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The team dinner had run late.
Hyunjoon scrolled through his phone in the back of the van, half-listening to Wooje and Minhyung argue about whether Baron was the right call in their last scrim. Hyeonjun sat beside him, shoulder pressed against his, watching the city lights blur past the window.
"You're quiet tonight," Hyeonjun said, voice low enough that only Hyunjoon could hear.
"Thinking."
"About?"
"Main roster." Hyunjoon locked his phone. "Three more weeks."
Hyeonjun's grin was immediate, bright enough to rival the neon signs outside. "Three more weeks until we're legends, you mean. Oner and Doran, the jungle-top duo that breaks the LCK."
"You're so confident."
"In us? Always." Hyeonjun bumped his shoulder. "You're going to be the best jungler T1's ever had. I'm just here to make you look good."
"Liar. You'll steal all the MVPs."
"Only on Tuesdays."
Hyunjoon felt himself smile despite the knot of anxiety in his chest. The main roster was everything they'd worked for since joining the academy team two years ago. But the pressure, the expectations, the eyes that would be on them—
"Hey." Hyeonjun's hand found his wrist, squeezed once. "We've got this. Together, remember?"
"Together," Hyunjoon echoed.
The van stopped at the dorm. Most of the team piled out, but Hyeonjun hung back, checking his phone.
"I'm going to head home tonight," he said. "My mom's been asking me to visit before we move into the team house."
"You want me to come with?"
"Nah, it's late. I'll catch a taxi. See you tomorrow for scrims?"
"9 AM sharp. Don't be late."
Hyeonjun mock-saluted. "Yes, captain." He hesitated at the van door, turned back. "Hey, Hyunjoon?"
"Yeah?"
"Thanks. For everything. For being my duo."
It was an odd thing to say, too sentimental for a regular Tuesday night. But Hyunjoon just nodded. "Always."
He watched Hyeonjun jog toward the street, one hand raised in a wave without looking back.
That was the last time Hyunjoon saw him alive.
The call came at 2:47 AM.
Hyunjoon had been half-asleep, grinding solo queue with his headset sliding off one ear. When his phone lit up with Coach's name, his first thought was that he'd accidentally slept through morning practice.
"Hello?"
"Hyunjoon." Coach's voice was wrong. Too tight, too careful. "I need you to come to my office. Now."
"What—is this about the scrim schedule? I thought—"
"Just come. Please."
The line went dead.
Hyunjoon sat in the blue glow of his monitor, heart beginning to race for reasons he couldn't name. He pulled on a hoodie and made his way through the silent dorm to Coach's office.
The lights were all on. Wooje sat on the couch, head in his hands. Beside him is Minseok, looking a lot worse. Minhyung stood by the window, phone pressed to his ear, speaking rapidly in a voice that kept breaking.
"What's going on?" Hyunjoon asked.
Coach looked at him. In that moment, Hyunjoon knew. Before the words, before the explanation, he knew.
"There was an accident," Coach said. "Hyeonjun's taxi was hit by a drunk driver on the highway. They rushed him to the hospital, but—" His voice cracked. "He didn't make it. I'm so sorry."
The words didn't make sense. They were in the wrong order, attached to the wrong person. Hyeonjun was supposed to be at home, probably already asleep, definitely not—
"No," Hyunjoon heard himself say. "That's wrong. I just saw him. We're supposed to have scrims at nine."
"Hyunjoon—"
"He's fine. Call him. He'll answer."
"Hyunjoon, please sit down."
"CALL HIM!"
Wooje looked up, eyes red. The expression on his face was what finally made it real.
Hyeonjun was dead.
Hyunjoon's legs gave out. He found himself on the floor, breathing too fast, the room spinning. Someone's hands were on his shoulders—Coach maybe, or Minseok—but he couldn't feel them. He couldn't feel anything except the vast, howling absence where Hyeonjun should be.
See you tomorrow for scrims.
Don't be late.
Always.
He never got to say goodbye.
The funeral was on a Thursday.
Hyunjoon wore the suit Coach bought for him because all his clothes were hoodies and team jerseys. He sat in the second row between Minseok, Wooje and Minhyung, staring at the photo of Hyeonjun displayed at the front of the room. Hyeonjun was smiling in it, holding up a trophy from their academy championship, eyes crinkled with joy.
The photo was wrong. Hyeonjun's smile was bigger than that. His laugh was louder.
People spoke. Hyeonjun's mother, his school friends, the T1 CEO. They talked about potential, about talent, about a bright future cut short. Hyunjoon heard none of it. He was trapped behind glass, watching a ceremony for someone who couldn't possibly be gone because they were supposed to move into the team house in seventeen days and Hyeonjun had promised to teach him how to make kimchi jjigae properly and—
"Would anyone else like to say something?" the funeral director asked.
Hyunjoon should stand up. He should say something. Hyeonjun deserved words, deserved a proper goodbye from his best friend, his duo partner, his—
But Hyunjoon's throat was closed and his legs were stone and he couldn't, he couldn't.
Minhyung squeezed his hand. "It's okay," he whispered. "He knew."
But that was the problem. Hyeonjun didn't know. He didn't know that Hyunjoon—
The funeral ended. People filtered out. Hyunjoon stood in front of the photo until Coach gently guided him away.
"We need to talk about the roster," Coach said carefully in the car. "I know this is the worst possible time, but the main team needs a jungler. Your promotion was already approved. The decision is yours, but—"
"I can't," Hyunjoon said flatly.
"I understand. Take all the time you need."
Time. Like time meant anything anymore. Like there was enough time in the universe to process the fact that Hyeonjun's status in the team Discord would stay "Offline" forever.
Three weeks passed in a fog.
