Years Later, Still Standing

When a scandal nearly destroyed Su “Moon” Muchen’s career, he disappeared from the public eye—leaving behind a reputation that refused to fade quietly. Years later, he returns not as a player, but as a hidden assistant coach, guiding a new generation from the shadows while battling trauma, addiction recovery, and the crushing weight of public opinion.

Zhang Jiayuan never planned to become his anchor—but somewhere between panic attacks, late-night scrims, and voice-only calls, loyalty turns into something deeper: trust, patience, and the fragile rebuilding of a man who thought he could never come back.

As the rookies rally behind their mysterious coach and the internet erupts with both support and hate, Su Muchen is forced to confront the past he tried to bury—while learning that healing doesn’t mean standing alone.

And when the team heads to a retreat in the same town he once called home, old wounds and new beginnings collide—years after everything fell apart.

Work Text:

Zhang Jiayuan took a deep breath before raising his hand.

The apartment building looked like it had been forgotten by time—paint peeling in thin, tired strips, the hallway lights flickering as if unsure whether they still had a purpose. The air smelled faintly of rust and damp concrete. It was the kind of place people passed without looking twice.

Six years.

Six years since the scandal that swallowed the LPL whole.

His knuckles hovered in the air for a moment longer than necessary. Zhang exhaled slowly and knocked.

The sound echoed—flat and hollow—against the door of the run-down apartment.

Nothing.

He waited, shoulders tense despite himself. This wasn’t his first time here. He’d knocked before. Left messages. Come back on different days, different times, convincing himself that persistence mattered.

It always had, back then.

He knocked again.

From inside came a sharp clatter—empty bottles knocking into each other, glass scraping against the floor. Something was dragged across the room. Footsteps followed, uneven and slow.

Zhang straightened instinctively.

“Who?”

The voice was hoarse, scraped raw by disuse. It barely sounded like the man Zhang remembered.

Zhang Jiayuan and Su Muchen were the same age. They’d debuted around the same time. Scrimmed together. Argued about jungle pathing and champion priority late into the night. Once, they’d talked about facing each other in finals—laughing like it was inevitable.

Su “Moon” Muchen.

The jungler who had once controlled the map like it belonged to him. The man whose name had filled stadiums—until it didn’t.

The Kings had cut him loose within days. Sponsors vanished overnight. The League’s internal investigation had found no evidence directly tying Su Muchen to the scandal, but it hadn’t mattered. Public opinion moved faster than truth ever did.

The ban came quietly.

Permanent.

No return as a player. Coaching and staff roles permitted—on paper. In reality, no one wanted the risk.

After that, Su Muchen disappeared.

Zhang swallowed.

“It’s me,” he said, keeping his voice steady. “Jiayuan.”

Silence.

The kind that stretched too long to be accidental.

Zhang pressed his palm against the door, not knocking this time. “I found you,” he said softly. “I won’t leave.”

On the other side, a breath hitched.

Locks turned, one by one.

The door opened only a crack, just enough for one tired eye to peer through—bloodshot, guarded, unmistakably familiar.

“…Luck?” Su Muchen murmured, as if saying the name out loud might make it break.

Zhang met his gaze and managed a small, stubborn smile.

“Yeah,” he said. “I’m still here.”

Su Muchen’s eye narrowed.

For a split second, something flickered there—recognition, disbelief, maybe even anger—but it vanished as quickly as it came. His hand tightened around the edge of the door.

Then he slammed it shut.

The sound rang down the corridor like a gunshot.

“Wrong address,” he said sharply through the wood. “There’s no one named Su Muchen here.”

The lock clicked.

Once.
Twice.

Zhang Jiayuan didn’t move.

The echo of the door still lingered in his ears. He stared at the peeling paint where Su Muchen’s face had been just a moment ago, his jaw tightening—not in surprise, but in quiet acceptance. He had imagined this outcome more times than he could count.

Denial was easier than hope.

“Moon,” Zhang said, his voice low, careful. He didn’t knock again. “You were never good at lying.”

Silence answered him.

But it wasn’t empty.

Zhang could hear it—the faint shuffle of feet retreating, the scrape of something knocked over in a hurry. Someone breathing too fast, too close to the door. Someone listening despite himself.

