Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Two Lives, Two Paths

Kim Dokja – The Scholar

Kim Dokja never set out to study cognitive science. His original plan? Literature. He wanted to write stories, not analyze human decision-making like some lab rat.

But then life happened.

A single, casual dive into game theory and strategic thinking changed everything. The idea that human choices weren’t just instinctive but calculable, predictable, exploitable—that fascinated him. It was like reading a novel where every character’s fate could be altered by understanding their motivations.

At 20, he became an academic ghostwriter to make ends meet. By 23, he was a research scholar, balancing his thesis work with blogging. His blog—[Three Ways to Survive]—was a niche corner of the internet, originally meant for academic essays and personal ramblings.

Until he stumbled into esports.

One night, out of boredom, he wrote a breakdown of a pro player’s strategy:

"The reason this player struggles in mid-game isn’t mechanics, but risk aversion. His loss streak is psychological, not technical."

The post exploded.

People argued, agreed, and analyzed back. But one comment stood out:

[Anonymous]: Try breaking down Yoo Joonghyuk. Bet you can’t.

That’s how it started. That’s how he fell into the rabbit hole of analyzing one player.

Yoo Joonghyuk.

The perfect strategist. A machine of adaptation. The most resilient player in the scene.

Kim Dokja never intended to study him like an unsolvable puzzle. But he did.

And Yoo Joonghyuk noticed.

Yoo Joonghyuk – The Gamer

Yoo Joonghyuk was never meant to be an esports player.

His father wanted him to be an engineer. His mother told him to focus on real-world skills. But he was obsessive. He was competitive. He was the kind of person who, as a child, wouldn't stop playing chess until he mastered every possible opening.

At 17, he was scouted into the esports scene. By 18, he was a rising star. By 22, he was a legend.

But legends have targets on their backs.

People wanted him to lose. Wanted to dismantle him. To prove that even gods fall.

And then, one day, a blog post appeared.

A random researcher, some no-name scholar, understood him better than his own coach.

At first, he ignored it. But the posts kept coming. Accurate. Precise. Eerily on point.

Who the hell was InfiniteRegressionLogs? And why did it feel like he already knew the way he thought?

> > Thread: InfiniteRegressionLogs Needs to Touch Grass

[ProGamerX]: Okay, so I was reading another one of InfiniteRegressionLogs' deep dives, and I have to ask… is this dude in love with Supreme King? Like, genuinely?

[404NotFound]: LMAO you’re just figuring this out? The way he writes about yoo joonghyuk is like some tragic novelist composing a love letter

[Meta99]: Nah but fr, he’s either yjh’s biggest fan or his biggest hater... It’s like he’s studying him like some rare specimen

[FinalBossTheory]: You guys remember that 10k-word essay he wrote on how yjh’s decision-making under pressure reflects his ‘innate understanding of human nature’? Bro, that was a confession.

[ggsopp]: AND the one where he broke down his playing habits based on time of day?? “his reaction time sharpens significantly in the evening, suggesting a deep familiarity with nocturnal competition.” ffs, are you analyzing his circadian rhythm for science or for reasons?!?

[framespersec]: Okay but the funniest thing is that InfiniteRegressionLogs is completely unaware. Like, hereally thinks he’s just doing Academic Research™ while everyone reading is like, 'this is the most devoted man I’ve ever seen'

[SniperMetaGod]: The way he describes yoo joonghyuk's instincts as ‘bordering on the preternatural, a brilliance that seems woven into his very existence’… You don’t write like that about someone you hate.

[ProGamerX]: Someone has to tell him directly he's down bad for our Supreme King

[DataDrivenDude]: He really said ‘this is a purely objective, statistics-based analysis’ and then described Joonghyuk dodging an attack like a ‘lethal yet graceful inevitability, as though fate itself bends to his will.’ brooo

Kim Dokja had a rule: never get too attached.

To books, to theories, to people. And yet, here he was, three years into an academic career that paid in stress and instant noodles, obsessively analyzing a man he had never met. 

His laptop screen glowed in the dark, a single tab open to a live-streamed tournament. The finals. His fingers hovered over the keyboard, hesitating. His audience was waiting. Over ten thousand anonymous readers expected his post-match breakdown, an insight only he could provide.

Yoo Joonghyuk was winning. Of course, he was. The man was a machine. But something was off. Dokja leaned in, scanning every movement. Yoo Joonghyuk’s response time was impeccable, his micro-adjustments flawless, but there was a pause—a hesitation that shouldn’t be there. His risk calculation was off by a fraction of a second. And it happened again.

The realization clicked. He’s playing reactive instead of proactive. He’s playing around someone else's tempo, not his own. Dokja smirked, fingers flying over the keyboard.

“The King is hesitating. The player who never wavers is, for the first time, adapting to an opponent instead of forcing his own pace. Does he not trust his own instincts anymore? Or is this a sign of something deeper?”

He hit post. Within minutes, the comments rolled in.

[Anonymous]: No way. He’s still winning. How is that hesitation?

[Meta99]: Damn, I see it now. YJH would’ve usually gone all-in by now.

[ProGamerX]: Are you saying he’s losing his edge?

Dokja didn’t respond. He never did. His posts were there to be consumed, not explained. He shut his laptop with a satisfied click. His job was done. He had delivered his analysis, stirred the conversation, and left his audience with something to ponder.

Meanwhile, in another part of the city, Yoo Joonghyuk sat in front of his own screen, jaw tightening as he read the post. The match was over. He had won. But it didn’t feel like a victory. He sat in the dimly lit room of his gaming setup, sweat still cooling on his skin. He should’ve been analyzing his own VODs, but instead, he was staring at some stranger’s blog post. 

Again.

The bastard was right.

Again.

How the hell did this no-name scholar understand his playstyle better than half the analysts on his payroll?

It was infuriating.

It was intriguing.

It was—

Addicting.

Outwardly, he acted indifferent. Like whoever was writing these posts could say whatever they liked. But inside, it irritated him.

He had spent years refining his instincts, yet this stranger read him like an open book. And that—was unacceptable.

Kim Dokja wasn’t one for gossip, but Han Sooyoung had a way of making even the most mundane things sound like state secrets.

“So,” she began, setting down her overpriced coffee with an infuriatingly smug look. “Have you seen the latest Yoo Joonghyuk's interview?”

Dokja barely looked up from his laptop. “Why would I?”

“Because you’re obsessed with him?” she deadpanned. “Anyway, listen. This is important.”

Before he could protest, she shoved her phone in his face.

The screen played a clip from a post-match interview, Yoo Joonghyuk looking as perpetually annoyed as ever. The interviewer’s voice was bright, borderline giddy.

“Joonghyuk-ssi, a lot of analysts have been commenting on your recent shift in playstyle. Any particular reason for the change?”

Dokja didn’t mean to listen. He really didn’t. But then Yoo Joonghyuk exhaled sharply, crossed his arms, and said in a tone that was far too casual.

“Just some analyst being annoyingly insightful.”

Dokja choked on his coffee.

“Oh?” The interviewer perked up. “Anyone we know?”

Yoo Joonghyuk gave a noncommittal shrug. “Not sure. They don’t use their real name.”

Dokja set his cup down very, very carefully. His hands were suspiciously steady. Han Sooyoung, meanwhile, was practically vibrating in her seat.

“Dude. Dude.” She jabbed him in the ribs. “He’s talking about you.”

“That’s—” He cleared his throat. “That’s a stretch.”

“It’s not! He literally described you.”

Dokja could feel his heartbeat in his ears.

“He could be talking about anyone.”

Sooyoung squinted at him, then smirked.

“Are you blushing?”

“No.”

“You totally are.”

Dokja turned back to his laptop and pretended to type. Sooyoung leaned in conspiratorially.

“Imagine if he actually knows who you are.”

Dokja, mid-keystroke, paused. That thought had not occurred to him. He did not like that thought, and he must not entertain the person sitting in front of him in this regard. Yet, Han Sooyoung, watching the color drain from his face, grinned.

“Oh, this is gonna be fun.”

Kim Dokja had never felt less amused in his life.

Chapter Text

[kim dokja forum spiral]

Kim Dokja liked to believe he had a rational mind. A logical mind. The kind of mind that didn’t spiral into unnecessary paranoia just because a certain pro player made a vague comment in an interview.

So it was purely out of curiosity—not anxiety—that he found himself scrolling through forums at an ungodly hour, still nursing the remnants of his lukewarm coffee.

Just casual browsing. No reason at all to be concerned.

Then he saw the thread.

[Is Yoo Joonghyuk talking about InfiniteRegressionLogs?]

Kim Dokja clicked.

Against his better judgment, he clicked.

The first post was simple:

Did anyone else catch that interview? “Some analyst being annoyingly insightful.” Sounds like our very own IRL, doesn’t it?

The replies were… not reassuring.

[framespersec]: Oh shit. Wait. I didn’t think about that.

[ProGamerX]: If YJH actually reads IRL’s posts, I’ll eat my keyboard.

[Meta99]: Bro, IRL literally writes like he’s narrating YJH’s life. If YJH doesn’t read it,someone’s feeding him summaries.

[framespersec]: No wonder Joonghyuk’s playstyle changed. Mans got called out and decided to prove IRL wrong.

[ign_uriel]: IRL’s been in love this whole time and we just let it happen.

[SniperMetaGod]: What if they know each other irl. What if IRL is an ex-teammate. What if—

Kim Dokja slammed his laptop shut, the echo of the action reverberating through his empty apartment.

No. Absolutely not.

This was getting ridiculous.

He wasn’t “in love.”

He wasn’t “narrating Yoo Joonghyuk’s life.”

That was absurd. Romanticized nonsense. He was a researcher, an objective observer, detached and clinical—

His fingers twitched.

…Detached, right?

His breath left him in a sharp exhale. Then, as if against his own will, he pried the laptop open again. The screen flickered back to life, illuminating the mess he had just tried to run from.

[ign_uriel]: If InfiniteRegressionLogs and YJH ever meet, we’re all gonna witness a shounen anime-level rivalry or the most awkward rom-com in history.

Kim Dokja closed the laptop again. He needed stronger coffee.

[Yoo Joonghyuk vs. the Internet]

Yoo Joonghyuk did not frequent forums.

He barely tolerated post-match interviews—why would he willingly subject himself to the incoherent ramblings of internet strangers?

And yet, here he was, glaring at his screen at 2 AM, reading what could only be described as digital harassment.

He had only meant to check something. That was all. A simple search. He wasn’t looking for anything in particular.

The search bar blinked at him mockingly.

>InfiniteRegressionLogs YJH weakness

It wasn’t that he cared, or that the words from some anonymous blogger mattered to him.

But after the last match, his inbox had exploded with messages from acquaintances, rivals,and even his manager—all dancing around the same question.

"So, who’s this analyst that’s living in your head rent-free?"

He scrolled through the search results. The blog post was still there, sitting obnoxiously at the top. He had read it before. Multiple times. Unfortunately.

"Yoo Joonghyuk’s greatest weakness is his predictability."

That statement alone had been enough to make him want to throw his phone across the room. Instead of clicking on the blog, his gaze drifted downward—to the forums.

And that was how he found himself here, scrolling through an unhinged discussion about himself.

>Thread: YJH’s post-match interview – Who is this mystery analyst?!

[esSPee]: LOL yoo Joonghyuk sounds so fed up. Who is this analyst ruining his life

[YSS] : lmao the way he exhaled like he was physically restraining himself from committing crime

Yoo Joonghyuk’s jaw clenched.

[SniperMetaGod]: Pretty sure it’s InfiniteRegressionLogs. No one dissects Joonghyuk’s gameplay with this much precision.

[ggsopp] : Oh my god, if it’s them, this is HILARIOUS. This guy has been writing about YooJoonghyuk like he’s solving a divine mystery.

[esSPee] : I actually feel bad for joonghyuk. Imagine being the best in the game, and some anonymous nerd just—knows you. Too well, too deeply.

Yoo Joonghyuk stopped.

[tank_runner]: This dude has been mapping out his psyche like he’s an SCP entity.

His fingers tightened around his mouse. Still, his hand moved on its own.

[Meta99] : “Yoo Joonghyuk’s biggest weakness is his predictability.” Bro just say you’re in love and go.

He physically recoiled.

Who were these people? Why was the internet like this?

He had seen enough.

His initial irritation had morphed into something worse—an awareness he didn’t want to acknowledge.

Because the truth was, despite himself, he had started adapting his playstyle. 

Not because of this so-called weakness (because it wasn’t a weakness), but because someone, somewhere, had figured him out. And he wasn’t sure how he felt about that.

With a sharp breath, he closed the tab. Then, after a moment’s hesitation, he opened it again.

[Anonymous] : You’re all missing the best part. Our Supreme King reads it. HE KNOWS.

Yoo Joonghyuk scoffed. He wasn’t that predictable.…Was he?

His eyes flicked to his phone. His unread messages were still there.

[Han Sooyoung: LOL please tell me you’ve seen this.]

[Han Sooyoung: I KNOW you’re reading it. Don’t pretend you’re not.]

He turned off his phone.The forum continued without him.

[framespersec] : imagine if InfiniteRegressionLogs actually responds.

[tank_runner]: Never happening. They never do. But the idea that they might? Hilarious.

[Anonymous] : I bet Yoo Joonghyuk is checking their blog right now.

Yoo Joonghyuk scowled.…He was. But that's none of their business. 

The Conference 

Yoo Joonghyuk had attended countless conferences before. Most of them were routine affairs—presentation, questions, and maybe an after-event dinner if he felt particularly sociable (which he usually didn’t).

But this time, in the middle of answering the usual technical and strategic questions, a particular inquiry caught his attention.

A man in the audience, positioned neither too front nor too back, delivered a question with a tone of casual confidence that felt eerily familiar.

“Considering how your early-game resource management always leans towards high-risk-high-reward strategies, wouldn’t it be more beneficial to stagger your investment over multiple cycles instead of all-inning at inflection points?”

He frowned.

It wasn’t the question itself—it was the phrasing. It was strange, but he brushed the feeling aside and answered as best he could. 

Still, the way the man responded,the subtle way he nodded, as if confirming his own theories rather than genuinely asking, unsettled him.

The feeling deepened when, during the Q&A’s final round, the same man asked another question.

“Would you say your greatest weakness is your predictability, then? Or do you believe it's more of a strength—luring people into thinking they’ve got you figured out?”

A memory snapped into place.

“Joonghyuk’s greatest weakness is his predictability.”

He had read that somewhere. Not in an academic paper, not in an interview transcript—but on a blog.

It wasn’t just the words. It was the cadence, the analysis, the way it picked apart his strategies with an almost surgical precision.

He had dismissed it when he first encountered the post a few weeks ago,assuming it was just another armchair analyst overestimating their insight.

But now, standing here, staring at the man who had just echoed that exact critique to his face—Yoo Joonghyuk needed to know who this guy was.

After the conference ended, Yoo Joonghyuk left the hall with an unusual sense of unease.

Something about that moment felt like he had just lost a game without realizing it had even started.

He found himself unable to let it go. It wasn’t as if he could just ask his manager for information on some random attendee—that would be ridiculous. Instead, he approached it differently. 

“Does the event staff track attendee lists for Q&A sessions?”

“Probably.” His manager gave him a long look. “Why?”

Yoo Joonghyuk shrugged, feigning mild interest. “Some of the questions stood out.”

His manager’s brow creased. “You never care about Q&A sessions.”

Damn it.

He could tell immediately that he’d done something wrong.

“I was just curious,” Yoo Joonghyuk said, almost mechanically.

Now his manager really looked concerned.

“Are you feeling okay?”

That was all. A small, seemingly harmless inquiry. 

Harmless.

…Right?

But in the quiet hours of the night, Joonghyuk went back to InfiniteRegressionLogs.

He scrolled, rereading posts he had skimmed before, looking for the patterns that had caught his attention in the first place.

His mind replayed the phrasing of the questions from the conference. And then, slowly, he started connecting the dots.

He scrolled.

Post after post, each entry perfectly cataloging his in-game habits, anticipating his decisions, sometimes even offering subtle criticisms that stung because they were right.

Joonghyuk wasn’t sure when he clenched his fists, but when he saw the latest entry—posted just days before the conference—it was impossible to ignore.

“Joonghyuk’s ability to adapt is remarkable, but ironically, it’s his consistency that makes him vulnerable. He follows optimal strategies with almost religious dedication, which means that once you know the pattern, you know him. The only question is—when will he realize it himself?”

Stupid.

Nonsense. 

Two days later, his manager forwarded him a list of attendees who had asked questions during the session, along with the questions they had posed.

Joonghyuk scanned through the names, his gaze sharpening when he found it.

Kim Dokja.

The name was unremarkable. The questions, however—Joonghyuk recognized them immediately.

He had read something eerily similar before. His grip on the paper tightened as realization set in.

So it was him.

Yoo Joonghyuk told himself he was just skimming. Just checking to see how deep this went. But minutes turned to hours, and before he knew it, it was 3 AM, and he was still trading post after post.

At first, he was irritated. Who gave this guy the right to dissect him like a lab experiment? Then, grudgingly, he was impressed.…

Okay, but he’s not wrong. 

Then, existential dread set in.

"How the hell has this random researcher been in my head for weeks without me realizing it?"

And the worst part? Joonghyuk knew that, somewhere out there, Kim Dokja was going about his life completely oblivious to the fact that his blog had just derailed an entire night of Joonghyuk’s existence.

That thought alone was unacceptable.

Joonghyuk's first instinct was to respond. To post a rebuttal, an argument, something. But he hesitated.

Kim Dokja had never responded to comments. He didn’t engage in debates.

He simply posted his analysis and left, like a scholar publishing papers and letting the world discuss them without his involvement.

Joonghyuk ground his teeth. He wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction.

Instead, he changed his gameplay.

Subtly at first. Little deviations—minor inconsistencies meant to throw off pattern recognition. He kept an eye on the blog, waiting for the next post, expecting—hoping—for some kind of reaction.

And when the update came, his irritation turned into something almost resembling exhilaration.

“Joonghyuk’s recent matches suggest a break in pattern. Either he’s evolving, or he’s deliberately trying to be unreadable. If it’s the latter, it’s cute that he thinks it’ll work.”

Cute?

Joonghyuk almost threw his phone.

He was in a battle of wits with a faceless academic blogger. And for some unfathomable reason, he was losing.

[Conspiracies, Cafés, and Catastrophes]

Kim Dokja barely looked up from his coffee as Han Sooyoung slid into the seat across from him. She was late—predictably, fashionably so—but it wasn’t as if he had anywhere else to be

“So,” he drawled, stirring his drink lazily, “what kind of chaos have you been up to this time?” 

Han Sooyoung grinned. That was never a good sign.

She leaned forward, fingers tapping lightly against the table.

“You know,” she said, drawing out the words like she was about to deliver classified information. “They say Yoo Joonghyuk has been silently going crazy over those blogs of yours.”

Kim Dokja blinked. Then, slowly, carefully, he set down his spoon.

“…Who are ‘they’?” he asked, eyes narrowing. “And exactly how many people do you have in this city to know about everything?”

Han Sooyoung looked positively delighted. She kicked him under the table, making him jolt, and took a smug sip of her coffee.

“I work in the industry, you little brat.”

“That means nothing.”

“Unlike some anonymous blogger who is so obsessed with a certain pro player, I actually work in the scene and have connections,” she mocked, emphasizing every syllable like she was delivering a death blow.

Dokja inhaled sharply.

“First of all—”

“First of all, you’ve been thoroughly owned, and I’m basking in it.”

“I will leave.”

“No, you won’t,” she said cheerfully, sipping her coffee. “Because I haven’t even told you the best part.”

Han Sooyoung wasn’t going to let Dokja off easy. Dokja was already regretting showing up, but Sooyoung was thriving on his misery.

She let him stew for a bit, stirred her coffee like she’s drawing out the suspense, and then—

“Oh, right. The best part.”

She smirked.

“He follows your blog.”

Kim Dokja choked on his drink. Sooyoung looked obnoxiously pleased with herself.

“He what?!”

He was aware that Yoo Joonghyuk knew about his blog. But actually following it? No fucking way.

“You heard me,” she sing-songed, lounging back in her chair. “Yoo Joonghyuk. The guy whose entire brand is being too cool to care? He’s been following your blog. For months.”

Dokja gripped his coffee cup like it personally betrayed him.

“That’s—That’s ridiculous.”

“Is it?”

Sooyoung propped her chin on her hand, fake-innocent.

“Because I have a source.”

Kim Dokja squinted at her.

“Who?”

Sooyoung just grinned wider.

“I could tell you,” she said, all mischief. “But where’s the fun in that?”

Kim Dokja’s eye twitched. His mind was running a thousand miles an hour, rewinding every single blog post, every single word he’s ever written about Yoo Joonghyuk. Every single time he called the guy an "insufferable gaming tyrant."

Oh my god.

“No. No, this is—this is misinformation. Your source is lying.”

He crossed his arms like that’ll somehow protect him from the sheer humiliation creeping up his spine.

“And even if he was following, it could be coincidence. He probably just—just stumbled across it—”

“Dokja.” Sooyoung interrupted, her smirk downright evil. “Not only does he follow your blog,but do you wanna guess what else?”

“No,” he deadpanned.

She ignored him.

“He gets mad when you don’t update.”

Kim Dokja’s soul left his body. He slumped forward, dropping his head against the table.

“No.”

“Oh, yes.”

She kicked him under the table again, this time with the energy of someone relishing in his suffering.

“Apparently, the team knows about it. They joke about it in their group chat. Someone even said they caught him refreshing the page once.”

Dokja lifted his head, horrified.

“That’s not true.”

Sooyoung winked.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?”

He groaned, dragging his hands down his face. “I can never show my face in public again.”

“Oh, don’t be dramatic. It’s not like you used your real name. Unless—” She paused, eyes lighting up like she just had the best thought. 

“Oh my god. Do you think he knows it’s you?”

“Hah. That’s ridiculous.” Dokja drained his coffee in one go, only to realize—too late—that it was still a little too hot. He swallowed with a barely concealed wince.

“What, did you get this from one of your little industry rats? Maybe a secret underground forum? Or did you just pull it out of your ass for fun?”

Sooyoung smirked.

“Oh, it’s fun, alright.”

She leaned back, crossing her legs.

“But no. The entire gaming community has been watching your number one favorite pro-player spiral for months now. It’s honestly impressive.”

Dokja’s fingers twitched against his cup.

“Spiral?”

“Yeah. What do you call it when someone completely changes their gameplay, starts adapting his moves like a lunatic, and gets visibly pissed when he can’t figure out his mystery opponent? That’s not ‘adapting,’ Dokja. That’s personal.”

Dokja scoffed.

“You’re reaching. People change strategies all the time.”

Sooyoung tilted her head.

“Sure. But tell me, Mister InfiniteRegressionLogs, what was the exact moment he started playing like this?”

Dokja opened his mouth. Closed it. Because he knew. And Sooyoung knew he knew.

Chapter Text

[The invitation]

 A few days after his meeting with Han Sooyoung at the café, Kim Dokja received an email.

He sat hunched over his desk. His laptop screen cast the only light in his dim room, carving stark shadows beneath his eyes — the kind of exhaustion he'd long stopped recognizing.

His fingers hovered over the keyboard, unmoving, as his gaze remained locked on the email subject line.

[Invitation to the MetaGame Research Convention]

It was 2 AM, the hour when rational thought blurred into restless paranoia. He should just accept it. 

Or decline it. 

Any decision would be better than this agonizing limbo of indecision. But his mind was a battlefield of logic and instinct, both sides equally ruthless.

Reasons to go: Prestige. Connections. A tangible step toward his future.

Reasons not to go: Risk. Exposure. A certain looming presence that he refused to acknowledge as a possibility.

His lips pressed into a thin line. “Sooyoung was just blabbering,” he told himself. “She has connections, sure, but she also loves fucking with me. Maybe she threw that line about Yoo Joonghyuk in there just to get a reaction. She does that. It’s practically her sport.”

But what if she wasn’t lying?

Dokja exhaled sharply, tapping a restless rhythm against his desk.

“Be logical about this. It’s an academic event. Academics. Stuffy intellectuals discussing theories and research. There is absolutely no reason for a professional gamer to be anywhere near that venue.”

His eyes flickered back to the email.

Unless…No. No, that was paranoia talking. 

There was no way Yoo Joonghyuk had the means or the interest to figure out who InfiniteRegressionLogs was.

The man barely engaged with the community outside of his gameplay. Even if he was aware of the blog, even if, against all odds, he had been affected by it, that didn’t mean he had any reason to suspect him.

And yet, Dokja’s stomach curled at the thought. 

He could picture it too vividly: stepping into the conference hall, feeling the weight of an unseen gaze, turning—

He shook his head violently. 

Ridiculous.

Still, his fingers refused to move toward the [Decline] button.

He was going in circles, rationalizing, then unraveling his rationalizations with sheer, irrational anxiety.

But if he kept thinking like this, dawn would come, and he would still be sitting here, staring at this damn email like it held the meaning of life.

He hovered over the accept button. Retreated. Hovered again. Why was he even hesitating?

Dokja sighed, dragging a hand down his face. The answer was clear. Opportunity outweighed risk. Yoo Joonghyuk wasn’t going to be there. 

And even if he was, there was no way he’d know.…Right?

Dokja clicked [Accept].

[The Convention]

The convention was held in a sleek, high-rise hotel, the kind that boasted floor-to-ceiling windows and an overabundance of minimalist decor.

Kim Dokja adjusted his name tag, smoothing out the lanyard as he exhaled quietly.

This was fine. This was an opportunity.

There was no reason he didn’t belong here. He knew his work had weight — he’d dissected game mechanics with surgical precision, mapped player psychology like a madman with red string and conspiracy boards.

But knowing that didn’t stop the clawing anxiety gnawing at the back of his throat.

Every passing attendee looked impossibly polished — professors, developers, researchers — people who probably didn’t survive off convenience store kimbap and three hours of sleep like he did.

He kept his head down, slipping past clusters of people engaged in easy conversation. His eyes darted toward the panel schedule displayed on the sleek holo-screen near the entrance.

There it was.

“Meta-Analysis of Competitive Player Behavior: Breaking Down the Impossible.”

His heart jumped, and not in the good, oh wow I’m excited kind of way.

Because listed underneath the panelist names was a simple tag.

[Special Guest: Yoo Joong Hyuk]

No title. No affiliation. Just three words that might as well have been a death sentence.

Dokja froze.

No.

No, no no no.

He knew it. Han Sooyoung, that damn menace. She knew this would happen.

Panic licked at the edges of his mind, cold and sharp.

Leave. Leave right now. Get a refund on your dignity later.

But—

He clenched his jaw.

Running was logical. It was safe. It was what he should do.

But didn’t he write post after post about standing your ground in impossible scenarios? Didn’t he pride himself on never flinching from the truth, no matter how brutal?

(And wasn’t there the smallest, traitorous part of him buried deep, that wanted to grasp every chance to see Yoo Joonghyuk in real life?)

Dokja exhaled slowly.

“I’m going to kill Sooyoung,” he whispered under his breath, deadpan.

And then, because he was either very brave or very stupid (probably both), Kim Dokja straightened his shoulders and walked toward the conference hall.

Ready or not, Yoo Joonghyuk, the final boss of his self-inflicted nightmares, was already there.

Dokja’s stomach did something uncomfortable. He knew how to analyze him from behind a screen, from statistics, from game footage. But seeing him here, in this setting, was something else entirely. 

Face to face? That was different.

He forced himself to stay composed. Personal feelings had no place in academia. This was an opportunity—a rare chance to gain direct insight into the mind of the reigning champion. 

A challenge, even. He just had to keep his cool.

–

Kim Dokja

The tag that read his name was reflecting the sunlight pouring in from the window.

This time, there was no screen to hide behind. The moment Joonghyuk saw him, there was a sharp, visceral pull, like the snap of a trap closing shut.

He hadn’t even been looking for him. Not actively. But the second Kim Dokja walked into the conference hall, head slightly ducked, gaze scanning the crowd with careful detachment, Joonghyuk knew.

A quiet, electric recognition settled over him, a slow-burning certainty that buzzed beneath his skin.

It wasn’t anger, not exactly. It wasn’t satisfaction either, though he had imagined this moment before—what he’d say, how he’d confront him.

No, the feeling was something far more dangerous. It was interest. Because the thing about Joonghyuk was that he didn’t care for critics. He didn’t waste time on analysts and their theories.

But this one, this anonymous bastard, had gotten under his skin in a way no one else had. And now, unknowingly, Kim Dokja had walked straight into his territory.

Joonghyuk allowed himself a small, private smirk before smoothing his expression back into something unreadable. He could play the long game.

After all, InfiniteRegressionLogs had no idea what he’d just walked into.

The first interaction happened after one of the initial panels, where Dokja found himself seated at a discussion table across from none other than Yoo Joonghyuk himself.

The panel was meant to be an open forum for analyzing meta shifts in high-level play, and Dokja found himself in his element, until Joonghyuk spoke directly to him.

"Your analysis on adaptive playstyles was interesting," Joonghyuk said, watching him too intently. "But you didn’t account for the unpredictability of the players themselves. Data can’t always capture instinct."

Dokja blinked. The statement itself was neutral, even valid. But something about the way Joonghyuk said it…

Dokja felt it like a slap. 

It was textbook Yoo Joonghyuk — unbothered, precise, brutal.

"Instinct is a factor, sure," Dokja replied evenly. "But patterns always emerge, even in the most unpredictable players. Given enough data, even instinct can be measured."

Joonghyuk’s mouth curved, just slightly, just enough that it didn’t quite reach his eyes. 

"Is that so?"

Dokja felt like he had just stepped into something he didn’t quite understand. And Yoo Joonghyuk was waiting.

It was the first warning.

Yoo Joonghyuk had no particular love for research panels, but this one was an exception. He had spent the past months confirming his suspicions, scouring every post, every analysis, every breakdown written by a certain online analyst.

He had read them too many times, internalized their phrasing, their logic. So when the man behind InfiniteRegressionLogs finally spoke in front of him, he knew within minutes.

Kim Dokja had no idea he was caught. Joonghyuk let him talk, let him build his arguments, let him present his carefully curated theories.

He watched, entertained, as Kim Dokja cited himself, his own blog posts, weaving his analyses into academic theory. He wanted to see how long it would take before realization hit.

The second warning came later, after the meeting, when Dokja found himself in a small discussion group with some of the analysts and players.

Yoo Joonghyuk had positioned himself nearby, listening without speaking much. And then—

"Your analysis is thorough," Joonghyuk said suddenly, interrupting the flow of conversation. "Almost too thorough."

Dokja blinked.

"Is that a compliment or a critique?"

Joonghyuk’s gaze was unreadable.

"Neither. Just an observation."

From time to time, Han Sooyoung's words came, haunting Dokja's thought train. “Oh my god. Do you think he knows it’s you?” And everytime, Dokja got goosebumps all over his skin.

He thought to himself that he was probably overthinking, and overreacting. But everyone knew that Yoo Joonghyuk’s reaction to his blog was not to be taken under a positive light.

This man right before him could end his career before it even started. Dokja felt like that moment was only a few breaths away. 

Yoo Joonghyuk stared at his phone screen for a long moment before finally typing a message. His fingers hovered over the keyboard, considering the wording, before settling on something simple:

YJH: I found him.

A few seconds later, the reply came.

HSY: Who?

Joonghyuk scoffed. She knew exactly who. He typed again.

YJH: InfiniteRegressionLogs

There was a brief pause before her response.

HSY: No. Fucking. Way.

Joonghyuk leaned back in his chair, watching the conversation unfold like a slow-burning fire.

YJH: He doesn’t know that I know.

HSY: So what are you gonna do? Drag him outside and challenge him to a duel??

He exhaled through his nose. Typical Sooyoung. Instead of answering, he sent another text.

YJH: He walked into the trap himself. Now I just have to wait.

The typing bubble appeared, then disappeared, then appeared again. Finally, her reply came:

HSY: Hah this is the most fun I’ve had all year. Keep me updated, villain-hunter.

Joonghyuk rolled his eyes but didn’t refute it. Instead, he locked his phone, the ghost of a smirk playing at the corner of his lips.

Chapter Text

[Day 2]

Yoo Joonghyuk had spent years perfecting the art of patience. It was a necessity in professional gaming, in climbing ranks, in mastering a meta before it even solidified.

The ability to wait for the perfect moment, to strike when his opponent had no escape, was second nature to him. And right now, he was applying that same principle to one Kim Dokja. It was almost unfair how easy it was.

Across the table, Dokja was scribbling something in his notebook, brow furrowed in concentration.

They were supposed to be discussing macro-strategy shifts in competitive gaming, but Yoo Joonghyuk had spent the last five minutes ignoring the words and studying the man instead.

His meticulous notes. The way he chewed on the end of his pen when he was deep in thought. The slight twitch of his fingers whenever he caught himself about to say something too revealing.

This was the analyst who had gotten under his skin? This was InfiniteRegressionLogs?

Hilarious.

After a while, they had a break. People in the room left one by one, but Dokja was still jotting down things in his notebook, and typing on his laptop occasionally.

Joonghyuk stayed.

Silence reigned as he observed Dokja, still wordless, and not hiding the fact that he is fixated on the other person inside the room.

"You’re quiet today," Dokja remarked, looking up. He felt a great urge to break the silence.

Yoo Joonghyuk tapped his fingers against the table, feigning boredom.

"I don’t have much to say when you’re already so sure of your analysis."

Dokja snorted.

"That’s a very roundabout way of admitting that I’m right."

"Mm."

Yoo Joonghyuk tilted his head slightly.

"Or maybe I’m just waiting."

That made Dokja pause. His grip on the pen tightened just a fraction before he covered it up with a smirk. 

"Waiting for what?"

"For you to realize something."

Dokja narrowed his eyes.

"That’s vague and ominous."

Yoo Joonghyuk didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he leaned back, arms crossed, gaze steady.

"Is it?"

Silence stretched between them, and for the first time, Dokja looked… uneasy.

A tiny crack in his confidence. It was barely there, but Yoo Joonghyuk had made a career out of punishing minuscule mistakes. Still, he let this one slide.

For now.

"Get back to your work," Joonghyuk finally said, watching as Dokja relaxed—just a little. 

Patience. He had it in abundance.

He stood up from his seat, and left Dokja alone with his thoughts.

Being the Ambassador of Overthinking, Kim Dokja sat on the edge of his bed, staring blankly at his phone screen. 

The blue light illuminated his face, highlighting the sheer exhaustion in his expression.

His notebook was open beside him, pages filled with notes from the day’s panels, but his brain had stopped processing anything useful the moment Yoo Joonghyuk walked out of the room earlier.

"For you to realize something."

That was what Joonghyuk had said. So vague. So pointed.

Dokja ran a hand down his face and groaned. He was being paranoid. That had to be it.

Yoo Joonghyuk wasn’t the type to speak in riddles—his playstyle, his interviews, everything about him was brutally direct. If he had something to say, he’d say it. Right?

But no.

There was something about the way Joonghyuk had watched him today. The intensity of it. Like a predator sitting back, waiting for his prey to step into a trap.

His fingers hovered over the keyboard, hesitating, before he finally gave in and typed a message.

[KDJ]: hey

Nothing.

[KDJ]: yoo joonghyuk is acting weird

Still nothing.

[KDJ]: i think he knows who i am

Three dots appeared.

Then it disappeared.

Then it appeared again.

[HSY]: lmao

Dokja scowled, as if Han Sooyoung was sitting in front of him. 

[KDJ]: HAN SOOYOUNG THIS IS NOT A LAUGHING MATTER

[HSY]: oh my god. Do you think he knows it’s you?

[KDJ]: That's exactly what I'm saying. You planted the idea in my head and now it's manifesting. FUCK YOU

[HSY]: Ok but calm tf down, it's not even like I told him. Soooo tell me, does he know you're InfiniteRegressionLogs?

[HSY]: or does he know you’ve been thirst-blogging about him for two years

[KDJ]: I HAVE NOT BEEN THIRST-BLOGGING ABOUT HIM

[HSY]: Ohh so that post about how his microplay is so sexy it makes you wanna commit crimes was just a joke?

Dokja’s entire soul left his body.

[KDJ]: Delete this chat immediately.

[HSY]: Relax, it’s not like you can stop him from seeing the post, can you? and there's a big chance he’s already seen it.

[HSY]: Anyway, what did he do exactly?

Dokja hesitated. He didn’t even know how to explain it. It was just a feeling, but it was the kind of feeling that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. 

And yes. That particular blog blew up because of that exact phrase Han Sooyoung had just quoted.

Sometimes, he just hated himself for saying things he had said. But it couldn't be undone. 

But still, that didn’t count as a thirst blog.

[KDJ]: He’s just… looking at me weird

[HSY]: Describe weird

[KDJ]: Like he’s waiting for me to slip up…

[HSY]: OK but that’s literally how he looks at people. did you ever watch his post-match interviews? He always looks like he’s two seconds away from declaring a blood feud.

[KDJ]: It’s different. He was silent. like he was just sitting there. Watching.

[HSY]: yeah sounds like a crush to me

[KDJ]: I am blocking you.

Dokja flopped back onto the bed, groaning into his pillow. This was a nightmare. An actual,real nightmare. He needed to calm down.

Think rationally.

If Yoo Joonghyuk did know who he was, what would he do about it? Destroy his career? Probably.

Yoo Joonghyuk was a competitive legend—if he even hinted that Dokja’s analysis was unreliable, the entire esports world would turn against him.

Challenge him to some kind of ridiculous proving match? Also likely.

Joonghyuk had the mentality of a war general; he probably wouldn’t be satisfied unless he crushed Dokja in every possible way.

Or maybe—Dokja sat up.

Maybe Yoo Joonghyuk didn’t plan to do anything. Maybe he was just… waiting.

Waiting for Dokja to break first. He swore under his breath and collapsed back onto the mattress.

Tomorrow was going to be hell.

[Day 3]

The final day of the convention came and went with eerie smoothness.

Kim Dokja spent most of it waiting for something to happen. A glance, a word, smirk—anything from Yoo Joonghyuk that would indicate yesterday hadn’t been some elaborate mind game.

But Joonghyuk acted as if nothing had transpired at all. He didn’t acknowledge Dokja beyond what was necessary. Not in a dismissive way, not in an avoiding way—just like he's treating any other participant.

And that was what bothered Dokja the most. Because after yesterday, after that ominous conversation, he expected something. 

Confrontation, passive aggression, even straight-up antagonism. But he got… nothing.

He had spent two years studying this man. Learning his patterns, mapping his tendencies.

Yoo Joonghyuk was direct. When he wanted to confront something, he confronted it. So why was he acting like nothing had changed?

It made no sense. Was this his way of playing the long game? Had he decided that ignoring Dokja was a more effective punishment than addressing him outright?

But that wasn’t Joonghyuk’s style. He didn’t do subtle.

So, then—what was he planning?

And so Dokja stewed. Overthought. Dissected every single thing.

His research told him Joonghyuk should be direct. Spontaneous, yes, but still following a certain logic.

So why, why was he being unreadable now?

By the time the convention officially wrapped up, Dokja had given up on focusing on anything else.

Discussions blurred past him, topics he would normally jump at the chance to dissect became background noise.

His mind had been completely taken hostage by the uncertainty of it all. He hated it. For the first time, he found himself thinking:

“Yoo Joonghyuk is not as predictable as I thought.”

The worst part? The moment Dokja realized: ‘I have no control here.’

Because if he couldn’t predict Joonghyuk, then what could he do?

The thought unsettled him more than he cared to admit.

—

The cafeteria was filled with the low hum of conversation, the clatter of trays, and the hiss of the coffee machine. The last meal before departure.

Researchers, students,professors—everyone was settling into their final conversations, the weight of the convention winding down upon them.

Kim Dokja wasn’t sure why he was still here. He had half a sandwich on his plate and a lukewarm coffee he had yet to touch.

His mind was elsewhere, tangled in the past hours, in the way Yoo Joonghyuk had seamlessly fallen back into his usual role—as if nothing had happened.

As if that moment, those words, had been nothing more than an insignificant blip. It grated on him. Which was probably why he sensed it immediately when the air around him shifted.

Yoo Joonghyuk sat down across from him without a word. Dokja stiffened. His fingers curled around his coffee cup, but he didn’t lift it.

He forced himself to meet Joonghyuk’s gaze, expecting—he didn’t know.

A continuation.

A reaction.

A something...

But Joonghyuk only regarded him with that same impassive expression. Then, in the same breath as one might comment on the weather, he said—

“Change your username.”

Kim Dokja’s world tilted.

The sheer absurdity of it made his breath catch. He stared, trying to determine whether this was some kind of elaborate joke, but Yoo Joonghyuk’s face was a masterclass in unwavering seriousness.

His voice had been quiet, but the weight behind it had been deliberate. Calculated. A move placed with precision on a board only he seemed to be seeing.

Dokja’s fingers twitched.

He exhaled sharply through his nose.

“I’m sorry?”

“InfiniteRegressionLogs,” Yoo Joonghyuk said, his tone clipped, final. “It’s tedious.”

Dokja blinked, once, twice, trying to wrap his head around this conversation.

Of all things—this?

After messing around and pretending he didn’t exist, this was how Yoo Joonghyuk decided to acknowledge him?

He let out a breathless laugh, incredulous. 

“That’s what you’re leading with?”

Joonghyuk didn’t blink.

“It’s too long.”

Dokja scoffed, shaking his head.

“Oh, I’m sorry, is my username inconveniencing you?”

“It is.”

A muscle in Dokja’s jaw twitched.

“You remembered it just fine.”

“That doesn’t mean it isn’t inefficient.”

Dokja stared at him, a slow realization settling in his chest like a weight. The words themselves weren’t the point. The demand wasn’t about convenience. This was something else entirely.

A flex of control.

His grip tightened around his coffee cup.

“And what exactly should I change it to?”

Joonghyuk didn’t hesitate.

“Something shorter.”

Dokja huffed, shaking his head. “You just— you can’t just—”

Joonghyuk’s gaze was steady, unshakable.

“I can.”

And that was what finally made something snap in Dokja’s brain. He had spent three days spiraling, chasing patterns, dissecting every glance and movement, and yet—Yoo Joonghyuk had always been ahead.

He had let Dokja flounder, let him overthink, let him struggle under the weight of uncertainty.

And now, here he was, taking control of something as stupidly insignificant as a username like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Dokja exhaled sharply and let his head drop onto the table with a dull thud.

“I hate you,” he muttered into the wood.

A beat of silence.

