Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Yeo Jun looked at the polished glass tower of Yongseong Department Store and sighed. This internship was supposed to be a formality. Smile, nod, fetch coffee, go home. Easy. Well, that is what he thought at first, too. 

He hadn’t exactly expected to spend his final semester of university working at one of the most prestigious companies in the country. Sure, he had excellent grades, a flawless academic record, and a resume that made professors proud. Confidence in his own abilities wasn’t the issue. Still, it came as a genuine surprise when an acceptance letter from Yongseong landed in his inbox one morning.

As a business major, it was required by the university to get some work experience before graduation. So, with some nudging (read: relentless badgering) from his friends, he applied to a wide range of companies including Yongseong, mostly just to shut them up. Honestly, he doesn’t even remember how he ended up here. He wasn’t really inspired by the prospect of working in the same field as his father. But after one too many group chats and “friendly interventions,” he gave in. To him, this internship is just a temporary obligation, not a dream job. He can endure it just a bit. After all, that’s what he has been doing all his life. Not even his annoying boss can—

“Are you planning to stare at the copier until it prints your future?”

Yeo Jun flinched at the sharp voice behind him. Speak of the devil. Ban Juyeon was standing on the other side of the desk, expression unreadable, suit crisp and posture annoyingly perfect. His voice was calm, but it carried the faintest edge, like he was always two seconds away from calling Yeo Jun a disappointment in five different synonyms.

“No, sir,” Yeo Jun said, schooling his face into polite disinterest. “Just... thinking.”

Juyeon raised an eyebrow. “Well, when you're done thinking, I need the Yongin report before noon. Try not to forget the attachments this time.”

With that, he turned and walked away without another glance.

Yeo Jun made a face at his retreating back. He didn’t know it was humanly possible to be that composed and that rude at the same time.

He hadn't expected much from this internship, but he definitely hadn’t expected him. Just thinking about his first day at an office gives him shivers all over the body.

Yeo Jun was already running ten minutes late. Not technically his fault that the train stalled, the rain wouldn’t let up, and he definitely didn’t plan to sprint through the lobby with two cups of coffee and his phone vibrating nonstop in his pocket. But here he was, skidding around the corner with the grace of a baby deer on tile floors—

—and slamming straight into someone.

Coffee exploded between them like an unfortunate firework. One cup hit the floor with a sad splatter , the other? Right across the front of a neat suit.

With eerie calm, the man took a measured step back, looked down at the stain blooming across his shirt, then up — slowly — at Yeo Jun.

“...I assume,” he said, voice as cold and crisp as the morning air, “you’re the new intern.”

Yeo Jun scrambled for a napkin. “Yes! I mean... Yes, sir. Sorry, sir. I didn’t see... You turned the corner so fast, and—”

“I walked,” the man interrupted flatly. “At a normal speed. And I don't want to hear excuses.”

Yeo Jun opened his mouth. Closed it. Words were stuck in his throat, unable to make a sound. He even considered faking a faint. Not even his first meeting with Soohyun was this catastrophic, he thinks.

The man in front of him just sighed softly, pulled a handkerchief from his pocket — who still carried actual handkerchiefs? — and dabbed at the stain.

Yeo Jun blinked. “I...sorry again... uh, and you are…?”

“I’m Ban Juyeon,” he said eventually. “Executive Director of this division.”

Yeo Jun blinked. Executive...? Oh no. Some please hit him.

“You’re with Team Strategy under Baek Sujeong,” Juyeon continued. “I’ll be overseeing the proposal she’s presenting this week. So, congratulations! Your first impression was spilling caffeine on the person signing your evaluation.”

And with that, he turned and walked away, calm as ever.

Yeo Jun just stood there, clutching an empty cup and a full-body existential crisis. Still, when it came down to the actual work, he wasn’t all charm and chaos. By the end of the day, he’d already impressed the team with his quick thinking and sharp eye for detail, enough for Baek Sujeong to welcome him aboard without hesitation.

It was Yeo Jun’s second week in the Strategy division, and he had mostly perfected the intern routine: smile brightly, nod often, don’t speak unless spoken to, and bring good coffee. But today was different. He had been invited to sit in on the concept meeting for Yongseong Cafe’s big rebrand campaign. Yeo Jun strolled in wearing a pastel green overshirt layered over a white t-shirt, light beige pants, and spotless white sneakers. There was even a tiny smiley-face pin on his chest pocket, just because it made people blink twice.

He slid into the corner seat of the long glass table, drumming his fingers lightly with a mix of nerves and barely concealed excitement. Ideas bounced weakly around the room. The long table was cluttered with laptops, iced Americanos, and the quiet buzz of brainstorming fatigue. Baek Sujeong leaned back in her chair, stretching her arms overhead.

“We’re still not cracking it,” she said, flipping through mock-ups of cafe rebrands. “It’s modern, sure, but nothing that screams ‘next-gen’! We need something unique that pulls the younger crowd more.”

Yeo Jun tapped his pen against his notepad, hesitated, then locked eyes with the team leader across the table.

She raised an eyebrow, subtle, questioning.

You gonna say something?

He scrunched his nose slightly, then looked away. Not yet.

The conversation kept circling — “clean interiors,” “digital menus,” “AR experiences.” It was getting repetitive at some point. The meeting started hours ago, and still no advancement. Yeo Jun was slowly melting into his chair. The white ceiling seemed more interesting than the current discussion. 

Then someone muttered, half-defeated, “I don’t know… maybe something fun?”

Before he could stop himself, Yeo Jun blurted, “Like esports?”

Everyone turned.

He blinked. Too late to take it back now.

“Like… a collab cafe with a popular team or a pop-up based on a hit game?” he said, warming to it. “I mean, not literally turning the cafe into a PC bang, of course. But… something inspired by it?”

He was rambling. He knew he was rambling. But no one was stopping him.

“The way people watch esports isn’t that different from how older generations watch sports. It's a community. And cafes, if you think about it, are all about community, too. So…”

He trailed off, cheeks pinking.

After some consideration, Sujeong’s eyes lit up.

“That’s actually… not bad,” she said, a hint of excitement creeping into her voice

A few heads nodded. Someone even murmured, “Yeah, that’s trending.”

Sujeong turned back to Yeo Jun. “Yeo Jun-ssi, I know you just started, but would you be willing to prep a short draft or visual aid for the director’s meeting tomorrow? I think this idea has real potential.”

He straightened. “Yes! I mean... I can make one. I will. Today. Or tonight. You’ll have it tomorrow.”

“Great.” Sujeong nodded, already jotting it down. “Send it to me directly. You’ll present it in the wider meeting.”

Another pause.

“Wait, me ?” Yeo Jun squeaked.

“You proposed it. You pitch it.”

He smiled awkwardly, doing his best not to throw up from the sudden adrenaline.

Sujeong winked as she gathered her notes.

“Congrats. You’re the first intern to pitch to Ban Juyeon.” And with that, she left the room like she’d just dropped the final boss fight on him.

Yeo Jun sat there, wondering whether to laugh, cry, or Google “how to impress your terrifyingly attractive superior who thinks you’re a moron.”

The KBBQ place was loud, smoky, and packed with the kind of chaotic comfort only meat, friends, and endless side dishes could bring. Sizzling sounds from tabletop grills mixed with the buzz of conversations, and the smell of grilled pork belly practically clung to the walls. Above their booth, a flickering neon sign read: Eat Meat, Worry Never. Yeah, only Sobin could choose a place like this.

Yeo Jun, however, was very much worried.

He slouched against the cushioned seat, poking at the meat with his chopsticks. “I was supposed to be invisible,” he muttered. “A background character. The cute intern who quietly disappears after three months. Not… whatever this is.”

“Let me get this straight,” Sobin said, raising an eyebrow over her lettuce wrap. “You spoke in a meeting. Sujeong-nim liked it. Now you’re pitching it. To Ban Juyeon himself . The executive who allegedly doesn’t blink.”

Yeo Jun groaned. “He blinks. He just does it like… judgmentally.”

Soohyun snorted. “Why are you panicking? You said it yourself. You’re only doing this internship for credit.”

The three of them had known each other since university though the dynamics were anything but simple. Soohyun had been his painfully serious sunbae, the kind who gave brutally honest feedback during group projects and never laughed at his jokes unless they were actually funny. Their early interactions had been tense, filled with snark and long stares across the library table. But somewhere along the line, between awkward late-night editing sessions and an unexpected moment of kindness when Yeo Jun had been at his worst, things shifted.

Sobin, on the other hand, had always seen through his posturing — calm, unshaken, and somehow warm even when she was roasting him. They’d grown closer after a shared elective, and over time, Yeo Jun had started to confide in her more than he expected. There was something grounding about her presence. Like she wouldn’t flinch, even if he did.

“Yeah, but now I’m involved,” he muttered, stuffing a piece of grilled pork into his mouth like it could soak up the existential dread. 

“Don’t you like being involved?” Sobin leaned forward, nudging his knee under the table. “You used to give presentations in uni like you were auditioning for Produce 101 . ”

Yeo Jun pouted. “That was different. I was wearing glitter and confidence. Now I wear oversized cardigans and anxiety. And he’s… I don’t know. I can’t read him. One second I think he’s about to fire me, the next he’s just… staring. Like he’s trying to solve me like a math problem.”

“Hot,” Sobin said, deadpan.

“Terrifying,” Yeo Jun countered. “He’s the kind of person who says two words and makes you rethink your whole career path. Like, ‘try again’ and suddenly I’m eight years old failing math again.”

He dramatically slumped against Soohyun’s shoulder, who pushed him off with a seasoned shove.

“You’ll be fine,” Soohyun replied.

“I could get fired.”

“You’re an unpaid intern.”

Yeo Jun made a noise of betrayal. “How are you worse at comfort than Google?”

“Besides, wasn't the team leader the one who gave you this chance? You said she’s the nice one.”

“Because no one else was being useful,” Yeo Jun corrected dramatically. “She said, ‘work on it and show me tomorrow.’ Which is code for ‘you better not mess this up, or else Ban Juyeon will vaporize you with one stare.’”

“You’re such a drama prince,” Sobin muttered, smiling anyway. “What’s the pitch, anyway?”

Yeo Jun perked up, momentarily distracted from his own doom spiral. “Okay, so. Esports cafe concept. Not like a PC room but more themed. You know, collab with local gaming teams, menu items based on famous characters, maybe an in-store leaderboard for fun challenges…” His hands gestured wildly as he spoke, energy sparking.

Soohyun paused mid-bite. “...That actually sounds good.”

“It sounds like something you’d go to,” Sobin added.

“Right?” Yeo Jun leaned in eagerly. “That’s the whole point! Something fun, immersive, not stiff or fake-trendy. Just real nerdy fun.”

A beat of silence passed before Soohyun said, “You really thought this through.”

Yeo Jun blinked. “Yeah. I guess I did.”

“You actually care about this,” Soohyun observed. His tone was neutral, but his eyes lingered a second too long. “That’s new.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing. Just… maybe this isn’t just a credit thing after all.”

He looked down at the sizzling pork belly, unsure how to respond. “Okay, well, maybe it’s the first time someone actually listened to something I said in a professional setting.”

But it wasn’t just that. Deep down — annoyingly deep — part of him wanted to prove something. Maybe not to his dad, or even Sujeong… but to him. Ban Juyeon. Who looked at him like a riddle and barely spoke more than five words at a time. Who made him feel underestimated and seen all at once, and for some reason, that mattered.

He chewed on that thought like gristle, not sure he liked how it felt.

They didn’t tease him for that. For a few moments, the three of them just ate in comfortable silence, the table filling with empty side dish plates and laughter from nearby booths.

Then Soohyun said, “You’re gonna kill it tomorrow.”

Sobin nodded. “Just don’t wear anything ridiculous.”

Yeo Jun gasped. “I was thinking of a soft pink cardigan. It’s my confidence color.”

They groaned in unison.

Yeo Jun sat in front of his laptop, the soft glow illuminating his tired eyes. Outside, the city was winding down, but his mind was still racing. His fingers hovered over the keyboard, the cursor blinking impatiently on the blank slide titled “Esports Cafe: Concept and Strategy.” His confidence wavered. He imagined Ban Juyeon’s cold stare during tomorrow’s meeting. Would he think this was childish? Unprofessional? A joke?

He let out a dramatic groan and dropped his forehead onto the keyboard. “Why did I even open my big mouth?”

Clackclackclack .

Just as doubt began to creep in, a ping sounded. It was a message from BlackFlame in their game chat.

[BlackFlame]: “Raid tonight. You in?”

Yeo Jun sighed, typing back quickly. His avatar still lounging at the town plaza in-game.

[JuniPrince]: “Wish I could, but work’s piled up. Have to finish a proposal for tomorrow o7 me”

A few moments passed before the reply came.

[BlackFlame]: “Is this the same guy who charged lvl 90 boss solo because ‘style points matter’?”

[JuniPrince]: “Said the guy who set fire to an entire village to save a low-tier sword.”

[BlackFlame]: “Exactly. You do dumb stuff with style — and somehow make it work.”

[JuniPrince]: “Flattery won’t make me ditch my slides TT”

[BlackFlame]: “Hyung is not flattering you. Don’t sell yourself short. Sometimes, you gotta push through the grind to level up IRL. Now go show your bossy team lead what real damage looks like.”

Yeo Jun stared at the message, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. The familiar banter, the encouragement. It was what kept him going through all the chaos.

“Alright,” he muttered, more to himself than anyone else. “Let’s show them what I’ve got.”

The rest of the night passed in a quiet hum — the soft clicks of keys, the occasional slurp of instant ramen, and the rush of creative energy. Yeo Jun built the proposal slide by slide: mood boards of gaming lounges, partnership ideas with popular streamers, mock-up menus with pixel fonts, and bold color palettes that screamed youth and hype.

Though exhaustion tugged at his eyelids, Yeo Jun’s heart beat a little faster. This wasn’t just some forced internship anymore. It was a chance to be heard.

By the time the sun started to rise, casting golden lines across his desk, he saved the file with a flourish. Presentation skills: 7 out of 10. Eyebags: 100 out of 10.

File Name: Campaign_Draft_LevelUpMyHeart_v1.pptx

And with a tired but satisfied smile, he whispered to his screen:

“Let’s win this quest, BlackFlame.”

