ACTUALLY HAD THE BALLS TO ASK ME OUT TONIGHT!! HE GAVE ME HIS NUMBER ON A PROTEIN SHAKE WRAPPER I AM SCREAMING!! Wooyoung: BITCH WAKE UP!!! STOP RIDING CAPTAIN’S DICK AND CHECK YOUR DAMN PHONE!! MY SINGLE DAYS ARE OVER!! Wooyoung: Anyway, priority shift! I can’t be Viper tonight. My skin needs to be glowing for this date, not hunched over a monitor carrying your ass. Reschedule the match with your nerdy boyfriend and his friends. Wooyoung: Seriously, tell him you’re sick or something. We can’t Ratatouille tonight if I’m getting my back blown out! I plan to not be able to walk for the next three days. Go practice your aim, you still shoot like a blind toddler.

The silence in the room suddenly became deafening.

Yunho sat up, the movement slow and mechanical. The comforter slid off his chest, the cool air hitting his skin like a slap, but he didn’t feel it. He stared at the screen, his eyes scanning the words over and over again.

The puzzle pieces he’d been too in love to notice began to lock into place with a metallic click. The “coincidences.” The way you two never played together. The way you were always “studying” when the rest of Level Zero would meet up in B-12. He looked down at you—still asleep, wearing his shirt, looking like the personification of the pure, beautiful thing he’d described hours ago. His hand began to shake. The phone felt like it was burning his palm. Every word you’d whispered—“I love you,” “You were incredible,” “We’re in the same team,”—now felt like a line from a play he hadn’t realized he was starring in. He read the texts one more time, hoping—praying—he’d misread them. But there it was. He let out a breath that sounded like a sob, his fingers clutching the edge of the mattress. He just sat there in the grey light, looking at the girl who had stolen his first love and tied it to a lie. His jaw was tight, his eyes shimmering with a sudden, hot moisture that he refused to let fall. He wasn’t the happy, beaming boy from a few hours ago.

The sudden absence of his heat was what woke you.

The bed shifted, the mattress rising as Yunho’s weight left it. In the haze of your deep sleep, you reached out blindly for him, your hand brushing against the still-warm sheets where his body had been seconds ago. You let out a small, soft whimper of protest, your eyes fluttering open against the dim, grey morning light. “Yunho?” you murmured, your voice honey-sweet with sleep.

He didn’t answer.

You sat up, the oversized t-shirt sliding off one shoulder. You saw his silhouette near the door—his shoulders were hunched, his posture rigid with a tension that made the air in the room feel brittle. Without a word, he stepped out into the hallway, his footsteps heavy.

Panic flared in your chest, instantly killing the last of your drowsiness. You scrambled out of bed, your bare feet hitting the cold floor as you followed him. “Yunho? Is everything okay? Did something happen?”

You followed him to the living room. He wasn’t looking at the Rayman screen or the controllers still scattered on the rug. He was standing by the window, his large hands gripped so tightly onto the back of the sofa that his knuckles were white. His chest was heaving, his breath coming in shallow hitches that sounded like he was physically choking on the air.

“Yunho?” you stepped closer, reaching out to touch his arm. He flinched. He didn’t just move away—he recoiled as if your touch had burned him. The pale, cold light of dawn made his skin look like marble. He turned around, and the sight of his face stopped the blood in your veins. His glasses were on, but his eyes behind them were bloodshot, shimmering with disbelief. He looked like he had aged ten years in the span of five minutes. In his right hand, he was clutching your phone. The screen still lit up, displaying the wall of text from Wooyoung that had just dismantled his life.

“I was looking for my glasses,” he started but he didn’t look at you. He was staring at the phone, his thumb hovering over the screen as if the words were wounds he couldn’t stop touching. “I just wanted to see if I had enough time to make you breakfast before we had to leave.” He finally lifted his gaze, and the raw, wet shine behind his lenses made your heart stop. He didn’t look angry—he looked destroyed.

“‘Stop riding Captain’s dick and check your damn phone,’” he quoted, his voice cracking on the word Captain. He let out a short sound that was supposed to be a laugh, but it was too sharp, too full of pain. “He’s very high-energy, isn’t he? Your roommate. He seems very excited about his date.” He took a step toward you, holding the phone out so you could see the words. “He told you to reschedule the match with your ‘nerdy boyfriend.’ That’s me, right? The nerdy boyfriend who was just... being fooled the entire time?”

He looked down at the text again, his jaw tightening until the muscle leaped in his cheek. “‘We can’t Ratatouille tonight.’ Everything I fell for... every time I thought we were perfectly in sync... it was just him, wasn’t it? Wooyoung was playing, and I was just the idiot who didn’t realize the girl I loved was lying.” He looked at you then, his eyes searching yours for something—anything—that wasn’t a lie. “He called me a ‘nerdy boyfriend,’ Y/N. He told you to tell me you were sick so you could skip playing tonight. Was that the plan all along? Were you going to wake up in my arms, tell me you didn’t feel well, and then go practice your aim because you ‘shoot like a blind toddler’?" He let out a shaky breath, his fingers trembling against the phone. “The ‘Goddess’ I bragged about... the girl I thought was a tactical genius... she doesn’t even exist, does she? She’s just a character you and Wooyoung created to play me.” His voice dropped to a whisper, more devastating than any shout. “Last night... when I told you I loved you. Was that part of the mission? Or was that just the ‘nerdy boyfriend’ being a little too easy to manipulate?”

The air in the living room felt like it was freezing over. You took a desperate step forward, your hands reaching out instinctively to grab him, to pull him back from the edge. “Yunho, please,” you choked out, your voice trembling. “It’s not like that. It didn’t start like—I didn’t mean for it to go this far. Just let me explain, please, just let me touch you—” As your fingers brushed the skin of his forearm, Yunho flinched so violently it was as if you’d struck him. He lunged backward, hitting the wall.

“Don’t!” he held the phone up between you like a shield, his knuckles white. “Don’t touch me. Don’t... don’t do that soft voice. I don’t know which part of you is real and which part is the script anymore.” He looked at you, and for the first time, the warmth in his eyes was completely gone, replaced by a cold, hollow clarity. He let out a breathy, pained laugh that broke into a sob at the end. “I keep thinking back,” he whispered, his voice shaking. “I keep going back to that day in the quad. When those girls were laughing at me. When she said…” He swallowed hard, his throat working as he stared at you with a look of dawning horror. “When she said that I was so pathetic that nobody would want to fuck me, even out of pity.” He wiped a frantic, messy hand across his eyes, shoving his glasses up his nose. “You heard every word they said to me.” He took a step toward you, his eyes searching yours with a terrifying, desperate intensity. “Is that when it started? Did you see me there, at my absolute lowest, and… Did you decide right then that the pathetic guy from campus was the perfect target for you to play? Were you bored?” He gestured wildly to the bedroom behind him, his voice cracking spectacularly. “Was last night the ultimate pity fuck? Was that the final achievement? Did you tell Wooyoung you finally closed the loop on the guy nobody wanted? Are you guys going to laugh about it over beer tonight while I’m sitting here thinking I finally found someone who saw me for who I actually am?” He dropped his head, his shoulders shaking as he clutched the phone to his chest. “I gave you everything,” he rasped, his voice barely audible. “I gave you the only first time I’ll ever have. And you... you were just playing a character.”

“Yunho, no! It wasn’t pity, I swear to you, I—”

“Then what was it?” he snapped, the volume of his voice jumping for the first time, sharp and echoing against the ceiling of the apartment. He didn’t let you finish, his words cutting through yours like a blade. “If it wasn’t pity, was it just… the game? Was it the challenge of seeing how long you could keep the lie going before I noticed my ‘Goddess’ couldn’t hit a target?”

“Listen to me!” you cried, taking another step forward, your heart thumping painfully against your ribs. “The feelings, the way I look at you, that’s—”

“Stop!” he shouted, holding up a hand, his eyes squeezed shut as if the sight of you was physically hurting him. “Don’t say it. Don’t you dare use that word right now. You don’t get to talk about feelings when you were planning on telling me you were sick today just so the real Viper could go get laid!” He opened his eyes, and the sheer betrayal in them made you flinch. He looked down at the phone again, his thumb scrolling aggressively through the thread. “He thinks I’m a joke, doesn’t he? He’s laughing at me. And you let him! You let him call me a nerd, let him tell you to lie to me, while you were lying in my bed, wearing my shirt!” Yunho wasn’t just hurt anymore; he was getting heated, his voice rising into a sharp, authoritative tone you’d never heard before.

“I’m learning!” you said, your voice cracking as you took a defiant step toward him, fuelled by a mix of guilt and exhaustion. “I’ve been waking up at four in the fucking morning every day to run drills until my hands cramp! I didn’t ask for this to become some grand conspiracy! I just wanted to stay by your side because I fucking love you!”

“By my side?!” Yunho barked, a harsh, hysterical laugh breaking from his throat. He slammed your phone down onto the coffee table with a crack that made you flinch. “You stayed by my side by letting another man smurf your account? By making me look like a fucking idiot in front of my own friends? You let me brag about you! I told everyone you were the best thing to ever happen to me! And the whole time, you were just the girl behind the curtain while Wooyoung pulled the strings!”

“I’m trying! I’m in the range for hours every goddamn night after you fall asleep!” you screamed, your voice cracking as the sheer weight of the double life finally crushed your composure. “You think I like this? You think I enjoy having Wooyoung scream in my ear because I can’t aim to save my fucking relationship? I’m doing it for the team! I’m doing it for you!”

“For me?” Yunho’s laugh was a harsh, ugly sound that tore through the quiet of the apartment. “You didn’t do this for me. You did this because you loved the attention! You loved being the ‘Goddess’ everyone worshipped. You loved that I looked at you like you were some kind of miracle while you were just a puppet!”

“That is bullshit and you know it!” you hissed, stepping right into his space, your chest heaving against the fabric of his shirt. “I lied in the first place because I saw the way you cared for the club, and I knew—I knew if I was just some girl who couldn’t even pick the right agent in the lobby, I’d be invisible to you! I was trying to help you!”

“By lying to my face?’ he roared, his voice finally breaking into a full-scale shout. “By making me look like a fool in front of my own friends? You let me brag about you! You sat there and watched me tell Mingi how incredible you were, knowing the whole time you were lying! Was I just a trophy to you? The pathetic, shy gamer you managed to trick into bed?”

“Shut up! Just shut the fuck up about the bed!” you sobbed, shoving at his chest. “Last night had nothing to do with the game! You know that! You felt it!”

“I don't know anything!” Yunho screamed back, his eyes wild and bloodshot behind his glasses. “I don’t know if the girl I slept with even exists! Are you even the person I fell for, or was that just another layer of the script? Did Wooyoung tell you what to say to me in bed, too? Was he ‘Ratatouille-ing’ our whole fucking relationship?!”

“Go to hell, Yunho!” you shrieked, the words torn from the rawest part of your throat. “You’re so obsessed with your rank and your precious stats that you can’t even see I was doing everything to keep up with you!”

