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Moon Hyeonjun had always hated silence.
Not the peaceful kind—the kind that sits warm on your shoulders, like those late-night grinding sessions when the whole team typed and clicked in a rhythm that felt like breathing.
This was the other kind.
The kind that sat in the walls, under the floor, behind the door of the ninth-floor review room.
The kind that came after someone left.
The projector hummed softly as a paused replay hung frozen on the screen, grainy pixels of a teamfight gone wrong. Jaehyeon and Haneul argued in low voices over whether the engage was too early. Wooje stretched in his seat, groaning. Sanghyeok scribbled something in a small notebook.
And Hyeonjun sat at the end of the table, staring at his phone.
Delivered.
Not even Read, this time.
He flipped the phone face-down, pretending it didn’t bother him. Pretending his pulse didn’t jump every time the screen lit up.
“You zoning out again?” Minseok asked, nudging him with an elbow.
“No,” Hyeonjun lied.
Minseok’s grin was knowing, but he didn’t push. “If you say so.”
The door clicked open, and everyone turned instinctively—old habits.
But it wasn’t him.
Just a staff member with drinks.
Hyeonjun exhaled, shoulders dropping.
It had been four months since Seongwoong left. Four months of read receipts. Four months of silence, like someone had carved out the team room and left a phantom in its place.
Four months of everyone pretending they weren’t waiting for footsteps that never came back.
-
After review, Hyeonjun lingered as the others filed out.
The chair beside him stayed empty—Bengi’s old seat. Someone had removed the coffee mug he always left behind, the one with the fading SKT logo. But the faint ring on the table remained, a ghostly circle no one dared scrub away.
He sat there, staring at it, then at his phone again.
It was stupid.
He knew it was stupid.
He also didn’t stop typing.
Hyeonjun
hyung
we have scrims with hle tmr
first block is early
you used to warn me so i wouldnt oversleep lol
He hovered, re-reading the words.
Delete?
Re-write?
Don’t send?
He hit send.
The message blinked into place.
Delivered.
He waited.
The clock on the wall ticked.
One minute.
Two.
Three.
Four.
Still delivered.
“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath, shoving his phone into his pocket and standing so quickly his chair scraped across the floor.
He almost reached the door when footsteps padded behind him.
“Hey,” Sanghyeok called gently.
Hyeonjun froze.
Sanghyeok stepped closer, resting a hand on his shoulder. “You’ve been… tense lately.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re lying,” Sanghyeok said mildly.
Hyeonjun swallowed. “Are you—mad at him?”
Sanghyeok blinked. “At Seongwoong?”
“You don’t talk about him anymore.”
A slow exhale. “He made his decision. And I have to respect that.”
“But—”
“But it doesn’t mean I don’t wish he told us properly,” Sanghyeok admitted softly.
Hyeonjun’s throat tightened.
It wasn’t just him.
He wasn’t the only one who felt abandoned.
“Come on,” Sanghyeok said, giving his shoulder a squeeze. “We’ll grab dinner. Minhyung found a new place.”
They left the empty room together, lights flicking off behind them.
Still, as they walked down the hallway, Hyeonjun felt the familiar itch in his pocket. The phantom vibration he imagined even when it never happened.
By the time they reached the elevator, he finally checked.
Still Delivered.
Nothing else.
-
At the dorm later, the team shouted from the living room—Minseok yelling about a kill steal, Wooje insisting it wasn’t, the usual chaos.
Hyeonjun sat on his bed.
It was quiet again.
Too quiet.
He unlocked his phone, opened the chat, scrolled.
Months of blue bubbles.
He hesitated, then typed slowly.
Hyeonjun
hyung
i know ur busy or tired or just dont want to talk
and its okay
but
im still here
ill still be here
He didn’t send it.
Instead he deleted everything except three words.
Hyeonjun
good night hyung
He sent it.
A few seconds passed.
Delivered.
Then—
Blink.
Read.
Hyeonjun’s breath caught.
He waited.
One second.
Two.
Ten.
Read.
Only read.
And yet—something in his chest loosened. Just a little.
“Good night, hyung,” he whispered into the dark, even though there was no answer.
Not yet.
Maybe not ever.
But he whispered it anyway.
Outside, Minseok yelled again. Wooje yelled louder. Sanghyeok told them both to shut up. The world kept moving.
And in the palm of his hand, the tiny words “Read 1m ago” glowed like a stubborn ember refusing to die.
-
The screen dimmed.
He tapped it awake again.
Still Read.
The tiny gray text sat like a pin pressed directly into his ribs—sharp enough to sting, small enough that it could be mistaken for nothing.
Hyeonjun lay back against the headboard, phone on his chest, staring at the ceiling as if answers had been carved into the plaster.
Nothing.
He shouldn’t have expected anything.
He didn’t expect anything.
But somehow, the silence felt heavier now that he knew.
Seongwoong was there.
Alive.
Reading.
Not replying.
Not gone.
But not here either.
The worst middle ground.
He turned on his side, fingers brushing the phone again. The instinct was stupid—checking, refreshing, hoping—but he did it anyway.
The chat opened to the same frozen moment:
Read 3m ago
As if the universe was mocking him.
“Just say something,” he whispered into the empty room. It sounded too much like begging, so he shut his mouth immediately.
He flipped the phone over, face-down.
Sleep wouldn’t come.
Not with that read receipt burned into the back of his eyelids.
-
Sometime after 3 a.m., the door creaked and Wooje peeked in, hair messy, expression half-asleep.
He squinted. “Why are you still awake? Lights are on.”
“Couldn’t sleep,” Hyeonjun muttered.
Wooje caught sight of the phone on the bed. His expression softened in a way that made Hyeonjun want to throw something. “Still no reply?”
“Read,” he said.
Wooje’s eyebrows lifted. “Oh.”
“Yeah. Oh.”
A beat of silence.
Wooje leaned against the doorframe. “You know… some people don’t reply because they don’t know what to say.”
“Hyung was never one of those people.”
“Maybe he is now.”
That wasn’t comforting.
Wooje hesitated. “Want me to stay?”
Hyeonjun shook his head. “I’m fine.”
Wooje didn’t believe him, but he nodded anyway. “If you need anything… my room’s open.”
The door closed.
The silence returned. Heavy, pressing, familiar.
He rolled onto his back and stared at the phone again.
It hadn’t moved. The text hadn’t changed.
Read 12m ago
He turned it off, finally forcing himself to lie down. The sheets were cool against his skin. His eyes eventually fell shut.
But even in the dark, the unanswered message pulsed like a heartbeat he didn’t want.
-
Morning came too quickly.
Scrims were brutal—HLE stomped them first block, and Jaehyeon was grumbling, Haneul kept apologizing for no reason, and Sanghyeok had the quiet, sharp look he wore only when the team was spiraling.
But none of that felt as exhausting as the single line that waited for Hyeonjun every time he checked his phone.
Read Yesterday
He tried not to look at it during break. Really, he did. He shoved his phone deep in his hoodie pocket, locked the screen, threw it into his bag.
But the itch remained.
By the time scrim block ended, the daylight had already begun melting into early evening. The others filtered back to the dorm after dinner, and Hyeonjun stayed behind to “review his pathing,” which fooled absolutely no one.
He sat alone in the empty practice room, lights dimmed so only the monitors glowed.
The silence was too loud.
His fingers hovered over the screen again.
He didn’t want to type. Typing felt pathetic.
So he pressed the little microphone icon without thinking.
A soft beep echoed in the quiet.
He froze.
“Ah—shit—” he whispered, panic rising.
But his thumb hovered uselessly, and words slipped out before he could stop them.
“Hyung…”
He could’ve stopped there.
Should’ve.
But he didn’t.
“I don’t know what I’m doing,” he whispered. His voice sounded too small in the vast room. “I know you don’t owe me anything. I know you’re… done. With everything. With us. With coaching.”
The recording kept going.
“I just… I thought you’d at least say something. Even if it’s just ‘stop.’ Even if it’s just ‘I need space.’ Or ‘leave me alone.’”
He swallowed.
“You read everything. I know you see it. And I feel stupid. Really, really stupid.”
His chest tightened.
“I’m trying. I’m trying to respect whatever you want. But I don’t know what that is. And I—”
His breath caught.
“I miss talking to you.”
The words came out bare, scraped from places he didn’t want to acknowledge.
“I miss having you around, hyung. The room feels weird without you. The team feels weird. I feel weird.”
The sentence trembled, and he clenched his jaw, hating the waver.