“You can pretend I’ve got the wrong address,” Zhang continued. “Pretend you’re someone else. I don’t care.”

His fingers curled slowly into a fist at his side.

“I didn’t come here to drag you back,” he said. “I came because I know what it’s like when everyone decides you don’t exist anymore.”

That earned him nothing but quiet.

Zhang let out a slow breath and leaned his forehead briefly against the door, the cool wood grounding him.

“I’ll be here tomorrow,” he said finally. “Same time.”

He straightened, forcing himself to step back.

Inside the apartment, Su Muchen stood frozen, his back against the door. His chest rose and fell unevenly. The name still rang in his ears—Moon—a name he hadn’t allowed himself to answer to in years.

He clenched his jaw.

Dead names didn’t knock on doors.

Outside, Zhang Jiayuan walked away without looking back, because he knew—
If he turned around now, he wouldn’t be able to leave.

Zhang Jiayuan walked down the narrow stairwell without looking back.

The air outside felt colder than it should have. He unlocked his car, slid into the driver’s seat, and shut the door with a soft click that muted the world. For a moment, he just sat there, hands resting on the steering wheel, eyes unfocused.

Then his phone vibrated.

Once.
Twice.
Three times in quick succession.

He glanced down.

The team group chat.

Manager Chen:
Luck, HR wants an update. Have you thought about the assistant coach candidates we sent?

Analyst Li:
Scrim reviews tonight. We still need alignment on jungle–mid priority.

Operations:
Sponsor visit next week. They’d prefer a full coaching staff by then.

Zhang unlocked the phone but didn’t type immediately. His thumb hovered over the screen as his mind replayed old habits—timing windows, vision control, risk assessment. Patterns he no longer needed to explain out loud back then.

Because someone had always understood.

Zhang Jiayuan had risen fast after the scandal years. When he retired from playing, people said coaching suited him. Calm. Precise. Good at shaping raw talent. Now he was the head coach of a rookie team—young players with mechanical skill but no sense of pacing, no patience for the map.

The management wanted an assistant coach.

Someone to balance him.
Someone who could challenge his calls.
Someone who could read his thinking before he finished the sentence.

They’d tried.

Former pros with impressive résumés. Analysts with perfect spreadsheets. Coaches who talked too much or thought too small. None of them clicked. Meetings stretched longer than they should have. Arguments went in circles.

They didn’t get him.

Zhang exhaled slowly and opened a private note on his phone, scrolling past scrim drafts and pick-ban trees—until he stopped.

An old habit.

A name he never deleted.

Su Muchen.
Captain.
Jungler.

Moon.

Zhang closed his eyes briefly, leaning his head back against the seat.

Su Muchen had always seen the map the same way he did—not as five separate roles, but as one moving system. When Zhang said we trade Herald for tempo, Su Muchen never asked why. He’d already be moving.

That was what management didn’t understand.

Zhang didn’t need someone qualified.

He needed someone who spoke the same language.

The phone buzzed again.

Manager Chen:
We need someone soon, Luck.

Zhang stared at the message for a long moment.

Then he typed back.

Give me some time.

He locked the phone, started the engine, and pulled away from the curb—eyes steady, jaw set.

Six years was a long time.

But some synergies never truly decayed.

The scrim room was quiet in the way only focused players could manage.

Five rookies sat in a row, headsets on, backs straight, eyes locked to their screens. The match wasn’t official—just a scrim against five high-ranked players pulled from the ladder—but Zhang Jiayuan treated it no differently. His arms were crossed behind him as he stood, watching over their shoulders.

“Tempo’s good,” he said calmly. “Don’t rush the third wave.”

The early game unfolded cleanly. Vision was placed on time. Trades were sharp. Their top laner even forced a flash before eight minutes.

They were killing it.

Then the minimap shifted.

Zhang’s gaze sharpened.

The enemy jungler appeared briefly in the river—just a flicker before disappearing into fog of war. No wasted movement. No hesitation. A path that looked inefficient on paper but perfect in execution.

Zhang’s breath stilled.

“Pause,” he said suddenly.

The rookies blinked.

“Huh?” the ADC asked, fingers still hovering over the keyboard.