Hyunjoon moved through the dorm like a ghost. He attended practices mechanically, his play technically sound but hollow. He dodged calls from the main roster coach. He avoided the academy team house where Hyeonjun's room still held all his things.
At night, he couldn't sleep. He'd lie in bed scrolling through their chat history.
Hyeonjun: duo queue? need someone to carry me
Hyunjoon: you mean you're going to carry me
Hyeonjun: same thing
Hyeonjun: jungle-top synergy undefeated
Hyeonjun: Coach says we're moving up together
Hyunjoon: are you ready?
Hyeonjun: with you? always
Hyeonjun: hey when we get to the main roster
Hyeonjun: let's win worlds
Hyunjoon: just worlds? aim higher
Hyeonjun: THREE worlds
Hyunjoon: now you're thinking like a champion
The messages ended with: See you tomorrow for scrims?
Hyunjoon had never replied. He'd been planning to just show up. Now that unsent message haunted him.
On the twenty-first night after the funeral, Hyunjoon found himself at his desk at 3 AM, staring at Hyeonjun's contact in his phone. The number should be disconnected by now. The phone company would have terminated it. But Hyunjoon couldn't bring himself to delete it.
His thumb hovered over the call button.
This was insane. This was grief making him irrational. This was—
He pressed call.
It shouldn't ring. It should go straight to a disconnected number message.
It rang.
Once. Twice.
On the third ring, someone answered.
"Hyunjoon?" Hyeonjun's voice said, sleep-rough and confused. "Why are you calling so late? Did something happen with the scrims?"
Hyunjoon's phone clattered to the desk.
No. No, this wasn't possible. This was a dream, a breakdown, his mind finally snapping under grief.
He grabbed the phone with shaking hands. "Hyeonjun-hyung?"
"Yeah? You sound weird. Are you okay?"
"I—" The words tangled in his throat. "Where are you?"
"What do you mean? I'm home. Where else would I be at 3 AM?" Hyeonjun yawned. "Seriously, what's going on? You're kind of freaking me out."
"What's the last thing you remember?"
"Uh... team dinner? I took a taxi home. Then I fell asleep. Hyunjoon, what is this about?"
He didn't know. Hyeonjun didn't know he was—
"Nothing," Hyunjoon managed. "I just... I had a nightmare. That something happened to you."
"I'm fine, see? Alive and annoying as ever." Hyeonjun's voice softened. "Do you want me to stay on the phone until you fall asleep? Remember when we used to do that during our trainee days?"
"Yeah," Hyunjoon whispered. "Yeah, I remember."
"Okay. I'm here. Tell me about the nightmare?"
But Hyunjoon couldn't. Because the nightmare was real, and this—whatever this was—couldn't be.
Yet Hyeonjun's breathing was steady on the line, exactly like it always was. And for the first time in three weeks, Hyunjoon felt like he could breathe too.
"Actually," Hyunjoon said, "just talk to me. About anything."
"Anything? Okay, well, Wooje sent me this hilarious meme about Baron throws..." Hyeonjun launched into a story, his voice warm and alive and impossible.
Hyunjoon closed his eyes and listened.
The call lasted exactly eighteen minutes before the line went dead with a soft static burst.
Hyunjoon stared at his phone. The call log showed: Hyeonjun-hyung - 18:37
His hands were still shaking.
What had just happened?
Hyunjoon didn't tell anyone about the phone call.
How could he? Hey Coach, I called my dead best friend's disconnected number and he answered would get him sent straight to a therapist. Or worse, everyone would look at him with the same pitying expression they'd worn at the funeral.
So he said nothing.
But the next night, he called again.
It rang. Hyeonjun answered.
"Twice in two days? I'm starting to think you miss me," Hyeonjun teased.
"Maybe I do," Hyunjoon said, testing the boundaries of this impossible thing.
"Well, I'll see you tomorrow at practice, so save some of that sentiment for when I steal your blue buff."
Tomorrow. Practice. Like the world hadn't ended three weeks ago.
"Hyung," Hyunjoon said carefully, "do you remember the team dinner? After we left?"
A pause. "I... went home. Why?"
"And then?"
"And then... I'm here now. Talking to you." Hyeonjun's voice carried a note of confusion. "What's with the weird questions?"
"Just wondering."
They talked about nothing—patch notes, a funny video Hyeonjun had watched, Wooje's new haircut. Normal things. Everything felt suspended in amber, preserved and precious.
This time the call lasted twenty-three minutes before cutting out.
Hyunjoon lay in bed afterward, staring at the ceiling. This defied everything logical. But Hyeonjun's voice was real. His laugh when Hyunjoon made a dry joke about Minhyung's positioning was real.
Maybe grief had finally broken something in Hyunjoon's brain. Maybe he was having an extended psychotic episode.
But if this was insanity, Hyunjoon would take it. Because for twenty-three minutes, Hyeonjun was alive.
The calls became routine.
Every night around midnight, Hyunjoon would dial. Hyeonjun would answer. They'd talk until the connection was cut out—never the same length twice, but always between fifteen and thirty minutes.
"You're going to drain my phone battery with these late-night calls," Hyeonjun complained fondly on the fifth night.
"Then charge it."
"Revolutionary advice. What would I do without you?"
The question hung in the air, heavier than Hyeonjun meant it.
"You'd probably sleep more," Hyunjoon said lightly.
"Sleep is overrated. I'd rather talk to you."
Hyunjoon's chest ached. "Hyung—"
"Have you decided about the main roster yet?" Hyeonjun asked, steering the conversation away from whatever dangerous territory they'd been approaching. "Coach keeps asking me if I know what you're thinking."
"He asked you?"
"Yeah, yesterday. He's worried about you."
Yesterday. Coach hadn't mentioned talking to Hyeonjun. Because Coach couldn't have talked to Hyeonjun.
"What did you tell him?" Hyunjoon asked.