“So if you don’t want to talk to me anymore, just… just say it. Please. I can take it.”
Silence.
He realized the mic was still recording.
He grabbed the phone.
“Fuck—fuck—no, no—”
His thumb slammed the screen.
Voice Message Sent.
The blood drained from his face.
“No—no no no no—”
He stabbed at the screen with shaking fingers.
The message opened.
The waveform glowed.
Three dots appeared under it.
Read
His heart stopped.
He hit Delete for Everyone so fast he nearly dropped the phone.
The message vanished.
Only the gray line remained:
You deleted a voice message.
He stared at it, chest tight, breath shaking.
He waited.
Five seconds.
Ten.
Thirty.
One minute.
Nothing.
Another read.
Another silence.
He pressed both hands to his face.
“Fuuuuck.”
It echoed in the empty room like a confession.
-
Someone tapped on the doorframe.
Wooje.
His expression tightened immediately at the sight of Hyeonjun’s face. “What happened?”
Hyeonjun shook his head. “Nothing.”
“Hyeonjun.”
“It’s nothing.”
“You look like you saw a ghost.”
“I said it’s nothing!”
The room went quiet at the snap, and guilt hit almost immediately.
Wooje, to his credit, only nodded slowly. “Okay,” he said quietly. “But if you need anything… I’m right outside.”
The door closed.
Hyeonjun’s pulse thundered.
He looked at his phone again.
Still nothing.
No reply.
No new message.
Only the ghost of what he’d said—words Seongwoong had no doubt heard, then watched vanish.
He leaned back in the chair, exhaling shakily.
“Why do I keep doing this to myself…”
The screen dimmed.
The room darkened.
The silence returned, heavy and unrelenting.
And the last thing he saw before finally leaving the room was the empty gray line:
Read 14m ago
-
The cracks showed up slowly at first.
A clipped moment from a backstage camera.
A screenshot of Hyeonjun standing alone while the team laughed to the side.
A fan edit comparing his smiles from last year and now.
A Reddit thread titled “Is Oner okay?” that climbed faster than it should have.
Then came the messages.
Thousands of them.
“Why does Oner look tired lately?”
“Did something happen behind the scenes?”
“He seems different. Not bad, just… not the same.”
Hyeonjun ignored them.
Or tried to.
He did everything normally—scrims, VOD reviews, meals, pretending to sleep.
And, of course, streaming.
Streaming was routine.
Predictable.
Safe.
Even when nothing else was.
-
He switched on the camera, fixed his hair, and smiled like he hadn’t spent hours replaying a deleted voice message in his head.
“Hello,” he said brightly. “I’ll do some solo queue today.”
Chat exploded with greetings, emotes, and questions about his day. A few comments slipped in:
“He looks tired T__T”
“Take care Oner-nim!”
“Why u sad??”
He pretended not to see any of them.
Queue popped.
He accepted.
Champion select loaded in.
He hovered Mid lane out of habit—it helped him relax. But he didn’t lock in anything yet, waiting to see what his team picked.
Then the Jungler locked in first.
Lee Sin.
Not just Lee Sin.
T1 Lee Sin.
His Lee Sin.
His champion skin.
The recall he and Riot had designed.
The splash art he’d stared at for hours.
The voice lines that still felt surreal.
And the Jungler—whoever they were—selected it instantly, like they had been waiting years just to click that button.
The model spun on the loading screen:
white and red robes, glowing sash, T1 crest—every part of it unmistakable.
Chat erupted.
“OMG THE SKINNNN”
“Oner look!!!”
“He’s using YOUR skin!!”
“YOU GOT RECOGNIZED!!”
He stared at it a beat too long.
His smile slipped before he forced it back.
“Ah… yeah,” he said, clearing his throat. “New skin.”
He wished he sounded proud.
He didn’t.
Seeing it was supposed to feel good.
Something he earned.
Something worth celebrating.
But instead, something knotted painfully under his ribs.
Because the timing was cruel.
The skin—their collective victory—came right when someone who should’ve been celebrating with them had disappeared.
Right when his messages went unread.
Right when everything felt like a wound with salt poured over.
He locked in Ahri.
Chat exploded again.
“NO JG TODAY??”
“Ahri??”
“He’s avoiding Lee Sin KEKW”
He forced a laugh. “Just want to relax today.”
It wasn’t a lie.
But it wasn’t the truth either.
The game loaded in.
His screen lit with Summoner’s Rift, but all he could see was the Lee Sin model hopping at fountain, spamming emotes, showing off the skin.
He moved his Ahri to lane.
The Jungler typed:
jungler: oner hyung ㅋㅋㅋ nice skin?
Thousands of viewers saw it appear at the same time he did, and chat instantly burst.
“OMG HE KNOWS??”
“!!??”
“SAY HI TO HIM!!!”
His fingers hovered over the keyboard.
Answer?
Ignore?
Pretend he didn’t see it?
He typed nothing.
He didn’t trust himself to.
The Lee Sin dashed across the map, smooth and confident, Q’s landing perfectly, pathing aggressive—whoever it was, they were good.
He should be enjoying this.
A stranger honoring him by using his skin.
His name.
His work.
Instead, he felt the tight, familiar pressure build in his chest again.
The same one from the practice room.
The same one from the deleted message.
The same one from every “Read” with no reply.
When Lee Sin ganked mid, saving his life with a perfect Insec, chat exploded in praise.
“WHAT A COMBO omg”
“ONER JUNIOR???”
“HE WANTS DADDY ONER’S APPROVAL LMAOOO”
He forced a smile.
“Nice play,” he said.
His voice cracked just a little.
Lee Sin pinged a happy emote beside him.
But all he could think was—
If Seongwoong ever watched his streams,
would he feel proud?
Would he smile at the skin?
Would he regret the silence?
Would he reply?
Would he ever reply?
“Hyeonjun?” someone said in the background.
Sanghyeok’s voice.
He had opened the door slightly.
Just enough to see him on stream.
Just enough to see something in his face that wasn’t usually there.
“You okay?” Sanghyeok mouthed.
Hyeonjun nodded.
He hoped the camera didn’t catch how late that nod came.
-
The game ended in victory.
He thanked chat.
He smiled.
He kept it together.
As soon as he ended the stream, the smile slid off like a mask dropped to the floor.
He leaned back in his chair and breathed out shakily.
His phone buzzed with a notification.
For a split second, his heart jumped.
But it was just a fan post.
A thread titled:
“Why does Oner seem sad whenever Lee Sin appears?”
He closed his eyes.
And whispered, barely audible:
“It’s not Lee Sin.”
He swallowed.
“It’s who’s missing.”
-
The media shoot was nothing special.
Same cameras. Same bright lights. Same poses the photographer always requested—arms crossed, a smirk, neutral face, one serious, one “fun,” one with the whole team pretending to laugh.
But Hyeonjun felt wired.
Restless.
Like something had been crouching behind his ribs since the deleted voice message and refused to let him breathe normally.
“Okay! Next shot—Oner in the center,” the photographer called.
He moved into place automatically.
Chin tilted.
Back straight.
Expression calm.
The flash went off.
“Good! Now softer expression—yes, like that.”
Flash.
“Perfect.”
He stepped aside to let Minseok take his turn. Crew members shuffled around adjusting cables and lights. Staff wearing black shirts and headsets moved back and forth carrying props.
Every media day looked like this.
Every one felt predictable.
Which made what he saw stand out sharply—wrongly—like a glitch.
A figure.
Standing near the back corner of the studio behind a stack of equipment crates.
A man with:
A black baseball cap.
Thick glasses catching the reflection of the lights.
A white mask pulled high—way higher than normal—covering nearly half his face.
He stood half-turned.
Hands in pockets.
Still, except for the slight tilt of his head.
At first glance he looked like any crew member.
But something inside Hyeonjun jolted violently.
No.
No, that wasn’t just a staff.
He knew that posture.
He knew that shape.
He knew that slouched way of leaning against a wall, pretending to be invisible, pretending not to be watching them.
His body moved before thought did.
He took two slow steps forward, breath shallow.
The figure didn’t move.
Didn’t run.
Didn’t step forward either.
He simply watched.
And Hyeonjun swore—swore on everything he had—that those were the same eyes he’d grown up looking at from stage to practice room to MSI to Worlds.
Seongwoong-hyung.
“Hyung…?”
It slipped out. Barely a whisper. Barely a breath.
Wooje, standing beside him, glanced over. “What?”
Hyeonjun didn’t respond.
He blinked—
And the figure turned.
Not away.
But deeper into the shadows.