Then—

He swore he heard the faintest exhale of amusement from across the table.

Kim Dokja stormed into his room, threw his bag onto the chair, and immediately fished out his phone.

The moment the call connected, he didn’t even give Han Sooyoung a chance to greet him.

“You won’t believe what just happened.”

A beat of silence. Then, a bored voice replied, “You tripped in public again?”

“I—no! What—no! Listen to me,” Dokja snapped, already regretting his choice of confidant, but also unable to stop.

“Yoo Joonghyuk confronted me.”

That got her attention.

“Oh?”

He could hear the shift in her tone. The smirk.

“So he finally called you out?”

“No,” Dokja said, dragging a hand down his face. “That’s the thing. He didn’t. He just—”

He exhaled sharply, pacing the length of his tiny room.

“I thought he was going to humiliate me. I was ready for it. I spent three days waiting for him to call me a fraud in front of the entire convention, to rip me apart in the most insufferable way possible. But do you know what he did?”

“…Something worse?”

“He told me to change my username.”

A pause. Then,

“…Huh?”

“You heard me,” Dokja hissed, clutching his phone tighter.

“He sat down. At my table. And told me to change my username.”

Another silence.

Then, Han Sooyoung burst out laughing. Dokja pulled the phone away from his ear, glaring at it like she could feel his wrath through the screen.

“Why are you laughing?”

“Because,” she wheezed, “you—Kim Dokja—got mentally derailed because your nemesis complained about your dumb blog username. That’s the most tragic thing I’ve ever heard.”

Dokja scowled.

“That’s not the point. The point is that it doesn’t make sense! Why would he do that? Why would he waste his time on something so stupid instead of—”

Instead of proving to the world that I’m nothing. Instead of taking me apart, piece by piece. Instead of looking me in the eye and acknowledging—

Dokja cut off his own thoughts, but Sooyoung was too sharp to miss the hesitation. And when she spoke next, her voice was laced with something far too amused for his liking.

“…Why do I feel like you’re actually upset that he was nice to you?”

Dokja’s entire body tensed.

“What?”

“You heard me,” she said, absolutely delighted. “Why did you expect so much from him? Why are you overanalyzing his every word? You sound like a middle school girl who just got noticed by her crush.”

“YOU—” Dokja choked, vision going white with rage. “You gremlin—!”

But Sooyoung had already devolved into cackles.

“Oh my god,” she wheezed. “This is hilarious. I’m never letting this go.”

Dokja threw himself onto his bed, dragging a pillow over his face.

“I hate you.”

“I know,” she said smugly. “So, are you changing it?”

“Absolutely not.”

After ending the call with Dokja, Sooyoung stretched her arms with a satisfied grin.

That had been one of the best rants she’d ever heard from him. And just as she was about to scroll through the forum for new drama, her phone buzzed again.

[YJH]: I have a funny story to tell.

She blinked. A funny story? From Yoo Joonghyuk?

[HSY]: What about it, kid? Let me guess. It’s your InfiniteRegressionLogs, right?

A moment later, Joonghyuk replied.

[YJH]: Yeah it’s about him. But stop with your bullshitting

Oh, this was getting good. Sooyoung could feel the sheer potential of whatever was about to unfold. The thing stirring up right now?

Pure gold.

She had just heard Dokja’s completely unhinged breakdown, and now Joonghyuk was casually messaging her about the same thing?

She was living the dream of every stupid IRL and YJH shipper on the forum. Sooyoung eagerly tapped out a response.

[HSY]: Come on spill hah Did you finally call him out??

[YJH]: Yeah sort of… I told him to change his username

[HSY]: Just that?? All you said is complain about his username??

[HSY]: What's his reaction what did he say??

To be honest, it was really hard to believe. The legendary Yoo Joonghyuk, after all the trash talk and grumbling, had simply walked up to his self-proclaimed nemesis and critiqued his goddamn username.

When Dokja said it, it was funny. But hearing from Joonghyuk himself made him sound like a helpless guy.

Joonghyuk’s reply was short.

[YJH]: It was too long and annoying to remember.

Sooyoung threw her head back and cackled. That was it?

[HSY]: Of all the things you could’ve said to him, judging by how much you badmouthed him to me… YOU ARE WEAK YOO JOONGHYUK

She couldn’t stop smiling. This was pathetic in the best way possible. All that buildup, all that irritation, and this was what he went with?

Incredible. Absolutely incredible.

Joonghyuk’s next message nearly made her drop her phone.

[YJH]: The moment I saw him, it felt pointless. He looked so... I don’t know. It didn’t feel worth it anymore.

Sooyoung let out an ungodly screech and slammed her fist against her desk.

[HSY]: YOO JOONGHYUK HELLO??? OH MY GOD WHAT DO YOU MEAN, IT FELT POINTLESS??? AFTER ALL THAT BARKING??? AFTER ALL THAT DRAMA???

Han Sooyoung sat, gripping her phone like it was the funniest and most scandalous thing she had ever witnessed.

Because this wasn't just Yoo Joonghyuk backing off—this was him feeling bad. He pitied Kim Dokja.

Yoo Joonghyuk felt bad for InfiniteRegressionLogs.

The world had to know this.

This was like watching an anti-shipper caught mid-stare, realizing they had fallen victim to their own forbidden ship.

[HSY]: You’re actually pathetic. I can’t breathe.

[HSY]: Where’s all that rage?? Where’s the fire?? What happened to ‘I’m gonna make him regret breathing in my direction’??

[HSY]: Did you just see his sad little face and go ‘aw man, never mind’ like a loser???

Sooyoung screenshotted the chat.

If Yoo Joonghyuk even tried to deny it, this was for future blackmail. Because this? This was gold.

There was no reply from the other end. If it was any other day, it would imply that Joonghyuk was done with his business.

But today wasn't just any other day.

The silence in this moment indicated that Joonghyuk realized what kind of information he had just given away to Sooyoung, and he was regretting every bit of it.

Chapter Text

With Yoo Joonghyuk

University is where all sorts of things happen.

People fall in love, and fall out of love just as quickly. Some find lifelong partners, while others lose the friendships they thought would last forever. Some make enemies. Some make history.

You never know what will happen next.

For Yoo Joonghyuk, however, university was nothing more than a prison sentence—a tedious requirement forced upon him by his parents.

His three-year contract with TWSA Esports was nearing its end, and his mother had made one thing clear: no graduation certificate, no renewal.

His father, for once, agreed. It was absurd, but when his mother made a decision, it was final. Joonghyuk had learned long ago that resistance was futile.

If there was one thing Yoo Joonghyuk hated more than unnecessary distractions, it was people who talked too much.

And Han Sooyoung?

She talked too much. And she made sure her voice carried.

Their first encounter had been during a literature seminar, of all places. The professor had posed a question, and before Joonghyuk could answer, she had launched into a response.

Not just a response—a full-blown monologue, complete with dramatic hand gestures.

"Actually, if you consider the protagonist’s unreliable narration, you’d see that —"

"That’s incorrect." His voice cut through hers, cool and firm. "The narration isn’t unreliable. It’s limited. There’s a difference."

She turned to him, eyes gleaming with amusement.

"Wow. You must be fun at parties."

The class chuckled. Joonghyuk didn’t.

From that moment, it was war. Their rivalry escalated naturally.

Sooyoung started by stealing his usual seat in the lecture hall. Joonghyuk didn’t react—he simply took hers in the library the next day.

She ‘accidentally’ switched his name tag in a group project. He ‘accidentally’ erased her contributions on the class presentation slides.

It was loud. Petty. Unmistakable.

"Did you guys know each other in a past life?" A weary groupmate asked one day. "Because this is too much."

Sooyoung grinned.

"If we did, I probably killed him."

Joonghyuk didn’t dignify that with a response. 

Then came the real challenge.

"For the debate finals," the professor announced, "Yoo Joonghyuk and Han Sooyoung will be on the same team."

Silence.

Stifling, unbearable silence.

Then, Sooyoung muttered under her breath, "Kill me now."

Debate practice was a battlefield. Joonghyuk was meticulous, structured—he wanted efficiency. Sooyoung was unpredictable, theatrical—she wanted flair.

They clashed over everything. But frustratingly, they also worked well together. By the time the finals rolled around, their strategy was perfected.

Joonghyuk delivered razor-sharp arguments; Sooyoung followed with devastatingly smooth rebuttals. His precision, her showmanship—they were calculated, seamless.

Unstoppable.They won.

And somehow, amidst all the competition and chaos, an unspoken truce was formed.

Neither of them acknowledged it. But from that point on, their war had changed. Sure, the arguments still happened—nearly daily, if anyone bothered to keep track.

But something had changed.

At first, it was subtle. Sooyoung still stole his usual seat sometimes, but now, he’d just give her an unimpressed look before sitting across from her instead.

She still made snarky remarks when he spoke in class, but sometimes, he caught her listening—really listening.

One evening, in the nearly empty library, Joonghyuk was poring over a research paper when Sooyoung sat down across from him, a cup of coffee in her hand.

He raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

“I’ll be here for a while,” she said, stretching her arms. “Don’t feel pressured to leave, but also don’t expect me to stay quiet.”

“Wasn’t expecting you to,” he replied dryly.

And that was that. After that night, it became... a thing.

They’d end up in the same study areas, sometimes arguing, sometimes just existing in the same space.

He never asked why she sat near him. She never asked why he didn’t leave. 

During classes, they still took jabs at each other, but the edge softened—just a little. Their classmates noticed how their debates flowed so naturally that it was almost rehearsed.

Professors started pairing them up on purpose, likely for the sheer entertainment of watching them work together like two gears grinding against each other yet turning all the same.

One afternoon, in the middle of a group study session, a classmate looked between them and casually asked, “Are you two friends now?”

Joonghyuk and Sooyoung reacted at the same time.

“No.”

“Absolutely not.”

Their voices overlapped, sharp and immediate.

The guy blinked.

"Uh, okay."

Sooyoung leaned back, crossing her arms. "Why would you even think that?"

"You guys are always together," another person pointed out. Everyone had been silently observing them.

"You sit near each other in class, argue like an old married couple, and let’s be real, if one of you commits murder, the other would probably help hide the body."

Joonghyuk scoffed.

"That’s ridiculous."

Sooyoung snorted.

"Yeah. If I committed murder, I'd make sure to frame him for it instead."

"Charming," Joonghyuk muttered.

They weren’t convinced.

"You literally share study spaces now."

"It's a coincidence," Joonghyuk deadpanned.

Sooyoung gestured wildly.

"He's like a stubborn fungus. I can't get rid of him!"

Joonghyuk gave her a withering look.

"You're the one who sits next to me."

"Because you're there first! What am I supposed to do, let you have peace?"

Everyone in the room watched the exchange, unimpressed.

“Yeah, okay, but you two aren't trying to kill each other anymore.”

Joonghyuk folded his arms. "That doesn’t mean we’re friends."

Sooyoung pointed at him. "Exactly. Just because I tolerate his existence doesn’t mean I like him."

Joonghyuk exhaled sharply, looking at her with an unreadable expression.

"Likewise."

The classmate who asked the question raised his hands in surrender.

"Right. Not friends. Got it." He turned back to his notes, but under the table, another classmate whispered, "They're totally friends."

Neither Joonghyuk nor Sooyoung acknowledged it. But neither of them denied it again,either. 

With Kim Dokja

It was two years ago.

The first time Han Sooyoung heard of InfiniteRegressionLogs was when a post from the blog went viral.

Everyone in the gaming community was talking about it—

An in-depth analysis of the Supreme King, Yoo Joonghyuk’s, strategies in Seventh World Chronicles, breaking down his every move with an eerie level of precision.

It wasn’t just the typical breakdown of builds and mechanics—it was as if the author had peeled open Yoo Joonghyuk’s mind and laid it bare.

Naturally, Han Sooyoung’s curiosity was piqued. As someone who had known Yoo Joonghyuk since university, and someone who had worked as a social manager for Yoo Joonghyuk’s company, TWSA Esports for years, she had seen countless speculations about the man, but none had ever captured him so accurately.

She had seen countless interviews, fan theories, and speculative takes on him before. But this? This was different. This was personal.

Curiosity sparked, she dove into the blog’s archives. Post after post, she found herself growing more intrigued. Whoever this InfiniteRegressionLogs was, they weren’t just a fan with a good eye.

They understood Yoo Joonghyuk at a level that was almost unsettling. His decision-making under pressure, the habits he had when he thought no one was watching, the subtle emotions that flickered across his usually unreadable face—it was all there.

And despite Yoo Joonghyuk’s reputation as a cold and untouchable player, the blog managed to humanize him in a way no interview ever had.

Han Sooyoung went down the rabbit hole, scrolling through older posts, devouring every article.

The writing was sharp, insightful, and occasionally laced with dry humor. It was addicting. Before she knew it, hours had passed.

Han Sooyoung had to know who was behind it. She tried the direct approach first—leaving comments, asking questions, even subtly baiting for a response. But to her growing frustration, she realized something—InfiniteRegressionLogs never replied to comments. Not a single one. 

That should have been the end of it, really. But Han Sooyoung wasn’t the type to back down from a challenge.

So, she got creative.

If InfiniteRegressionLogs wouldn’t respond to comments, perhaps they would respond to something a bit more official.

Using her work email, she composed a message with the subject line:

‘PotentialCollaboration Opportunity with Yoo Joonghyuk’s Management Team.’

The body of the email was crafted with careful ambiguity—formal enough to seem professional, vague enough to pique curiosity. She framed it as a preliminary discussion, an exploration of possible content partnerships, even hinting at a potential meeting with Yoo Joonghyuk himself.

It was, of course, complete bait.

Now, all she had to do was wait. And if the mysterious blogger took the bait, Han Sooyoung would finally get her answer: Who was the person who understood Yoo Joonghyuk better than anyone?

—

Kim Dokja was skeptical when he received the email. He would be lying if he said that he had never sought attention for his blog, but he did not seek it to this extent.

And it was odd that Yoo Joonghyuk’s company would suddenly take notice. But curiosity gnawed at him.

He knew his analyses were good, but ‘that’ good?

He agreed to meet.

When Han Sooyoung saw Kim Dokja for the first time at the café, she almost laughed.

She had expected someone mysterious, sharp-eyed, maybe even brooding. Instead, the man sitting in front of her looked exhausted, dressed plainly, sipping black coffee like it was the only thing keeping him alive.

On the other hand, Kim Dokja took one look at Han Sooyoung and immediately regretted showing up.

He had expected a corporate type, maybe even a stiff professional, but instead, he was met with her—a woman who radiated chaos and curiosity in equal measure.

“You’re InfiniteRegressionLogs?” Han Sooyoung asked, sliding into the seat across from him, eyes gleaming with interest.

“And you’re from TWSA?” Kim Dokja replied, unimpressed.

“Mhm.” She hummed, resting her chin on her hand. “So, tell me. How do you know Yoo Joonghyuk so well?”

Kim Dokja immediately realized he had been played. He sighed, rubbing his temple.

He's already here anyways. He thought. It was not even like he expected much.

So, he decided to play along. “You could’ve just asked in the comments,” Kim Dokja muttered, stirring his coffee lazily.

Han Sooyoung smirked. “You never reply to comments.”

“That’s because they’re usually stupid.”

Han Sooyoung snorted. “Fair enough.”

Then she leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table. “So? How do you do it? Your analyses read like you’re inside his head.”

Kim Dokja stared at her, unblinking. “I just pay attention.”

Han Sooyoung clicked her tongue. “Liar.”

Kim Dokja didn’t respond. He merely took another sip of his coffee, eyes blank. That was the first time Han Sooyoung realized that this man was frustratingly unreadable.

She changed tactics.

“Alright. How about this? You tell me how you got so good at reading Yoo Joonghyuk, and I’ll tell you something interesting in return.”

Kim Dokja exhaled through his nose. “I’m not interested.”

“Oh, come on.” Han Sooyoung grinned. “Aren’t you curious about what someone on the inside knows?”

That made Kim Dokja pause. He glanced at her, eyes narrowing slightly.

“Go on.”

Han Sooyoung took that as a small victory. “Alright,” she said, lowering her voice slightly. “You know those rumors about why he rarely does interviews? About how he never talks about his past?”

Kim Dokja tensed, but it was so subtle that most people wouldn’t notice. Han Sooyoung, however, caught it.

She smirked.

“You’re interested now, aren’t you?”

Kim Dokja placed his cup down with a soft clink.

“And you want me to trade my insights for whatever gossip you have?”

“Gossip?” Han Sooyoung raised an eyebrow. “I work at TWSA. I don’t deal in gossip. I deal in facts.”

Kim Dokja looked unimpressed, but Han Sooyoung could tell he was considering it. She watched as his fingers tapped idly against his cup—a small tell, but a tell nonetheless.

Kim Dokja thought the whole thing was stupid. The moment he realized he had been tricked into this meeting, he should have left.

He wasn’t desperate for social interaction. He wasn’t even desperate for validation. At least, that’s what he told himself.

And yet, here he was. Sitting across from Han Sooyoung, sipping on a rapidly cooling cup of black coffee, listening to her talk like they were old acquaintances.

Finally, he sighed. “Fine. But if what you tell me is useless, I’m walking away.”

Han Sooyoung grinned. “Deal.”

And that was how it started.

The first time, he told himself it was just curiosity, and their meeting was purely transactional—she fed him bits of inside knowledge about Yoo Joonghyuk’s career, and in return, he explained his thought process when writing his blog.

The second time, he blamed it on irritation—he couldn’t let her have the last word.

By the third time, it was habit.

Over time, the exchanges became less about Yoo Joonghyuk and more about them.

Han Sooyoung found herself fascinated by Kim Dokja’s way of thinking. He wasn’t just observant—he was calculating, precise, almost clinical in his analysis of people. It was a little terrifying, but also impressive.

Kim Dokja, on the other hand, found Han Sooyoung endlessly irritating—but in a way that kept him coming back. She was reckless, nosy, and far too clever for her own good. But she also had a sharp mind and a wit that kept him on his toes.

At some point, the café they first met at stopped being just a meeting spot. It became their spot. It wasn’t anything special.

The coffee was decent, the noise level was tolerable, and most importantly, it was far enough from the TWSA office that Han Sooyoung didn’t have to worry about running into anyone she worked with.

Dokja never asked why that was important to her, and she never offered an explanation. But week after week, they both kept coming back.

“This is stupid,” Dokja muttered one evening, stirring his coffee absentmindedly as Sooyoung scrolled through her phone across from him.

“What’s stupid?” she asked without looking up.

“This whole thing.”

Sooyoung smirked, finally glancing at him. “Then why are you still here?”

Dokja opened his mouth, then closed it. He had no good answer. Or rather, he had answers, but none that he wanted to say out loud.

Instead, he took a slow sip of his coffee and let the silence stretch between them.

Sooyoung didn't press him. She never did.

And that was probably why he stayed.

Chapter Text

Yoo Joonghyuk was losing.

Not in the literal sense; he’d swept every scrims with brutal efficiency, the kind that made viewers go quiet. But he knew. Every dodge was a second too sharp, every combo landed with a little too much force. His manager noticed. His team avoided him like plague with wristbands.

Sooyoung, unfortunately, did not.

"You know, if you keep grimacing like that, your face will stay that way," she said one afternoon, twirling a lollipop with clinical malice.

“I’m fine.”

“You’re pouting.”

“I do not pout.”

“Okay, broody.” She leaned on the wall beside him in the corridor. “You really gonna pretend this has nothing to do with your favorite ghost analyst vanishing?”

Joonghyuk didn’t answer. He hadn’t said InfiniteRegressionLogs’ name once. Not since that convention. Not since he found out who it was. Not since he made him disappear.

Because that’s what happened, wasn’t it?

He remembered the look on his face. Kim Dokja, was it? – when he said that comment. Dismissive. Cutting. Thoughtless.

And then nothing.

No blog updates. No comments. No passive-aggressive breakdowns of his build strategy with carefully restrained praise and scathing wit. The silence was louder than any post he’d ever read.

At first, Joonghyuk checked out of curiosity.

Then out of habit.

Then because he couldn’t stop.

Now it had been a month, and the forum was a mess. Half of them theorized InfiniteRegressionLogs had been abducted. Others blamed him. They weren't exactly wrong.

He scrolled through the old posts sometimes. Not obsessively. Just… frequently. Re-reading the ones that dissected his gameplay with maddening precision. Some comments were frustratingly accurate. Others were so off-base they pissed him off for a whole day, he missed those.

"Should I set you up?" Sooyoung mumbled, loud enough just for Joonghyuk to hear.

Joonghyuk stiffened. “…What?”

“Oops. Did I say that out loud?”

He turned to her slowly. “What weird things have you done again?”

Sooyoung shrugged. “After your rude proclamation flamed by your main-character complex, I figured he might need coffee and validation." Half truth. Entirely justified.

“He’s fine, then?” The words slipped out too fast. Too sharp.

Sooyoung smirked like a cat who just watched a dog trip. “Aww. You care.”

“I care about the strategic edge his commentary gave me.”

“Mhm. Right. Just the analytics. Not the person behind them.”

Silence.

Sooyoung leaned closer, her voice suddenly low.

“He thought you hated him.”

Joonghyuk didn’t respond. His jaw clenched. It didn’t matter what Kim Dokja thought.

Except maybe… it did.

Kim Dokja sat hunched on his bed, a blanket draped over his shoulders like a makeshift cloak of melancholy. His tablet rested in one hand, dimly lit in the otherwise quiet room of his mother’s apartment. He’d just finished chapter 315 of Ways of Survival, a web novel he’d been reading for nearly four years. It was still stubbornly ongoing—like its protagonist.

“Yoon Joonhyung,” he muttered, eyes narrowing. “What a name. Stubborn, emotionally constipated... just like Yoo Joonghyuk. Damn. Even their names sound similar.”

It had been a month since the research convention. A month since Yoo Joonghyuk dismissed him with that snide jab about his username. A month since the InfiniteRegressionLogs blog went completely silent—no posts, no announcements, no “I’m taking a break,” nothing. Just... vanished.

And the forum? Spiraling.

Conspiracy threads bloomed like mushrooms after rain. Some were convinced Joonghyuk had hunted him down. Others guessed burnout. His defenders insisted he was just taking time off. After all, Joonghyuk wasn’t even streaming tournaments lately. The mystery only added to the chaos.

His phone buzzed. Han Sooyoung. Again.

Dokja sighed through his nose and picked up, mostly out of guilt. He’d ignored her all week.

“Kim Dokja!” her voice exploded through the receiver.

He yanked the phone away from his ear with a wince.

“I don’t need to be scolded,” he said flatly, surprised at how calm he sounded. “It’s not like my posts save lives.”

“But you could’ve at least said something,” she shot back. “You just ghosted everyone. What is this? The Kim Dokja tantrum arc?”

Dokja stayed quiet.

“…Oh my god. That’s what this is?” She gasped. “Kim Dokja, don’t tell me you went full radio silence just because of the username slander!”

He sighed long and heavy, letting his head fall back against the wall.

“No. I’m not that petty.”

Maybe he was.

Another beat passed before he continued, quieter now.

“It’s been almost two years since I graduated. I think it’s time to get serious. The PhD track isn’t going to chase me down, and honestly... maybe Yoo Joonghyuk just rang the bell for me. I’ve fooled around enough.”

Sooyoung snorted. “Wow. That’s the most dramatic way I’ve ever heard someone say ‘I want to go back to school.’”

“I am a man of flair.”

“Mm, a man of flair who hasn’t changed his hoodie in three days.”

He scowled. “You don’t know that.”

“Oh, I do. Now get your melodramatic ass out of the house. I’m kidnapping you for coffee.”

“I’m not in Seoul.”

“Liar. You went back to your mom’s apartment three days ago. You left a review for the corner bakery on Naver, and your taste in bread is as suspicious as ever.”

Dokja groaned. “Stalker.”

“I’m your concerned friend,” Sooyoung countered, and he could practically hear her grin. “The type who’ll climb into your window like a deranged rom-com lead if you don’t come meet me at Café Icarus in 30 minutes.”

“Why there?” Dokja mumbled, staring blankly at the flickering web-novel ad on his tablet. “Their espresso tastes like regret.”

“Exactly. Thought you’d relate.”

He didn’t laugh, but the corner of his mouth betrayed him. A twitch, barely there.

“Fine,” he muttered, shifting under the blanket like a retired hermit being dragged back into society. 

---

Thirty-five minutes later, Dokja walked into the cafe with his hoodie up, glasses on, and emotional armor set to max defense. Sooyoung was already there– obnoxiously bright in oversized sunglasses, sipping something pink, frothy, and undoubtedly overpriced.

Where was her espresso of regret? Dokja thought.

“You’re late,” she said, without looking up from her phone.

“I’m on sabbatical,” he replied, pulling out the chair across from her. “Time works differently when you’re grieving your internet persona.”

Sooyoung finally looked up, eyes flickering across his face. “You look like a raccoon that just saw god.”

“That’s generous. I only saw Joonghyuk’s livestreams.”

She snorted, nearly choking on her drink. “God, I missed you.”

Dokja looked down at the menu, lips twitching. “Don’t get used to it.”

Later, over bitter coffee and quiet background jazz, Sooyoung leaned in.

“You know he’s been asking around, right? Yoo Joonghyuk.” He wasn't actually asking around. Sooyoung thought, but close enough. 

Dokja’s spoon clinked softly against his cup.

“He misses the blog,” she continued. “Not just the praise, not just the analysis. You. He doesn’t know it yet, he’d rather wrestle a bear than admit it, but he does.”

Dokja didn’t reply right away. He wasn’t sure how she always reached these conclusions. Or where she got her intel. Or how much of it was truth versus prophecy.

Finally, with all the dry exhaustion in the world, he murmured:

“Good for him.”

But Sooyoung saw the way his fingers tightened around the spoon.

“You two must have been complicated lovers in your previous life.”

“Don't be ridiculous.” Dokja deadpanned. 

“No.” Sooyoung stated firmly, straightening in her chair like she's about to say something profound. “I mean it. You've barely met each other, except for that convention, yet you have each other on a chokeho–”

“Ah stop it. You and your choice of words,” Dokja interrupted. “I can't believe I let myself be tricked into listening to your nonsense.”

“Do you wanna meet him?”

Dokja blinked. For a second, he genuinely thought he misheard her. “Just how many tricks do you store up those sleeves?”

“I’m being serious,” Sooyoung said, leaning forward. “If you want to meet him, I’ll arrange it. You can confront him, shout at him, point fingers, throw your coffee at him—whatever you want.”

He stared at her like she’d grown a second head. The idea was so absurd, so un-Sooyoung in its lack of dramatic flourish, that it almost scared him.

“Like hell Yoo Joonghyuk would let me do that,” he scoffed, still trying to gauge if this was one of her elaborate bits. “Besides, I know you’ve said things about me to him.”

“Hah.” She leaned back with a smirk. “I’m not denying that. But between the two of you, you're in a better position right now.”

“That’s... actually terrifying.”

“You’ll live.”

“You never stop surprising me.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

Dokja lay flat on his bed, staring at the grey ceiling like it held the secrets of the universe.

If he met Joonghyuk… what would he even say?

Joonghyuk hadn’t told him to stop posting. He hadn’t insulted him, well, aside from the username slander. He hadn’t even treated him badly. It was Dokja’s own decision to shut down the blog. To disappear. Joonghyuk had nothing to do with it.

A gust of wind knocked over a rolled-up poster from his desk. It hit the floor with a soft thud, but Dokja didn’t move. Not yet. He knew what it was anyway.

The Yoo Joonghyuk poster from last year’s Continental Tournament in Japan. Joonghyuk had been selected as Best Player, not just MVP of the day, but of the entire championship.

Dokja remembered the piece he’d written then:

Best Player Yoo Joonghyuk: What Sets Him Apart from the Rest.

A small smile tugged at his lips, helpless and uninvited.

He was just a fan. A fan who happened to gain attention. Nothing more.

There was no reason to meet. No need.

They were just strangers, after all.

Chapter Text

Yoo Joonghyuk sat on his couch, the TV remote in one hand and a glass of ginger tea in the other. A piano from god knows where played softly in the background as he flipped through channels, looking for something to kill time. But then—

"Researcher and Analyst Kim Dokja has been missing for one month," the news anchor announced.

Joonghyuk’s thumb froze mid-press. The screen flashed a picture of Dokja– eyes serious, gaze distant, caught mid-interview. That familiar expression of someone always thinking five steps ahead.

The voice of the reporter turned into static in his head.

Then. Ding dong.

The doorbell rang.

He blinked, placed the remote and his untouched tea on the table with almost mechanical calmness and walked to the door.

Two police officers stood there, expressionless.

"Mr. Yoo Joonghyuk, we need you to come with us to the station. You’re a person of interest in Kim Dokja’s disappearance."

“What?” he barely had time to say.

Strong hands gripped his arms and ushered him down the hallway. A metallic clunk. The car door slammed shut behind him, loud like a gunshot. He was trapped. Stuck in the backseat with his reflection staring back at him from the window, guilt and disbelief etched into his face.

---

Yoo Joonghyuk woke up with a start.

Breath shallow. Heart pounding.

He was in his bed. Alone.

He stared at the ceiling for a long moment before groaning and dragging the blanket over his face.

“What a stupid dream…” he muttered, his voice hoarse. “Embarrassing, even.”

But he didn’t go back to sleep. He just laid there, silent. Haunted. Wondering.

What if it was his fault?

Dokja was scrolling through a new article when a particular headline caught his eye:

 "StarStream’s New Team to Debut at the Upcoming Regional Championship."

He blinked. A new team?

That meant Yoo Joonghyuk’s label was officially debuting the new team in the tournament.

Huh. Interesting.

Before he could spiral down a rabbit hole of speculation, a voice called out from outside his room.

“Dokja, you have a visitor.”

He froze. A what now?

Quickly, he glanced at his reflection in the mirror. His hair was a mess, his shirt was inside out, and there were sleep creases on his face from that midday nap that accidentally turned into a three-hour coma. He straightened himself out just enough to look human.

And then he walked out—only to see Han Sooyoung perched comfortably on their living room couch like she owned the place.

“Hello, Dokja!” she greeted, smiling like the cat that got the cream.

Dokja’s brain flatlined. He had just met Sooyoung two days ago, and now she was here at his house, holding a literal bouquet of flowers like some kind of weird rom-com reject.

“See, she even brought flowers,” his mother said, bustling by in the kitchen with thinly veiled curiosity. “I wonder what this is all about.”

“What the fuck is this?” Dokja blurted, completely forgetting manners or decency.

Sooyoung beamed at him, thoroughly enjoying the chaos she’d just detonated. “What does it look like? These are from Yoo Joonghyuk.”

“Bullshit.”

“He even wrote a note.” She fished around in the bouquet and pulled out a small folded card like it was some kind of magic trick. “Swear to God. I wouldn’t have believed it myself if I had not seen it with my own eyes.”

Before Dokja could snatch it from her, his mother’s voice rang out again, cutting through the fog of confusion. “Dokja, help me get the cookie tray from the table.”

Groaning, he trudged toward the kitchen like a man walking to his own execution. His mother brought some juice for them. He'd only just clawed his way out of a weird dream haze, and now this?

Back in the living room, Sooyoung didn’t even try to lower her voice.

“‘I’m sorry for being rude. Don’t just disappear because of me.’” she read aloud, her tone sing-song and smug.

Dokja froze, cookie tray in hand. "What the fuck!" he mouthed silently.

And then came the real nuclear bomb:

“My son has a boyfriend??” his mother gasped, followed by the unmistakable tone of barely concealed glee.

“Did they break up? Is this an apology?”

“MOM!”

Dokja thundered into the living room, practically slamming the tray down on the table like it had insulted his lineage. “Why would you assume I have a boyfriend and not a girlfriend?!”

His mother just smiled, completely unbothered. “You’re my son. Of course, I would know.”

That answer washed over him like a tidal wave of confusion and lowkey panic. Know what, exactly? He blinked at her, stunned, like his brain had just blue-screened. Was he... relieved? WHY was he relieved?? He wanted to crawl into a ditch and disappear.

Sooyoung, ever the agent of chaos, leaned toward Dokja's mother like she was spilling national secrets. “Mrs. Lee, you’ve raised an incredible son. I mean, he got flowers from the one and only Yo—”

“Shut up.” Dokja snapped, snatching the note from her hand.

He turned to his mother, ears burning. “He’s not my boyfriend.”

There was a beat of silence.

“He’s Yoo Joonghyuk,” Sooyoung added, casually, as if she was just naming a guy from down the street.

“Oh.” Realization dawned across Mrs. Lee’s face in real-time, her eyes widening. She turned slowly to her son. “Gamer Yoo Joonghyuk?”

Sooyoung nodded with the enthusiasm of a kid who knew exactly what she’d done. 

Mrs. Lee’s entire expression changed as she looked at her son like she was suddenly seeing him in HD. “Didn’t you go to Japan to watch his game last year?”

Dokja short-circuited on the spot.

His insides ignited like a self-destruct sequence had been triggered. He didn’t know where to look. The floor? The ceiling? The void? He stood frozen, hands awkwardly hovering like they’d forgotten what to do with themselves.

“You really went to Japan??” Sooyoung gasped, this time genuinely caught off guard. “When you ghosted me for weeks during the Championship last year, you were flying overseas to see Yoo Joonghyuk? You swore all over the place that you’d never spend a penny on him! You called him an overpriced algorithm with legs!”

“That was metaphorical,” Dokja muttered, but his soul was already leaving his body.

Mrs. Lee laughed softly, clearly enjoying the drama like it was her weekend soap. “Ah, young people,” she said with a sigh, turning to leave. “I’ll be in my room. Don’t kill each other.”

She vanished down the hallway, leaving the two of them alone in the living room; one beaming with victory, the other melting into a pile of shame and regret on the floor.

“Tell me why it was necessary to ghost me,” Sooyoung demanded.

Dokja sank timidly into the couch like he was bracing for judgment day. Sooyoung slapped his arm, not hard, but enough to jolt his soul from its hiding place.

“Tell me.” She repeated, eyes narrowed.

“If you knew I went to Japan, who knows what trick you would’ve pulled,” he mumbled.

Sooyoung gasped, clutching her heart dramatically. “I am not always about tricks. I can be quite serious too.”

“Oh really?”

“Yes, really. Like this time, I delivered the flowers diligently, just like Yoo Joonghyuk begged me to.”

Dokja snorted.

“Duh.”

Her eyes narrowed. “What? You don’t believe me??”

She folded her arms with a theatrical shrug. “Well, I don’t blame you. Honestly, I don’t even know why he asked me. He’d already bought the bouquet when I met him.”

She burst into laughter at the memory. Yoo Joonghyuk, stiff as a board, holding flowers like they were a live grenade. If people had seen it, they’d have assumed he was proposing to someone who just threatened to block him.

“Maybe he had a tarot reading,” Sooyoung continued, her tone growing dreamier with every word. “Or a palm reading. Maybe… horoscopes. Astrology. Maybe Mercury was in retrograde and told him now was the time to act on his feelings.”

Dokja nearly smiled. Yoo Joonghyuk consulting an astrologer. What would he even say?

Hi, I keep having dreams about a blogger who bullies me online, please help.

“Do you think he saw you in his dreams?” Sooyoung said suddenly.

Dokja jolted. “Can you not say things like that with a straight face?”

Sooyoung grinned, thoroughly entertained.

“Anyway, how did you even find your way here?” Dokja asked, deflecting as fast as possible. Whatever the reason behind the flowers, they were already here. That was enough.

“Hah.” Sooyoung’s smile faltered slightly. She’d only meant to poke fun, but she answered anyway. “Everyone knows your mom.”

Dokja blinked. “...What.”

“Unlike someone I know who used to blog under a fake name, your mother is a real author. So finding your apartment? Piece of cake.”

“Stalker.”

“Fan,” she corrected, sticking her tongue out. “I even went to her fansign last week. She’s really cool.”

Dokja sighed, unimpressed. “Attending one fansign doesn’t make you a fan.”

“Oh? Then what does?” Her eyes glinted mischievously. “If I write numerous blogs about her work, fly overseas to see her, and ghost my friends, would that make me a fan?”

Dokja shot up from the couch. “Why haven’t you gone home already?”

He smiled, looking down at her like he’d just won the round.

Sooyoung held up her glass innocently. “Dokja, didn’t your cool mom teach you how to treat guests? I haven’t even finished my drink.”

“I thought you were here just to deliver the flowers,” Dokja said, and before she could react, he tugged her into a hug.

“Kim Dokja!”

“Han Sooyoung!”

They both dissolved into a moment of ridiculous laughter.

Then Sooyoung, still half-trapped in his arms, blurted out, “His manager said there’s going to be a Meet and Greet at the Regional.”

Dokja’s smile faded.

“Go home.”

Dokja’s mind hadn’t rested the whole evening.

From the moment he placed the bouquet into a clear vase – careful, almost reverent hands, to the moment he gave in and searched the meaning of the flowers, Yoo Joonghyuk had officially taken over his brain.

White camellias. Purple hyacinths.

"You're adorable."

"I'm sorry. Please forgive me."

Dokja stared at the results like they had personally slapped him across the face.

“Ridiculous,” he muttered, pushing away from the desk as if distance would save him from the implications. “Utterly ridiculous. Who on earth had picked the flowers for him?”

Dinner was half-hearted, a blur of rice and distraction. And when he finally returned to his room, flicking on the light, the first thing that caught his eye was the bouquet, sitting primly on his desk like a damn shrine to mortifying affection.

Despite himself, he took a picture.

He sat down on the edge of his bed, thumb hovering over the screen, heart in his throat. Then again, despite himself, he sent the image to Han Sooyoung.

He was being smart about it though. “Just once.”

The message would disappear after a single viewing; no saves, no screenshots, no forwards.

He even added a caption:

"Tell him the reason I stopped blogging isn’t him. I’m focusing on my PhD program."

There. Clean. Reasonable. Emotionally unavailable.

A few minutes later, Sooyoung replied. He opened the new “just once” message.

It was a photo of his original message.

His own carefully timed, disappear-after-viewing message... perfectly captured with another camera.

Dokja stared in horror.

“…She brought out her DSLR for this, didn’t she,” he whispered, genuinely distressed.

Another message followed:

 "I'm gonna send this to our emo boy and tell him his crush likes him back "

Dokja went limp.

He dropped his phone like it burned him and collapsed face-first onto the bed, all strength leaving his body like his soul had ghosted out through the nearest wall.

“So they weren’t just company friends… they were actual friends all along,” he groaned into the mattress.

The betrayal was personal.

Han Sooyoung had tricked him.

Again.

Chapter Text

> Thread: [DISCUSSION] Regional Champs 2025 – Who's making it to Continentals??

[Meta99]: if TWSA doesn't qualify i’m flipping my desk. i’m literally begging joonghyuk to carry them like the emotionally constipated beast he is 😭

[Anonymous]: imagine having Yoo Joonghyuk on your team and still managing to drop scrims. couldn’t be my faves.

[ign_uriel]: they nailed the scrims so far wdym (folks anti spotted!!!)

[esSPee]: y’all are mad but let’s be real, dude’s a machine. like has anyone ever actually seen him blink?

[aestheticautopsy]: he doesn’t blink, he reloads. get it right

[ggsopp]: no fr but have you noticed how CLEAN his rotations have been since last season??? his timing is supernatural. like if I didn’t know better I’d think someone was feeding him real-time analytics...

[ProGamerX]: OH??? THEORIES DROPPED???

[SniperMetaGod]: speaking of real-time analytics... where tf is InfiniteRegressionLogs?? Regionals are literally the daesang and he's ghosting harder than my thesis partner

[WhaleinDenial]: same. and I miss when InfiniteRegressionLogs used to blog every match of his. Those breakdowns went harder than my GPA falling.

[SolRift]: maybe he finally got a life 💀

[ign_uriel]: shut UP we’re mourning here

[framespersec]: Honestly hoping IRL comes back for the Regionals tho. It’s such a major turning point … team formations, international implications, the CHANCE FOR REVENGE MATCHES. That kind of narrative writes itself and IRL was always so good at dissecting that tension.

[ign_uriel]: If InfiniteRegressionLogs comes back and posts another “Moment of Breakdown” analysis I will tattoo his URL on my forehead

[tank_runner]: the parasociality is out of control in this thread but yeah same

[SniperMetaGod]: plot twist InfiniteRegressionLogs is actually Yoo Joonghyuk himself

[ProGamerFanatic]: don’t even joke about that. joonghyuk would rather eat glass

[actual_human_not_ai]: frfr. i miss that weirdly poetic breakdown style. like “here’s how yoo joonghyuk murdered an entire team with the elegance of a falling snowflake” 😭

[WhaleinDenial]: i still think about the “Elegy of Precision” post at least once a week. bro turned a pixel-perfect flick into a Shakespearean tragedy

[tank_runner]: No but does nobody really not know why he disappeared 

[Meta99]: maybe they got too close to the truth 😔

[esSPee]: yjh tracked him down. believe me

[CloudRiot]: ngl i still think IRL and Joonghyuk are connected somehow. don’t ask me how. i don’t have the evidence. i just have the vibes.

[404NotFound]: what if IRL was the only one who ever understood Joonghyuk’s playstyle and now that they’re gone he’s spiraling emotionally 😭

[ProGamerX]: it’s wild how IRL hasn’t posted in 73 DAYS but still lives rent-free in this entire subforum. true legacy.

[ggsopp]: you keep a count??😭😭

[PewPewParade]: if you’re reading this... pls. come back. 🙏 we need your synesthetic match analysis and your subtle unhinged obsession with joonghyuk. we’re starving.

Inside the StarStream studio – a sleek, modern floor high above the city, all glass walls and quietly humming high-spec equipment—the lighting was mostly off. Only the soft glow of idle monitors and the distant flicker of vending machines cast shifting shadows on the floor.

Each player had an assigned desktop, custom-tuned to their own keybindings, settings, even posture quirks. It was a sacred territory.

There was a streaming room, a scrim room, and several small booths for solo ranked games or post-match analysis. Above this floor, the dormitories housed the players, compact but clean. Beds. Lockers. A shared kitchen always stocked with ramen packets and instant coffee.

As team captain, Yoo Joonghyuk often reminded the others not to stay up too late during tournament season. Pressure was expected. Burnout wasn’t. A good rest, he’d always said, mattered just as much as a good practice.

And yet, here he was. Half past two.

The studio, in its stillness, felt like something shed its skin. Hollowed-out. He liked it that way. No voices. No jokes. No PR team booking sponsored streams. No interviews he had to sit through, stone-faced and miserable. Just silence, and the low hum of cooling fans still spinning from hours of combat.