Yeo Jun stood outside the sleek glass doors of the Yongseong strategy department, clutching his canvas tote. His eyes were rimmed red from pulling an all-nighter, but he’d at least made an effort. His peach-colored overshirt was ironed (miraculously), paired with loose cream trousers. His hair — slightly fluffy from the morning rush — still somehow worked for him. Splash of color among a sea of corporate neutrals. Casual. Effortless. So very Yeo Jun.

Inside, the team was already gathering. Sujeong, composed and sharp in light blue monochrome, offered him a small nod when he entered, a silent you got this . She knew he stayed up all night tweaking the slides.

Soon, the last person entered: Ban Juyeon, head of strategy, dressed head-to-toe in slate tones, looked dangerously unimpressed, radiating cool professionalism. He took his seat without a word, flipping open his notebook. The atmosphere in the room was so tense you could cut it with a knife. 

The screen at the front flickered as the first division began their presentation.

Clean lines. Minimalist lighting. Neutral tones.

And the presentations kept going. Yeo Jun lost the count, but he was sure that the previous pitch said exactly the same thing?

Division leads clicked through slides, tossed around phrases like “next-gen atmosphere” and “hybrid customer touchpoints,” while Ban Juyeon sat at the head of the table, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else.

He hadn’t smiled once.

“Any thoughts?” one team lead asked hopefully.

Juyeon finally looked up. “If we’re trying to attract younger customers, maybe we should stop pitching ideas from a thirty-five-year-old’s Pinterest board.”

The silence was immediate. One quietly coughed. Another adjusted their lanyard.

“So far, everything I’ve seen looks like it was made for people trying to seem young,” he said dryly. “Not actual young people.” His fingers tapped once against the table before he looked toward Baek Sujeong.

“And you?” he asked, voice crisp. “You’re not presenting today?”

Sujeong gave a small smile — the kind that hinted she had something up her sleeve. “Actually, no. I thought it was time we tried something different.”

Juyeon raised an eyebrow. “Different how?”

She nodded subtly toward the far end of the table. “We’re letting the intern present.”

A beat of silence.

All heads turned.

Yeo Jun, mid-sip of his iced americano, nearly choked. “Right now?” he mouthed at Sujeong, who only responded with a pointed, amused nod.

“I know it’s unconventional. But I asked for new thinking. And this came from our new guy.” Sujeong continued.

Yeo Jun stood slowly, pressing down the nerves fluttering at his ribs. He could swear he could hear the beat of his heart echoing in his ears — loud, obnoxious, and way too dramatic for a simple idea presentation. He walked to the front and cleared his throat.

“So, um. Hi. I’m Yeo Jun. Business intern,” he said, then gave a small, embarrassed wave. “First off, I wanted to rethink the cafe not just as a place to get coffee but a place to log in .”

He clicked the first slide. Neon hues flooded the screen: tournament stages, streaming overlays, cafe counters lit like gaming rigs. He paced slowly, never too rigid. “Gaming cafes have always been popular. It is not something new. However, what if we created a space that wasn’t just a cafe?” He was speaking with ease now, passion smoothing out his nerves. “What if it was a platform? What if we partnered with esports teams to create pop-up drink collabs like ‘Mana Potions,’ ‘Victory Snacks,’ you get it? Or hosted watch parties during live finals? It’s about building loyalty before they’re old enough to afford luxury while they’re still defining what they love.”

Some of the older employees squinted. Others sat forward, intrigued.

“It doesn’t have to be permanent. We could launch it as a seasonal concept. Maybe pilot in our Gangnam branch. Low risk, high visibility. And if we want traction online, there’s no better demo to target than gamers.”

“That’s what I’m proposing. I know this isn’t what we’re used to. But I think that’s the point,” Yeo Jun continued.

He clicked again. More slides with mock menus, viral content samples, rough mockups of cafe interiors with team logos and ambient game-themed decor.

“The younger audience doesn’t just consume culture,” he said. “This isn’t just about coffee. It’s about tapping into community. Those people shape it.” He clicked to the final slide. “And if we’re worried about relevance — 65% of Gen Z in Korea plays games regularly. And over 80% of them follow a streamer or team.”

Silence followed. Then, finally a voice from director.

Juyeon leaned back, arms crossed.

“Who made this?”

“Yeo Jun-ssi did,” Sujeong said simply. “Came up with it last night. I told him to flesh it out.”

Juyeon stared at the screen, then at Yeo Jun. Director's expression didn’t change, but Yeo Jun was sure he caught the faint twitch at the corner of his mouth.

“…Send me the full deck by next Monday,” Ban Juyeon said. “With numbers. If it holds up, we move to concept testing.”

Yeo Jun couldn't believe his ears. Surely he wasn't hearing it right? “Really?”

Juyeon raised a brow. “Was that a question?”

“N-No. I mean... yes. Yes, I’ll do it. Thank you.”

Yeo Jun just smiled to himself and went back to his seat. He reached for his coffee, which was now mostly ice.

For once, it didn’t matter.

The heavy glass doors of the conference room swung open as people filed out, murmuring about slides and strategies. A few gave Yeo Jun a second glance — not quite admiration, not quite dismissal. He could live with that.

Baek Sujeong caught up to him by the hallway water cooler, heels clicking with purpose.

“Yeo Jun-ssi!” she called, flashing a rare, proud smile. “That was really something in there.”

Yeo Jun stood in surprise, flushed from the rush of adrenaline. “Oh… thank you, sunbaenim.”

“No, seriously. That was so cool. The room actually listened.” She leaned in conspiratorially, whispering. “And Ban Juyeon didn’t shoot it down in the first three minutes, so that’s basically a standing ovation.”

Yeo Jun let out a relieved laugh.

“Where’d you even come up with all that?” she asked, tilting her head curiously. “You some kind of gaming expert on the side?”

He shrugged with a bashful grin. “I mean… I play. Sometimes. Just a bit.”

“Uh-huh,” she said, not buying the modesty. “You pitched a collab strategy, brand synergy, and themed drink names. That’s not ‘just a bit.’”

Yeo Jun made finger hearts at her as a distraction. “Please don’t expose me to HR. I promise I’m not gaming during work hours.”

She laughed. “Alright, secret’s safe. But for real, great work. Keep it up.”

As she walked off, Yeo Jun finally let his body sag against the wall, the weight of the day catching up to him. 

The office was unusually quiet for once. Most of the team was still out grabbing coffee or buried in emails after the meeting. Yeo Jun sat at his desk, his draft notes were open as Sujeong’s praise still echoing in his mind, but his focus… wasn’t there.

He glanced around.

No Sujeong. No Ban Juyeon.

Just half-empty chairs with some people not really paying attention towards him.

Just for a second, he thought, slipping a hand to his laptop. His fingers hovered over the familiar icon — Moonlight Blade.

“Just to say thanks. That’s not technically playing, right?”

The world loaded with its familiar glow, pixelated skies and thundering war drums in the background. His avatar, JuniPrince , popped into the city hub. Character's cape fluttering, health bar full, confidence restored.

But the party tab was empty. No BlackFlame online. No dry sarcasm or half-hearted insults waiting in the chat box.

Yeo Jun let out a small sigh, leaning back in his chair.

“Of course he’s not here,” he muttered. “Probably has an actual job or something.”

He typed a quick message anyway:

[JuniPrince]: Just wanted to say thanks for the pep talk. Might’ve accidentally saved my job lol

Then he logged off just as Sujeong returned with an iced americano in each hand.

“You look suspicious,” she said, raising an eyebrow.

He grinned. “That’s just my face.”

The office was quiet now.

Ban Juyeon sat behind his sleek black desk, the city skyline framed behind him through tall glass panels. The hum of Yongseong’s workday carried on outside — faint keyboard clicks, elevator chimes, the distant murmur of a conversation near the break room. But in here, it was all stillness and control. Just the way he preferred it.

His tablet rested neatly in front of him, screen still open on the final slide of the proposal.

Esports cafe integration. Youth-targeted branding. Collaborative marketing with rising gaming influencers.

Juyeon exhaled through his nose, tapping his thumb slowly against the edge of the device.

“Unexpected,” he muttered.

Not in a dismissive way.

No, the intern’s idea was far from foolish. It was clean, timely, and — annoyingly — clever. Not just curated from a list of trending buzzwords, but presented with the ease of someone who got it. Like it wasn’t just marketing, but memory. Like someone who played games. Who knew that online wasn’t just a pastime. It was a world.

He leaned back in his chair, gaze briefly drifting to the smiley-face magnet stuck to the corner of a whiteboard. Baek Sujeong’s doing, no doubt. Or maybe even the intern himself.

Yeo Jun.

Bright, overly talkative, and entirely too comfortable for someone in his position. Juyeon had pegged him for a soft placement. Just another overprivileged kid playing at adulthood. But this morning had chipped something.

"Not completely useless, I guess," he muttered under his breath.

Still wouldn’t say it aloud. Sujeong-nuna would never let him live it down.

He reached for his keyboard, fingers moving almost on instinct. Opened a new browser tab — not for emails or reports — but a familiar shortcut.

Moonlight Blade.

He hovered.

Didn’t log in.

In the game, he was BlackFlame. Not Ban Juyeon, director of Yongseong’s strategic development team. Not the heir of a family legacy he never asked for. Just another masked DPS, dangerous and quiet, known for critical hits and bad puns.

His thoughts, inevitably, trailed back to JuniPrince.

Juyeon sat back again, arms crossed, as if to scold himself for the impulse.

He let the silence stretch for a moment longer before reaching forward and locking his screen. The monitor dimmed, still and endless beyond the glass skyline reclaimed his attention.

Some things could wait.

For now.

Chapter Text

Ban Juyeon didn’t believe in fantasy.

Not in the way people used to as children with swords and dragons and safe, happy endings. Fantasy belonged to bedtime stories and imported films with too much color. Reality, after all, had been quick to strip that away.

His parents had died when he was barely in primary school. A car crash. Clean. Instant. The only thing more suffocating than the grief was the silence that followed it that settled in marble halls and quiet condolences and the cold disapproval of his grandmother. She never cried. Never comforted.

"You are not your father,” she had once said, voice sharp. “Don’t confuse opportunity with belonging.”

Not strong enough. Not loyal enough. Not enough.

So Ban Juyeon learned to survive the way only those with everything to prove and nothing to inherit could which is by being flawless. He built a different kind of life. Controlled. Restrained. A curated existence wrapped in crisp suits and measured silences. The perfect company man. At work, he moved precisely, spoke sparingly, and delivered results so cleanly they left no room for commentary. He moved almost like a chess piece. People called him cold. He didn’t correct them. Yongseong Department Store’s youngest executive — an heir in name only. 

And then, each night, when the last email was sent and the lights were off —

He logged in.

Moonlight Blade. His secret.

In a secret upper room of his modern penthouse — one no assistant or cleaning crew ever entered — sat his real legacy: rare manga on floating shelves wrapped into plastic sleeves, acrylic figure cases lit with cool LED strips, and a high-spec PC that booted like thunder.

Here, he was BlackFlame.

Silent. Lethal. Untouchable.

An assassin-class champion with dual blades, top-tier stealth mechanics. He rarely partied. Most players thought he was an old-school pro or a bored streamer. No one guessed he was a early-thirties executive with a borderline caffeine dependency and a taste for chocolate milk. 

Rarely spoke. He didn’t need to.

Then one evening a few months ago, he came across one player.

It was a Thursday. Juyeon had finished twelve hours of board reviews, four polite arguments, and one completely unnecessary dinner meeting. He needed something quiet. What's a better way of de-stressing if not gaming? Juyeon had been hunting rare mobs along Mount Wuxing, a high-level zone reserved for advanced players looking to grind drop rates for seasonal gear. He’d nearly cleared the area when he noticed someone else gathering herbs along the edge of the cliff.

JuniPrince.

Dressed in flowing blue pale robes, flute slung across his back like a decorative accessory, and a name floated over the character’s head like a glittery sticker, alongside a guildless tag and a title that read: [World’s Prettiest Buff Dealer].

Juyeon hovered over the keyboard. “You shouldn’t gather here. It’s not safe.”

He stared at the line. Too stiff. He nearly deleted it. But he hit enter anyway.

The other player didn’t pause. “You don’t own the zone.”

There was a delay.

[BlackFlame]: ...It’s just high aggro place. Be careful.

JuniPrince slowly turned around. “Wow. You’re like a polite menace. Are you okay?”

Before Juyeon could respond with something, a system alert blinked in the corner of his screen.

[Mass Aggro: Nightshade Hounds x14]

“Seriously?” Juyeon muttered aloud, fingers already dancing over his keyboard. “Do you just not read map warnings?”

“I was farming for elixir roots!” JuniPrince yelped, already moving to dodge the swarm. “Why are there fourteen of them?!”

“Because you aggroed a whole patrol,” BlackFlame said, already activating stealth mode. “Typical flutist behavior.”

“Excuse me?!”

But it didn’t matter because the mobs were closing in, fast.

JuniPrince spun into his stance, flute raised. The air shimmered around him with soft teal light as the first wave hit. He moved differently from most players, more graceful, fluid, reactive. BlackFlame struck from the shadows, fast and lethal, carving through the pack like smoke on steel. 

As the battle unfolded, Juyeon found himself adjusting, watching JuniPrince weave between attacks with near-messy improvisation. Where Juyeon hit fast and sharp, the flutist responded with elegant, sweeping support skills, barriers and heals landing with impeccable timing. 

They moved like opposites. They survived like partners. They fought in rhythm: blade and sound, poison and pulse, melody and mayhem.

By the time the last mob collapsed, bleeding light, neither of them had taken significant damage.

JuniPrince stood panting, half-laughing. “That was... actually kind of fun?”

Juyeon didn’t respond right away. His pulse was elevated. Not from stress. From something… sharper. Brighter.

“Not bad,” he admitted. 

It was the truth. He just didn’t know how to say the rest:

That he hadn’t smiled like that in months.

That the screen felt warmer now than his house ever did.

“I’m taking that as a compliment,” JuniPrince grinned. “You’re lucky I saved your assassin butt.”

“I saved you, actually.”

“You wish.”