"That you're probably overthinking it. You always overthink the big decisions." Hyeonjun's voice was gentle. "But Hyunjoon? You should take the spot. You're ready."
"Not without you."
The words escaped before Hyunjoon could stop them.
Silence stretched across the line.
"Hyunjoon-ah..." Hyeonjun started, and for the first time, he sounded uncertain. Scared, even. "You know I—"
The connection cut out with a crackle of static.
Hyunjoon stared at his phone: Hyeonjun-hyung - 19:42
His heart was racing. In that moment of silence, he'd felt like Hyeonjun was about to say something true. Something that would shatter the fragile bubble of this impossible thing.
He tried calling back immediately.
It went straight to a generic disconnected number message.
Hyunjoon tried again. And again. And again.
Nothing.
Panic clawed up his throat. Had he broken it? Had he pushed too hard, said too much?
He didn't sleep that night. At 6 AM, Wooje found him at his desk, phone still in his hand.
"Hyunjoon-hyung? You look terrible."
"I'm fine."
"You're not. Come on, we're going to get breakfast." Wooje pulled him up by the arm. "And you're going to talk to Coach about the roster spot. You can't keep avoiding this."
"I know."
"Do you? Because it's been almost a month and you've barely touched League. Hyeonjun-hyung wouldn't want—"
"Don't," Hyunjoon snapped. "Don't tell me what Hyeonjun-hyung would want."
Wooje's expression softened. "Okay. I'm sorry. But we're still getting breakfast."
Hyunjoon followed him to the kitchen, feeling like a puppet with cut strings.
His phone stayed silent all day.
That night, Hyunjoon waited until midnight with his finger hovering over Hyeonjun's contact.
What if it didn't work anymore? What if last night had been the last time?
He called.
It rang.
"Hyunjoon-ah!" Hyeonjun sounded breathless, happy. "Sorry I missed your call last night. My phone died and I forgot to charge it. Were you trying to reach me?"
Relief flooded through Hyunjoon so intensely he had to brace himself against the desk. "Yeah. I was worried."
"About me? I'm always fine." A pause. "Though I had the weirdest dream. That I was trying to tell you something important, but I couldn't remember what it was."
"Maybe it wasn't important."
"Maybe." But Hyeonjun didn't sound convinced. "Hey, Minhyung told me something funny today. Apparently there's a rumor going around that you've been playing solo queue on a secret account..."
They fell back into easy conversation, but something had shifted. Hyeonjun's voice carried an undercurrent of melancholy that hadn't been there before. And when Hyunjoon closed his eyes, he could almost convince himself that Hyeonjun knew the truth.
That these calls were borrowed time.
That every conversation was a goodbye they both knew was coming.
But neither of them said it out loud.
The call lasted sixteen minutes.
When it ended, Hyunjoon whispered into the dead air: "I miss you."
His phone offered no reply.
Coach found Hyunjoon in the practice room two days later, watching VODs of their old academy games. On screen, Hyeonjun's Jayce dove a turret with perfect timing, trusting that Hyunjoon's Lee Sin would be there for the follow-up. They were.
They always were.
"That was a good game," Coach said quietly, sitting down beside him.
"We lost."
"But the synergy was perfect. You two moved like you shared a brain." Coach paused. "The main roster needs an answer, Hyunjoon. I can't hold the spot much longer."
Hyunjoon's finger hovered over the pause button. On screen, Hyeonjun was laughing—you could see it in the way his champion moved, that little celebratory bounce he always did after a good play.
"If I say yes," Hyunjoon said slowly, "it means accepting that he's really gone."
"He is gone, Hyunjoon. Taking the spot doesn't change that."
"But we were supposed to go together. That was the plan. Oner and Doran, the jungle-top duo." His voice cracked. "How do I do it without him?"
Coach was quiet for a long moment. "You do it because of him. Every game you play carries a piece of him with you. That's what legacy means."
Legacy. Like Hyeonjun was something in the past tense, a memory to be honored instead of a person to laugh with at midnight.
Except Hyunjoon still talked to him every night. Hyeonjun was more present in those calls than most living people were in broad daylight.
"Can I have one more week?" Hyunjoon asked.
"One more week," Coach agreed. "But Hyunjoon? Talk to someone. A therapist, a friend. Don't go through this alone."
I'm not alone, Hyunjoon wanted to say. I have Hyeonjun.
But that would sound insane.
That night's call was different.
"I need to tell you something," Hyunjoon said as soon as Hyeonjun answered.
"That's an ominous opening. Should I be worried?"
"Coach wants me to take the main roster spot. Make a decision."
"That's great! Why do you sound like someone died?" Hyeonjun laughed at his own joke, not realizing how it landed.
Hyunjoon flinched. "Because it doesn't feel right. Not without you."
"Hyunjoon-ah." Hyeonjun's voice turned serious. "Listen to me. You can't put your career on hold."
"It was supposed to be our career."
"It still is. I'm—" Hyeonjun paused, and in that silence, Hyunjoon heard something shift. When he spoke again, his voice was softer, sadder. "I'm still with you. In every game you play. Every gank you make. You know that, right?"
"Are you?" Hyunjoon asked. "Are you really?"
"What kind of question is that?"
"Where are you right now, hyung? Really?"
Another pause. Longer this time. "I'm... I'm home. I think. It's hard to—" His voice wavered. "Sometimes I can't remember. Isn't that weird? It's like there's this fog, and I can't quite..."
"Hyung—"
"But when you call, everything becomes clear again. Like you're pulling me back from somewhere." A shaky breath. "Hyunjoon-ah, I'm scared. Something's wrong, isn't it? Something happened."
Hyunjoon's eyes burned. This was it. The moment to tell the truth.