He walked quickly. Too quickly for a regular staff in a small studio.
Someone passed in front of Hyeonjun’s view—a makeup artist carrying powder and brushes. A light stand rolled across the floor. Minseok stepped into frame.
Just a moment of blocked vision.
One moment.
When the path cleared—
The silhouette was gone.
Like he’d never been there.
“Wait—what?” Hyeonjun whispered, stepping forward again.
But the corner was empty.
Nothing but cables, folded backdrops, and a staff jacket on a chair.
Wooje frowned. “What is it? You look pale.”
“I…”
He swallowed.
His pulse pounded.
His fingers were shaking.
“I thought I saw someone.”
“Who?”
He opened his mouth.
Closed it.
Then said softly, “No one.”
He stepped back into place for the team photo, but his mind wasn’t in the room anymore.
He knew what he saw.
He knew.
And suddenly the studio lights felt too loud, too bright, too close.
Because if that really was Bengi—
If he really came all the way here—
If he watched from the shadows but said nothing—
That hurt worse than any silence.
-
The shoot ended. The team packed up. Staff moved on.
But when they walked out of the building, Hyeonjun couldn’t stop himself from scanning every face in the lobby. Every staff member. Every stranger wearing a mask.
None of them were him.
He told himself he imagined it.
He told himself he was tired, stressed, projecting, desperate.
But late that night, lying in bed with the lights off and his heartbeat still loud in his ears—
He whispered into the dark:
“I know it was you, hyung.”
The silence didn’t deny it.
Which somehow… felt like confirmation.
-
Match days always felt electric.
The roar of the audience.
The vibration of the stage beneath his shoes.
The thrum of bass pulsing with the opening ceremony music.
Hyeonjun usually loved it.
But today, something beneath his skin buzzed for a different reason.
The silhouette at the media shoot hadn’t left his mind.
Not last night.
Not during warmups.
Not even when Sanghyeok slapped him lightly on the back and said, “Focus.”
He tried.
He really did.
The team walked onto the stage to their usual cheers—Minseok waving, Wooje smiling shyly, Jaehyeon doing a stiff bow because he hated attention.
And Hyeonjun scanned the crowd.
Not on purpose.
Instinct.
Rows of fans holding banners.
Light sticks.
Jerseys.
Phones recording.
Hyeonjun’s eyes moved automatically, searching—
And then stopped.
Fourth row, aisle seat.
A hooded jacket.
A black baseball cap pulled low.
Glasses catching the stage lights.
A mask pulled up too high, hiding half the face.
Someone who didn’t clap.
Didn’t hold a banner.
Didn’t look excited.
Someone who watched with stillness.
With a gaze that cut sharper than any camera.
Someone who looked like they were analyzing, calculating, understanding every movement on stage.
Their eyes.
It was the eyes.
Sharp.
Quiet.
Heavy with meaning.
Hyeonjun froze mid-step.
His breath caught.
Their eyes met.
And everything inside him confirmed what he already knew.
That wasn’t a fan.
That wasn’t a stranger.
That wasn’t wishful thinking or stress or imagination.
That was Bae Seongwoong.
Hidden in plain sight.
Watching from the fourth row, as if he could blend into a sea of people who adored the team he left.
A shock ran through Hyeonjun so intensely he almost missed his mark on stage.
He moved to his seat mechanically, ears ringing, hands slightly shaking beneath the desk as he put on his headset.
Wooje nudged his elbow. “Hey. You okay?”
No, he wanted to say.
He wanted to say he’s here.
But the words stuck in his throat like something too dangerous to speak aloud.
“Yeah,” he whispered.
-
Once the game started, muscle memory took over.
Pathing.
Tracking.
Reading opponents.
Calling timers.
Everything moved.
Everything flowed.
But he felt those eyes on him the entire time.
Every fight.
Every invade.
Every risk.
Every mistake.
Every brilliant moment.
He knew them too well—
those eyes that used to stand behind him in reviewing rooms,
those eyes that narrowed when he played greedy,
those eyes that softened when he made the right call,
those eyes that had watched him grow from rookie to champion.
They were the same eyes locked on him now.
He didn’t look back.
He couldn’t.
But he felt it.
Like gravity.
Like a hand on his shoulder.
Like a weight he didn’t know if he wanted or hated.
-
They won.
Close game.
Messy, but winnable.
The crowd erupted, noise crashing over them like waves. Teammates patted him on the back—Minseok shouting “Let’s goooo!” beside him.
But all Hyeonjun wanted was to look again.
He didn’t dare during the handshakes.
Didn’t dare during the camerawork.
Didn’t dare during the bow.
But when the team filed off stage and he dared one last glance toward the fourth row—
The seat was empty.
No jacket.
No cap.
No glasses.
No lingering silhouette.
Gone.
Like he never existed in that spot at all.
His throat tightened painfully.
He stood frozen until Sanghyeok touched his shoulder. “Good job,” he said gently.
Hyeonjun swallowed. “Thanks.”
But his voice sounded far away.
Because the truth hit him harder than the victory:
Seongwoong wasn’t avoiding the team completely.
He wasn’t hiding from their matches.
He wasn’t ignoring everything.
He was watching.
Silently.
From the dark.
From the spaces no one else noticed.
Watching him.
The knowledge burned—half relief, half ache, half something too complicated to name.
And as the team walked back toward the waiting room, Hyeonjun whispered under his breath:
“You saw me.”
He didn’t know if he meant the match.
Or the messages.
Or the voice he deleted.
But saying it made his chest hurt less.
Even if the silence that answered him still did.
-
The hallway behind the stage buzzed with the aftermath of a win—staff calling orders, casters rushing to record recaps, camera crews weaving around players.
But all of it blurred in the background for Hyeonjun.
His mind stayed stuck on the fourth-row seat.
On the silhouette that vanished.
On the eyes that had seen him.
He barely heard Wooje teasing Minseok. Barely registered Sanghyeok talking to a producer. He only snapped back to reality when a staff member—someone he didn’t recognize—stepped in front of him.
Short haircut. Black jacket. ID lanyard tucked into their pocket instead of worn properly.
They extended a cold can of an energy drink.
“For you,” they said.
He blinked. “Oh. Thank you.”
“And this.”
A folded piece of paper.
Small. Plain white. Crisp edges.
Before he could ask anything, the staff member stepped aside and slipped into the sea of backstage people—gone in seconds, swallowed by the crowd like a ghost.
Hyeonjun stared at the paper.
“What’s that?” Minseok asked, leaning over.
“Just… something someone gave me.”
He slipped it into his hoodie pocket before anyone else could peek and followed the team to the waiting room.
-
The moment the door shut and the team erupted into chatter—Wooje laughing at some meme Minhyung found, Haneul waving his arms excitedly—Hyeonjun quietly sat down on the far sofa.
He took the note out.
It felt… too light.
He unfolded it.
One crease.
Two.
The inside was blank.
Except for a single, deliberate dot.
A black dot in the center.
Small.
Perfectly round.
Drawn with a pen he recognized immediately.
He stared at it.
His pulse thumped in his ears.
A dot.
A single, tiny dot.
Nothing else.
He exhaled shakily.
Because he knew exactly what it meant.
-
The dot wasn’t random.
It wasn’t meaningless.
It wasn’t empty.
It was something Seongwoong did.
Always.
When he wanted to check if a pen worked before writing something down.
One small dot at the corner of a page.
A quiet habit.
Older than the team.
Older than T1.
Old enough that only people who worked closely with him noticed.
Old enough that only someone who watched him work every day would recognize it instantly.
Hyeonjun’s fingers tightened around the paper.
No name.
No message.
No explanation.
Just a dot.
But it said everything.
You are right.
I was there.
I saw you.
I am watching.
Silently.
From the distance I chose.
His throat constricted.
He folded the paper again carefully, almost reverently, as if afraid it would disappear.
When he looked up, he met Sanghyeok’s eyes across the room.
The captain frowned slightly.
Concerned.
Reading him too easily.
Hyeonjun quickly looked away.
-
After the team dispersed for the night, he slipped back into his room, shut the door, and sat on his bed.
He placed the folded note on his knee.
Stared at it again.
One dot.
Why?
Why now?
Why stay silent but stay close?
He didn’t know.
And the ache of not knowing burned.
He reached for his phone.
Opened their chat.
His last messages stared back.
Still read.
Still unanswered.
He typed:
Hyeonjun
did you send that
He hesitated.
Deleted.
Typed again.
Hyeonjun
i saw you today
Deleted.
He tried again.