“Don’t pause,” the jungler said nervously. “Coach?”

Zhang didn’t answer. His eyes were fixed on the screen—on the jungle pathing timeline, on the ward placement that came half a second earlier than expected. On the way the enemy jungler refused a kill to secure vision instead.

That pattern.

There was no mistaking it.

The enemy jungler’s ID was a mess of random words and numbers. A throwaway account. No branding. No flair.

But the way he played—

Zhang felt it in his chest.

He stepped closer to the screen, leaning in.

“Watch the mid brush,” Zhang said quietly. “He’s already there.”

A second later, the enemy jungler emerged, perfectly timed with the mid laner’s wave crash. Their mid died before he could react.

The room erupted in startled curses.

“How did he know?”
“There was no ward—”
“That timing was insane—”

Zhang didn’t speak.

Because he knew.

Zhang Jiayuan had been a mid laner back when he was still active. Back when the jungle wasn’t just support, but a shadow that moved with him. His synergy with Su Muchen had been flawless—built on trust, on shared instinct, on an understanding so deep it didn’t need words.

When Zhang pushed, Su Muchen covered.
When Zhang baited, Su Muchen punished.
When Zhang hesitated, Su Muchen had already adjusted.

This—

This was that.

The enemy jungler rotated again, cutting off a retreat route before the rookies even realized they were being pressured. No flashy mechanics. Just suffocating control.

Zhang’s hands clenched slowly behind his back.

It can’t be.

And yet—

He would recognize that way of playing anywhere.

The training room was empty when Zhang Jiayuan pulled up the scrim VOD.

The rookies had been sent off with a brief dismissal and a promise of review notes tomorrow. The lights were dimmed, the hum of the PCs the only sound left behind. Zhang sat alone, jacket draped over the back of his chair, eyes fixed on the screen.

Rewind.

Pause.

Frame by frame.

He didn’t need to watch the whole thing.

He stopped the video at eight minutes and twelve seconds—an early invade that made no sense unless you knew the enemy jungler’s cooldowns without seeing them. He dragged the timeline forward, watched the same hand-off near mid, the same refusal to overcommit, the same patience that starved the map instead of bleeding it.

Zhang let out a short, breathless laugh.

Bitter.

Almost fond.

“Yeah,” he murmured to the empty room. “That’s you.”

No one else played like that.

People copied mechanics. They copied builds. They copied routes pulled from analytics. But this—this was instinct. Memory. A way of seeing the map that had been carved into someone by years of winning and losing the same fights together.

Zhang leaned back in his chair and stared at the ceiling.

Six years.

And Su Muchen was still jungling like the world hadn’t moved on without him.

He closed the VOD.

The decision came easily after that.

Zhang stood, gathered his things without hurry—laptop bag, coat, keys. The room lights shut off behind him one by one as he walked out, the corridor echoing with his footsteps.

Outside, night had fully settled in.

He unlocked his car and slid into the driver’s seat, hands steady on the wheel this time.

Looks like he’d have to break his word.

He wouldn’t visit tomorrow.

He would visit that apartment right now.

The engine started.

Zhang pulled into traffic, eyes focused on the road ahead, a familiar tension settling into his bones—the kind that always came before a decisive play.

Zhang Jiayuan knocked.

Once.

The sound landed softly against the door, swallowed by the quiet hallway. No footsteps. No clatter of bottles this time. Nothing at all.

He knocked again, harder.

Still nothing.

Zhang exhaled through his nose and leaned closer, lowering his voice—not pleading, not raised. Precise.

“You changed your clear,” he said through the door. “Red to raptors instead of full top-side. Slower on paper. Safer in fog.”

Silence.

“But you still hit level three on time,” Zhang continued. “Because you leashed yourself with patience. You always did.”

The quiet stretched.

Zhang straightened. “At eight-twelve, you invaded with no priority showing. You knew mid would crash because you counted the cooldowns. You never needed wards for that.”

The lock didn’t move.

“Random ID,” Zhang said calmly. “Throwaway account. You avoided every skirmish unless it guaranteed vision control first. You gave up a kill to secure river dominance.”

His voice sharpened just a fraction.

“No one else plays like that.”

Something shifted behind the door.