But the words wouldn't come. Because once he said them, once Hyeonjun knew, what would happen? Would the calls stop? Would Hyunjoon lose him all over again?
"Nothing's wrong," Hyunjoon lied. "You're just tired. We both are."
"Maybe." But Hyeonjun didn't sound convinced. "Hey, Hyunjoon?"
"Yeah?"
"Even if something did happen... even if things aren't the way they're supposed to be... I'm glad I can still talk to you."
"Me too."
"Will you take the roster spot? For me?"
Hyunjoon closed his eyes. "I'll think about it."
"That's all I ask." Hyeonjun's voice brightened artificially, like he was forcing normalcy back into the conversation. "So, did you see Sanghyeok-hyung's Azir play yesterday? Absolutely disgusting. In a good way..."
They talked until the line cut out.
Twenty-four minutes.
Hyunjoon sat in the dark afterward, Hyeonjun's question echoing in his mind: Something happened, isn't it?
He was starting to suspect that Hyeonjun knew. Maybe he'd known from the beginning. Maybe these calls existed in some liminal space where the truth was acknowledged without being spoken.
"Absolutely not," Hyunjoon said.
The T1 staff member—Kim something, from the social media team—looked apologetic but determined. "It's been over a month. The fans have been asking for some kind of memorial. We thought a stream where the academy team plays games in Doran's honor—"
"I said no."
"Hyunjoon-hyung," Wooje interjected gently. "Maybe it would be good? To celebrate him?"
"You want to turn his death into content?"
"That's not what this is," Kim said. "We want to honor his legacy. Show the community who he was. Let his teammates share stories."
"Then do it without me."
"But you were his closest friend. His duo partner. It wouldn't be right without you."
Hyunjoon stood up abruptly. "Find someone else to perform grief for the camera."
He left the conference room to Wooje calling his name.
That night, he told Hyeonjun about it.
"A memorial stream?" Hyeonjun repeated. "That's... actually kind of nice."
"How can you say that?"
"Because it means people remember me. That I mattered." A pause. "Why don't you want to do it?"
Hyunjoon couldn't explain that speaking about Hyeonjun in past tense felt like killing him all over again. That sharing their private jokes and memories with thousands of strangers felt like desecration.
That he couldn't eulogize someone he still talked to every night.
"It feels wrong," he said finally.
"Hyunjoon-ah." Hyeonjun's voice was impossibly gentle. "I think you should do it."
"What?"
"Talk about me. Share the stories. Let people know who I was." He laughed softly. "Who I am. Present tense still feels right, doesn't it?"
"Yes," Hyunjoon whispered.
"Then do the stream. For me. And maybe—" Hyeonjun hesitated. "Maybe for yourself too. I don't think these calls are healthy for you."
"Don't say that."
"But it's true, isn't it? You're holding onto something that can't last forever. We both know that."
"I don't want to let go."
"I know. But Hyunjoon-ah... you have to keep living. That's what matters. Not these—" The line crackled. "—calls that shouldn't even be possible."
"Hyung, are you—"
The connection cut out.
Fourteen minutes. The shortest call yet.
Hyunjoon tried calling back immediately. Disconnected number. He tried again at 1 AM. Nothing. At 2 AM. Nothing.
At 4 AM, Hyunjoon finally fell asleep at his desk, phone clutched in his hand.
He agreed to the memorial stream.
The date was set for Friday night. The plan was simple: the academy team would play ARAM games using Hyeonjun's most-played champions, share stories between matches, and end with a moment of silence.
Hyunjoon felt sick the entire week leading up to it.
"You don't have to say much," Wooje assured him. "Just be there. That's enough."
But Coach had different expectations. "I'd like you to speak about Doran. About what he meant to you. The fans deserve to hear it from his duo partner."
Hyunjoon spent nights staring at a blank document, trying to write a speech. How do you summarize a person in three minutes? How do you explain that Hyeonjun was the reason Hyunjoon started maining jungle in the first place, because Hyeonjun had said "I need a good jungler to make my solo kills look even better" and grinned like Hyunjoon had already agreed?
How do you tell thousands of strangers that Hyeonjun had a habit of buying two of everything—two ramyun cups, two energy drinks—because he always assumed Hyunjoon would want one too? That he hummed when he was focused, sent memes at 3 AM, and once stayed up all night helping Hyunjoon perfect his Lee Sin mechanics before a crucial tournament?
How do you capture the weight of "always" in their inside joke? Jungle-top synergy, always.
Hyunjoon deleted everything he wrote.
The night before the stream, he called Hyeonjun.
"I can't do this," Hyunjoon said when Hyeonjun answered. "I can't talk about you like you're gone."
"But I am gone, Hyunjoon-ah."
The words hit like a physical blow.
"What?"
"I think... I think I've known for a while now. Maybe from the beginning." Hyeonjun's voice was thick. "The fog, the gaps in my memory, the way time feels wrong. And you—the way you talk to me, like you're trying to memorize every word. Like these calls might stop."
Hyunjoon couldn't breathe. "Hyung—"
"What happened to me? Tell me the truth."
"There was an accident," Hyunjoon choked out. "On your way home from the team dinner. A drunk driver. You died before the ambulance arrived."
Silence.
Then, quietly: "I remember now. The impact. The way everything went dark." A shaky breath. "How is this possible? How am I talking to you?"
"I don't know. I called your phone and you answered. You've been answering every night for weeks."
"Every night?" Hyeonjun laughed wetly. "God, Hyunjoon. You must be so tired."
"I'm not—"
"Yes, you are. You're exhausted. I can hear it in your voice." Hyeonjun paused. "Tomorrow's stream. You should do it. Say all the things you've been holding back."
"I can't lose you again."
"You never lost me. I'm right here. In every call you make, every game you play." Hyeonjun's voice cracked. "But Hyunjoon, you can't keep calling forever. At some point, you have to let me go."