Hyeonjun
if that was you
thank you
He hovered.
Then pressed send.
Delivered.
He waited.
Five seconds.
Ten.
A minute.
Nothing.
Then—
Read
No reply.
But this time, it didn’t feel like indifference.
It felt like acknowledgment.
Quiet. Complicated.
Painful.
Real.
And he held the note in his hand—one dot pressed into the paper—like it meant more than any message ever could.
-
Streaming felt safer than silence.
Safer than waiting.
Safer than watching his phone light up with nothing but read receipts.
So that evening, Hyeonjun went live again.
“Hello,” he said, the usual smile on his face. “I’ll just do some filler games today. No jungle.”
Chat reacted instantly.
“NO LEE SIN AGAIN???”
“Another Ahri day?”
“Oner avoiding his role KEKW”
He laughed softly—too softly. “Just relaxing today.”
He said it casually, but the truth slid under the words:
He wasn’t ready to touch Lee Sin.
Not when it felt like everything connected to him had sharp edges.
Queue popped.
Champion select loaded.
No pressure.
No expectations.
He hovered Mid.
And then the Jungler—second pick—locked in Nidalee.
“Nidalee,” he repeated under his breath.
A harmless champion. Normal.
But from the first second, something felt… wrong.
No—
Not wrong.
Familiar.
He frowned slightly, but didn’t say anything to chat.
He locked in Orianna.
“Okay, let’s just have a calm game,” he muttered.
-
The game began.
Top leashed.
Nidalee started red.
Standard path.
But the movements were too smooth.
The camera flicks too clean.
The spear angles calculated with frightening precision.
Hyeonjun felt his chest tighten.
This wasn’t normal solo queue Nidalee.
This was—
He blinked.
No.
No way.
He was imagining it.
Right?
But then Nidalee finished the clear in a route he knew almost too well:
Red → Krugs → Raptors → Wolves → Blue → Gromp
Fastest possible tempo.
Exactly the route Seongwoong had taught him in their private 1v1 practice rooms during 2022.
His breath hitched.
It’s just coincidence… right?
Then Nidalee appeared mid at exactly 2:48.
No ping.
No chat.
Just a hop, spear, auto-reset, pounce, Q.
Clean.
Precise.
Silent.
He shielded himself just in time, and the enemy mid burned flash.
Chat erupted.
“OH???”
“This Nidalee diff??”
“Oner getting babysat LOL”
He tried to laugh.
It didn’t come out right.
The Nidalee retreated into fog of war—no emote, no message. Just one ping on raptors.
The same ping Bengi used to spam when telling him take these on reset.
Hyeonjun’s hand shook slightly on the mouse.
In the next five minutes, Nidalee did every single thing Seongwoong would have done:
Invaded on second spawn.
Hit every spear angle.
Used cougar form to check bushes instead of face-checking.
Left traps in places only reviewers knew to leave them.
And never typed.
Only pings.
Only those quiet, efficient pings that said everything without saying anything.
At 12 minutes, when Hyeonjun misplayed a trade, Nidalee appeared mid again with no warning—instantly, like she predicted the error before it happened.
A spear flew from fog, saving him.
Chat exploded.
“THIS JUNGLER LOVES YOU OMG”
“BENGI IS THAT YOU KEKW”
“NIDALEE GOD!!”
His heartbeat spiked.
He zoomed in.
The Nidalee hopped in place once.
Then—
She used the nod emote.
Once.
Soft.
Subtle.
Small.
The same nod Seongwoong used whenever he reviewed one of Hyeonjun’s replays and quietly approved.
Hyeonjun swallowed hard.
“Ah…” He cleared his throat. “Our jungler is… very good today.”
Chat teased him nonstop.
But he barely heard them.
His pulse was too loud.
Something was wrong.
Or right.
Or impossible.
He didn’t know.
Not until the enemy surrendered at 21 minutes.
Victory.
Nidalee typed for the first time.
One message.
One single, small message that froze every nerve in his body.
jungler:
good work
Two words.
Plain.
Formal.
Neutral.
His breath stopped.
That phrasing.
He knew it.
He knew exactly who said “good work” like that.
Always after a match.
Always after a review.
Always quietly.
He didn’t move.
Didn’t breathe.
Didn’t speak.
And then the Nidalee instantly logged off.
Vanished from the lobby.
Gone.
Like a shadow into fog.
Chat exploded.
But Hyeonjun didn’t see any of it.
He just stared at the empty spot where Nidalee’s name had been.
Hands trembling.
Because that playstyle, those pings, that emote—
And those two words…
There was only one person who ever used them.
And he realized, with a dizzying rush of certainty:
This wasn’t a coincidence.
This wasn’t a fan.
This wasn’t luck.
This was him.
The same man hiding in fourth-row seats.
The same silhouette behind the crates.
The same dot on the note.
Seongwoong-hyung.
He was watching.
He was there.
He was in the game with him.
And he couldn’t hide that fact if he tried.
Hyeonjun leaned back, breath shuddering.
He whispered so softly the mic didn’t pick it up:
“Hyung… why?”
-
He ended the stream earlier than usual.
Chat begged for another game, but he forced a smile, said he was tired, and shut everything off. The OBS window faded. The room dimmed. The silence settled too quickly, too heavily.
He sat there for a long time, headset still around his neck, fingers curled loosely around his mouse.
It wasn’t just a good Nidalee.
It wasn’t just a coincidence.
He knew that gameplay. That pacing.
That instinctive pathing.
He’d spent years studying it.
He’d spent years learning from it.
And tonight, he’d played with it again.
He leaned back, covering his face with both hands, breath uneven.
He wasn’t imagining it.
He wasn’t projecting.
He wasn’t desperate.
It was Bengi.
He was certain now.
The door creaked.
Hyeonjun jumped.
Wooje poked his head in, hair mussed, wearing pajama pants and a hoodie that was probably stolen from Minseok. He blinked at the darkened room.
“You done?” he asked softly.
“Yeah,” Hyeonjun said, clearing his throat. “Just finished.”
Wooje stepped inside. Closed the door behind him.
“You okay?”
“I’m fine,” he replied too quickly.
Wooje gave him a look. A quiet, patient, I know you’re lying look.
“You kind of rushed off stream,” he said gently. “And you looked… weird. Not bad-weird. Just… like something happened.”
Hyeonjun turned away. “I’m fine,” he repeated.
“You’ve been saying that a lot.” Wooje sat at the edge of the bed, watching him. “Look, you don’t have to tell me. But—if something’s wrong, you can.”
“I know,” he whispered.
A long pause.
Wooje kept waiting for more.
Hyeonjun didn’t give it.
Eventually, Wooje exhaled, stood up, and squeezed his shoulder in passing. “Just don’t stay up too late,” he said quietly. “Please.”
The door clicked shut behind him.
The silence returned.
But this time, it wasn’t emptiness.
It was pressure.
Like words were trying to claw their way out of his chest but had no place to go.
He stared at his screen.
He should sleep.
He should rest.
He should stop.
But his fingers moved to the mouse.
To the client.
He queued up again.
Alone.
Just one more.
He didn’t even know what he was hoping for.
Another coincidence?
Another clue?
Another ghost through the fog?
The queue popped.
His breath stilled.
Champion select loaded.
His eyes scanned quickly—and froze.
Jng: Elise
Locked instantly.
Not Nidalee this time.
Not the same username.
A completely different one.
But—
Elise hovered.
Then selected a skin.
SKT Elise.
The one Bengi used.
The one associated with him forever.
His throat tightened.
His fingers hovered over the keyboard, suspended in disbelief.
No way.
No way.
He stared at the monitor.
No ping.
No chat.
Just the champion turning slowly on the loading screen.
The spider queen with SKT red and black armor, poised elegantly—the skin so old, but so iconic it might as well have been sacred.
The loading screen ticked down.
Hyeonjun clicked the Elise’s profile.
Different username.
New account.
Low mastery.
No ranked history.
But—
The rune page was a little strange.
Non-meta.
Not standard.
Too specific.
Exactly the kind of rune page Seongwoong tinkered with privately before teaching it.
His stomach flipped.
The game loaded in.
-
The Elise moved immediately—no hesitation, no fumbling, no testing movement.
Just—
Perfect muscle memory.
Immediate spider form.
Clean auto-attack resets.
Pixel-perfect leash cancel.
First clear path he recognized so deeply it almost hurt.
Red → Raptors → Blue.
The exact old-school SKT clear.
Something no one used anymore.
His mouth went dry.
He followed the mini-map like it was a lifeline.