Yunho went deathly still. The anger in his face didn’t fade, but it curdled into something far more terrifying—pure, concentrated hurt. He looked at you as if you’d just slapped him. “My stats?” he repeated, his height feeling like a threat for the first time. “You think... you think this is about fucking Valorant?” He grabbed his own hair, pulling at the blonde strands in a fit of genuine, unbridled agony. “Do you really think a fucking video game is the most important thing to me?!” he screamed, his voice cracking spectacularly. “I didn’t fall for a character in the game, Y/N! I fell for the girl who sat in the dust with me in the basement! I fell for the person I thought was honest with me! I would have forfeited the Summer Open, the club, the whole fucking game just to stay in that bed with you for one more hour!”

“That’s a lie!” you yelled back, your hands fisted in the hem of his shirt. “We wouldn’t have even talked if it wasn’t for my lie! I was just some random girl who helped you out of a fucked up situation! After I shoved Seoyun I’d be just another person in the hallway to you!”

“Just another person?” Yunho’s voice broke into a pained, high-pitched sob. “I saw you! I saw you before you ever laid eyes on me! Do you even know we shared a class last year? I would look at you all the time thinking how pretty and cool you were! I was just too shy to speak to you until I thought we had something in common!”

The silence that followed was absolute. It felt like the oxygen had been sucked out of the apartment. You stood frozen, your hands still curled into the fabric of his shirt. Your brain was struggling to process his words, frantically searching through memories of crowded lecture halls. You had never noticed him. Not until that day when he put up the poster. “You... what?” you whispered, your voice barely audible.

“Last year. Professor Shin’s lecture,” Yunho rasped, finally looking down at you. His eyes were red, his glasses slightly crooked. “You sat three rows down. You used to wear that oversized black leather jacket on top of a huge, black shirt and drink two cups of coffee, its smell would fill the entire class. I spent the whole semester trying to think of a single thing to say to you, but I am just some nerdy kid with no social skills. That day in the Quad, I thought... I thought the game was our bridge. It was the one thing that finally made me brave enough to talk to you.”

“I didn’t need you to be a good player, Y/N. I just wanted the girl with coffee.” He gestured toward the phone, his hand shaking. “But you thought I was as shallow as the girls who bullied me.”

“I was going to fix it! I was going to get good enough so Wooyoung didn’t have to—”

“Fix what?! The lie is the foundation, Y/N! You built us on a fucking lie!”

The room felt like it was shrinking, your chest was heaving, the oversized fabric of Yunho’s shirt—the one he’d tenderly helped you put on just hours ago—now feeling like a shroud. “You weren’t supposed to find out!” you shrieked, the words tearing out of you. “It wasn’t supposed to end like this! I was supposed to learn! I was supposed to get better and finally stop relying on Wooyoung!” You desperately placed your hands on top of Yunho’s sternum, but he flinched, backing into the wall. “I was going to wait until I was actually good enough, until I could hold my own, and then— I just needed more time! I just wanted to be the girl you thought I was! You weren’t supposed to know about any of this!”

The words didn’t just hang in the air; they curdled. Yunho’s expression shifted from agonising heartbreak to something far worse: a cold, dead clarity. He stopped shaking. He stopped crying. He just stood there, staring at you as if he were seeing a stranger for the first time—or finally seeing the real you. “I wasn’t supposed to find out,” he muttered, his voice dangerously soft. The way he said it made your blood run cold. It wasn’t an outburst; it was a realisation. “That’s the part you’re most upset about, isn’t it? Not that you lied. Not that you betrayed me. Just that you got caught.”

“No, that’s not what I meant—”

“But it is!” he snapped, his voice suddenly sharp again. “You just said it! You weren’t going to tell me. Ever. You were just going to wait until you were ‘good enough’ so you could successfully replace the old lie with a newer, better one. You were never going to be honest with me! You were just going to wait until the truth didn’t matter anymore.”

“Enough! Both of you!”

The voice was like a bucket of ice water.

Both of you spun around, chests heaving, faces flushed and tear-streaked. Seonghwa was standing at the edge of the kitchenette. He looked like he’d been standing there long enough to hear the full, ugly truth

“Hyung,” Yunho breathed, his voice suddenly small, the fire dying into a pathetic ash. He looked like he wanted to disappear.

Seonghwa’s gaze didn’t go to his best friend first. It landed on you. He looked at you—standing there in Yunho’s shirt, disheveled and desperate—and his eyes were colder than you had ever seen them. “Is it true?”

The silence that followed was the loudest sound in the world. You looked at Yunho, who was now staring at the floor, his shoulders shaking as he gripped his own arms. He couldn’t even look at you anymore. “I…” you whispered, the fight completely gone. “I can explain.”

“There is nothing to explain,” Seonghwa walked into the middle of the room, stepping into the debris of the argument. He looked at the phone on the table, then at your trembling hands, and finally at Yunho, who looked like he was trying to fold himself into the wall. “I’ve been watching the two of you for weeks,” Seonghwa continued, his gaze drifting back to you. The coldness was there, but it was mixed with a sharp, piercing disappointment that felt like a physical weight. “I saw how happy he was. I saw how he looked at you like you were the only person in the world who truly understood him. I actually started to believe it, too.”

“Seonghwa, please—” you started, but he held up a hand, silencing you instantly.

“Yeosang was the one who noticed the inconsistencies first, Y/N. He told me that some things just didn’t add up. That you never talked much about the game play and past matches when we were hanging out in B-12. That sometimes during matches what you said didn’t match your movement. I kept quiet because I thought... I thought surely you wouldn’t lie to us about something as stupid as being good at a game.” He turned to his best friend, his expression softening with a pained, protective look. “He doesn’t have a single bad bone in his body,” Seonghwa whispered, his voice thick with a quiet fury. “He thinks everyone is as honest as he is. You knew that. You saw him sitting there, getting ripped apart by those girls, and you knew exactly how much he needed someone to be on his side.” Seonghwa took a step toward you, his height looming, his face a mask of a heartbreak. “You stood in our kitchen and helped me cook. You sat on our sofa and listened to him talk about his dreams for the club. You let him give you his heart, knowing the entire time that you were lying.”

“But Hwa, I love him!” you cried out, the words sounding desperate and thin.

“You love the way he loves Viper,” Seonghwa corrected you sharply. “If you loved him, you wouldn’t have let him become a laughingstock for your roommate. You wouldn’t have let him believe he was in a relationship when he was actually in a puppet show.” He reached out and grabbed your bag from the floor where you left it yesterday, his movements efficient and final. He didn’t yell; he didn’t have to. The way he looked at you—as if he were seeing a bug in a system he had to purge—was enough. “You’re wearing his clothes,” Seonghwa noted, his eyes flickering to the oversized shirt. “Go into the bathroom. Change. Put your own things on.”

He turned to Yunho, who was still staring at the floor, his breathing shallow and jagged. Seonghwa walked over and placed a steadying hand on Yunho’s shoulder, “Yunnie, look at me,” he commanded gently. When the taller one finally lifted his red, tear-filled eyes, Seonghwa spoke with a finality that broke the last of the air in the room. “She’s leaving. We have a tournament to withdraw from, and a free spot in Level Zero to take care of.”

The bathroom door felt like a mile away as you walked toward it, Seonghwa’s eyes burning into your back. Every step was a nightmare, the soft cotton of Yunho’s shirt now feeling like it was made of lead. You changed with trembling hands, the silence in the apartment so heavy you could hear the blood rushing in your ears.

When you stepped back out, dressed in your own clothes, the living room felt like a funeral. Seonghwa was sitting next to still sobbing Yunho on the couch, his hand a firm, protective weight on his shoulder. Yunho looked like a ghost, his gaze fixed on a spot on the carpet, his fingers digging into his own arms.

“Yun, I—” your voice cracked, desperate for one last chance to make him see you, to make him believe that your feelings were real. “Please, just listen for one second—”

“Enough, Y/N,” Seonghwa interrupted, his voice like iron. “You’ve said enough.”

You looked at the two of them—the Level Zero family you had so desperately wanted to belong to. You walked out the door, the ‘Goddess’ was dead, and as you walked down the stairs into the cold morning air, you realized Viper had finally lost the only match that actually mattered.

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ The cigarette in your hand was a dying ember, the orange glow barely visible against the grey afternoon. You’d forgotten to take more than a single, bitter drag; you were just holding it, watching the ash grow long and precarious, a perfect mirror of your own stability. The weather for the past few days had been a cruel, mocking thing. The sky was a bruised palette of grey and blue, a relentless, drizzling rain portraying exactly how you felt inside. Everything was damp, cold, and blurred at the edges.

Your hands were shaking—a constant, rhythmic tremor that hadn’t stopped since the moment the door to Yunho’s apartment had clicked shut behind you. You’d burst into tears in the most humiliating scenarios: in the middle of the cafeteria, standing in line for a bus, and most horrifyingly, right in the middle of Professor Lee’s lecture. You couldn’t stand the skin you were in; you felt hollow, a ghost haunting your own life. In those few weeks by Yunho’s side, you had completely forgotten what your existence looked like before him. Now, the silence of your old life was deafening.

You were about to crush the filter into the damp rim of the trash can just to light another one—anything to keep your hands busy—when a voice cut through the hum of the rain.

“You don’t look too good.”

You froze. Yeosang was standing a few feet away, his hands buried deep in the pockets of his coat. For the first time since you’d met him, the sharp, analytical edge was gone from his eyes. He looked... hesitant. Scared, even. He approached slowly, as if he were worried that a single wrong word might cause you to shatter right there on the pavement.

He stopped just outside your personal space, his gaze dropping to your shaking hands and then to the dead cigarette. “The Captain hasn’t slept,” Yeosang said softly, his voice devoid of its usual dry bite. “And looking at you... I’m guessing you haven’t either.” He took a step closer, the umbrella he was holding casting a shadow over both of you, shielding you from the drizzle. “Mingi told me you had classes in this building. He wanted me to scream and demand answers.” He paused, his throat working as he swallowed. “I’m not here to talk about the game, Y/N. I’m just... I’m here because Level Zero logic doesn’t make sense without Viper. And Yunho is currently a ghost in a headset.” He looked at you with a piercing, quiet sadness. “What happened? Truly. Because a lie about a video game doesn’t leave someone looking like they’ve had their soul deleted.”

You laughed—a sharp sound that had no humour in it, only bitterness. Your tongue darted out to lick your lower lip, tasting the salt of dried tears and the tang of nicotine, before your hands dove into your bag. You fumbled through the mess of receipts and loose change, your movements jerky and frantic as you searched for a fresh pack. You needed the smoke. You needed the ritual. Most of all, you needed your old walls—the walls of a girl you were before Yunho—to slam back into place.

“Why would you care?” you chuckled, the sound thin and brittle against the backdrop of the rain. You finally fished out the pack, your shaking fingers struggling to peel back the plastic. You kept your head down, focusing entirely on the task, your eyes never quite landing on Yeosang. You couldn’t afford to look at him. Yeosang was too smart; he saw the frame data of a person’s soul, and right now, yours was nothing but corrupted files. “Isn't this what you wanted, Yeosang?” you asked, finally sparking the lighter on the third try. You took a long, desperate drag, the smoke filling your lungs and momentarily steadying the tremors in your chest. “You were the one who kept saying I was a glitch. You were the one who didn’t trust me. Well, congratulations. The error has been corrected. I disconnected.” You leaned back against the damp brick wall of the campus building, blowing a plume of gray smoke into the gray sky. You looked like a stranger—colder, harder, and entirely unreachable. “Tell the Captain he can stop being a ghost,” you said, your voice dropping into a flat, monotone register. “Tell him the server is closed. He should go find a real Radiant to play with. Someone who doesn’t have to use a script to love him.”