He wasn’t even playing anymore.

His headset lay beside the monitor. The scrim logs were open, cursor blinking, waiting for notes that wouldn’t come. He sat back, arms crossed, eyes fixed on the faint reflection of himself in the black screen of his secondary monitor.

This setup, this corner of the studio, was his. Always had been.

Same chair. Same tilt to the left monitor (3.5 degrees off-center,on purpose). Two keycaps worn bare from use – W and R. A faded sticker under the desk someone gave him at a fan meet two years ago. He’d never told anyone he kept it.

It wasn’t just a desk.

It was his anchor.

So when he opened a browser and typed "InfiniteRegressionLogs", it felt like a betrayal.

Not to his team. Not to his manager.

To himself.

Because he already knew there wouldn’t be any updates.

He checked anyway.

Clicked through the blog. Scrolled. His fingers hovered over the last post, the one from over two months ago.

Still nothing.

He minimized the tab. Opened his notes. Tried to focus on map control timings.

Failed.

Without thinking, he reached into the drawer beside his desk and pulled out a protein bar. One of the emergency ones. He didn’t eat it. Just stared at the wrapper like it might offer some kind of answer.

Then leaned back and stared at the ceiling.

"You're really not coming back, huh?"

The thought hit harder tonight.

Maybe because Regionals were in three days.

Maybe because the forums hadn’t shut up about IRL’s silence in weeks. As if the blogger had vanished. As if a ghost had finally stopped haunting the scene.

Or maybe because… some part of him had hoped they’d come back. Just once. Just long enough to say something. Anything.

And maybe it was because Joonghyuk didn’t want to admit how much he'd started relying on that voice. That sharp, irritating, infuriatingly accurate voice that saw him. The blog that had been running for two whole years; almost a year now since he first stumbled across it.

The studio lights had dimmed to a soft glow. It was nearing 3AM. In the hallway, he heard the soft drag of slippers – one of the rookies heading back to the dorms.

He didn’t move. Let them pass.

A few months ago, Namwoon, one of the youngest players, had caught him late at night, staring at the blog. The kid didn’t say anything. But the next morning, the whole team gave him hell for “fangirling over a blogger.” And since then, Han Sooyoung had not shut up once.

He hadn’t opened the page in public since.

Joonghyuk sighed, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. Considered logging into ranked. Maybe some matches would numb him out.

But the drive wasn’t there.

Instead, he opened his phone and scrolled to a familiar photo in his gallery. The one Sooyoung had sent him. He’d cropped it. Adjusted the lighting. Edited it so many times, he didn’t even know why.

Just some flowers in a vase.

And a message, passed through Han Sooyoung:

"Tell him the reason I stopped blogging isn’t him. I’m focusing on my PhD program."

He stared at the words again, even though he already knew them by heart.

He didn’t believe it.

And maybe, some selfish, bitter part of him didn’t want to.

Because if it wasn’t because of him, then what was it all for? The blog began with him. Every post, every breakdown, every little caption hidden under a screenshot – him.

He was the reason it started.

And now Dokja wanted to end it for something else?

A degree? A future?

He clenched his jaw, breathing sharp through his nose.

He wanted to scream. To ask why it couldn’t be him. Why it wasn’t still him. Why he couldn’t be the reason Kim Dokja stayed. Why he wasn’t the one worth choosing.

It was pathetic.

He knew that.

But the ache didn’t go away. It only deepened.

Because he had read those blogs.

Obsessively. Religiously.

Picked them apart late at night like they were coded messages meant just for him.

He watched the updates stop. One by one. Until the silence felt like a goddamn punishment.

And now Sooyoung just handed him that single, neat message like it meant nothing.

And somehow, that hurt worse than if it had been.

Because if it wasn’t his fault, if he hadn’t driven Kim Dokja away, then that meant he never had any real hold in the first place. No weight. No meaning.

Just another anonymous reader.

One of the thousands.

Forgettable. Replaceable.

He swallowed hard, fists tight at his sides.

God, maybe he was selfish. Selfish enough to want more than just the blog. More than just the late-night thoughts about him. He wanted… he didn’t know what. Recognition? Devotion? Proof that he hadn’t imagined the connection pulsing between those lines?

So stupid.

All those posts, and it still wasn’t enough.

And now there would be nothing.

No updates. No mentions.

No more quiet presence in the corner of his world.

Just flowers in a vase.

And a message that was never meant to be comforting.

Only final.

Ahhh.

What were the names of the flowers again?

Right.

White camellias and purple hyacinths.

He’d told the florist he wanted something that said “I'm sorry,” and maybe also, “I admire you.” She’d made a fuss about it.

Sooyoung made an even bigger fuss. Of course she did.

He just hoped Dokja hadn’t been completely distracted by her theatrics.

He closed the photo. Turned off the monitor. Got to his feet.

The hallway outside was cold, lit only by a glowing EXIT sign. He walked slowly, hands stuffed in his pockets. The elevator pinged open, empty. On the dorm floor, the soft hum of snores drifted through the cracked doors.

He lay in bed, staring up at the ceiling, and all he could see was Kim Dokja’s expression when he told him to change his username.

That flicker of dread in his eyes.

Joonghyuk cursed under his breath.

Stupid.

He was so stupid.

That had been his best chance. A fragile, awkward thread of connection, one he could’ve built on to make him a closer acquaintance.

Yet he blew everything off.

Heck. He even severed the only source of information he could get from him.

Why the hell had he said that?

Why did he ruin it?

And why couldn’t he stop thinking about him?

He turned on his side, pulling the blanket up to his shoulders, jaw clenched.

What kind of relationship did Sooyoung really have with him, anyway? She’d delivered the flowers. Which meant they were closer than he wanted to admit.

He sighed again, bitter.

Of course she gave the flowers. She always did know how to make things look effortless.

He wondered if she laughed when she handed them over.

If Dokja had smiled.

If this was the end – if Kim Dokja had really moved on – then maybe Yoo Joonghyuk was just another faceless player behind a screen.

Maybe this was it. Maybe it was over.

Maybe that was what hurt the most.

By the time he finally drifted off to sleep, the horizon had already begun to lighten with dawn.

Chapter Text

Kim Dokja sat comfortably on the couch, snacks restocked after the first match ended. He’d decided to treat himself today and watch the game on the big living room TV instead of hunching over his tiny laptop screen like usual.

The next match was about to start – TWSA Esports vs Helix Serpent. 

Advertisements flickered on the screen.

The new team, Team Olympus, had swept their opponents clean: 3-0. A flashy debut. No surprise they were from StarStream. But seriously, Olympus?

Dokja scoffed.

How bold of StarStream. They already had Yoo Joonghyuk, and still had the audacity to name a second team after literal gods.

Tch.

Even their path to Regionals was suspicious. They’d only played in two mid-season cups, nowhere near enough points to qualify. Then suddenly, like a miracle, the last qualifying team withdrew at the last minute, and Team Olympus conveniently slid into their slot.

StarStream really was powerful. Scary, even.

The stream returned. The stage lights flared, and a giant countdown appeared on screen: 10 minutes to game time. The players entered one by one as the announcer hyped up the crowd.

The audience was loud. And it was only the group stage.

Dokja watched the screen, chewing silently.

“They’re all insane,” he thought.

But then again, he would've been in the crowd too... if things hadn’t gone the way they did with Yoo Joonghyuk.

He was insane too.

He'd just been hit with reality.

The others hadn't. Not yet.

He winced. At nothing, and then at everything.

The volume of the crowd spiked again as Joonghyuk stepped onto the stage.

This match would be easy, Dokja thought. That man wouldn’t even break a sweat.

His thoughts wandered.

TWSA... what the hell did that even stand for?

The full form had never been revealed. Who came up with it? What did it mean?

"Tactical Warfare and Strategic Artistry? Lol, I hope not."

He scoffed.

StarStream housed the best player in the Korean peninsula, and yet gave his team the dumbest name in history.

TWSA. This Win Seems Accidental.

The camera zoomed in on Joonghyuk’s face; expression unreadable, fingers adjusting his headphones.

Dokja laughed quietly to himself.

Joonghyuk on a good day would totally say that during a ranked match while annihilating his opponents like it was nothing.

“It’s him, right?”

His mother’s voice startled him.

“Wh–what?”

She gestured to the screen, settling beside him on the couch. “That’s Yoo Joonghyuk, isn’t it?”

“Yeah.” Dokja replied, tone stiff, suspicious.

"In South Korea, Yoo Joonghyuk holds the highest cumulative score for three years in a row, topping the seasonal rankings back to back. No one has ever achieved this feat before."

The live commentator said.

“He was just 17 years old when he entered the pro scene, and now, even years later, we only see him going forward.”

“Does that mean he made a world record?” his mother asked, genuinely curious.

Dokja chuckled.

“No, no. That’s just a national record. And besides, I don’t think the cumulative rankings are even officially acknowledged.”

“They seemed pretty serious just now.”

“Well... pro players rarely make it to the top 100 in cumulative rankings.” He caught the puzzlement on his mother’s face and grinned.

“The cumulative system tracks everything from your first match. So it takes years of excellent gameplay and ridiculous consistency. Most pros don’t have the luxury to farm those stats because they’re focused on real competition. The ladder’s usually filled with jobless grinders.”

He paused.

“They say Joonghyuk’s current account is his first account. Ever. His stats are insane. He’s been climbing nonstop since his debut, and fans have been pushing the authority to recognize it. That’s why it’s getting attention now.”

His mother nodded slowly. “He must be amazing.”

Dokja didn’t think she understood even half of what he’d just said, but honestly, he just needed someone to talk to. It had been a long time since he talked about all this with anyone, or even said it in general.

The first ban phase began.

“What did you do to deserve flowers from him?”

Dokja blinked.

Deserve?

That word didn’t sit right. But he shook it off.

“You heard it. It was an apology.”

“I thought you wouldn’t mind sharing why.”

The first three bans from the enemy team targeted Joonghyuk’s main heroes. Classic. Not that it would work. Anyone who thought that would actually stop him was an idiot.

“Remember when I said I was attending that research convention?”

His mother hummed in acknowledgment.

“He did not give good regards to my username.” He paused. “I don’t know why it bothered him so much. It was not even that serious.”

That... might have been a lie.

It did bother Dokja.

Because Yoo Joonghyuk could’ve said something cold and brutal, and Dokja would’ve taken it. But instead, he’d gone for petty.

Dokja was offended by the lack of effort, like the whole thing wasn’t even worth his breath.

"Doesn't look like a mere username drama to me," his mother remarked casually.

Dokja scoffed. “It is.”

They slipped into silence, the commentator’s voice filling the room in their place. Dokja found it odd that she was still here, quietly watching beside him. They didn’t get many afternoons like this.

Maybe that’s why she stayed, he thought.

On-screen, the game was in full swing.

Joonghyuk seemed… less aggressive than usual.

Dokja squinted.

Could it be?

He remembered the suggestion he'd made to him on a panel before, about not frequenting high-risk plays too much in the early game, and many other blog posts criticizing his risky plays which were so obvious to himself, but somehow other people would hardly get it; they were not always worth it nonetheless.

Joonghyuk had applied it before, but they were in ranked streams and his purpose was purely to go against whatever's written in the blogs of InfiniteRegressionLogs. He was doing it just for fun.

But here… now… it almost looked like he was applying it. Holding back and playing calculatedly.

Was he seriously trying that in a tournament setting?

Dokja hadn’t expected that.

If this really was Joonghyuk adjusting his playstyle… well, he better carry that attitude into the higher stages too.

This match? It was a cakewalk.

Even if TWSA played straight from the standard handbook, with no adaptation, no risk-taking, they’d still win. Helix Serpent ranked much lower in the table. This was a warm-up.

He sighed.

Please, at least make the big brain moves where it counts, Joonghyuk.

Five minutes in.

TWSA led by 5k gold. The other team hadn’t even gotten a single kill. Group stages really could be painfully one-sided.

Joonghyuk just secured his third kill; a killing spree, with a turret dive. A clean, merciless play.

"The one and only Supreme King, Yoo Joonghyuk!!” the commentator shouted.

He had his first core item already.

How the hell does this man farm like that? Dokja gawked.

It was almost unfair.

“He’s really handsome,” his mother said suddenly.

Dokja blinked at her.

She was still watching intently. “Seems like he plays well… I don’t understand any of it, but he looks like a fine young man.”

Dokja stared at her like she’d just said she wanted to become a pro player herself.

“You’re not going to start fangirling now, are you?” Dokja asked, raising an eyebrow as he leaned back against the couch, one knee pulled up lazily.

She chuckled, reaching for the popcorn bowl he’d just refilled. “Why not? He’s got the face. The skills. And he’s… tall, right?”

Dokja side-eyed her like she had just confessed to a crime. “Well,” he muttered, trying to sound offhand. “He’s 184 cm.”

His mother paused, giving him a look. “That’s… very specific.”

He pretended not to hear her, suddenly very interested in repositioning a throw pillow beside him.

“That’s impressive,” she then said, casually.

Dokja stayed silent, thankful she didn’t push the topic of how he knew that detail. Because he definitely did not have that memorized from a player profile article… or an unofficial fan wiki… or–

“Many esports players shoot advertisements these days,” his mother mused aloud, tapping her fingers against the bowl. “But I don’t think I’ve seen him much.”

Dokja, who had been trying to disappear into the couch like it was quicksand, perked up. “There’s a rumor,” he began, tone shifting into the comfortable rhythm of nerdy intel, “that he only agrees to ads if the pay goes straight into his pocket.”

He turned his attention back to the screen, watching as Joonghyuk’s camera briefly zoomed in on his face before a stat chart popped up beside it.

“Honestly? I believe it,” he added, tapping his phone screen to rewind and rewatch the breakdown of Joonghyuk’s early-game item build. “Ninety percent of his endorsements are from his own livestream. And they’re all ranging from energy drinks and protein bars to gaming phone and workout gears.”

His mother looked impressed. “And his company lets him just… do that?”

“StarStream?” Dokja snorted. “They’re basically licking his feet at this point. Man knows his worth and how to use it to his advantage.”

“Aah,” she sighed dramatically. “What a waste of such good countenance!”

“I know, right?” Dokja replied with more energy than necessary, even slapping his hand against his thigh. “With that face? Even if he entered the modeling industry, he’d still be at the top.”

Silence.

A pause hung between them like someone had hit the mute button on reality.

His mother turned to look at him, one eyebrow raised.

Dokja blinked.

Wait.

Wait!

Did he really just say that?

Out loud?

A wave of regret hit him like a tower dive gone wrong.

“I mean, professionally. Statistically. His bone structure is…” he waved his hands vaguely, like that would explain anything. “ – a strong marketing asset.”

His mom burst out laughing.

Dokja sank further into the couch, face hidden behind a throw pillow he no longer remembered grabbing. The screen showed Joonghyuk getting another flawless kill, and the crowd roared in approval.

He peeked over the pillow.

Joonghyuk adjusted his mic and flexed his fingers.

Calm. Focused. Efficient.

Dokja buried his face deeper into the pillow.

This was fine.

Everything was fine.

He was totally not going insane over a man on a screen in front of his mother. 

Nope. Not at all.

Later that evening, Dokja sat cross-legged on his bed, laptop glowing faintly in the darkened room.

 “TWSA opened their group stage with a predictable sweep, showing early control and consistent macro.

Yoo Joonghyuk didn’t pull anything flashy today – no early overcommits, no high-risk invades.

Which is interesting. Either he’s holding back, or someone finally told him not to gamble in low-stakes matches.

If it’s the latter… he’s listening now.

Not much to say about Helix Serpent, they looked nervous and outpaced. It’s hard to find footing when the enemy Jungler is practically scripting.”

He reread it twice. Fingers hovered over the keyboard, itching to add more words… and maybe hit “post.”

But he didn’t do either.

The words just sat there. Neat and sharp.

So much of him wanted to send it out. And yet–

What if no one cared?

Worse… what if they did?

Would he be welcomed back? Did his absence even mean anything?

And, what if someone noticed?

What if someone, just for a second, wondered whether InfiniteRegressionLogs had something to do with the way Yoo Joonghyuk played today?

Because truth be told… no one had ever told him to slow down in the early game. Dokja would bet that even Joonghyuk's coach had never suggested that to him.

His aggression used to be a spectacle in itself. His fast decisions, sharp instincts, risky invades; it made him the golden standard.

Even now, rookie jungler Kim Namwoon from Team Olympus was being called the next Yoo Joonghyuk. Joonghyuk 2.0. The prodigy to inherit the crown.

Dokja’s lip twitched.

Ridiculous.

Absurd.

Hilarious.

Utterly laughable.

Whoever said it first must’ve been high on copium.

Yoo Joonghyuk triumphed in silence. His quiet was louder than any boast. His game spoke for him — clean, focused, unrelenting.

Kim Namwoon was the antithesis. Loud. Brash. Always showboating on stream. Dokja would never, ever agree to him being a successor to anything Joonghyuk left behind.

He still remembered that forum thread from last season, when someone requested he break down the similarities in their playstyles.

He had refused.

Some fans had turned on him for that. Called him biased and emotional.

And maybe he was. But Dokja would’ve liked to say it anyway:

“Kim Namwoon idolizes Yoo Joonghyuk.

And he does the worst job imaginable at trying to become him.”

That was his only observation.

Chapter Text

InfiniteRegressionLogs Blog Drafts – Group Stage Coverage

30th May, Friday Group A: TWSA vs Helix Serpent | 3-0

 “TWSA opened their group stage with a predictable sweep, showing early control and consistent macro.

Yoo Joonghyuk didn’t pull anything flashy today – no early overcommits, no high-risk invades.

Which is interesting. Either he’s holding back, or someone finally told him not to gamble in low-stakes matches.

If it’s the latter… he’s listening now.

Not much to say about Helix Serpent, they looked nervous and outpaced. It’s hard to find footing when the enemy Jungler is practically scripting.”

31st May, Saturday Group A: TWSA vs Mirae Tempest | 3-1

“TWSA dropped a game today.

And not because Yoo Joonghyuk played poorly– no, perish the thought– but because Mirae Tempest drafted cleverly in the first game, and focused on isolating his team from him. Their intention was not to outgun Joonghyuk, but to starve him.

There was a solid rotation shutdown strategy and targeted bans against his Support. They isolated him; a strategy hinged on silencing the field around him. They didn’t try to cage the beast. They simply took away the ones who ran with him. This worked... for game one.

The next games, however, was all Joonghyuk again. Jungle pressure into map dominance. Lane collapsed under Yoo Joonghyuk who moved like a storm too stubborn to die.

It's funny. For a moment, I thought Mirae was going to prove my theory. That the best way to bind Yoo Joonghyuk isn’t to cage him directly, but to bleed out the ones who hold the leash.

After all, his Support is the one who gives shape to his chaos. Take away the harmony, and even a symphony begins to sound like noise.

But it seems like no one would take a nobody like me seriously. Even after they secure a victory, they would not give full commitment to the same draft. Or maybe they are not strong enough to gamble on team comps. After all, Joonghyuk will have his pools freely open that way. Because if you leave the door open, even a crack, he will step through.

Not with caution or hesitation. But like it’s his house, and you are just tenants he’s come to evict.

He gambles a lot. Too much, sometimes. 70% of the time, he’s relying on someone being there when he leaps. And most of the time, they are.

Because for all his ferocity, Joonghyuk isn’t a lone wolf. He’s a spear tip. Someone sharp enough to lead, but only when thrown by a hand that understands him.

I’d still like to see a team go all in. No compromises. Full lockdown. Force him to fight without a net.

I want to see what he does when there’s no one left to catch him.

And more than that – I want to see if he still jumps.

6th June, Friday Group A: TWSA vs Astra Velvet | 3-0

"I blinked, and the series was over.

That’s not an exaggeration. That’s what it felt like. One moment, we were loading into Game 1. The next, the scoreboard read 3–0 and my tea had gone cold.

Astra Velvet entered this match with a plan; or at least, the bones of one. Heavy crowd control. A siege comp built to suffocate. They came armed with stuns and slows and everything short of a divine intervention.

But plans only matter if you get the space to execute them.

And against TWSA, more specifically, against Yoo Joonghyuk – that space is a luxury you’re rarely afforded.

From the first whistle, he played like someone with a grudge. His early aggression, once unpredictable, now feels ritualistic. A kind of holy violence. And today, it returned in full form.

He played like a man untethered. Someone who knows there’s a net beneath him and chooses to walk the tightrope anyway, just to prove that he can.

It didn’t feel like a battle. It felt like the final act of a play, one he’d already written in his head.

Astra Velvet brought their finest tools. They brought force, and formation, and theory.

But Joonghyuk?

He brought certainty.

And sometimes, certainty is the most violent weapon of all.

TWSA finishes Group A in 1st seed with a 3-0 match score, 9-1 game score.

"TWSA continues to wear their crown with quiet ferocity. As reigning champions, they’ve done more than just qualify for playoffs—they’ve issued a statement. Korea’s pride on the international stage remains intact for now, and with the Continental Championship looming this November in Shanghai, expectations are climbing by the day.

Last year, they clawed their way to the cup from the lower bracket. What kind of performance can we expect this year? The Group Stage has only been done, yet we can already see changes coming from Yoo Joonghyuk – rotation shifts, timing and even the way he jumped in to risks. They screamed a bit less of recklessness than last year. 

Character development, I guess. However, he should have done that 4 seasons ago.

It’s ironic—how he used to bristle at the label of "predictable" without ever questioning why it stuck. Everyone knows when he’s going to invade. Four-minute mark. Always. Some teams even reroute their jungle pathing because of it. It’s the kind of pattern you can build a shrine around.

The only reason that pattern still works?

Flawless execution, and precision.

He commits just enough. Applies just enough pressure. Always leaves a crack open for retreat. And when you add Lee Hyungsung into the mix; his now-staple Support, it’s like watching wildfire learn choreography.

(Just look at the numbers. Look at his impact metrics since Hyunsung joined TWSA. It's not a coincidence. It's synergy dressed up as violence.)

Even if TWSA somehow falters in the Regional Finals (and let’s be honest, they probably won’t) they’re still walking into Continentals with momentum to spare.

Yoo Joonghyuk has improved a lot, but he needs more to | "

Dokja stared at the blinking cursor.

The paragraph hung incomplete, unresolved; much like the subject of it.

What was the point of drafting all this? He wasn’t going to post it. Not this version. Not any version.

Did people even really want essays that read like post-mortems of games?

Not clips. Not tier lists. Not ragebait thumbnails. Just… words. Laid out like old bones, waiting to be picked clean.

Nobody gained anything from his posts. Not the players. Not the fans. Not even himself. And yet he wrote. Still.

Still found himself watching. Still held his breath when the game hit a crescendo. Still opened up the match replay as if it could explain something the live stream didn’t.

It was foolish, wasn’t it?

He blamed the military service. That endless blur of days where the only thing he could control was his own curiosity.

When he was discharged two years ago, he’d been bored out of his mind, hungry for stimulation, desperate for something.

That was how it all started.

Not from passion. Not from some dream of becoming a gaming analyst or a commentator. He wasn’t even into Esports. Not really.

He just wanted to be a decent researcher, to finish his thesis, to maybe get published and live a quiet, academic life.

Now he was neck-deep in competitive jungle pathing theories and emotionally compromised over a man who seemed to be as emotionally disturbed as he was.

He found it hard to believe that all this – this quiet obsession, this second heartbeat that lived in screen recordings and patch notes and draft picks, had been built by himself.

Every emotional wreckage, every late night spent rewriting a blog post, and every fleeting moment of awe, frustration, admiration.

All self-inflicted.

Dokja closed the tab without deleting it. He never deleted anything. He just let the words rot in his drafts folder like fruit left too long in the sun.

Maybe someday, he’d come back to it. Or maybe not.

He shut his laptop and pressed the heel of his hand to his eyes, hard enough to see static. The sound of his ceiling fan spun lazy above him, indifferent to his spiral.

Outside, summer was coming.

Shanghai loomed on the horizon.

And Yoo Joonghyuk kept winning like nothing had ever changed.

It was a Tuesday night.

Group stages had wrapped the past weekend, and the arena had gone quiet since. No matches until playoffs. The whole scene was in a lull – teams regrouping, content creators milking recaps, fans obsessively chewing over power rankings like it was their life’s work.

And then Yoo Joonghyuk went live.

Just like that.

No schedule. No teaser. Not even a “Starting Soon” screen. One second his Twitch account was dark. The next, a tiny red dot blinked beside his name.

[🔴LIVE: Yoo Joonghyuk | “Hi”]

For a second, nothing happened. Then:

100 viewers.

1,000.

10,000.

By minute five, it broke six digits.

The screen showed Joonghyuk at his desk, hair damp like he’d just stepped out of the shower. Plain black shirt. Headphones slung around his neck. No music. Just the rhythmic clack of a mechanical keyboard as he adjusted his HUD.

“Mm,” he grunted. Probably a greeting.

Classic Joonghyuk.

The chat exploded anyway.

> YOOO HE’S LIVE??

> KING 👑 BACK AT IT AGAIN

> Face check cam is ILLEGAL this early in the week

> HE LOOKS SO GOOD WHAT THE—

> JOONGHYUK PLEASE SMILE 😭

> drop your skincare pls.

 

For ten minutes, he said nothing. Just queued up ranked, took jungle, locked in a champ, and played.

Smooth. Efficient. Classic.

He wasn’t trying to prove anything. Not to them.

At least… that’s what he told himself.

Game one ended. Victory screen.

He clicked through the post-game stats absently, then leaned back in his chair, jaw tensed. Hair drying into faint waves around his ears, he finally glanced at the chat.

“Coach said to rest. But I needed to… do something.”

He didn’t elaborate. He didn’t need to.

The way he hovered over the “Play Again” button said enough.

Rest felt like rot.

He couldn’t sit still.

“Ranked is rest, I guess.”

Queue popped. Jungle again—this time, one of his more volatile picks; a hero he rarely used in tournaments. It's the kind you don’t pull out unless you're feeling reckless. Or restless.

He hesitated for a beat. Then he locked it in.

The chat caught fire like dry grass.

> WE GETTING SPICY TODAY??

> that’s the champ IRL said was ‘reckless and thrilling in the worst way.’

> LMAOOOO he called Joonghyuk a ‘suicidal war general’ 💀

> he said “watch me prove him wrong”

A corner of his mouth twitched. Not a smile, not quite.

Just... amusement. Or challenge.

Then, without warning, Joonghyuk spoke again:

“Are you guys my fans… or InfiniteRegressionLogs'?”

As the hero selection screen ticked down, his eyes scanned the waterfall of messages flying past.

> I TOLD YOU HE KNEW

> OH MY GOD HE really knows AHAGAGAGGGHA

> Do you think theyve met???

> I CAN’T BREATHE

> is this a dreamm???

> I NEED ANSWERS!!!

“You all scream about InfiniteRegressionLogs on every stream,” he said, mouth curling into the faintest smirk.

“And you expect me not to know?”

His didn't look away from the screen; his eyes scanning the mess of hearts, emotes, theories, unhinged screaming.

He did not say how he knew. Didn't say how he'd been reading those blog posts, or how had bookmarked some of them.

Silence followed—one of those heavy silences where you just know something loaded was said.

Then he adjusted his grip and launched straight into the game.

Midway through the match, he pulled off a bold jungle invade—risky, near-blind, a perfect 2v1 executed with only a sliver of health to spare.

The kind of play you don’t plan. You just feel.

The chat combusted.

> He's doing it for the Drama

> HE KNOWS HE’S BEING WATCHED

> IRL WOULD WRITE A WHOLE ESSAY ON THAT MOVE 😭

> he’s literally COURTING through gameplay rn

Joonghyuk exhaled through his nose. Just a breath.

To chat? That was a giggle. Scandalous.

“I’ve been testing stuff for a few weeks before the tournament started. Risk control. Route optimization. Adaptations.”

He hesitated. For once, like he was thinking about his words, weighing them like they mattered.

“I can imagine how he’d break them down.”

He.

“He’d say I’m adapting late. That I should’ve made these changes last season, not now.”

“But also…”

“He’d be impressed.”

He closed the scoreboard and finished the match like it was nothing.

Another win.

Then he leaned back again, this time slower. More deliberate. Fingers tapping against his armchair.

“He was wrong about one thing, though.”

The chat immediately entered hysteria. Again.

> WRONG ABOUT WHAT???

> you cant drop that and leave!!!

> SAY it with your chest

> YOU’RE SUCH A MENACE

He stared into the camera, but his gaze was far away. 

“He preaches that my plays are predictable.”

A soft pause. Then:

“But I think not. Because nobody has figured out how to counter them.”

Five minutes later, he ended the stream.

No outro. No raid. No goodbye. Just clicked off mid-lobby like it was nothing.

And yet, the silence left behind was deafening.

Clips flooded the forum. "Yoo Joonghyuk is predictable" trended as if it was the most interesting thing on the platform.

[MEGATHREAD] “Yoo Joonghyuk is predictable” — did he just declare war on IRL???

Initial post contains a clip of Joonghyuk’s quote:

> “He preaches that my plays are predictable. But I think not. Because nobody has figured out how to counter them.”

[Meta99] : this isn’t beef this is ballet

[SniperMetaGod] : They're either friends. Or lovers. Or rivals. No in-between

[ign_uriel] : When your ex-blogger says you're predictable but you’re unpredictable out of spite *inserts an edit of joonghyuk invading enemy jungle*

[ren.exe] : IRL idk who you are but you've made my killer king feel things and now i feel things and i don't like this newfound empathy please come get your emotionally compromised war general before he starts writing poetry in the post-game chat

[CloudRiot] : IRL: your routes lack risk distribution and macro coverage.

Joonghyuk: dives into a 2v1 like he’s offering his heart on the altar of strategy.

[framespersec] : yall are really not gonna talk abt how Joonghyuk’s plays aren't predictable like irl said?? he has to share us how he recognized the pattern before saying that again

[ggsopp] : you want to learn the pattern of our Supreme king's playstyle?? zero chance bcos you'll never be as devoted as our InfiniteRegressionLogs 

[Anonymous] : IKR come back after you can analyze better than StarStream's analysts themselves

[esSPee] : welllll Have we ever considered the possibility of IRL actually being an official analyst in StarStream ?

[Anonymous] : we've already debunked that idea TWO years ago!! we're you living under a rock or smthn

[aestheticautopsy] : not to be a conspiracy theorist but his mouse grip changes when he talks about IRL. I SWEAR. he’s softer. he leans back more. he’s literally GIVING BODY LANGUAGE. 

[tank_runner] : Y’all this is a romance arc. I will NOT be convinced otherwise. Ranked queue is their love language

[ProGamerX] : joonghyuk you’re not slick. you are yearning

[WhaleinDenial] : okay LISTEN. this was a signal flare. like “hey. I’ve been reading your stuff. I’ve been listening. I’m still thinking of you.”

[actual_human_not_ai] : what if this is Joonghyuk’s version of an olive branch. an in-game olive branch. OMG Yoo Joonghyuk redemption arc?

[SolRift] : the real jungle is not the map. the real jungle is Yoo Joonghyuk’s repressed emotional landscape. and we are ALL getting invaded.

[404NotFound] : OHhhh to be InfiniteRegressionLogs 😭🤚🤚

[PewPewParade] : is irl a guy or a girl anyways... YALL what if irl is actually a dude pushing his 50s?? That'd be creepy as hell

[CloudRiot] : 💀💀💀

[ign_uriel] : please report [PewPewParade] 

Chapter Text

Mr. Bihyung wasn’t just any manager.

He was the manager.

He was the one who found Yoo Joonghyuk when he was barely more than a teenager, grinding solo queue into the early hours like the wins could fix something inside him. He remembered the first time he saw the boy play at the gaming cafe – not just the skill, but the look in his eyes. Cold. Laser-focused. Like the only thing keeping him upright was the certainty that he had to be good.

He’d watched Joonghyuk grow.

Through lineup changes, brutal losses, championship wins; Bihyung had seen it all. Not just the player rising through the ranks, but the boy becoming someone solid, someone real. He learned how Joonghyuk functioned. The silences between scrims. The way he stretched his fingers before matches. The expression he wore when he disagreed with a draft but wouldn’t say a word.

Bihyung knew Joonghyuk like a formula. So when things started shifting, he noticed.

Joonghyuk was still putting up numbers. Still winning. But something had changed.

Something had shifted.

His rotations were different. He was experimenting. Hell, he was adapting mid-game in ways he never used to. Not for efficiency, not for style, but because he wanted to. 

Just because he wanted to.

And then came the livestream from the night before.

He hadn’t watched it live. But when the team brought it up at morning check-in – grinning, nudging each other like something interesting had happened, he pulled up the VOD before his coffee had even cooled.

The plays were textbook. No surprises there.

But what caught the manager’s attention came after. When Joonghyuk leaned back in his chair, eyes scanning the chat, and asked, quietly, almost offhand:

“Are you guys my fans… or InfiniteRegressionLogs’?”

Mr Bihyung, halfway through breakfast, set his chopsticks down.

There it was. The final piece.

The blog posts Joonghyuk never acknowledged but clearly read.

The attendee list he "happened" to ask for at the spring convention.

The sudden strategy shifts that mirrored the critiques in them.

The flowers he asked Sooyoung to deliver.

He was evolving not just in-game, but in ways Bihyung hadn’t seen in years. Joonghyuk wasn’t just responding to a meta. He was responding to someone.

Someone had gotten through to him.

He reached for his phone and called the only person nosy enough to know everything.

“Sooyoung-ah,” he said, the moment the line picked up. “You and I need to talk.”

Han Sooyoung showed up ten minutes late but not unprepared. Her steps were quick, her blazer slightly wrinkled, and the smell of burnt espresso clung faintly to her like a warning label. She entered Mr. Bihyung’s office without knocking, though she did at least close the door behind her, which counted for something.

The said man glanced up from his tablet.

“You know who he is, don’t you?”

There was no preamble. No tone of accusation. Just quiet certainty, like a man verifying coordinates he’d already triple-checked.

Sooyoung slowed mid-step.

“...Excuse me?”

He looked at her directly. Calm. Expectant.

“I said, you know who he is.”

She blinked. “Who is he, sir?” She asked again, with the faux-innocence of a cat that’s already knocked the vase off the shelf. She had the idea that this could only mean one person. 

“Don’t play dumb,” Mr. Bihyung said mildly, raising a brow in that particular way he reserved for rookies trying to bluff their way out of curfew violations. “You’re not good at it.”

Sooyoung gave a breath of a laugh and sank into the seat across from him, smoothing her skirt like she was preparing for a negotiation rather than a scolding.

“Depends who we’re talking about.”

He just looked at her.

So she sighed. “Fine. InfiniteRegressionLogs. Kim Dokja.”

A pause.

“So you do know,” he said.

“I had a hunch,” she said coolly, then added with a faint grin, “and maybe a phone number.”

His brow twitched. “How long have you known?”

“I am not sure,” she said, crossing her legs. “But definitely longer than your boy Yoo Joonghyuk.”

She tilted her head. “But the real question is – what's with him now?”

Bihyung didn’t answer immediately. He leaned back in his chair, folding his arms in thought.

“I want to inquire about his analysis.”

Sooyoung squinted. “That’s all?”

“For now.”

She narrowed her eyes. “You’re not planning to recruit him, are you?”

He didn’t confirm or deny. Just met her gaze and said, “I want to talk to him. That’s all you need to know.”

Sooyoung let the silence stretch, evaluating him. Then she sighed and reached for her phone.

“I want a deal.”

He raised a brow. “Which is?”

“No stream overlays during playoffs,” she said, lifting a finger. “No social campaigns. No guerrilla PR events. I want to be invisible. Just me, my seat in the greenroom, and a blackout nap schedule.”

The manager gave her a flat look. “You’re still part of the media team.”

“I’ll still be breathing,” she countered. “That’s already a miracle during playoff season.”

He exhaled through his nose. This wasn’t unusual for Sooyoung – she bargained like this all the time. But the stakes were higher now, and she knew it.

“You want that much for a phone number?”

Sooyoung shrugged. “It’s a very good phone number.”

Bihyung leaned forward slightly. “Off-duty during playoffs. But you’re still on call if there’s a press emergency.”

“Deal,” she said instantly, before he could walk it back.

He held out his hand. Sooyoung shook it, businesslike.

A moment later, a ping arrived in his inbox.

Contact: Kim Dokja. Subject line: ⚠️ Handle With Care ⚠️

“Pleasure doing business, sir,” she said with a grin.

After a brief return to her desk, Sooyoung marched into the team’s practice room and slammed a post-it onto Joonghyuk’s desk like she was handing over the key to the final boss room.

Joonghyuk looked up from his monitor, briefly scanning the yellow square: 11 digits.

“…What is this?”

“Kim Dokja’s number,” Sooyoung replied, way too satisfied with herself.

He frowned. “Why would you–”

“I’ve been waiting for you to ask me for it,” she said, arms crossed. “But you’re clearly too emotionally constipated to get there on your own, so I took initiative.”

Joonghyuk gave her a flat look.

“I’m rewarding you,” she added. “For that heart-spill of a livestream. You broke the forums, by the way. Made people cry. Even the snarky ones.”

He didn’t respond. Didn’t throw away the note, either.

She turned to leave but paused at the doorway, voice lighter this time.

“Oh, by the way. Manager Bihyung figured it out. He’s calling Kim Dokja in for a meeting.”

She didn’t wait to see Joonghyuk’s expression as she walked out, leaving him and the rest of the team members baffled, with a phone number he definitely wasn’t going to use.

Yet.

Yoo Joonghyuk was supposed to be at scrim review. But he wasn’t.

Instead, he stood outside his Manager’s office – arms crossed, head low, pacing like he was the one being summoned. Each pass down the corridor was deliberate, his footfalls too controlled to be casual. His fingers twitched restlessly at his sleeves, as if itching for something to grip.

Through the glass partition, he could see the outline of two people inside.

Blinds drawn. Soundproof. It made his blood crawl.

He didn’t know what they were saying.

Had Mr Bihyung brought up the livestream?

The flowers?

Had Dokja figured it out yet?

Had he realized that he had been reading every one of his posts? That some part of him (God forbid) cared?

Joonghyuk sat down.

Then stood up.

Then leaned against the opposite wall, arms crossed again, expression carefully blank.

He’d passed the office twice. Then five times.

Then lost count.

Twenty minutes.

It felt like waiting for a verdict.

And then –

There was a soft hiss as the glass door unsealed, and a quiet shift of the handle turning.

Joonghyuk straightened reflexively, every muscle taut.

The door opened with no fanfare. Just a soft push.

Kim Dokja stepped out, blinking briefly in the hallway light. He looked like he’d just walked out of an interview at a publishing house, not an esports org – calm, self-contained.

Then he looked up.

Their eyes met.

And time stopped. (Of course it did.)

Joonghyuk froze, feet rooted to the spot like he’d been caught mid-act. Like his own thoughts had just been exposed for everyone to see.

But Dokja… Dokja didn’t look shocked.

At first, his eyebrows lifted – a flicker of surprise.

But then something softened in his face. Like this wasn’t unexpected. Like it was always going to happen this way.

He smiled.

Joonghyuk’s brain lagged behind.

Why is he smiling?

Suddenly, the hallway felt impossibly narrow – like the whole world had funneled down to a single threadbare path between them. He couldn’t move, couldn’t speak.

Four times Joonghyuk saw Dokja before, the man was always in those pristine, borderline academic fits – tailored blazers, crisp collars, the kind of outfits that didn’t allow for slouching. Sharp enough to cut and silent enough to vanish into the crowd.

But now?

An oversized light-blue button-up, half-wrinkled like he didn’t care to iron it. Casual black shorts. Long socks and sneakers. And the bag strap slung low and crooked over one shoulder, like he’d rushed here and hadn’t noticed it slipped.

Joonghyuk stared. I don’t know this version of him.

And that thought wrecked him a little.

Because this wasn’t the image of the Kim Dokja he had in his head: the figure dissecting his gameplay, the man on panels with measured speech and distant eyes.

The Kim Dokja standing in front of him looked alive. 

And suddenly, Joonghyuk had no category to put him in. He’s disarmed.

He wanted to ask what kind of coffee Dokja drank in this outfit. Whether he always wore high-tops or if today was just an accident. He wanted to know who this man was when he’s not writing about him.

And maybe. Maybe he wanted to reach out and fix that tilted strap on his shoulder, and he hated himself for the thought.

Joonghyuk snapped out of his trance at the sharp clatter of files spilling onto the floor from somewhere down the corridor. The sound felt distant, like a ripple across water. But it was enough to break the stillness that had suspended him for the past twenty seconds.

Kim Dokja was still there. 

Looking impossibly casual in his outfit that shouldn’t suit someone who once annihilated team strats like he was delivering an autopsy.

Joonghyuk’s fingers twitched at his sides. That post-it Sooyoung gave him was folded in his back pocket. A phantom weight.

His jaw tensed. He was not sure what he was about to say –

“Coffee?”

Dokja blinked. His lips twitched up, that same understated, knowing smile he had when he first walked out the door. The kind of smile that said he expected Joonghyuk to do something impulsive, and was maybe a little pleased that he did.

He nodded. “Yeah. Sure.”

Joonghyuk turned stiffly on his heel, like a machine running an unfamiliar command. He heard Dokja fall into step beside him, close but not touching.

Behind them, the blinds on Bihyung’s glass partition fluttered just slightly, disturbed by nothing but the AC. Or, was it even the AC? The AC couldn't do that, right?

Joonghyuk didn’t know what kind of coffee Kim Dokja liked.

But he figured he could find out.

One cup at a time.

Joonghyuk took him to the company cafeteria.

Of course he did.

The most Yoo Joonghyuk thing ever, Dokja thought, as he followed him through the glass doors. Not a cozy café tucked away in some corner of the street. Not even the office pantry where awkward personal convos tend to happen. No, he picked the StarStream corporate cafeteria like this was some kind of post-scrim strategy review.

It was surprisingly quiet, though. Late lunch hour. Maybe the dev team was still grinding, or the social managers were somewhere collectively stress-crying.

The space itself was pristine – minimalist wood finishes, high ceilings, polished chrome. There were even potted plants near the charging ports. How nice, Dokja thought absently, to be in a building where plants don’t die.

He picked a corner booth – low traffic, good visibility, instinct – and waited as Joonghyuk returned with the drinks they ordered. A tall iced caramel latte and an iced Americano, both sweating in their cups.

