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The off-season is known as the time for players to unwind—doing any other games or things unrelated to LoL. But that doesn’t apply for a particular player. Not for Choi Hyeonjoon. It was the perfect time to relax, yet the energy that lingered in him felt restless, charged with a pressure unspoken but felt. Hyeonjoon sat hunched at one of the desks in T1 practice facility, his fingers absentmindedly twisting the edge of his sleeve as he stared at his monitor. Hyeonjoon had been grinding on solo rank the whole day to ease the pressure—to make him forget for a while. But it’s still there. The monitor was now dark, but his reflection stared back—tired, distant, small.
He’d been here for weeks now, settling into a new team and a new routine, but the weight of expectation sat on his shoulders like iron shackles. He wasn’t just stepping into any role. He was replacing Choi Wojee , the player who had carved his name into history with his FMVP performance at Worlds. That name, that legacy, haunted every corner of the facility, from the photos lining the walls to the murmurs that seemed to follow him wherever he went.
And it wasn’t as if he didn’t already have ghosts of his own.
He totally lost control of his mind
He cost them the game—again.
He cried on stage!
Feels bad for the team for having him
Some real, some imagined—but all real enough to tear at his confidence. The replay of his misplays looped again and again, a silent accusation, a cruel judge. Each time his champion fell, he saw the same thing—his team faltering, the camera lingering on his face, tears pooling in his eyes. His chest tightened as he remembered those international games—ones that mattered, ones he’d cost his team.
And the most painful part— it felt like he, himself just crushed his teammate’s dream.
What were you thinking?
It would be nice if you could die… a little less?
Why did you overcommit there?
We need you to be more stable. You’re better than this.
The words echoed in his mind, clawing at his thoughts like splinters. His fingers trembled faintly against the desk as he ran them through his hair, tugging slightly at the roots. Better than this, he thought bitterly. “Better” felt like a word reserved for someone else. Not him. Not the player who froze under pressure, who second-guessed his own instincts at the critical moment, who once let tears blur his vision mid-game until his team was forced to play 4vs5 for minutes that felt like hours.
Even the four LCK trophies to his name seemed distant now, overshadowed by every mistake that had brought him shame.
And now he’s here, in T1. The elite team known for their international achievements—which, ironically, something that’s Hyeonjoon well known for as well, for a completely different reason.
He dragged his hands down his face, exhaling sharply.
“Why am I even here?” he muttered to himself.
A soft click from the door opening broke his trance.
“Hyeonjoon-ah,” came a calm voice, deliberate and steady. The door opened to reveal Lee Sanghyeok —the greatest player of all time, Faker himself, now his teammate.
Hyeonjoon jolted upright, his shoulders tensing instinctively. “Ah, Sanghyeok-hyung—”
“Relax.” Sanghyeok’s voice was quiet. He closed the door behind him and crossed the room, pulling out the chair beside Hyeonjoon. There was no rush to his movements, no urgency, and somehow that deliberate pace only made Hyeonjoon’s heart pound harder.
Sanghyeok settled into the chair, folding his hands together and regarding Hyeonjoon with an expression that was unreadable yet kind, as though waiting to see what the younger player might say first. When the silence stretched too long, he spoke.
“You didn’t leave with the others,” Sanghyeok observed, his voice quiet but clear.
Hyeonjoon shifted uncomfortably— a reflex. His shoulders hunching as though to protect himself from the scrutiny,
“I… wanted to review some things,” he mumbled. It wasn’t exactly a lie, but it wasn’t the whole truth either.
Sanghyeok didn’t look convinced. He studied Hyeonjoon for a moment longer before leaning back slightly, his chair creaking softly. “It’s late, Hyeonjoon-ah,” he said. “You’re exhausted.”
Hyeonjoon swallowed hard. “I’m fine.”
“That’s a lie,” Sanghyeok replied simply. His tone wasn’t accusing—it was factual, like he was stating the color of the walls or the time on the clock.
The younger player stiffened. A thousand thoughts churned in his mind, twisting into an uncomfortable knot. He should be honoured and excited to be visited by Faker—his idol. But right now, he felt vulnerable, and he didn’t want to show it to anyone—especially him.
What does he want? Why is he here? Why is he looking at me like that?
Hyeonjoon kept his eyes fixed on the desk, unwilling to meet Sanghyeok’s gaze.
“You look like you have the weight of the world on your shoulders,” Sanghyeok said, his tone light but piercing.
Hyeonjoon blinked, looking away. “I don’t know what you mean.”
Sanghyeok tilted his head slightly, as if calling out the obvious deflection. “We all know you’ve been sitting here all day, grinding. And you have been spacing out alot since you joined.”
“It’s…” Hyeonjoon hesitated, his voice catching. “It’s really nothing, hyung. I’m fine.”
There was silence for a moment
“What are you afraid of?”
Sanghyeok’s voice cut through the silence like a blade, soft yet sharp enough to force Hyeonjoon to flinch.
“I’m not afraid of anything,” Hyeonjoon shot back quickly, though the tremor in his voice betrayed him.