Yeosang didn’t move, watching you with that terrifyingly calm intensity. “You’re a terrible liar, Y/N,” he said quietly. “You’re playing a character again. But this one... this ‘I don’t care’ version? Her win-rate is zero. You’re shaking so hard you can barely hold that cigarette, and you expect me to believe feelings are gone?”

You just scoffed, a short, sharp sound intended to dismiss him entirely, but your body betrayed you. Even as your lips curled into a defensive sneer, a single, hot tear escaped the corner of your eye. It traced a slow, burning path through the foundation on your cheek, cutting through the mask you were trying so desperately to rebuild. You didn’t wipe it away. To wipe it would be to acknowledge it was there. Instead, you took another aggressive drag of your cigarette, the tip glowing a fierce, angry red. “Feelings are overrated, Yeosang,” you whispered, your voice finally cracking, betraying the stone-cold persona you were aiming for. “The only way to save the system is to format the whole drive. That’s what I did. I saved him from a fraud.”

“You didn’t save him, you just left him in a room with all the lights turned off. He’s not even playing, Y/N. He just sits at his desk in B-12 and stares at your empty chair. He doesn’t even care about the Summer Open anymore.” He reached out, his hand hesitating in the air before he gently, tentatively, plucked the cigarette from your shaking fingers. He dropped it into the wet puddle at your feet, where it hissed once and died. “He thinks the lie was your way of trying to get away from him before things got ‘real.’ That’s the logic he’s running on now. Is that the version of the truth you want him to keep?”

You finally looked at him. Your eyes were red-rimmed, your eyeliner smudged into dark shadows that made you look haunted.

“He doesn’t have it in him to hate you, and he’s too far gone for pity. He just wants his person back. Not the MVP. Just the girl who blew him a kiss while chopping carrots.”

“The first phase of Summer Open is in three days,” Yeosang continued, his voice regaining a sliver of its tactical edge. “Mingi and I... we signed the roster. My friend from high-school, Jongho, took Seonghwa’s place for the tournament. Your spot is open.”

“My spot is open?” you repeated, your voice a hollow echo. “Yeosang, did you miss the part where I’m a liar? I can’t play. I can’t even hold my crosshair in the right position without hyperventilating.”

Yeosang’s tiny smirk didn’t reach his eyes, but it was the most Level Zero thing you’d seen in days. “I didn’t say you were playing. I’m a realist, Y/N. I know you’re still a bottom-tier scrub who probably still looks at her keyboard to find the ‘W’ key." He took a half-step closer, his expression turning deadly serious. “But you can still help Yunho make his dream work.”

You looked up at him, your eyes red-rimmed and stinging. “How? By showing up and letting him see how much I played him?”

“No,” Yeosang countered. “By bringing the real Viper. Talk to Wooyoung. Tell him to play with us. Even if it’s just for the first phase. He knows us. He knows our rotations. He was the one who was playing the entire time anyway—he might as well get the credit for the headshots.” He stepped closer, the shadow of the umbrella fully engulfing you. “Yunho is breaking, Y/N. If Wooyoung steps in, it gives us a fighting chance. And it gives you a chance to be there. Not as a player, but as the girl who actually cares whether he wins or loses.” Yeosang reached out, his hand hesitating before he gave your shoulder a single, stiff nudge—the closest thing to a hug he could offer without breaking his own character. “Tell Wooyoung he’s subbing in. Tell him the roster is waiting. And you?” Yeosang’s gaze turned piercing, his eyes searching yours. “You show up at the arena. You stand behind him. You be the person he actually fell in love with, and let the lie die. We have seventy-two hours to fix the logic, Y/N. Don’t waste them crying in the rain.”

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎The air inside the players’ lounge was thick with the smell of energy drinks, and the muffled, rhythmic thumping of the main stage’s bass. On the other side of the soundproof walls, fans were cheering, but inside the small room, the silence was suffocating.

Yunho was sitting at the edge of his chair, his head buried in his hands. He looked hollow—his jersey hung loosely on his broad shoulders, and the vibrant, determined leader who usually commanded B-12 had been replaced by a man running on nothing but autopilot. He didn’t even look up when the door hissed open.

“The fifth player is here,” Jongho announced, his voice echoing off the clinical white walls.

“Yeosang said he was bringing a ringer,” Mingi muttered, pacing the small room and checking his watch. “Some guy from the library? Who plays tactical shooters in a library?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Yunho rasped, his voice sounding like it had been dragged through gravel. “We’re just here to fill the slot so we don’t get blacklisted for a no-show. We’re not winning anything today.” Yunho let out a heavy, tired breath, his voice muffled by his palms. “Just... tell him to come on in. I’ll give him the tactical brief in five minutes.”

“Actually,” Jongho muttered, his voice uncharacteristically quiet, “I don’t think he needs a brief.”

The door creaked open.

Yunho didn’t even look up at first, not until the heavy, rhythmic tread of two people entering made him lift his head. Yeosang walked in first, but it was the figure behind him that made the air vanish from the room. Wooyoung stepped in; he wasn't wearing a jersey; he was dressed in his usual oversized hoodie, a pair of high-end noise-canceling headphones draped around his neck. He looked like he was walking onto a battlefield he already owned.

Yunho’s brow furrowed, his brain trying to categorize the face. He’d seen him in photos on your phone. He’d heard his voice in the background of your calls. Then, in a sudden, violent motion, he surged to his feet. The chair he’d been sitting in skidded back, hitting the wall. “No,” Yunho hissed, his face contorting with a sudden, white-hot fury. His eyes weren’t just angry; they were devastated. “Absolutely not. Yeosang, what the hell is this?”

“Yunho, sit down,” Yeosang said calmly.

“I’m not playing with him!” Yunho roared, stepping toward Wooyoung. He was a head taller, his frame vibrating with a dangerous, unstable energy. “I’m withdrawing. We’re done.” Yunho turned to grab his bag, his movements jerky and frantic. He was done being the Captain. He was just a man who had been broken by the person he trusted most.

“I’m not here for you, Yunho. I’m here because of her,” Wooyoung said, stepping closer, refusing to be intimidated by the Captain’s height. “You want to withdraw? Fine. Throw away the Summer Open. But don’t act like you don’t know who I am.”

“I know exactly who you are,” Yunho spat.

“I’m the Viper,” Wooyoung corrected him, his eyes flashing. “I know the C-site retake on Haven. I know the wall-drop on Bind. I know that when you’re stressed, you over-rotate to A-short and leave the flank exposed. I know the way you breathe when you’re about to make a play, Yunho. I know all of it because I’ve been in your ear for weeks.”

Yunho’s face went pale, his grip on the bag loosening.

“I played those rounds with you,” Wooyoung continued, stepping into Yunho’s personal space. “When you clutched that 1v3 on Icebox and screamed because you were so happy? That was me holding the angle for you. When you told Y/N that she was the smartest player you’d ever met? You were talking about my brain. I know this team better than Jongho or Yeosang ever could. I am Level Zero’s strategy.”

The room went deathly quiet. Mingi looked like he was witnessing a car crash in slow motion.

“She’s outside,” Wooyoung whispered, his voice softening just enough to hit Yunho where it hurt. “She’s a mess. She thinks she ruined your life. But she’s the one who begged me to come here. She’s the one who said that you deserve this dream, even if you hate the person who helps you get it.” Wooyoung reached into his bag and pulled out his mouse, placing it on the desk with a heavy thud. “We have twenty minutes until we hit the stage,” Wooyoung said, looking Yunho dead in the eye. “You can hate me. You can never speak to her again. But don’t you dare let these guys lose because you’re too proud to play with the person who’s had your back since day one.”

Yunho stared at the mouse, then at Wooyoung. His chest was heaving, the fury fighting a losing battle against the sheer, undeniable logic of the situation. He looked like he wanted to scream, but instead, he let out a long, shuddering exhale. “If you miss a single lineup,” Yunho rasped, his voice trembling with a mixture of rage and grief, “I’m killing the power to your PC myself.”

Wooyoung’s mouth twitched into a small, sharp smirk. “I don’t miss, Captain. Patch me in.”

‏‏‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎

‏‏‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎Five minutes before the stage call, Yunho couldn’t breathe. He needed a second—just one second away from Wooyoung’s gaze and the suffocating reality of the tournament. “I need a minute,” he muttered under his nose, voice sounding like it belonged to someone else. He didn’t wait for an answer. He turned and shoved through the heavy door, stepping out into the industrial hallway.

He didn’t even make it three steps when he saw you. You were leaning against the cold concrete wall directly across from the door, your arms wrapped tightly around your middle as if you were trying to keep yourself from falling apart. Your hair was pulled up neatly, but your eyes were red-rimmed, staring at the floor.

Yunho froze. The fury that had been sustaining him in the room for the last fifteen minutes suddenly drained out of his heels, leaving him hollow and dangerously fragile.

At the sound of the door closing behind him, you flinched, head snapping up. Yunho looked weary, his broad shoulders hunched as if he were carrying the physical weight of the arena’s ceiling. He had his game face on—that terrifying, focused mask he wore when he was about to enter a high-stakes clutch—but it was cracked with pain that made him look older than his years. For a heartbeat, neither of you moved. The distance between you was barely six feet, but it felt like a canyon filled with every lie, every kiss, and every shattered promise.

“Yunho,” you whispered, your voice cracking.

But he didn’t even flinch. He turned his eyes to the neon exit sign at the end of the hall, and began walking, his stride long and purposeful. It was as if you were a non-playable character he was simply pathing around. The coldness of his silence was more violent than any shout could have been.

“Yunho, please, just—just one second,” you said, hurrying to keep pace with him. “I just wanted to wish you luck. I know... I know things are a mess, but Wooyoung is amazing. He’s going to do great as a substitute. He knows the game front to back, he’ll hit every timing, I promise. He’ll make sure Level Zero gets the win you deserve.”

Still, he said nothing, his jaw was set so tight you could see the muscle leaping in his cheek. He was treating you like a hallucination, a glitch in his system that he was determined to ignore until the map changed.

“Yunho, look at me,” you pleaded, your eyes blurring with fresh tears. “I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry. Please don’t walk into that stage carrying all this hate. Just win. Just take the dream and run with it.”

He reached the end of the hall, his hand extending toward the heavy metal bar of the arena door. He was going to walk through it and leave you in the shadows of the backstage, and you knew that once that door closed, the disconnect would be permanent. Without thinking, you reached out and snatched his wrist. Your fingers clamped around the bone of his forearm, your touch desperate and grounding. The sudden contact was like an electric shock. Yunho stopped dead. For a long moment, he stayed with his back to you, his arm rigid in your grasp. You could feel the heat radiating off his skin, the frantic pulse of his blood beneath your palm.

“Let go,” he rasped. It wasn’t a command; it was a plea.