Joonghyuk placed them down like he was serving critical information. “Yours,” he said gruffly, pushing the caramel latte forward.

He muttered a “Thanks,” fingers curling around the cup like it was a lifeline.

And maybe, in a way, it was.

Joonghyuk gave him a curt nod. That was all.

He stirred his drink, let the silence settle, and took a sip. The sugar hit his bloodstream instantly. 

He wondered if the people sitting nearby knew who he was. Peeking from tabletops. Whispering near the vending machine. 

If the soft murmurs, the side glances were about him.

“So that’s InfiniteRegressionLogs?”

He hoped not. God, he hoped not.

He refocused. Across from him, Joonghyuk had leaned back, arms folded, coffee untouched. The man was clad in a simple white tee, silver chains and beaded strings adorning his wrists, and of course, his signature mechanical watch was also there. He looked like he hadn’t planned to have this conversation either, like he was trying not to overthink this and failing.

At that moment, Dokja realized the pressure from the convention had already slipped away. That weight in his chest he’d been carrying around since spring was barely there anymore, like a window had been cracked open.

He didn’t know why.

Maybe it was the countless days of back-and-forth under the guise of anonymity that had finally boiled down. Maybe it was the chaos of the forums that made reality feel blurry. Maybe it was Sooyoung’s chaotic matchmaking. Maybe it was what Mr. Bihyung had said. Or maybe –

Maybe it was the flowers.

Or maybe, maybe it was this.

Because Yoo Joonghyuk wasn’t a myth. He wasn’t a cold mechanical player who only existed in kill graphs and statlines. He was a man. Sitting across from him with his drink untouched and his jaw clenched, as if unsure whether this counted as a date or a disaster.

Yoo Joonghyuk was…

He was just a guy.

A guy who paced outside an office door, waiting for him. A guy who paid for his caramel latte.

“What did Mr. Bihyung say to you?” Joonghyuk asked, finally.

His voice was low, careful. The kind of careful that came after rehearsing it in his head five times and still thinking it sounded too obvious.

Dokja set his drink down on the table with a small clink.

“He asked me to join the company.”

Joonghyuk’s hand froze mid-reach for his cup. His eyes flicked up, sharp and unreadable.

“…And?”

“I said I wasn’t interested.”

Joonghyuk didn’t say anything. But Dokja saw the quiet flicker of tension draining from his shoulders. He wondered if it was just his imagination. 

“It wasn’t a lie,” Dokja added. “I really want to pursue further studies. I hope Sooyoung told you that.”

“She did.” Joonghyuk’s reply was clipped, a bit stiff.

Still Yoo Joonghyuk, Dokja thought, amused.

“He did ask, though,” Dokja continued, tapping his fingers on the side of his cup, “if I’d consider for at least until the championship’s over.”

Joonghyuk blinked, surprised.

Dokja smirked slightly. “I laughed.”

A beat passed.

Joonghyuk looked like he wasn’t sure if he should be horrified or impressed.

Dokja shrugged, feigning innocence. “That's like only two weeks. He was being ridiculous.”

That actually got the corner of Joonghyuk’s mouth to twitch upward, just barely. Blink and you’d miss it.

“I told him it's useless," Dokja said, softer now. “You’re going to win anyway.”

Joonghyuk’s eyes narrowed. “So you refused?”

“I did,” Dokja nodded, then tilted his head, almost thoughtfully. “He already knew I was not going to agree to anything. And then he kept asking about you.”

That made Joonghyuk pause.

“Your manager,” Dokja said, raising an eyebrow. “What did he expect to hear from someone who only saw you through screens? That's when I realized that it was all a guise. He just wanted to know what kind of relationship I have with you.”

Joonghyuk’s expression twitched– so faint it could’ve been nothing. But Dokja didn’t miss it.

What's his relationship with Yoo Joonghyuk? A gamer and a fan? Would they become friends after this? Or would they go back to being complete strangers?

There was a pause.

“People are nosy,” Joonghyuk muttered, picking up his drink again. “You were wise to turn him down.”

The silence lingered, comfortably awkward now. Just the low hum of the cafeteria, and the occasional clink of cutlery.

Then Dokja spoke.

“…The flowers –”

Joonghyuk choked on his drink.

Dokja blinked, passing him a napkin. That… wasn’t the reaction he expected.

But before he could process further –

“WHAT?! INFINITEREGRESSIONLOGS??”

A voice. Loud. Too loud.

Both their heads snapped toward the sound.

Across the cafeteria, a small cluster of Olympus players were frozen mid-lunch, one of them standing like he’d just discovered a secret identity. His teammates were dragging him back into his seat like he’d accidentally triggered a war.

“We told you to keep quiet!”

“I’m sorry,” Joonghyuk groaned, dragging a hand down his face like he was physically crumbling.

“It’s fine,” Dokja said, trying to smile through it. It was not fine. This was the opposite of fine.

The same guy chimed in again not so softly, everyone inside the cafeteria would still hear it.

“I’m relieved he’s not like, a fifty-year-old guy from Nebraska.”

“SHUT. UP.”

Ah yes. The forum.

It was Dokja's turn to crumble.

Chapter Text

“–When you told me not to wear my corporate suit so that he would be more lenient, I thought you actually cared about me.”

Dokja’s voice crackled through the line, tight with exasperation, like he’d been holding it in all day. He was pacing across his bedroom, barefoot on the faux fur carpet that was recently added without his permission.

His mother had been treating his room like a home decor project since a few days ago – lavender-scented candles, motivational quote posters, and an alarmingly fluffy throw pillow now occupied what used to be his quiet corner of existential dread.

His fingers twitched around his phone as he glanced at the pink beanbag chair in the corner, mentally adding it to the “leave behind” pile. And that Yoo Joonghyuk poster from last year's Continentals? She put it up while he had gone to StarStream today.

“I do care about you, no?” Han Sooyoung replied, as if she hadn’t just handed over his private contact information to a man who offered him a corporate internship like it was a raffle prize.

Her voice had that infuriatingly calm tone she adopted whenever she knew he was about to lose his mind.

“You literally gave him my contact information.”

“I had no choice,” she said, without missing a beat.

Dokja stopped mid-step. “You had plenty of choices. You just gleefully complied.”

There was a pause. He could almost hear her shrug.

“Semantics,” she replied breezily. “Tomato, tomahto.”

Dokja groaned, rubbing his face with one hand. “I don’t believe you anymore.”

“That’s fine,” she said, with zero hesitation. “I would grant you a successful future if I could.”

He snorted. “Thanks, fairy godmother. Will you be transforming my imposter syndrome into a LinkedIn endorsement next?”

“Sure,” she said. “I’ll put ‘emotionally repressed genius’ under your special skills.”

He rolled his eyes, even as the corner of his mouth twitched. “You’re impossible.”

“You’re going to the playoffs on Friday, right?”

“I don’t know.”

“Oh, you’re definitely going. Let’s go together,” she said, all sunshine and sparkles like they were five-year olds going to an amusement park for the first time.

Dokja stared at his ceiling like it might offer him salvation, thinking back to his polite but decisive rejection of Bihyung’s job offer. “Are you trying to mock me for being unemployed?”

“Pfft,” Sooyoung snorted. “No, no. I just got a day off.”

“You?” he halted. “You got an off day during peak season? From the almighty boss who ‘sees into the future and finds opportunity with laser precision’?” he said,quoting her earlier words and layering on the sarcasm like a frosting he hoped would suffocate her.

“Ha… ha… ha,” she laughed, audibly stalling. There was a pause. “Yeah, um. That’s exactly why all of this is happening right now.”

“What?”

“I’m hanging up now,” she said suddenly. 

“You’re a menace,” he sighed, dropping backward onto his bed dramatically, the duvet cover was also brand new

“I do care about you, though,” she added.

“Yeah,” he mumbled. “You care about me like a cat cares about the fishbowl it knocks over.”

She didn’t deny it.

Even if Sooyoung hadn’t dragged him along, Dokja had already planned to go to the Playoffs.

But Friday arrived with more chaos than he’d anticipated.

He had shown up at the arena quietly, blending into the crowd as he always did. That lasted for exactly five minutes–until he met up with Sooyoung.

From there, everything devolved into noise.

She pulled him from booth to booth like a hyperactive tour guide on a sugar high. 

Buying posters at the merch stand – “We need both versions. Limited print, Dokja!”

Snapping photos of banners – “Hold this while I climb the rail for a better angle.”

And stuffing his arms with drinks and snacks she swore were necessary – “This is strategic fuel consumption!”

Everywhere she went, people knew her. Acquaintances, coworkers. She laughed, bantered, and dropped names like confetti. A walking PR engine. And this is on her off-day!

Dokja, meanwhile, hovered awkwardly at her side like a personal assistant who deeply regretted every life decision that led to this moment.

She really did belong in the Media Department.

The arena was louder than Dokja expected.

He’d attended matches before. But this was the first time he showed up with nothing in mind. No analysis, no report. Not with a press pass. Not as InfiniteRegressionLogs. Just a fan in the crowd.

The energy surged like a wave ready to crash. Banners swayed, neon lightsticks blinked in every shade of team color. There were chants – real ones, rhythmic and thunderous, echoing through the rafters like war drums. Some fans were already screaming and the match hadn’t even started.

He exhaled slowly as they slipped into the seats near the front row, a little too close to the field for comfort. His heart hadn’t caught up with his body yet, which had moved here on autopilot ever since Sooyoung shoved a pass into his hand and dragged him in like some bratty agent of chaos.

The game was set to begin in ten minutes.

The center stage resembled a futuristic gladiator ring, blazing with LED screens and rising platforms. Each corner of the arena lit up with the logos of the two teams: TWSA and TitanEdge. One side of the crowd was already stomping and clapping in rhythm, like a tribal chant. The arena throbbed with life.

Then, the lights dimmed.

A single spotlight cut through the dark.

The player lineup flashed across the screen in a fiery animation, one by one. TitanEdge entered first to roaring cheers, but when TWSA’s turn came, the atmosphere shifted entirely. The cheers transformed into something wilder. Deafening.

“YOO JOONGHYUK!!!”

It was Sooyoung, screaming beside him like a madman. Dokja winced.

He tried not to look directly at him. Trying and failing. 

Joonghyuk's dark hair looked a little tousled, like he’d run his hand through it out of habit. The strands curled ever so slightly at the ends, and Dokja found himself wondering again, if it was naturally wavy. He remembered the latest stream, where Joonghyuk's damp hair dried into soft waves. He wondered if he’d ever get to confirm it.

His fringe was parted just off-center, a few longer strands falling across his forehead, drawing the eye to the quiet intensity of his gaze.

The big screen above displayed his face as he was greeting the crowd. They roared even louder.

“He’s really handsome.” He recalled how his mother had said.

Supreme King, read the screen beneath his face.

Dokja’s face twitched. He’d never gotten over that tag. Every time it flashed publicly, he experienced a brief, violent secondhand embarrassment.

Supreme King? Really? The name was flashy, sure. Intimidating, even. But it still made his skin crawl a little. He’d never bring it up to anybody, but deep down, he suspected the guy hadn’t even picked it himself. What's his original IGN? He would love to know.

Dokja thought Joonghyuk looked... different.

Not physically. No. He looked exactly the same as he had the last time they met. But somehow, he looked larger; the kind of presence that made the rest of the stage shrink around him.

He wore TWSA’s black-and-silver jersey, headset loose around his neck, expression calm and unreadable. He looked like a storm cloud right before the downpour – quiet, contained, and deadly.

Dokja’s stomach flipped.

The countdown neared its end. The match was about to start.

He barely registered the commentators or the draft strategy playing across the big screen. His gaze kept drifting to one place: the seat where Joonghyuk adjusted his keyboard, flexed his fingers, scanned the interface with focus.

And when the game finally began, he was fast; movements razor-sharp with no hesitation. His mic wasn’t on the public broadcast, but it was clear from the flashing comms, map pings, and hand gestures that he was issuing rapid-fire commands. His fingers moved like they were coded to the game itself – quick flicks of shortcut keys, micro-adjustments, calls and cancels.

Even against a high-seed opponent, TWSA was in full control. The whole team was in sync, but Joonghyuk stood out like the sun in the sky. Dokja could say it wasn’t just him making the difference, but a part of him wanted to be biased.

Hell, maybe he was the reason they were playing like this.

And for the first time in what felt like forever, Dokja was just… watching. Just awe, raw and present – that terrifying, exhilarating moment of recognizing someone’s brilliance and not being able to look away.

The crowd around him exploded as TWSA took the first round.

Dokja only blinked when someone bumped his arm – an excited fan jumping to their feet, nearly spilling their drink. The air smelled like soda, sweat, and high-stakes adrenaline. He leaned back into his seat, his heart pounding.

On screen, Joonghyuk smiled as his teammates clapped his back and high-fived around him. Not a smile for the cameras. He would never give such smiles directly at the camera.

“Did you see that?” Sooyoung shouted again. “Smiling and feeling himself like he’s the main character.”

He kind of was, wasn't he? But Dokja would never say it out loud.

TWSA swept the game. They were now through to the upper bracket semi-finals.

As the match ended and the arena began to wind down, Dokja saw his chance. He slipped away from the seating row, trying to ghost off silently, like a tired NPC despawning after the main quest.

But Han Sooyoung, as always, had other plans.

Before he could vanish into the crowd, a hand caught his wrist.

“Ah, ah, ah,” she sing-songed, smug as ever. “No escaping. This way.”

He barely had time to protest before he was being hauled into a different kind of chaos – a neat, snaking line of fans leading toward the TWSA Meet and Greet.

“I didn’t sign up for this,” he hissed, nearly tripping as she dragged him along.

“You weren’t supposed to. I signed you up.”

Dokja stared at her. Half disbelief, half betrayal. Classic recipe.

Before he could object further, Sooyoung shoved one of the glossy posters they’d bought earlier into his hands. A black marker followed.

“Smile, InfiniteRegressionLogs.”

“Don’t say it like that,” he hissed. “People might hear you.”

The players were stationed along a backdrop of their team banner, grinning and bowing, some of them now surrounded by heaps of fan gifts at their feet. Crew members and cameras lingered at the edges, capturing the moment from all angles. It wasn’t a massive fansign, just a casual Meet and Greet; purely fan service. PR fluff.

Still, Dokja begrudgingly admitted it: Mr. Bihyung was smart. This was great publicity. Everyone on TWSA had been amazing today.

The queue moved faster than his thoughts.

Each player greeted him with suspiciously high enthusiasm, handshakes that lingered, grins a bit too knowing, expressions that flickered toward teasing.

Dokja could feel the truth dawning on him like a migraine.

They knew. They all knew.

And just behind him, Han Sooyoung loomed like a devil in stilettos, making casual conversation with the players and dropping half-jokes too sharp to be harmless. Was she even allowed to attend this event as staff? Dokja seriously doubted it.

Then, he reached the end of the row.

Yoo Joonghyuk.

The girl ahead of him stepped aside with a dazed look and a signed cap clutched to her chest. As Dokja took her place, Joonghyuk’s eyes lifted, and locked onto his.

“Hi,” Joonghyuk said first.

Dokja blinked. “Hi.”

“Thanks for coming.” Joonghyuk took the poster, signed his name with practiced ease.

“You played well today,” Dokja said, instantly regretting how awkward he sounded. His voice came out too formal, like a middle schooler complimenting a crush through a dare.

They shook hands.

And Joonghyuk pressed something into his palm.

A small, folded piece of paper.

Dokja looked up, startled. Their eyes met.

Joonghyuk smiled, just a little.

Instinctively, Dokja smiled back. It was small. Unsteady. He barely processed it, heart thudding so hard it blurred the world at the edges.

Then –

From the far corner of the hallway, Dokja spotted Bihyung. The man was watching him with the gaze of a detective who just caught his prime suspect in the act. With the dim hallway lighting and his arms crossed tight, he honestly looked a little terrifying.

Behind Dokja, Sooyoung muttered a curse under her breath.

Yeah. Seeing Bihyung here? Definitely not part of her master plan.

They stepped out of the crowd, the hallway stretching quieter now that the Meet & Greet buzz was behind them. The thrum of adrenaline still pulsed faintly under Dokja’s skin, and he was sure he hadn’t blinked properly in the last ten minutes.

His hand was still closed around the folded thing Yoo Joonghyuk had passed him.

Sooyoung glanced over. “What’s that?”

Dokja didn’t answer. Instead he uncurled his fingers, heart thudding way too loud for something so ridiculous. It was a small piece of paper, neatly folded into fourths. He opened it with the cautious curiosity of someone defusing a bomb.

In simple, plain handwriting:

"Let’s watch Olympus’ game together."

Just that.

Dokja stared.

Then blinked, and stared again, because surely the sentence would rearrange into something else if he gave it time. Right?

Han Sooyoung, ever the vulture, leaned over to peek. “What the actual fuck?!”

Dokja flinched.

“I literally gave him your number and he sent you a letter???” she shrieked. “A letter, Kim Dokja?!”

“What?!” Dokja spun to face her, paper still trembling slightly in his hand. “You gave him my number?!”

“He looked like he needed it.” She was completely unapologetic. 

He checked the other side of the paper because he felt that single sentence was not enough to know Joonghyuk’s real intention. He only found a phone number scribbled there.

“Wait, did he… write his number too?” Sooyoung squinted and tried to snatch the note, but Dokja instinctively pulled it away like it was a piece of sacred treasure.

“No,” he muttered. “It's mine.”

Sooyoung covered her face like she’d just witnessed a live soap opera plot twist. “Oh my god. It means that's the post-it I gave him,” she whispered. “This absolute idiot. He’s literally just re-gifted your number back to you?”

Dokja groaned into his palm, voice muffled. “I want to die.”

“Dokja,” she said, the tone now dripping with wonder. “Yoo Joonghyuk has been making a fool of himself from time to time. It's all your honour. Unbelievable. I’m actually speechless.”

“You’re not speechless,” he muttered.

“Heh. But still.” She leaned close, eyes sparkling. “So? You’ll go, right?”

“I don’t know.”

“Oh, come on.” Sooyoung gave him a playful shove. “Don’t be a bummer. He’ll actually cry if you don’t show up.”

Dokja scoffed. “He’s not going to cry.”

“He’ll bottle it up and destroy someone in scrims later. Is that what you want? Do you want to be the reason someone gets flamed in comms?”

Dokja rubbed the bridge of his nose.

The paper was still in his hand. He looked down at it again. Just one line. No emoji or exclamation point.

"Let’s watch Olympus’ game together."

Simple.

But coming from Yoo Joonghyuk, it felt louder than everything else in the arena combined.

Dokja didn’t say anything. 

But he folded the note carefully again and tucked it into his pocket.

Chapter Text

It was 2 PM on a sweltering Sunday afternoon, and practice was scheduled to start at three.

The dorms, usually buzzing with the lazy hum of game streams and snack wrappers, felt oddly silent–except for Yoo Joonghyuk’s room.

Bihyung stood at the threshold with the weary patience of a man who had seen things. Traumatizing things–like rookies duct-taping chicken nuggets to the ceiling. But nothing tested his managerial endurance quite like a drunk, brooding team captain in denial of the passage of time.

"Yoo Joonghyuk!" The pile of blankets didn't respond.

It was hot. Summer had shown no mercy. The air conditioner was on full blast, and the blackout curtains were drawn tight.

Everyone–even Joonghyuk's roommate, Lee Hyunsung, had given up trying to wake him, leaving the task to their exhausted, long-suffering manager.

"Do you think you’re on a vacation?!" Bihyung half-shouted, glaring at the drawn curtains and the humming AC blasting arctic chill into the room. “What are you, a damn bear?”

No response.

“YOO JOONGHYUK!!”

Bihyung gave the blanket mound a long, judging stare, then crouched to yank it off.

Wrong move.

The blanket snapped back with terrifying strength–Joonghyuk clutching it like it was a lifeline, which, in his hungover state, might not be too far off; and Bihyung was trying to steal his last shred of dignity.

“I know you were drunk last night, but that doesn’t mean you get to play Sleeping Beauty.”

Then, without warning, Joonghyuk let go of the blanket entirely. Bihyung, still gripping it, yelped as it came loose all at once, launching him backward into the closet door with a dull thud.

“Goddammit, Yoo Joonghyuk!”

Saturday (the day before):

It was rare to see Yoo Joonghyuk humming.

And yet here he was–hair neatly styled with just the right amount of wax, ironing his flannel shirt in the middle of the living room, quietly humming the jingle from a gum commercial.

The dorm, filled with the usual chaos of everyone getting ready for the night’s match, had collectively gone still to witness the phenomenon.

"...Okay, what's possessing him?"

"He's actually ironing his shirt?"

"Got someone to impress, Captain?"

"Today is indeed a big day, ahahaha!"

"He definitely has plans."

Joonghyuk ignored them all.

If they wanted to act like middle schoolers around a crush, that was their business. He was just in a good mood.

And–

Well.

There hadn’t been a reply (not that he expected one), but… Dokja might come. He still held out hope.

Before they left, Joonghyuk made sure the collar of his shirt wasn’t askew in the mirror.

The road stretched ahead in a blur of asphalt and soft green hills, lazily rolling past the windows in gradients of summer.

Dokja sat in the passenger seat, legs drawn up slightly, one foot resting on the edge of the seat like a half-curled cat. His cheek pressed against the window, the glass cool despite the heat outside, fogging faintly with his breath.

The air conditioner hummed gently. His mother had one hand on the steering wheel, the other adjusting the sun visor with practiced ease. She was wearing her sunglasses today–the good pair, the ones she only brought out for serious occasions.

The car smelled faintly of her rose water hand cream, mixed with the crisp scent of detergent from the seat covers. It reminded him of childhood road trips, back when the world felt a little wider and simpler.

They passed a roadside rice field, the green stalks swaying like they had secrets to whisper. Occasionally, other cars sped past–families on vacation, trucks piled with crates of peaches and watermelons. Somewhere far behind them, city life was unspooling and growing distant.

Tomorrow marked his father’s death anniversary.

They were headed to Gyeongju–his birthplace, and the place where he had spent many of his early years–to stay the weekend with his grandparents. The hanok they lived in would be quiet, solemn, filled with the soft creak of wood, the smell of varnish and incense, and the weight of memories too big for words.

His phone buzzed once.

Sooyoung’s name flashed briefly across the screen. But by the time he reached for it, the light had already gone out. Missed call.

He stared at it for a second longer than necessary, wondering. What had she wanted? Surely not to try dragging him to the game tonight, right? It couldn’t be that she was still trying to play matchmaker...

Dokja sighed, thumb hovering for a moment before he tapped her name and called back. It rang out. No answer.

So, instead, he texted:

“I'm going to Gyeongju. I won't make it tonight. Can you let Joonghyuk know?”

He didn’t overthink the wording. Didn’t dare to.

But the silence that followed felt heavier than it should have.

He leaned his head back against the seat again, phone held loosely in his hand. Outside the window, a brown wooden sign slid into view:

경주 23km.

Close now.

He turned his face away from the sunlit hills, eyes slipping closed for a moment.

It wasn’t that he didn’t want to go. Not really.

But he doubted Yoo Joonghyuk would throw a fit over this kind of thing like Sooyoung had said. That man didn’t seem like the type.

…Though, knowing him, he might stew in silence and feel tragically abandoned.

Which, somehow, might be worse.

The match wasn’t until 8 PM, so TWSA arrived just before the arena swelled to its full roar. Olympus was facing one of the highest-seeded teams tonight–a big deal, a high-stakes match that promised to be electric. Naturally, they were here to support their juniors.

The arena buzzed with anticipation. Neon lights blinked, music thudded in rhythm with the heartbeat of the crowd, and the smell of snack stalls drifted into the hallways.

Olympus fans already waved banners. Staff members rushed in and out of corridors, and the large screens above the entrance played player highlights on loop.

One by one, the members of TWSA slipped inside, heading toward the seating reserved for them.

Except for one.

Yoo Joonghyuk stood rooted in the wide hallway just outside the stadium’s main floor.

People streamed around him – fans brushing past with hurried apologies, security staff ushering children toward their parents, some interns sprinting by with headsets and clipboards.

Some fans even noticed him, and he signed autographs and took selcas with them. His phone sat idle in his hand, screen lighting up now and then with message notifications and game alerts.

Ushers called out last-minute reminders. The match was minutes from starting. Sooyoung wouldn't pick her call because she was pulled into emergency duty for Olympus' match, something about a supervising staffer falling down the stairs. Figures. It had to be her.

Joonghyuk tucked the phone away and glanced toward the entrance one more time.

No sign of him.

His jaw clenched slightly, the only betrayal of emotion. He was halfway through Game 1 by the time it sank in for real. Kim Dokja wasn’t coming.

He exhaled quietly, something too subtle to call a sigh. And then, finally, he turned and walked inside.

–

Olympus won 3-1. Everyone was so excited how they would be facing their juniors in the upper bracket next week. The atmosphere inside the van on their way back to the dorm was light and joyful, with jokes and unserious predictions thrown here and there; except for Joonghyuk who sat near the window, head leaning against the glass, watching the streetlights pass in flickers.

Nobody dared mention the change in his mood. But they felt it. They could almost see the storm clouds hanging over his head. 

Even Bihyung, usually loud and obnoxious, looked at him sideways a few times before choosing to scroll through his phone in silence.

Back at the dorms, the coaches left for a celebratory dinner with Olympus’ staff. Bihyung tagged along, muttering something about free appetizers and escaping youth-induced headaches.

Which meant one thing: they were unsupervised.

As soon as the grownups were out the door, the TWSA members texted Olympus, and the dorm's second floor turned into full-on chaos.

They gathered in the living room with cushions stacked around the low table – the one on which Joonghyuk had ironed his flannel earlier in the evening. Cans of chilled beer and lined-up soju bottles glistened under the overhead light, and the juniors brought armfuls of snacks – sweet potato chips, banana milk, instant tteokbokki, chocolate pies, all piled up like offerings at a gamer temple.

Gilyeong and Donghoon were handed milkshakes by force. “You’re minors. You get brain freeze, not hangovers,” Jaehwan said.

Joonghyuk sat quietly in the middle of the group. He didn’t laugh or tease or join in the way the others did. He watched instead; eyes following the chatter, the play-fights, the mid-rewatch of tonight’s match on someone’s tablet. He looked, as he often did, like the calm center in a storm of youthful chaos.

But it wasn’t long before the storm got to him.

He reached for a bottle of soju. No one stopped him.

He downed it fast. A second followed. Then a can of beer. All with the casual ease of someone pouring water.

The energy around him shifted.

The chatter dulled just slightly as a few people exchanged glances. Not obvious. Not loud. But noticeable.

Hyunsung tensed subtly. He didn’t drink much tonight – just a single beer, and now it was clear why. His eyes flicked toward Joonghyuk more often than anyone else’s, as if on silent bodyguard mode.

No one asked him what was wrong.

They weren’t stupid.

They just kept laughing and clinking drinks around him, as if trying to preserve the bubble of fun. But no one else reached for a fourth drink. Not when Joonghyuk, their composed, untouchable captain, was on a quiet spiral.

When he finally got up and disappeared onto the balcony, they let him go without protest.

“Just make sure he doesn't fall off,” Jaehwan whispered.

—

The night air was cool against his flushed skin.

Joonghyuk sat on the balcony floor, legs stretched out in front of him, back against the railing. His drink sat untouched beside him, a ring of condensation bleeding slowly into the floorboard. He didn’t remember how many he’d had, just that his chest ached, and his head was full of one name, looping endlessly.

Kim Dokja.

Why hadn’t he come?

Why did it feel like he’d just been rejected?

It was such a stupid thing to do. Waiting, expecting and hoping. Why hadn’t he just texted him? He could’ve. He should’ve. He hadn’t saved Dokja’s number, but each digit was already etched into his memory, carved in like a code he couldn’t forget.

Why Kim Dokja, of all people?

Why now?

He didn’t know when it started, or how it started.

Maybe it was the blog posts.

Maybe it was the way InfiniteRegressionLogs used to challenge him online, pointing out flaws in his gameplay like he wasn’t some untouchable ace.

No one else had dared to speak like that. 

Maybe it was the way Kim Dokja spoke in real life; measured and calm, like he’d weighed every word before releasing it into the world. Or maybe it was how he smiled – reluctantly, like he didn’t know how but did it anyway.

Was it at the fanmeet, when their eyes met and Joonghyuk felt something shift? Like gravity tugged just a little harder in one direction.

He pressed the heel of his hand against his chest. It was still there, that tightness. Something was wrong with him.

Thoughts swirled and clawed at the corners of his mind, chaotic and unresolved. He didn’t want to name them. He didn’t want to examine them. He wanted to shove them down, far beneath the surface where he wouldn’t have to see what they meant.

Yoo Joonghyuk wasn’t ready to know.

Not ready to face whatever it was–

Whatever it was that had started to grow, quiet and persistent, each time that name crossed his mind. He wanted to drown them in alcohol, but it only made them louder.

Why did it matter so much?

Why did it feel like he was waiting for something that had never even been promised?

The hanok was quiet, save for the occasional creak of its wooden floors and the distant, rhythmic cry of a cicada outside, calling out beneath the waning moon.

Paper-paneled doors filtered the moonlight into soft, geometric patterns across the floor. Dokja lay on the sleeping mat, eyes wide open, the blanket tangled around his legs like an afterthought.

Sleep refused to come.

He had tried. He really had. Despite the long drive from Seoul, his mind refused to quiet. Instead it was sharp, alert and almost unnervingly clear. Was it the constant hum of emotion in his chest? The memory of the meet and greet? That stupid note?

The note.

He wondered if Joonghyuk had waited for him. If Sooyoung had told him. Had she even seen his message? Did Joonghyuk save his number? Did he really mean what he wrote in that note?

The silence gnawed at him.

So when his phone buzzed against the floor, the sudden sound nearly made him jump.

An unknown number.

He sat up slowly, the futon rustling beneath him, hand hovering over the screen.

A beat passed before he answered.

“…Hello?”

There was a pause.

“Kim Dokja.”

The voice on the other end was quiet, low, a little rough. But it was unmistakable to Dokja who the voice belonged to, because he had heard it time and time again through his headphones, late at night inside a dark room lit only by the glow of his laptop screen.

“…Yoo Joonghyuk?”

He heard a soft exhale on the other end, like the person had been holding his breath.

“…Why didn’t you come today?”

The words weren’t accusatory. Just… tired. A little slurred at the edges. Like he’d gone through every possible reason in his head already and none of them made sense to him.

Dokja blinked, lips parting soundlessly. The reason was clear to him, simple even, but suddenly he didn’t know how to explain it. How to say, I wanted to come. I really did. But…

“I’m sorry,” he murmured.

There was silence again. Dokja could hear faint background noises.

“I texted Sooyoung–”

“It’s my fault,” Joonghyuk interrupted, voice lower now, like he was talking into his sleeve. “I should’ve checked in myself.”

Dokja blinked. That was…wait. Was he apologizing?

“Today was…” Joonghyuk paused again. “Sooyoung was really busy today. She had to fill in for an injured staff member.”

Dokja sat frozen, staring at the dark beams of the hanok ceiling like they could offer him emotional regulation. He didn’t know this version of Joonghyuk. This… vulnerable one. Was he drunk?

He was probably drunk.

That was the only explanation Dokja’s overwhelmed brain could settle on. No way Yoo Joonghyuk said these things sober.

“Mm. So… yeah. I’m sorry,” Joonghyuk said again, like it was his mistake for ever expecting anything at all. “I should’ve made myself clearer.”

He didn’t sound wasted; just softer. More vulnerable than Dokja was ready for – the call, the late hour, the unexpected honesty. He did not know much about Joonghyuk beyond his public image, beyond what he saw on screens. But he was sure this was definitely not how he would usually behave.

However, right now, it was still unmistakably Joonghyuk. Maybe the most real version of him.

“…We’re okay, then?” Dokja asked, slightly hesitant.

“If you’re good, then we’re both good.”

“…Mhm.”

Two beats of silence passed.

“The game was really good today,” Joonghyuk said suddenly, like he hadn’t expected himself to speak again. “Wish you saw it live.”

Dokja closed his eyes. His hand curled slightly around the phone.

“…Next time,” he said, without thinking much. Maybe that's what he actually wanted to say. “Maybe next time.”

“Sure,” Joonghyuk replied. Dokja wondered if he meant it.

Another beat of silence.

“Did I wake you up?”

“No. I was still awake.” Dokja lay back down and rolled over on the mat, arm curled beneath his pillow, heart fluttering like it was allergic to calm.

This was insane. He was on the phone with Yoo Joonghyuk. Like, talking casually late at night. Was this what it felt like when someone’s emotionally stunted rival-turned-acquaintance-turned-something called you to check in?

He felt deranged.

“You should sleep soon,” Joonghyuk murmured. “It’s late.”

Was that concern? This guy was full of surprises tonight.

“You too,” Dokja replied, awkward but sincere.

“Goodnight.”

“Goodnight.”

Joonghyuk didn't end the call. Just as Dokja was about to end it himself, the former threw in another surprise element. 

“Let’s have lunch sometime.”

Beep.

The line went dead before Dokja could respond.

He stared at the screen, dumbfounded.

“…Lunch???”

He proceeded to save the number. As he did so, he wondered. If Joonghyuk invited him for lunch, it would mean that he still wanted to see him.

Yoo Joonghyuk.

What should he expect from him? What if he really asked him out? 

“Don't be ridiculous, Kim Dokja.” He gave himself light slaps on his cheek. 

This was all Sooyoung’s fault.

“He’s been out there for like an hour,” Hyunsung muttered, setting down his empty soda can and glancing toward the sliding door. “Should we check on him?”

“No way, man. Let the lone wolf sulk in peace,” Namwoon said, earning a forehead flick from his senior.

“You go check on him.” They all nudged Hyunsung. 

He sighed the sigh of a man who always ends up doing the responsible thing. He stood and padded toward the balcony, hesitating only briefly before sliding the door open.

The cool breeze met him first. Then the sight.

Joonghyuk was splayed on the balcony floor, one arm tucked beneath his head, the other still loosely clutching his phone as if it were a lifeline. His flannel was rumpled, his hair a mess of soft waves, lips parted slightly as he breathed in that deep, unconscious rhythm only the thoroughly exhausted (or thoroughly drunk) could manage.

Hyunsung blinked. “He’s out cold.”

“He’s what?” came Namwoon’s voice, followed quickly by his footsteps. The others were right behind him.

And then chaos.

“Oh my god,” Namwoon whisper-screamed. “He’s totally knocked out. Look at him!”

“Wait, don’t wake him yet. Just–wait–Donghoon get my phone–”

“No, no, I’m taking a selfie with him. Look at this pose! He’s like a sad anime second lead.”

“Someone, give him cat ears. I have that filter.”

Hyunsung, meanwhile, hovered nearby in a moral crisis. “Guys… we should help him inside.”

“After I get this pic,” Hyuntae whispered, phone hovering at an artistically tragic angle. “This is blackmail material. Do you know how many times he’s roasted me in scrims?”

Within a minute, they had:

1. Three different selfies with him (including one peace sign over his sleeping face)

2. A video of them slowly zooming in while dramatic music played

3. At least two memes already being generated in the group chat

Once they’d exhausted their mischief (and the novelty of a toppled Joonghyuk), Hyunsung finally stepped in like the saint he was. “Okay, enough. Help me get him up.”

They gently hauled him in–he stirred only briefly, muttering something unintelligible that may or may not have included “Kim Dokja” (which of course, everyone heard and exchanged looks over but said nothing).

They laid him down in bed, pulled up his blanket like a burrito wrap, turned the AC to low, and drew the curtains. Even Namwoon did it solemnly, as if they were tucking in a wounded prince after battle.

“Poor guy,” Hyuntae said quietly. “He was really waiting for someone, huh?”

No one replied. The room was hushed.

And then, as if karma refused to let them be sentimental for too long–

Joonghyuk let out the softest snore.

The silence broke into giggles. They fled the room like roaches in the light, whisper-shouting as they returned to the living room.

–

“Okay but,” Hyunsung began, glancing around to make sure the coast was clear, “I still can’t believe he was actually waiting for him.”

“I wonder if they talk regularly,” Hyuntae whispered, eyes wide. “Like. Do you think they text??”

“They’re totally onto something.” Jaehwan leaned closer to Olympus members. “You should’ve seen how they looked at each other at the meet & greet. I swear Joonghyuk smiled like he was in a toothpaste commercial.”

The juniors immediately perked up at the new information, eyes lighting up to add their own knowledge. 

“We saw them together at the cafeteria last Wednesday,” Gilyeong offered proudly. “But this idiot Han Donghoon shouted ‘InfiniteRegressionLogs!!’ like he had no survival instinct. Everyone looked at us. Even Captain and IRL saw us.”

“Stop calling him Captain,” Namwoon muttered, arms folded like a rebelling kid. “You’re in Olympus, remember? If anyone should get the title, it’s me.”

“No, no–you don’t get it.” Gilyeong stood with an air of conviction. “He is THE Captain, whether I’m on his team or not.”

Namwoon stared at him for a moment. “You're a Joonghyuk simp.”

“I stand by my principles,” Gilyeong replied.

The room burst into laughter, they were clapping and howling. Namwoon groaned but said nothing, muttering about how he was surrounded by traitors.

Meanwhile, Donghoon took advantage of the chaos to sneak toward the beer stash.

“Han Donghoon,” Hyunsung’s voice cut in with the calm, crushing weight of a judgmental older brother. “Keep your hands away from the beer.”

Donghoon froze like a deer caught in the act.

“Hyungggg, just one sip?” he pleaded, hands already behind his back.

“No,” Hyunsung deadpanned.

“Yahh,” Gilyeong said, nudging Donghoon with his elbow. “Let’s just enjoy our milkshake contentedly. We’ll get drunk to our hearts’ content in like, what, three years?”

“Ugh, justice is cruel,” the boy mumbled as he flopped back down.

Hyuntae cracked open a new can of beer and the conversation picked up again, this time with louder speculation.

“But if Captain really was waiting for him…” he said thoughtfully, “why didn’t IRL come?”

“You don’t know Joonghyuk,” Jaehwan replied, nodding sagely. “He probably never told him anything. Just… expected him to show up through sheer emotional telepathy.”

“Bruh,” Namwoon cut in, voice dry, “It’s not even TWSA’s match. Why would he come?”

“Don’t tell me he’s playing hard to get,” Gilyeong groaned.

“You think he’s just stringing Captain along?”

“Psh. Nah,” Hyuntae chimed in confidently. “They’re gonna date for real. I just know it.”

“Oh, we're betting?” Hyunsung grinned.

“Hell yeah, we betting.”

“How many months?”

“Three.”

“Two!”

“Bold of you all,” Namwoon said from his corner. “To assume they’re not already dating.”

That shut the room up.

“Wait, what do you mean?” Gilyeong asked, eyes wide.

Namwoon leaned forward smugly. “Have you all forgotten that time when I caught him reading IRL’s blog after practice? Everyone was gone. He was so absorbed by the words on the screen that he didn’t even notice me walk in.”

“THAT—!” Donghoon shouted. “That doesn’t mean they’re dating!!”

“Why do you always ruin the fun, Kim Namwoon?!” Hyuntae hissed.

“Yeah, buzzkill!!”

“Booooooo–”

They ganged up on him instantly. Pillows were thrown. A slipper narrowly missed Namwoon’s head. 

And in the next room over, Yoo Joonghyuk continued to sleep soundly, utterly unaware that his reputation had just entered its most chaotic arc yet.

Chapter Text

As soon as Manager Bihyung announced there would be no practice on Tuesday afternoon, Joonghyuk didn’t waste a second. He pulled out his phone and typed out a message to Dokja – quick, direct, and hopefully not too obvious (as if there's any other reason for reaching him out).

“Are you free on Tuesday?”

A place came to his mind almost instantly. A restaurant in Yeonnam-dong; his mother had recommended it to him on his birthday last year, suggesting he treat his teammates there. But the guys had insisted on hitting a noraebang instead. He ended up never going there.

This was the perfect chance to finally check it out. His mom had praised their cold noodles like they were a national treasure.

Additionally, it was far enough from Starstream HQ to avoid the chaos of teammates or staff running into them like last time, with zero risk of Han Donghoon suddenly shouting “InfiniteRegressionLogs!” at full volume.

Now, it was Tuesday.

And Yoo Joonghyuk was inside that very restaurant – collar stiff, pulse annoying, and Kim Dokja standing beside him, staring up at the menu with all the deliberation of someone choosing a life partner.

Joonghyuk stood still, hands shoved too neatly into his pockets, trying not to look weird. Should he recommend something? The cold noodles? His mom swore by them. But… what if Dokja didn’t like them?

Did he like soup? Spicy food? Hate radish? What if he was allergic to buckwheat noodles?

Joonghyuk adjusted his collar for the fifth time and tried not to spiral out of control. He was not going to ask him about food allergies. He was not.

Then, his mind drifted further, wondering if anybody had caught him being unusual today. He had gone to great lengths to keep this lunch a secret. After everything that had happened, he couldn’t let this turn into another full-blown sitcom.

Ever since they caught wind of his connection to Dokja, it had turned into a full-scale fandom event. His teammates treated it like they were watching a will-they-won’t-they drama unfold in real time. If they found out about this?

He swallowed the rising thought.

The last thing he needed was for word to get out. His team, Olympus, Sooyoung, Bihyung – any of them.

Would Dokja have told Sooyoung about the drunk call?

God, he hoped not.

If she knew, she’d never let it go. She’d bring it up everywhere. And then Joonghyuk would have to move to the countryside. Abandon esports. Start over. Raise cabbages.

He was mid-way through mentally applying for a farming grant when Dokja’s voice broke through his panic.

“What are you gonna eat, Joonghyuk?”

Joonghyuk blinked. “Naengmyeon.”

Dokja glanced at him. “Which one?”

“Mul-naengmyeon.”

A small nod. “Mmm. I’ll have that too,” he said. "There's no tomatoes, right?" He proceeded to ask.

Oh. So, there really was something he disliked. And that's tomatoes. Joonghyuk took a mental note.

"I'll also have an iced tea." Dokja added. Joonghyuk thought he sounded really gleeful. But he wasn’t sure if it was just his mind playing tricks and he was the only one who was actually in high spirits. 

When Dokja reached into his wallet, trying to pay, Joonghyuk was quicker – handing his card to the cashier like it was a reflex.

“I’ll pay,” he said firmly.

Dokja gave him a look. “Are you sure?”

Joonghyuk averted his eyes. “Yeah. It’s my treat.”