Sanghyeok didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he let the silence stretch, his gaze unrelenting. It was the kind of silence that stripped away pretenses, the kind that made it impossible to hide.
Finally, Hyeonjoon exhaled shakily, his fingers curling into fists against his knees.
“I’m afraid of… failing again,” he admitted quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. “Of being the reason we lose.”
Sanghyeok seemed to contemplate for a while as he heard the confession,
“You’re too hard on yourself,” Sanghyeok said finally.
“How could I not be?” he replied, trying to sound flippant. “Everyone in this team is the best player in their role, I’m the only one who is…” he paused, “…lacking.“
Sanghyeok tilted his head slightly, his expression unreadable. “Is that what you think?”
“It’s what I know,” Hyeonjoon said quickly, the words escaping before he could stop them. He rubbed at his face, trying to hide the frustration bubbling beneath the surface.
“I’ve made mistakes. In important matches. I’ve cost teams big moments. And now…” He hesitated, swallowing hard. “Now I’m supposed to replace Zeus-seonsu. Everyone thinks I’m not good enough.”
“Hyeonjoon-ah, I know how you feel. I had been there before,” Sanghyeok said softly.
Hyeonjoon blinked, his eyes darting toward Sanghyeok with faint disbelief. “What? You?”
“Yes, me,” Sanghyeok said with a faint smile,
“I know what it feels like to carry expectations that feel impossible. I know what it’s like to lose confidence, to wonder if you’ll ever live up to the weight people put on your shoulders. It’s a lonely feeling, isn’t it?”
Hyeonjoon’s fingers stilled against his knee, his gaze dropping to the floor. “Yeah,” he admitted quietly.
Sanghyeok’s expression softened, his voice steady and deliberate. “When I was younger, I thought that success would make the pressure disappear. I thought trophies would silence the doubts—mine and everyone else’s. But the truth is, it doesn’t work that way. Winning doesn’t erase the pressure… it only makes them heavier.”
Hyeonjoon glanced at him, he wasn’t sure how to respond to his idol showing his vulnerable side, but he at the same time he felt a pang in his heart because of how relatable it was. So he asked,
“Then… how do you deal with it?”
“You stop trying to carry it alone,” he said quietly.
“I used to think I had to be the strong one for my team, that showing any vulnerability would make me weak. But I was wrong.” he paused for a moment,
“ It’s okay to rely on your teammates, Hyeonjoon-ah. It’s okay to ask for help, to admit when you’re struggling. No one wins alone—not even me.”
Hyeonjoon stared at him, stunned by the honesty in Sanghyeok’s voice. This was Faker , the unshakable legend, admitting to weakness, to doubt.
“You say you’ve made mistakes,” Sanghyeok continued, his gaze unwavering. “So have I. Everyone remembers the victories, but I remember every loss, every failure. And every time, I thought about quitting, about giving up. But I didn’t. Do you know why?”
Hyeonjoon shook his head, his throat dry.
“Because I believed in something bigger than the mistakes,” Sanghyeok said.
“In my teammates, in my growth, in my love for the game itself.” He straightened, turning to look directly at Hyeonjoon.
“I believe in you, too. You wouldn’t be here if you didn’t have the talent, the potential to be great.”
Hyeonjoon’s breath caught, his chest tight. “But I—”
“You’re not perfect,” Sanghyeok interrupted gently. “And you don’t have to be. You’re here because you have something that no one else does, something that made this team choose you.” he leaned closer and gently put his hand on Hyeonjoon’s shoulder,
“Stop trying to replace Wojee. You’re not him, and you don’t have to be.”
The words settled deep within Hyeonjoon, cracking through the wall of doubt he had built around himself. His vision blurred slightly, though he quickly blinked it away. “…How do you stay so certain?” he asked, his voice unsteady.
Sanghyeok’s lips quirked into the faintest smile. “I’m not always certain. But I choose to believe in the people around me. And I choose to believe in myself, even when it’s hard.”
Hyeonjoon sat in silence, the weight in his chest loosening just a little. He looked down at his hands, the familiar tremor of self-doubt still lingering, but quieter now—like a shadow instead of a storm.
Sanghyeok rose to his feet, his chair scraping softly against the floor.
“The next time you doubt yourself,” he said, his voice calm and steady,
“Remember this: you’re not alone. Not here. Not in this team.”
Hyeonjoon’s throat tightened as the words hit home. He looked down at his hands, knuckles white from how tightly he was holding them together.
“I don’t know if I can do it,” he admitted, his voice small. “I’ve… I’ve made so many mistakes, Sanghyeok-hyung. Everyone expects me to fail.”
Sanghyeok leaned forward slightly, his voice soft but unwavering. “Then prove them wrong.”
Hyeonjoon blinked up at him, startled.
“You’ve already survived more than most players will ever experience,” Sanghyeok was looking straight at him, something in his usually calm eyes emits a spark,
“Those misplays are not enough to define you. What defines you is whether you give up or keep fighting. You’re here in T1, you haven’t given up. That’s what matters.”