"I'm not ready."
"You will be. Eventually." A long pause. "Tell me something. When we were alive—when we were both alive, I mean—were we ever going to talk about it?"
"Talk about what?"
"About us. What we were to each other."
Hyunjoon's heart stuttered. "I don't know. Maybe. I wanted to."
"Me too," Hyeonjun said softly. "I had this whole plan. After we made it to the main roster, after things settled down, I was going to ask if you wanted to get dinner. Somewhere that wasn't team-mandated. Just us."
"Like a date?"
"Yeah. Like a date." Hyeonjun laughed. "Guess that's not happening now."
"I would have said yes," Hyunjoon whispered. "If you'd asked."
"I know. I always knew."
The line started to crackle with static.
"Wait—" Hyunjoon said urgently. "Don't go yet."
"I don't think I have a choice. Hyunjoon, listen. Tomorrow, at the stream—tell them who I was. Tell them I was happy. That I loved playing this game, loved being your duo. And then—"
"And then what?"
"Let me rest."
The call cut out.
Twenty-seven minutes.
Hyunjoon sat in the dark, tears streaming down his face, and finally let himself grieve.
The T1 gaming house was set up like a shrine.
Hyeonjun's jersey hung behind the main desk, spotlit. Photos displayed on monitors showed him throughout his career—first promotion to academy, championship victories, that one picture where Hyunjoon had gotten him with a water bottle and Hyeonjun was mid-laugh, soaked and indignant.
The chat was already flooding with purple hearts and messages:
we miss you doran
t1 forever
jungle-top synergy never dies
Hyunjoon sat in his usual position, Wooje on his left where Hyeonjun should have been. Minhyung and Minseok filled out the rest of the team. Coach stood off-camera, giving last-minute instructions.
"We'll start with introductions, play a few games, then open it up for memories. Hyunjoon, you'll close us out with your speech." Coach squeezed his shoulder. "You've got this."
Hyunjoon had written nothing. The blank document haunted him.
The stream went live.
"Hello everyone," Wooje started, his voice steady despite red-rimmed eyes. "Thank you for joining us tonight. We're here to remember our brother, our teammate, our friend—Choi Hyeonjun. Doran."
The games began. Wooje played Doran's Jayce, aggressive and confident. Minhyung took Akali, Doran's pocket pick for when he wanted to "just turn my brain off and jump in." Minseok shared a story about Hyeonjun trying to cook for the team and setting off the smoke alarm three times.
Hyunjoon played Lee Sin. Every kick, every ward-hop, he imagined Hyeonjun's voice in his head: Nice play. Now do it again.
Between games, his teammates spoke:
Wooje: "He was the first person to welcome me to the academy team. Made me feel like I belonged."
Minhyung: "He gave the best pep talks. Even when we were getting crushed, he'd find something to laugh about."
Minseok: "He believed in all of us. Made us believe in ourselves."
Then Coach turned to Hyunjoon. "Do you want to share anything?"
The stream chat was a wall of expectation. Fifty thousand viewers waited.
Hyunjoon looked at the camera. At Doran's jersey behind him. At the photos of them together—two friends, two players, two people who never got to say everything they meant to each other.
"Doran was my duo," Hyunjoon started, voice rough. "That's the simplest way to explain it. He was my duo in game, my duo in life. We started on this team together. We were supposed to go to the main roster together."
He paused, gathering courage.
"He made me better. Not just as a player, but as a person. He taught me that it's okay to trust someone completely. That synergy isn't just about game mechanics—it's about knowing someone well enough that you don't need words."
The memories flooded back. All the moments he'd tried to write down and failed.
"He used to hum when he was concentrating. Did you know that? And he'd always buy two of everything because he assumed I'd want one. He'd stay up until 4 AM helping me practice even when he had early schedules. He—"
Hyunjoon's voice broke.
"He was supposed to be here. We had plans. Three more weeks and we'd have been in the main team house. We were going to win worlds together. Three times, we said. Because why aim low?"
Wooje put a hand on his shoulder.
"I miss him," Hyunjoon continued, tears streaming freely now. "I miss his laugh and his terrible jokes and the way he'd bump my shoulder when I was overthinking. I miss our duo queue games at 2 AM. I miss—"
Everything. I miss everything.
"But he's still with me. Every game I play carries a piece of him. Every aggressive early gank, every dive that barely works—that's Doran's influence. He's in my playstyle, my decisions, my confidence to make the risky call."
Hyunjoon looked directly at the camera, speaking to the thousands watching, but really speaking to one person.
"Hyeonjun-hyung, if you can hear this somehow—thank you. For being my duo, my friend, my—" He paused. "Thank you for everything. For believing in me even when I didn't believe in myself. For making me want to be better."
He took a shaky breath.
"And I promise I'll take the roster spot. I'll play for both of us. I'll make you proud."
Silence filled the room.
Then Minhyung pulled him into a hug. Wooje joined, then Minseok, then Coach. They stood there in a huddle, all of them crying, while the chat exploded with purple hearts and messages of love.
The stream ended with a moment of silence. Hyeonjun's photo filled the screen—that championship picture where he was mid-laugh, so alive.
Choi “Doran” Hyeonjun
2000 - 20XX
Forever our brother
Hyunjoon's phone buzzed in his pocket during the closing moment.
A text message. From Hyeonjun's number.
I'm proud of you. Always have been, always will be. It's okay to let go now. I'm okay. You'll be okay too. Thank you for everything, Hyunjoon. My duo, my best friend, my love. I wish I could say that to your face. Win worlds for us. All three of them. Jungle-top synergy, always. - CHJ
Hyunjoon read it seven times, hands shaking.
Then the message disappeared.