“Not until you hear me,” you choked out, your grip tightening even as your hands began to shake. “I know I’m a liar. I know I’m a ‘bottom-tier scrub.’ But the way I feel about you—that wasn’t a script. That was the only real thing I had.”

He slowly turned his head, looking at your hand on his wrist before his gaze finally traveled up to your face. His eyes were dark, devoid of the honey-brown warmth you used to find safety in. He looked down at you, and for the first time, you saw the full extent of the damage. He wasn’t just mad; he was grieving. “Why are you here? To watch me fail in person?”

“I’m here because you’re not a failure,” you whispered, your voice trembling so hard it was barely audible. “And because I couldn’t let you walk into that stage thinking you were alone.”

Yunho let out a laugh that sounded more like a sob. “Alone? Y/N, I’ve never been more alone than I was the second I realized the girl I loved was a character someone else was playing.”

“No, the girl you kissed was real. The girl who stayed up until 3:00 AM listening to you talk about your dreams is real.”

Yunho’s jaw tightened, his gaze dropping to the floor between you. “You treated my heart like a game you had to cheat at to win.” He looked at you, and the exhaustion in his eyes broke your heart all over again. “You’re still doing it,” he whispered, his voice trembling. “You’re still trying to manage my stats. You think you can just wish me luck and hand me a ‘substitute’ and everything will be optimised again? You think a win in a video game is going to fill the hole you ripped in my chest?”

“I just want you to be happy,” your fingers slipping against his skin as he slowly, firmly, began to pull his arm away.

“Then you shouldn’t have made me love a lie,” he said, his voice flat and final. He didn’t jerk away; he simply uncoupled himself from you with a clinical, heartbreaking precision.

“Wooyoung’s the best, Yunho. He’ll get you to the finals. He’ll make Level Zero real.”

“Level Zero was already real to me! I didn’t care about the tournament and pro-status! I didn’t care about the Radiant rank! I cared about you. I would have played in the bottom tier forever if it meant I was playing with you.” He reached out, his hand hovering near your face, his fingers trembling with the urge to touch you, to see if you were still warm, still his. But he stopped himself, his hand curling into a fist as he pulled it back. “And now, I have to go play a game with a stranger who helped you break my heart,” he said, turning back toward the door. He paused with his hand on the handle, his back to you. “And god help me, I still hope we win. Just so you don’t have to feel guilty for ruining that, too.”

He pushed the door open, and the roar of the crowd from the main stage flooded the hallway like a wave of sound—screams, casters shouting, the heavy bass of the intro music. It was the sound of his dream, and it was deafening.

Yunho stepped into the light without looking back, the heavy door swinging shut and leaving you in the sudden, crushing silence of the hallway. You stood there staring at your empty hand, the ghost of his pulse still burning in your fingertips.

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎You hadn’t stayed for the trophy presentation or the post-match interviews. You hadn’t even stayed to see if Yunho’s face lit up when the word VICTORY finally splashed across the jumbotron. The moment the casters screamed that Level Zero had secured the third qualifying spot, you had bolted.

You were curled into a ball on the living room floor, your back against the sofa and a half-empty bottle of Smirnoff cradled against your chest like a lifeline. The room was dark when the front door groaned open.

Heavy footsteps thudded in the hallway—the sound of someone exhausted but riding a massive wave of leftover adrenaline. A bag was dropped unceremoniously, and then the light flickered on, blindingly bright and clinical.

“Holy fuck—Y/N?” Wooyoung stood in the doorway. He looked like he’d been through a war. His hair was plastered to his forehead with sweat, his eyes were bloodshot from staring at a monitor for hours, and he was still wearing the Level Zero jersey—the one with the blank space on the back where a name should have been. He looked down at you, his gaze traveling from your tear-streaked face to the bottle in your hand. He didn’t make a joke. He didn’t even smirk. He just let out a long, shuddering sigh and leaned against the doorframe.

“We won,” he said, his voice a hoarse whisper. “Qualified. Third seed. We’re going to the second stage in two weeks.”

You let out a wet, jagged laugh, taking a swig from the bottle. “Congratulations, Legend. I guess ‘Viper’ really was the MVP after all.”

“Don’t do that,” Wooyoung snapped, his voice sharp enough to cut through your drunken haze. He walked over and sat on the floor across from you, his legs splaying out. He looked at the bottle, then back at you. “It was a bloodbath, Y/N. Mingi almost threw in the second map, and Yeosang... Yeosang actually yelled. But Yunho...”

You flinched at the name, squeezing your eyes shut. “I don't want to hear it.”

“You’re going to hear it,” Wooyoung countered, reaching over and firmly prying the bottle from your hands. He set it out of reach. “He played like a demon. I’ve never seen anything like it. It wasn’t even tactical anymore—he was just violent. Every time I gave a call-out, he executed it before I could even finish the sentence. He didn’t look at me once.”

You buried your face in your knees, your shoulders starting to shake. “He hates me, Woo. He looked at me in that hallway and I saw it. I’ve deleted him. I’ve corrupted everything he ever felt.”

“He doesn’t hate you,” Wooyoung said, and for once, there wasn’t a trace of his usual sarcasm. He reached out, awkwardly patting your knee. “He’s just... he’s processing. After the last round, when the crowd was screaming and the casters were losing their minds, he just sat there. He didn’t cheer. He didn’t high-five Mingi. He just stared at the floor for a full minute before he walked off stage.”

Wooyoung looked at the jersey he was wearing, his fingers picking at a loose thread.

“He asked me something before I left,” Wooyoung whispered.

You looked up, your vision blurred and swimming. “What?”

“He asked if the Viper’s Pit—the way I play it, the way I stall the spike—if that was the version of the game I taught you.” Wooyoung looked you dead in the eye. “I told him no. I told him I couldn’t teach you how to be me, because you were too busy trying to be someone he’d love.”

You let out a sob, your forehead hitting your knees with a dull thud. “I ruined his dream, didn’t I? Even though he won, I ruined it.”

“No,” Wooyoung said, standing up and offering you a hand to pull you off the cold floor. “You just turned his dream into a complicated quest. But you? You need to sleep. You smell like a distillery and regret.”

You didn’t take his hand. Instead, you tilted sideways as your body, heavy and uncoordinated from the alcohol, refused to cooperate. The room felt like it was running at a low frame rate, every movement lagging behind your brain’s desperate commands. “I can’t… I can’t get up, Woo,” you slurred, the words thick and clumsy, tumbling over each other. You reached out for the bottle he’d taken away, your fingers grasping at empty air. “Gimme that back. I need to… I need to format. Too many files. Too much… garbage.”

“You’ve had enough ‘formatting’ for one night,” Wooyoung muttered. He crouched back down, his face a mix of exhaustion and genuine concern. He hooked an arm under your knees and another behind your back, hoisting you up. Your head lolled onto his shoulder, the world spinning in dizzying, nauseating circles. You felt like a lead weight in his arms, your limbs dangling uselessly.

“It’s all my fault,” you whimpered into the fabric of his jersey—the jersey that smelled like the arena, like sweat, and like the dream you’d poisoned. “He was so… he was so happy, Woo. Did you see his face before? When he thought I was… her?”

“Y/N, stop,” Wooyoung said, his voice strained as he carried you toward the couch.

“No, listen,” you insisted, your voice rising into a sharp, drunken wail. You grabbed the collar of his shirt, pulling him close until your blurred vision finally focused on his eyes. “I stole it. I stole his first win. I stole his first… everything. He’s gonna look at that trophy and he’s just gonna see my lying face.”

He set you down on your bed, but you didn’t sit up. You slumped over, your face buried in the pillows, your voice muffled and wet with fresh tears. “I love him so much I erased myself,” you sobbed, the words coming out in a broken, rhythmic chant. “I erased myself until there was nothing left but a mask, and now… now the mask is broken and there’s nothing underneath. He’s in love with nothing. I’m just… I’m a bottom-tier scrub. A zero. I’m level zero.”

“You’re drunk and you’re being dramatic,” Wooyoung said, though he didn’t say it meanly. He pulled a blanket over your shaking shoulders, tucking it around you with a rough, brotherly kind of care.

“I want to go back,” you rasped, your eyes fluttering shut as the darkness of the room started to pull at you. “I want to go back to the Quad. Before the daily quest. Before the Viper.” You let out a long, shuddering breath that smelled of vodka and heartbreak. “I just want him to be okay. Why can’t he just… be okay without me?”Wooyoung didn’t answer. He just sat on the edge of the bed, watching you descend into a fitful, alcohol-heavy sleep. He looked at his phone, a notification from the team Discord glowing in the dark—a message from Yunho that simply read: Good games today. See you at practice. No emojis. No exclamation points. Just the cold, mechanical ghost of a Captain who had won the game but lost the world.

‏‏‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‎‏‏‎‎

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎“You have to eat something other than nicotine and regret, Y/N,” Wooyoung muttered one afternoon, leaning against the doorframe of the balcony.

You didn’t turn around. You just watched a stray ember fall from your cigarette. “I know.” You were curled into the corner of the old, outdoor sofa, your knees pulled to your chest, staring out at a city that didn’t know your world had ended. The ashtray on the sill was a mountain of grey stubs, a testament to the days you’d spent watching the sun crawl across the sky without feeling its warmth. Every time you closed your eyes, you saw the look on Yunho’s face in the grey morning light that day everything fell down.

Wooyoung dropped a bag of takeout beside you and sighed, the sound heavy with a guilt he tried to mask with his usual bravado. “At this point, you’re going to get lung cancer,” he said, his voice flat as he walked over and snatched the cigarette from between your fingers. He crushed it into the ashtray, but the joke didn’t land. It didn’t even hover. He sat on the edge of the sill, looking down at you. The vibrant, chaotic Wooyoung who had sent those texts—the one who was so excited about a gym guy—was gone, replaced by a man who looked exhausted by his own regret. “Y/N, it’s been over two weeks now,” he said softly, his hand hovering near your shoulder before he pulled it back, sensing the invisible wall you’d built. “I can count on one hand the meals you’ve eaten. I’m worried.”

You didn’t move. You didn’t even blink. “I’m not hungry, Woo.”

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, his voice cracking. “I was the one who pushed the lie. I was the one who sent those stupid fucking texts.” Wooyoung reached out and took your cold, trembling hand in his. “Please stop blaming yourself. Just one bite of the kimchi fried rice. For me? If you die of a broken heart, I have to live with the fact that I’m the one who broke it.” Wooyoung’s voice was desperate, clawing at the edges of the hollow shell you’d become. He hated this quiet version of you. He missed the girl who was sharp-tongued and untouchable—the one who could out-drink and out-insult anyone in a five-mile radius. “Where is my best friend, Y/N?” he asked, his voice rising, trying to inject some of his old fire into the stagnant air of the balcony. He nudged your shoulder, his eyes searching yours for even a flicker of the old light. “Let’s just go out. Let’s get drunk and get him out of your system like we always do!”

You finally looked at him, but your expression was dead, your eyes flat.