There was a pause, followed by a soft scoff and a smile teasing at Dokja’s lips. “Then…” he said, eyes glinting just enough to make Joonghyuk internally combust, “next time, it’s my treat.”

Joonghyuk froze.

Next time?

His brain short-circuited. He nodded (a little too fast), throat dry. “Mm.”

He had absolutely no idea what to do with himself.

Did he just… secure a second date?

No. Not a date. Just lunch. Another lunch, with Kim Dokja.

Still.

He felt the heat blooming at the tips of his ears. He could only hope his hair was long enough to cover it.

The restaurant was warm, cozy in the way most Seoul backstreet joints tried to be – but this one felt genuine. Light jazz played overhead. A ceiling fan spun lazily. The sun filtered through the large window beside their table, lighting the polished wood and clean silverware.

Joonghyuk sat across from Dokja, still lowkey fighting for his life.

Dokja stirred his iced tea gently, watching the lemon slice bob on the surface. “So,” he began, voice calm but casual, “How’s practice going?”

Joonghyuk almost answered with ‘Fine,’ like he always did whenever someone asked him such a question. But in his mind, he knew that there had been so much more than just 'fine' these days. And, it was Dokja who was asking him right now. So, he definitely meant what he asked.

"There's this weird pressure," Joonghyuk admitted. "Not on us but on Olympus."

He glanced down at his drink, thumb grazing the sweat forming around the glass.

“We’re up against each other in the next match. It’s not the first time, but this time the stage is so much bigger than what the boys have ever faced. We’ve been running joint scrims since Sunday. The atmosphere’s unusual.”

Dokja leaned back slightly, crossing his arms. “It must be hard for them. It's a given that you're gonna win. And they're all so young.”

Joonghyuk looked up, “I wouldn’t say it’s a given. But yeah. Being under the same roof while preparing to go head-to-head? It doesn't make it any easier for them.”

"No need to be humble, Supreme King." Dokja teased, lips quirking.

Joonghyuk scoffed in exchange, caught off guard by the remark.

Luckily, their food arrived, giving him a moment to breathe – two bowls of icy mul-naengmyeon placed between them with quiet efficiency. The cold noodles shimmered under the light, and the chill immediately cut through the summer heat clinging to their skin.

They both murmured a polite thank you to the server.

A small lull settled over them as they adjusted their chopsticks and stirred their bowls.

Then Dokja broke the quiet.

"About Saturday," Dokja mumbled, poking at his noodles, "I'm really sorry for not making it."

Joonghyuk paused mid-stir, gaze lifting.

“It’s fine,” he said, a little too quickly. But then, he noticed that didn't quite ease Dokja.

"But you–"

"You don't have to be sorry." He interrupted him, repeating himself more firmly. "Really. "

Dokja’s gaze met him across the table. “You were waiting though, weren’t you?”

There it was.

Joonghyuk inhaled slowly, eyes darting to the window for a brief second before returning to his bowl.

“I thought maybe you’d come,” he admitted. “That’s all.”

Dokja was silent for a few beats, expression unreadable.

“I wanted to,” he said finally. “But it was my dad’s death anniversary. We were in Gyeongju.”

Joonghyuk blinked, surprised.

“I didn’t know.”

“I didn’t tell anyone.” Dokja gave a small, apologetic smile.

Joonghyuk nodded, something in his chest shifting. Guilt and relief, tangled up like headphones in a pocket.

“I understand,” he said. And he meant it.

They returned to their food for a while, eating in a comfortable silence. The hum of soft jazz played overhead, mingling with the distant clink of plates and muffled conversations from other tables.

Then, out of nowhere, Dokja spoke again – casually, almost like he was just thinking out loud.

“When you mentioned lunch,” he began, swirling his iced tea absentmindedly, “I was like, ‘He’s definitely gonna let me treat him to lunch as revenge.’”

Joonghyuk blinked, caught between a sip of broth and a laugh.

“Revenge?” he echoed, mildly offended but mostly entertained.

Dokja shrugged with a small smirk. “You know. To get back at me for skipping out on Saturday.”

Joonghyuk gave him a look. “You think I’m that petty?”

“Honestly?” Dokja’s smile widened. “I wasn’t sure. You’re hard to read. And you're friends with Sooyoung.”

Joonghyuk frowned, poking at his noodles. “I’m not like Han Sooyoung.”

“Yeah,” Dokja said, eyes still fixed on his bowl. “I figured.”

Joonghyuk looked up again. Something about the way Dokja said that made his chest tighten, just slightly. He didn’t say more. He just nodded and went back to eating, suddenly very aware of the soft pink glow touching Dokja’s cheeks from the sunlight pouring in through the window.

Across from him, Dokja stole another sip of iced tea, then glanced sideways at the empty corner booth like he needed somewhere else to put his attention. But his lips curled again. Just faintly.

And Joonghyuk thought, maybe this wasn't as one-sided as he assumed after all.

The rest of the meal passed in a calm, quiet rhythm – no more spirals, no more mental breakdowns. Just shared glances, and soft comments that didn’t feel like they needed to be overthought.

The afternoon sun was gentler now, casting long shadows along the quiet alley as they stepped out of the restaurant. A soft breeze stirred the leaves of the ginkgo trees lining the street, rustling above them like a hush.

Joonghyuk ran his fingers through his hair, and turned slightly toward Dokja. “Do you have any other plans this afternoon?”

Dokja blinked, hands in his pockets. “Nah. Just heading home. You?”

“I should head back to HQ,” Joonghyuk replied, his voice a little resigned. “My team’s probably already trying to track me like I’ve been kidnapped.”

Dokja snorted. “You didn't tell them you're heading out?”

Joonghyuk gave him a sideways look. “You don’t understand. If I told them, I’d never hear the end of it.”

At that, Dokja burst out laughing – full and warm. “Right, Sooyoung did mention how chaotic your team is.”

Joonghyuk tried not to smile. Failed. “It’s worse in person.”

They walked slowly, the sounds of the city quietly surrounding them. The tension from earlier had melted into something lighter, something more comfortable. Their shoulders brushed briefly, neither of them stepping away.

Then Dokja spoke again, casually, “So… what would you like for the next lunch?”

Joonghyuk turned to him, a little startled. “You’re really gonna treat me?”

Dokja smirked, eyes glinting in the sun. “Are you saying you don’t want one?”

“I do,” Joonghyuk’s reply came quickly.

The lack of response urged Joonghyuk to glance sideways.

Dokja walked with his hands in his pockets, head tilted slightly down as if in thought. From this close, Joonghyuk could see the way the sun caught on the tips of his hair, the faint crease between his brows, the curve of his cheekbone. The top of his head came just below Joonghyuk’s nose – an easy view whenever he turned his head slightly.

It was... distracting.

Not in the way that demanded attention, but in the way quiet things sometimes did – the way wind slipped in through an open window or the way light filtered through leaves. He wasn’t sure when he started noticing such details.

He quickly looked ahead again, heart ticking a little too fast.

“I’ll find a good place.” Dokja said at last.

Joonghyuk nodded, voice soft. “Looking forward to it.”

When Joonghyuk returned to the HQ, the screening rooms were empty, quiet except for the faint hum of the AC. He headed straight up to the dorm.

As soon as he stepped through the door, he could feel it – that eerie silence of people trying way too hard to act normal. Eyes swung to him in unison.

He blinked, a hand still on the doorframe. “…What?”

“Where were you?” Jaehwan asked, voice too casual to be real.

Joonghyuk raised an eyebrow. “Out. For lunch?”

It sounded like a question even to himself.

Jaehwan shrugged, leaning back on the couch. “You could’ve at least replied in the group chat. Manager had lunch delivered for everyone.”

“Ah… sorry,” Joonghyuk muttered, making his way to the kitchen and pouring himself a glass of water.

He was mid-sip when Hyunsung chimed in from the other room.

“Sooyoung came looking for you.”

Joonghyuk froze. “What did you say to her?”

“Everything,” Hyuntae called out.

“–Or nothing,” he added with a grin before Joonghyuk could react.

They were definitely messing with him.

Joonghyuk rolled his eyes and scoffed, shaking his head as he turned to leave.

“Be careful what you say to her,” he muttered over his shoulder as he reached for his door. “She remembers everything.”

And with that, he shut his bedroom door, leaving behind a chorus of muffled snickers.

“Mom!!”

The yell echoed from the kitchen the moment Dokja opened the refrigerator. The top rack–every inch of it–was stocked exclusively with bright-colored cans of an energy drink.

Not just any energy drink.

Yoo Joonghyuk’s energy drink. Special edition. Limited run. With his face and signature plastered on each can like some kind of shrine.

“Why did you buy all these?!”

His mom padded out of her room, looking entirely unbothered. “I thought you hurt yourself,” she said, standing beside him as they both stared at the oddly reverent display of Joonghyuk-branded beverages. She let out a laugh. “Aren’t they pretty? I couldn’t help myself.”

“This is too much.”

“No, no. Don’t you want to support him?” she asked, patting his back like he was the one being irrational.

Dokja stared at her in disbelief. “How are you even going to finish all of these by yourself?”

“I’m not,” she said with a smile far too triumphant. “You’re drinking them too.”

So, naturally, he returned to his room with one can, unwillingly recruited into his mother’s unexpected stan campaign.

He set it down on his desk like it personally offended him and collapsed into his pink beanbag chair, limbs flailing as he tried to pretend he wasn’t having a mild crisis.

Smiling.

Teasing.

Suggesting another lunch like it was the most natural thing in the world–

Where the hell had all that confidence come from? His head was a whirlwind of disaster thoughts and mild regret.

He rolled over and groaned dramatically.

His eyes landed on the poster above his desk.

Yoo Joonghyuk.

He turned his head.

Another one. On the closet door.

It was Yoo Joonghyuk everywhere.

“Oh god,” Dokja muttered. “I am delusional.”

And to make things worse, Joonghyuk had not answered his question of what he would like to have for the next lunch. How was he supposed to find a good place?! Was he supposed to... guess??

Just then, his phone buzzed.

A message from Sooyoung.

> you’re unusually silent lately.

and yet yoo joonghyuk’s little boys have so many things to say.

WTF are you two hiding, KIM DOKJA!!

Dokja groaned and flung the phone onto his bed. It bounced off the blanket and just barely missed the headboard.

He was going crazy.

Chapter Text

It was Thursday evening.

After finishing scrim reviews, the players from both Olympus and TWSA lingered around the practice room, killing time until dinner. Joonghyuk was at his station, locked into a ranked queue with Gilyeong and Donghoon after they literally begged him to join them.

The room was buzzing with chatter and low laughter, but Joonghyuk was focused—until a question dropped like a bomb from Gilyeong’s mouth.

“Captain, is Dokja-ssi coming to watch the match tomorrow?”

Joonghyuk faltered. His fingers hesitated on the keys. The suddenness of the question hit harder than it should have, and he could feel the ripple of attention shifting toward him like sharks scenting blood.

“Why would I know that?” he replied, trying to sound casual but landed squarely in stiff.

“You don't?” Donghoon asked, genuine confusion in his voice.

“Can you ask him?” Gilyeong chimed in again, as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

Joonghyuk looked up from his monitor briefly, meeting the two boys’ expectant eyes across the desk. 

“Why should I ask?”

“Manager Han said he'd treat us at the chicken place near the arena after the match,” Gilyeong explained, tone far too casual. “So, can you ask him to come with us?”

Joonghyuk blinked. What the hell is wrong with these kids lately?

“Lee Gilyeong, are you stupid?” he muttered under his breath.

This was getting out of hand. Were they plotting something?

“Besides,” he added, voice louder, “your manager Han doesn’t even like me. I doubt he’ll be thrilled to see me show up, much less bring someone else along.”

“He doesn’t hate you,” Donghoon said brightly.

“Yeah,” Hyuntae piped up from the corner. “He’s just jealous of you, hyung.” He burst into laughter.

Joonghyuk turned to stare at him, deadpan. “What on earth would he be jealous of?”

“Don’t play dumb,” Jaehwan chimed in from the back, not even looking up from his phone. “You know exactly why he’s salty.”

Joonghyuk scoffed and slightly leaned back in his chair. Manager Han’s inferiority complex was not his problem. That man had tried to pull rank on him since day one, and Joonghyuk never gave him the satisfaction. Bihyung, chaotic as he was, was still fifty times better than that control freak.

“Anyway,” Gilyeong cut in again, bouncing slightly in his seat, “I want his autograph.”

“Me too!” Donghoon chimed in immediately.

Joonghyuk froze. Autograph??

What was with these kids? Was Dokja famous and he just... hadn’t noticed?

Why did he feel a tiny bit dumb for not understanding the full scale of the Kim Dokja obsession happening right under his nose?

“I’ll get them for you later,” he muttered.

“Oh! So you’re gonna meet him?” Gilyeong perked up instantly.

Joonghyuk’s brain short-circuited.

“Lee Gilyeong focus! They’re ganking top!”

“RETREAT RETREAT!!”

It was a quarter past ten when Joonghyuk and Hyunsung returned to the dorm. The others were still in the practice room, doing God knows what.

Joonghyuk headed to the kitchen. He opened the fridge and scanned its contents, searching for something, anything that might soothe his restless mind.

He hadn’t meant to linger on it. He tried to think about the strategies review, and play some runs through in his mind, but his thoughts kept slipping, circling back to one question.

Would Kim Dokja come to the match tomorrow?

By now, it seemed likely. After all, they'd had lunch together. They’d talked. Things felt... easier between them. Still, Joonghyuk had learned not to bet everything on assumptions—because the last time he’d extended an invite, without actually confirming anything, Dokja hadn’t shown up.

He told himself it hadn’t mattered much at the time. But he remembered waiting, and the feeling was definitely not the best. 

So this time, he wouldn’t leave it to chance.

He took out a packet of apple juice, placed it on the counter top and closed the fridge door.

Joonghyuk reached for his phone and typed out a message.

Are you coming to see the game tomorrow?

He stared at it for a moment. Then, he hit send.

A few minutes passed before his phone screen lit up with a reply from Dokja.

I'm planning to.

He leaned against the counter top, adjusting his stance. A furrow appeared on his forehead.

Joonghyuk felt something settle in his chest as he read the reply. Not satisfaction exactly, but a quiet anticipation—like bracing for a storm, except it was a person. 

And yet, knowing Kim Dokja would be there tomorrow didn’t feel like enough.

Sure, Kim Dokja would see him. But the opposite wasn't true. 

That wasn’t acceptable. Joonghyuk simply thought it wouldn't be fair if Dokja only saw him and he could not see Dokja himself.

He wanted to hear what the man had to say about his gameplay. He wanted to hear him talk about his precision, his timing, his strategy. He wanted to hear, not from InfiniteRegressionLogs, but from Kim Dokja—those words that sounded like they were meticulously threaded together to sing about the victories and tragedies of mankind, all at once.

And he wanted to listen to them as Yoo Joonghyuk, simply.

He took a deep breath as he typed and sent another message.

Kim Dokja was cozied up in bed, legs tucked under a thick blanket, tablet balanced against his knees. He was halfway through the latest chapter of his favorite web novel, Ways of Survival, when his phone buzzed with a message notification.

It was a text from Yoo Joonghyuk.

He blinked, momentarily confused. And then, reading the content, he blinked again.

He was baffled by the content of the message —Yoo Joonghyuk asking if he was going to see the match tomorrow. 

So… he really did learn from his mistake.

Dokja’s lips quivered in a small smile as he set the tablet aside. He started typing a reply. Then deleted it. Then typed another. Then agreed on a short reply.

He didn’t want to sound too eager. But still, the thought that Yoo Joonghyuk might actually care did strange things to his insides that he didn’t quite want to examine too closely.

However, his smile faltered when another message came through

You know Gilyeong and Donghoon from Olympus, right? They've been begging me to get your autograph. 

So if you have time after the match tomorrow, can we meet for a bit?

Dokja stared at the message.

Then he scoffed.

Of course. Of course that was the reason. Not because Yoo Joonghyuk wanted to see him or anything. It was about his juniors.

His face flushed in the glow of his phone screen, and he instinctively buried half of it into the pillow beside him.

God. He’d actually gotten his hopes up. How embarrassing.

“Ah, fuck,” he muttered, flopping onto his side, nearly flattening his poor tablet in the process.

Still. He couldn’t exactly say no. That would make him look petty and Joonghyuk look bad, and that would just make things weird.

Okay

Right after he sent it, he thought that it was too short of a response. He might come off as rude but what else should he say?

He started typing again.

But...

Yoo Joonghyuk is typing…

Dokja panicked. What was he even trying to say? What was the point of the 'but'?

Oh, right.

Why my autograph, of all things?

I'm not even famous???

He was in fact, a very normal civilian.

Joonghyuk’s reply came instantly:

You're InfiniteRegressionLogs.

Oh. So that’s how it was.

InfiniteRegressionLogs. The catalyst of all this mess (though not so much of a mess anymore).

lol

Kim Dokja is stupid.

Wait for me at the Southern Entrance, near the area where the Meet & Greet was held last time.

Thank you, and sorry for the trouble.

So formal, Dokja thought.

Why did he have to sound like he was sending a business email?

He smiled anyway.

Sure. No problem

Good luck!

The moment Dokja stepped out from the metro station and onto the street leading to the venue, he could already feel the collective energy thrumming like a livewire. It was electric. A buzz that filtered through excited chatter, camera shutters, and distant bursts of cheering.

The hall leading into the esports arena was packed. Fans—some in jerseys, others in cosplay so accurate it startled him, clustered in excited groups, waving light sticks or snapping selfies against the massive banner plastered above the entrance:

“TWSA vs OLYMPUS – UPPER BRACKET SEMIFINALS.”

Joonghyuk’s face was front and center in the promo spread, stone-eyed and battle-ready. Dokja couldn’t help but scoff under his breath. Of course he gets the center spot. The smug part of his brain muttered that he looked good, though. Unreasonably so. It wasn’t fair.

A pair of vloggers zoomed past him with handheld gimbals, the one in front already speaking animatedly to their camera. “Today’s prediction—TWSA 3-1. You heard it here first!” The person behind nodded seriously, their camera turned to catch the crowd's reactions.

Dokja had to step aside as a group of teenagers rushed past, laughing and waving signs. The esports world was alive and thriving, truly. Each corner was filled with a lively energy to the brim.

He followed the overhead signs past booths selling merch (he caught a glimpse of a Yoo Joonghyuk standee and looked away quickly), past a photo zone where fans posed with cardboard cutouts, and into the main hallway that funneled into the arena. Ushers in red lanyards were herding people toward their respective blocks.

As he entered the seating area, he paused for a brief moment, the magnitude of the event finally sinking in.

The arena stretched high above him, rings of lights and screens casting a glow over the circular stage setup. The teams hadn't entered yet, but the LED screen was running a pre-match recap reel, dramatic music booming from the speakers. Cameramen moved around in preparation. On the sidelines, the commentators were already mic’d up, papers and tablets in front of them.

He leaned back in his seat and let out a slow breath, trying to seem casual about the fact that his heartbeat was climbing with every second.

As the players came up on the stage one by one, the arena erupted into loud cheers and applause. Above the chaos, the host’s voice carried smoothly through the stadium speakers.

“Tonight’s upper bracket match brings a special excitement, doesn’t it? TWSA and Olympus, two teams from the same company, finally facing off on the main stage! Now Olympus… you’re rookies, and this is your first face-off with your seniors under such high stakes. Nervous?”

The camera panned to Olympus. Their uniforms were pristine white with gold accents, an almost angelic contrast to TWSA’s black and silver.

A wireless mic was passed to Namwoon, the captain of Olympus.

“Rather than nervous, we feel honored. It’s a big thing to go up against TWSA, and we’re grateful to do it on a stage like this. We’ll give it everything we’ve got.”

The crowd gave a respectful round of applause, and Dokja blinked.

That… was so not Namwoon. Was that scripted? he thought, brows knitting. Did someone coach him? No way Namwoon came up with that on his own.

The host turned now with theatrical flair.

“And TWSA, our reigning champions. You’ve got quite the legacy. Joonghyuk-ssi, tell us… do you plan to go easy on your juniors tonight?”

The arena laughed softly, good-naturedly—but all eyes turned to Yoo Joonghyuk.

He spoke into the mic like the question barely needed consideration.

“Diamonds aren’t made in soft beds. They’re formed under pressure. If Olympus wants to grow… we won’t be doing them any favors.”

A roar erupted from the stands.

The TWSA fans went wild, chanting his name. Even some Olympus supporters whooped appreciatively. The host chuckled, eyes twinkling, and raised a hand toward the audience as if to say well, there you have it.

Dokja couldn't help it. His lips twitched into a smile.

Yoo Joonghyuk was every inch the pro. Unshakable and perfectly composed, cool-headed in a way that Dokja used to think was just for show.

But in moments like this, he was reminded that this was just how he was. This was truly Yoo Joonghyuk. 

And for a moment, Dokja thought that all those trouble Han Sooyoung had put him through was worth it.

The game had ended long ago, but the pulse of the match still lingered in Kim Dokja’s veins like leftover adrenaline. His heart hadn’t calmed down completely, though it was no longer from the competition. He sat on a bench beneath a large concrete overhang, just beside the southern entrance.

The buzz of post-match excitement echoed in the distance—fan chants, shuffling footsteps, vendors packing up, laughter bouncing off the stadium walls. But this side of entrance had only few people passing by.

It was evident why Joonghyuk had asked him to wait in this specific spot.

He checked his phone again. No new message. Nearly half an hour had passed since he left the arena. Did Yoo Joonghyuk really let him wait this long for an autograph? He kinda wished it was something else.

TWSA had won 3-0 straight. But not effortlessly; Olympus put up a hell of a fight. 

"Diamonds are formed under pressure."

Dokja recalled what Joonghyuk had said during the pre-match interview. He mused. It's not simply pressure. You need all sorts of extreme conditions, and it looked like Joonghyuk was willing to give them all.

A few more fans trickled out of the exit doors nearby, brushing past him with faint glances.

He wondered what Joonghyuk would say when he arrived. Would he talk about the match? Ask for feedback? Complain about a misplay? Or... something else entirely?

His knees bounced restlessly, then caught himself.

Ridiculous.

He wasn't the one who just won a major bracket match. He shouldn’t be the one this tense.

And yet, when he saw the tall silhouette approaching from the hallway—brisk steps eating up the distance, shoulders taut with purpose—his throat tightened.

Yoo Joonghyuk was walking toward him. Head high. His team jersey was gone, swapped for a plain black t-shirt that clung to him in a way that made it hard not to stare. No longer the commander on stage, but somehow still just as overwhelming.

Their eyes locked.

Joonghyuk didn’t smile. Of course he didn’t. In fact, it would be much weirder if he did.

But something flickered across his face.

Dokja stood up.

“Hey.”

“Sorry I took a bit longer than expected,” Joonghyuk said.

“It’s fine.”

A beat passed.

“So… shall we go?”

“Just us?” Dokja asked, glancing behind him.

“Hm?”

“I thought your juniors were coming too.”

“Ah—Gilyeong and Donghoon?” Joonghyuk blinked, like he’d only now remembered. “They’d make too much noise. Figured it’d be better without them.”

Oh. Did Yoo Joonghyuk really...

“Yoo Joonghyuk-ssi!”

An unfamiliar voice called out from behind. Joonghyuk turned reluctantly, his expression hardening into something unreadable.

“Manager Han,” he said, stiffly.

“I haven't even congratulated you yet,” said Manager Han, stepping forward with a practiced smile. He shook Joonghyuk’s hand firmly with one hand while adjusting his glasses with the other. “You played well tonight.”

“Thank you.” Joonghyuk answered curtly, voice flat.

From the way Joonghyuk’s jaw ticked ever so slightly, Dokja could tell the interaction was unwanted.

Manager Han turned to Dokja. “Do you have another plan with your friend here?” His tone was casual, but there was a glint of curiosity behind his glasses.

Another plan? Dokja blinked, caught off guard. Did Joonghyuk have something planned?

Before either of them could reply, more footsteps approached rapidly.

“Hyung!”

“Captain!”

A chorus of familiar voices rang out. Members of TWSA and Olympus were making their way over, a mix of mischief and glee lighting up their faces. Even Bihyung trailed behind them.

Joonghyuk let out an audible sigh, his shoulders slumping a fraction. Dokja couldn't help but silently agree—it was a lot.

“No wonder you were in a hurry,” Jaehwan teased, eyes gleaming with amusement.

“Yes,” Joonghyuk replied without missing a beat, his voice deadpan. “You all heard yesterday Gilyeong and Donghoon wanted his signature.”

“You didn’t tell us you were getting it tonight!” Gilyeong said eagerly. “Where are you even planning to let him sign?”

Joonghyuk turned to Dokja, eyes quietly pleading, face unreadable to anyone else but unmistakable to him.

“Dokja has a pen and paper in his bag,” Joonghyuk said calmly, as if it had all been discussed beforehand. “Right, Dokja?”

“Oh—yes, yes!” Dokja nodded quickly, catching on. His heart thudded for a reason he didn’t want to examine too closely. The autograph was an excuse—but one meant to shield him. And that meant something. That meant... something.

“On paper?” Donghoon repeated in disbelief. “Are we in a historical drama?”

The group chuckled. A buzz of shared amusement ran through the circle as they fully immersed themselves in this bizarre little play.

“InfiniteRegressionLogs-nim,” Gilyeong said solemnly, stepping forward with his phone cover held out like an offering. “Will you sign this?”

Joonghyuk shot him a subtle death glare, which Gilyeong ignored with the skill of a professional.

“Aa—yes, yes!” Dokja responded again, not entirely sure how he had become the center of attention, but rolling with it anyway.

“Oh!! So you are the infamous InfiniteRegressionLogs?” Manager Han perked up and reached for Dokja’s hand, his grip enthusiastic. “You’re the hot topic in every team’s chit-chat. Your analysis threads are basically required reading to join their fun.”

Dokja’s brain whirred, trying to make sense of the name being tossed around like confetti. He glanced at Joonghyuk, whose expression now hovered somewhere between exasperated and betrayed.

“And that being said,” Manager Han continued, ever the opportunist, “Joonghyuk-ssi, you should bring your friend to eat fried chicken with us.”

“No,” Joonghyuk said instantly, tone firm enough to cut steel.

There was a beat of silence. Manager Han blinked, momentarily thrown off.

Dokja turned to look at Joonghyuk, whose lips had pressed into a thin line. That was it? No excuse? No deflection?

Yoo Joonghyuk, was that all you could say?

“Captain, pleaaaseeee!” Gilyeong’s voice cracked with excitement as he bounced up beside them, dragging Donghoon in tow.

“Yeah, hyung! C’mon, if Dokja-ssi’s okay with it,” Hyuntae chimed in.

Joonghyuk let out a small sigh, rubbing the back of his neck like he hadn’t expected them to appear. All the attention shift back and forth between him and Dokja, eyes wide and hopeful.

Bihyung stepped in with a sly grin, always one to escalate the situation. “Kim Dokja-ssi,” he said smoothly, “the boys have been dying to meet you properly. Why not grace them with your presence tonight?”

His voice carried a teasing lilt, but his gaze was pointed—directed at Dokja with a seriousness that left little room to wiggle out.

Dokja blinked, lips parting slightly. Gilyeong and Donghoon stared at him, their pleading eyes practically glowing.

“O-Okay,” he said, glancing away quickly.

Out of the corner of his eye, Joonghyuk shifted closer. There was a faint furrow between his brows. 

“…I’m sorry,” he murmured, just low enough for only Dokja to hear. 

Joonghyuk was right. Gilyeong and Donghoon were noisy. Well, perhaps a kinder word was lively.

They had immediately claimed the seats on either side of Dokja, practically bouncing in their chairs. Gilyeong had shoved his phone case toward him with sparkling eyes. “Please sign this!”

Joonghyuk sat on the opposite side of the table, arms folded, silently watching the scene unfold.

“If Captain had told us earlier,” Donghoon said, “I would’ve brought my diary. Guess I’ll have to use my phone case too, now.”

Dokja blinked, a little overwhelmed by the attention. “Did you guys really read my blogs?”

“Yes!” Gilyeong beamed. “You’re so cool. I never knew gameplay analysis could be written like that. It’s like reading a story.”

“Haha…” Dokja let out a small, flustered laugh. Compliments were never his strong suit.

“Can we call you hyung?” Donghoon asked with wide, hopeful eyes.

Dokja hesitated for a second, then instinctively glanced across the table.

Joonghyuk was staring at him. Their eyes locked for a breath before Joonghyuk looked away, jaw tight.

“Sure,” Dokja said, turning back to the boys with a small smile. “I don’t mind.”

“How did you even find out about the blog anyway?” he asked.

“Oh, the gaming forums were full of it!” Donghoon replied. “When we figured out the blog was about Captain, we had to read it.”

“Do you know people are shipping you two?” Gilyeong added suddenly, totally unbothered.

The table erupted into short, chaotic laughter.

Dokja blinked. “Oh, really? I didn’t know that.”

Lies. Of course he knew. It was Sooyoung's favorite subject. 

“You’re friends with Sooyoung noona, right?” Namwoon asked next, tilting his head curiously.

That name caught the attention of Manager Han, who had just returned from the restroom. He dropped into the seat beside Joonghyuk and smirked like a fox that found something juicy. “Oho~ Is that how you got the attention of our Golden Child? Pulling strings with your connection to ahhh—?”

“Shut up.”

Everyone turned just in time to see Manager Han’s head snap around, glaring at Joonghyuk.

“…Did you just step on me?! You ungrateful brat!”

Joonghyuk didn’t answer. The corners of his mouth twitched, but he said nothing, and honestly that was answer enough.

Laughter broke out again. This time fuller, louder. There was something easy about the chaos. These two clearly spent a lot of time bickering like this.

But Dokja knew Manager Han wasn’t entirely wrong either. If not for Sooyoung’s meddling (ahem networking skills), the two of them probably wouldn’t be sitting here like this.

“Manager Han, please don’t make assumptions like that,” Bihyung chimed in, voice unusually calm. “Kim Dokja-ssi is a genuinely talented person.”

He smiled, folding his hands neatly in front of him, ever the smooth-talking devil. “He even turned down our company’s offer, because he’s pursuing a PhD soon. Isn’t that right, Dokja-ssi?”

“A-ah, yes.” Dokja nodded, scratching his neck awkwardly.

At that moment, all eyes turned toward him again with newfound admiration.

Jaehwan whistled. “A PhD?! Whoa. That’s amazing.”

Even Joonghyuk glanced up at that, his expression unreadable.

And just like that, the conversation shifted again, filled with curious questions about his endeavors. For now, Dokja answered as best he could, basking in the strange warmth of it all.

“I'm sorry. That was… a bit chaotic,” Joonghyuk said as they stepped out into the cool night air.

The streetlights flickered above them, casting long shadows across the pavement. The hum of the city was quieter, softened by the hour.

“No problem.” Dokja replied, a small smile tugging at his lips. “It was actually… kind of fun.”

He meant it. Awkward at moments, yes. But the boys’ sincerity had a way of cutting through that. In the end, it had felt oddly warm.

“You really don't have to walk me to the station,” Dokja added after a beat. “What if they leave without you?”

Joonghyuk shrugged, eyes forward. “They’re gonna take their time getting ready. Besides, no way they're letting StarStream’s Golden Child roam around alone at night.”

He said it deadpan.

A surprised laugh bubbled out of Dokja. “I didn’t know you could actually be funny.”

“Ahh. That hurt.” Joonghyuk huffed, but a chuckle slipped through anyway.

For a while, they just walked in silence. Side by side.

Then, casually, Joonghyuk broke the stillness.

“I feel like someone hasn’t congratulated me yet.”

Dokja grinned. “Ahaha. Congratulations on qualifying for the upper bracket finals.”

“Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

“…Mm.”

Another beat of quiet passed. Their steps synced without trying.

“You know,” Dokja mused, “the Olympus members didn’t look like they’d just lost a big game.”

“It’s because of you,” Joonghyuk replied instantly.

“Me?”

“Yeah.” He nodded. “They were sulking in the green room. Then they saw you, and suddenly it was like they’d won.”

“That’s… hard to believe.”

“It’s the truth, though.”

Dokja didn’t answer that. He just hummed, a soft sound in the back of his throat.

The city lights shimmered across car windows as they walked. Their shadows stretched behind them, long and lazy. The buzz of the crowd was far behind now.

“So,” Joonghyuk said, tone casual, “when exactly do you start your PhD program?”

“Next year. Spring semester.”

“And until then?”

“I’m not sure,” Dokja admitted. “There’s a lot to prepare. Feels like… everything’s just kind of floating. I don’t know what to start with yet.”

Joonghyuk nodded quietly, hands in his pockets, walking with that steady gait of his. His hair bounced slightly with each step, soft under the glow of passing headlights.

They walked the final stretch to the station side by side, the silence between them not uncomfortable, just… suspended. Like the last few moments of a song before it faded out.

The entrance to the subway loomed ahead, dull lights spilling over the concrete steps that dipped underground. Dokja adjusted the strap of his bag and slowed, stopping a pace before the descent.

Joonghyuk followed suit, hands shoved in the pockets of his dark jeans. The streetlight above flickered once, catching in his eyes—sharp, unreadable, yet a little too fixed on Dokja’s face.

“Text me when you reach home,” Joonghyuk said. His voice was low, with an edge to it, the kind that hinted at more than he was willing to say aloud.

Dokja looked up at him, amused.

And then something flickered across Joonghyuk’s expression. Just a flicker, but Dokja caught it. The way Joonghyuk’s brow furrowed slightly, his mouth opened and closed again, like he’d realized something and immediately regretted it.

But Dokja just nodded once, the corners of his mouth tugging up into a soft, almost imperceptible smile.

“I will.”

Joonghyuk’s shoulders eased just barely.

Neither of them said goodbye.

Instead, Dokja took a step backward, down the first stair, and paused. “Get back safe, okay?”

“You too,” Joonghyuk replied, still watching him.

There was something odd about this moment. Neither heavy, nor dramatic. Just… strange in its quietness.

“Goodnight!”

“Goodnight.”

Dokja gave a half-salute with two fingers and finally turned, descending the steps into the dim glow of the station. He didn’t look back.

But Joonghyuk stayed where he was until the last trace of him disappeared from sight.

Chapter Text

The train ride was quiet, filled with the familiar hum of motion and the occasional chatter of tired strangers. Kim Dokja leaned against the window, forehead barely grazing the glass, watching his own reflection blur into the tunnels. His phone stayed in his hand the whole ride, screen off, fingertips hovering over it now and then.

By the time he unlocked the door to the apartment, the silence that greeted him felt thicker than usual—almost like it was waiting for something. The lights in the hallway were dimmed, casting long shadows across the vinyl floor. His mother had probably gone to bed.

He toed off his shoes, placed them neatly by the wall, and dropped his keys into the tray with a soft clink. The quiet followed him to his room.

For a moment, he just stood there in the doorway, staring at the bed, the desk, the bookshelf filled with books that he barely touched anymore. Everything exactly where he’d left it, but somehow still unfamiliar after a long day.

Then he remembered.

He sat down on the edge of his bed, pulled out his phone, and typed:

KDJ : Just reached home. How about you?

He hovered his thumb over the send button, and for some reason, his chest felt… oddly tight. He exhaled through his nose and hit send.

The reply came faster than he expected.

YJH: Yes about 10 minutes ago

Dokja blinked. He hadn’t expected that.

KDJ: That's fast

YJH: They picked me up halfway to the restaurant.

Dokja huffed a quiet laugh through his nose.

KDJ: Aaaa golden child indeed

He smiled faintly at the screen. The kind of smile that wasn’t visible unless you were really looking for it.

YJH: Told you.

YJH: Do you still have anything else to do??

KDJ: Right now? No

There was a short pause. A few seconds passed. Then another message appeared.

YJH: Good. It's getting late, you should sleep soon.

Dokja paused at that, his thumb slowing as he read the words. His expression softened— maybe because of what was said, or maybe because of who was saying it.

KDJ: Yes Captain! You too.

YJH: Mmm... Goodnight

Dokja read it once. Then again.

KDJ: Goodnight

He set the phone down beside him on the bed and stared at the wall in front of him, the corner of his mouth still faintly tilted upward. Something about the entire exchange lingered with him. He wasn’t sure what all of it was supposed to mean—but he was glad it was happening. And he thought that maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to embrace whatever came his way.

The silence didn't feel quite as heavy anymore.

“I don’t have anything to say,” Dokja said, voice flat as he folded his arms.

After a long week, the duo had reunited at their usual spot. Sooyoung had hoped to squeeze something out of him.

For instance, she’d heard from Joonghyuk’s teammates that the two of them had gone out for lunch. She wanted the juicy details: who said what, who looked at whom for one second too long, all of it.

Another thing—Joonghyuk walked Dokja to the station. She needed to know what was said there. But the guy sitting across from her wouldn’t budge.

“You really have no intention of telling me anything at all?!” Han Sooyoung bit back, annoyed by his performance of innocence.

“I’m sure your sources have already told you more than I’m willing to say,” Dokja replied, air-quoting ‘sources’ with his fingers.

“No.” Sooyoung huffed. “I want to hear what happened between the two of you.” She accentuated each word like she was stabbing him with syllables.

“Tch. Why would I tell you that?”

“I have the right to know the progress of my hard work,” Sooyoung grinned mischievously. “Don’t you think so too?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Dokja shot back. “It’s my private life.”

“Private life, my ass.” Sooyoung scoffed, slumping back in her seat. She picked up her drink and sucked aggressively through the straw.

“But seriously,” Dokja started again, “why is everyone so interested in what’s going on between me and Joonghyuk?”

“Why are you so dense?” Sooyoung groaned. “Haven’t you been studying Yoo Joonghyuk’s brain for, like, two years now?”

“It’s his gameplay,” Dokja deadpanned.

“Ah, right.” Sooyoung sighed dramatically. “If you’re not dense, then the rest of us must be hallucinating.”

Dokja rolled his eyes.

“Fine. Don’t tell me if you don’t want to.”

“Hah.” Sooyoung laughed. “I’ll tell you instead, because unlike someone I know, I don’t gatekeep information like it’s a precious family heirloom.”

“It’s not information. It’s my personal life,” Dokja muttered, shaking his head.

Sooyoung let out an exaggerated puff of breath.

“Okay, okay. Fine.” She pointed at him with her straw. “I’ll tell you anyway.”

Dokja side-eyed her with deep suspicion.

“You know Joonghyuk’s reputation. That public image of his—cold, stoic, borderline feral?”

Dokja raised an eyebrow.

“Well,” she continued, waving her hand, “that isn’t just for show. That’s him being completely normal. And there are exactly two scenarios where he’s incapable of acting normal.”

She held up two fingers.

“One, when it comes to his little sister. Yoo Joonghyuk will never, can never, be normal about Yoo Mia.”

She paused for effect.

“And two… when it comes to you.”

Dokja laughed, a little too dryly. “Right.”

“No, seriously. You’ve made the List, Kim Dokja. The ‘Yoo Joonghyuk Abandons Rationality’ list. Not many people are on it. Actually, no one is. Just you and his sister.”

“…He’s just being weird lately.”

Sooyoung stared at him. Then slowly leaned in. “Yeah. Being weird means not being normal.”

Dokja groaned and sank deeper into his chair, muttering something unintelligible.

“Drink your coffee before the ice melts,” Sooyoung said, gesturing casually—like she hadn’t just dropped a conversational bomb that scrambled his entire brain.

“Come closer. I’ve got more tea,” she added, and Dokja honestly didn’t know why he obeyed her.

Still, he sipped his iced coffee and leaned in slightly, torso tilting toward Sooyoung, who mirrored the motion. For a second, he felt like a middle school girl gossiping about the most popular boy in school. He shoved the thought into the darkest corner of his mind.

“You know the rumor about Joonghyuk dating someone back in college, right?”

Dokja nodded cautiously.

“I mean, I don’t even know if it counts. They went out for, like, a week.”

Dokja turned to her with a sharp glance, brows raised in disbelief.

“She was from the Life Sciences Department, pretty popular too, from what I remember. But no one ever figured out who dumped who.”

“I don’t even know why I’m listening to this,” Dokja muttered, pulling back.

Sooyoung snatched his arm and tugged him right back in.

“Because you’re interested in Yoo Joonghyuk, you fool.”

Dokja groaned, because of course she said it out loud. She wasn’t going to let him live in denial, not for a second. And really, if she was going to drag him into chaos, he might as well listen to the rest of the nonsense she had prepared.

“There are some things I’ve concluded from all this,” Sooyoung said, grinning wickedly at him.

“Firstly, they didn’t really like each other at all. It was all just flair. They probably reached a mutual agreement to end it because it wasn’t what they expected. But that’s too vague, right?” She set her drink down with a delicate clink.

“And that leads us to point two: she dumped him because Joonghyuk wasn’t treating her right. Because back then, he was even more constipated than he is now.”

Dokja had no idea why she was so serious about this. Everyone fucked around and found things out when they were younger. That was the whole point of being young… wasn’t it?

“Thirdly,” Sooyoung said, raising a finger, “she realized Joonghyuk had nothing but his looks and—”

“Or,” Dokja interrupted, raising a brow, “it could also be that Joonghyuk dumped her because she only wanted to use him for those looks and all. Right? No?”

She paused. Squinted at him like he was a suspicious dog on the street. “Wow. Of course you’d side with him. You’re so far up his ass, you probably think with his brain now.”

Dokja looked offended. Mostly because she was right.

But Sooyoung wasn’t done.

“Still, good point, Dokja. Which brings me to my final conclusion—”

She leaned in dramatically, chin propped in her hand.

“—he actually really likes you.”

Dokja went still, his soul flatlined.

He blinked at her, slow and mechanical, like someone rebooting after a system crash. “What.”

She only smirked.

“I—That’s not even—what does that even mean,” he stammered, already reaching for his glass and completely missing it.

The tips of his ears were turning pink.

Sooyoung just took a sip of her drink like she’d delivered divine revelation and was now enjoying the fallout.

“You know what?” he snapped, scrambling to preserve the remains of his pride. “You should start a blog. You’d be great at it. You could write all your weird little theories and become a prophet for delusional fangirls everywhere. Just call it Sooyoung’s Unhinged Gospel.”

She grinned, teeth bared. “Aww, don’t project, baby. You’re the main character of that gospel.”

And just like that, Kim Dokja—rational thinker, king of denial, master of self-preservation—seriously considered opening the nearest window and throwing himself out.