There was a pause. Then:

“Hey,” JuniPrince typed. “You wanna team up for the Spring Lantern Festival raid next week? I need a DPS with a death wish.”

Jueon hovered over the reply box. BlackFlame didn’t team up. He didn’t repeat-coop. He didn’t—

Then: “Only if you stop aggroing everything you see.”

“No promises 😇”

He exhaled through his nose. That emoji. He stared at it for a full ten seconds. 

Then: Party Request Sent.

Later that week, after another co-op dungeon and more chaotic banter, Juyeon learned that JuniPrince was younger than him by several years at least.

He also didn’t stop smiling, just slightly, when JuniPrince called him “hyung” in party chat the next day. Teasing. Unnecessary. Annoyingly effective.

[JuniPrince]: Hyunggggg let’s kill mobsssss💖

He didn’t understand it at first.

The ease. The way they fought together. The rhythm of their bickering, the effortless timing, the way it all clicked like they'd done this for years. JuniPrince drove him up the wall. He was loud, cheeky, impulsive and yet…

The way JuniPrince played like he wasn’t afraid of mistakes, like the game was supposed to be fun, not clinical. Not flawless. The way he talked to Juyeon like he was just a guy. Not a role. Not a disappointment. 

Every time he logged in, Juyeon found himself looking for that glittery name on his friends list.

Every time it appeared, something in him softened.

They started raiding together.

What began as a single co-op request turned into a nightly routine. Dungeon runs, seasonal quests, spontaneous boss fights. Sometimes for gear, sometimes for XP, mostly because they worked absurdly well together. Word spread fast on the server. If you saw BlackFlame and JuniPrince in your raid, you were guaranteed a clean win.

They never used voice chat.

All their banter happened in text with snarky, quick, unfiltered tone. JuniPrince filled the screen with chaos: dramatic reactions, overused emojis, unnecessary caps lock. 

But in battle?

They were something else.

BlackFlame was speed and precision, flashing in and out of shadows, laying traps, bursting damage. JuniPrince was pure rhythm, darting through enemy fire with sweeping buffs, dropping last-second heals like magic timed to a heartbeat.

They didn’t talk about strategy anymore. They didn’t need to. They’d learned each other’s styles like a second language.

And Juyeon couldn’t stop logging in.

Some nights, they played into the early hours, chasing world bosses across shifting maps. One time, they stumbled into an elite duel tournament — unregistered, unprepared — and still swept their bracket clean in a flawless 6–0 streak.

Their fights started getting more… showy.

JuniPrince began experimenting with the flashier flute styles. Sonic waves that rippled like starlight, group buffs that painted the terrain in glowing calligraphy. BlackFlame adapted to cover him, stringing stealth strikes between those dazzling moves, making space where there was none.

Once, they ended a boss fight with a perfectly synced finisher: JuniPrince launched a celestial solo at the peak of his special gauge, while BlackFlame dropped from above, blades crossing mid-air like a final stroke of punctuation.

The explosion sent sparks across the whole zone.

The system text blared: [BOSS DEFEATED — STAGE CLEARED]

They just stood there for a second.

[JuniPrince]: So that was hot, right?

Juyeon blinked at the screen.

He could feel it now. The buzz in his fingers, the tightness in his throat.

[BlackFlame]: You’re ridiculous.

[JuniPrince]: And yet you keep partying with me, hyung 💅

He didn’t answer that one.

Couldn’t.

After several weeks of raiding together, they decided to explore a new-opened part of the map. Mount Taibai was beautiful — if you weren’t busy getting frozen to death or shoved off a 600-meter cliff by angry frost mobs.

JuniPrince, of course, was busy being an idiot.

His flutist avatar danced along a narrow bridge rail, snowy wind ruffling the long sleeves of his pale-blue robes. Below, the jagged rocks of a kill zone blinked with the ghost markers of less lucky players.

[JuniPrince]: If I fall, will you jump after me like in a tragic k-drama?

BlackFlame paused mid-buff.

[BlackFlame]: I’ll loot your corpse.

[JuniPrince]: Hyung is so cold-hearted~😭

But after that, he didn’t move ahead. Not like usual.

BlackFlame who always the one to take the lead, to vanish into the shadows first, instead fell into step behind JuniPrince.

Close. Just enough that if something lunged, he could react. Just enough that if JuniPrince slipped, he’d be there.

He didn’t say anything. He just followed.

They crossed the icy expanse like that: careful steps, teasing emotes, occasional mob skirmishes. JuniPrince moved like the world couldn’t touch him. BlackFlame moved like he’d kill the world if it tried.

At one point, JuniPrince aggroed a snowdrake.

On purpose. As usual. 

[JuniPrince]: Oopsie~ KEKW

[BlackFlame]: Why are you like this?

[JuniPrince]: 😇

Before the mob could land a hit, BlackFlame shadow-stepped in, not just to tank, but to end it fast. A clean kill. Precise. Overkill, maybe.

After the fight, something dropped.

The item spun in the air. A rare material — Mystical Herb, used in top-tier crafting for healers. The drop rate was under 2%.

He didn’t hesitate.

[Trade Request Sent]

[JuniPrince]: ...wait, what? Hyung, that’s like a 5000 silver item. That’s YOUR upgrade item!

[BlackFlame]: You’re always broke. You’ll need it.

[JuniPrince]: And you are the one who killed the mob!

[BlackFlame]: ...Just take it.

He clicked [Confirm] before JuniPrince could decline. 

He didn’t know why he’d done that. They kept moving. A little later, while crouched behind a frost wall prepping for the boss pull, an unexpected question was asked:

[JuniPrince]: How come you never do voice chat?

[BlackFlame]: You talk enough for both of us.

[JuniPrince]: Okay but seriously, no mic, no guild, no tags. What, are you secretly a CEO or Faker idk?

Pause.

[BlackFlame]: Surely Faker wouldn't be playing MMORPG at 2 am? Or maybe I just like being someone else in here.

JuniPrince didn’t reply right away.

Then:

[JuniPrince]: Well, whether you are Faker or not, I like who you are in here. 

That hit something in deep and quiet, like a note struck underwater. Juyeon looked at the screen and, without meaning to, typed:

[BlackFlame]: We should pull the boss this way.

Not I. Not you.

We.

Later, during the boss fight, JuniPrince mistimed a dodge and nearly got knocked off the cliff edge.

He was laughing again, oblivious to the fall. Like death (in game) didn’t exist. (It did. Just a waste of time collecting the loot and xp again).

BlackFlame wasn’t laughing though.

He surged forward, pulled him back with a grappling tether only assassins had. Saved him.

No commentary. No “I told you so.”

Just—

[BlackFlame]: Stay behind me this time.

[JuniPrince]: You're so dramatic when you care.

[BlackFlame]: We’ve done this dungeon before. You always mess up here.

[JuniPrince]: ...you remember that?

He did.

He remembered everything.

Ban Juyeon always found it ironic how silence could feel louder than noise.

His grandmother’s sitting room was drenched in it. Everything in it gleamed polished, antique calligraphy scrolls on the walls, fresh orchids changed every morning but none of it ever felt alive. The chairwoman always smelled like ginseng and old lacquer — expensive, sharp, preserved.

She didn’t look up when he entered the room, didn’t gesture for him to sit. He did anyway, posture perfect, hands folded neatly in his lap. The tea was already poured.

“You’re late,” she said, though the clock showed he wasn’t.

He didn’t correct her. “Apologies.”

“Have you made progress with your little youth initiative?” she asked finally, each syllable clipped like glass.

Juyeon didn’t flinch. “We’re planning a concept installation for the fall season which will be an esports cafe on the third floor. Limited-time activation, cross-promoted with local streamers.”

He watched her expression shift, not quite a frown, but something colder. More pointed.

“An arcade,” she said, voice dry as rice paper. Her teacup clicked gently against its saucer. “In Yongseong.”

“A cafe,” Juyeon corrected softly. “It’s about experience. Community. The new generation doesn’t come to shop; they come to stay. We need to give them a reason.”

“Bringing in children to play games. That’s your great strategy for restoring the Yongseong legacy?” She didn’t raise her voice. She never had to. But it felt like thunder. Icy. Loud.

Juyeon dropped his gaze to the tea he hadn’t touched. “Legacy is dead without relevance. I’ll bring numbers next week,” he said after a beat, voice smooth again. Neutral. “We’re still vetting vendors. I will not disappoint.”

Then, as if the words were plucked from an old wound, she said, “Your father never would have humiliated the family like this.”

There it was.

She never called him a disappointment out loud. But every conversation was a mirror she angled toward the past — toward the son she lost and the one she was left with. She never said it outright: he should’ve died that night too. That if not for his child-like behaviour, they wouldn't have been in that car in the first place. Her own son would be alive.

But she didn’t need to.

The unspoken words said it for her.

That was dismissal enough.

He stepped out of the elevator like he was walking out of armor. His secretary, Kwon Inkyung, fell into step beside him, a woman with short hair, already pulling up the schedule on her tablet.

“You’ve got 3 hours before Grand Mirae meeting,” secretary Kwon said. Right into the business.

Work doesn’t wait.

Ban Juyeon walked with measured steps, but his pulse was out of sync, it was too fast, too loud. Grandma’s words clung to him like smoke, invisible but choking; like perfume: cold, inherited, hard to wash off.

His mind replayed every sentence.

Your father never would have humiliated the family like this.

He exhaled tightly through his nose as he reached the glass doors of the office.

Inside: laughter. Soft chatter. The low hum of brainstorming.

He stepped in.

Yeo Jun stood at the center with his team, gesturing animatedly. There were moodboards on tablets, names being tossed around. Esports teams, streamers, event collabs.

“T1 BunnyBunny’s team is open to meetings,” one intern said. “And Yena said she will try to get someone from Riot to look over the cafe space concept—”

“And if we frame it like a soft launch first,” Yeo Jun said. “With a quest line or loyalty stamp system—”

The group was focused. Energized. They were working. But none of that mattered when your thoughts still burned with old judgment. All Juyeon saw was that moment inside his grandmother’s office, her steely eyes, her disapproval.

The words left his mouth before he could stop them.

“Aren’t you all supposed to be working?”

The conversation stalled. A few people straightened. Yeo Jun turned his head.

Juyeon didn’t look at anyone in particular. He didn’t need to. 

“It’s working hours, is it not?” Juyeon continued. “Did you finish the proposal? How about the execution plan?”

Yeo Jun still surprised from sudden interruption carefully said:

“You said next Monday... but we’ll finish it as soon as possible.”

Juyeon took a step forward, eyes cool.

“Do you know how earthworms and weeds survive, intern?” Juyeon’s voice didn’t rise. If anything, it got quieter. “Because humans spare them. Earthworms die when you step on them. Weeds die when you pull them. They live because no one bothers. I’ve closed my eyes so far. Because I didn’t want to bother.”

His gaze landed on Yeo Jun now, not sharp, but flat. Disappointed. As if he were already tallying the failure.

“One pitch isn’t a strategy. And charisma won’t carry a campaign.”

Everyone avoided his eyes. Everyone but Yeo Jun.

The intern stood up straight, unfazed. He smiled. Brightly and unshaken.

“You’re right. I’ll make sure the real plan is better.”

He gave a small bow, just enough to register as polite. Then looked back up.

“We’ll have the draft on your desk before the weekend.”

There was no edge to his voice. Just warmth. That maddening, persistent kind that made Juyeon’s jaw tighten. Smile wasn’t fake.

“And I promise you, Director Ban, this weed’s hard to kill.”

Juyeon said nothing. He turned, walked out with his spine rigid, his breath clipped.

But even as the elevator doors closed behind him, he could still see that easy and undettered smile. It was burned into the back of his mind.

He hated himself for it. For what he said. How he said. But it was easier to burn the room than to sit in the heat of his own shame. His chest ached. Guilt, maybe. Frustration.

He was doing his job. They all were.

Juyeon dragged a hand down his face. His footsteps echoed dully through the hallway as he was returning to office. Ban Juyeon hated lingering in hallways. Movement was control. Pausing meant you were thinking, and in this building, thinking too long got mistaken for doubt. The weight of the meeting scheduled for later that evening tugged at his chest like static clinging to the inside of his shirt.

Inside his office, the air felt heavier than usual. Like it had been waiting for him to return. He sat down slowly, not with purpose but because there was nowhere else to be.

The esports proposal was open on the screen. He hadn’t touched it since the meeting with the Chairwoman. A presentation deck neatly divided into bullet points and mock-ups.

Yeo Jun’s name was in the contributor field now. Not just an intern credit. Real work.

Juyeon didn’t open the file. He leaned back in his chair and stared at the ceiling.

Do you know how earthworms and weeds survive?

He heard himself say it again. Remembered the flicker in everyone’s expression when he did.

God, what was I doing?

He hadn’t spoken like that in years. Not even during the worst team reviews. It wasn’t feedback, it was venom. Dressed in silk, sure, but still meant to cut.

And the worst part?

He smiled.

Not sarcastic. Not strained.

Just warm. Like it didn’t land. Or like he’d already decided not to let it.

That, somehow, felt worse than if he’d snapped back.

He stood up again. The chair rolled back an inch, bumping into the glass window behind him. He didn’t bother adjusting it.

He needed air. Not the kind that came with branded lounges or rooftop receptions. Maybe a walk would clear his head. The late afternoon air had started warming with the season. Cherry petals sticking to sidewalks, soft wind brushing between glass towers. Maybe the rooftop.

His watch buzzed just as he reached the door.

        6:15 p.m. — Grand Mirae Lounge

He stopped. Eyes flicked down to the matte black of his smartwatch. The notification for the meeting blinked in quiet reminder. The Grand Mirae Lounge. Industry dinner. Polished conversations wrapped in empty compliments. Wine glasses, crystal place cards, pre-approved banter with people who had never once looked at him as anything other than a face of Yongseong Corp.

Raising his wrist, Juyeon spoke quietly:

“To Secretary Kwon. Reschedule the Grand Mirae Lounge meeting. Same time tomorrow.”

Just like that, the weight of that obligation slid off him replaced by a different kind of heaviness.

He turned into the hallway, steps quieter now, but no less certain. He didn’t know where he was going. He just knee he couldn’t sit still.