Elise didn’t type.
Didn’t emote.
Didn’t even ping except for timers.
But everything else—
The pathing.
The routeing.
The decisions.
The timings.
The patient cocoon angles.
Every single detail whispered one impossible truth:
It was him.
Not a fan.
Not a random.
Not a coincidence.
Seongwoong was here.
In his game.
Again.
Choosing a different champion.
Choosing a different account.
Choosing to stay unseen.
But not really.
Not to him.
At 7 minutes, Hyeonjun misplayed a wave and nearly died to a gank.
Elise dropped from a perfect angle—cocoon hitting mid-dash, spiderlings finishing the job, saving him with barely 20 HP to spare.
Chat didn’t see it.
Stream wasn’t on.
But his breath caught.
Elise didn’t stick around.
Didn’t spam emotes.
Didn’t type gj or ?.
Just placed a ward next to his raptors.
A single ward.
The same place Seongwoong always put it for him during scrims, saying quietly:
“This will protect you without being obvious.”
His eyes stung.
He blinked rapidly.
And when he pinged Elise once—just a simple thank you ping—the Jungler stopped.
Turned.
Faced his character.
And pressed the nod emote.
Just once.
Soft.
Quiet.
Then returned to jungle.
The rest of the game blurred together.
They won.
He didn’t remember half of it.
At the scoreboard, before he could even hover over the Elise—
The Jungler disconnected instantly.
Logged off the client entirely.
Vanished.
Hyeonjun stared at the empty lobby.
The empty space where the name had been.
His hands trembled.
He reached for his phone.
Opened messages.
Typed:
Hyeonjun
hyung
He stopped.
Deleted it.
Tried again.
Hyeonjun
why
Deleted.
Tried once more.
Hyeonjun
you were there again
He hovered.
Sent.
Delivered.
No read.
Not this time.
But he didn’t mind.
He wasn’t guessing anymore.
He wasn’t imagining anything.
Something was happening.
Something secret.
Something deliberate.
Something he didn’t understand yet.
But Bengi—
Seongwoong-hyung—
He wasn’t gone.
Not really.
Not anymore.
-
The message he sent stayed Delivered.
Not Read.
For the first time in weeks.
He should have felt relieved.
Instead, anxiety clung to his ribs like ice.
He lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, phone resting on his chest, heartbeat loud enough to drown out the dorm’s quiet hum.
It was past 2 a.m.
Everyone else was asleep.
Even Seoul outside the window felt muted.
He closed his eyes.
And then—
BZZT — BZZT — BZZT
His phone vibrated violently against his sternum.
Unknown number.
His pulse spiked.
He sat up slowly, chest tightening.
Ringtone set to silent. Screen glowing in the dark.
He hesitated.
Then answered.
“…Hello?”
Silence.
Cold, empty silence.
But not truly empty.
He heard it.
Wind.
Soft.
Faint.
Like someone was standing outside.
Or somewhere open.
Or walking.
And breathing.
Slow.
Measured.
Unsteady.
Someone was there.
Listening.
Hyeonjun held his breath.
His voice came out barely above a whisper:
“…Hyung?”
Silence.
The faint wind shifted.
The soft breathing caught—barely, like someone flinched when hearing him say it.
“Hyung… if it’s you… please… just say something.”
Nothing.
Just the sound of quiet breathing in his ear.
He pressed a shaking hand to his forehead.
“Please,” he whispered. “Don’t do this. Just… talk to me.”
Silence.
Silence that felt like a knife.
Minutes passed.
Three.
Four.
Five.
Still breathing.
Still wind.
No words.
Finally—
A click.
The call ended.
The phone screen dimmed.
Hyeonjun sat in the dark, hand over his mouth, heart breaking open in the quiet.
-
He didn’t sleep.
When morning came, he dragged himself out of bed, splashed water on his face, and forced himself to act normal.
There was a team meeting later, and he needed to prepare. Needed to look fine. Needed to pretend the missed call wasn’t replaying in his head every thirty seconds.
He headed to the team’s streaming area, wanting to lose himself in ranked again.
When he reached the door, he stopped.
Something sat on the floor.
A bag.
Small.
Black.
Neatly placed, like someone had set it down with care.
His breath stilled.
He crouched and lifted it.
Inside:
—His favorite energy drink flavor, the one he never talked about publicly.
—A warm can, like someone just bought it.
—A folded cloth pouch.
—A handwritten note.
His fingers shook as he opened the note.
Again, nothing but a dot.
But this time—
Below the dot—
A small arrow.
Pointing downward.
He opened the pouch.
A bracelet.
Black thread, simple, braided.
The kind he used to wear during scrims because Seongwoong said it “looked lucky.”
He hadn’t worn it in almost two years.
His knees buckled.
He gripped the doorframe, head dropping, breath trembling.
Footsteps approached behind him.
“Morning—oh.”
Bang’s voice trailed off as he saw his face. “Oner?”
Jeesun followed a moment later, holding a cup of tea. “Hyeonjun-ssi? Are you okay—”
He turned around.
And that was all it took.
His face crumpled.
All the silence, the watching, the notes, the calls, the Elise, the Nidalee, the dot—
All of it crushed the last piece of strength he’d been clinging to.
A broken inhale escaped him, sharp and shaky.
Bang reacted instantly—dropping to his knees, gripping both of Hyeonjun’s shoulders.
“Hey—hey, hey—what happened? Talk to me.”
Jeesun set the tea aside, placing a hand on his back. “It’s okay. You’re okay. Just breathe.”
But he couldn’t.
The sob ripped out of him before he could stop it.
A raw, choking sound that frightened even himself.
Bang pulled him into a tight hug, strong arms around him, grounding him.
Jeesun wrapped her arms around both of them, whispering gently, “It’s alright. You’re safe. Let it out.”
He cried harder.
Cried into Bang’s shoulder.
Cried with shaking hands clutching the bracelet.
Cried as his knees hit the floor again.
Cried like everything he’d been holding back for months finally shattered.
Bang held him, jaw clenched, silent and steady.
Jeesun smoothed his hair, whispering words he barely heard but still clung to.
He didn’t know how long it lasted.
Minutes.
Maybe longer.
Eventually, the sobs softened into shaky breaths.
Bang didn’t let go.
Jeesun didn’t step back.
He whispered hoarsely:
“…Hyung came back.”
Bang stiffened.
Jeesun looked up sharply.
But neither spoke.
Neither doubted.
Neither thought he was imagining it.
Bang squeezed his shoulder gently.
“We’re here,” he murmured. “Whatever’s happening… you’re not alone.”
And for the first time in months—
Hyeonjun let himself believe it.
-
The tears should have stopped.
They didn’t.
His eyes felt raw, his throat hurt, and his breathing stuttered in uneven waves—but his body refused to calm, refused to obey, refused to stop shaking.
Bang sat beside him on the sofa, silently handing tissues one by one. His soon-to-be wife, Jeesun, knelt in front of him, thumb brushing gently under his swollen eyes like he was a child who’d scraped his knee instead of a grown man collapsing under a year’s worth of ghosts.
He didn’t know how long he cried.
Time blurred.
His fingers clutched at the gift box on his lap—the one someone had left in front of his streaming room door. Black wrapping. Red ribbon. No name. Inside:
A small red hair tie.
Simple. Old-fashioned.
The exact kind Bengi wore in 2015 when he used to grow his hair out for fun during off-season.
A thing no fan would know mattered.
But someone who sat beside him for years—someone who watched him, taught him, worried for him—would remember.
It was too much.
Too much proof.
Too much closeness.
Too much distance.
Too much silence.
His tears renewed all over again.
Bang looked helpless.
Jeesun looked worried.
And Hyeonjun couldn’t even form words.
“Hey,” Bang murmured, patting his knee awkwardly. “Just… let it out.”
Jeesun shot him a side-eye. “Terrible comfort technique, babe.”
“It’s worked before!”
“When? Name one time comforting anyone involved you patting them like an injured dog.”
Bang opened his mouth, closed it, frowned, then said defensively, “Wolf cried that one time—”
“Because you scared him, not comforted him!”
Their bickering continued—growing more dramatic, more ridiculous, more desperate to fill the space with something other than Hyeonjun’s choked sobbing.
And somehow—
Somehow—
A wet, broken chuckle slipped out of him.
Both Bang and Jeesun froze mid-argument and turned to stare at him.
Bang brightened instantly. “See? See? I am comforting!”
“Babe, he’s laughing because you’re unbelievable, not because you’re comforting.”