“Remember that frat party we went to after that dick Juyeon cheated on you?” He let out a sharp, forced laugh. “You threw a drink in his face and made the whole house side with you by midnight. We can do it again! It’s Saturday! Put on your scary liner and those ripped fishnets, and let’s go! I know you’ll feel better once you remind yourself you’re that bitch!” He was pleading now, his hands gripping your shoulders as if he could shake you back into existence. “He’s just a guy, Y/N,” Wooyoung lied, his voice trembling because he knew it wasn’t true. “He’s just a gamer with a pretty face and a big heart that you happen to break. So what? People break hearts every day! You’re the girl who doesn’t care, remember? You’re the one who calls the shots!”

You looked down at the bag of cold kimchi fried rice, the smell of it making your stomach turn. “That was different, Woo,” you whispered, your voice sounding like it was coming from the bottom of a well. “Juyeon was a dick. I wanted to hurt him back.” You finally turned your head to look at the empty space on the balcony where you used to imagine Yunho standing, his large frame blocking the wind for you. “Yunho... he wasn’t a dick. He was the only person who ever looked at me and saw past ‘that bitch.’ He saw the girl who drank coffee. He saw someone worth loving.” You let out a jagged, dry sob that felt like it was tearing your throat open. “I can’t put on the liner. I can’t go out and pretend I’m untouchable when I’m the one who touched him and ruined everything.”

Wooyoung’s face fell, his hype man mask finally shattering. He pulled you into a tight, suffocating hug, burying his face in your hair. “I know,” he choked out, his tears finally hitting the collar of your hoodie. “I know he was different.”

“He’s surviving, Y/N,” Wooyoung added. “He doesn’t speak to me much beside the game talk but... he tries to survive. Just like you’re trying to do. But he’s doing it by moving forward. By having a purpose. You’re doing it by sitting in this ashtray.” He stood up, his shadow stretching across the balcony. “You can’t stay in this phase forever while he’s out there becoming a machine just to forget you existed. Come on. Get up. If he’s moving on, you have to at least pretend to do the same.”

The silence between you and Wooyoung stretched thin, punctuated only by the distant hum of traffic and the rhythmic thump-thump of your own hollow heart. He wasn’t giving up. He saw you disappearing, fading into the upholstery and the smoke, and it terrified him. “I’ll let you do any weird, reckless thing you want tonight,” Wooyoung whispered, his grip on your hand tightening. “We’ll go to that underground club. We’ll spray-paint a bridge. Anything. Just... please. Go out with me. Move from this spot before the floor swallows you whole.”

You looked at him, his eyes were bloodshot from hours in front of the monitor, and he looked smaller, drained of his usual neon energy. He was drowning in his own guilt, and you realized that by staying here, you were keeping him under the water with you. “Any reckless thing?” you rasped, your throat feeling like it was lined with sandpaper.

Wooyoung nodded frantically, a flicker of hope igniting in his eyes. “Anything. You want to get a tattoo? You want to jump off a bridge into a safety net? You want to go find Juyeon and key his car just for the hell of it? I’m your man.”

You stood up slowly, your joints stiff and protesting. You walked past him into the living room, your eyes landing on his PC—the machine that had been the conduit for your greatest joy and your most spectacular failure. You reached for your phone, the screen cracked from when Yunho had slammed it down. You stared at the jagged lines spider-webbing across the glass, reflecting the ghost of your own face. “I don’t want a tattoo,” you said, your voice finally gaining a sharp edge. “And I don’t want to key a car.” Wooyoung watched you as you grabbed your leather jacket from the chair. You shook off the weeks of ash and dust, the scent of leather cutting through the stagnant air of the apartment. You felt a cold, hard resolve settle into your bones—the kind that only comes when you’ve reached the absolute bottom and realise there’s nowhere left to go but out. “We’re going to The Abyss,” you said, looking him dead in the eye. “And,” you added, your voice dropping into a reckless, dangerous low, “we’re going to get fuckfaced drunk.”

Wooyoung’s eyes widened, a slow, wild grin creeping onto his face as the shock wore off. This was the mess he knew. This was the chaos he understood. He didn’t care if it was a bad idea; he just cared that you were finally moving. “That’s my girl,” he whispered, snatching his car keys off the counter with a flourish. “The Abyss it is. If we’re going to go down, we might as well go down in a blaze of cheap beer and bad decisions.”

“I want to forget,” you said, pulling your hair back into a tight, messy knot. “I want to be so far gone that when I close my eyes, I don’t see his face looking at me like I’m a toxin.”

“Then let’s get moving,” Wooyoung said, throwing the door open. “Put on the liner, Y/N. Make it thick. We’re going to remind that bar—and anyone from Level Zero who happens to be lurking—that your Viper might have been a ghost, but you’re a fucking haunting.”

As you stepped out into the hallway, leaving the ashtray and the silence behind, you didn’t feel better. You felt hollowed out and electrified. You weren’t moving forward, not really—you were just running headfirst into the dark.

And for now, the dark was the only place you felt at home.

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ The neon sign for The Abyss flickered in a shade of neon violet, casting long, distorted shadows across the cracked pavement as you and Wooyoung stepped out of the car.

“Tonight,” Wooyoung muttered, adjusting his jacket collar, his eyes darting toward the entrance with a mix of anxiety and adrenaline. “Tonight, we’re just two people looking to erase the last month from our collective memory. No names, no flings. Just the bottom of a glass.”

As you pushed through the heavy, sticker-covered door, the air hit you, thick and sweltering, a claustrophobic haze of cheap beer, sweat, and cloying fruit vape smoke. The floor was tacky under your boots, sticking with every step as you navigated past clusters of loud, shoved-together tables.

“Oh, shit,” Wooyoung hissed, his hand tightening painfully on your elbow. He came to a dead stop, his breath hitching as he scanned the crowded rail. “Y/N, Mingi’s working.” He tried to yank you back toward the exit, his voice climbing into a frantic whisper. “Maybe this was a mistake. Let’s just go to The Per Mille. It’s a bit more expensive, but we can still get trashed if I flirt enough with the bartender—please, he’s going to see us.”

“No,” you said, the word coming out sharp. The lukewarm vodka from the convenience store you’d downed in the car was finally hitting your bloodstream, radiating a false, hollow warmth through your chest. “I’m not hiding. I hid enough in our apartment.” You didn’t just walk; you moved with a reckless intent, heading straight for the bar and stopping squarely in Mingi’s line of sight. You climbed onto a high stool, the cold metal biting into your thighs through your ripped fishnets. With your heavy, smeared eyeliner and disheveled hair, you knew you looked exactly like the disaster you were. “Two shots of the cheapest vodka you have,” you called out, your voice cutting through the muddy bass of the speakers. “And keep them coming until I can’t feel my face.”

Wooyoung scrambled onto the stool next to you, looking like he wanted to bolt for the fire exit. “Y/N, stop,” he pleaded under his breath. “Mingi just looked over. He’s frozen... he’s staring right at us. He will give me such a hard time tomorrow during the B-12 meeting.” You didn’t turn. You didn’t flinch. You simply picked up the first plastic shot glass, the cheap alcohol stinging a small, raw cut on your lip. You could feel Mingi’s gaze—heavy, hurt, and burning with a dozen questions—pinning you to the spot.

Mingi stopped wiping the counter, the rag limp in his hand. He looked at you, then at the guilt-ridden Wooyoung, and finally at the shots you were about to down. The boy who usually had a laugh for everyone looked like he’d just seen a ghost walk into his bar. You tossed the shot back, the burn of the vodka searing your throat, and stared at your own distorted reflection in the grimy bar mirror. You were right there. You were a mess. And you wanted it to hurt. Mingi didn’t move for a long beat. The rowdy college kids at the other end of the bar were shouting for a round of pitchers, but he ignored them, his eyes locked on yours. The neon violet light caught the edge of his jaw, making him look sharper. He finally walked over, his boots heavy on the sticky floorboards. He didn’t say a word as he reached out and took the second shot cup—the one meant for Wooyoung—and dumped it into the sink behind the bar with a sharp, decisive splash.

“Mingi, hey— Didn’t know you were working today.” Wooyoung started, his voice cracking, but Mingi cut him off with a look so cold it could have frozen the cheap beer taps.

“You’ve got some nerve bringing her here,” Mingi said, his voice low and vibrating with a bass that cut right through the music. He leaned over the counter, his large hands gripping the edge until his knuckles turned white. He was looking at you—at your smeared makeup, at the way your hands were trembling despite your defiant posture. “You look like shit, Y/N.”

“Good,” you rasped, pushing your empty cup toward him. “That was the goal. Now fill it up again.”

“No.” Mingi snatched the cup and threw it into the trash. “I’m not helping you drown whatever’s left of your conscience. You think being a disaster makes up for what you did? You think if you get messy enough, the lie just... dissolves?”

“I’m just a customer, Min,” you hissed, leaning in until you could smell the cleaner and smoke on him. “Just give me the drink and do your fucking job.”

Mingi let out a harsh, dry laugh. “My job? My job is usually keeping people like you from making mistakes they can’t take back. But you’re a pro at that, aren’t you?” He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a whisper that felt like a secret and a threat. “He’s in the back, Y/N. In the ‘Staff Only’ booth. We’re staying for a beer after my shift, Seonghwa is on his way. If you stay here, he’s going to see you. Both of them will. And I swear to God, if you break what’s left of him tonight, I will personally throw you out of this basement.”

“He's here?” you whispered, the bravado finally cracking like thin ice.

“We should go," Wooyoung muttered, tugging at your sleeve. “Y/N, come on, let’s go. This was a bad idea, let’s just—”

“No,” you said, but the word lacked its previous fire. You looked past Mingi, toward the dark, shadowed corner behind the kegs where a single ‘Staff Only’ sign flickered. You leaned across the sticky wood of the bar, your fingers curling into the fabric of Mingi’s work shirt, yanking him closer until your foreheads were almost touching. The smell of cheap vodka on your breath mixed with the heavy scent of his citrus cologne. “I don’t care where he is,” you hissed, your voice a filled desperation and intoxication. “I don’t care if he’s watching. Keep. Them. Coming.”

“Fine,” Mingi barked, his voice rough with a mixture of pity. He ripped his shirt out of your grasp. “If you want to disappear, Y/N, I’ll help you do it.” He didn’t use the plastic cups anymore. He grabbed a heavy glass and slammed a bottle of the bottom-shelf vodka onto the rail. He poured a double, then a triple, the clear liquid sloshing over the sides. “Drink up,” Mingi said, his eyes hard. “But when you start puking, Wooyoung is the one carrying you out. I’m not touching you.”

You didn’t hesitate. You grabbed the glass, the weight of it grounding you as you tipped it back. “Another,” you gasped, slamming the glass down.

Wooyoung reached out, his face pale. “Y/N, slow down. You’re going to get sick, please—”

“Shut up!” you snapped, your head starting to swim as the room began to tilt on its axis. The violet neon light began to bleed into long, pulsing streaks of colour. “You wanted ‘that bitch,’ right? Well, she’s here! And she’s fucking having a blast!”

Mingi poured another, his expression grim. He was watching you like a car crash in slow motion. Around you, the bar roared—students laughing, glasses clinking, a group in the corner shouting about a “sick play” on the TV. You felt the stool beneath you sway. Your skin felt too tight, your chest too heavy. You leaned your head back, letting the light blind you, your eyes stinging as the vodka finally began to numb your brain.