A faint sound—someone leaning their weight back against the wood.

“You always hated overcommitting,” Zhang went on. “You said junglers who chase kills lose maps. You still believe that.”

A pause.

Then, finally, Su Muchen spoke—his voice muffled but unmistakably steady.

“You’re reading too much into it.”

Zhang shook his head. “You never ganked me unless I asked. And when I did—” he allowed himself a small, humorless smile “—you were already there.”

The lock clicked.

Not opening.

Just… unlocked.

Their argument unfolded the way it always had—sharp, exact, no wasted words. Zhang spoke in patterns. Su Muchen countered with silence and deflection. Neither raised their voice. Neither needed to.

“You shouldn’t have come back,” Su Muchen said at last.

“You shouldn’t be playing,” Zhang replied immediately.

A beat.

“That’s not your decision.”

“And disappearing was yours?”

The door opened a fraction.

Su Muchen stood there, thinner than before, shadows carved beneath his eyes. He didn’t look angry. Just tired.

“If they find out,” Su Muchen said quietly, “are you ready to lose everything too?”

Zhang didn’t answer right away.

Su Muchen let out a slow sigh, gaze dropping.

“It’s fine if it’s just me, Jiayuan,” he said. “Just leave. It’s always better this way, anyway.”

The door stayed open.

Waiting.

Zhang Jiayuan turned the doorknob.

The door opened with a soft creak.

The smell hit him first—stale beer, cold oil from old takeout, the faint metallic tang of something left sitting too long. His gaze dropped instinctively.

Empty beer bottles littered the floor, some tipped over, some clustered near the wall as if they’d been pushed aside rather than thrown away. A plastic trash bag sagged open in the corner, cartons from delivery meals stacked inside—no pattern, no schedule. Just survival.

Zhang stepped inside.

The apartment was dim, curtains half-drawn, light filtered in like it was unsure whether it was welcome. A desk sat near the window, cluttered but not abandoned. Old habit. Order in chaos.

And then—

Su Muchen.

He stood a few steps away, shoulders slightly hunched, arms loose at his sides like he hadn’t decided what to do with them yet. His hair had grown long, dark strands framing a face that looked sharper than Zhang remembered. Thinner. Unshaved. The lines beneath his eyes were carved deep by sleepless nights and time spent staring at screens alone.

He looked older.

Not by years—but by weight.

Zhang didn’t speak.

He didn’t need to.

Su Muchen noticed his gaze and shifted, jaw tightening just a little. “Don’t look at me like that,” he said quietly.

Zhang closed the door behind him.

The sound was final.

“You’re still playing,” Zhang said, not accusing. Just stating a fact. His eyes flicked briefly to the desk. Two monitors. One unplugged. One clean. Maintained.

Su Muchen didn’t deny it.

“Old habits,” he replied. “Hard to kill.”

Zhang took another step forward, careful not to kick a bottle. “You never let the map go.”

Su Muchen huffed softly, almost a laugh. “Funny. The League had no problem letting me go.”

The silence that followed was heavy but familiar—the kind that used to exist between draft phases, where everything important had already been decided.

Zhang’s voice softened. “You look like hell.”

Su Muchen glanced away. “You shouldn’t be here.”

But he didn’t move.

Zhang Jiayuan exhaled slowly—and slipped into it without realizing.

The mode his teammates used to joke about.
The one that surfaced whenever he was worried.

He moved through the apartment with quiet efficiency, nudging a bottle out of the way with his foot, picking up another and setting it on the counter. His eyes scanned automatically—trash, open cans, the angle of the chair by the desk. Too little sleep. Too many nights like this.

Su Muchen noticed.

He rolled his eyes and waved a hand dismissively. “Don’t.”

Zhang ignored him.

“You shouldn’t come here,” Su Muchen said, nodding his chin toward Zhang Jiayuan’s pocket—where his phone sat, vibrating faintly. “What about your team? You’re a head coach now, Xiao Zhang. You shouldn’t be so reckless.”

Xiao Zhang.

The nickname landed with practiced ease, like nothing had changed.

Zhang froze.

Then he straightened.

“Su Muchen.”

The use of his full name cut cleanly through the room.