When he passed the second-floor cafe, the hum of conversation reached him — faint laughter, the clatter of iced cups, the soft warmth of voices still young enough to believe the workday was over just because the clock said so.

And then he heard it.

“It’s fine. Maybe Director Ban just needed to vent.”

Juyeon slowed mid-step.

That voice.

Yeo Jun.

He wasn’t trying to eavesdrop. He really wasn’t. But the ease in the tone, the lightness of it, quiet forgiveness, stopped him cold.

From where he stood, just beyond the cafe’s frosted glass, he could see silhouettes through the etched pattern: interns leaning across the table, laughter between sips of coffee, and Yeo Jun.  Unmistakable even in shadow, the way he sat slightly forward.

“You smiled at him,” someone said, incredulous.

“Yeah,” Yeo Jun replied, chuckling. “Someone had to.”

Juyeon felt it like a shift in temperature.

Someone had to?

Another voice chimed in. “I would’ve cried.”

Yeo Jun answered easily, “It’s okay. I’ve been talked down to by scarier people. It isn’t the first time. My close hyung is definitely scarier than Director.”

And just like that — Juyeon felt small. Not in the way he feared being underestimated. In the way that made him wonder if kindness had always been this disarming.

He turned away quietly before he could hear anything else.

He didn’t take the elevator back up. He walked out through the side exit, where the early spring air still held a trace of chill, brushing against his collar. 

The driver opened the rear door for him. Juyeon slid in with a quiet nod. The car pulled away.

He didn’t speak.

Didn’t look at his phone.

Didn’t close his eyes.

After a while, the familiar skyline of the Yongseong Residential Complex came into view, a towering, sleek structure that shimmered like polished stone in the last breath of daylight. Part skyscraper, part fortress. Reserved for board members, major shareholders, executives.

He lived in a high corner unit. Glass walls. Smart lighting. Rooms so perfectly arranged, they barely felt real.

The sedan eased to a stop at the private elevator entrance.

He thanked Mr. Choi softly and stepped out. As the elevator ascended, his composed, pressed, clean reflection watched him back from the polished steel.

The penthouse was exactly as he’d left it. Lights flicked on automatically as he passed, glowing along the marble flooring, illuminating the minimalist shelves with soft-white precision. 

But Juyeon didn’t slow.

He stopped at the far end of the study, in front of a shelf lined with neutral-toned hardcovers and antique trade volumes, the kind no one really read anymore.

Except one.

He reached for it.

Second row. Third from the right. A pristine copy of Catcher In The Rye by J.D.Salinger. The moment he pulled the spine gently outward, something clicked.

Softly. Mechanically. Hidden magnets sliding free.

The far panel of the shelf nudged back with a quiet hiss, revealing a narrow, darkened passage which was just wide enough for one person.

His safe space.

He stepped inside.

Cooler air greeted him immediately. The scent was faintly electronic, dust-free, humming.

The room was small, almost bunker-like. But every surface had purpose.

The keypad glowed under his fingers.

Moonlight Blade’s login screen flickered open as he sat down.

His tablet still sat beside the keyboard. He reached for it. Opened the employee portal again.

        Search: Yeo Jun

The profile came up.

Myeongil University. Business Administration major. Not the most prestigious education place per se. However, top academic standing. A sprawl of extracurriculars: student-run ad campaigns, media internships, volunteer mentorships.

It was all polished, but strangely lived-in. Like the kind of portfolio built by someone who cared. Or at least, someone who was trying to prove they did.

Then his eyes fell on the last line.

Placement Recommendation: Chairman Yeo Myunghoon – Mijin Foods Conglomerate

No reaction on his face but something shifted in the way he sat. A deeper stillness. The kind that came not from surprise… but understanding.

So that’s the foundation he walks on.

But that still doesn’t explain why he works like he’s trying to outrun something.

He didn’t close the file.

Just minimized it.

Moonlight Blade chimed softly with a new message blinking at the top of the screen:

[JuniPrince]: hyung~ are u ignoring me 😭

Juyeon stared at it.

Then, without quite knowing why, clicked login.

Chapter Text

Sometimes, when Yeo Jun thought too long about the word “professional,” all he could see was a mask. Not the kind you put on for safety but the kind you wear because you’re not sure what anyone actually wants to see underneath. And lately, Ban Juyeon made him feel like he was wearing the wrong one.

The meeting earlier that day had started out as normal as any review could. Ban Juyeon at the head of the table, clean-cut and unreadable, scanning slides like they were unworthy of his time. His proposal had made it up the chain faster than he expected, thanks to Sujeong sunbae. And for a second, he felt like things might actually go well.

Then everything had turned. Not suddenly. But sharp.

A question asked in a tone too clipped to be casual. A challenge buried in a metaphor about worms and weeds that would’ve been funny if it hadn’t been said with such perfect stillness. Yeo Jun didn’t know Director Ban could be this creative with words…

Yeo Jun had been called a lot of things in life. Disappointment? Check! Bastard? Check! Useless wasn’t one of them, not directly at least. But he recognized it when it was dressed up in strategy talk and corporate coolness. He didn’t understand what he’d done to make Juyeon angry. Or if it even had anything to do with him at all. Maybe he’s just like this. Or maybe he reminds his boss of someone he hates.

When Ban Juyeon shouted at them (or at him?), Yeo Jun had felt the eyes on him around the table. The awkward tension. Sujeong sunbae was absent due to other stuff so the rest of the team decided to brainstorm ideas, teams who would potentially collaborate with the company. So to say everyone felt awkward and avoided eye contact was needless. And him?

He smiled. Because what else was he supposed to do?

Smiling was the only thing that made people back off when he was younger. When things were loud at home. When nothing he did was ever enough. He learned that if you smiled first, people didn’t always push. He didn’t know if it worked on Ban Juyeon. Probably not. But he gave it anyway.

“I’ll get the project plan done before Monday,” he had said, voice bright. Not defensive. Not cold. Just… steady?

Because if there was one thing Yeo Jun knew how to do. Better than flirting, better than joking, better than faking like everything was fine. It was surviving on performance. And even though the meeting ended, the tension didn’t. But no one knew that Yeo Jun actually thrived in tension. Maybe he even liked it, just a little — the friction of someone doubting him, the chance to turn that skepticism into stunned silence. He’d done it before. With classmates, with professors, with his own family. Especially with his family. 

Moreover, Yeo Jun loved exceeding expectations. And if Ban Juyeon thought he was just some spoiled intern with a colorful cardigans and dyed hair, then fine. He’d show him exactly what kind of weed was hard to pull. 

That night, while the rest of the building emptied out and the janitorial crew made their quiet rounds, Yeo Jun stayed behind, sleeves rolled up, a half-eaten convenience store sandwich beside his mousepad, tabs multiplying like thoughts he couldn’t quite slow down. He was drafting an updated partnership strategy plan. A real one this time, specifically tailored for Yongseong’s upcoming Gangnam flagship cafe. He’d run the metrics on foot traffic and cross-referenced them with event dates.

T1as organisation wasn’t just popular. It was young, energetic, diverse, and loud in exactly the ways that Yongseong… wasn’t. And that was the point. They also won the recent international events. Ideal target for young audience.

He outlined the joint campaign benefits clearly: youth market penetration, brand modernity, increased traffic during off-peak hours, built-in loyalty conversions. Throw in a capsule menu, co-branded merchandise, a leaderboard challenge. The possibilities practically wrote themselves. And Yeo Jun was writing all of them. Because it wasn’t just about proving himself anymore. It was about making something that couldn’t be ignored. Not even by the most annoying executive on the 27th floor.

In the rush of spreadsheets and brand guides and half-drafted slogans, Yeo Jun forgot about a lot of things. His dinner. Breaks. One time, even a promise. Ouch, that one was really scary. 

He’d said he’d meet Soohyun and Sobin for quick kimchi jjigae — something easy, no university/business talk. Just friends and kimchi soup and maybe a little Soju. But when the clock hit 9:42 p.m. and he still hadn’t looked away from the color-coded slides he was building, his phone buzzed with one word from Soohyun.

Unbelievable.

Followed by a dramatically long sigh emoji from Sobin. He read it. Winced. Replied with a rain of crying stickers. To their credit, they didn’t chew him out. Not much, anyway. The next afternoon, Soohyun stopped by his apartment. He didn’t say much, he just dropped a small paper bag onto Yeo Jun’s desk with a look that said: Don’t argue. Don’t joke. Inside was a neat red box of what looked like… individually sealed vials?

“Ginseng extract,” Soohyun said, already halfway to the door. “From my uncle. Supposed to help idiots who skip meals and lose track of time.”

Yeo Jun stared at the box like it might be cursed. “Do I… just drink it?”

“Like a shot,” Soohyun called over his shoulder. “Just don’t chase it with coffee.” And then he was gone.

Yeo Jun did drink it but mostly because he was too tired to argue and vaguely being hungry. It tasted like concentrated forest. He made a face. Definitely something that Soohyun would drink on a daily basis. Sobin, who heard about it later, only sighed.

“It would be better if you didn’t overwork yourself to the point of needing mystery root supplements,” she said.

“But you’re still proud of me, right?” Yeo Jun replied, hopeful.

Sobin looked at him. Then looked at the fire in his eyes that hadn’t dimmed in days, even under late nights and clipped executive comments.

“…A little,” she admitted.

It was enough. So he kept working.

Not until he remembered about another thing that he forgot… Moonlight Blade…

The game remained logged out most nights that week.

His avatar sat idle in a frozen village, somewhere between a winter merchant’s stall and a quest board he never clicked. No dancing flutist on a cliff. No buffs thrown mid-battle. No emoji explosions typed in chaotic strings of glitter and stars. No BlackFlame waiting near the edge of a boss room, pretending not to wait at all.

Yeo Jun didn’t mean to neglect it. He really did love the game, not just for the mechanics or the visuals, but for what it had become.

A ritual.

A place where his brain didn’t have to dress up or apologize. Where things made sense: mobs attacked, you defended. If someone helped you, it was because they wanted to. And BlackFlame… was there. Constant. Capable. Quietly reassuring in the most annoying, reliable way. But lately, by the time he got home — sometimes past midnight, sometimes later — even he didn’t have the energy to boot up.

He’d stare at the glowing launcher, fingertips hovering over the mouse, and think: Just five minutes. One run. One dungeon. He’ll be online.

Then the clock would tick forward another ten minutes. And twenty. Then he'd close the laptop. Not because he didn’t want to play. But because if he logged in, he’d stay . And he couldn’t afford to stay, not when he was still building decks and sending brand mockups at 2:00 a.m., still trying to become more than just that intern .

He felt bad. Genuinely.

He missed the spark of battle, the chaos of flutes and blades, the quiet conversations between pulls, the way BlackFlame would stand just close enough during dungeon prep to feel like someone was watching his back. He wanted to kill mobs again. He wanted to gather elixirs for the next festival duel. He wanted, more than ever, to party with BlackFlame — just to talk.

Or not talk. But be there. And he didn’t know how to explain that absence. That strange grief over pixels and silence and someone he technically didn’t know. So he didn’t. But one time, luck wasn’t really on his side. Yeo Jun was just logging in to get his daily reward when the message notification pooped in the corner. 

[Party Request: BlackFlame]

He stared for half a beat. It was well past 1 a.m. The city beyond his window had quieted to a hum. He should’ve gone to bed an hour ago. What was BlackFlame doing at this late hour? Didn’t he have a job? Well, technically, Yeo Jun didn't know a thing about BlackFlame. He never told about himself so his partner-in-game having a regular job was most likely his headcanon. Imagination. Yeo Jun was already feeling bad about not playing with him so he silently accepted the party invitation.

They stood side by side again. No words, no grand reunion. Just a quiet moment on a windswept ledge, as if neither had ever left.

Eventually, a message blinked across the screen.

[BlackFlame]: Thought you got hacked. Or kidnapped.

[JuniPrince]: sowwy, got buried under work, trying not to disappoint particular individuals ㅠㅠ

A short pause.

[BlackFlame]: …Yeah. I get that.

The response was so simple it caught him off guard.

[BlackFlame]: People expect a lot when you act like you can handle it.

Yeo Jun didn’t believe his eyes. Oh, yes, it was his cooked brain working up games with him because never in his life he expected BlackFlame to open up that much. Before y’all come at Yeo Jun for such exaggeration, didn't he already tell that he knows shit about BlackFlame? Exactly! Yeo Jun thought he was delirious. He closed and opened his eyes several times, and even scrubbed them just like in movies. 

[JuniPrince]: Hyung, I cant believe I lived till the day when you tell smth so relatable…

[BlackFlame]: Delete your logs.

Yeo Jun let out a quiet laugh. Sometimes, BlackFlame was unintentionally funny for his age.

Ok, Yeo Jun did tell one lie. He knew by now that BlackFlame was probably at least five years older. Maybe more. He never said exactly, but the way he typed… It was dry, composed, never rushing to reply. It gave him away. But also BlackFlame telling JuniPrince to call him hyung. Seriously? But, hey, Yeo Jun didn’t mind.

He was used to being the youngest in the room. From the first year of university, he was surrounded by smart, capable, a little too serious sunbaes. Soohyun and Sobin were older too. He didn’t feel strange deferring to people, calling them hyung or nuna , slotting himself into that younger, maknae role people expected from him.

And in game? It made things easier. Behind that masked assassin avatar, Yeo Jun liked knowing there was someone older. Someone steady. A hyung he could rely on. Even if it was only through a screen. Sometimes — not often, but sometimes — he thought about what would happen if they met.

In real life.

What would BlackFlame be like in person? Would he be scared off by the bleached, blond hair? Think Yeo Jun was too young, too loud, too much? Would he recognize him at all, or would he be disappointed? Probably the last one, Yeo Jun figured.

But it didn’t stop him from wondering.

He imagined meeting up in a noisy arcade, battling it out in rhythm games or shooters. Maybe a late-night pool hall, neon and shadows, that same quiet camaraderie between shots. Or maybe they’d do something stupid like an actual IRL duel. Flute versus dual blades. JuniPrince versus BlackFlame. And in his fantasy, Yeo Jun always won.

Just to see the look on hyung’s face. Just to hear whatever dry insult he’d mutter through gritted teeth. And then, maybe, he’d lean in and tease him right back. Up close:

“Don’t look so shocked, hyung. I told you I’m cracked.”