“You know what?” Wooyoung barked, his voice sharp with a sudden, reckless fury. “Fuck it.” He didn’t try to stop you anymore. He didn’t try to be the voice of reason. He reached out and snatched the bottle of bottom-shelf vodka right out of Mingi’s reach. He didn’t bother with a shot glass. He tipped his head back and took a long, burning pull directly from the bottle, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed the fire. Wooyoung slammed the bottle back onto the sticky wood, his eyes watering, a wild, manic light returning to his face. “If we’re going down, we’re going down together!” He leaned in closer, his face flushed under the pulsing violet strobes. The adrenaline of the alcohol seemed to tear a secret right out of his throat—one he had been guarding like a bruised ego for the last week. “And you know what? Fuck the gym guy!” he yelled over the bass, the confession coming out as a jagged, hysterical bark.

You blinked at him, your vision lagging behind your movements. “What?”

“The guy from the texts! The one I was so excited about!” Wooyoung let out a sharp, self-deprecating laugh and took another swig from the bottle. “He never showed up. I sat at that goddamn bistro for two hours like a fucking loser, checking my hair in the window reflection!” He shoved a lock of hair out of his eye, his face falling into the same raw misery you were feeling. “I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want to be the heartbroken one while you were also falling apart,” he confessed, his voice cracking. “But we’re both losers, aren’t we? I‘m a failed date, and you’re a ghost in a leather jacket. We’re the perfect pair of fuck-ups!”

The irony hit you like a physical weight. While you were destroying your life for a lie, Wooyoung had been trying to build a fantasy that didn’t even want him.

“He ghosted you?” you slurred, a ghost of a bitter smile twitching on your lips.

“Ghosted. Stood up. I never showed up to the gym again,” Wooyoung cheered, raising his glass to the empty air. “Who cares, right? I just spent six months crushing on him! But now we’ve got rail-vodka and each other!” He grabbed your arm, pulling you off the stool. Your legs buckled, and you stumbled into his chest, the world spinning. “Come on!” he screamed, dragging you toward the the sticky dance floor where the bass was loud enough to stop a heart.

Mingi watched from behind the bar, his hands gripping the counter so hard the wood creaked. He looked toward the back hallway, his face a mask of dread, knowing that the louder Wooyoung got, the closer the ‘Staff Only’ door was to opening.

You let Wooyoung pull you into the crowd, the heat of the bodies and the roar of the music finally swallowing you whole. You were your old self now—the one who didn’t care, the one who didn’t cry, the one who was too drunk to realise she was breaking her own heart with every step.

The universe had a sick sense of humor.

Just as Wooyoung was spinning you into the middle of the sweaty, heaving crowd, screaming about being a failure, he slammed back-first into a solid wall of muscle. The impact was enough to send Wooyoung stumbling, his grip on your arm the only thing keeping you both upright. “Hey, watch it—” Wooyoung started, his alcohol-fuelled bravado peaking—until he looked up. The air seemed to vanish from the bar. Standing there, illuminated by a sudden flash of white light, was a man who looked like he’d been rendered in 4K while the rest of the bar was stuck in 480p. Broad shoulders that stretched the fabric of a tight white tee, a sharp jawline, and—as he looked down at the disheveled mess that was Wooyoung—a single, devastating dimple appeared.

“Wooyoung?” the guy asked. His voice was a soft, deep rumble that felt like it belonged in a velvet-lined library, not this neon-soaked dive.

It was him. The gym guy.

Wooyoung froze, looking less like a bar-goer and more like a deer caught in headlights. His mouth hung open, a stray drop of vodka glistening on his chin. “You…”

“Why didn’t you show up?” the guy asked suddenly, clearly surprised by his own bluntness, his hand reaching out to steady Wooyoung’s waist. His palm looked massive against Wooyoung’s small frame. There was no anger in his voice—just a genuine, heartbreaking confusion. “I waited at Park Bistro for three hours. I thought... maybe you changed your mind because I had to leave so fast after asking you out.”

Wooyoung’s jaw hit the floor. The windows in the background could have exploded and he wouldn’t have noticed. “The Park Bistro?” Wooyoung shrieked, his voice cracking. “No! No, no. I was at Bistro Verre! The one on the other side of the park!”

The realisation hit them both at once—a classic, low-budget sitcom misunderstanding that had cost them weeks of unnecessary heartache.

You stood there, swaying on your feet, watching the scene unfold through a thick, violet haze. The irony was so sharp it was practically sobering. Wooyoung’s fantasy had just materialised out of the smoke and grabbed him by the waist, while your guy was still MIA.

“You waited?” Wooyoung whispered, his bravado having completely evaporated, replaced by a look of sheer, shimmering wonder. “Three hours?”

“I had a book,” the guy admitted, a faint, sheepish flush creeping up his neck that made him look human for the first time. “And I really wanted to see you again. I thought... maybe I’d misread the vibe. I almost deleted your number.”

Wooyoung let out a sound that was half-sob, half-gasp. “If you had deleted it, I would have had to join a monastery. Or move to Mars. I’ve been mourning us for days! I’ve been telling everyone you were a hallucination!”

The stranger laughed—a rich, melodic sound that seemed to cut right through the haze. “I’m San. And I’m definitely not a hallucination.” He finally looked at you, giving a polite, slightly awkward nod of acknowledgement to the third wheel currently leaning against a sticky high-top table. “Is he... is he okay to walk? Or should I get him some water?”

“He needs an exorcism and a grilled cheese,” you slurred, waving a hand dismissively. “But mostly, he needs you to stop him from falling over. He’s all yours, San. Please, take him.”

San smiled—that dimple again, a literal hazard to public safety—and turned back to Wooyoung. “Come on. Let’s get you out of here. I think we’re owed a do-over, don’t you? Somewhere with zero strobes and a lot of water.”

“Go,” you shoved Wooyoung’s shoulder weakly. “Go be with your gym crush, Woo. I’m fine.”

“Y/N, wait—” Wooyoung tried to reach for you, but San was already began to weave through the crowd, his large hand stayed firmly anchored on the small of Wooyoung’s back, guiding him through the chaos.

You watched them go, a tiny, bitter-sweet smile tugging at your lips. The universe was still a jerk, sure—but every now and then, it actually nailed the landing.

Your legs felt like they belonged to someone else as you pushed through the heavy, sticker-covered door that led to the smoking area. It was a cramped, fenced-in concrete slab behind the bar, lit by a single flickering amber bulb and the orange cherries of a dozen cigarettes. The cold night air hit your lungs like a slap, making your head spin even faster.

You fumbled for your pack, your fingers shaking so hard you almost dropped it, when a shadow detached itself from the brick wall.

“Need a light?”

The voice was like a nightmare from a past life. You looked up, squinting through the haze, and felt your stomach drop. Standing there, looking exactly as arrogant and polished as he had freshman year, was Juyeon. The dick from your past. The one who had cheated, the one who had started the cycle of you building walls and calling yourself a bitch. He was leaning against the fence, a silver lighter flicking open and shut in his hand with a rhythmic clack-clack.

“Juyeon,” you breathed, the name tasting like acid.

“The one and only,” he smirked, stepping into the light. He looked you up and down, his eyes lingering on your smeared liner and the way you were swaying. “You look like you’ve had a rough night, Y/N. I heard you were hanging around with the geeks. Didn’t think they’d be your type.” He walked closer, the silver lighter sparking a flame that danced in his dark eyes. “What’s the matter?” Juyeon taunted, his voice a low, condescending drawl. “Did the stuttering nerd realise that playing video games doesn’t make you any less of a—”

“Get lost,” you spat, but your knees buckled as you tried to push past him.

Juyeon’s hand shot out, grabbing your upper arm with a grip that was far too tight. “I don’t think so. You look like you can’t even find the door, Y/N. Let’s get you out of here before you embarrass yourself even more.”

“I’m not going anywhere with you,” you snarled, trying to wrench your arm back. The movement made the world tilt on its axis, the gray campus buildings swaying dangerously. You felt pathetic, your legs heavy and uncooperative, while Juyeon stood there like a stone pillar of arrogance.

“Still got that fire, huh?” Juyeon laughed, but it wasn’t a kind sound. He pulled you closer, his chest hitting your shoulder. “It’s embarrassing, Y/N. Look at you. Standing here alone, smelling like a dive bar, crying over some guy who can’t finish a sentence without stuttering. I hang around Seoyun now, she told me about him. Is that what you’ve reduced yourself to? A groupie for a bunch of nobodies?”

“For fuck’s sake,” you hissed, digging your heels into the concrete, but he began to haul you toward the door. He wasn’t being a gentleman; he was dragging you like a trophy he’d reclaimed, his fingers digging into your skin. “Let me go!”

He didn’t listen. He yanked you forward, dragging you back through the heavy metal door and into the pulsing violet chaos of the bar. “I’m doing you a favour,” he muttered, his voice hardening as he yanked you.

Juyeon’s face drifted closer, his breath smelling of expensive mints and something cold. He didn’t just look angry anymore; he looked predatory, his eyes scanning your disheveled state with a look of pure, skin-crawling possession.

“We’re leaving,” he repeated, his voice dropping into a low, revolting murmur against your ear. “You’re going to sit in my car, sober up, and stop acting like a tragic lead in a shitty indie movie.”

“Actually,” he drawled, his grip tightening until it bruised, “Maybe you don’t need to sober up just yet. You always were a lot more… compliant when you’d had a few. Why don’t we go back to my place for old time’s sake? You can show me you haven’t forgotten how to use that mouth? A little thank-you for saving you from your own pathetic breakdown. I bet you’ve missed it.”

The crude, casual way he spoke about you—like you were nothing more than a convenient fix for his ego—shattered the last of your composure. “You’re fucking disgusting,” you choked out, your voice thick with a mix of nausea and terror.

Juyeon pushed through a group of freshmen, his shoulder clipping a tall figure standing near the end of the bar rail.

He leaned in even closer, his teeth almost brushing the shell of your ear. “Tell you what. You give me that blowjob you used to be so good at—the one you used to do to get me to stop being mad at you—and maybe I’ll forget how pathetic you look right now. It’ll be just like freshman year, Y/N. Quick, quiet, and you can pretend you’re someone who actually matters for twenty minutes.”

The bile rose in your throat, thick and hot. The memory of the power he used to hold over you—the way he used to make you feel like your only value was in what you could provide for him—slammed into.

“Let her go.”

Mingi.

He looked from Juyeon’s hand on your arm to your pale, terrified face, and his expression went from exhausted to lethal in less than a second.

“Mingi,” you whimpered, the vodka-induced haze making his name sound like a prayer.

Mingi didn’t say a word, he stepped forward, his height dwarfing Juyeon, his shadow swallowing both of you. “I’m going to count to three,” Mingi said, his voice a low, terrifying rumble that you’d never heard from the boy who usually spent his time cracking jokes. “And if your hand is still on her when I’m done, you’re going to find out exactly why they call this place The Abyss.”

“Look, man, I know her, we’re on our way to have some fun—” Juyeon started, trying to regain his footing.

“One.”