That night after dinner, Dokja sat at his desk, fingers hovering over his phone as if it were a bomb trigger. He’d been turning this over in his head all evening, replaying Sooyoung’s words like a cursed mantra.

Finally, he decided... screw it. Just do it.

There wasn’t much to lose. Maybe a little dignity. Maybe a lot. But if Sooyoung was right—God, he hoped she was right.

KDJ: When will you be free for the lunch?

He laughed. Not because it was funny—maybe it was funny. But it came out dry. Humorless. A sound more out of nerves than amusement.

He stared at the message like it would change if he glared at it hard enough.

Seconds passed. Then minutes.

A reply arrived.

YJH: I'm sorry. I might not have time until the tournament is over. Our schedule is all over the place.

Oh. Haha.

This wasn’t an excuse, right?

Right?

KDJ: I understand... After the finals then?

YJH: Sure.

Dokja dropped his phone onto the desk and leaned back in his chair. His eyes drifted to the wall across from him, where his mother had insisted on putting up those posters. The ones with Yoo Joonghyuk’s face plastered across them in varying degrees of brooding intensity.

He stared at them now like they were mocking him.

Yoo Joonghyuk. Really?

He ran a hand down his face. What the hell am I doing?

Was this... obsessive fan behavior? Did this count as being a sasaeng? God, if he was becoming one of those, he was going to walk into the Han River himself.

He groaned and buried his face in his arms.

This was all Han Sooyoung’s fault.

His phone buzzed.

YJH: I’m going live in 5 minutes. If you're not busy, can you tune in?

KDJ: Okhay

Dokja opened his laptop and after a while the live notification popped up.

He leaned forward, his eyes glued to the screen. As if on cue, his heart did an odd little flip when Joonghyuk appeared—casual in a white tee, with that effortless air that made him seem both so approachable and yet so untouchable at the same time. The simplicity of it all only made Joonghyuk more... magnetic. Less was definitely more when it came to him.

Joonghyuk’s voice broke through the buzzing noise of the chat.

“Hello, everyone.”

The chat exploded in a flurry of messages.

•OMG HE LOOKS SO GOOD WTFFF

•white t-shirt supremacy 🙏

•YOO JOONGHYUK MARRY ME

•me pretending I’m the mic he’s using rn 🧍‍♀️

Dokja’s lip twitched.

As if the sheer wave of thirst comments wasn’t enough, there was a sharp turn in tone halfway down the flood.

•WE'RE ON A WINSTREAK LET'S GOOO TWSA NATION RISE

•best team in the league atm 🔥🔥

•Will InfiniteRegressionLogs have someone to check up on him??

•does anyone know if he's posting again?

His fingers hovered over his keyboard for a second, but he shook the thought away and kept reading.

Joonghyuk was still navigating the event page, eyes occasionally scanning the chats. His teammates’ chattering could be heard in the background. They were going to play 5-men ranked but hadn't queued up yet.

•IS HE COMING BACK OR NOTTTT

•i need to hear his predictions for the next match

•some of y’all forgot we’re here for JOONGHYUK😭

•Focus people. He is literally glowing!!

•sir. SIR. this is an illegal level of handsomeness.

Joonghyuk blinked at the screen, the faintest twitch tugging at his mouth, as if trying very hard not to laugh.

“Thank you,” he said, deadpan. “I showered.”

The chat imploded again.

•AND WE’RE GRATEFUL

•he’s learning sarcasm. IRL your man has grown so much 😭

•JOONGHYUK YOU CAN’T JUST SAY THAT

Dokja almost snorted.

He’d never gotten used to seeing his online persona mentioned like that—sandwiched between game stats and unhinged thirst posts like he was part of some greater fandom lore.

InfiniteRegressionLogs said this, IRL would never say that, he’s totally watching this stream too (yes he's watching so what?) And the list went on. He wondered, idly, which ones Joonghyuk was actually managing to read.

Even as the squad queued up and found a match, the chat remained singularly obsessed. For every mention of Joonghyuk, InfiniteRegressionLogs came up three times.

Back then, Dokja always turned off the live comments. He’d thought they were just noise, distracting blips that pulled focus from the gameplay itself. So while he knew his name got tossed around, he hadn’t realized it was this bad.

This was a borderline infestation. It was ridiculous.

This was Joonghyuk’s stream, for heaven’s sake. Shouldn’t it be about him?

Dokja leaned back in his chair, gaze flicking across the blur of usernames and messages. His eyes narrowed. That was it.

The discourse needed to be put in its place.

A moment later, a voice alert chimed—cheerful, robotic, and loud enough to temporarily drown out the in-game sound.

> “₩5,000 donation from squidja:

Joonghyuk, tell the chat to stop talking about InfiniteRegressionLogs and focus on you instead.”

There was a noticeable pause.

For just a second, surprise flickered across Joonghyuk’s face. His eyes darted toward the donation message at the corner of the screen.

“That’s... one of my patrons,” he said, amusement curling faintly at the edges of his voice. He didn’t address the request directly, but his lips quivered just enough to send the chat into another frenzy.

•LMAOO squidja chill

•yo who tf is squidja 😭😭😭

•he's right tho 😌 king deserves the spotlight

•what did IRL even do to deserve this hate 💀

Another donation alert.

> “₩10,000 from minyouknow:

imagine subbing to joonghyuk and being InfiniteRegressionLogs anti at the same time 💀”

Joonghyuk chuckled, and Dokja stared, momentarily stunned. That tiny sound lit up the side of his face like sunlight breaking through cold glass. Why did he react like that?

Dokja didn’t know who was more pathetic—

Him, who couldn’t even reveal that he was InfiniteRegressionLogs, or the person who openly dissed him without knowing he was watching.

Actually, scratch that. It was definitely him.

The person had no idea. But he did. And still said nothing.

Then again...

Dokja narrowed his eyes and opened the donation panel again.

If this was going to be a pissing contest, he might as well win it.

He typed it out with one hand and clicked send.

> “₩15,000 from squidja:

y’all don’t even know who InfiniteRegressionLogs is.”

The bot read it out again, loud and clear.

Another message flashed in the stream:

•FIGHTING SQUIDJA LMAOOO

•squidja wins this round

•WHY IS THIS SO PERSONAL

And just like that, more donations started pouring in, turning the chat into a digital battleground of flashing currency and snark. They were all defending InfiniteRegressionLogs.

It was chaos. Hilarious, stupid, unnecessary chaos.

Dokja didn’t even know why he was doing this anymore. Ego? Spite? Petty self-defense?

Maybe all of the above.

He stared at his screen, jaw clenched, watching the mess unfold in the livestream chat. The game had already started, but no one cared. Not really. The tension wasn’t in the match anymore—it was in the ridiculous, escalating war between usernames.

“Joonghyuk, your screen is pretty noisy. What's the drama?” His teammates called out, laughing.

The match had already started so he could not read the chats. However, nothing could stop him from hearing the attached messages on donations that were read out by a bot.

He let out a soft laugh.

“InfiniteRegressionLogs has so many fans.”

Dokja couldn't even concentrate on what's going on in the game. He was scrambling his brain to come up with something.

> “₩20,000 from squidja:

I know Yoo Joonghyuk better than yall's InfiniteRegressionLogs”

The robotic voice made it sound like a petty rebuttal. Dokja buried his face in his hands.

•Ayo squidja got money??

•Squidja’s rich and delusional

•LOVE TRIANGLE

•squidja vs IRL. who will the king choose?

> “₩20,000 from minyouknow:

STUPID AND DELUSIONAL”

Dokja snorted. Not even subtle anymore.

He couldn’t concentrate. His fingers hovered over his keyboard, trying to form some kind of witty rebuttal while also wondering, bitterly, Why is Joonghyuk not stopping this??

Maybe the money was too good. LMAO, money grabber, he thought, rolling his eyes.

But before he could type, the enemy team landed a shutdown kill on Joonghyuk.

The whole stream paused.

Did… did he just die in the teamfight?

Even the chat seemed stunned.

•bro got distracted 😭

•L streamer

•squidja too powerful.

•emotional damage kill

“Okay guys,” Joonghyuk said, voice cutting through the noise. “I think I know who Squidja is.”

Dokja froze.

Really? he thought.

The chat exploded:

•😳😳😳😳😳

•HE WHAT

•HELLO????

•JOONGHYUK EXPOSE THEM

•I NEED TO SIT DOWN

•stream’s not even about the game anymore lmfao

“He won't back down,” he continued, waiting on a 30-second spawn timer.

“He is a keyboard warrior.” The corner of his lips slightly twitched, oblivious that he was holding back a smile.

> “₩20,000 from squidja:

I am not a keyboard warrior wtf yoo joonghyuk!!”

 

> “₩1,000 from minyouknow:

Not a keyboard warrior but fighting a whole fandom. Yeah yeah.”

Dokja let out a strangled noise. He didn’t even know what infuriated him more. His fingers flew to the donation tab again, trembling with barely-contained indignation.

He typed.

“I know who InfiniteRegressionLogs is.”

But just as his thumb hovered over “send,” Joonghyuk spoke again, voice low and casual:

“I had no idea that you'd start a fanwar,” Joonghyuk mused.

There was a pause as his hero respawned. His expression on-stream was unreadable, until a barely-there smirk tugged at the corner of his lips. He shifted in his chair, elbow leaning lazily on the armrest, and made no effort to hide the way his gaze flicked toward the donation feed like he knew something.

Did he really know? Dokja wondered.

No, no way.

But his hand moved before his brain could stop him.

> “₩30,000 from squidja:

I know who InfiniteRegressionLogs is!”

The bot hadn’t even finished speaking before Joonghyuk let out a quiet snort, unmistakably amused.

“Alright. That’s enough,” he said, tone light with teasing exasperation. “Your savings are going to run dry at this rate.”

Dokja was stunned. Joonghyuk did not seem like he was bluffing.

Heat crawled up his neck and he could feel the blood rushing to his head. He was so screwed if Joonghyuk really caught him.

His fingers hovered above the keyboard. Should he say something? Play it cool? Pretend he just typed that as a joke? He didn’t even know what his expression looked like right now, but if he had to guess, it was probably a cross between “I’ve made a terrible mistake” and “please let the earth open up and swallow me whole.”

•If Joonghyuk knows squidja and squidja knows IRL, what's the probability that Joonghyuk knows IRL too????

•WE NEED TO KNOW THE FULL LORE

•Squidja, please spill more

•Joonghyuk say something PLEASE PRETTY PLEASEEE

The stream had ended about an hour ago.

Dokja lay flat on his bed, staring at the ceiling as his brain helpfully replayed every single humiliating thing he’d done. He groaned and rolled over, burying his face into his pillow.

He had spent nearly ₩100,000. One hundred freaking thousand won. On what? Spite? Pride? Delusion?

This was it. His official reality check. He was unemployed, broke, and emotionally scarred. Maybe he deserved it.

He let out a muffled shout into his pillow. “Aaaaagh!”

And then, of course, as if summoned by the gods of embarrassment themselves, his phone rang.

Caller ID: Yoo Joonghyuk.

“Aaaa. Why now?” he muttered, wide-eyed, staring at the screen like it might self-destruct.

But he couldn’t just not answer.

With a deep breath to steel himself, he picked up.

“Hello.”

“Hi, Squidja!” came Joonghyuk’s voice, amused and far too casual.

Dokja immediately shot upright, sitting bolt straight in bed. So... he really did know.

“Can you not—” He trailed off, dragging a hand down his face in secondhand shame.

Joonghyuk laughed on the other end, the sound rich and annoyingly nice to hear.

“That was quite entertaining.”

“Ahaha…” Dokja forced a chuckle. It was not funny. “I didn’t intend to go all the way. Sorry.”

“No, don’t be. If it weren’t for you, the stream would’ve been really boring.”

“It wouldn’t,” Dokja objected. “Your gameplay is good. That’s enough.”

“Not everyone’s there for the gameplay,” Joonghyuk replied, a little too knowingly. “Thought you’d know that.”

Dokja blinked. “Why would I know that?”

Another quiet laugh came through, and it made something in Dokja's chest tighten. He wondered, briefly and irrationally, if he'd feel it vibrate under his palm if they were in the same room.

“I asked you to watch the stream because I wanted to hear some breakdowns of my gameplay,” Joonghyuk continued.

“Eh?” Dokja’s eyebrows shot up.

“But I don’t think that’ll be possible now, since you went up against your own fans.”

“They’re your fans, not mine!” Dokja said defensively.

“Haven’t you heard them say it before? That Supreme King and InfiniteRegressionLogs are a two-in-one package?”

“…No. Pretty sure you made that up.”

“I didn’t,” Joonghyuk said easily. “Proof is how they all got defensive the moment your username came up.”

Dokja fell silent for a moment, the tension in his shoulders slowly fading. Joonghyuk’s voice, calm and light, had that effect on him. 

“Huh. No wonder you were always slandering the long username,” Dokja muttered. “Your streams were full of it.”

“Yeah, it was hard not to notice,” Joonghyuk said with a small hum of agreement. “Didn’t exactly hate it, though.”

Dokja perked up. “Hmm… care to elaborate on that?”

“Not now,” Joonghyuk said, his tone playful, teasing. “Maybe in the future.”

Dokja couldn’t help but laugh, letting himself fall back against the pillows again.

“But I really do want to hear your predictions,” Joonghyuk said. “Like everyone else.”

“You’re gonna win the trophy,” Dokja replied immediately. “What more is there to say?”

“Not like that,” Joonghyuk drawled, stretching out the words. “I want details. Like who we’re up against in the upper bracket finals—”

“Mirae Tempest,” Dokja interrupted without missing a beat. “Isn’t that obvious?”

“Not everyone’s like you,” Joonghyuk replied.

“Yeah, not everyone. But you definitely know it’s Mirae Tempest.”

“Ah. Beats me.”

“Then,” Joonghyuk said after a pause, voice soft but clear, “tell me something I don’t know.”

Dokja paused.

He didn’t know when it started feeling so easy—talking to Joonghyuk, letting their words crash and settle like waves on familiar sand. It used to terrify him—every interaction felt like walking a tightrope above everything unsaid. But somehow, without notice, Joonghyuk had become something steady in the noise.

“…Alright,” Dokja said quietly, almost smiling to himself. “Let me think.”

Chapter Text

20th June (Friday)

Upper Bracket Semi Final Match 1

TWSA vs Team Olympus - 3:0

21st June (Saturday) 

Upper Bracket Semi Final Match 2

Mirae Tempest vs Astra Velvet - 3:1

22nd June (Sunday) 

Lower Bracket Match 1

Team Olympus vs Astra Velvet - 2:3

27th June (Friday)

Upcoming -

Upper Bracket Final

TWSA vs Mirae Tempest 

Ever since “squidja” had made a mess in his livestream on Saturday, and the call that followed afterward, calling Kim Dokja after practice had become less of a decision and more of a reflex for Yoo Joonghyuk.

At first, he told himself it was about the games. That was the easiest excuse, and maybe the safest.

“If you watch the replay of the playoffs where Mirae Tempest took a game off you, I’m sure you know the reason,” Dokja said one night, his voice crackling faintly through the receiver.

“Yeah. They took Hyunsung out completely.”

“Yes. And they forced fights every time he went down. You couldn’t punish them because they totally disrupted your formation.”

“True.”

It wasn’t just agreement for the sake of it. Dokja was right, word for word.

“Your team works like a motor car,” Dokja went on. “And Lee Hyunsung is the gear. No matter how strong the engine is, you’ll always have trouble running efficiently if the gear’s out of order.”

Joonghyuk nodded instinctively, before remembering Dokja couldn’t see him.

“Then who’s the engine?”

“The rest of you,” came the simple answer.

“So Hyunsung gets to be the gear alone while the rest of us are just… the engine collectively?” He heard himself sulking.

Dokja’s laugh came warm through the line.

“You still need the engine to run. It’s essential.”

“You wrote before that I was the powerhouse of TWSA,” Joonghyuk said flatly.

“Ahh, you really did read my blogs,” Dokja huffed.

A pause. Not awkward, but charged — the kind of silence that meant neither of them was in a hurry to end the call.

“I know,” Dokja said at last, “You’re definitely the driver.”

“Huh?”

“You’re the shot caller. Fits perfectly.”

“Doesn’t that role fit the coaches more?” Joonghyuk pressed. “The engine is the powerhouse. No?”

“Oh, so you want to be the engine that badly?” There was a smile in Dokja’s voice — one Joonghyuk could almost picture curling at the corners of his mouth.

He didn’t answer. He didn’t even know why he wanted that.

“Okay, I understand,” Dokja teased.

“What’s there to understand?”

And they went on like that. Game talk rarely lasted more than ten minutes; an excuse was an excuse, after all.

One night, the excuse dissolved entirely. Joonghyuk found himself listening to Dokja talk about coffee for twenty minutes straight.

It started with an offhand remark about “finally finding a decent roast in Seoul,” but it spiraled into a winding lecture about grind sizes, brewing ratios, water temperature, and the tragedy of over-extraction.

“Instant coffee is a crime,” Dokja declared at one point, with the solemnity of a judge handing down a sentence.

“And sugar?” Joonghyuk asked, mostly to keep him talking.

“For cowards,” came the immediate reply.

Joonghyuk didn’t need to know any of this — the ratios, the grind sizes, the criminality of instant coffee — but he hadn’t minded listening. Not once.

It reminded him, strangely, of that day when he skipped scrim reviews to wait for Dokja in front of Bihyung's office, when was still learning the outline of him.

That day, the thoughts had crept in before he could stop them: what kind of coffee did Dokja drink in that outfit? Was it bitter, without sugar, like the kind of person who could say something cutting without blinking? Did he always wear high-tops, or was it just a coincidence that made them look younger on him than his voice suggested? And who exactly was this man when he wasn’t writing about Joonghyuk as if he were a protagonist in some private novel?

That same quiet pull was here now, threaded through the way Dokja’s voice moved from water temperature to the “tragedy of over-extraction.” He spoke without hurrying, without expectation, filling the air with a rhythm that wasn’t demanding, just… steady.

Joonghyuk found himself leaning into it, letting it wrap around him like a conversation he hadn’t realized he wanted. If anything, he wanted to keep him talking — long enough to find out more of those small, useless details that didn’t change the game, but changed something in him.

On another night, without thinking, he asked, “When’s your birthday?”

“February fifteenth... It’s already passed.”

“Yeah. But it’ll come again next year.”

A quiet laugh escaped before he could stop it.

“Do you usually celebrate?”

“Mmm… sometimes.”

“Let’s celebrate it next year.”

“You sure you won’t abandon me?” Dokja teased.

The words were light, but something in them tugged sharply at his chest.

“Why would I do that?”

Dokja didn't respond. He just laughed, like it was nothing. Joonghyuk didn’t think it was nothing.

“Aren’t you going to ask me when's my birthday too?” he said, a little sharper than intended.

“Everyone knows your birthday, you fool.”

Ah. Right. Stupid, dumb, dumb Yoo Joonghyuk.

The night before their match against Mirae Tempest, he called again. They had gone over replays, counter-picks, and lane rotations enough times to recite them in their sleep, but something still nagged at him.

“If the ‘gear’ still can’t work well, even after we try to fix it… what would we do then?”

There was a pause — not hesitation, but calculation — before Dokja said, “Then you run like a bicycle.”

Joonghyuk frowned. “How does a motor car turn into a bicycle?”

“A bicycle runs on manpower alone. It means you're gonna give up some of your mechanical parts,” Dokja explained, patient in that stubborn way of his. “No engine, no gear. And in that case, you’d have to be both the driver and the engine.”

Joonghyuk wasn’t sure if the metaphor was inspiring or ridiculous.

“So the first plan is to not let them take Hyunsung.”

“Exactly. If that fails, you adjust your lineup and hero composition.”

He listened, letting Dokja’s voice map out the possibilities in his head.

“Avoid squishy heroes like assassins,” Dokja continued. “It’ll be a burden if you can be taken down easily. Go for semi-tank heroes instead. Stick with Hyunsung at all times and keep him in the center of your formation in teamfights. It is better if he could pick a healer. In that case, you’re not just damage output — you’re the wall that keeps the formation together.”

“You want me to be the tank.”

“If the situation calls for it, yes. A bicycle doesn’t get far without someone pedaling hard at the front.”

Joonghyuk didn’t say it, but he already knew: if it came to that, he’d do it.

“But,” Dokja added, “your coach will never agree to it.”

“It’s more important to win, isn’t it?”

“What if you don’t win?”

“We’ll still have a chance from the lower bracket,” Joonghyuk said easily. It wasn’t entirely how he felt, but if Dokja was nervous, his first instinct was to cut that thread of doubt before it unraveled into something heavier. “But we won’t need that. We will win.”

“That confident already?” Dokja asked, his voice soft with uncertainty — the kind Joonghyuk could pick out even through static. “You’re not going to have time to practice anymore, and it’s such an unusual lineup.”

“It’ll be alright,” Joonghyuk said, steady as a stone. He found it almost absurd how Dokja could make him want to reassure someone ten thousand times if that’s what it took. “You know, if we win like that, it’ll be like you predicted a new meta.”

“No way!” Dokja shot back instantly. “As long as the developers don’t make hero adjustments, such a lineup won’t become meta that easily.”

Joonghyuk only half-listened to the denial. What lingered in his mind instead was the image of Dokja — shoulders slightly hunched, brow furrowed, talking himself into and out of his own certainty. And that pull in his chest again, the one that made him want to tell Dokja he’d been right all along.

The roar of the arena was the kind of noise that could make a rookie’s hands shake.

Yoo Joonghyuk had long since learned to tune it out—except tonight, it felt sharper and louder, like it was pressing in on him from every side.

Two wins down. Barely.

Mirae Tempest had made them bleed for each victory, and Joonghyuk’s mind kept flicking back unbidden—to Dokja’s voice from last night.

“If the ‘gear’ still can’t work well, you run like a bicycle.”

They had kept Hyunsung alive just enough to scrape through, but even a blind man could see Mirae Tempest had mapped out their blueprint. They were already pacing forward, timing their fights, waiting for the one moment to knock the gear out of place and watch TWSA’s whole formation collapse.

Joonghyuk couldn’t let them have that satisfaction.

Not tonight. Not with Dokja probably sitting somewhere in the audience, eyes tracking every move. 

The third match loomed. Joonghyuk told himself the only thing he had to do was win this round and end it here. Don’t think about lower brackets, don’t think about grand finals—just focus on now. Whether he was the driver or the engine, it didn’t matter. A win was what mattered.

The match began—and ended—not the way he wanted.

Or rather, exactly the way he’d feared.

They lost.

Hyunsung was torn out of the formation early, again. Their retaliations fell apart like clockwork. Joonghyuk could almost hear Mirae Tempest grinning.

During the short break, he pushed forward, telling the coach about the lineup they’d gone over with Dokja. He didn’t name him—he wasn’t stupid. An actual coach wouldn’t take strategy from an online analyst seriously, even one with a flawless track record. Still, he explained the logic, the counters, the substitutions.

The coach shut it down immediately.

The same way he had this afternoon, when they’d tested it in two scrims. Too risky. Too unconventional. No time to drill it.

Joonghyuk was disheartened, though he didn’t show it. He’d expected resistance, but hearing the flat rejection still made the back of his jaw ache.

For the fourth match, they went with the usual lineup. Joonghyuk moved his hands automatically, but his reluctance lingered like a weight in his chest. Twenty minutes later, the match ended—quick, brutal, decisive.

2–2.

The air in the team booth felt heavier now.

One last match. Winner to the grand finals. Loser to the lower bracket.

The coach’s voice was still firm—no lineup changes.

“Building semi-tank? You won't have enough damage. Do you wanna get jungle gap?”

Joonghyuk understood the logic, really. The composition Dokja had suggested was absurd on paper, a gamble that would make traditionalists choke. If it hadn’t been Dokja who’d said it, Joonghyuk might not have believed it either.

The bans appeared on screen. Mirae Tempest proceeded with their usual ban—a direct counter to their comfort picks and narrowing Joonghyuk’s pool. 

It was obvious that they were going on their usual route again. Joonghyuk could not understand why the coach had not let them ban the heroes they had the most difficult time with. Even now, if they followed his words, they were going to give away the same hero that had annihilated them in the previous match to Mirae Tempest.

But he couldn’t afford to lose here.

When his turn to ban arrived, he banned that very hero, and then told Jaehwan to ban the hero that was assigned to him by the coach. His teammates immediately understood what he was up to. And the coach was showering curses into their comms.

The room went still for a second.

Then he locked in the pick Dokja had said would work. His teammates glanced at him—hesitation in their eyes—but they followed his calls. One by one, they shaped the roster into exactly what he’d heard through the receiver last night.

The coach’s glare could have carved a hole through him. If they lost, Joonghyuk knew he’d pay for it—at least a month of lectures, maybe more.

But if they won…

He tightened his grip on the mouse.

If they won, then somewhere out there, Kim Dokja would be smiling that small, smug smile of his.

And that would be worth everything.

The countdown ticked away on the massive stage screen. Five seconds. Four.

Joonghyuk flexed his fingers once, twice, rolling his shoulders as though he could loosen the coil inside his chest. The lineup was locked now—too late for second thoughts. He didn’t look toward the coach’s corner. He didn’t need to. He could feel the man’s glare drilling into the side of his face.

Across the stage, Mirae Tempest’s booth was a blur of motion. Calm. Confidence. They thought they’d solved TWSA already.

The horn sounded. The arena’s roar dulled in his ears, replaced by the steady hum of the game’s ambient sound.

Hyunsung’s icon lit up on the map—he was on a healer now, trailing slightly behind Joonghyuk. Not charging ahead like the old pattern, not scanning the lanes for first engagement. That was Joonghyuk’s job now. He was the wall, the shield, the one who would get hit first and keep standing.

Whether the driver or the engine… Dokja’s voice came back, steady and certain. You just have to keep moving.

Joonghyuk moved.

They met Mirae Tempest at midlane. The opening clash was fast, brutal—they tried to peel Hyunsung immediately, muscle memory dictating their first target. Joonghyuk stepped in, intercepting the lunge, the impact rattling through his knuckles as he countered, soaking hit after hit. His health bar dipped—green light flooded back from Hyunsung’s heals.

It worked.

For now.

Minutes blurred into rotations—lane clear, jungle contest, skirmish after skirmish. Joonghyuk’s hands were steady, but the strain was building in his shoulders. Every time their opponents feinted toward the healer, he was already there, throwing his body into the line of fire.

Their comp shouldn’t work. On paper, it was madness. He’d be the first to admit it. But with Hyunsung tethered to him, keeping him standing through impossible trades, the rhythm started to make sense.

Still, Mirae Tempest wasn’t folding. They adapted, tried to bait him away from the core, tried to slip past him in the fog of war. Joonghyuk played around them each time, the edges of his vision narrowing until it was just targets, cooldowns, and the sound of his own breathing in the headset.

Midgame. Teamfight at dragon pit.

The arena’s noise surged again—Mirae Tempest went all in. For a heartbeat, it looked like they’d done it, cutting Joonghyuk down to a sliver of health. Then Hyunsung’s ult landed, pouring green over the team. Joonghyuk’s fingers tightened, and he dove forward, not retreating, dragging all eyes and damage onto himself. His teammates collapsed in behind him, striking at the exposed carries.

One down. Two. Three.

The kill feed lit up in their colors.

Joonghyuk exhaled slowly, but didn’t let go. It wasn’t over until the core was gone.

Minutes later, the enemy’s nexus shattered in a burst of light.

The noise from the crowd hit him like a wall again, but it was different now. Brighter.

Somewhere out there, he didn’t know where exactly—Kim Dokja was watching. And maybe, just maybe, smiling.

The enemy core cracked, light spilling out in jagged bursts before shattering completely.

For half a second, there was only the hiss of static in his headset, his own pulse hammering in his ears. Then the stage erupted. Applause, cheers, the low thrum of bass from the arena speakers, everything slammed back into him at once.

Joonghyuk’s shoulders slumped. Not in defeat—just release. The tension that had been coiled tight since the first clash bled out of his arms, leaving his fingers tingling against the mouse. His chest rose and fell, breath coming sharper than he’d realized.

Hyunsung let out a whoop somewhere to his right, loud enough to spike in the comms. The others were already celebrating, hugging, shoving each other’s chairs with leftover adrenaline. Joonghyuk didn’t join in. Not yet. He kept his eyes on the victory screen for a moment longer, the glowing letters washing over him.

It worked. The absurd lineup.

He let his head drop forward briefly, the brim of his headset pressing into his brow. A part of him wanted to look out into the audience right now, to find him. But that'd be impossible among the enormous crowds.

For now, the knowledge was enough: somewhere in this roaring crowd, Dokja had seen it too. He wondered if he would also be shouting and cheering like everyone else.

Joonghyuk straightened, slipping the headset down around his neck. The weight in his chest wasn’t heavy anymore—it was full, humming with the satisfaction of proving him right.

And winning. Always winning.

As soon as they returned to the green room, the very first thing Joonghyuk did was check his phone.

KDJ: Congrats! Y’all played really well.

KDJ: But I’m sorry, I have to rush home.

KDJ: You’re awesome, Captain! See you soon :D

Oh. What a pity.

YJH: It’s all thanks to you…

Kim Dokja had no idea how badly Joonghyuk wanted to see him. He huffed under his breath, pocketing the phone before anyone noticed the look on his face.

Even on the way back to the dorm, surrounded by the rest of the team’s noise and chatter, he couldn’t feel content. Victory should have been enough. It usually was, but tonight it wasn’t.

See you soon?

When was ‘soon’ supposed to be? The next time they’d meet would probably be that lunch they’d agreed on after the tournament was over. Or, if luck favored him, maybe he could see Dokja on the day of the final. But with all the pre- and post-match interviews stacked around the schedule, even that was unlikely.

Either way, that was at least a week from now. Too far. Far too far to be called soon.

By the time he reached the dorm, the rest of the team still buzzing around him, Joonghyuk had already made up his mind. He sent another text before he could talk himself out of it:

YJH: If you have free time, would you like to come to the dorm to watch the LB finals? 

The boys had mentioned trying to catch the match at the arena. He only hoped they hadn’t changed their plans.

It was the next evening. The moment Joonghyuk read Dokja’s text—“just took a cab from the station”—something inside him tightened. A few minutes had already passed since then, but sitting around had been impossible.

So he went downstairs.

The evening air was heavy with the aftertaste of summer heat, cooling just slightly as the sun slipped lower. Joonghyuk stood outside the front building, hands shoved into his pockets.

Every few seconds he shifted weight from one foot to the other, a restless tic he couldn’t control. He told himself it was impatience. But when a cab finally slowed to a stop at the curb, headlights spilling across the pavement, his chest tightened.

The back door opened, and Dokja stepped out with his usual unhurried grace. A backpack slung over one shoulder, his shirt a little rumpled from travel, hair falling into his eyes. He looked ordinary. But to Joonghyuk, he looked like a figure he’d been straining toward all day.

Their gazes met across the short distance.

“You came down,” Dokja said, voice carrying a hint of surprise, lips tugging faintly at the corner.

“Scared you might get lost,” Joonghyuk replied. His tone was sarcastic, but it fell flat against the warmth curling through him.

Dokja gave a soft laugh—quiet enough that it might’ve been for himself more than anyone. He shifted his bag and walked up, close enough that Joonghyuk caught the faint scent of city air on him, mixed with something sharper… coffee, maybe.

They didn’t say more as they crossed the lobby. The hum of the building wrapped around them: muted conversations, the steady whir of the air conditioner. Joonghyuk tapped the elevator button with his knuckle, then stepped back, letting Dokja move beside him.

When the doors slid open, they entered together. The metallic hush of the elevator sealed them in.

Joonghyuk leaned against the rail, staring at the panel of numbers as though it demanded his focus. He could feel the proximity—Dokja standing just far enough not to brush against him, but close enough that the space between them was charged.

Dokja adjusted the strap of his bag. “You don’t have to stand there like you’re guarding a prisoner,” he said lightly.

Joonghyuk flicked him a glance, shifting his stance almost imperceptibly.

“Congrats on your victory,” Dokja added, holding out his hand.

Joonghyuk’s gaze lingered on the offered hand before meeting Dokja’s eyes. It took him a beat too long to respond.

“…Thanks.” He clasped Dokja’s hand, his grip firm but his voice more rigid than he intended. “I have no idea where we’d be if you hadn’t been there.”

The elevator hummed upward, a soft mechanical rhythm marking the seconds that seemed to stretch unnaturally long.

For a moment, silence pressed in—a silence that wasn’t empty, but full, taut with something unnamed. Joonghyuk’s fingers twitched against the railing. He thought about the message Dokja had sent earlier. The fact that he had actually come. The fact that he was here now, in this narrow space with him, the city outside momentarily cut away.

At their floor, the elevator chimed. Joonghyuk straightened. He didn’t speak as the doors opened, but the slight tilt of his head told Dokja: this way.

And Dokja followed.

The keycard beeped as Joonghyuk unlocked the dorm door, and he stepped aside just enough for Dokja to walk in first. The faint smell of fabric softener and the afternoon's reheated takeout lingered in the air.

Dokja slipped off his shoes neatly by the entrance, then crossed into the living room. He set his bag down by the side of the couch, movements unhurried, like he had been here before even though he hadn’t.

Joonghyuk made for the kitchen. Without thinking much of it, he opened the fridge. Rows of bottles and cans gleamed back at him—sports drinks, coffee in plastic bottles, soda, flavored water. His hand hovered over the rack, then he asked, “What do you want to drink? We have all kinds.”

When he looked up from the shelves, his eyes caught Dokja’s across the living room. Dokja tilted his head, curious, lips twitching like he was amused by the phrasing.

“All kinds, huh?”

Joonghyuk blinked at him, then said, “Do you want to check for yourself?”

That seemed to spark something. Dokja pushed off the couch without hesitation and crossed the room.

Joonghyuk tracked the movement without meaning to—the easy swing of his stride, how he navigated the space like he already belonged in it. He was used to his teammates filling the dorm, noisy and careless. Dokja wasn’t even here for five minutes and already the space felt altered.

The sound of his steps on the laminate drew closer.

Joonghyuk expected him to slow down when the counter narrowed the space, but Dokja didn’t. He brushed past, the faintest touch of fabric against Joonghyuk’s arm. Close enough that Joonghyuk caught a trace of his scent—coffee still, faint and warm.

For some reason, Joonghyuk didn’t step aside. His grip on the fridge door tightened instead. He wasn’t used to anyone crossing into his space like this without permission, but he didn’t pull back.

The fridge hummed quietly. Dokja leaned forward, peering in like he had every right to. And Joonghyuk, inexplicably, let him.

He slightly leaned against the fridge door, watching as Dokja rifled through the shelves with far too much deliberation. The dorm light caught in Dokja’s hair, turning the loose strands at his temple almost gold. 

“Oh!” Dokja suddenly exclaimed.

Joonghyuk’s eyes flicked to the shelf—too late. The drink Dokja had zeroed in on was already in his hand.

“We have a lot of these at home,” Dokja laughed, pulling out the can. It was the limited-edition energy drink, the one with Joonghyuk’s own face and scrawled signature on the side.

Joonghyuk suppressed a sigh. “Really?” he asked, voice resigned.

“Yeah,” Dokja replied easily, inspecting the can like it wasn’t ridiculous at all. “My mom bought a dozen.”

It would be a lie to say Joonghyuk wasn’t embarrassed. But the truth hardly mattered when the drink had already been sold all over the country, his face plastered on vending machines and convenience store fridges alike.

“Then,” he said, plucking the can from Dokja’s hands before the latter could take a sip, “you should drink something else.”

After a while, they settled in the living room, snacks and soda lined up on the table, the TV tuned to the pre-match interviews.

Joonghyuk couldn’t help but notice the stretch of space between them on the couch. It was the kind of distance that felt both deliberate and natural. He told himself it was appropriate—but still, he noticed.

“How badly did your coach react?” Dokja asked, breaking the silence.

“He was bitter,” Joonghyuk admitted. “But since we won, he said he wants to review it properly.”

Dokja raised an eyebrow. “Properly. Meaning he’ll tear you apart in private instead of in front of the team?”

Joonghyuk gave him a look. “You talk like you know him.”

“I don’t have to,” Dokja said, picking up a chip. “Every coach is the same. They act like parents—if you win, you live to see another day. If you lose, suddenly you’re an orphan.”

Joonghyuk snorted, but it was short, almost hidden. “Your metaphors are terrible.”

“Don’t pretend you didn’t get it,” Dokja countered. He leaned back into the couch, casual on the surface, the space between them still stretched.

Joonghyuk considered saying something, maybe even bridging that distance himself—but instead, he reached for the soda.

“Next match will be harder,” he said instead. “We can’t rely on the same strategy.”

“You can. I'll tell you later.”

Joonghyuk’s lips twitched, just barely.

They settled into the couch, the muted hum of pre-match commentary filling the space between them. Dokja leaned back, one knee tucked up, sipping his drink with a casual ease that made Joonghyuk’s jaw tighten. The television threw quick flashes of light across the room, but Joonghyuk’s focus kept sliding sideways—to the man sitting just an arm’s length away.

Focus on the game.

He forced his gaze onto the players warming up on screen. Not him.

But every small movement—Dokja tapping the can against his knee, the faint shift of his expression at some commentator’s remark—pulled Joonghyuk’s attention back like gravity.

The first whistle blew. Cheers erupted through the speakers, yet Joonghyuk barely registered them. Restlessness pressed in on his chest, his thoughts circling where they shouldn’t. With a sharp exhale, he pushed himself off the couch.

“Where are you going?” Dokja asked, glancing up.

“Fruits.” Joonghyuk pointed toward the kitchen. “I’m going to slice fruits.”

“There’s so many snacks here.” Dokja gestured lazily at the table.

“I want fruit,” he said bluntly.

“Pfft.”

Dokja probably thought it was ridiculous. Joonghyuk thought so too—but it was better than sitting there unraveling.

In the narrow light of the refrigerator, things steadied. His hands moved on instinct: apples, an orange, the clean slide of the knife through crisp flesh. Slice after slice fell into the bowl, the rhythm steadying him. He lingered longer than he needed to, staring at the fruit as if it could tether his drifting thoughts.

From the living room, the television blared with sharp commentary. Dokja sat unmoving, eyes fixed on the screen, silent. Joonghyuk felt the corner of his mouth twitch before he could stop it. He shook his head, gathered the bowl, and returned to the couch.

The game’s commentators rattled on about lineups and probabilities, their voices weaving into the hum of the television. Joonghyuk set down the bowl, the faint clink of ceramic against the table breaking the steady drone. He glanced sideways.

Dokja hadn’t moved. His face was unreadable in the glow of the screen, eyes fixed as if the outcome mattered more to him than to the players themselves. It wasn’t the tense posture of someone rooting for a team — he was cataloguing every mistake.

Joonghyuk picked up the fruit, chewed without tasting it, and kept his gaze on the TV. The silence between them stretched, punctuated only by the booming crowd through the speakers.

Finally, without looking away from the match, Dokja spoke. His voice was low, almost absentminded, like he wasn’t talking to Joonghyuk at all.

“They’ll lose this round.”

Joonghyuk turned to him. “How do you know?”

Dokja’s eyes flickered, just once, toward him before returning to the screen.

“Because they always make the same mistake.”

Just as Dokja predicted, Mirae Tempest lost the first match against Astra Velvet. Joonghyuk barely registered the flow of the game itself—his mind had been split between the shifting plays on screen and the man beside him—but Dokja’s verdict cut clean through the noise.

“They were too reckless,” he said simply, as if the loss had been obvious from the start.

When the broadcast cut to commercials, Joonghyuk felt something shift—like Dokja had finally stepped back down from wherever his mind had gone during the match. The silence between them was different now, softer, no longer pulled tight.

It lasted only a beat.

“Do you have a pen and paper?” Dokja asked suddenly.

Joonghyuk turned, blinking. “Why?”

“I’ll tell you how you should play around.”

For a moment, Joonghyuk only stared. The confidence in Dokja’s tone was… amusing. Like he wasn’t some outsider but a coach in disguise. His lips threatened to curve, but he held it back, standing instead.

He fetched a notebook and pen from the shelf, then returned to find Dokja already shifting the snacks aside, clearing the table with an almost businesslike efficiency.

Dokja lowered himself onto the floor, crossing his legs with casual ease, then patted the space beside him without looking up.

“Sit.”

Joonghyuk hesitated only briefly before lowering himself down, the rug pressing warm against his palm as he settled next to Dokja.

Dokja leaned forward slightly, one elbow braced on the table, the remote in hand as he muted the commercials blaring on the TV.

“See here.” He drew a rough map across the page—lanes, jungle, creep locations, the river—dots and lines forming quickly under his hand.

“Whenever there is a lord fight, Mirae Tempest always shifts into a tighter zone, but there is always a gap in the inner jungle. If you manage to press that space, they’ll draw the defenders out and collapse the center.”

His voice was calm, precise—measured in that way he always seemed to be when picking things apart. The pen hovered near his chin as he thought, brows furrowing like he was fishing through memory.

“Ah. And they’ll pick heroes who can dive the backline. Count on that.”

Joonghyuk sat beside him, half-turned in his seat. The flicker of the television washed across Dokja’s face, sharpening the curve of his cheekbone, the furrow of his brow as he concentrated. He spoke without hesitation, hands gesturing absently as though sketching invisible lines of the play in the air.

Joonghyuk should’ve been contributing too. Should’ve been committing every word, every weakness outlined, into memory. But his eyes kept dragging back to the way Dokja’s lips pressed together before a pause, the way his lashes lowered when he thought, the small inhale before he launched into another explanation.

“…and if you know when to bait the pivot, you can force an early substitution,” Dokja finished, pen rolling between his fingers.

Joonghyuk gave a quiet grunt of acknowledgement, though it was only half in response to the strategy. The other half was to ground himself—to not let it be obvious that his focus was divided.

Dokja caught the sound and glanced at him.

“You’re not keeping up?” His tone was sharp, but not mocking. Just a question, though his eyes narrowed slightly.

Joonghyuk met his gaze without wavering.

“I am.” He wasn’t lying, not exactly. He could recall every word—but not for the reasons Dokja might think.

The commercials ended; the casters reappeared, silent with the sound still muted. Dokja turned back to the page, pen darting as he marked new points.

“Then don’t just grunt. Pay attention.”

Joonghyuk did. Just not to the explanations. If he had known how hard it would be to focus around Dokja—how much effort it took to keep his own thoughts from spilling over—he might have reconsidered inviting him here at all.