Su Muchen’s expression shifted—just a little. Enough.

Zhang turned to face him fully, no longer scanning the apartment, no longer cleaning up after him. His voice was steady, but there was something sharp underneath it.

“Don’t talk to me like you’re already gone.”

A beat passed.

The light from the window caught Su Muchen’s face at an angle, deepening the shadows under his eyes. He looked at Zhang for a long moment—longer than necessary.

“I already am,” he said.

The words weren’t dramatic. They weren’t bitter.

They were matter-of-fact.

Zhang felt something tighten in his chest.

“No,” he said quietly. “You’re still here. You’re still playing. You’re still thinking in rotations and fog timings. Dead people don’t do that.”

Su Muchen looked away.

“You came back because you recognized me,” he said. “That’s not being alive. That’s muscle memory.”

Zhang stepped closer. “Then why did you answer the door at all?”

Silence.

Su Muchen didn’t have an answer.

The silence stretched until it became unbearable.

Zhang Jiayuan broke it.

“I didn’t come here just because of the scrim.”

Su Muchen glanced at him sideways. “Then why?”

Zhang hesitated—rare for him. In draft rooms, he always spoke with certainty. In front of cameras, he never faltered. But here, in this dim apartment that smelled like stagnation and old memories, his voice softened.

“I need an assistant coach.”

Su Muchen let out a dry scoff. “You’re really bad at jokes now.”

“I’m not joking.”

That earned Zhang Jiayuan a sharper look.

“The management wants someone,” Zhang continued. “Someone who can challenge me. Someone who can keep up. Someone who understands how I think before I finish a sentence.”

He met Su Muchen’s eyes directly.

“They’ve sent candidates. Former pros. Analysts. Coaches with trophies and egos.” His jaw tightened. “None of them get it.”

Su Muchen folded his arms loosely. “And you thought of me,” he said flatly. “Out of nostalgia?”

“No,” Zhang replied immediately. “Out of trust.”

The word landed heavier than either of them expected.

“You were the only jungler who never needed my full explanation,” Zhang said. “You saw the same lines I did. The same risks. The same win conditions. When I called a play, you weren’t reacting—you were already there.”

A pause.

“I don’t trust anyone else to sit beside me in draft,” Zhang said more quietly. “Or to call me out when I’m wrong.”

Su Muchen looked away, jaw flexing.

“You’re asking the wrong person,” he muttered. “They banned me. I’m poison. If your org finds out—”

“I know,” Zhang cut in.

“If the League finds out—”

“I know.”

“If the public finds out—”

“I know,” Zhang repeated, firmer this time. “That’s why I’m asking you anyway.”

Su Muchen laughed under his breath, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “You’ve gotten reckless, Head Coach Zhang.”

Zhang’s expression softened—just slightly.

“You always said I played mid like someone who didn’t fear losing,” he said. “Maybe you were right.”

Silence fell again.

Not empty this time.

Full of possibility.
And danger.

Su Muchen’s reaction was immediate.

“No.”

The word came out flat, clipped at the edges.

“You’re not serious,” he said, shaking his head. “You can’t be serious.”

Zhang Jiayuan didn’t look away. “I am.”

Su Muchen let out a breath that almost sounded like a laugh. “Let’s list all the reasons this is a terrible idea, shall we?”

He ticked them off with his fingers.

“I’m banned. Permanently.”
“My name is still radioactive.”
“Your org will get torn apart if this leaks.”
“The League might allow me to coach, but they’ll be watching every move I make.”
“And the public?” He scoffed. “They’d crucify your rookies just for being associated with me.”

He looked at Zhang sharply.

“You want to build a future. Don’t anchor it to a sinking ship.”

Zhang listened without interrupting.

When Su Muchen finished, Zhang replied calmly, “You’re allowed to coach. That’s already confirmed.”

“On paper,” Su Muchen shot back. “And paper burns.”

“Then we don’t make it public,” Zhang said. “Not at first. You consult unofficially. Remote drafts. VOD reviews. Trial runs.”

Su Muchen stared at him. “You’re suggesting we hide this.”

“I’m suggesting we protect it,” Zhang answered evenly. “Until it proves it works.”

“And if it doesn’t?”