Not deleted—just gone, like it had never existed. When he checked his message history, there was nothing from Hyeonjun's number. Just empty space where impossible words had been.
He tried calling.
Disconnected number.
He tried again, and again, and again.
Nothing.
The calls were done.
Hyunjoon stood on the balcony of the gaming house, phone still clutched in his hand, and looked up at the stars. Somewhere out there, Hyeonjun was at peace. And somehow, impossibly, Hyunjoon was going to be okay.
He had promised.
The next morning, Hyunjoon told Coach he'd take the roster spot.
"I'm glad," Coach said, searching his face. "How are you feeling?"
"Like I jumped off a cliff and I'm still waiting to hit the ground."
"That's grief. It doesn't go away, but you learn to carry it." Coach slid a folder across the desk. "Main roster practice starts Monday. The team is excited to have you."
Hyunjoon looked at the folder—schedule, contract details, information about moving into the main team house. It should feel like victory. Instead it felt like amputation.
"Can I have the weekend?" Hyunjoon asked.
"Of course. Do what you need to do."
What Hyunjoon needed to do was say a real goodbye.
He found himself at the academy team house that afternoon, standing outside Hyeonjun's room. The door had stayed closed since the funeral, a sealed time capsule of a life interrupted.
Minhyung found him there.
"You going in?" Minhyung asked.
"Should I?"
"His mom said we could take anything we wanted. As keepsakes." Minhyung held up a key. "I went in last week. Got his trophy from our championship. I thought..." He shrugged. "I wanted something to remember him by."
"Everything reminds me of him."
"I know. But maybe that's not a bad thing."
Minhyung unlocked the door and left Hyunjoon alone.
The room was exactly as Hyeonjun had left it. Bed unmade, hoodies thrown over the chair, his gaming setup still logged into Discord with his status showing Offline. The sticky note on his monitor read: ONER = BEST JG with a smiley face and a badly drawn trophy.
Hyunjoon sat in Hyeonjun's chair, surrounded by ghosts.
On the desk was a notebook—Hyeonjun's game journal where he tracked patch notes and strategy ideas. Hyunjoon flipped through it, recognizing the messy handwriting. Most pages were technical notes about champion matchups and gank timings.
But near the back, he found a different kind of entry:
Promotion confirmed!!! Me and Hyunjoon to main roster in 3 weeks. Can't believe it's real. Been duo with him for 2 years now. He's the best partner I could ask for. Knows what I'm thinking before I say it. Perfect synergy.
Sometimes I wonder if he knows how I feel. Probably not. I'm too much of a coward to say anything. But after we make it to main roster, after things settle... maybe I'll tell him. Maybe we could be something more than duo partners, best friends. Maybe.
For now, I'm just happy he's with me. Whatever happens next, we'll figure it out together. Always.
The entry was dated three days before the accident.
Hyunjoon's vision blurred. He tore the page out carefully, folded it, and put it in his pocket.
Then he looked around the room, trying to decide what to take. The trophy felt too obvious. The hoodies would fit him, but wearing them seemed wrong.
His eyes landed on Hyeonjun's headset—the same model as Hyunjoon's, but covered in stickers Hyeonjun had collected from various events. A tiny T1 logo, a heart-eyed emoji, a sticker that just said "GANK TOP" in bold letters.
Hyunjoon picked it up. The padding was worn, molded to Hyeonjun's head from thousands of hours of practice.
This felt right.
He packed a few other small things—a photo of them holding their academy trophy, Hyeonjun's lucky charm (a tiny squirrel keychain he'd claimed brought him insane solo kills), and that ridiculous sticky note from the monitor.
At the door, Hyunjoon turned back one last time.
"Thanks for everything," he said to the empty room. "I'll make you proud."
The room didn't answer. But somehow, Hyunjoon felt lighter.
The main T1 team house was bigger, more professional, more intimidating.
Hyunjoon stood in the lobby with his single suitcase, feeling like an impostor. These were the players he'd watched on stage, the legends he'd studied. And now he was supposed to be their equal.
"Hyunjoon-ah, you’re here!" Minseok appeared, bright and welcoming. "Let me show you your room. Fair warning—Sanghyeok-hyung's already excited to have a new jungler to synergize with. He's been theorycrafting pathing routes all morning."
"That's... intense."
"That's Faker for you." Minseok grinned. "But he's great. Everyone here is. You'll fit in."
The room was small but nice. Hyunjoon unpacked mechanically—clothes in the dresser, gaming peripherals on the desk, photos on the wall. The picture of him and Hyeonjun went above his monitor. The sticky note went right on the edge of his screen: ONER = BEST JG.
He set up Hyeonjun's headset beside his own. Not to use—never to use—but to have there. A reminder.
A knock on the door. Sanghyeok stood there, smiling gently.
"Mind if I come in?"
"Of course."
Sanghyeok entered, glanced around, saw the photos. His expression softened. "I heard about your duo partner. I'm sorry."
"Thank you."
"I lost someone important to me once. A teammate, a friend. It doesn't stop hurting, but you learn to play with the grief instead of against it." Sanghyeok sat on the edge of the desk. "The way you honor them is by becoming the player they believed you could be."
"What if I'm not ready?"
"No one's ever ready. But you're here. That's what matters." Sanghyeok stood. "Practice in an hour. I'm looking forward to seeing your Lee Sin. I've watched your academy games—your mechanics are clean."
After he left, Hyunjoon sat in silence.
You're going to be the best jungler T1's ever had, Hyeonjun's voice echoed in his memory.
Time to prove him right.
Practice was brutal.
The main roster played at a completely different level—faster, sharper, more coordinated. Hyunjoon felt half a step behind everything, struggling to keep up with the shotcalling and the pace.
"Don't overthink," Sanghyeok said during a break. "Trust your instincts."