It was stupid. It wasn’t going to happen. But Yeo Jun liked making up scenarios. Especially ones where he didn’t have to say goodbye when the game logged out.

[JuniPrince]: Wanna run something? Just one. Easy. No cliffs. No murder squirrels.

And of course BlackFlame agreed. They picked a basic travel quest through the Red Forest — a beginner map filled with oddly cheerful mobs and glowing moss. Low-level, low-stakes. Something old experienced players ignored. But tonight, they wandered it like it mattered.

JuniPrince’s flute hummed in soft pulses of light. BlackFlame drifted just ahead, blades drawn more out of habit than need. There was nothing to prove. Nothing to dodge. Just them, and the rhythm they hadn’t lost. At one point, they paused on a narrow bridge over shallow water, lanterns bobbing overhead like fire spirits.

[JuniPrince]: You ever get tired of it?

[BlackFlame]: Tired of what?

[JuniPrince]: Pretending. Being put-together. Whatever you call what we do in daylight.

It took a moment. 

Just long enough for doubt to slip in, the kind that always came when Yeo Jun said too much. When his messages stretched past jokes and emojis and drifted somewhere dangerously real.

For one second, he thought BlackFlame wouldn’t reply. That he’d ignored it. That maybe he’d gone too far. That maybe they weren’t that kind of duo that talked about their lives, vulnerable sides. But maybe that was too much.

After all, they were just game partners, right? A few dungeon runs, some raids, a dozen chaotic boss fights and yeah, okay, late-night conversations that lingered longer than they should have. But still. That wasn’t real. Not really. Then his screen blinked.

A single word. Small. Quiet. But it made Yeo Jun’s eyes widen.

He read it once. Then again. Then again. Because BlackFlame never said things like that. He never even talked about his real life, not in a way that felt personal. That felt close .

And yet, there it was. Not a brush-off. Not sarcasm. Just truth.

Same.

For the first time, Yeo Jun didn’t rush to answer.

He just sat there, watching their characters idle under the virtual moonlight: a flutist in flowing robes and an assassin in black, standing shoulder to shoulder on a cliff neither of them wanted to leave. Yeo Jun didn’t log off right away. He could’ve. Probably should’ve. It was already late, his slides were waiting, and tomorrow was another day of corporate choreography.

But instead, he just… stayed. That one-word reply was still blinking at the top of the chat window.

Same.

Yeo Jun didn’t know why it hit him so hard. Maybe because he hadn’t expected it. Maybe because part of him thought this bond was one-sided that he was the only one assigning meaning to something built in pixels. But that one word unraveled something.

A single thread of honesty. Maybe even… trust.

He leaned back in his chair, head resting against the edge of the headrest, the hum of his monitor painting shadows on his face. His room was still a mess: notes scattered, half a banana milk forgotten on the windowsill. But everything inside him was so still.

In another life, maybe he’d be brave enough to ask more.

What did BlackFlame do? Where did he live? Why was it so easy to talk to him at 2 a.m. when the rest of the world faded out? But he didn’t ask. Not yet.

Instead, he typed:

[JuniPrince]: glad you’re still here.

And then, before he could doubt it, before he could backspace it:

[JuniPrince]: I’ll log in again tomorrow. Promise.

The message sent. No reply came immediately, but that was okay. For once, it didn’t feel like waiting. Just… something resting between them. Something understood. He logged out. And for the first time all week, his chest felt a little lighter.

Yeo Jun was running on five hours of sleep, one bottle of banana milk, and the memory of a message that still echoed in his head.

Same.

He kept replaying it. Not because it was dramatic or poetic because it wasn’t. It was real. Honest. Uncomplicated in a way most things weren’t, especially when it came from someone like BlackFlame. It had been months since he’d felt that steady after a conversation. So he walked into the office a little lighter that morning. Still tired, still slightly chaotic but lighter.

He’d thrown on a pale blue shirt that matched the soft tinge in his under-eye concealer, hair finger-combed and swept back, a simple ring on his thumb because he liked the way it caught the light. The elevator doors were already halfway closed when someone stopped them with a quiet chime and a neatly placed hand.

Ban Juyeon stepped inside. Great.

Yeo Jun instinctively straightened from his slouch, adjusting the strap of his bag. The air in the small space shifted — not dramatically, just enough to notice. Sharper at the edges.

Juyeon didn’t say anything. He barely nodded and turned to face the door, eyes fixed forward like nothing around him mattered. His reflection in the metal was neat, as always. Crisp lines. Silent judgment.

Yeo Jun said nothing either. He watched the floor numbers tick up.

The silence wasn’t tense, exactly.

Just… full.

Like they both knew something sat unspoken between them. Not the emails or strategy plan or the awkward way Juyeon had barked at the team earlier that week.

Just something. Yeo Jun cleared his throat lightly, more to break the pressure in his own chest than to speak. He didn’t know what he would’ve said even if he tried. There was too much between them and not enough language for any of it.

Juyeon finally spoke with soft, almost neutral voice.

“You sent the mock-ups?”

Yeo Jun nodded. “Last night. With annotations.”

“Baek Sujeong reviewed it?”

“She green-lit it.”

A pause. Juyeon shifted slightly. Not toward him, just less rigid. Like he was trying not to seem too much of anything. Then, with no expression:

“Good.”

Yeo Jun exhaled,  lips quirking faintly. 

The elevator slowed. As the doors slid open on the 24th floor, Juyeon stepped out without another word. But before the doors closed, he paused just enough to glance back.

A look. Not lingering. Just... acknowledging. The doors closed. Yeo Jun let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. He smiled to himself, small and crooked.

Good.

By 8:50 a.m., he was already at his desk, polishing up the esports cafe proposal deck, reordering bullet points, color-matching brand assets. Focused. Grounded. He didn’t even notice time passing until he leaned back and saw his reflection ghosting faintly on the screen. His final proposal was somehow simple but it consisted of several nuances that have to be discussed beforehand. But Yeo Jun was confident in his ideas. After all, years in gaming space allowed him to enjoy the fruits of his labour. 

Title: T1 x Yongseong Activation Strategy

Below it: bullet points began to appear, fast and fluid as his ideas clicked into place.

PHASE 1: Pre-Launch Hype

• Location: Yongseong Gangnam branch, 5F — central cafe space, modified with LED setups and temporary gaming pods. Accessible from both the food court and brand escalator.
  
• Visual Aesthetic: Retro-arcade meets competitive chic. Neon signage, low tables, layered T1 red-and-black color scheme over Yongseong's signature branding.
  
• Hashtag Launch Campaign: #YONGSEONGxT1, #T1GamingGround, #YONGSEONGYOUTH

PHASE 2: Creator Content Rollout

Yeo Jun smiled to himself, thinking of BunnyBunny who is currently Valorant’s one of popular streamers with a million loyal fans.

• Concept Video:
  “A Day in the Life at Yongseong Gaming Café”
  → BunnyBunny visits the space “undercover,” interacts with unsuspecting customers, orders every item on the special T1-themed menu.
  
• On-Site Meet & Greet:
  Soft-launch with members of the T1 esports team. Short Q&A, signed merch giveaway, pre-reserved cafe slots (Security detail required. Clear crowd flow plan. Coordinate with T1’s comms manager).

PHASE 3: Long-Term Integration

• Yongseong Exclusive Line: Limited edition crossover merch. Enamel pins, mousepads, gaming-themed stationery. Even cafe mugs with T1 agents in traditional hanbok.
  
• Loyalty Card Tie-In: Customers can earn points by visiting the cafe and browsing Yongseong’s gaming hardware brands (Razer pop-ups). 
• Offline Tournament Event: Yongseong-sponsored amateur Valorant bracket, hosted in-store (Note to self: draft official proposal for legal/logistics.)

By the time Yeo Jun hit “send,” his fingers were trembling slightly. Not from nerves but rather from focus. From staring too long at font pairings and placeholder mockups and trying to match marketing copy with overall atmosphere.

He slumped back in his chair, stretching until his spine cracked.

The final deck sat in Sujeong sunbae’s inbox now, complete with activation phases, logistics drafts, early merch concepts, and a speculative T1 collaboration plan that had taken countless nights and twelve cans of energizer drinks.

If that didn’t earn him a full-time contract, he was switching to acting school. His life mostly was acting, surely it is not that hard to do on screen?

Thankfully, IdolJun could wait for a bit because the moment Sujeong confirmed the T1 proposal was approved with an actual, full-body nod and encouraging words, Yeo Jun could’ve kissed the recycled air in the office.

For once, things weren’t chaotic. The deck was clean. The numbers checked out. Even the Director hadn’t ripped it apart in his comments. And Sujeong sunbae? She said she’d handle the meeting with T1 HQ herself. Next Monday. No surprises. No drama.

He all but floated out of the building. By the time he got home, he was already texting Soohyun and Sobin in the group chat:

     | juni: let’s do chi-maek tonight. no work talk. no capitalism. just grease and alcohol 😎👑

Soohyun responded with a single thumbs up. Sobin sent a gif of fried chicken getting slow-zoomed with emotional K-drama music.

Yeo Jun had been looking forward to this all week.

His floor was still half-covered in laundry, the second beer had already gone flat on the table, and the smell of fried chicken clung to every fiber of his hoodie. But for once, none of that mattered. Because the screen in front of him was flashing victory, and Soohyun was groaning in the background like someone had stolen his pension.

“This game is rigged,” Soohyun muttered, reaching for another drumstick like it personally owed him money. “I dodged that.”

“You blinked and got blown up,” Sobin chimed in, licking sauce off her thumb. “Accept your fate.”

Yeo Jun grinned, loose-limbed and relaxed, thumbs still flying over the controller. “It’s not my fault I’m cracked at driving mini go-karts and emotionally manipulating NPCs.”

“Unfair,” Soohyun muttered, squinting at the screen. “That banana appeared out of nowhere! Why do you always get the good characters?”

“Because he’s the golden child of capitalism,” Sobin teased, nudging his knee with hers. “And this is how he maintains the illusion of balance — by beating our asses at party games.”

“Tragic, honestly,” Yeo Jun said, biting into a wing. “Anyway, pass the honey mustard before I cry about my success.”

They were two hours into a perfect night: trash talking, digital destruction, beer bottles rolling slightly on the floor.

And then the phone buzzed. Yeo Jun ignored it once. Then again. The third buzz had a weight to it. He glanced down, still chewing.

     | Baek Sujeong sunbae: Hey, slight change of plans about monday

He paused. One wing halfway to his mouth.

     | Baek Sujeong sunbae: Can’t go to the meeting due to exec review conflict. Ban Juyeon-ssi still attending so you’ll be joining him instead :)

The room was still loud. Sobin was throwing a virtual banana at Soohyun on screen. But suddenly, it all faded into the background. For a second, Yeo Jun thought he was dreaming. He tried to pinch himself but instead of waking up, he got a wave of pain throughout his whole body. Definitely awake.

“No,” Yeo Jun muttered.

Soohyun leaned over his shoulder. “What? Did your limited edition gacha expire?”

“Worse,” he said hollowly. “Work.”

He showed them the message. They squinted at it, and as soon as they realized the severity (read: absurdity) of the situation, they went back to their own stuff.

Only Sobin winced. “Ohh. That’s…”

“A personal betrayal,” Yeo Jun whispered. “She said she would go. I made plans. I was happy.”

“Guess you’ll be bonding with CEO Grim Reaper now,” Soohyun said, not sounding nearly sorry enough. He was more focused on finishing the map in game. 

“He’s not even a CEO,” Yeo Jun snapped. “He’s worse. He’s quiet.”

“You love quiet guys,” Sobin teased.

“Yeah. In theory. Not when I’m locked in a car with them on the way to one of the biggest brand meetings of my life.”

Soohyun tossed a chip at him. “You’ll survive. Just wear something distracting. Maybe neon.”

“Ha-ha, very funny, hyung,” Yeo Jun muttered, typing a half-hearted reply to Sujeong:

     | juni: this is a violation of my weekend rights. i’m calling the labor board

Read. No response. He sighed, let his phone flop onto the table, and picked up his controller again. The game loaded. His heart still thudded weirdly in his chest.

“Let’s just play,” he said.

Because maybe if he played well enough, he’d forget he had to survive Monday.

The shirt was a compromise. He wasn’t going full esports jersey. This was still a corporate meeting, but he also wasn’t about to show up looking like a substitute economics professor. So, he settled on what Sobin dubbed “stealth gamer chic” in their rapid-fire 1 a.m. styling consultation.

A lightweight bomber jacket in black satin, simple white tee underneath, and tailored trousers with a subtle side-stripe. Clean sneakers, silver ear cuff, and — his favorite detail — the Yongseong logo pin clipped on the jacket itself. Small. Minimal. Intentional. It said: I belong in a boardroom, but I’ll smoke you in a 1v1 if needed which made sitting next to Ban Juyeon in the silent backseat of a luxury sedan feel... like playing two characters at once.

Director Juyeon, predictably, was in a charcoal-black suit which looked sharp, buttoned, and possibly bulletproof from how stiff the tailoring looked. His posture: perfect. His focus: laser-locked on his phone. Yeo Jun, meanwhile, was sitting at exactly 75% confidence and 15% “do I have crumbs on me.”

They passed a familiar intersection. T1 HQ wasn’t far now. His leg bounced once, barely noticeable. The silence wasn’t awkward, just… dense. Like there were things they could say, but neither was reaching for them yet. Elevator scene still fresh in mind, Yeo Jun wasn’t going to make the first step, at least not right now. However, that wasn’t needed at all.

“You don’t seem nervous,” Juyeon said suddenly, thumb still swiping.

Yeo Jun blinked. “Oh. Um… I am,” he replied instantly. “I just look extra cute when I am stressed.”

That earned him the smallest curve at the edge of Juyeon’s mouth, Yeo Jun wouldn’t really call that a smile. But not nothing. Outside, the buildings grew more familiar. The stylized red T1 signage shone like a beacon.

Yeo Jun sat up straighter, his fingers brushing the pin on his jacket as if to anchor himself. The proposal was solid. The mock-ups were clean. The ideas were fresh. He had done the work. And for once, in the car with someone who once nearly crushed his soul over font choices, he didn’t feel small. He felt ready.