Before Hyeonjoon could answer, the door swung open with a dramatic flair. Oner strolled in first, hands shoved in his pockets, followed by Minseok and Minhyeong, who carried cups of coffee.
“Whoa, is this a secret late-night meeting?” Oner teased, his grin wide as he dropped himself onto the nearest chair. “You didn’t invite us? Rude.”
“Hyeonjoon-ah,” Minseok sighed, smacking at Oner lightly on the arm. He looked at Hyeonjoon with a small grin, “Don’t let him get to you. Hyeonjoon-hyung, You doing okay?”
Hyeonjoon hesitated, glancing between them. “…I’m okay, guys.”
“You need to do better than that if you’re going to lie to our face, you know,” Minhyeong said, setting one of the cups on Hyeonjoon’s desk. “Drink this. You look like you need it.”
Hyeonjoon stared at the cup before him. Slowly, his hands wrapped around it, the warmth seeping into his palms.
“You’re not alone, you know,” Oner said, leaning against the desk beside him, his tone steady, but he looked away as if he was too embarrassed to say it, “We’re a team. If you fall, we’ll be there to catch you. Just like you’d be there for us.”
Minhyeong nodded. “Yeah, and if anyone doubts you? Just ignore them. Prove them wrong. That’s what we do best.”
Minseok threw a little punch at Hyeonjoon’s shoulder “Come on! Where’s the Doran that I know?” he smirked, “You belong here, Hyeonjoon-hyung. You’re stronger than you think.”
Sanghyeok watched quietly from where he stood, a small, almost imperceptible smile touching his lips as he saw the team rallying around their newest member.
Hyeonjoon looked around at their faces. Minhyeong, grinning and irreverent, full of confidence. Minseok, playful but thoughtful, sharp with words yet always grounding the team. Oner, crackling as fire, a force to be reckoned with. And then Sanghyeok—his calm, unwavering presence holding them all together.
Hyeonjoon’s chest ached, but in a different way now—softer, less lonely. For the first time in weeks, the weight on his shoulders felt lighter.
“You guys really think I can do this?” Hyeonjoon asked quietly, almost afraid to hear the answer.
“Of course you can,” Minhyeong confidently replied,“We’re T1, remember? We don’t let each other fall.”
Minseok nodded, his expression sincere. “No one expects you to be perfect, Hyeonjoon-hyung. We just need you to try. To fight with us.”
Hyeonjoon swallowed hard, emotion tightening his throat. He looked back at Sanghyeok, who gave him a faint, encouraging smile.
“It’s not about never falling ,” Sanghyeok said softly. “It’s about getting back up.”
Hyeonjoon exhaled shakily, feeling something shift deep within him—a flicker of hope, of belief.
“Okay….”, he whispered.
Hyeonjoon thought for a while, letting himself seeped in the unexpected warmth,
“…Thank you, guys.” He murmured, his voice soft but steady.
Sanghyeok nodded once, a small, reassuring gesture. His gaze then immediately shifted to the rest of the team, followed with a sigh,
“I know you guys have been eavesdropping.”
The room erupted into laughter,
“Ah, but it was such a moment, hyung,” Minhyeong teased, his grin wide and unrepentant as he rubbed the back of his neck.
“Feels like forever since we’ve seen ‘Faker-hyung’ mode in action.”
Never one to let an opportunity slide, Oner leaned in, his smirk mischievous. “If hyung is in ‘Faker-hyung’ mode, does that mean late-night snacks are on him tonight?”
Minhyeong and Minseok immediately perked up, they looked at each other as their grin widening. “Oh, We’re in!”
Sanghyeok shook his head, exhaling a long-suffering sigh, but there was a faint quirk at the corner of his lips—a smile he couldn’t quite suppress. He turned back to Hyeonjoon, his expression softening.
“What about you, Hyeonjoon-ah? Should we go?”
Hyeonjoon hesitated, startled by the question. The warmth of the coffee cup in his hands seemed to radiate outward, seeping into his chest, his face—to his eyes.
Slowly, he nodded. “…Okay.”
“That’s settled then!” Minhyeong declared, his voice bright and triumphant. “Let’s go! Team bonding time!”
The group shuffled out, their voices blending into a harmonious stream of jokes and chatter as they disappeared down the hallway.
Hyeonjoon lingered, rooted in place, his gaze fixed on his new teammates retreating backs.
For a moment…. he saw something more. The dim light of the practice room gave way in his mind to the dazzling brilliance of a championship stage. Those backs—his teammates—stood before him, their hands raised high, a trophy gleaming in the spotlight. He blinked, the image dissolving, but the ache it left behind was strangely hopeful.
It looked like all of his dreams.
He took a step then turned, glancing over his shoulder at the empty practice room. The silence there felt vast, heavy, filled with shadow of the doubts that had kept him trapped for so long.
“Hurry up, Hyeonjoon-hyung!”
He took another step forward, this time he allowed himself to walk out from that empty room.
I believe in you.
and for the first time in a long while, he allowed himself to believe it too.