But Hyunjoon's instincts were built around Hyeonjun. He kept looking for top lane synergy that wasn't there, expecting Hyeonjun's aggressive trades and early all-ins. The new top laner—Wooje, promoted from academy alongside Hyunjoon, Minhyung, and Minseok—had a different style. More patient, more calculated.
It wasn't bad. Just different.
By the end of practice, Hyunjoon was exhausted.
"You did well for your first day," Coach said. "Give it time. Synergy doesn't happen overnight."
That night, Hyunjoon lay in his new room and instinctively reached for his phone. His thumb hovered over Hyeonjun's contact before he remembered.
No more calls.
The disconnected number message stared back at him.
He put the phone down and stared at the ceiling, feeling the weight of Hyeonjun's absence press against his chest.
It's okay to let go now, Hyeonjun's last message had said.
But how?
Weeks passed.
Hyunjoon settled into the main roster, his play improving as he built synergy with the team. Sanghyeok was patient, Wooje was adaptable, and gradually, Hyunjoon stopped feeling like an impostor.
But the grief lingered. Some days were better than others. Some days he'd go hours without thinking about Hyeonjun, then feel guilty for the reprieve.
One evening, unable to sleep, Hyunjoon logged into League. He meant to play solo queue, but found himself on the account he'd shared with Hyeonjun—their secret duo queue account where they'd practiced off-meta picks and trolled around.
The match history showed their last games together. Wins marked in blue, losses in red, and at the very top—a grey entry marked "Remake."
Hyunjoon clicked on it.
The game had crashed four minutes in. Some server issue had kicked everyone, and the match had been canceled. He remembered it vaguely—they'd been laughing about something, Hyeonjun had started a risky invade, and then everything froze.
"We should finish that one, shouldn't we?" Hyeonjun had said during one of their phone calls.
Hyunjoon stared at the remake entry.
An idea—probably stupid, definitely unhealthy—formed in his mind.
He queued up for a normal game on their shared account. When champion select loaded, he picked Lee Sin. Locked in.
The game started.
Hyunjoon played like Hyeonjun was there. Every gank was coordinated with an invisible top laner. Every objective call was made with phantom input. He played the game they'd never finished, completing the strategy they'd never executed.
And for 32 minutes, Hyunjoon felt whole.
His team won. The victory screen showed their shared username, and for a moment, it felt like both their names were on that screen.
He logged off and sat in the dark.
"I finished it," he whispered to the empty room. "We won."
The universe didn't respond. But Hyunjoon felt something shift in his chest—not closure exactly, but something close to it.
T1's first match of the season was against KT Rolster.
Hyunjoon stood backstage, hands shaking, trying to control his breathing. This was it. His official debut. Everything he and Hyeonjun had worked toward.
Wooje found him. "You nervous?"
"Terrified."
"Good. Use it." Wooje hesitated. "He'd be proud, you know. Hyeonjun-hyung. I know he would be."
"How do you know?"
"Because we all watched you become this player. And Hyeonjun-hyung watched more closely than anyone." Wooje bumped his shoulder—that familiar gesture Hyeonjun used to do. "Jungle-top synergy, remember? I'm not Hyeonjun-hyung, but I'm here. We'll make it work."
"Together?"
"Always, as what Hyeonjun-hyung often says."
The call came to take the stage.
Hyunjoon walked out into the arena, the roar of thousands washing over him. The lights were blinding, the pressure immense. He sat at his station, put on his headset—his own, not Hyeonjun's, but he'd stuck one of Hyeonjun's stickers on it that morning—and flexed his fingers.
The draft began. Hyunjoon's Lee Sin was banned immediately—a sign of respect that made his heart race.
He picked Nocturne instead.
The game started and muscle memory took over. First clear, gank top at three minutes—Zeus was ready, they got first blood. Drake at six. A skirmish mid where Faker’s Azir carried. Oner stole Baron with a perfectly timed smite.
Everything clicked.
In the back of his mind, Hyunjoon could hear Hyeonjun's voice. Not real, not supernatural—just memory, pure and simple.
Nice smite. Now don't throw.
Gank top again. Trust me.
You've got this. You've always had this.
T1 won in 31 minutes.
When the victory screen flashed, Hyunjoon removed his headset and looked up at the ceiling. The lights were too bright to see anything, but he imagined Hyeonjun somewhere in that brightness, grinning like an idiot.
"We did it," Hyunjoon mouthed silently.
The interview was a blur. Hyunjoon answered questions on autopilot until the interviewer asked, "This debut must be emotional for you. I know you lost your academy duo partner recently. Do you have anything you'd like to say?"
The camera focused on Hyunjoon's face.
He thought about all the things he could say. The technical answer, the media-trained response, the safe platitude.
Instead, he said: "Doran taught me that synergy isn't just about mechanics. It's about trust. About knowing your partner will be there, even when you can't see them." His voice steadied. "He's still my duo. He always will be. This win is for both of us."
Backstage, his teammates mobbed him. Sanghyeok ruffled his hair, Minseok was yelling about the Baron steal, Wooje pulled him into a tight hug.
"You were incredible," Wooje said.
"We were incredible," Hyunjoon corrected.
That night, Hyunjoon checked his phone one last time. No missed calls. No messages. Just the empty contact that used to be Hyeonjun's number.
He scrolled up through their old texts one final time, reading every message, memorizing the cadence of Hyeonjun's words.
Then, hands shaking, he archived the conversation.
Not deleted. Never deleted. But put away, gently, with care.
It was time to move forward.
Spring became summer. T1 climbed the standings. Hyunjoon's Lee Sin became legendary, his Nocturne terrifying, his confidence unshakeable.
But on quiet days, he still thought about the calls.
Three months after the memorial stream, Hyunjoon finally visited Hyeonjun's grave.