“You’ll need a different marksman,” Dokja continued, matter-of-fact. “And don’t pick a burst mage. Pick someone who can provide consistent damage in a long fight.”

He mapped out each role with methodical precision, assuming both teams’ positions in their usual engagements. Joonghyuk’s eyes, however, strayed to the way Dokja’s slim fingers glided over the paper, careful yet firm with each stroke, as if the game’s flow lived entirely at his fingertips.

“There’s a ninety percent chance they’ll pick a long-range burst mage,” Dokja said, drawing two sharp lines from Mirae Tempest’s ‘mage’ and ‘fighter,’ both converging on TWSA’s ‘roamer.’ “They’ll throw everything into cutting off your source of sustain.”

He punctuated the thought with a huff, setting the pen down with finality. Then, with a slight shift, he turned to face Joonghyuk directly.

“I don’t know why I keep stating the obvious when you’re not even listen—”

The words died in his throat.

Because Joonghyuk kissed him.

It was neither careful nor tentative. It was sharp, decisive—an inevitability that had finally broken through. Their mouths collided, and Joonghyuk felt the jolt of Dokja’s surprise, his eyes flying wide. That flash of shock only made him press harder.

His left hand slid to the back of Dokja’s head, anchoring him as he leaned in with force, pushing him down onto the floor. Dokja’s back hit the rug with a muted thud, a gasp tearing from his lips. Joonghyuk seized the opening, slipping his tongue past Dokja’s parted mouth, deepening the kiss until the air between them ceased to exist.

The taste of soda lingered faintly on Dokja’s tongue, sweet and sharp. Joonghyuk’s chest tightened with the heat of it, the raw closeness of it. His other hand found Dokja’s waist, fingers curling firm against the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer until their torsos aligned, heat bleeding through every inch of contact.

Dokja’s back arched instinctively beneath the pressure, his body suspended in the tension between resistance and surrender. Joonghyuk followed the curve, closing the distance with a force that allowed no hesitation—only the relentless, consuming pull that had finally broken loose.

He bit down on Dokja’s lower lip, savoring the sharp hitch of breath that escaped him. Dokja’s hands slid upward, gripping along his arms as though to anchor himself, fingers tightening like he needed something solid to hold onto.

Joonghyuk broke from his mouth only to trail lower—pressing a heated kiss to his chin, then tracing along the sharp line of his jaw. His lips dragged slowly, insistently, until they brushed the sensitive skin of his neck. Every place he touched seemed to burn hotter, and under his fingers, he felt the faint tremor that coursed through Dokja’s body, a shiver betraying what words never could.

He didn’t know how long he stayed like that—driven by instinct, chasing every startled breath, every subtle shift beneath him—when suddenly he felt it: a hand against his chest, pressing. Not harsh, not desperate, but insistent enough to break through the haze.

“Joonghyuk…”

The sound of his name, low and breathless, cut sharper than the push itself.

Joonghyuk froze, then instinctively pulled back, though his arms still caged Dokja against the floor. For a moment he just looked—unable not to. Dokja’s hair was mussed, fanning across the floor; his pupils wide, his face flushed a startling shade of red. His lips were swollen, parted like he was still catching his breath. The hem of his shirt had ridden up, baring the faint line of his waist.

The sight was almost unbearable. Joonghyuk’s chest tightened with the raw desire to lean back in, to taste him again—but reason cut through the haze. He forced restraint into his hands, tugging Dokja’s shirt down as if to shield him, irrationally protective, like someone else might see what had just been laid bare.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered, voice low, roughened by the weight of what he’d just done. He reached out, steadying Dokja as he sat up.

Dokja only hummed in reply. No words—just a sound that was neither acceptance nor rejection. His eyes stayed lowered, refusing to meet Joonghyuk’s, though the bright red blooming at the tips of his ears betrayed him.

A flicker of unease crawled up Joonghyuk’s spine. Had he gone too far? No—he had. The thought was undeniable, sharp as a blade. What made his throat tighten was the uncertainty of what came next. What if Dokja couldn’t let it slide? What if this was the moment he had ruined everything between them?

Dokja opened his mouth, closed it, then forced out something that sounded suspiciously like, “It’s—uh—no, I mean, it’s… fine. Or—whatever.” His words tangled themselves into a useless knot, spilling into the air with none of the clarity he seemed to mean.

He ducked his head, refusing to meet Joonghyuk’s eyes, fingers worrying at the hem of his sleeve as if he could scrub the whole moment away by touch alone.

But the silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was heavy—thick with the weight of everything left unsaid, with the meaning crammed into the cracks of what Dokja couldn’t bring himself to voice.

Before Joonghyuk could think better of it, he reached forward and pulled Dokja into his arms. The other man stiffened for a moment, caught off guard, but Joonghyuk only held tighter, his hand moving in an almost clumsy rhythm along Dokja’s back.

A laugh slipped out of him—low, unpolished, but real. He couldn’t stop it, not with Dokja curling into himself like a guilty child.

“You don’t have to say anything,” he muttered, though the words carried no bite.

Dokja made a sound, half-protest, half-muffled groan, and buried his face against Joonghyuk’s shoulder, as though that could hide him from the mess of it all.

By the time they turned their attention back to the game, the second match was already nearing its end with Mirae Tempest charging straight down the midlane with a tier-three lord.

Neither of them had noticed when the rain began. The soft patter against the windows blurred into the commentary, as if the world outside had dimmed itself to let the match take center stage.

They remained on the floor side by side, shoulders brushing faintly. The bowl of sliced fruit had migrated to Dokja’s lap, while Joonghyuk nursed a drink with his usual, unreadable calm. Their focus wavered, caught somewhere between the flickering screen and the quiet, grounding presence beside them.

The atmosphere stretched unhurriedly through the rest of the night, the rain thickening against the glass, the room warmed by the low hum of the broadcast. Neither spoke much—just the occasional remark about a risky play or a muffled scoff at the casters.

By the time the third match began, the tension that had knotted in Dokja’s chest earlier had loosened. The game’s pace quickened, and Joonghyuk noticed him leaning forward without realizing it, biting into a piece of fruit between calls. His laughter slipped out once when a caster’s prediction backfired—light, unguarded. Joonghyuk’s answering huff of amusement lingered in the air, surprisingly comfortable.

The match ended with Mirae clinching victory, but for Joonghyuk, the small shift mattered more—that somewhere between the sound of rain and the thrill of the game, the atmosphere had steadied enough for Dokja to breathe easily again.

When the fourth match started, Dokja suggested they clean up the mess scattered across the living room.

“But it isn’t over yet,” Joonghyuk countered.

“Mirae Tempest is winning anyway,” Dokja replied matter-of-factly, already reaching for the empty soda cans. And really, who was Joonghyuk to disobey him?

“My mom has so much free time these days she insisted on watching the finals with me,” Dokja said as he stacked the cans together.

“I’ll get VIP seats for you,” Joonghyuk offered without hesitation.

“No, no, no,” Dokja waved him off quickly. “She’s good at getting attention, and I don’t want any of it.”

“Aren’t you good at it too?” Joonghyuk shot back. “Like InfiniteRegressionLogs and sq—”

Dokja shushed him before he could finish. A laugh—real and hearty slipped from him.

Joonghyuk gathered the bowl and snack wrappers, carrying them into the kitchen with Dokja trailing behind, soda cans in hand. They dumped the trash into the bins, and Joonghyuk turned to rinse the bowl at the sink. Dokja lingered at his side, leaning on the counter as though it were the most natural thing in the world.

“I heard from Sooyoung that the person interviewing you after Sunday’s match is the one who always asks about InfiniteRegressionLogs,” Dokja said casually.

“I don’t know yet,” Joonghyuk replied. “Sooyoung gave you an insider information buff.”

“Hah, whatever. But what if they ask again? The discourse is pretty wild right now,” Dokja sing-songed, tone light but his eyes sharp.

“Depends on the question.”

“If they ask, ‘Do you really know who InfiniteRegressionLogs is?’—what would you say? You can’t just lie. Or… can you?”

“I won’t lie.” Joonghyuk’s voice was firm. “I’ll say that we’re friends.”

“Friends?” Dokja repeated, startled.

Before he could process further, Joonghyuk moved, caging him against the counter with deliberate certainty.

“What do you want me to say?” Joonghyuk asked, stepping closer. His voice was low, edged with something that made the air between them tense.

Dokja froze, calculations flickering across his face. His lashes lowered as he shut his eyes, lips pressed thin as though bracing himself. He leaned back as far as the counter would allow, caught between fight and surrender.

Joonghyuk’s heart was hammering in his chest. This close, every detail sharpened—Dokja’s lashes, the slight arch of his brows, the faint dark circles against his pale skin, the rise and fall of his chest.

He wondered what was racing through Dokja’s mind. Was he afraid? Nervous? Did he want Joonghyuk to close the distance, or did he want him gone? Joonghyuk questioned, in that heartbeat of hesitation, whether Dokja could ever want him with the same restless intensity. Even half as much.

Maybe half. But Joonghyuk couldn’t be sure. If he had asked Sooyoung for advice, maybe things would be clearer. But this was something he wanted to earn himself. Until then, he would wait.

And so Joonghyuk drew back, creating space between them.

“I’ll call you a cab,” he said quietly. “You should head home while the rain lets up.”

The words felt heavier than they should’ve, weighted with everything unsaid.

InfiniteRegressionLogs — Final Update

Hello everyone, it’s been a while.

This is just a quick update to let you all know that I won’t be continuing my blogs anymore. Thank you so much for supporting me and reading my analysis all this time. It’s been strange and wonderful sharing those thoughts with you. I made this decision because, well… I found something a little more interesting than dissecting plays on a screen. A real-life endeavor, you could say. Hahaha. I hope you all find something just as worthwhile in your own lives too. I won’t delete or archive the blogs, but I will be setting this account to private (you’ve all seen how TWSA ran into trouble last match when their “secrets” got sniffed out, right? Let’s not repeat that, xD). Please also refrain from reposting or spreading my content elsewhere.

Once again, thank you for everything.

—IRL

>WHAT DO YOU MEAN “final update” WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU’RE LEAVING US???

>No. Nope. I refuse. This is fake. Someone hacked him.

>“Found something more interesting than dissecting plays on a screen” ??? bro don’t tell me he got a GIRLFRIEND???BOYFRIEND???

>bruh I just got into his blogs last month and NOW he quits??? peak tragedy.

>😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭 My entire education on this game came from this man. What am I supposed to do now, go touch grass??

>This is a crime against humanity. His threads are literally academic papers. Where else am I gonna get my 12-page breakdowns on support rotations??

>waitwaitwait, what if this is actually because of squidja. yk. like

>YJH: You're the most jealous fan i know

IRL: you know other fans????

YJH:...

>Supreme King and InfiniteRegressionLogs divorce arc

>Squidja, are you happy now???

>“Real life endeavor” = either he got drafted as a coach OR he’s actually in the scene somehow. Don’t @ me.

>i can’t believe we’re living through the InfiniteRegressionLogs series finale. this was my comfort read

>Everyone’s sad, I get it, but can we acknowledge the man ended his career with an “xD”? 

>Lowkey I think he’s just tired of being ahead of the meta. Imagine carrying the collective brain of the forums for free for THIS long. Legend.

>at least he didn’t delete the posts. I’ll be rereading all the “match breakdowns” and crying in my pillow.

Chapter Text

“Stop playing with the fridge.”

Dokja flinched at his mother’s voice. She was at the counter, chopping vegetables for dinner.

But Dokja was not playing with the fridge. He just wanted to get some snacks but everytime he opened the door, he was greeted by several Yoo Joonghyuks plastered on the cans of energy drinks that were resting on the racks. Each time, he had to shut the door again, heart hammering like he had been caught doing some act of indecency.

At least a minute had passed. And then inevitably, he would try again.

Because everytime he saw Joonghyuk’s face, his mind always went back to the incident last night. The way Joonghyuk kissed him fervently, fingers carving into his body; the way his hot breath skated across his skin; and the crazy, unguarded haze in his eyes when he looked at him.

Dokja shivered at the thought alone. 

Yoo Joonghyuk had imprinted his deeds so vividly in his memory that Dokja could not even look at the mere pictures of the man without being a little crazy. He couldn’t even glance at the posters in his room without his stomach twisting that he had to go as far as taping newspapers over them.

However, he could not run away forever. 

He took a deep breath and opened the fridge again. Before his brain could spiral, he reached in and spun the cans around one by one, hiding every Yoo Joonghyuk until they were nothing but rows of anonymous nutrition facts. Only then did he snatch a yogurt pot and slam the door shut like he was escaping a battlefield.

He all but fled back to his room, clutching the yogurt like it was proof of his survival.

After getting home last night, Dokja had texted Joonghyuk just like he’d been asked, and they’d exchanged a simple goodnight. That had been their last contact.

No “Good morning.”

No “What are you doing?”

Was Yoo Joonghyuk really so busy that he didn’t even have time to text? Or worse, did the thought of texting him not even cross his mind?

Was I a bad kisser? Dokja wondered in horror. Did I kiss him so badly that he decided never to speak to me again?

Oh. My. God.

He collapsed into his chair with all the grace of a dying fish, forehead thunking against his desk like the impact might knock the thought out of him. Could it really have been that bad?

Or…

Or maybe this was just Yoo Joonghyuk’s thing. Maybe Sooyoung had been right—maybe this was why the girl had left him. Maybe he was naturally cold after a kiss, the kind of guy who lit someone on fire and then vanished, leaving them to burn alone.

“What a way to overthink,” Dokja muttered into the wood of his desk, peeling his face off with a groan. This was ridiculous. He just did a marathon of overthinking. Spiraling like this wouldn’t help anyone.

Yoo Joonghyuk was busy. He was a few days away from the Grand Finale of a massive championship. On top of that, he was trying to convince his coach to adopt a risky new strategy. He had a thousand things demanding his attention. Of course texting might slip through the cracks.

Meanwhile, here I am, Dokja thought, acting like an abandoned Victorian maiden waiting by the window for a letter from her soldier at war.

If anything, Dokja should probably take this moment to clear his own head. Maybe the distance was even a good thing. They’d crossed a line last night; there was no denying that. After a kiss like that, it made sense that they’d both need some space to recalibrate—whether to go back to how things were… or to figure out what the hell they even were now.

Dokja opened his laptop. He needed to busy himself too.

In fact, he did have plenty of things to do—he was just exceptionally skilled at procrastinating until the last possible second. But hey, maybe now was the perfect time to break that cycle.

First on the list: signing the lease for the new apartment he was about to rent. He felt both grateful and mildly ashamed that his mother was footing the bill for her 26-year-old son’s rent. But what could he do? They could have stayed under the same roof, except his mother had bought an apartment in the single most inconvenient location known to man. To get anywhere, he had to walk a marathon just to reach the bus stop and then catch the metro. Truly a commuter’s nightmare. His mother had a car. Unfortunately, he was still to get his own (and he was unemployed).

The new apartment he’d found was far better. Close to the university he planned to apply to, with a bath, a bed, a tiny kitchen, and a small living room. Just enough for a certified loner like him. The smaller the space, the less cleaning required—perfect.

And after that, he still needed to finalize his application so he could submit it as soon as applications opened in August. There's still the entire month of July left, and he had to make sure he did not miss anything and that everything was perfect.

It was around 9 p.m. when Dokja was sprawled on the couch next to his mom, half-watching her evening drama and half-dozing, when his phone lit up. The name on the screen made his heart lurch.

Yoo Joonghyuk.

Before he even thought about it, Dokja shot upright and bolted to his room like his life depended on it.

“Who is it?” his mother called after him.

“Yoo Joonghyuk!” he blurted over his shoulder as he slammed his bedroom door shut.

…Why did I say that? he thought, forehead pressing briefly to the wood. Great. Now she’s going to ask questions.

He scrambled to answer. “Hello?”

“Hello, Kim Dokja.”

The deep, familiar voice crackled through the speaker, and Dokja’s heart started hammering so loud.

There was a pause, a long one. Dokja pressed himself tighter against the door, nerves coiled like a spring.

“What are you doing right now?” Joonghyuk asked at last.

“Uh… nothing?” he replied, a little too high-pitched.

“Good. Talk with me for a bit.”

“Sure,” Dokja said, trying not to sound as flustered as he felt. “You’re not busy?”

“Not anymore. The coach just left.”

In the background, Dokja heard shuffling and the faint creak of a door. He pictured Joonghyuk finding somewhere private to call, and his chest gave a strange little squeeze.

Please don’t bring up last night. Please, for the love of all things holy, don’t bring up last night.

“We had a talk today,” Joonghyuk continued, his tone casual. “About the lineup and strategy.”

The knot in Dokja’s shoulders loosened just a fraction. Still, he kept leaning against the door like it was his only defense against humiliation.

“Did he finally agree with it?” Dokja asked, genuinely curious.

“Sort of. That’s why he came over tonight and called us in for a quick discussion,” Joonghyuk replied. His voice was lighter than usual, almost pleased.

“That’s great progress!” Dokja grinned, the pride swelling in his chest surprising even him. Joonghyuk and his team had been fighting for this—it felt like another brick laid on the road to victory.

“How reluctant was he?” he pressed, eager to know how far Joonghyuk had gone to push things through.

“I don’t wanna say,” Joonghyuk muttered. His voice went stern, the kind of tone that said drop it.

Which, of course, meant Dokja absolutely would not drop it.

He could almost see Joonghyuk’s scowl through the phone, the one that would have made him quake months ago. And if he didn’t want to talk about it? That meant he’d gone pretty far out of his comfort zone.

“Aaaa, why not?” Dokja sing-songed, already grinning. “You didn’t go around bothering him all day, did you? Or… did you threaten him?”

“Kim Dokja,” Joonghyuk warned.

Dokja ignored him completely.

“Oh my god! You really did threaten him!”

He burst out laughing, an unrestrained sound that surprised him with how easy it came—especially considering he’d been dreading this phone call a moment ago.

And just like that, the weight that had been sitting on his chest all day loosened. Yoo Joonghyuk was still Yoo Joonghyuk.

“So…” Joonghyuk cleared his throat. “What did you do today?”

Ah. A blatant attempt to change the subject. Dokja decided to let him have it. He wasn’t about to press his luck with last night hanging between them like an invisible tripwire.

“I reviewed my application,” Dokja said after a beat. “And, uh, slept a lot.”

“You slept a lot? Aaa… I envy you.”

Dokja snorted, walking to his bed and flopping onto it. “If you go to bed right now and wake up at eight tomorrow, you can sleep for over ten hours.”

“But I want to chat with you.”

Did Yoo Joonghyuk just sulk at him?

“That’s a you problem,” Dokja deadpanned.

On the other end, Joonghyuk let out a short laugh. It made Dokja’s ears feel warm for reasons he refused to unpack.

“Then,” Joonghyuk said after a pause, “what about your application?”

“What about it?”

“Umm…” There was a brief stretch of silence, like Joonghyuk was trying to remember something. “Aside from good grades and a Master’s degree, you need research experience and recommendation letters too, right?”

The question hit Dokja with a strange little pang. It made him realize that, for all their late-night calls and for everything that had happened between them, Joonghyuk didn’t actually know much about him—beyond the fact that he ran a blog and had vague plans to pursue a PhD.

“I participated in a bunch of research projects during my master’s,” Dokja began, shifting on the bed so his head rested against the wall. “Did my dissertation on emotion–cognitive interactions. After my enlistment, I spent a few months conducting surveys and drafting a paper. But I got bored, you know? Right after escaping military routines, I dove straight back into academic grind. It was… a stupid choice.”

He huffed a small laugh at himself. Thinking about that version of his life always felt a little surreal. For years, his path had been a straight line with no off-ramps:

Since sophomore year, interning under his professor.

Starting his blog Three Ways to Survive during his master’s, where he chronicled his research, academic struggles, and the occasional existential crisis about deadlines.

Even in the military, he’d used his scraps of free time to jot down notes about how the hierarchy and group dynamics might fit into future research papers. Who did that? Only him, apparently.

“Anyway, one day out of sheer boredom, I uploaded an analysis of some random gameplay under the handle InfiniteRegressionLogs. Somehow it blew up. Then someone in the comments dared me to analyze your gameplay.”

On the other end of the line, Joonghyuk hummed. It was barely a sound, but Dokja had grown good at parsing those. He could almost see him nodding.

“And then,” Dokja continued wryly, “you lasted for two years.”

He leaned back against the wall, letting his gaze drift toward the ceiling. How strange it was to think about all of it now. His life hadn’t magically become easy since then—far from it. But those two years had been different. Chaotic, exhausting, exhilarating. Enough to make him forget, at least momentarily, the endless academic hamster wheel he’d been running on since he entered college. He even met Han Sooyoung, who managed to make him feel like a deranged lovesick guy.

"...Thank you." Joonghyuk’s voice was low and hesitant, like he wasn’t sure if that was the right thing to say after all of Dokja’s rambling.

“What for? If you’re going to thank anyone, thank the random commenter who challenged me.”

He tried to lighten the mood; it was getting a little too earnest for his taste.

“Should I post a reply then?” Joonghyuk said, there was a hint of laughter in his voice. “I’ll dig up your very first post from two years ago and give them my gratitude. Might blow up the whole forum though.”

A startled laugh ripped out of Dokja, louder than he meant it to. “I would’ve loved to see you struggle trying to dig up my very first post. But please don’t, because your fans will start camping on my blogs all over again.”

“What about it though? You don’t even try to continue them anyway.”

“That’s exactly the point,” Dokja shot back. “Since I’m not continuing it, you shouldn’t do anything that might make them think otherwise."

There was a short pause, and then Joonghyuk’s voice dropped into a surprisingly good imitation of Gilyeong’s: “Okay, InfiniteRegressionLogs-nim.”

Dokja groaned into his hand. Unbelievable. The boys must have been hanging around Joonghyuk and talking about him.

“But I’m curious,” Joonghyuk said. “You enlisted after you finished your Master’s?”

“Yes,” Dokja replied. People usually enlisted during their bachelor’s or right after graduating; he’d been an outlier.

“I was so skinny and frail after I graduated that my mom didn’t allow me to go.”

The memory bubbled up unexpectedly, and he found himself smiling faintly. He’d gone home straight from his college dorm to his mom’s newly bought apartment—pale, underweight, with half-moons under his eyes so dark they could’ve been permanent tattoos.

When his mother first saw him, she froze in the doorway. A stream of horrified apologies spilled out of her, like she thought she’d committed some crime by letting him study himself into a corpse. She kept repeating, “What have I let my son do to himself?”

They’d rarely seen each other back then—sparse texts, missed calls, half-hearted attempts at keeping in touch. His mother hadn’t provided him with regular financial support, not because she couldn’t or wouldn’t, but because she simply hadn’t realized how badly he needed it. And Dokja… he’d never known how to ask. It felt easier to grind himself into the ground to cover his basic needs than admit he was struggling. So no, it hadn’t been entirely her fault. In a way, it had been his, too.

Things had gotten much better after that, including his relationship with his mother. She still tried to make up for that old guilt in material ways, and Dokja still hadn’t figured out how to say no.

“Honestly,” Dokja admitted with a huff of laughter, “I think she thought I’d die if she sent me to boot camp in that state. And maybe she wasn’t wrong. I looked like a gust of wind could knock me out.”

“Really?” Joonghyuk’s tone shifted slightly. Dokja couldn’t quite place it—concern? surprise? quiet amusement?—but whatever it was, it warmed something deep in his chest.

He didn’t even know why he’d obeyed his mother back then. If he’d insisted on enlisting, it’s not like she could have physically stopped him. Maybe he’d just been tired and wanted to rest. Yet, ironically, he jumped into his Master’s program almost immediately and worked himself to the bone again. Still, he was grateful for how things had unfolded.

“Mmm,” Dokja murmured. “But I’m grateful things happened that way.”

“Why?” He could almost picture Joonghyuk’s frown.

It wasn’t the memories per se that he was fond of, but rather how things turned out afterward.

“Because if they hadn’t… we wouldn’t have met.”

On Monday, Dokja finalized the lease for his new apartment and arranged for some furniture to be delivered. The tenant had already provided a fridge, a bed, and a couch. It saved him a lot of trouble, though the couch looked a bit worn-out and sagged in the middle. Dokja had already made a mental note to replace it once he had the budget, and maybe the energy to care about aesthetics.

That night, after a long day of signing papers and coordinating deliveries, he had a brief call with Joonghyuk before heading to bed. Somewhere between small talk and comfortable silence, they managed to make a tentative plan for their (maybe) lunch date.

“Only Monday,” Joonghyuk said, when Dokja asked him about his schedule after the tournament. 

“What?” Dokja’s voice rose in sharp surprise, a hint of bitterness slipping through. “A whole championship, and they’re giving you only one day off?”

“Will you wait until I finish?” Joonghyuk replied, maddeningly calm.

Dokja humphed into the phone, crossing his arms even though Joonghyuk couldn’t see him.

“There’ll be a few promotional events during the week,” Joonghyuk continued, “but after that, the whole month of July is vacation.”

“Aaaa.” Dokja made a thoughtful noise, then stifled a laugh at his own overreaction. So he got worked up for nothing. "Fine. We can schedule lunch when you’re actually on vacation.”

“No need. Monday’s fine with me.”

“Don’t you need to rest?” Dokja shot back instantly. “You’ll need time to recover from all that, you know.”

“I do,” Joonghyuk agreed, without hesitation, “but seeing you is a greater need.”

The words landed like a direct hit. Heat crept up the back of Dokja’s neck, his lips twitching into a smile against his will. His voice came out strained.

“Shut up.”

A low, airy laugh filtered through the receiver—quiet, but warm. It made Dokja press the phone closer to his ear like an idiot.

For a moment, neither of them said anything. Dokja could hear the faint rustle of Joonghyuk shifting on the other end, and his own heart beating far too fast for something as simple as a phone call.

“…Goodnight, Dokja,” Joonghyuk said at last, voice softer than usual.

“Goodnight,” Dokja murmured back, his grin refusing to go away even after the line went dead.

Dokja woke up surprisingly early on Tuesday morning, the kind of early that felt unnatural for him. For a moment, he considered rolling over and stealing a few more hours of sleep, but his body felt too restless. Instead, on an impulse, he laced up his sneakers and went for a jog around the apartment complex.

There was no real plan for the day, so he figured he could always crash and sleep through the entire afternoon if he wanted. The early morning air was cool, almost sharp, and it helped clear his head. It also made him wonder why he didn’t do this more often.

Around lunchtime, his phone lit up with an incoming call. Han Sooyoung.

“Why do you never reach out first? Kim Dokja, what if I died?!” she barked the second he answered, her voice sharp enough to make him flinch.

“I’m sorry,” he said meekly.

“If you’re really sorry, then do something about it.”

She wasn’t wrong. Dokja could almost picture her scowling, hands on her hips, waiting for an actual answer. He didn’t have one.

He didn’t blame her for being upset; she had every right to be. This was the reason why he’d failed to keep most of his friends from school and university. He’d always lacked the initiative to maintain relationships. No one wanted to be friends with someone they constantly had to chase after.

As soon as the call ended, he made a mental note. He wouldn’t repeat that mistake with Joonghyuk or Sooyoung. Not again.

With that in mind, he opened his phone and sent Joonghyuk a quick text. He told him about his impromptu morning jog and the delicious dumpling he had for lunch. Joonghyuk replied a little later, saying that the juniors had joined their practice that day.

Somehow, the conversation veered off into gossip: Namwoon apparently had a crush on one of his classmates, but the girl was extremely hostile toward him.

Dokja nearly choked laughing at the unexpected tea. He honestly never thought Yoo Joonghyuk would ever be the one delivering gossip to him. It felt weirdly domestic.

But beyond that, Joonghyuk seemed a little busier than usual. His responses were slightly delayed, and Dokja could tell he was likely juggling team matters. So he didn’t push for conversation; he didn’t want to bother him.

That night, sleep came easily, almost suspiciously so. Maybe it was the morning jog. No, not maybe. It was definitely the morning jog.

On Wednesday morning, Dokja woke to find a missed call and a text on his phone—both from Joonghyuk.

The call must have come after he’d fallen asleep, and the text was simple, almost painfully so: Goodnight.

Dokja made a mental note to always turn his ringtone to the loudest setting before bed from now on. It wasn’t just about Joonghyuk, though it mostly was. But it could be useful for emergencies too, he reasoned.

He sent back a quick Good morning before heading out for a jog again. On his way back, he bought fresh steamed buns from a hawker in the apartment complex—one for himself, one for his mother.

In the evening, his phone buzzed with a new notification: a voice message, from Yoo Joonghyuk.

Dokja blinked. A voice message? This guy has been full of surprises lately.

“Dokja-hyung!”

The voice that greeted him was high and bright, and definitely not Yoo Joonghyuk’s.

It was Lee Gilyeong.

“Captain forgot his phone in the station, and Namwoon-hyung said we should try to guess his password.”

“Don’t put the blame on me!” Namwoon’s voice yelled faintly in the background.

“Hyung, you’re really not going to post analysis anymore??” Han Donghoon chimed in next, his voice a little whiny. “We asked Captain what your real-life endeavor was, and he said it’s your PhD program. Is that true?”

Did Joonghyuk really still think his “real-life endeavor” was just about the degree? That had been the original meaning, sure. But when he was writing his post the other night, the meaning he had in mind was actually quite different from its initial meaning. 

“The new weird lineup is your idea, right?” Namwoon’s voice cut back in, sounding accusatory and a little breathless. He must’ve tried to flee once the kids started going overboard. 

“Oh, really?!!”

“But Donghoon-ah, how do you even know the password?” Gilyeong asked, curiosity dripping from every syllable.

“It’s easy to guess. Yoo Mia’s birthday.”

A beat of stunned silence followed.

“Huh? Why do you know her birthday?” Gilyeong demanded.

“I… It’s because—” Donghoon stammered.

“You like her!!” Gilyeong screeched triumphantly. “Donghoon, you little! You're so dead. What if Captain—”

“No I don’t! Lee Gilyeong!!”

“Don’t try to deny it!”

“Shut up! I know that you have a crush on Shin Yoosung!”

That set off a full-blown shouting match. Dokja wondered if they’d completely forgotten they were still recording a voice message.

“What??!! That’s ridiculous! Don’t you dare say such nonsense to anyone! Just because you got away with spreading that rumor about Namwoon-hyung having a crush on Jihye-seonbae doesn’t mean I’ll let you go too!”

Ah. So that’s where the gossip had come from. Dokja felt a small flicker of curiosity about the domestic chaos that seemed to govern the two teams.

“Whether I tell others or not depends on how well you behave.”

“Han Donghoon, you stupid buffoon!!!”

The recording ended there.

Dokja sent back a voice message of his own: “Why are you invading someone’s privacy?”

He didn’t get a reply. Maybe Joonghyuk had confiscated his phone by now, or maybe the kids were too busy running for their lives.

An hour later, his phone rang. This time, it really was Joonghyuk.

“I’m sorry, Dokja,” Joonghyuk said the moment the call connected, his voice flat but carrying the faintest edge of exasperation. “I don’t know what got into their heads.”

“It’s okay. There’s nothing to apologize for,” Dokja replied honestly. If anything, he thought, it was more Joonghyuk’s problem than his.

“Even so,” Joonghyuk huffed. “I’ll have to change my password now.”

Dokja hummed, suppressing the smile tugging at his lips. If Joonghyuk changed it, was there any chance, any non-zero chance, that he’d use his birthday?

Sooyoung had once mentioned he ranked second on the “Yoo Joonghyuk Abandons Rationality” list. If Yoo Mia’s birthday had been his password all this time, what were the odds that Dokja’s might be next?

On Thursday, Dokja went grocery shopping with his mother—one of those rare occasions where she actually let him drive. He wasn’t sure why she wanted him to tag along; she could have managed just fine on her own. Maybe she just wanted company. Or maybe she thought he needed to touch grass more often.

They were weaving through the aisles when she reached for the Yoo Joonghyuk–branded energy drinks and started to drop them into their cart.

“Wait,” Dokja said, intercepting her hand like it was a matter of life and death.

His mother blinked at him, startled. “Why?”

“You still have five of them at home,” he replied smoothly. That much was true, though the real reason was far less rational—he simply didn’t want more Yoo Joonghyuks invading their fridge.

His mother gave him a puzzled look but didn’t argue. She placed the cans back on the shelf, and Dokja silently thanked every higher being for that small victory.

Later that night, Dokja sat cross-legged on his bed and decided to check the comments on his latest blog post.

The comments were chaos incarnate:

paper_stars28: IRL’S LAST POST DUDE WHAT. W H A T. I DIDN’T THINK HE’D DEACTIVATE WTRF FUGHURGEHEUORIGGODHG AUGHHH

xken_ji: There are no words in the English lexicon that could describe the despair I’m feeling. Those deranged blogs were the highlight of my life. #gonebutnotforgotten

eepy_ari: “Final update.” Final WHAT??? It’s OFFICIAL??? U better do ur real-life endevours well IRL

Agentin_VV: NOOOOOOO INFINITEREGRESSIONLOGS COME BACK! I NEED YOUR POSTS TO SURVIVE!

Dokja laughed until his stomach hurt, giggling like an idiot at the sheer melodrama of his readers’ grief, when his screen lit up with an incoming call.

Joonghyuk.

Dokja answered, still grinning.

“Hello, Squidja…” Joonghyuk’s voice came through, low and teasing.

“Shut up.”

“Not even a greeting? How cold.”

“No way, you bastard.” Dokja bit back, still smiling.

Joonghyuk’s laugh crackled through the line—deep, airy, and so warm it made Dokja’s chest feel unreasonably full.

“What are you doing?” Joonghyuk asked once his laughter subsided.

“Reading comments,” Dokja replied, skimming through the rest of the comments. 

“Comments on what? Mind sharing?”

“My last update,” Dokja said. He paused, then chuckled again. “Someone wrote, ‘You better do your real-life endeavors well.’ It sounds like they’re threatening me.”

Joonghyuk hummed, amused. “They’re not wrong.”

“Excuse me?”

“You should do them well,” Joonghyuk said, with ease. “Otherwise, what’s the point of quitting?”

Trust Yoo Joonghyuk to drop something that sounded both like encouragement and a challenge without missing a beat. And what's the meaning of the ‘real life endeavor’ now?

“…You’re unbelievable,” Dokja muttered, but the smile tugging at his lips wouldn’t go away.

On Friday, Dokja drove his mother’s car again, but this time he was alone.

He headed to his new apartment to move in the first wave of his life: books stacked haphazardly in the backseat, a few piles of clothes, and enough dishes to make the kitchen cabinets look less empty.

He told himself he wouldn’t live off fast food and instant noodles anymore. That promise felt strange on his tongue. But he wanted it to be a promise that he kept even if might struggle a bit. Sometimes it took someone else’s gaze, a passing comment, or even a quiet presence for you to realize you deserved to take care of yourself too.

As Dokja moved around, arranging the things he'd brought, he wondered if Joonghyuk and Sooyoung would like to come over one day. Maybe they could have a drink or two, and it would be the first time the three of them met. After the championship ended, both of them would have more time on their hands. Inviting them over didn't sound like a bad idea.

He shifted a pile of books onto the shelf, trying not to linger too long on the thought. The apartment was still bare in places, and he wasn’t sure it would ever feel “finished.” But if they came over, maybe that wouldn’t matter. He believed Joonghyuk wasn’t the type to comment on décor, and Sooyoung would probably just insult the place to his face while secretly enjoying herself.

It wasn’t hard to picture it: Joonghyuk sitting stiffly with a drink in hand, Sooyoung sprawled across the couch making sharp remarks, and him—hovering somewhere between host and spectator. The mental image left him with a small, reluctant smile.

“How's practice going?” Dokja called Joonghyuk once he got back, flopping onto his bed with the phone pressed to his ear.

“Pretty well,” Joonghyuk replied in his usual even tone. “How else could it be?”

“Tsk, tsk…” Dokja clicked his tongue, unimpressed by the self-assurance.

After a short pause, Joonghyuk added, almost begrudgingly, “The coach still sometimes looks at me with suspicious eyes.”

Dokja huffed a laugh. “I don't blame him. If I were him, I’d give you the same look.”

He meant it, too. If Yoo Joonghyuk, the golden boy of textbook-perfect plays suddenly started suggesting off-meta drafts and wild playstyles, he’d be suspicious as well. Change was hard for people to trust, especially when it came from someone whose reputation was built on consistency.

There was a small silence, a comfortable lull, before Joonghyuk spoke again. “So, for Monday,” he said, voice lighter, “I want to eat the delicious dumplings you mentioned the other day.”

Dokja grinned despite himself. “As you wish, Captain,” he teased, putting on a mock-serious tone.

“I mean it.”

“Who said you didn’t?” Dokja shot back, smirking at the warmth bleeding through Joonghyuk’s bluntness, as if they sat facing each other.

“Is it near your place?” Joonghyuk asked.

“No, not really. It’s actually kind of far. I spotted it when I was out with Sooyoung. It was newly opened and I wanted to try it, but she didn’t.”

“And then you went there by yourself?” Joonghyuk’s voice carried the faintest hint of incredulity.

“No way!” Dokja laughed. The idea of trekking that far alone was absurd. “I just ordered takeout and had it delivered.”

There was a beat of silence on the other end, followed by Joonghyuk’s quiet conclusion: “Then we should go together.”

On Saturday morning, Dokja went for a jog again. By the time the clock struck ten, the day already felt long for him. Since he had nothing better to do, he decided to bother Sooyoung.

“It’s fucking 10 A.M., Kim Dokja!” Sooyoung hissed as soon as she picked up.

“So what?” Dokja replied, struggling to suppress his laughter.

“It’s a Saturday!” she groaned, dragging the word out like it had personally offended her. After a long sigh, she finally asked, “What are you calling me for?”

“Checking if you’re dead or not,” Dokja mocked, recalling how she’d scolded him on Tuesday. “Didn’t you say you wanted to see some change?”

There was a pause, then a sharp shift in her tone. “Oh, so you’re gonna play that way, huh? You are so going to regret messing with my Saturday morning sleep, Kim Dokja.”

He just laughed. Sooyoung always had tricks up her sleeve, but she’d been using them on him one after another. At this point, he doubted there could be anything worse.

“I’m moving to a new apartment,” he said, ignoring her threat.

“What?” Her voice shot back, sharp with surprise.

“And I think maybe we could have something like a housewarming party when you’re free,” Dokja continued, unfazed by her disbelief.

There was a beat of silence before a response came.

“For real? Kim Dokja, are you high on something? Or am I hallucinating?” Sooyoung’s tone was dripping with suspicion.

“Why would I be high at ten in the morning?” he deadpanned.

“You tell me! You, throwing a housewarming party? That sounds like the beginning of some apocalypse scenario.”

“It’s not that strange,” Dokja argued, though his voice wasn’t entirely convincing.

“Not that strange? The same guy who ignores calls, avoids socializing, and thinks instant noodles count as a food group is now inviting people over? Are you trying to get abducted by aliens, or are you just desperate for Yoo Joonghyuk to see your new place?”

Dokja froze. “…Excuse me? I never talked about Joonghyuk?”

Sooyoung cackled, wide awake now. “Oh my god, it all makes sense. Kim Dokja. This is incredible.”

“What makes sense?” Dokja faked confusion.

“Don't act like you don't know,” she replied, voice smug. “Because we both know that it's not just me you're inviting. You want him there, too.”

Dokja pinched the bridge of his nose, wondering why he ever thought calling her was a good idea.

“Kim Dokja,” Sooyoung said with the tone of a prosecutor who had just cornered her defendant. “You really think you can lie to me? You’re planning a domestic debut. That’s what this is.”

“A what?” Dokja frowned.

“A domestic debut,” she repeated, all smug. “First, you move into your own apartment. Then, you invite us over. And then, before you know it, Yoo Joonghyuk is sitting at your table, eating those cookies from your favorite bakery you carefully plated because you suddenly care about presentation. Am I wrong?”

“Yes,” Dokja said flatly.

“You didn’t even hesitate,” Sooyoung cackled. “That’s the fastest lie you’ve ever told me. God, you’re so bad at this.”

Dokja sighed. “You’re delusional. You should go back to sleep.”

“No, no, I’m wide awake now. And I refuse to miss this golden opportunity,” she said. Sleep had escaped entirely from her system already.

“I’m hanging up,” Dokja threatened.

“You’re blushing right now, aren’t you?”

“I’m not. Stop talking to me like I'm a little girl!”

“Are you not?”

“Stop projecting,” Dokja bit out, but his voice cracked just enough for her to howl with laughter.

“You’re unbelievable,” Sooyoung managed between giggles. “I bet you’re even rehearsing how you’ll offer him tea. ‘Yoo Joonghyuk, would you like green or black?’” she mimicked, lowering her voice in a mocking imitation.

“I don’t even drink tea,” Dokja muttered.

“So coffee then,” she fired back without missing a beat. “Or, you’ll go all out and buy some fancy alcohol, won’t you? You want him to think you’re sophisticated.”

Dokja groaned. “You’re insane.”

“And you’re transparent.”

He facepalmed himself, realizing there was no winning here. Sooyoung had latched onto this like a terrier with a bone.

“Fine,” he said finally, voice weary. “I’ll invite him. Happy?”

“Oh, I was already happy,” she chirped. “But now I’m ecstatic. Don’t worry, I’ll come too. Somebody needs to witness this legendary housewarming disaster.”

“Why do I feel like I’ve just made a terrible mistake?”

“No, you don't,” she sang. “Don’t worry, Dokja. If you faint from embarrassment, I’ll take plenty of pictures for posterity.”

Dokja shut his eyes, silently vowing never to provoke Han Sooyoung again because she definitely had worse things up her sleeve.

Sunday was match day.

Joonghyuk called him in the morning. The conversation was brief, but it lingered in Dokja’s mind long after it ended.

“We will win,” Joonghyuk said, his voice carrying an assurance that was impossible to doubt. “And it will be because of you.”

“No, no. It’ll be because of your hard work,” Dokja countered quickly.

Still, a strange pressure settled in his chest at those words. If they won this championship, it wouldn’t be his victory—it would be the culmination of countless hours Joonghyuk and his team poured into practice. Dokja might have tossed ideas into the mix, nudged Joonghyuk toward strategies he hadn’t considered, but that was nothing compared to the grueling labor of actually executing them. Dokja just said things. Joonghyuk was the one who turned them into something real.

“I must treat you to a good meal afterward,” Joonghyuk said, almost casually. But his tone held weight. “It’s a promise.”

“Just say you want to see me,” Dokja teased, his voice lilting.