“Then it ends quietly.”

Su Muchen turned away, pacing a few steps as if trying to burn off the frustration crawling under his skin.

“You’re not thinking straight,” he muttered. “You’re emotional.”

“Am I?” Zhang asked softly. “Or am I finally being honest about who I trust?”

Su Muchen stopped.

For a moment, it looked like he might argue again.

Instead, he coughed—sharp and sudden—and bent forward slightly, covering his mouth. When it passed, he straightened, reached past a half-empty bottle of water on the desk…

…and grabbed another can of beer.

Zhang frowned. “Don’t.”

Su Muchen cracked it open anyway, taking a short pull like it was a shield.

“I’m fine,” he muttered.

“You’re not,” Zhang replied quietly.

Su Muchen leaned back against the desk, trying to look unbothered, trying to stand his ground the way he always had—stubborn, defiant, refusing to yield.

But the posture looked thinner than it used to.

“I’m not joining your staff,” he said firmly. “Not officially. Not unofficially. Not at all.”

Zhang held his gaze.

“Then tell me,” he said, voice steady, “what you’re protecting me from.”

Silence fell again.

And this time, it trembled.

Su Muchen stared at the floor for a long moment.

Then he spoke.

“It’s not just the rules,” he said quietly. “It’s not just the League.”

He tightened his grip on the beer can.

“It’s you.”

Zhang Jiayuan looked up.

Su Muchen let out a slow breath. “If I get dragged back into this scene… people won’t just tear me apart. They’ll look at you. They’ll say you’re biased. Reckless. Unfit to lead.”

A bitter curve touched his lips. “They’ll say you ruined your own career for a ghost.”

Silence settled over them.

And with it—

A memory.

The day the scandal broke, Su Muchen had been staring at his phone when the notifications wouldn’t stop.

Team messages.
League emails.
News headlines.
Rumors multiplying faster than facts.

He remembered scrolling past a comment thread filled with hate—not just aimed at him, but at his teammates.

Then he saw Zhang Jiayuan’s name dragged into it.

Birds of a feather.
Mid must’ve known.
They’re all dirty.

That was the moment it stopped being only about him.

That was the moment Su Muchen decided disappearing would hurt less than staying.

“I’m not afraid for myself,” Su Muchen said quietly. “I’m afraid of what following me will cost you.”

Zhang Jiayuan didn’t raise his voice.

“I already risk public backlash every day,” he replied. “Every loss, every draft mistake, every roster change—people blame me.”

He met Su Muchen’s eyes.

“I can handle that.”

A beat.

Then Zhang picked up his jacket.

“I won’t push you tonight,” he said. “Think about it.”

He turned toward the door.

“But don’t decide for me what I can and can’t endure.”

The door closed behind him.

Zhang Jiayuan didn’t text.

He sent files.

A full VOD package from the rookie team.
Draft notes.
Comms logs.
Scrim timestamps.

No explanation.

Just trust.

Hours later, Su Muchen opened the files.

He watched silently.

Then he typed.

Brutally honest feedback.
Harsh. Precise. Surgical.

Your jungler paths like he’s scared of responsibility.
Mid has mechanics but no map awareness. Teach him to trade wave for vision.
You’re drafting like you want comfort, not victory. Fix that.

No softness.
No mercy.
Only truth.

Zhang applied every note.

Adjusted draft.
Shifted jungle priorities.
Reframed mid-late macro.

The improvement was immediate.

The rookies looked sharper.
Cleaner.
More decisive.

Zhang watched the map unfold—and felt a familiar rhythm return.

See? he thought quietly.
You still got it. Captain.

The title he’d never stopped associating with Su Muchen.

That night, Zhang typed:

Zhang Jiayuan:
One month. Just like we said.

A long delay followed.

Then:

Su Muchen:
…Fine.

Another pause.

A second message appeared.

Su Muchen:
If I say yes… can you promise you won’t regret it?

Zhang stared at the screen.

And smiled.

Zhang Jiayuan didn’t hesitate when the higher-ups asked.

“I’ve found an assistant coach,” he said calmly in the meeting room, hands folded on the table.

The manager brightened instantly. “Great. When can we meet them?”