Juyeon let out a sharp, nervous bark of a laugh, his pride stung by the way the entire bar was now watching him get punked by a guy in a work shirt. He looked at Mingi, then at you, and his face twisted into something ugly and venomous. “Fine!” Juyeon spat, “Take her! You want this pathetic, used-up piece of shit? She’s all yours!” His mouth curled as he leaned in just enough for you to hear it. “Have fun babysitting the sloppy little fuckup.” Then, with a violent shove, Juyeon didn’t just let go—he threw his full weight into your shoulder, launching your limp, uncoordinated body straight at Mingi. He treated you like you were nothing more than trash he couldn’t wait to get rid of.

You let out a short, choked gasp as you flew backward. You were too drunk to find your footing, your boots sliding on the sticky floor. You hit Mingi’s chest hard, the impact knocking the air out of your lungs, and you would have slumped straight to the grimy floor if Mingi hadn’t dropped his guard and caught you in his massive arms, pulling you against him to keep you upright.

“What did you just call her?” Yunho’s voice cracked on the last word, a sound of someone forcing air into lungs that had forgotten how to breathe. He stood a few meters away, his chest heaving under his sweater, but he wasn’t just shaking from rage. If you looked closely—past the shadows and the terrifying set of his jaw—you could see his hands trembling violently. He wasn’t wearing his glasses, his fringe falling onto his eyes, making his features softer. This was the boy whose ears turned red whenever you touched him. Every social instinct in his body was screaming at him to retreat, to hide back in that ‘Staff Only’ room where it was safe and quiet. But the sight of Juyeon treating you like trash was the only thing stronger than his own crippling anxiety.

“Yun, let it go,” Mingi muttered, almost covering you, he wasn’t just shielding you from Juyeon—he was shielding you from seeing Yunho. He knew how much it was costing his best friend to stand his ground.

Yunho’s eyes were fixed on the floor for a split second, his lashes fluttering as he fought the urge to look away, to disappear. Then, he forced his gaze up, locking onto Juyeon with a desperate, shaky resolve. “I... I asked you a question,” Yunho repeated. His voice stuttered, the “I” catching in his throat, but he didn’t back down. He stepped closer, his boots heavy on the sticky floor. “What did you... what did you call her?”

Juyeon, sensing the stutter, tried to regain his footing. He let out a sharp, mocking laugh. “What, are you gonna cry, big guy? I said she’s trash. A liar. A used-up—” Then, with an ugly sneer, Juyeon yanked you from Mingi’s grip and hauled you against him, treating you like you were nothing. “I bet you haven’t even seen her without her clothes on, have you? I bet you’ve been real ‘gentle’ with her.” He pulled you flush against him, his hand sliding down to grip your waist possessively, his eyes fixed on Yunho’s pale, frozen face. “But I’ve had her on her knees more times than you’ve played your little games, and trust me—she’s a lot more useful when her mouth is busy than when she’s talking.” Juyeon sneered, his lip curling in a way that made your stomach turn. “She’s trash.” Juyeon’s voice cracked with his own frantic nerves. With a violent, dismissive grunt, he shoved you away from him. You flew backward, the small of your back slamming into the hard, unforgiving edge of the wooden bar. A sharp, sickening thud echoed in your ears as the wood bruised your middle, the impact knocking the remaining breath out of your lungs. You gasped, your vision swimming with white spots as you slumped against the rail, clutching your stomach.

“Y/N!” Yunho’s voice was a panicked sob. The sight of you hitting the bar snapped the last thread of his restraint. Yunho lunged forward, his large frame moving with a desperate, clumsy speed to catch you before you hit the floor. His hands were outstretched, trembling with the singular need to hold you, to check if you were breathing.

But Juyeon wasn’t finished. As Yunho crossed his path, Juyeon planted both hands on Yunho’s chest and shoved him back with everything he had. Yunho stumbled, his boots skidding on the sticky floorboards. He wasn’t a fighter; he didn’t know how to brace himself. He hit the side of a barstool, the metal screeching against the floor, and he stood there, heaving, his face pale and his eyes wide with a terrifying level of shock. “What, big guy?” Juyeon taunted, stepping toward him, emboldened by the fact that Yunho hadn’t swung back. Juyeon poked a finger into Yunho’s shoulder, mocking the tremor in his hands. “You gonna cry now? You gonna go back to your little computer and tell on me? Look at you. You’re shaking like a leaf.” Juyeon leaned in, “I bet you won’t do anything. You’re just a soft, stuttering loser who has a crush on a worthless bitch like her. Go on. Do something.”

Yunho stood there, his chest heaving, his hands fisted so tight they were white. He looked at Juyeon, then his gaze flickered to you—hunched over the bar, gasping for air, looking small and broken.

The shy boy didn’t stutter.

Instead, a deathly, absolute clarity settled over Yunho. The trembling in his hands didn’t stop, but it changed—it wasn’t fear anymore. It was the hum of a machine being pushed past its breaking point. He looked up at Juyeon, and for the first time, his eyes weren’t searching for an exit. They were locked on target. “Mingi,” Yunho’s voice was steady and hauntingly quiet. “Hold her. Don’t let her see this.”

Mingi didn’t hesitate. He saw the look in Yunho’s eyes—the bridge finally snapping—and he lunged for you. He scooped you up, tucking your face into the crook of his neck. “Don't look, Y/N,” he grunted, his own voice thick with dread. ”Just don’t look.”

But you heard it.

The sound was wet and heavy—the sound of a fist meeting bone. Yunho didn’t throw a calculated punch; he swung with the desperate, uncoordinated weight of every lie and every heartbreak of the last days. His knuckles caught Juyeon squarely in the jaw, sending the shorter guy reeling back against a pool table.

For a heartbeat, the bar went silent. The music seemed to fade into a dull hum.

But Juyeon wasn’t a shy gamer. He was a guy who had spent his life stepping on people to feel tall. He wiped a streak of blood from his lip, his eyes turning into something rabid. “You actually did it,” Juyeon hissed, a smile spreading across his face. “You’re dead, loser.”

Juyeon lunged. Unlike Yunho’s desperate swing, Juyeon’s movements were practiced and cruel. He tackled Yunho around the waist, the force of it slamming Yunho’s back against the brick pillar with a sickening thud. You heard Yunho let out a choked, airy gasp—the sound of the wind being driven out of him.

“Yunho!” you screamed, tearing your face away just in time to see Juyeon’s fist collide with Yunho’s cheek. Yunho didn’t know how to guard his face. He didn’t know how to slip a punch. He just stayed there, his hands instinctively coming up to protect his head as Juyeon rained blows down on him. Every hit sounded like a hammer striking a hollow wall. Yunho’s legs gave out, and he slid down the bricks, but Juyeon didn’t stop. He grabbed the collar of Yunho’s sweater, dragging him back up just to shove his knee into Yunho’s ribs. “Stop it! For fuck’s sake, Juyeon, you’re gonna kill him!” you shrieked, struggling against Mingi’s grip, but Mingi held you tight, his jaw set, his eyes brimming with a pained, helpless fury. He couldn’t jump in—not while he was holding you, not while the bar's security was finally closing in.

Yunho’s head snapped back, his blonde hair falling over his eyes, now matted with sweat and red. He was trembling with pain of a boy who had never been in a fight in his life. Yet, even as Juyeon’s fist caught him again, Yunho didn’t crawl away. He reached out, his fingers fisting weakly in Juyeon’s jacket, trying to pull him away from where you were standing.

He was still trying to protect you.

“Look at the hero,” Juyeon mocked, pulling back for one last, heavy blow. “Look at the stuttering freak trying to—” Juyeon’s arm was suddenly caught mid-air. Two massive bouncers finally descended, tearing Juyeon away and pinning his arms behind his back.

Yunho collapsed. He hit the sticky floor, his breath coming in wheezing sobs. His face was a map of bruises, his lip split wide, and his eyes—the eyes that used to look at you with such gentle wonder—were glazed and distant.

“Yunnie!” You finally broke free from Mingi, stumbling across the floor until you reached him. You pulled his head into your lap, your tears dripping onto his bruised skin, mixing with the blood. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, baby, please…”

He blinked, trying to focus on you. His hand, still shaking uncontrollably, reached up to touch your cheek. “Are... are you…” he coughed, a wince of pure agony crossing his face as his ribs protested. “Are you okay, Y/N? Did he... did he hurt you again?” He wasn’t thinking about his shattered face. He wasn’t thinking about the crowd of students filming the scene on their phones. He was only thinking about the girl who had lied to him, making sure she was still standing while he lay broken on the floor.

You weren’t just crying; you were shattering, your body trembling with rhythmic sobs that tore through your chest. Your tears hit his hot, bruised skin, washing away some of the blood on his cheek. You reached down, your hands shaking as much as his, and cupped his face. You didn’t care about the people watching, or the cameras, or the fact that Juyeon was being dragged out screaming.

Yunho let out a sharp, pained hiss as your hand brushed over his ribs, but he didn’t jerk away. Instead, he leaned his face into your palm, a broken, shaky exhale escaping his bloodied lips. “Don’t... don’t cry,” he whispered, forcing his eyes open, searching for yours through the haze of pain. “Y/N... look at me.” You pulled back just enough to see him, your vision swimming. His eye was already beginning to swell shut, and the corner of his mouth was torn, but the look he gave you was so profoundly gentle it felt like a physical blow to your soul. “It’s okay,” he rasped, his fingers curling weakly around your wrist, right over the red marks Juyeon had left. He squeezed—just a faint, trembling pressure. “I’m... still here. I didn’t... I didn’t let him take you.”

“You’re an idiot,” you choked out, a fresh wave of tears spilling over. “You can’t fight! Why did you do that? You’re supposed to be focused, you have the second phase—”

“I couldn’t…” He stopped to cough, a wince of pure agony flitting across his features before he settled back into that heartbreakingly soft gaze. “The game doesn’t... it doesn’t matter if you’re not there to see it.”

Behind you, you felt a heavy hand settle on your shoulder. Mingi was kneeling beside the two of you, his face a mask of grim resolve, though his own eyes were glistening. “We have to get him out of here, the police are going to be here in a minute, and he needs a doctor.”

Yunho tried to push himself up, his arms trembling violently under his weight. “I can... I can walk,” he lied, his face going pale from the effort.

“Like hell you can,” Mingi muttered, reaching under Yunho’s arms to hoist him up. As Mingi lifted him, Yunho’s hand didn’t let go of yours. He held on with a desperate, white-knuckled grip, pulling you close to his side even as he leaned his full weight on Mingi. You wrapped your arm around his waist, feeling the heat radiating from his bruised ribs, acting as the crutch he refused to ask for.

The movement of being hoisted up sent a fresh wave of agony through Yunho’s chest, and he leaned heavily into Mingi, his head lolling back for a second as he fought the urge to pass out. His face was a map of disaster—his lip was split, a dark bruise was already blossoming over his cheekbone, and his skin was a sickly, translucent pale.

But as you stepped in to support his other side, wrapping your arm firmly around his waist to steady him, he didn’t look at the exit. He looked at you. A weak, fluttering smile tugged at the corner of his bloody mouth. He looked ridiculous, battered and broken, but there was a strange, delirious light in his eyes. “Hey,” he rasped, his voice barely a thready whisper. “Y/N.”