“Hyeonjun—am I comforting? Tell her!”
He let out another watery breath, rubbing at his swollen eyes. “You two… are so loud.”
Jeesun smiled softly. “There. That’s better.”
But the flicker of relief on their faces made something inside him twist sharply.
He curled forward, elbows on his knees. The hair tie dangled limply from his fingers.
And in that moment—
when the panic faded—
when the grief quieted—
when his breathing steadied enough to think—
He realized something.
Something he should have realized a long time ago.
Something that made his chest crack all over again.
It wasn’t just his loss.
It wasn’t just him Bengi left behind.
He was surrounded by it.
Bang, who still checked the old group chat sometimes even though it’d been silent for over a year.
Sanghyeok, who pretended to be fine but stared at the empty corner seat during meetings.
Wolf, who had smiled too brightly when talking about Seongwoong.
Keria, whose expression tightened every time someone mentioned “old staff.”
And every SKT player from the old era who’d sworn by the man they called their rock.
The ache didn’t belong to only him.
It belonged to all of them.
The weight of that realization crushed him low.
“All of you…” he whispered, voice trembling. “All of you must’ve felt it worse.”
Bang’s breath hitched.
Jeesun’s smile dimmed.
“You were all with him longer. He… he meant so much to all of you. And I was just—just—”
Bang moved beside him so fast the sofa dipped, grabbing both his shoulders.
“Yah,” he said firmly. “Don’t you ever say that.”
Jeesun touched his hand. “He loved all of you. You’re not ‘just’ anything.”
“But—”
His voice broke again.
“He left us.”
Something in Bang’s face softened—an ache older, deeper, heavier than words.
“Hyeonjun…” he said quietly. “We lost him too.”
“And we’ve been trying to live with it the whole time,” Jeesun added, her voice trembling.
“Just because we’re older doesn’t mean it hurt less,” Bang finished.
Hyeonjun’s breath cracked in his chest.
He bowed his head, hair falling over his eyes, and the tears hit again—silent this time, exhausted and soft.
But this time… he wasn’t alone.
Bang’s hand stayed steady on his back.
Jeesun’s fingers threaded gently through his.
And for the first time since all of this began—
He didn’t feel like he was drowning alone in a loss too big for one person.
He felt the weight of an entire legacy grieving with him.
And in the middle of his quiet crying, he heard Bang mutter under his breath:
“Babe, get the warm tea.”
“I already am.”
“Good, because I have no idea how to deal with emotions.”
“Obviously.”
Hyeonjun let out another broken laugh.
Soft.
Small.
Real.
Because even though nothing was fixed—
He didn’t feel alone anymore.
-
Bang had told him to come alone.
He hadn’t said why.
He hadn’t said who.
Just sent that short, strange text:
Someone wants to meet you, Hyeonjun.
It had confused him enough that he didn’t even overthink it—didn’t spiral, didn’t panic. Just grabbed a jacket, shoved his phone into his pocket, and headed to the small café Bang had pinned.
He pushed the door open and scanned the place, expecting maybe a fan, maybe a staff, maybe—
His breath cut off.
Bang sat in the corner, waving at him.
Next to him—
a man sat stiffly in a chair, head bowed.
Black cap pulled low.
Glasses.
Mask tugged over half his face.
Shoulders hunched like he was trying to fold himself into the chair.
The same silhouette
the same posture
the same presence
as every encounter
every glance
every ghost in the crowd.
The Elise player.
The Nidalee player.
The man in the fourth row.
The shadow in the studio.
The man who had disappeared from their lives and refused every message except to read them.
The man who had left a note with only a dot.
The man who—
“Hyung?”
It burst out of him like breathing after being underwater too long.
The figure flinched.
Bang exhaled—loudly, with the exhausted tone of someone who’d been arguing for days—and said, “Maybe don’t strangle him, but—okay, go ahead.”
Hyeonjun didn’t even think.
He moved.
A blur across the café.
A rush of footsteps.
A heartbeat slamming in his throat.
He collided with the man like a tidal wave.
The chair scraped.
Cups rattled.
Bang lunged to steady them.
“Oof—!”
The hidden man choked on air as Hyeonjun wrapped his arms around him, squeezing so tight his knuckles whitened.
He buried his face into the man’s shoulder—mask, fabric, cap brim digging against his forehead.
He held on like he was terrified the moment would vanish if he let go.
The man didn’t fight it.
Didn’t freeze.
Didn’t pull away.
He just… let himself be held.
Weakly.
Awkwardly.
But there.
Bang steadied the man’s back with one hand to keep him from toppling over. “Jesus, Hyeonjun, warn him before you tackle someone. He’s not made of steel.”
Hyeonjun didn’t care.
His voice cracked on a sob he didn’t realize slipped out.
“Hyung—”
The masked man’s breath stuttered.
A hand—hesitant, trembling just slightly—lifted and touched his back.
Barely.
But real.
He could feel it.
Could feel the warmth.
The weight.
The tremor in the man’s fingers.
A hand he hadn’t felt on his back in a long time.
A hand that had always guided him forward.
He squeezed tighter.
Bang winced. “He’s gonna pass out if you keep crushing him like that.”
But Hyeonjun didn’t move.
Couldn’t.
He felt the man let out a slow, shaky exhale.
Not a word.
Not even a greeting.
Just breath.
But that alone made something inside Hyeonjun break all over again.
It was real.
He was real.
He was here.
After months of silence.
After blocked messages turned into ghosted chats.
After hiding in crowds, behind masks and caps and walls.
After playing Elise and Nidalee in the dark.
After the dot on the paper.
He was here.
And Hyeonjun clung to him harder, voice breaking into the cloth of his jacket.
“You’re really—”
His voice cracked.
“—really here?”
The man didn’t answer.
But he didn’t pull away.
And the silence—just this once—didn’t feel like abandonment.
It felt like an apology.
A confession.
A first step.
Bang leaned back, arms crossed, watching the scene quietly.
Only once the moment stretched long enough did he mutter,
“Well… that went better than I expected.”
The masked man made a small noise—not quite a laugh, not quite a sigh.
But Hyeonjun heard it.
And held on even tighter.
-
“Wait—Hyeonjun—hold on—”
The words came out strangled, half-gasped, because Hyeonjun was crushing him.
Arms locked around his neck.
Legs half wrapped around his waist.
Face buried into his shoulder like he was trying to physically fuse into him.
Seongwoong wheezed, “You’re—too strong—now—”
Bang snorted loudly beside them. “That’s what happens when you leave a kid to grow without supervision.”
Jeesun smacked his arm. “Oppa, not helping.”
Across the cafe, Wolf walked toward them with the tired disappointment of an older brother watching a toddler cling to someone’s leg.
“That’s what you get,” Wolf said flatly, stopping right in front of them, arms crossed. “Disappear on us, ghost every message, and then act shocked when one of the kids turns into a koala on your face.”
“Wolf—” Bengi tried again, voice muffled as Hyeonjun tightened his hold and stuffed his face further into his jacket. “I’m—trying to—explain—”
“He doesn’t want an explanation,” Wolf replied. “He wants you back.”
“I am back—”
“No, you’re being crushed and interrogated by a clingy tree creature who refuses to let go.”
Hyeonjun didn’t disagree.
He dug his fingers into the fabric of Bengi’s jacket, gripping tighter, making the man choke out another breathless oof.
“I—can’t—breathe—” Seongwoong whispered.
“You deserve it,” Hyeonjun shot back hoarsely, voice thick and cracked. “Six months, hyung. Six. Months.”
Wolf whistled low. “Hear that? That’s resentment. He grew up while you were gone.”
Bang coughed pointedly. “Hyeonjun. Maybe… let him sit upright?”
“No.”
He clung harder.
Bengi let out a sound that was somewhere between a laugh and a pained groan.
Wolf raised an eyebrow. “You sure you want to explain anything like this?”
Seongwoong tried to speak again, but his lungs were too compressed to take a decent breath.
Bang reached over and patted his back sympathetically.
“Maybe try using shorter sentences?” Bang offered.
“Hyu—ngjun—”
Another wheeze.
Jeesun hid her smile behind her hand. “Sweetie, give the poor man some space.”
“No.”
The answer came instantly, muffled into Bengi’s shoulder.
Wolf tsked. “Wow. He’s really not letting you go.”
Bang crossed his arms. “He shouldn’t. You didn’t let any of us know anything. Not even me.”
Jeesun nodded firmly. “You made your family worry.”
Seongwoong’s shoulders hunched. “I know…”
Hyeonjun’s grip tightened again at those words, but this time not out of anger.