The T1 HQ building stood like a beacon in the Gangnam skyline — bold, red, impossible to ignore. Its geometric cutouts and the iconic logo glinting against the mirrored glass made it feel less like a corporate office and more like a monument to legends. The kind of place that didn’t just say “esports,” but screamed it in style, in swagger, in sheer presence.

Inside, the first floor was sleek and echoing, with digital banners flashing highlight reels overhead. The hallway was lined with framed jerseys, trophy cases of T1 teams, photos with iconic moments frozen in celebration, mid-cheer, mid-victory. 

A cheerful staff rep greeted them at the entrance and launched into the tour with practiced polish. “On your left, we have our exclusive merch installation including the capsule collections rotate quarterly, and the League team helped design the last one. And down below, we have the training gym, open only to the players and analysts.”

Yeo Jun followed, wide-eyed but composed. This wasn’t his first time around luxury branding, but something about being here, seeing names and faces he’d followed since high school, it felt surreal.

They were ushered upstairs next: one floor dedicated to League, one to Valorant, both featuring open-plan lounges, scrim rooms, strategy corners with whiteboards and giant screens. Then, just past a vending machine full of red bull drinks, someone rounded the corner.

And Yeo Jun actually froze.

Keria.

In a fleece half-zip hoodie and cuffed joggers, hair fluffy today, skin practically glowing under the building’s soft strip lights. No makeup, just face. And that face — effortlessly composed, tilted at just the right angle like he was used to people stopping mid-step when he walked into frame.

“Keria-nim,” Yeo Jun blurted, a bit breathless, the way only a very casual, slightly starstruck fanboy could.

Keria smiled. “Hi!”

“Hi~, I am Yeo Jun, come here with Yongseong to talk about the merch partnership,” Yeo Jun said, then added with more honesty, “I try to catch your matches sometimes but it’s been very hard with work lately. I will try to come more often.”

Keria laughed in a light and boyish way, the kind that made other people smile by reflex.

“Oh, thank you very much,” he said. “Hey, at least you are here now.”

“That’s also true!” Yeo Jun replied, already pulling out his phone. “Will it be okay if I get a selfie with you?”

“Of course.”

They leaned in — two visuals under perfect lighting, dark lashes, clean features, angles that had never known a bad camera day. The photo looked like a photocard you would get from K-Pop albums.

Behind them, Juyeon’s voice came smooth and dry: “Are you using this trip to network or audition?”

Yeo Jun didn’t even flinch. “Both, if I’m smart.”

But he did spend a little too long looking at the photo after. Keria said goodbye with a nod and disappeared toward the practice room. They moved into the conference room shortly after with several people in suits sitting already.

Ban Juyeon introduced Yongseong’s intent in his usual crisp delivery. It was flawless. Polished, efficient, and almost sterile until he looked toward Yeo Jun near the halfway point and said:

“Yeo Jun-ssi led the strategy design for this campaign. Especially the influencer activation. He can walk you through the verticals.”

A heartbeat passed. Yeo Jun straightened but keyed in. His voice came warm, professional, with just a hint of charm.

“Right, so we’re proposing a split-focus approach: first phase digital teasers, mostly Reels and Shorts; second phase, on-site interactive displays at Yongseong Gangnam branch. We want to target both heavy fans and casual foot traffic with dual-channel storytelling.”

The room listened. He went on. Polished but unpretentious. He even cracked a joke about tracking clickthroughs versus actual merch sales. One of the T1 leads laughed. Another nodded and started writing in his notes. Juyeon didn’t speak again for a while.

The presentation wrapped with polite nods and a final flick of the clicker. One of three representatives with a neat undercut and a smartwatch leaned forward, folding his hands over the edge of the glass table.

“We’re aligned with the esports cafe theme,” he said. “But we’d like one more thing added to the campaign ecosystem.”

Yeo Jun sat up straighter, fingers curled casually over the folder in front of him. “Of course. What’s on your mind?”

The exec clicked his pen once. “We’ve been in talks with Moonlight Blade Korea for co-sponsorship. If this campaign ties in, even lightly, it opens up a triple engagement channel. Their user base overlaps nicely with ours and can expand yours. Plus, their Spring Blossom Festival event is upcoming which should attract a lot of younger audience. Perfect way to get new faces.”

Yeo Jun’s heart did a double take then sprinted. Moonlight Blade. His favorite game. The game that carried his character. His hours. His avatar’s entire musical build and dozens of recorded emotes. The game where he played every night with…

He nodded, perfectly professional.

“That’s an excellent call,” he said, voice even. “Moonlight Blade’s event systems are ideal for real-world crossover. Blossom Festival has region-locked cosmetics, right? We could tie that into physical cafe challenges, maybe a QR check-in that unlocks special gear if they visit the store? And we can give out photo cards of players as well.”

His words spilled out in fast, clear strokes. One idea after another. Collab cup sleeves with NPC quotes. An in-store cosmetic photo booth with in-game filter overlays. A special tracklist of tavern BGM to play during lunch hours. Across the table, the execs were nodding.

So was Ban Juyeon.

Except—

He was stiff. Just a little. Not obvious to anyone else, maybe… but Yeo Jun had spent enough time next to him by now to notice when something shifted. But Ban Juyeon, ever professional and precise, simply nodded again and said: “We’ll align internally and circle back with our licensing contact.”

Only his fingers, resting lightly on the glass, had curled ever so slightly which Yeo Jun didn’t notice. He was too busy picturing menu items named after famous raids and limited edition Yongseong plushies of mount pets. His mind was racing, heart full of quiet, delighted chaos. Unaware that the game he loved had just put an odd expression on the face of the man sitting beside him.

A game with a name Ban Juyeon hadn’t heard spoken out loud — in that context — in years.

Moonlight Blade.

Yeo Jun left the meeting room feeling squeezed like an orange, a bit drained, but in a strangely satisfying way. Any lingering concerns had been vanished. After all, he’d been given the chance to present his ideas solo, and more surprisingly, by none other than Ban Juyeon himself. Yeo Jun thought he was going there as support cheer leader so he was quite content with the way how meeting has ended. For that alone, Yeo Jun decided he would try not to tease the director. At least for a week. Key word: try. 

And then there was the twist of fate — the unexpected Moonlight Blade collaboration. That alone had him riding a quiet high. Who would’ve guessed all those late nights grinding in an obscure MMORPG would actually pay off in real life? He almost wanted to thank his past self for not uninstalling it during midterms. 

The second they’d mentioned it, ideas had exploded in his brain like loot after a world boss kill. And if this was how fast he worked under pressure, just wait until he had time to properly brainstorm. The world wasn’t ready for the greatness that was coming under the name of Yongseong Youth Project.

He was already planning to treat himself to bibimbap for dinner — maybe with extra gochujang and a perfectly fried egg — when a staff member caught up to them just outside the glass doors.

“Hey! The content team wants a quick photo for the collab teaser, if that’s alright.”

Of course they did. No one left this building without at least one digital receipt of being cool enough to be inside it.

Another staff member waved a small camera, already adjusting the aperture. Yeo Jun glanced sideways at Ban Juyeon, whose expression hadn’t shifted a millimeter since the post-handshake bow.

Another voice chimed in behind the camera. “Do the Faker thumbs-up!”

Yeo Jun was just happy to be here. Genuinely. If someone asked him to do a backflip on the spot, he’d probably try. That’s how high his mood was right now, full of exhilarating feeling of upcoming project.

(Forget the last two weeks when he wanted to ragequit the internship, ghost everyone, and vanish into thin air.)

The idea of the eternally polished Director Ban doing a thumbs-up for a meme photo? Priceless. Yeo Jun’s eyes darted to the side just in time to see it: Juyeon raising one hand stiffly, subtly, and offering what could only be described as the most reluctant thumbs-up in the history of corporate marketing.

The camera shutter clicked.

At that exact second, Yeo Jun burst into laughter, his grin spilling over with too much joy to hide. Sign him up for this job forever.

Okay, he couldn’t help it. It was just too funny. Don’t get him wrong! Director Ban Juyeon wasn’t old, or some outdated boomer in a dusty gray suit. In fact, he was annoyingly young for someone so high up the ladder. And, well… annoyingly attractive, too. Sharp jawline, sharper stare. He is a whole “CEO in a romance drama” package.

But that wasn’t what made Yeo Jun nearly lose it. It was the absurdity. The unexpected contrast.

For weeks now, Ban Juyeon had been an untouchable figure in his head. He an ice king, capable of killing dreams with one glance and silencing a room with a raised eyebrow. Always serious. Always controlled. Always above. So seeing that same man do a thumbs-up — the most meme-worthy, unserious, dorky gesture — like it physically hurt him to raise his hand? Yeah. It cracked something inside Yeo Jun.

The backseat of the car was quiet, wrapped in filtered golden light. The sun hovered low above the skyline, tinting Seoul in streaks of amber and rose. Traffic was crawling but Yeo Jun didn’t mind. The slow movement gave him time to breathe. He sat with his ankles crossed, posture loose, one arm draped lazily across the leather seat. His phone rested in his lap, screen lit with unread notifications containing messages, Instagram DMs, some group chat memes. However, he wasn’t in the mood to scroll through. They blinked up at him like little reminders that the day wasn’t over.

But in his chest, something had settled. A slow, humming contentment.

It was hard to believe this morning had started with nerves, double-shot espresso, and the question of whether he’d embarrass himself in front of esports royalty. Now he had a meeting in the bag, a collab secured, and a photo of Ban Juyeon doing the Faker thumbs-up saved to his phone.

Not bad for a Monday.

Still, now that the high had worn off, exhaustion bloomed in his body like an aftershock. His limbs ached in that dull, satisfying way that comes from doing too much, too fast, and for once, doing it well. He sighed softly and let his head tip back against the seat.

Moonlight Blade could wait one more night. Just one.

The thought of the game made Yeo Jun circle back to Ban Juyeon’s odd silence in the meeting room. It wasn’t that the director was expressive on a normal day. He was far from it, but even Yeo Jun had started to pick up on the quiet cues. A shift in posture. The way Juyeon kept adjusting his cufflinks even though they hadn’t moved. None of it screamed discomfort, but it whispered just enough for someone paying attention.

So, in the hush of the car ride, with Seoul passing by like slow-motion neon, Yeo Jun decided to poke the bear.

“So…” he began lightly, voice deliberately casual. “Director Ban.”

Juyeon turned slightly, his tired gaze sliding over with the kind of precision that made even eye contact feel like a formal evaluation.

Yeo Jun met his eyes. Didn’t flinch. “Are you okay with it?”

A blink. “With what?”

“The Moonlight Blade collaboration, I mean. You didn’t really say anything in the room.”

For a second, Juyeon didn’t answer. Yeo Jun thought he messed up. That’s it. He crossed the line. But all Ban Juyeon did was take a deep breath and eyes back on the window.

“It’s a logical brand move. The game is trending. The event aligns with our campaign schedule.”

The answer didn’t satisfy Yeo Jun. It was polished. Safe. Boring. Yeo Jun frowned. “That sounds like the answer you’d give the board.”

“And?”

“I’m not the board.”

That earned him a longer look — subtle, but more searching this time. Yeo Jun held the gaze. Waited. Then Juyeon spoke again, quieter.

“Some things just take longer to adjust to. Doesn’t mean they’re wrong.”

Yeo Jun wasn’t even sure what it meant. Was it about the game? About the partnership? About him? Maybe Juyeon didn’t like MMORPGs. Maybe he didn’t get it. Maybe he hated change. Maybe Yeo Jun had just projected too much. He was halfway into overthinking mode when Juyeon added, “You handled yourself well today.”

Yeo Jun froze for a beat. Wait.

Was that… was that a compliment? Today was definitely a day full of surprises. 

“Wait, what? Is this… are you complimenting me?” Now he was certain: he’d died of exhaustion and this was a hallucination. Ban Juyeon saying full, coherent compliments? That was final-boss-level rare.

“I’m saying,” Juyeon replied evenly, “you made the brand stronger. That’s not the same as praise.”

“Uh-huh.”

Yeo Jun wasn’t buying it, but he let it go. Enough banter for today. 

Because there was something genuine in Juyeon’s tone, rare and oddly warm in its restraint. A praise disguised as a corporate summary, but a praise nonetheless. He looked down at his hands, fingers tapping against his phone.

And when he looked out the window again, the reflection staring back at him was still smiling.

Chapter Text

Ban Juyeon sat at the head of the long glass table, fingers clasped neatly under his chin as the morning team briefing wrapped up. He nodded once, crisply, as Sujeong listed the deadlines for upcoming projects.

With the unexpected addition of Moonlight Blade to the collaboration, the workload had doubled. And Juyeon wasn’t about to leave it half-baked—not when it came to this.

To his favourite game.

That’s why the previous night had been the most restless in a long time. Ban Juyeon could hardly contain his excitement, almost jumping over the moon. His heart had done the kind of excited backflip only Moonlight Blade patch notes could inspire—especially when he saw the buff for his character.

During the meeting at the T1 office, he had nearly clapped his hands and screamed into the void. But he was a professional. From the outside, it looked like nothing more than the nerves of a director about to lead a massive project.

T1 x Moonlight Blade x Yongseong.

That was the sentence. That was the headline. That was the dream.

He forced his face to remain neutral, lips pressed into the usual faint frown that gave nothing away.

The meeting had ended with tasks distributed among the team, each member taking on the one they felt most confident about. They had to be extra attentive to details—this was the first time something like this was happening in Korea. They couldn’t afford to fumble it.

“Yeo Jun-ssi really saved us yesterday,” Sujeong said, nudging Juyeon as they exited the meeting room. “I felt so bad dumping that on him. I didn’t mean to, but looking at you, it went well.”

He gave a small nod, acknowledging her comment. Sujeong was one of the few people who could read his expressions at work. And as for the intern—he’d done more than just fine. But Juyeon wasn’t about to admit that to Sujeong. Not yet. Still, he wasn’t the monster boss everyone made him out to be, so he simply said:

“He did fine.”

“You could try saying ‘well done,’ you know. You won’t die from that.”

“But I will.”

She rolled her eyes and walked off, back straight.