“Don’t talk,” you sobbed, your tears dripping onto his ruined sweater. “Just breathe. Please, just breathe.”

“No, wait,” he insisted, his head swaying as Mingi began to guide him toward the back exit. He squeezed your hand, his grip surprisingly firm despite his trembling. He squinted at you, his vision clearly blurred, and then he let out a tiny, wheezing chuckle that ended in a sharp wince. “I… I forgot to tell you.”

“Tell me what?” you asked, your heart breaking at the sight of him.

“Don’t I… don’t I look cool?” he murmured, his eyes searching yours with a dazed sort of hope. He blinked slowly, his lashes fluttering against his bruised skin. “I’m not wearing my glasses today. I put in lenses. I wanted to… I wanted to look cool if you decided to show up at the tournament agian.”

The sheer absurdity of it made a choked laugh escape your throat, even as your heart shattered into a million pieces. Here he was, barely able to stand, his ribs likely cracked and his future in the tournament on the line, and he was worried about his aesthetic stats. “You look amazing,” you whispered, pressing your face against his shoulder, mindful of his injuries. “The coolest person I’ve ever seen.”

“Good,” he breathed, his weight sinking more fully into you and Mingi as his eyelids grew heavy. “Because those lenses… they’re a nightmare to get in. I think I… I think I scratched my cornea for the cause. Level Zero… 100% charisma build, right?”

“You’re an idiot,” Mingi muttered, though he was blinking back his own tears as he adjusted his grip on the Captain. “A total, god-tier idiot. Now shut up before you collapse.”

Yunho just hummed, a soft, satisfied sound, and as the cool night air hit your faces at the exit, he didn’t let go of your hand. He just kept drifting, anchored to the world only by the feel of your arm around him and the knowledge that, for the first time in weeks, the map between you was finally clear.

“My car is around the corner,” Mingi said, glancing at the street. “Keep him upright.”

Yunho’s head fell onto your shoulder, his breath hitching. “Y/N?”

“I’m right here.”

“The... the girl who drinks too much coffee,” he murmured, his eyes flickering shut as the adrenaline finally began to fail him. “Is she... is she still in there? Somewhere?”

You tightened your grip on him, your heart feeling like it was finally beating in sync with his. “She's here,” you whispered, pressing a bruised, tearful kiss to his temple. “She’s not going anywhere.”

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ The air in Yunho’s bedroom was thick with the scent of antiseptic and the low, rhythmic hum of a humidifier. The hospital had released him with a taped-up ribcage, a butterfly stitch on his lip, and a strict warning to rest, but rest was the one thing eluding him. The moonlight filtered through the blinds, casting long, skeletal shadows across the floor. Yunho was propped up against a mountain of pillows, his face covered with purple and deep blue bruises. Every time he tried to settle, a sharp hiss of pain would escape his teeth, his hand instinctively fluttering toward his side.

You sat on the edge of the mattress, your own leather jacket discarded on a chair, feeling smaller than you ever had. You were holding a glass of water, watching him struggle against the heavy fog of the painkillers that weren’t quite doing their job. “You need to close your eyes,” you whispered, your voice still ragged from the hours of crying.

“Can’t,” he rasped, his voice barely more than a breath. He reached out, his fingers fumbling blindly across the blanket until they found your hand. He gripped you with surprising strength. “If I... if I sleep, I’m afraid I’ll wake up and you’ll be gone. And I’ll be back in B-12 staring at the map you helped me put up.” You shifted closer, careful not to jostle the bed, and ran your thumb over the back of his hand. “You’re still shaking.”

“I’m fine. I’m not the one who used my face as a shield,” you tried to joke, but it came out as a sob. You leaned forward, resting your forehead against his uninjured shoulder. “Why did you do it? You knew you couldn’t beat him. You knew he’d... he’d hurt you.”

Yunho was silent for a long time. You felt his chest expand painfully against his bandages as he took a breath. “Because for a second... I saw your eyes,” he said softly. “When he was holding you... you looked like you believed him. You looked like you believed you were what he called you.” He squeezed your wrist, his thumb tracing the fading red marks left by Juyeon’s grip. “I can handle being beaten up. I can’t handle you thinking you’re anything less than everything to me.”

You pulled back just enough to look at him, your eyes searching the wreckage of his face. He looked so fragile against the pillows, yet his gaze was the steadiest thing you had ever known. “I’m a liar,” you whispered, the confession finally tearing out of you. “I’m a fucking liar. I’m the girl who broke your trust before I even earned it. How can I be ‘everything’ when I’m not even who you thought I was?”

He reached up, his fingers trembling as he tucked a stray lock of hair behind your ear. His touch was light, cautious, as if he were afraid you might shatter. He winced as he shifted, forcing himself to lean toward you. He didn’t let go of your hand; if anything, he pulled you closer. “The girl who lied to me is the same one who stayed up until dawn playing Mario Kart with me,” he murmured, his eyes searching yours with a clarity that the painkillers couldn't touch. “The same one who defended me. The same one who took care of me. The same one who loves me. You can’t change the way you look at me when you think I’m not watching.”

You felt a fresh tear track through the dried salt on your cheek. “I’m a mess right now,” you warned, closing your eyes and breathing in the scent of him.

“I’m a mess too,” he pointed to his face with a faint smile that made him look like the boy you’d fallen for again. “We can be a disaster together. Mingi says we’re already halfway there.” For a second, the room fell into a comfortable silence. Yunho’s grip on your hand softened as the painkillers finally started to win, his thumb slowing its frantic tracing of your skin. His eyes were half-lidded, glazed with exhaustion, but he didn’t close them. “You know,” he started, his voice dropping to a vulnerable, sleepy register. “I realized... while I was sitting in B-12 the day after... that I wasn’t actually angry that you lied. Not really.”

You looked at him, surprised. “You weren’t?”

“No,” he murmured, a small, pained huff escaping him as he shifted his weight. “I realized that the only thing I was truly mad at was that... you didn’t ask me to teach you. That Wooyoung was the one teaching you how to play. I spent all those nights thinking I was so smart, and you were right there... but you were learning his reckless crosshair placement instead of mine.”

You huffed a small laugh, the absurdity of it—that amidst the lies, the secret identity, and the brawl at The Abyss, his competitive heart was still pained by a missed coaching opportunity—was so quintessentially Yunho that it made your chest ache with a new kind of warmth. “You’re a tactical snob, Yunho,” you whispered, your fingers curling around his.

“I’m just... very competitive,” he muttered, his voice trailing off into a pout that felt so familiar it made your heart skip. He looked away, a faint flush creeping up his neck that had nothing to do with his bruises. “I honestly couldn’t believe you preferred Wooyoung’s tutorials! My girlfriend? Learning his lineups? Using his crosshair placement instead of mine? I’ve spent months perfecting all of the maps, Y/N. I have spreadsheets. I have data!” He let out a huffed, pained breath, his fingers twitching against yours. “It was insulting. Professionally insulting.”

It was so perfectly ridiculous, that you completely lost your grip on reality. You forgot he was a walking bruise. You forgot the “handle with care” labels the nurses had practically invisible-inked onto his forehead. “You’re such a fucking geek ass nerd,” you whispered, and before you could talk yourself out of it, you lunged forward. You threw your arms around his neck, pulling him into a desperate hug.

“Ooh—agh—yep, those are the ribs,” Yunho gasped, the sound punched right out of him. He stiffened as your weight hit his chest, his eyes widening in a moment of pure shock. “Internal bleeding... yeah, that’s the way to go. That's the way I want to die.”

“Oh my god! I’m sorry! I’m so sorry!” You immediately tried to recoil, your hands fluttering in mid-air. “I’m an idiot, I forgot, I—”

But Yunho’s shaky hands moved faster than your retreat. He caught you, his arms wrapping around your waist and pulling you right back into the space you’d just vacated. He let out a long, wheezing exhale, leaning his forehead against your shoulder as he waited for the sharp spike of pain to dull into a throb. “No, no,” he managed to choke out, a breathless, shaky laugh vibrating against your collarbone. “Don’t move. It hurts like a bitch, and I think I felt a rib move, but it was... it was worth it. If I’m going to have a collapsed lung, I want it to be because of you.”

“Stop joking about your organs failing!” you huffed, though you didn’t try to pull away again.

“What a way to die,” he murmured, his grip softening as he tucked his face into your hair, his breathing finally beginning to steady. “Dying by a hug from the girl who uses another man’s crosshairs.”

You let out a wet, shaky laugh, finally settling into the small space he’d made for you. You were careful now, shifting your weight so you were barely more than a warm shadow against his side. “I’ll change it,” you whispered, gently caressing his hand. “The crosshair. The lineups. I’ll let you teach me everything from scratch.”

“Spreadsheets and all?” he murmured, his voice thick with the first real pull of sleep.

“Even the spreadsheets.”

Yunho sighed, a long, contented sound that ended in a tiny, muffled wince. He didn’t let go of your hand; he just laced his fingers with yours, pinning them against the blanket as if to make sure you were still real. The adrenaline that had kept him upright through the fight, and the hospital was finally being replaced by a heavy, healing exhaustion. “Good,” he breathed, his eyes fluttering shut for the last time that night. “We’re going to be... we’re going to be the best team the Open has ever seen.”

“You’re unbelievable, Captain.”

“I’m a winner,” he corrected sleepily, his grip softening as he finally drifted off. “And I think... I think I finally won the only game that actually mattered.”

As the silence of the room wrapped around you, you finally closed your eyes. The game was over, the lies were gone, and you were exactly where you belonged—in the middle of a beautiful, bruised, and perfectly tactical disaster.

“Hey, Viper,” you heard Yunho’s quiet voice, barely a thread of sound in the dark room. You opened your eyes, looking at him, thinking he was already asleep, but his eyes were cracked open just a sliver—hazy and heavy, yet still fixed on you with that same unwavering devotion. A tiny tug of a smile pulled at the corner of his mouth, making the butterfly stitch on his lip crinkle. “Do me a favour?” He paused to take a shallow, careful breath, his hand squeezing yours one last time. “Don’t go back to The Abyss anytime soon. Or... or any bar, really. I don’t think I can fight off all the jerks in this city. I’m actually... I’m really bad at it.”

A tear escaped your eye and soaked into his t-shirt, but you were smiling through it. “You’re terrible at it. Your form was embarrassing.”

“I know,” he whispered, a hint of that shy, dimpled grin touching his voice as his eyes finally remained closed. “But for a guy who prefers spreadsheets to fistfights... I think I held my own. Just... let’s stick to the server from now on. I’m much braver when I have a digital gun.”

“Deal,” you whispered back, listening as his breathing finally deepened into a steady, rhythmic lullaby. “No more bars.”

As the room fell into a deep, peaceful silence, you realized he was right. He was a terrible fighter, a shy strategist, and a tactical snob. But as you drifted off to sleep beside him, you knew you’d never felt safer than you did right there, in the wreckage of his arms.

➢ LIVE ALIVE! COLLAB M.LIST

rems-writing

I sobbed during this part ngl 😭 i can still feel the tears running down my face. This was such a heartwrenching yet heartwarming fic 🥺🩷💞❤️

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