Something behind his ribs cracked open all over again.
“You left,” he whispered, voice trembling. “You left without letting us say goodbye.”
The silence that followed was thick.
Painful.
And full of every message marked “Read” but never answered.
Wolf’s voice softened. “He’s right, you know.”
Bengi swallowed.
“I—I wasn’t trying to hurt anyone,” he said quietly, words coming out uneven as he struggled to breathe around Hyeonjun’s death grip. “I… just needed time. Space. After everything. Too much noise. Too much pressure. And I didn’t want you all to feel responsible for me.”
“You idiot,” Wolf said bluntly.
“Agreed,” Bang added.
Jeesun huffed. “I love you, but also—you’re so stupid sometimes.”
A tiny, wet laugh escaped Hyeonjun’s throat.
Bengi tensed.
He pulled back just enough to look at him—only to find Hyeonjun glaring at him through teary eyes, still refusing to let go.
“You say you didn’t want us to feel responsible?” Hyeonjun said shakily. “You made us feel worse by disappearing.”
“I—know,” Seongwoong whispered.
Bang tapped his foot. “You owe them an apology tour.”
Wolf held up five fingers. “Five apologies per kid. Minimum.”
Jeesun snapped a photo. “I’m showing this to Keria.”
“NO—”
Bengi choked.
Hyeonjun snorted wetly and buried himself back into his shoulder.
Wolf sighed. “Honestly, just let him cling. He deserves this.”
Bengi stopped struggling.
Stopped trying to pull away.
Stopped trying to explain.
Instead… quietly…
He rested a hand on the back of Hyeonjun’s head.
And held him.
Not gently—
not timidly—
but with the same steady warmth he used to carry years ago in the old SKT days.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered into Hyeonjun’s hair. “I’m so, so sorry.”
Hyeonjun broke again—quietly, this time.
And no one in the room interrupted.
Not even Wolf.
Not even Bang.
Not even the latte machine whirring in the background.
The only sound was Hyeonjun’s hitched breathing as he clung to the man who had left him—
and who finally, finally came back.
-
The moment Hyeonjun refused to let go, practically wrapped around him like an oversized koala, it became clear to everyone in the room—including Seongwoong himself—that the “explanation” he planned wasn’t going to happen in the next ten minutes.
Or thirty.
Or possibly ever.
“Wait—Hyeonjun—hold on a second—” Bengi wheezed, arms pinned helplessly against his sides because the kid—no, not a kid anymore, a grown man—had wrapped around him like a wrestler refusing to break a chokehold.
Bang snorted loudly from beside them.
Jeesun covered her mouth, eyes glistening.
Wolf approached with his signature unimpressed glare.
“That’s what you get,” Wolf huffed, crossing his arms, “for disappearing on the kids and us like that.”
Seongwoong flinched—not from fear, but guilt that stabbed far sharper than Wolf’s tone.
“I— I didn’t mean—” he tried again.
Which was pointless, because Hyeonjun only squeezed tighter.
Tighter.
Tighter.
To the point where Bang winced sympathetically on his behalf.
“That’s definitely bruising,” Bang murmured. “Should we pry him off?”
“Let him,” Jeesun said gently. “He needs this.”
Wolf clicked his tongue. “It’s your funeral, hyung.”
Hyeonjun’s face was buried in Bengi’s shoulder, breath shaking through the fabric of his hoodie. He made a small sound—soft, broken, halfway between relief and grief.
It hit Seongwoong harder than any punch he’d taken in his entire life.
“I’m…sorry,” he said, voice cracking for the first time. “I’m sorry I left like that. I didn’t—I couldn’t—”
But Hyeonjun shifted, arms tightening, and Seongwoong shut his mouth automatically.
Because that hold wasn’t anger.
It was fear.
Fear he caused.
Fear he didn’t know how to fix yet.
Wolf sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “See? You really do owe us an explanation.”
“I know,” Seongwoong whispered.
Bang’s phone buzzed, and he glanced at it—eyes widening slightly.
“Oh good,” Bang said. “He’s close.”
“Who?” Jeesun asked.
Bang didn’t answer.
Instead, a knock sounded.
Quick.
Light.
Familiar.
Wolf opened the door.
There stood Sanghyeok.
Still in his hoodie from practice.
Breathing hard like he’d run.
His eyes moved, once, across the room.
Landed on the tangle of limbs that was Hyeonjun clinging to Seongwoong.
And something in Sanghyeok’s face broke.
Softened.
Folded.
He stepped in quietly.
“Hyeonjun,” he said softly. “Let me try?”
But Hyeonjun refused to budge, shaking his head fiercely against Seongwoong’s shoulder.
So Sanghyeok walked closer.
Gently.
Carefully.
He wrapped one hand around Hyeonjun’s back—but instead of prying him away, he leaned in and enveloped both of them.
His forehead rested against the side of Seongwoong’s head, voice a whisper:
“You idiot.”
He didn’t say which one of them he meant.
Seongwoong’s breath shuddered. “...Yeah. I know.”
Then Sanghyeok slowly pulled back and—because he hadn’t gotten his own hug yet—he reached down and coaxed Hyeonjun to loosen his grip by just a little.
“Hyung,” Sanghyeok said quietly, “my turn.”
He didn’t tackle him.
Didn’t crush him.
Didn’t cling like his life depended on it.
His hug was different.
It was slow.
Steady.
Gentle.
A return of warmth that had been missing far too long.
Seongwoong melted into it without meaning to.
If Hyeonjun’s hug was thunder—loud, overwhelming, raw—
then Sanghyeok’s was rain.
Soft.
Endless.
The kind that sinks deep into the soil.
“You should have told us,” Sanghyeok murmured, still hugging him.
“You should have trusted us.”
“I know,” Seongwoong whispered.
“And you’re going to explain everything,” Sanghyeok continued. “Not today. Not all of it. Not at once. But you will.”
“I will.”
“And you’re not leaving without telling us again.”
A shaky exhale.
A nod buried against Sanghyeok’s shoulder.
“I’m not leaving,” Seongwoong murmured.
For the first time, he said it like he meant it.
Sanghyeok pulled back slowly and placed a hand on Hyeonjun’s head, rubbing gently through his hair.
The kid had tears streaking his cheeks again, but this time they weren’t desperate or panicked.
They were relieved.
Wolf cleared his throat. “You two done? Because I want my hug too, damn it.”
Bang snorted. “Line up, then.”
Jeesun laughed through her tears. “Honestly… you all are ridiculous.”
But she wiped her cheeks anyway.
Because the man they’d all missed for months was here now, real and warm in their arms.
And every one of them had been holding their breath without knowing it.
The room felt full again.
Not whole.
Not yet.
But fuller.
And Seongwoong—caught between Hyeonjun clinging to his side and Sanghyeok’s hand still on his back—finally realized:
All this time, he thought he was the one keeping distance for their sake.
He never realized how many people had been waiting—quietly, painfully—for him to come home.
-
Bengi hadn’t even fully sat down before Hyeonjun climbed onto him again.
Not literally on his lap—
But close enough that one shift in gravity would send them both toppling over.
Hyeonjun clung to him like gravity didn’t apply.
Like he’d been waiting months—years—for his arms to finally feel full again.
And honestly, maybe he had.
Bengi tried to gently pry at his forearm.
“Jun-ah, can you—just—let me—breathe—?”
“No,” Hyeonjun mumbled into his shoulder.
“You disappeared.”
Bang snorted behind him. Wolf folded his arms, unimpressed.
“Yeah, hyung,” Wolf deadpanned. “Let the kid choke you. You deserve it.”
Bengi shot him a betrayed look over Hyeonjun’s head.
“Heaven help me—what did I do to all of you—”
“Disappeared,” Hyeonjun repeated, stubbornly.
Jeesun placed a comforting hand on Bengi’s back, sympathetic.
“He’s not wrong, oppa.”
Bengi pressed his lips together, defeated.
He exhaled slowly, letting his arms finally wrap around Hyeonjun in return.
“…Okay. I deserved that.”
Another squeeze from Hyeonjun.
“Deserved more than that,” Wolf added, ever helpful.
“Wolf,” Bengi said warningly, “I know where you live.”
“Yeah? You’d have to show your face for that.”
Bang choked on air.
Jeesun covered her mouth trying not to laugh.
Hyeonjun didn’t react.
He just kept holding on.
-
When Sanghyeok arrived—summoned by every member of old SKT within a ten-kilometer radius—he didn’t speak a word at first.
He just walked straight over.