He brought flowers—white chrysanthemums, Hyeonjun's favorite. And a T1 jersey with both their names embroidered on it, side by side.
The cemetery was peaceful. Hyeonjun's headstone was simple:
CHOI HYEONJUN
"DORAN"
BELOVED SON, TEAMMATE, FRIEND
THE GAME CONTINUES
Hyunjoon sat cross-legged in front of it, the jersey folded in his lap.
"Hey," he said to the stone. "Sorry it took me so long to visit. I've been... processing. That's what the therapist calls it, anyway. Processing."
A bird sang somewhere in the trees.
"We're 14-3 in the season. Probably making playoffs. Maybe even Worlds, if we keep this up." Hyunjoon smiled. "You'd be insufferable about it. 'I told you so' on repeat."
The wind rustled through the grass.
"I wanted to thank you. For the calls. I don't know how they were possible, and I don't need to understand. They gave me time to say goodbye. Time to accept that you are really gone." His voice cracked. "Even if I wasn't ready."
He laid the jersey on the grave.
"I'm going to win Worlds. All three, like we planned. And every game, I'll play like you're watching. Because you are, right? Somewhere?"
Silence.
Hyunjoon stood, brushed off his pants, and looked at the headstone one last time.
"Jungle-top synergy," he said softly. "Always,” and bumped his fist on Hyeonjun’s stone.
He turned to leave, then paused. For just a moment, he felt it—that familiar presence, that sense of rightness he'd always felt when he and Hyeonjun played together.
Not a ghost.
Just love. Pure, simple, eternal.
Hyunjoon smiled and walked away.
[THREE YEARS LATER]
T1 stood on stage at the World Championship, fireworks exploding overhead, the crowd chanting their names.
They'd done it. Three Worlds victories in three years. An unprecedented dynasty.
Hyunjoon held the trophy—his third—and thought about a conversation from a lifetime ago.
Let's win Worlds.
Just Worlds? Aim higher.
THREE Worlds.
Now you're thinking like a champion.
In every interview, every victory speech, Hyunjoon mentioned his duo partner. Some journalists knew the story. Others looked it up. Hyeonjun became a legend—the player who never made it to the main stage but whose influence shaped a dynasty.
After the final ceremony, Hyunjoon found a quiet corner backstage. He pulled out his phone—a newer model now, but he'd transferred all his old data—and looked at Hyeonjun's archived messages.
He'd stopped checking them daily after the first year. Weekly after the second. But tonight felt right.
He scrolled through their old conversations, smiling at the stupid jokes and the late-night theorycrafting. At the plans they'd made, the dreams they'd shared.
At the very bottom, the last message Hyeonjun had sent before the accident:
See you tomorrow for scrims?
Hyunjoon had never replied.
He typed now, three years too late:
We made it. All three. Miss you every day. Thanks for being my duo. Always. I love you.
He included those three last words he should’ve said to Hyeonjun when he can still feel him, hold him. But he didn't hit send. The number was disconnected, had been for years.
Instead, he saved it as a draft.
Just in case.
"Hyunjoon!" Sanghyeok called. "Team photo!"
Hyunjoon pocketed his phone and joined his teammates. As the camera flashed, he glanced at the empty space beside him—where Hyeonjun should have been standing.
But Hyeonjun was there. In the aggressive early gank that won bot lane. In the risky Baron call that sealed the game. In every confident decision Hyunjoon made.
Forever my duo, Hyunjoon thought.
The photo captured T1's greatest roster—five players holding three trophies, smiling at immortality.
But if you looked closely at Hyunjoon's jersey, right over his heart, you could see a small embroidered patch. Easy to miss unless you knew to look for it.
Two names, intertwined:
ONER • DORAN
Jungle-top synergy.
Always.
Hyunjoon retired at 33, his trophy case overflowing, his legacy cemented.
He became a coach—specifically, he took over T1's academy team. The same program where he and Hyeonjun had started.
On his first day, he gathered the new recruits.
"You're here because you're talented," he told them. "But talent isn't enough. You need synergy. You need to trust your duo partner like you trust yourself."
A rookie raised his hand. "Coach, is it true you had a duo partner who died?"
The room went silent. The question was too bold, too personal.
But Hyunjoon smiled. "Yes. His name was Choi Hyeonjun. He was the best top laner I ever played with, and the best friend I ever had."
"Do you still miss him?"
"Every day," Hyunjoon said honestly. "But he's still with me. In how I play, how I coach, how I approach this game. That's what legacy means. The people we love become part of us."
He pulled out his phone—an ancient model now, held together with tape and sentiment. On the back was a faded sticker: GANK TOP.
"He taught me that you play for the people beside you. That synergy is built on trust, communication, and caring enough to be there when it matters." Hyunjoon looked at each rookie. "Find your duo. Build that synergy. Because this game isn't about individual plays—it's about what you create together."
After practice, Hyunjoon sat in his office, looking at the old photo on his desk. Him and Hyeonjun, holding their academy trophy, grinning like idiots who didn't know how short time could be.
His phone—that ancient, taped-together relic—buzzed.
Hyunjoon froze.
It couldn't be. That number had been disconnected for over a decade.
But the screen showed: Incoming call from Hyeonjun-hyung
His hand shook as he answered.
"Hello?"
Static. White noise. Then—
Not words. Just a feeling. Warmth, affection, pride. Like a hand squeezing his shoulder, like a familiar laugh in his ear.
I'm proud of you. Keep going. Always. I love you.
The call disconnected.
Hyunjoon sat in the silence, tears streaming down his face.
Not from grief this time.
From gratitude.
"Thank you," he whispered to the empty office. "For everything."
His phone showed no record of the call. But Hyunjoon didn't need proof.
Some connections transcend death, transcend logic, transcend the boundaries of what should be possible.
Some duos are forever.