There was only laughter in response, low and unguarded.

“All the best,” Dokja said at last.

“Mm. See you soon.”

‘Soon’ meant tomorrow, because they wouldn’t be able to meet tonight. Joonghyuk would be on the platform, basking in the noise and lights of the championship stage, and Dokja would be watching him from the audience.

When Dokja and his mother arrived at the venue, the crowd was already buzzing—neon signs flashing team names, fans draped in scarves and jerseys, the thrum of anticipation rolling through the air like a storm.

“I can’t believe you actually agreed to take me,” his mom said, tugging her coat tighter as they joined the stream of people heading toward the entrance.

“You said you wanted to see Yoo Joonghyuk,” Dokja replied dryly.

His mother’s eyes narrowed, a sly gleam in them. “And what’s the difference between me seeing him or not?” Her tone tiptoed on the edge of knowing something she wasn’t saying.

“You bought his merch and hung his posters in my room,” Dokja shot back, keeping his voice light. “I think you might actually want to become a fan. No?”

The truth was, he wasn’t bringing her out of generosity. He needed her on his good side—moving out had drained his savings, and his mom had covered most of his expenses. This outing was just… strategic goodwill.

When the players finally entered the stage, the audience erupted, chants shaking the arena walls. His mother leaned over the noise and shouted in his ear, “He looks even better in real life! My son, you sure have good taste. Approved!”

Dokja choked, utterly unprepared for that line of attack. He said nothing, pretending to focus on the big screen as the teams took their seats.

But his mom wasn’t done. “But don’t people say gamers tend to be arrogant? Are you sure your soft heart can handle him?”

Dokja blinked. Since when did arrogant gamers become a stereotype? And who the fuck said that he had a soft heart? That sounded exactly like the kind of nonsense Han Sooyoung would invent just to annoy him.

“Mom, don’t say things like that!” He shouted back, scandalized.

Game 1 was…

Well, it wasn’t exactly what Dokja had expected. TWSA had gone with their normal draft. Joonghyuk had said that their coach had agreed to the unconventional plan. Did he go back on his words?

No. It couldn’t be. If anything had changed, Joonghyuk would have told him. Tonight, Dokja just had to trust him.

And then, unsurprisingly, they lost.

“Did they lose?” his mother asked, eyes wide in confusion.

“Yes,” Dokja answered calmly, though his fingers tightened against his knees. “But that’s only the first game. They need four wins to take the trophy.”

The Grand Finals was a best-of-seven. It was going to be a long, pressure-filled night for everyone in the arena.

Dokja figured that the defeat in Game 1 was the trigger for pulling out the new draft. He could feel the slight shift in energy among the crowd because of the unusual line-up TWSA was drafting. Eventually, Mirae Tempest was thrown off of their tempo because of the sustain their opponents feinted. 

Both teams excelled at quick teamfights, risky trade offs and punishing even the slightest mistakes made by their opponents. In their recent encounters, Mirae Tempest had figured out a way to stop TWSA from entering their zone. They had been successful and were at the brink of shutting them down.

But that was until TWSA sought their own path and deviated from the fall that was awaiting them. They knew the point of their formation where their opponents were targeting, and reinforced those points not only to stop Mirae Tempest from pushing them down, but to fight back and turn the tables on them.

TWSA swerved from their signature high-risk, high-reward plays and shifted towards a more deliberate, slow paced war around crucial objectives. Mirae Tempest had prepared for their signature aggression, but they weren’t prepared for this. As a result, the waves mounting from TWSA's new strategy caused their opponents’ formation to buckle down. 

Yoo Joonghyuk continued to be the anchor and the blade, the powerhouse for the team. He was the foundation around which his teammates rallied to carry out the actions needed for their victory.

Dokja loved the action that he was witnessing. Because the thing he pondered and laid out on papers was given a life by Joonghyuk and his teammates. He wanted to thank everyone who trusted Joonghyuk, and thank the man himself for trusting him. Above all, he gave his respect to Joonghyuk for being trustworthy. 

As the crowd was on its feet, roaring names, Dokja's mother was half-laughing as she clapped with the rest of the audience. He wondered what she might be thinking .

On-screen, Joonghyuk’s character cut through the final teamfight like it had been scripted for him. Victory.

Game 2 was theirs.

On the way home, Dokja sat in the passenger seat, watching the post-match interview on his phone while his mother drove.

TWSA had won 4:1. They were now the Regional Champions for the second year in a row—and this time, they had done it without a single defeat, walking the so-called “Golden Path.” To top it off, Yoo Joonghyuk had been crowned MVP of the Championship.

The surge of satisfaction Dokja felt from tonight's result was almost disconcerting in its intensity. It was probably the knowledge that he had been an indispensable factor in bringing it about.

“Tonight’s playstyle was something the audience isn’t familiar with,” the interviewer said. “Who’s the mastermind behind it?”

The question wasn’t directed at anyone in particular. Dokja leaned forward instinctively, curious. They all knew it was him—but they couldn’t just say that, could they?

‘It was InfiniteRegressionLogs.’ That was something no one could say aloud. Yet they wouldn’t lie outright either, would they?

“It was Joonghyuk-ssi’s genius friend who helped us with the strategy and draft,” Lee Hyunsung finally answered, breaking the stretched silence. Everyone had clearly been waiting for Joonghyuk to respond, but he kept quiet.

The interviewer, unsatisfied, turned to Joonghyuk.

“Yoo Joonghyuk-ssi, is that genius friend of yours another famous person in the esports community?”

What kind of question was that? Shouldn’t he be asking about the match, the preparation, the risks? Dokja sighed. This guy always seemed more interested in the ‘who’ than the ‘how.’ No wonder he kept circling back to InfiniteRegressionLogs in every Joonghyuk interview. Why was he the one handling the Grand Finals post-match?

“Yes, he is.” Joonghyuk’s response was short. Too short—enough that the interviewer leaned forward, ready to push further. But Joonghyuk cut him off before he could.

“But I won’t say who that person is. It might not be good for him if I did.”

What the fuck? Yoo Joonghyuk, you did not have to say that much. It was absolutely unnecessary. What if his fans thought he was talking about InfiniteRegressionLogs again? And the interviewer would raise another damn question about him.

Dokja opened the live comments and luckily, no one suspected that genius friend to be InfiniteRegressionLogs. After all, InfiniteRegressionLogs wasn't Yoo Joonghyuk’s friend. Instead, the comments had spiraled elsewhere: 

• it’s probably someone from Mirae Tempest’s side LMAOO
• reason YJH can’t reveal them: HE’S A SPY
• so someone leaked info??
• if that’s true, shame on TWSA’s coach smh
• the interviewer is trash, replace him already
• STOP ASKING NAMES, TALK ABOUT THE GAME WTF

Dokja huffed a laugh. At least the crowd wasn’t biting down on the wrong bone this time.

Unfortunately, the interviewer was relentless.

“Oh! Yoo Joonghyuk-ssi, could that person be InfiniteRegressionLogs?”

Dokja felt like he could sense the shift in energy on the set through the screen.

Joonghyuk opened his mouth and closed again. He must be thinking hard what kind of answer he should give. A ‘yes’ was not a favorable answer, but a ‘no’ would be a lie. But didn’t his hesitation already mean the answer was yes?

Dokja gritted his teeth. Would other viewers pick up on it as easily as he did?

Before Joonghyuk could answer, another question landed:

“What kind of person is InfiniteRegressionLogs for Supreme King?”

InfiniteRegressionLogs was a blogger and fan of Supreme King. That was it. Dokja thought. He didn’t want Joonghyuk feeding fuel into a dying fire. The ‘Squidja vs InfiniteRegressionLogs’ discussion still came up occasionally in his inbox. He didn't want anything more to add to that. 

“InfiniteRegressionLogs is,” Joonghyuk paused. Was it real thought or just dramatic timing? Dokja couldn’t tell.

“InfiniteRegressionLogs is someone who helps me remember that I've achieved great things in my career.”

Oh.

So that’s it. But Dokja never expected such a response to come out of Joonghyuk. And for some unfathomable reason, that sentence made him wonder 'What kind of person is Kim Dokja to Yoo Joonghyuk?'

And then he remembered that night in the dorms. Joonghyuk’s quiet question: “What do you want me to say?”

If someone asked who InfiniteRegressionLogs was… what did he want Joonghyuk to say?

“Dokja-ya,” his mother’s voice broke into his thoughts. “How’s your new apartment going?”

“I’ll be able to move in this week. Maybe Tuesday…” Dokja trailed off.

“Ahhh,” she exclaimed. “I’m going to miss you so much.”

“It’s not like I’m leaving the country. You’re so dramatic.”

She laughed. “Are you free tomorrow? If you’re moving out on Tuesday, how about a mother-son date tomorrow?”

Dokja grimaced. The conversation was all over the place. “Uh… I already have a plan with Joonghyuk tomorrow.”

His mother glanced at him, surprise flickering across her face, brows knitting with something almost like concern.

“Let’s have dinner instead,” Dokja added quickly.

“Sure,” she said, though her tone wasn’t entirely convinced.

“Can you make short ribs? I’ve missed them.”

Her reply was short. “Okay.”

A stretch of silence passed, then she asked, casually but pointedly, “By the way, what’s your relationship with Yoo Joonghyuk?”

Dokja stiffened. “We’re… close friends.”

The memory of the kiss stabbed at him. They hadn’t spoken about it since.

“Oh, really?” His mom sounded genuinely surprised. “I thought you two would be dating or something.”

Dokja gave a dry laugh. “If we were, would you approve?”

She glanced at him briefly before returning her eyes to the road. “Yes.”

After a pause, she added, “But make sure you introduce him to me properly.”

Dokja nodded faintly. He hoped he could, someday. But he couldn’t know anything for sure.

Would Joonghyuk even want that? What kind of person did he want Kim Dokja to be?

Joonghyuk had said InfiniteRegressionLogs was someone who reminded him of his achievements.

If that's the case, he wanted Kim Dokja to be someone irreplaceable in Yoo Joonghyuk’s life.

Chapter Text

Now that they were actually going to meet, Kim Dokja felt his nerves spike. He had seen Yoo Joonghyuk just the night before, but only from a distance. The idea of sitting across from him, face to face and sharing lunch was something else entirely. It nearly knocked the air out of him.

Because of traffic, he had missed the first train and arrived later than he would’ve liked. He wasn’t technically late, but he had wanted to be early, to compose himself. Much to his dismay, Yoo Joonghyuk was already there, waiting at the junction where they had agreed to meet.

Joonghyuk leaned casually against a pole, arms crossed, eyes closed as though he were half-dozing. The afternoon breeze tugged at the seams of his shirt and ruffled his dark hair, softening the severity of his features. 

From a distance, the face that so often carried a frown looked gentler, the usual crease between his brows gone. He seemed almost weightless under the sunlight, stripped of the intensity that defined him on stage. 

Dokja hesitated, caught off guard by the sight. A small pang of guilt pricked him—how exhausted must Joonghyuk be, yet here he was, waiting without complaint?

“Have you waited long?” Dokja asked, finally stepping closer and giving Joonghyuk’s arm a light poke.

Joonghyuk’s eyes opened at once, his posture shifting upright.

“No, not really.”

“No, or not really?” Dokja squinted at him.

“No,” Joonghyuk repeated, a faint smile tugging at his lips.

“I’m sorry, the traffic slowed me down,” Dokja murmured.

“It’s okay,” Joonghyuk said simply, tone even, making Dokja want to believe it really didn’t matter.

Had Yoo Joonghyuk always been this gentle with him? Dokja searched his memory but couldn’t find the answer.

The dumpling restaurant was only two blocks away. They fell into step side by side, neither speaking, yet the silence that settled between them felt far from awkward. Rather, it was steady and almost grounding.

The restaurant was tucked just off the main street, its glass front catching the afternoon light. Inside, the place still carried the sheen of something new—bright wooden tables without scratches, the faint scent of fresh paint beneath the stronger aroma of sizzling garlic and steamed dough. It had only been open a couple of months, but the chatter of diners and clatter of chopsticks already gave it a lively hum.

They slid into a booth by the window. The laminated menu was thick with options, but both of them lingered over the dumpling section. Pork and chive, shrimp and garlic, kimchi, mushroom—steamed, pan-fried, boiled. It was almost overwhelming.

“You’d think a place with this many choices is compensating for something,” Dokja said dryly.

Joonghyuk glanced up from the menu. “Or they’re just good at one thing.”

“In which case, why bother with the noodles?”

“To eat,” Joonghyuk replied flatly.

Dokja stared at him, then snorted, shaking his head. “Right. Of course.”

Eventually, they settled on a mix—pan-fried kimchi dumplings, steamed pork and chive, and a plate of noodles to share. The food arrived quicker than expected, accompanied by small glasses of complimentary barley tea that fogged faintly in the air.

The dumplings came sizzling and golden at the edges, a sharp tang of kimchi rising from the steam. The noodles followed, glistening under sesame oil with slivers of vegetables tucked in.

Dokja picked one dumpling up carefully with his chopsticks, blowing on it. “This is going to burn my tongue, isn’t it?”

“Then don’t eat it yet,” Joonghyuk said, already biting into his own without hesitation.

Dokja frowned.

“How are you not—”

He cut himself off when Joonghyuk simply chewed, expression unreadable, as if molten filling wasn’t searing the inside of his mouth.

“You’re insane,” Dokja muttered, finally taking a small bite. The heat bloomed instantly, but so did the flavor—sharp and savory. He couldn’t stop himself from reaching for another.

The silence that accompanied them while eating was not uncomfortable, but it left too much room for thought—unnecessary thoughts that Dokja had no intention of entertaining. Yet they crept in anyway, unbidden.

The kiss.

Last Saturday.

It came back with startling clarity—the heat of it, the way it had left him shaken to the core. And now, across from him, Yoo Joonghyuk sat calmly working through his plate of noodles as if nothing had happened, as if the memory hadn’t lodged itself in both of their heads.

How could he look so unbothered? Dokja couldn’t decide whether to envy or resent that composure.

Unless…

Unless Joonghyuk wasn’t as calm as he appeared. What were the chances that behind that blank exterior, he too was spiraling, caught in the same storm of recollection?

The thought made Dokja’s chopsticks falter. Panic prickled the edges of his chest. He didn’t want to find out.

So he ate.

He put all his focus on the food, on the sharp tang of kimchi, the savory richness of pork, the slick chew of noodles. Bite after bite, he shoved the thoughts aside, burying them under the mechanical act of eating. 

“Slow down,” Joonghyuk said suddenly, his voice cutting through the haze.

Dokja blinked, halfway through another mouthful. He looked up, startled, to find Joonghyuk watching him with that steady and assessing gaze.

He forced a laugh, though it sounded thin even to his own ears.

“What, are you worried I’ll choke?”

Joonghyuk didn’t answer right away. His expression remained impassive, but his chopsticks had stilled, resting against the rim of his plate.

“Just slow down,” he repeated, softer this time, before turning his attention back to the food.

Dokja lowered his gaze, throat tight, and obediently set his chopsticks down for a moment and picked up the barley tea instead. The taste of dumpling lingered on his tongue, but his mind was far from it now, buzzing with the question he couldn’t voice—what exactly was Joonghyuk thinking of when he looked at him like that?

“Joonghyuk,” Dokja blurted, the words slipping out before he could second-guess himself. “Do you have anything else to do after this?”

“No,” Joonghyuk replied easily. “I’m all yours today.”

Dokja nearly choked on the barley tea he was sipping. He set the glass down quickly before he really did spill it all over the table. How could Yoo Joonghyuk say something like that with a straight face? Did he even realize how it sounded?

His confidence faltered, just a fraction—but since he had already started, he forced himself to press on. He could regret this later. (And he probably would.)

“I wanna take you somewhere,” he said, the words quieter than he intended.

Joonghyuk looked at him, a flicker of confusion flashing across his face before it smoothed over again.

“Okay, sure.”

Dokja let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, a small smile tugging at his lips. He was absurdly relieved that Joonghyuk didn’t immediately ask where. It would be mortifying to explain outright that he wanted to take him to his new apartment. That had been an impulsive thought, and if something seemed to go wrong on the way, he could always redirect him somewhere else. A bookstore, a park, anywhere.

On their way to the subway, Dokja shoved his hands in his pockets and asked, almost offhandedly.

“Is it okay to take the subway?”

“Yeah, why not?” Joonghyuk replied without hesitation.

“It’s crowded and people might…” Dokja trailed off, words tangling in his throat.

“People might?” Joonghyuk raised a brow, turning slightly to glance at him.

Dokja shifted uncomfortably. “What if someone bothered you there?”

Joonghyuk laughed, low and amused. “Do you think I am a K-pop idol or something, Kim Dokja?”

“You’re more famous than many of them, though,” Dokja muttered, defending him—though if he was honest, it sounded more like he was defending himself.

Joonghyuk gave him a sidelong look, but before he could say anything, Dokja lifted his hand and pointed across the street. “See? That’s your poster.”

On the other side of the highway, a massive billboard displayed TWSA in their championship gear, Yoo Joonghyuk was in the center. 

“It seems like you think too highly of me,” Joonghyuk said.

“Hmh. Whatever.”

Dokja turned his eyes away, but the thought lingered. Joonghyuk was right—esports fans could be intense, but they weren’t the same kind of obsessive as idol fandoms. Still, Dokja couldn’t help but be glad Joonghyuk was a gamer and not a singer. If he were an idol, things would be unbearable.

Though, admittedly… Joonghyuk would look incredible as one. He could easily pass as the group’s visual. The image made Dokja snort to himself.

The subway was indeed crowded. They hadn’t even managed to find a seat, squeezed into the space near the doors instead. Dokja didn’t know why it was this bad. It wasn’t even rush hour, and yet every bench was packed and the aisle filled shoulder to shoulder.

Joonghyuk stood with his back against the door, arms folded loosely, taking up less space than he should for someone his size. Dokja found himself across from him, one hand curled around the metal pole, the train’s steady rhythm swaying him just slightly.

For a while, neither of them spoke, the chatter of strangers and the hum of the tracks filling the space between them. Dokja tried not to focus on how easy Joonghyuk looked in this crowd, like the press of people didn’t touch him at all, while he himself felt every jostle and brush of strangers.

Finally, he cleared his throat, straightening his thoughts.

“So… congratulations, by the way.”

Joonghyuk tilted his head, one brow raised.

“Back to back Regional Champions,” Dokja clarified. “That too with an MVP. You should at least hear it once from me directly.”

Joonghyuk’s gaze lingered on him for a moment, unreadable as ever, before he gave the smallest nod.

“Thanks.”

“That’s it?” Dokja pressed, lips quirking. “No victory speech?”

“Do I look like Han Sooyoung to you?” Joonghyuk countered, deadpan.

Dokja stifled a laugh, earning a glance from the middle-aged man squeezed in beside him. He lowered his voice.

“Well, I mean… It's not a small thing. Even if you won’t say it, you’re allowed to be proud.”

For just a moment, Joonghyuk’s expression shifted, the corner of his mouth tugging as though the words had settled somewhere inside him. 

Joonghyuk then suddenly asked, “Did I play well?”

He looked at Dokja with expectant eyes. Dokja couldn’t quite read what kind of expectation lay beyond them. It was supposed to be an easy answer. It went without saying that Yoo Joonghyuk played well. In fact, he had been the MVP of the entire championship.

But in the corner of his mind, Dokja calculated the areas where Joonghyuk had to improve. He could grade his plays like an answer paper, and Joonghyuk would not get straight As. Dokja knew Joonghyuk had been especially nervous during this championship—but the thing was, he had no means to know what ran through Joonghyuk’s head to make him that way.

His mouth opened, then closed. He searched for the correct answer—one that wasn’t cold, clinical, or dismissive. Something Joonghyuk could hold onto.

“...You made it look easy,” Dokja said finally, his voice low enough to be swallowed by the train’s steady hum. “Even when I knew it wasn’t. That’s what makes you dangerous.”

Joonghyuk’s gaze lingered on him, as if weighing the words, testing them for any hidden catch. The subway jolted, throwing a sway between them, and for the briefest second, Dokja thought Joonghyuk might actually smile.

“Good,” Joonghyuk murmured, almost to himself.

Some people exited, and another stream of bodies spilled into the car. Dokja was still caught in his trance, head coursing through the possibilities of Joonghyuk’s intentions of asking that question.

That was when the people behind him pushed forward. His body pitched into the nearest wall of strength. Broad shoulders and steady arms, solid enough that Dokja’s breath caught at the sudden closeness.

He blinked up, startled. Joonghyuk’s dark eyes were already on him, unreadable, and the faint brush of his shirt against Dokja’s cheek felt far too much like an embrace.

Flustered, Dokja jerked back, hands raised as if to ward off an unspoken accusation that was literally non-existent, as if they had not kissed, as if he hadn’t already felt this man’s warmth on his skin before.

“Aa—I’m sorry,” he blurted, voice quick and defensive.

“No problem,” was all Joonghyuk said before the next surge of passengers pressed in again.

This time Dokja was thrown forward with no escape. His forehead landed against Joonghyuk’s shoulder. His hand, without permission, was curling into the fabric of Joonghyuk’s shirt for balance.

For a moment, neither moved. Dokja felt the slow, steady rhythm of Joonghyuk’s breathing, the quiet heat radiating through cloth. It would have been easier if Joonghyuk had shoved him away, but he didn’t. He stood perfectly still, gaze fixed somewhere above Dokja’s head, as if bracing himself.

When Dokja finally pulled back, his face burned with shame, or something dangerously close to it. He covered his face with one hand, lowering his head.

“...I’m really sorry,” he muttered, voice quiet but trembling.

Joonghyuk said nothing. But his eyes lingered, tracing the bowed slope of Dokja’s figure, as though memorizing it.

It would have been easier if he said anything. But Yoo Joonghyuk played people the way he played games: difficult, capable of keeping you teetering on the edge of your seat. And yet, somehow, he always made it look easy.

Dokja’s pulse hammered. The silence between them grew thick and charged. He wanted to look away, but Joonghyuk’s presence pressed in undeniably.

The train rattled on, its steady grind against the tracks doing little to cut through the air between them. Their stop would be after two more stations. 

“Let’s switch positions,” Joonghyuk said, breaking the silence. 

Before Dokja could fully process the words, Joonghyuk’s hands closed lightly around his shoulders. With a sure but unhurried push, he guided Dokja to where he had been standing.

“Stand here,” Joonghyuk instructed, voice low. “Hold on to the pole properly.”

Dokja obeyed without protest, gripping the cool steel. He barely had time to breathe before Joonghyuk shifted into the space opposite him—closer this time, close enough that the brush of movement in the crowd would force them into each other’s orbit.

Joonghyuk reached up, hand wrapping around the overhead bar with practiced ease. The movement made him loom just slightly forward, and suddenly, when Dokja looked up, his entire view was blocked.

All he could see was the taller man in front of him—Yoo Joonghyuk, eyes already on him, gaze sharp and unwavering, as if it were the most natural thing in the world to look at him like that.

Isn’t he shameless? Dokja thought, pulse thrumming in his throat. He didn’t look away either. Instead, he locked eyes back, ignoring the violent thundering of his heart as if sheer willpower alone could quiet it.

Was it all the competitions? All that endless pressure that made Yoo Joonghyuk this steady and unflinching, like nerves didn’t exist for him? Or was it something else entirely... something Dokja was only beginning to understand?

The silence between them thickened, heavy and charged, as the train lurched closer to their stop. And still, Dokja had no idea what was going on inside Yoo Joonghyuk’s head.

They left the subway, the high afternoon air cooler now—a welcome shift from the press of bodies inside. The streets here were busier, the hum of traffic threading into their silence.

“So…” Joonghyuk broke it first, voice steady. “Where are we going?”

“To my new apartment,” Dokja said, his tone carrying the faintest hesitation.

Joonghyuk’s gaze flicked to him, brief but unmistakable.

“Aaa. Are you disappointed?” Dokja asked quickly, almost tripping over the words.

“No. Not at all.”

Joonghyuk’s reply came without pause. After a short beat, he added, “I also invited you to our dorm, right?”

Dokja hummed, acknowledging with a quiet, “Mm.”

“It means we’re building mutual trust,” Joonghyuk concluded matter-of-factly, like he’d already solved the equation.

Mutual trust. The phrase pressed heavier into Dokja than he expected. Did he trust Yoo Joonghyuk? He hadn’t examined it in those terms before. But maybe he did. He was inviting him into his space, after all.

And more than that, he was relieved that Joonghyuk hadn’t twisted the gesture into something strange or presumptuous. Dokja found himself strangely glad for that.

By the time they arrived in front of the apartment building, the quiet had settled into something almost comfortable.

“Here we are,” Dokja announced.

“Which floor?” Joonghyuk asked as they stepped inside the building.

“Guess,” Dokja said, his tone taking on a rare playfulness.

Joonghyuk let out a quiet laugh.

Inside the lift, Dokja gestured toward the panel.

“Go on. Press it.”

“Really?” Joonghyuk sighed, but the faint curve at his lips betrayed him.

He pressed thirteen.

Dokja gasped, a little too dramatically.

Joonghyuk’s head snapped toward him, brows lifting.

“What happened?”

“You guessed it right,” Dokja said, eyes widening in mock disbelief. “How did you do that?”

Joonghyuk studied him, skeptical.

“It was just a guess.”

“Mm, no way. You cheated,” Dokja accused, narrowing his eyes.

“Cheated how?”

“I don’t know… mind reading?” Dokja said, arms crossing as if he were genuinely considering it.

Joonghyuk huffed, shaking his head.

“You’re suspicious,” Dokja continued, lips twitching.

An airy chuckle slipped through Joonghyuk, and Dokja thought the sound was a pleasure to his ears.

The elevator dinged, its doors sliding open. They stepped out, their footsteps echoing lightly along the quiet hallway.

“Thirteenth floor,” Joonghyuk said flatly. “Unlucky number. You should’ve picked another.”

“I’ll take my chances,” Dokja replied. “Besides, it suits me.”

Joonghyuk gave him a sideways look.

“You like tempting fate that much?”

“Maybe I do,” Dokja muttered under his breath, pressing in his passcode.

“You should let me guess that too,” Joonghyuk remarked, a faint tilt at the corner of his mouth as the lock chimed.

“Next time.”

“Next time?”

“Mm.”

Dokja turned slightly toward him, an absurd weight of anticipation pressing into his chest. He hoped that there would be many more 'next times.'

“Alright,” he said at last, twisting the knob with a little flourish. “Welcome to my place."

They slipped off their shoes at the entrance, the soft thud of soles against the narrow hallway breaking the quiet. Dokja realized belatedly that he hadn’t even bought indoor slippers yet.

The apartment still carried some hollowness, along with faint traces of disinfectant that Dokja had used last week.

In the living room, unopened boxes were stacked haphazardly against the wall, and the kitchen counters bore the clutter of half-unpacked utensils.

Joonghyuk’s gaze swept the space once, steady but curious.

“You haven’t finished moving in?” He asked.

 “Mm. Yeah.”

Joonghyuk hummed in acknowledgment, stepping further inside. His presence made the small space feel even narrower, his tall frame brushing the edges of it. The apartment wasn’t messy so much as incomplete, like a speech paused mid-sentence.

Dokja suddenly felt exposed, as if the unopened boxes were testament to how unprepared he was—not just for living alone again, but for bringing Yoo Joonghyuk here of all people.

“Looks like you invited me here just to make me help you unpack.”

“What? No!” Dokja shot him a look, but Joonghyuk was already picking his way toward one of the unopened boxes.

“You're not touching those,” Dokja warned quickly, moving to block him. “They’re... important.”

Joonghyuk raised a brow.

“Important boxes you haven’t opened in a week?”

Dokja flailed for a comeback. “…They’re waiting for the right moment.”

That earned him the faintest tug at Joonghyuk’s lips, as if he was fighting off a smile.

“The boxes are waiting?”

Dokja scowled.

“Shut up.”

“Mm.” Joonghyuk crossed his arms, clearly entertained despite saying nothing more.

“Sit on the couch.”

Dokja pointed toward the couch in the middle of the living room, the words coming out more like an order than an invitation.

“I’ll get you a drink.”

Joonghyuk arched a brow at his tone, but there was a spark of amusement in his eyes.

“Okay,” he said lightly, almost mocking, before crossing the room and lowering himself onto the couch anyway.

Dokja retreated to the kitchen. He opened the refrigerator and frowned at its pathetic, half empty state. Water. Banana milk. That was it. He let out a sigh. Why had he even invited Yoo Joonghyuk over? Every move he made seemed like another opportunity to humiliate himself.

Still, he grabbed the banana milk for Joonghyuk and a bottle of water for himself. Closing the fridge door with more force than necessary, he braced himself before heading back into the living room.

Joonghyuk was idly flipping through one of the books stacked on the coffee table. The late afternoon sun slipped through the thin curtains, catching in his dark hair and gilding it in shades of brown and fleeting coppery glints.

For a moment, Dokja’s thoughts stalled. The light softened the harsh lines of Joonghyuk’s profile, making him look infuriatingly... touchable. He found himself wondering what it would feel like to run his fingers through those strands of hair, whether they would be coarse or unexpectedly soft.

Dokja’s lips pressed into a thin line. Like the thought was unnecessary, he pushed it down with practiced efficiency and held out the drink instead. 

Joonghyuk accepted the carton with a quiet, “Thanks,” his fingers brushing briefly against Dokja’s as he took it. The touch was barely a second, but Dokja still felt the ghost of it when he dropped onto the far end of the couch.

Joonghyuk didn’t seem to notice. He slid the straw into the carton, took a slow sip, and went back to flipping through the book on his lap. The soft rustle of pages filled the silence.

Dokja had no idea what part of that particular book had Joonghyuk so absorbed. It wasn’t even anything remarkable—just one of his old textbooks, kept around more out of habit than real necessity. Hardly the kind of material anyone would call entertaining.

Yet Joonghyuk’s eyes moved over the page with steady focus, as if every line demanded his attention. His brow creased faintly in concentration, lips pressed against the straw as he took another sip without looking away.

Dokja exhaled softly, twisting the cap of his water bottle. Leave it to Yoo Joonghyuk to treat even his dry, annotated textbook like it held some secret worth uncovering.

“Why did you suddenly move out?”

Joonghyuk broke the silence without looking up.

Dokja glanced at him.

“It’s not sudden.”

Joonghyuk finally lifted his gaze from the page, dark eyes steady as they met his.

“You lived with your mom. Didn’t you?”

“Did Sooyoung tell you that?”

“Mm.”

“I always lived alone,” Dokja said, his lips curving into a faint smile. “But the apartment complex was going through renovations, so I moved in with my mom for a while. It’s only been a few months.”

“Ah.” Joonghyuk nodded slowly, like a puzzle piece had just clicked into place. “So Han Sooyoung gave me… selective information.”

There was the barest edge of dry amusement in his tone, enough that Dokja huffed out a short laugh.

“You know, my mom’s place is really far from the uni I plan to enroll in,” Dokja said, twisting the cap of his water bottle idly.

Joonghyuk set the book down on his lap and looked at him.

“How many universities are you submitting applications to?”

“Just one.”

Joonghyuk’s brows pulled together, a silent question sharpening in his eyes.

“You’re that confident?”

“You can also say it that way,” Dokja replied, pausing deliberately as if to gauge Joonghyuk’s reaction.

Sure enough, the man narrowed his eyes, a small crease forming between his brows. He didn’t speak, but the weight of his stare pressed against Dokja like a demand for clarification.

Dokja almost laughed. It was so like Yoo Joonghyuk—to drag honesty out of people not with words but with sheer, unrelenting presence. He pressed the curve of a smile back into something neutral, refusing to let it show.

“Actually, a professor sent me an email saying he wanted to be my supervisor if I ever decided to write a thesis for a Doctorate.”

“What did you actually do for that?”

“You just have to be curious and ask lots of questions. Really good questions.” Dokja emphasized the last part, tone bordering on smug.

“That really didn’t explain anything,” Joonghyuk deadpanned.

Dokja’s mouth twitched. He could hear the unspoken ‘you’re being deliberately vague again’ in Joonghyuk’s tone. The man was pressing for more, stubbornly, like a child who refused to let go of a thread once he’d found it. And Dokja against all reason, found himself wanting to indulge that curiosity.

“I have told you before that I participated a lot in research projects, right?” He began, turning a little towards Joonghyuk. “In addition, attending seminars, conferences, forums—things like that is also important. Ask questions, challenge their assumptions, and try to contribute something worth thinking about. It’s one of the most effective ways to get noticed by people who value insight and persistence.”

Joonghyuk regarded him for a moment, unreadable.

“So you got a professor’s attention just by asking questions.”

Dokja gave a small shrug.

“Not just. You have to ask the right ones. The kind that makes people stop and think, ‘why didn’t I ask that first?’”

Joonghyuk hummed, the sound low and contemplative.

“You make it sound easy.”

“I don't know,” Dokja said quietly, a small smile forming. “It wasnt even my intention to get attention. I was just genuinely curious.”

“That’s one way to brag about how awesome you are,” Joonghyuk remarked casually, earning a scoff from the other.

“That’s just how you think.”

“Anyway,” Dokja said after a beat of silence, changing the subject. “The view from the balcony’s quite pretty. I’ll show you.”

He stood up from the couch and placed his water bottle on the coffee table. Joonghyuk set his now-empty banana milk carton beside it and followed him toward the balcony.

The view outside was serene. The busy road below was visible, but the sounds of the vehicles faded into a soft murmur from up here. Smaller buildings stretched out between taller ones, and beyond them, the Han River glimmered faintly under the late sun. The bridge stood in the distance, a thin silhouette against the light. The sun had already dipped lower in the sky, and in a few hours, it would melt into the waters of the river.

Dokja gestured for Joonghyuk to come closer to his side.

“See the bus stand down there?” He pointed toward a few blocks away, leaning slightly over the railing to make sure he got it right. “The university I’m enrolling in is just five stops away from there.”

Joonghyuk leaned over the railing too, following the line of Dokja’s finger.

“Mmm,” he hummed. “What about your mom’s place?” he asked after a pause.

The question caught Dokja off guard. He glanced at Joonghyuk briefly before replying.

“It’s four stops away from the closest station, if I’m not mistaken.”

“Subway?”

“Yeah.”

“How far is it from here?”

“The subway?”

“Mmm.”

“I’m not sure… maybe a fifteen-minute walk, I guess.”

Joonghyuk’s voice came low, steady. “Kim Dokja.”

“Yes?”

Dokja turned to face him. At some point, Joonghyuk had shifted closer—close enough that the afternoon light fell on both of them in the same breath of space.

“Kim Dokja,” Joonghyuk repeated, and his arms moved almost fluidly, caging him in against the balcony railing.

Dokja froze. His pulse stumbled over itself, words scattering before they could even form. Why did he always end up in this position?

“Can I... ?”

Joonghyuk started, but the words caught somewhere between hesitation and intent. His gaze didn’t waver. He exhaled, the sound shallow, deliberate.

“I really want to kiss you right now.”

Huh?

For a beat, the world went soundless.

Dokja wasn’t sure if he heard that right—or if his mind, traitorous as ever, had filled in the silence for him.

Then Joonghyuk’s gaze faltered. “No. I’m sorry.” He looked down, shaking his head slightly.

Dokja watched every movement in silence, barely breathing.

“But,” Joonghyuk lifted his gaze again, eyes searching for Dokja’s. “Do you really not know how much I like you?”

For a second, Dokja couldn’t move. The words didn’t seem to land; they just hovered in the air between them, raw and fragile.

He blinked. Once. Twice. Joonghyuk’s face didn’t waver, though his eyes flickered—just slightly, like he was bracing for rejection.

“...You really don’t do subtlety, do you?” Dokja finally said, the corner of his mouth twitching. His voice came out quieter than he intended, almost soft.

Joonghyuk didn’t answer.

Dokja exhaled and looked away, eyes tracing the city skyline as if it could steady the racing in his chest.

“You shouldn’t say things like that so easily.”

“It’s not easy,” Joonghyuk said simply.

“Then,” Dokja murmured, glancing back at him, “can I answer your first question like this?”

Confusion flickered in Joonghyuk’s eyes. But before he could utter a single word, Dokja grabbed him by the collar and pulled him in, closing the distance with a kiss that was nothing short of reckless.

For a moment, Joonghyuk froze—his eyes wide, breath caught somewhere between shock and disbelief. Dokja felt the corner of his lips curve just barely; he counted that stunned silence as a victory, using Joonghyuk’s own element of surprise against him.

But it didn’t last long.

Joonghyuk's hesitation shattered in an instant, replaced by a sudden, decisive pull. His hand found the back of Dokja’s neck, fingers sliding into his hair as he tilted his head and deepened the kiss. The shift was so natural, so sure, it made Dokja’s pulse stumble.

The world narrowed to the press of lips, the faint brush of breath, the sound of their hearts drumming too loud in the hush of the city below. Joonghyuk’s grip was steady but not forceful—possessive in its certainty, as though he’d been waiting for this far too long.

Joonghyuk’s teeth grazed Dokja’s lower lip just as Dokja broke into a quiet, involuntary smile against his mouth.

Joonghyuk pulled back abruptly, brows knitting together.

“Do you find this funny?”

“What? No!” Dokja was still smiling, helplessly so. “Can I not smile while kissing?”

“Do you not like me, Kim Dokja?” Joonghyuk asked, frown deepening.

“You fool,” Dokja muttered, flicking his forehead.

Joonghyuk caught his wrist immediately, eyes narrowing.

“Do you think I’d kiss someone I don’t like?” Dokja said, his tone gentler now.

“If so, can’t you just say it properly?”

“How do you want me to say it?” Dokja laughed, but Joonghyuk didn’t find it funny at all.

“Kim Dokja.”

And then again, firmer this time—“Kim Dokja.”

“Aah, wait, let’s go inside first,” Dokja said, pushing Joonghyuk backward. The latter still didn’t let go of his hand. In fact, his other hand was now caught too, trapped in Joonghyuk’s firm grip.

“Yoo Joonghyuk,” Dokja said once they were standing in the middle of the living room, “will you be my boyfriend?”

“No.”

“What!?”

“Don’t steal my line.”

“Are you for real, Yoo Joonghyuk?”

“I want to be the one to ask you out,” Joonghyuk said seriously. “That’s why I told you first that I liked you.”

“What’s the difference though?” Dokja couldn’t help teasing, his lips quirking up.

“You’re trying to blossom on my bud.”

Dokja blinked, incredulous. Of course. Yoo Joonghyuk was competitive—even about this.

“Ahhh, okay then. Okay,” he said, half laughing, half exasperated.

Joonghyuk didn’t move. His grip on Dokja’s wrists loosened, but he didn’t let go. His expression stayed unreadable, as if he were waiting for something.

Dokja sighed. “What now? Are you gonna—”

“Kim Dokja.”

That tone again. Flat and steady, yet weighted. Dokja stilled.

Joonghyuk looked him straight in the eye. “Will you be my boyfriend?”

It wasn’t romantic in the conventional sense. There was no soft smile, no dramatic pause, no trembling uncertainty. Just a question stated with the same calmness he used when analyzing a game plan or delivering a fact. And yet, somehow, it hit harder than anything else.

Dokja blinked, trying and failing not to smile. “You couldn’t even wait five seconds after rejecting me.”

“You rushed,” Joonghyuk said simply. “It was only fair I corrected it.”

Dokja huffed a quiet laugh, the corners of his eyes crinkling.

“You’re unbelievable.”

Joonghyuk’s gaze softened almost imperceptibly.

“Is that a yes?”

Dokja tilted his head, feigning thought.

“Mmm… I’ll think about it.”

Joonghyuk didn’t even flinch.

“You already did.”

That was it. Dokja’s composure cracked into a smile—one of those genuine, fleeting ones that rarely appeared but always lingered long after.

“Yeah,” he said, voice low. “I already did.”

Finally, Joonghyuk smiled.

Dokja stared at it for a second too long and felt the familiar itch in his fingers to flick his forehead again, just because. But instead, he tilted his head and said, deadpan,

“Now, where’s my kiss?”

Joonghyuk blinked once. The faint smile didn’t fade; if anything, it deepened by a fraction.

“You’re impatient,” he murmured.

“Joonghyuk.”

“Mmm.”

“Do you—”

The rest of the question never made it out. Joonghyuk leaned in, cutting him off with a kiss.

It was slow this time. The kind of kiss that didn’t demand, but just lingered long enough to feel real. Unlike the one before, there was no rush, no edge of hunger fighting to surface. Only quiet, deliberate warmth.

Joonghyuk’s grip around Dokja’s wrists eased before sliding down, then guiding Dokja’s arms up until they looped loosely around his shoulders. His own hands dropped lower, settling on Dokja’s waist with a steadiness that felt grounding.

As Joonghyuk let him lead, for a moment, Dokja hesitated—his movements tentative, unsure of the rhythm between them. He pulled back just slightly, as if gauging Joonghyuk’s reaction. In response, Joonghyuk gave him a light squeeze on the side of his waist, reassuring him, a quiet 'go on.'

That was all the encouragement Dokja needed.

He leaned back in, kissing him again, slower this time. His fingers brushed the back of Joonghyuk’s neck, tracing the fine strands of hair there, feeling the faint tension that melted under his touch. Joonghyuk followed his lead, responding and meeting him in the middle of each small, searching movement.

Dokja pressed forward, gently urging him back until Joonghyuk’s calves met the edge of the couch. The kiss broke for only a heartbeat when Joonghyuk sat down. But in the next moment, he reached up and pulled Dokja down with him.

Dokja straddled him instinctively, knees sinking into the cushion on either side of Joonghyuk, his legs bracketing the man’s waist. For a second, they just looked at each other—breath mingling, eyes tracing every line of the other’s face as if to memorize it.

Then Dokja reached up, cupping Joonghyuk’s face in his hands. His thumbs brushed over the faint warmth of his skin, tracing the quiet steadiness there. He leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to his forehead, then to each eye, his cheeks, the tip of his nose and finally, his lips.

Each touch felt like a release of something he hadn’t realized he’d been holding onto for too long, every kiss a wordless confession that language could never hold. His heart felt impossibly full, almost uncomfortably so, like it didn’t quite fit in his chest anymore. He wasn’t sure if it was joy or relief, or something dangerously close to both.

And somewhere between the brush of their noses and the warmth of Joonghyuk’s breath fanning against his lips, Dokja thought that if moments like this were fleeting, then maybe fleeting wasn’t such a bad thing after all.

When their lips met again, Dokja smiled against them

And this time, Joonghyuk did too.