Bengi looked up at him with a weary plea in his eyes.
“Sanghyeok,” he said softly, “can you tell him to—”
He didn’t finish.
Because Sanghyeok wrapped his arms around him too.
Not as fiercely as Hyeonjun.
Not as desperately.
But warm. Familiar. Home.
A hug that carried years of trust, fights, victories, losses, family.
“You idiot,” Sanghyeok murmured into his shoulder.
Bengi’s breath hitched.
“You absolute, complete idiot.”
“…Yeah,” Bengi whispered weakly. “I know.”
He didn’t try to pry either of them off now.
Not anymore.
He rested his cheek on Sanghyeok’s hair and let himself sag under both their weights, overwhelmed.
And Hyeonjun, now squashed between them, sniffled loudly.
Bang whispered from the side, “Aww, they’re gonna break the old man.”
“Serves him right,” Wolf said.
Bengi closed his eyes.
He couldn’t even argue.
-
Eventually, after the three-way hug unraveled, Bengi was guided to a couch.
He sat down carefully.
Or at least tried to.
Because the moment he lowered himself—
Hyeonjun instantly scrambled back onto him, climbing sideways and curling up against his torso like he had been trained by an actual koala.
“Jun-ah,” Bengi said, voice dangerously close to cracking, “there are… other seats.”
“No,” Hyeonjun replied, clinging tighter.
Not angry now.
Just… terrified to let go.
Wolf crossed his arms.
“He’s not moving until you explain.”
Bang nodded seriously. “Yep. You’re stuck.”
Jeesun sat beside them, patting Hyeonjun’s back with a soft smile. “We tried.”
Sanghyeok sat on the other side of Bengi.
Close.
Quiet.
Unmoving.
No escape.
Bengi looked around.
Wolf.
Bang.
Jeesun.
Sanghyeok.
And one extremely attached Hyeonjun.
He sighed in defeat and gave up fighting gravity, comfort, and consequences.
“…Fine,” he said quietly.
“I’ll explain.”
Except—
The door burst open.
“HYUNG??????”
Minseok.
Followed by Wooje.
Followed by Haneul.
Followed by Jaehyeon.
All of whom froze at the sight of Bengi pinned under a clingy Hyeonjun.
Chaos erupted instantly.
“HYUNG YOU’RE BACK???”
“HOLD ON WE NEED HUGS TOO—MOVE OVER—”
“NO WAIT JUN-HYUNG DON’T CHOKE HIM—”
“IS HE BREATHING??? IS THAT ALLOWED???”
“WOOJE MOVE I WANT MY TURN—”
And somehow, in the chaos of noise and limbs and emotional disasters, the entire current roster piled around the couch.
Not hugging Bengi all at once—
but forming a half-circle around him, each trying to reach him in their own ways.
A hand on his arm.
A head on his shoulder.
A squeeze to his knee.
A forearm bump.
A soft lean.
Every gesture messy, genuine, and painfully affectionate.
Bengi looked around, mouth slightly open, eyes wider than anyone had ever seen.
And then his gaze settled on Hyeonjun again—still holding onto him like letting go wasn’t an option.
Slowly…
He smiled.
Soft.
Small.
Trembling.
“…Okay,” he whispered, voice thick.
“I missed all of you too.”
And that single sentence shut down every voice in the room.
For one breath.
Two.
Then everyone piled in again with new intensity.
“YOU BETTER HAVE MISSED US—”
“I’M STILL MAD AT YOU—”
“HYUNG I WANT TWO HUGS—”
“NO, I GET FIRST TURN—”
“LET HIM BREATHE—”
“NO, SUFFER—”
Jeesun hid her laughter behind her hands.
Bang wiped suspicious moisture from his eyes.
Wolf muttered something about “dumb family reunions” while pretending not to smile.
And in the middle of all of it—
Bengi sat there.
Surrounded.
Overwhelmed.
Loved.
Finally not alone.
While one stubborn koala refused to let go.
-
It took three people to get Hyeonjun to loosen his grip.
Not let go—
just loosen.
He still sat sideways on Seongwoong’s lap, arms locked tight around his shoulders, forehead pressed into the crook of his neck like if he moved even an inch, the man might disappear again.
Sanghyeok stood in front of them, hands folded, eyes unreadable but steady.
Minseok hovered to the side, openly teary.
Wooje sat on the floor, back against the wall, arms crossed but jaw tight.
Minhyung paced.
Jaehyeon looked like he was five seconds away from either yelling or crying.
Wolf leaned against the doorframe, unimpressed but relieved.
Bang stood near Jeesun, one arm around her waist, the other braced on the chair to keep Seongwoong from toppling earlier.
The room felt too small for the amount of emotion inside it.
“Okay,” Bang said carefully. “Everyone breathe.”
No one listened.
Seongwoong cleared his throat. “Hyeonjun.”
Hyeonjun tightened his grip.
“No.”
A few people laughed weakly. Someone sniffed.
Sanghyeok spoke then, voice calm but firm. “Hyeonjun. Let him talk.”
Hyeonjun hesitated.
Then—slowly—he loosened his arms just enough to lift his head and glare at Seongwoong, eyes red, lashes wet.
“You don’t get to disappear for months,” he said hoarsely, “and then ask me to sit somewhere else.”
Seongwoong’s mouth curved into the faintest, tired smile.
“…Fair.”
So Hyeonjun stayed exactly where he was.
Seongwoong took a breath.
Then another.
And finally—
“I didn’t leave because of you,” he said.
The room went quiet instantly.
“I didn’t leave because of the team. Or the losses. Or the pressure.” His hands rested awkwardly at his sides, unsure if he was allowed to touch Hyeonjun back. “I left because I was scared of staying.”
Hyeonjun’s grip faltered.
Seongwoong continued, words slow, deliberate—like he was afraid if he rushed, he’d lose them.
“I’d already decided to step away. Officially, quietly. Retirement was supposed to be clean.” He huffed a soft laugh. “But then Worlds happened. And you all kept pushing. Growing. Winning.”
His gaze flicked briefly to Sanghyeok.
“And I realized something uncomfortable.”
“What?” Wooje asked softly.
“That I was staying because I felt needed,” Seongwoong said. “Not because I was okay.”
Silence.
“I didn’t want to become someone who resented the people he loved,” he continued. “I didn’t want to wake up one day and feel like your success was proof that I was replaceable.”
Minseok flinched.
“That’s not—” he started.
“I know,” Seongwoong said gently. “Now. But I didn’t then.”
He swallowed.
“So I did what I always do when I’m overwhelmed.” His voice dropped. “I ran. I cut contact. I convinced myself distance was kinder than honesty.”
Wolf snorted. “Still a coward.”
Seongwoong winced. “Yes.”
That admission hit harder than any excuse.
“I read your messages,” Seongwoong said, looking directly at Hyeonjun now. “All of them. Every single one.”
Hyeonjun sucked in a sharp breath.
“I didn’t reply because every time I tried, I realized I’d have to explain why I left. And I didn’t have an answer that wouldn’t hurt you.”
“You still hurt us,” Hyeonjun whispered.
“I know,” Seongwoong said immediately. “I know. And I’m sorry.”
The words were simple.
They landed like a weight finally set down.
“I went to the matches,” he continued quietly. “I watched your streams. I played those games because… I wanted to make sure you were okay. That you didn’t need me anymore.”
Hyeonjun let out a broken laugh. “That’s the stupidest reason I’ve ever heard.”
Seongwoong smiled faintly. “I know.”
“And the notes?” Minhyung asked.
“…I didn’t trust myself to speak yet.”
“And the dot?” Wooje pressed.
“That was me admitting I was there,” Seongwoong said. “Without asking forgiveness I hadn’t earned.”
Silence stretched.
Then Sanghyeok stepped forward.
He placed a hand on Seongwoong’s shoulder.
“You should have trusted us,” he said quietly.
“I know.”
“But,” Sanghyeok added, voice softening, “you came back.”
Seongwoong nodded. “Because I realized something else.”
Hyeonjun looked up.
“That even if you don’t need me,” Seongwoong said, “I still want to be here.”
Hyeonjun broke.
He pressed his face back into Seongwoong’s shoulder, shoulders shaking as he cried—harder than before, but cleaner. Lighter.
Seongwoong finally lifted his arms and held him back.
Firm. Real. Present.
No disappearing this time.
Around them, the team quietly closed in.
One by one.
Arms over shoulders. Hands on backs. Foreheads pressed together.
Messy. Loud. Human.
Exactly how it should have been from the start.