He didn’t mention that he’d rewatched the T1 presentation slides twice last night, or that he’d almost logged into Moonlight Blade afterward just to “soak in the atmosphere.” Some things were meant to stay secret.

Juyeon didn’t leave his office all day, brainstorming ideas with the game in mind. He might not have been an expert in esports—that part he mostly left to Yeo Jun—but when it came to Moonlight Blade, no one knew the game better than he did. He knew exactly what the target audience wanted.

Because he was the target audience. But the rest of the company didn’t need to know that.

The problem now was getting his ideas out—not as Ban Juyeon, but through someone else. He couldn’t risk his reputation as a director, so he had to act fast. If not, he’d have to come up with something else.

At precisely 7:42 PM, Juyeon stepped into his apartment, dropped his keys on the counter, took off his blazer, and let out the sigh of someone shedding an entire persona.

He loosened his tie, tugged off his watch, and changed into his black silk pajamas. His hair was slightly messy from running his fingers through it too many times.

He both loved and hated Tuesdays for several reasons. First of all, it was the day after Monday—obviously. One of the more boring parts of the week. Secondly, Tuesday meant cleaning day. In his sacred space. A place no stranger had ever set foot in.

(Excluding the construction workers. Anyway.)

He decided not to waste time and turned to the glass cabinet tucked between two bookshelves. Inside, it glittered like a treasure chest: Moonlight Blade figures, plushies, rare collab pins, and a resin-cast statue of the masked assassin from the 2022 spring event. His personal collection.

With rock music playing in the background, he carefully wiped down the figurines—even though there wasn’t a speck of dust thanks to his weekly cleanings. Ban Juyeon did it out of habit. It gave him a sense of stability. He might be the executive director and run the Yongseong department division, but this—this place—was truly his. Filled with things he loved.

He turned his attention to the lower shelf, adjusting a figure that had tilted just a millimeter too far over the week. Smiling to himself, satisfied with the day’s work, he hopped onto the leather couch and grabbed a new volume of his favorite manga.

As soon as he started reading the first chapter, a ding from his phone cut through the noise of his speakers.

“Your order has shipped!”

Moonlight Blade x Archeon Weaponry Limited Acrylic Diorama (Collector’s ver.)

Ban Juyeon smiled at the notification from the delivery center. He had forgotten about the order after a rough week, but the message lifted his mood even higher. Manga forgotten on the couch, he sprinted toward his computer.

A few hours of raiding sounded like the perfect way to end the day.

He clicked Continue.

BlackFlame appeared at Night Lotus Plaza. The fountain glowed under the moonlight, casting soft silver shadows across the cobblestone tiles.

A party request popped up before he could take a step:

[JuniPrince has invited you to join a party.]

[JuniPrince]: u live here now or what lol

[JuniPrince]: srsly i leave for a week and u never log off

[BlackFlame]: Some of us are dedicated.

[JuniPrince]: some of us are nerds

Juyeon exhaled a quiet laugh through his nose and accepted the request. He wasn’t about to admit he’d been logging in every night just in case he caught JuniPrince online. They queued for the new time-limited dungeon. He watched JuniPrince’s avatar pacing in circles near the teleportation portal, sword bouncing slightly with each step like an impatient kid waiting for a ride.

Ban Juyeon didn’t know what overtook him. His fingers moved on instinct, his brain not fully registering the decision.

[BlackFlame]: If there was one item you’d want as real-life merch, what would it be?

He gave himself no time to hesitate. He had a few ideas himself, but as an executive, he knew better than to rely on one man’s taste. And what better source than his longtime in-game friend?

[JuniPrince]: omg did u get hired as a survey NPC or smth?? lol

[JuniPrince]: but ok hmm lemme think

[JuniPrince]: like... something actually cool or just meme material?

[BlackFlame]: Both. Honest answer.

The pause stretched on. For a second, Juyeon thought JuniPrince’s connection had dropped. He hovered over the keyboard to re-send the message.

Then:

[JuniPrince]: ok no judgment but i’d kill for a replica of Flutist weapon

[JuniPrince]: not ordinary but the cursed one from the ghost arc

[JuniPrince]: devs missed the chance to capitalise on it…

[JuniPrince]: also plushie versions of the dungeon familiars from frost forest

[JuniPrince]: they’re horrifying but i love them

[JuniPrince]: esp the one with three eyes and no legs lmao

Juyeon stared at the screen, oddly touched. It was such a sincere, almost childlike answer—the kind of thing someone says only when they truly love something.

His chest warmed. He typed:

[BlackFlame]: You should write the merch team.

[JuniPrince]: ha. like they’d care what a casual thinks

[BlackFlame]: They might.

[JuniPrince]: ...this is weirdly sentimental of you, hyung

[JuniPrince]: u okay?

Juyeon considered saying something more. Like: I’m asking because I could actually make it happen. Or: Because I’m designing this with you in mind.

But instead, he typed:

[BlackFlame]: Just wondering.

[JuniPrince]: well. 10/10 convo. thank u for coming to my TED talk

[JuniPrince]: gonna log off soon. work tmrw and i gotta pretend to be a functioning adult

[JuniPrince]: gn hyung. don’t miss me too much

[BlackFlame]: No promises.

Why did I type that?

Before JuniPrince could respond, Juyeon reached for the logout button and exited the game. The screen dimmed. He stared at the monitor, mildly horrified with himself.

He sat in the dark for a minute. Soft instrumental music played in the background—familiar, comforting. The feeling lingered, like warmth caught between his ribs. He didn’t know why he said that. Couldn’t explain the strange calm that came with those conversations. The way BlackFlame could say things Ban Juyeon never could.

Ban Juyeon sat at his desk, eyes flicking between email threads and performance reports, posture as perfect as ever. So when his assistant entered with a cautious knock and a paper cup cradled in her hand, the interruption barely stirred him. Still, she smiled softly as she approached, her voice careful.

“Director Ban, I brought your coffee. Triple espresso—I added an extra shot today. You’ve looked tired lately.”

Juyeon blinked once, slowly, and gave her a small nod.

“Good job, Secretary Kwon. I needed that.”

His fingers wrapped around the cup with usual precision, even as a flicker of dismay passed—unseen—behind his eyes.

Triple espresso. Of course. The drink of adults.

He offered no reaction, no thanks, no grimace—only the same composed expression he wore during board meetings and quarterly press briefings. But inside, the groan was audible. He hated espresso. Hated the bitterness, the sharpness, the hollow aftertaste that clung to the back of his tongue like burned paper.

He preferred something entirely different. Something iced, sugary, completely unbecoming of the man he had trained himself to be. Something with whipped cream and chocolate shavings. Something no one in this building could ever see him drinking without immediately losing all fear of him.

But Ban Juyeon didn’t drink frappes. Ban Juyeon drank espresso.

He took a sip.

The bitterness hit instantly—sharp and aggressive—and for one horrifying second he nearly, nearly winced. His throat tightened, and his tongue instinctively recoiled, but he forced the liquid down like medicine. No grimace. No sigh. Just a clean swallow and a return to the screen in front of him.

The aftertaste didn’t leave.

He set the cup on his desk, untouched after that, glaringly accusatory in its quiet presence. He straightened his blazer and stood, telling himself he needed some fresh air.

What he was actually going to do was: I am going to find the nearest cafe, and I am going to consume something that does not taste like existential despair.

The cafe he found himself walking toward was one he’d passed dozens of times on his morning commutes—always glancing through the windows with something close to curiosity, but never stepping inside. It was the kind of place full of warmth, sugar, and laughter—things that didn’t belong in the Yongseong executive lounge.

He lingered outside longer than necessary, staring at the menu.

And there it was. Large, offensive, and beautiful in the best way:

Mocha Cookie Frappe – Limited Return!

He told himself it was a simple indulgence. That he deserved it after a morning spent tolerating asset pipeline questions and image licensing bottlenecks. That no one would recognize him here. And even if they did—he could handle it.

He stepped forward.

“Mocha Cookie Frap—”

“—Director Ban?”

The words stopped cold in his throat. He turned—slowly—and of course, standing there with his usual sunshine-bright smile and tie slightly off-center, was Yeo Jun.

The intern looked far too delighted to see him.

“What a coincidence!” Yeo Jun said, stepping closer. “Also getting coffee?”

Juyeon’s initial shock passed, his face settling back into its usual mask. “Needed air.”

“Oh,” Yeo Jun replied brightly. “Well, this is perfect. Let me treat you. As thanks for not murdering me after last week’s meeting.”

Juyeon raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. “You want to thank me for assigning you more work?”

“Exactly,” Yeo Jun grinned. “I believe in celebrating trauma.”

The cashier glanced between them, clearly wondering if the very stiff man in the tailored coat was seriously about to order a milkshake with cookie crumbles.

Juyeon cleared his throat. “Triple espresso.”

There was a pause. A beat too long.

Yeo Jun tilted his head, eyes narrowing into something between amusement and horror. “Seriously?”

“Yes.”

“That’s… intense.”

“Efficiency requires intensity.”

“Right,” Yeo Jun said, eyes gleaming. “And what would you order if efficiency wasn’t watching?”

Juyeon’s gaze flicked to the board—just for a second. But it was enough.

Yeo Jun’s smirk bloomed like spring. “I knew it. You were gonna get the frappe.”

“I wasn’t.”

“You were.”

“I’m not.”

“You looked in its direction.”

“I looked at the price.”

“You hesitated at whipped cream.”

Juyeon exhaled, slow and steady. “You’re insufferable.”

“Only off the clock.”

Before he could form a retort that preserved his dignity, fate struck in the form of a slow-rolling LED truck outside the café’s glass windows.

He glanced out—casually at first. Then he froze.

On the screen—full HD, 60 fps, glorious animated graphics—played a looping ad:

🔥 HELLFIRE RETURN TOUR – SEOUL STOP ADDED 🔥

His chest clenched.

It wasn’t just any band. It was his band. The one he used to blast on headphones while sketching sword concepts at 2 a.m. The one that got him through cram school, long subway rides, and the first terrifying month at Yongseong. The one whose merch he kept folded in a drawer like sacred scripture.

This was everything.

And then he remembered where he was. Right beside a junior intern with too much perception and a smirk sharpened by amusement.

“Favourite band of yours?” Yeo Jun asked, voice casual but laced with curiosity.

Juyeon’s reply came too fast. “No.”

“You exhaled like someone just announced world peace.”

“Coincidence.” He turned to the cashier, jaw tight. “Triple shot espresso. Nothing else.”

Juyeon walked back to the office with the kind of careful composure that suggested the coffee had been his first choice all along. The espresso was hot in his palm. Burning, bitter, punishing.

He hadn’t ordered the Mocha Cookie Frappe. He couldn’t. Not with Yeo Jun standing three inches away, watching him like he was some rare animal caught blinking in the sunlight.

So he swallowed his pride and his craving, and ordered the stupid, bitter drink. And now, he was paying for it.

By the time he reached the elevator, the scent alone was already souring his mood. Inside his office, door closed, blinds angled for privacy, Juyeon walked straight to the bin. No hesitation. He dropped the cup into the trash like it had personally betrayed him. The echo of paper hitting plastic was sharp. Final.

Then he lifted his wrist, thumb flicking across his smartwatch to activate voice input. His tone was clipped, professional, perfectly flat.

“Assistant log. New field entry.”
“Intern Yeo Jun — proximity volatile. High charisma, low boundary control.”
“Update threat status: danger… mid-level.”

He paused. Then added, more quietly, almost like he was talking to himself:

“Maintain distance.”

The next morning, the team from HQ stepped into the Gangnam flagship branch of Yongseong Department Store with clipboards and tablets. Juyeon led the group with his usual quiet efficiency, eyes scanning every inch of the showroom with unspoken scrutiny. Behind him, Yeo Jun walked slightly off-pace, his mood unreadable. Sujeong occasionally glanced at him like she wanted to say something, and then thought better of it.

The group was met in the staff lounge by the branch manager, a middle-aged man with sharp eyes and practiced handshakes.

“We’ve done well with brand alignment this quarter,” he said proudly, flipping open a portfolio with graphs and KPIs marked in neat rows. “And customer feedback has been largely positive—especially in the luxury sections.”

Juyeon offered a polite nod. “And what about youth engagement?”

The manager blinked, clearly trying to recalibrate. “We’ve launched online coupons through the app and targeted promotions for student accounts.”

“Not enough. Our goal with the Yongseong Youth Campaign is not just retention, but acquisition.”

There was a pause. Then Juyeon continued, voice cool but clear.

“I want surveys conducted beyond our customer base. We already know what our current demographics want. What we don’t know is why students from the nearby universities don’t come here.”

The branch manager shifted slightly. “We were planning to send out QR surveys through the store’s Wi-Fi access…”

Juyeon shook his head. “That only targets people already here. I want outreach in the university district. On foot if necessary. Partner cafes, lecture halls, even student lounges. Focus on what they actually want in a department store.”

Sujeong gave a small nod, picking up the thread. “There are at least three universities within walking distance of here, right? Moonlight Blade’s youth collab campaign launches next month. We should predict what they actually want to not waste any time.”

Juyeon didn’t look at Sujeong directly, but his gaze flickered toward her.

“The fourth floor has high visibility but inconsistent dwell time. Too many adjacent luxury brands — not ideal for younger traffic. The second floor has lifestyle crossover — sportswear, tech, street fashion. That’s where the T1 x Moonlight Blade cafe should go.” 

“You already thought about the floor plan?” asked Sujeong with pleasant surprise. 

Juyeon, without missing a beat:

“I reviewed it last night. We can’t place a gaming collab beside quiet luxury. We need ambient energy. Good visibility from ground level and easy access.”

Sujeong narrowed her eyes slightly, her lips quirking. But no one pushed him further. In the meantime, Yeo Jun glanced at him again as if something about the way Juyeon had said T1 x Moonlight Blade cafe just a little too smoothly was beginning to tug at a thread he hadn’t noticed before.

The meeting wrapped, and the floor team began to scatter — some back to their departments, others to catch a late lunch break. Juyeon had already turned toward the elevator, reaching for his phone, clearly ready to return to headquarters.

“We’ll grab something here,” Sujeong said casually, catching up to him. “There’s a well-rated cafe on the L4 floor.”

“I’m fine,” Juyeon replied without looking up. “I have work to review.”

“You’re not leaving without eating,” she said pointedly. “You’re the director overseeing this branch’s involvement. You can’t leave without trying at least one of the dining facilities.”

“I didn’t come here for food reviews,” he said coolly.

“You came here to evaluate. And food is customer engagement. So.” She smiled sweetly. “You’re having lunch. That’s an order, Director Ban.”

Juyeon sighed very softly through his nose, then slid his phone back into his pocket. He hated when Sujeong used her noona privileges.

A few feet behind, Yeo Jun had started to ease away, pretending to check his inbox. “I should go rework the survey deck, actually—”

“Nope,” Sujeong said, grabbing his elbow lightly. “You did a good job this morning. It’s lunch. You’re joining.”

He blinked. “I—uh—okay.”

The three of them walked down to L4 together, the mood awkward only in the way unspoken things always made it.

The cafe was open and modern — lots of warm wood, soft light, and walls lined with rotating displays of local art. A handful of people were tucked into corner booths, chatting over iced americanos and open laptops.

They grabbed a table near the window. Sujeong ordered quickly for herself, then nudged Juyeon with a half-smile. “Director, don’t look so tense. You’re not undercover. It’s just grilled chicken on grain rice.”

He scanned the board briefly, then pointed at the least offensive thing. “Same.”

Yeo Jun stepped up behind him, eyes on the chalk specials. “I’ll grab the kimchi pasta, I guess.”

Juyeon didn’t comment. The food arrived quickly. No one spoke much at first, the atmosphere fragile.

Sujeong, ever the moderator, broke the silence. “I was actually impressed today. The floor traffic heatmap made total sense, and the cafe concept?” She glanced between the two men. “You two worked well together.”

Juyeon, chewing, gave a quiet “Hm.”

Yeo Jun smiled a little at the compliment, cheeks blushing, but didn’t push the moment further. 

Still, under the table, Juyeon’s foot tapped once against the leg of his chair — subtle, restless. He didn’t know why he’d agreed to this lunch. Or why sitting this close to Yeo Jun made him hyper-aware of how quiet the intern had become. He was ignoring the intern since that moment with frappe, but the forced proximity right now made him nervous. 

Halfway through the meal, the mood had settled into something calmer. There were a few comments exchanged — mainly from Sujeong — but Yeo Jun tried to engage in the conversation as much as possible. 

Sujeong sipped her citron tea, watching the two men across from her for a moment before she spoke again.

“You know,” she said lightly, “we haven’t held a proper company dinner since the interns joined.”

Yeo Jun looked up from his half-eaten kimchi pasta, chewing. “Oh, true. I thought there was one planned before the Youth Campaign kicked off?”

Sujeong shook her head. “It never got scheduled. Too many overlapping projects. But now that we’ve had our first external meeting go well, I say we claim a little win.”

Juyeon didn’t respond at first. He was halfway through his meal, expression neutral, posture upright as always. When he did speak, it was measured.

“I don’t think I’ll be able to join. There’s still the draft reviews due this week.” he said. “I’m not saying no to the idea,” Juyeon continued hurriedly, still polite. “I just don’t want to commit when the week’s already overbooked.”

Sujeong studied him for a second longer than was comfortable.

“We used to make time for these things,” she said gently. “Even during busier months.”

Juyeon offered a faint smile, the kind that didn't quite reach his eyes. “I remember.”

“But now?”

He didn’t reply.

Sujeong didn’t push further. She nodded, taking a sip of her tea, letting the quiet fill the space where something heavier might’ve gone.

“Well,” she said finally, light again, “we’ll keep it simple. Maybe just barbecue, a weeknight. I’ll float the date to the team.”

Yeo Jun smiled faintly. “If there’s meat, I’m there.”

That made her laugh. “I’ll put you in charge of grill duty, then.”

Juyeon didn’t say anything, but he kept his eyes on the window — watching traffic move through Gangnam, clean and fast and distant.

And though he said nothing, his thumb pressed idly along the paper edge of his napkin, folding and unfolding a corner with barely perceptible tension.

They returned to the office mid-afternoon, the building’s chilled air and quiet halls a welcome return to structure. The lunch had ended without incident but something about it lingered. Back in his office, he sat at his desk and dove back into the draft reports for the Youth Campaign. Numbers, timelines, logistics.

But every few minutes, his eyes drifted toward the lower right corner of his screen. The clock.

He remembered Sujeong’s words:

“We used to make time for these things.”

He hadn’t reacted then. But it had stayed with him.

Back in the day, company dinners weren’t just about food. A shared breath following a week of strict deadlines, they served as grounding points. Now it had been months.

His team had executed a flawless brand pitch, launched a flagship collab, and rebuilt part of the campaign framework under pressure — and he’d barely said a single word of encouragement.

“I just don’t want to commit when the week’s already overbooked.”

The excuse hadn’t even convinced him when he said it.

Juyeon exhaled slowly, then reached for his phone. He scrolled through his message threads, stopping on the internal team chat, Sujeong’s name pinned near the top.

He hovered over the keyboard. Paused for a a bit then typed:

Ban Juyeon: If the dinner happens this week, send me the time and place. I’ll try to attend.

He stared at the message for a few seconds before hitting send. He will regret it later. Though he didn’t even have time to do that since the dot-dot-dot appeared almost immediately.

     | Sujeong: Wow. That sounded dangerously like enthusiasm.

     | Ban Juyeon: Don’t get carried away. I said “try.”

     | Sujeong: Trying is enough. I’ll take it.

He placed the phone down, leaned back in his chair, and closed his eyes for a brief moment. It was going to be a long week. 

Ban Juyeon wasn’t late. But he arrived just late enough to not raise any suspicions. Timing that said: I'm not here early because I don't need to be. It was casual. He would look like a boss who just happened to show up. By absolute luck. 

The barbecue restaurant was already alive with sound — clattering metal chopsticks, meat sizzling on open grills, laughter layered over bluetooth speakers playing something retro and bass-heavy. Through the haze of grilled smoke and warm light, he spotted them: the interns, the young marketers, a few team leads. Casual, loud, messy in that way only people who were comfortable with each other could be.

And at the center — Yeo Jun. Jacket half-off, sleeves rolled, laughing as he turned pork belly like he’d been born in front of a grill. 

Juyeon hesitated at the entrance. Now he was here, he wasn’t so sure anymore. Perfect suit suddenly felt out of place. He was already half-turned to leave when someone called out his name.

“Director Ban?” Sujeong asked, halfway rising. “You really came?”

“I was nearby,” Juyeon said. Damn Sujeong-noona and her attentiveness. 

Someone scooted over. A spot opened right next to Yeo Jun. The universe was clearly having fun with him at this point. 

Ban Juyeon sat stiffly on the bench beside him. The scent of smoke and grilled meat clung to his sleeves immediately. His tie felt like overkill. Juyeon picked up his chopsticks and took a small bite of meat — no sauce, no wrap, just the simplest version on his plate. Eyes fixed on the wall ahead, his posture a little too straight. 

However, as he peeked towards Yeo Jun, the intern in contrast, was relaxed, peeling open his own wrap with an easy grin. He glanced over at Juyeon’s hesitant bite, then raised an eyebrow.

“You’re eating that all wrong,” he said without any hesitation.

Juyeon was genuinely surprised by the initiative that he took after all the cold shoulder he gave him all week. So when Yeo Jun called out his way of eating food, he couldn't hide his surprise in the voice. “Am I?”

“Who let you eat like that?” Yeo Jun said, mock-scandalized. “Seriously, what is that — a bird-like bite? Sparrow-level. I have seen hamsters chew with more conviction.”

“There’s nothing wrong with it,” Juyeon replied, caught off guard. He didn’t refute the comparison; didn’t even dignify it with a scoff. Which, to Yeo Jun, only confirmed his point.

Yeo Jun grinned, clearly enjoying himself. “It’s not about being wrong. It’s about doing it right.” He already had a lettuce leaf in one hand, filling it with ssamjang, grilled garlic, a perfectly crisped piece of pork. “Here. Trust me. You have to eat it all in one go.”

Juyeon blinked, watching the easy way Yeo Jun manipulated the wrap, lips parting slightly, like he was about to protest — or question something — but Yeo Jun didn’t give him the chance.

He held out the finished wrap. “Try it. Tell me it’s not better.”

Juyeon hesitated. Not because of the food — but because of the closeness. The way Yeo Jun’s hand extended confidently across the table, eyes warm, no hesitation in the offer. Like it wasn’t strange. Like he did this all the time. 

He heard the slight hush ripple across the table. A couple of heads turned. He could already imagine what they were thinking.

“I can make it myself,” Juyeon said, almost automatically.

“Sure,” Yeo Jun replied. “But then I won’t get to see your face when you try it.” He said it with a wink. 

The pause stretched — not long, but just long enough to feel the suspension. Yeo Jun was not going to retreat after everything he had done. Juyeon could clearly see it in his determined eyes and slightly furrowed eyebrows. Then, without another word, Juyeon leaned in and took the wrap in one bite.

Warm. Savory. A kick of spice that crept in after the sweetness of the sauce. He blinked, surprised despite himself.

“See?” Yeo Jun said pleased. Juyeon was sure he heard a silent sigh. “Balance.”

Juyeon looked down at his plate, cleared his throat, and finally — a small nod as indication of agreement. 

A couple of heads turned nearby. Mostly coworkers who weren’t expecting Yeo Jun to be this forward. But Yeo Jun just shrugged at their reaction, still grinning like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“It’s not every day I get to feed our director,” he teased, voice low and smooth.

Juyeon cleared his throat, cheeks burning. Instead, he leaned back, a little less stiff than before, the tension in his shoulders easing.

It started with someone at the far end of the table — maybe from planning or accounts — nudging a nearly full bottle of soju toward Yeo Jun.

“Yah, you’ve been drinking that soda all night.”

Laughter bubbled from the group. Someone chimed in, “Aren’t you the youngest here, eh? Our company superstar.”

“Hyung, if i am a superstar, then you can’t peer pressure me,” Yeo Jun tried to joke, holding up both hands.

“Exactly why we should! Our golden boy can handle one shot.”

The cheers came louder this time. A shot glass slid across the grill plate and landed in front of him with a clink.

Yeo Jun glanced down at it. Then back at the faces around him. Smiling. Expectant. Juyeon was just silently observing the scene, as he saw Yeo Jun pick up the glass with his fingers. His smile didn’t falter, but something in his eyes cooled just slightly — the reflexive, automatic shift of someone bracing to please.

He didn’t want it, Juyeon realized.

But he was doing it anyway.

“You guys are evil,” he said, grinning. “If I throw up in the taxi later, it’s on you.” Yeo Jun raised the glass. Someone shouted, “Yongseong Youth, fighting!” and the toast echoed around the table as he downed it in one practiced motion.

The buzz around the table rose again, but a few minutes later, Juyeon noticed that Yeo Jun had gone quieter. He was still present, still smiling but the shine dulled. He shifted more slowly. Laughed less readily.

By the time they were leaving, half the group herding each other into taxis and half still arguing about karaoke, Yeo Jun had started slipping.

“You okay?” Juyeon asked, falling into step beside him near the exit.

“Mmhm.” Yeo Jun blinked, slow and deliberate. “I just... I forget I don’t need to win everyone all the time.”

Juyeon glanced over. He didn’t expect Yeo Jun to open up so easily, answering the question so honestly.

Yeo Jun tilted his head, half-smile on his lips.

“It’s dumb, right? No one cares if I drink. But they wanted me to, so I did.”

“You didn’t have to,” Juyeon said, softly. “They would’ve liked you either way.”

Yeo Jun looked at him. Then shook his head once, lazy.

“Not about liking. It’s about making sure they don’t stop.”

He laughed faintly, but it lacked sharpness. Then leaned in — not dramatically, not with weight — just a small, natural gesture. Like letting gravity have a little more say. Juyeon instinctively reached out, steadying him with a hand just under his elbow.

“Come on,” Juyeon said. “Let’s get you some water.”

“Wait,” Yeo Jun murmured, pausing as they stepped into the cool air outside.

Juyeon turned, brows lifting slightly.

“Director Ban, sometimes you confuse me” Yeo Jun said, squinting up at him. His voice wasn’t loud or accusatory. It was like he couldn’t quite make sense of the shift himself. “You are so weird.” 

It was bold, saying that to his boss. But somehow, it didn’t bother Juyeon at all. Instead he hesitated, looking down at Yeo Jun whose brow furrowed in something more like confusion than frustration. He looked so young like this. And it made Juyeon tread more carefully than usual, like stepping over a thin sheet of ice he wasn’t sure would hold.

Juyeon was quiet for a beat. Then:

“I didn’t mean to.”

His voice wasn’t defensive. Just… quiet. Matter-of-fact. And it was the truth. He was just bad at closeness. Revealing himself and inviting someone else into his world. He did a bit with Sujeong, but there were things even she didn’t know.

A breeze passed between them, lifting the edge of Yeo Jun’s hair, and Juyeon’s hand twitched slightly at his side — like he might reach out to brush it back, but thought better of it. 

Yeo Jun smiled, faint and lopsided, but there was something cautious behind it like self-preservation. He looked away for a second, then said:

“You’re scaring me, hyung. You’re talking like someone who almost ordered a mocha frappe again.”

Juyeon blinked — caught off guard by the sudden flash of memory, and by the casual way hyung slid from Yeo Jun’s lips. It was strange. The boldness. The familiarity. The way he said things like he’d always had permission.

For half a second, it reminded Juyeon of JuniPrince.

But he shut the thought down almost immediately.

It was just nostalgia. Just the brain reaching for connections where there were none. He hadn’t played the game in a while. He missed JuniPrince. Of course he wanted to see him in other people.

He glanced at Yeo Jun again — gaze softer now, despite himself. “I’m trying,” he said.

He didn’t even fully know what he meant by these words. But he knew one thing for certain: they were true. And they came from somewhere real.

Yeo Jun looked up at him again — a little quieter this time, like he was seeing something he wasn’t sure he was allowed to believe in.

“…Eung,” he said softly, nodding once.

Then, gently — not stumbling, not accidental — he leaned in again, closing the space between them on purpose this time.

And Juyeon didn’t move away.