“They won’t be showing up in person,” Zhang replied. “Personal reasons. They’ll be working remotely.”

There was a brief pause.

“Is that… a problem?” Operations asked carefully.

“They’ll deliver results,” Zhang said simply. “That’s what matters.”

After a moment of weighing risks against performance, the management nodded.

“Alright,” Manager Chen said. “We trust your judgment, Luck.”

Zhang thanked them—and walked out with his expression unchanged.

Su Muchen had never actually said yes.

But he was there.

On Discord.
Muted most of the time.
Listening. Watching.
Commenting only when something annoyed him enough.

During scrims, Zhang shared his screen.

The rookie team could hear an extra presence in the call now—someone who didn’t joke, didn’t soften criticism, didn’t bother with encouragement.

Someone sharp.

“Your reset timing is terrible,” the unfamiliar voice said one afternoon.
“If you’re going to hesitate, don’t call for the play at all.”
“Stop playing like you’re afraid to lose. You’re already losing.”

The rookies exchanged glances behind their monitors.

Who is that?

Mid swallowed nervously. “Coach Luck…?”

“That’s my assistant coach,” Zhang answered evenly. “Listen to him.”

The voice cut in again, dry and ruthless.

“Your wave management is wasting your jungler’s time. Fix it.”

The jungler blinked. “…Yes, sir.”

Another scrim. Another match.

The advice kept coming.

Precise.
Unforgiving.
Uncomfortably accurate.

After the game ended, the ADC whispered, forgetting his mic was still on.

“That wasn’t Coach Zhang’s voice… right?”

There was a brief pause.

Then Su Muchen spoke again, calm and merciless.

“Focus on improving. Curiosity won’t win you games.”

The channel went dead silent.

Zhang muted himself for a second and allowed a small, private smile.

The improvement was impossible to ignore.

Their early-game rotations were cleaner.
Their mid-game calls were sharper.
Their late-game fights looked intentional instead of desperate.

The rookie team watched their own VODs in disbelief.

“Did we always play like this?” the support murmured.

“No,” the jungler replied honestly. “We were… kind of a mess.”

Now, they weren’t.

Scrims that once felt chaotic had structure. Mistakes were punished faster. Shotcalling felt more confident—less emotional, more calculated.

And it all lined up with the arrival of the mysterious assistant coach.

Between matches, the whispers started.

“That guy’s macro is insane,” the ADC muttered.
“He sounds brutal,” top laner added. “But he’s never wrong.”

Mid hesitated, then said slowly, “His style feels… familiar.”

The others turned to him.

“I watched a lot of old LPL VODs,” Mid continued. “From back when I was trying to learn macro. That jungle–mid control… that map pressure…”

He swallowed.

“It reminds me of Su ‘Moon’ Muchen.”

Silence fell.

Then the jungler scoffed. “No way.”

Support shook his head immediately. “Impossible. That guy disappeared after the scandal.”

“Yeah,” ADC added, uneasy. “Some people online even said he might be dead.”

The room felt colder for a moment.

Before the thought could sink any deeper, the door opened.

Zhang Jiayuan walked in, tablet in hand.

He glanced at them once. “What are you gossiping about?”

No one answered fast enough.

Zhang’s tone cooled. “Stop gossiping. You won’t win games like that.”

The rookies straightened instantly.

“Yes, Coach,” they replied in unison.

Zhang turned to the screen, already pulling up the next VOD review, as if the conversation had never happened.

But for a brief moment—
his jaw tightened.

After the scrim ended, Zhang Jiayuan clapped once to gather attention.

“Good work,” he said evenly. “Save the VODs. Rest. We review tomorrow.”

Chairs scraped back. Headsets came off. The rookies filtered out one by one, their earlier tension replaced with quiet satisfaction.

The Discord call thinned.

Until only one other icon remained.

Zhang glanced at the screen.

Su Muchen was still there.

His mic icon stayed muted. No camera. No movement.

Zhang leaned back in his chair. “Great work today.”

Silence.

“You think that—” Zhang started, then stopped, choosing his words. “You think that style might be too harsh on them?”

For a second, nothing happened.

Then Su Muchen unmuted.

His voice came through sharp, dry, unmistakably alive.

“If they can’t handle honest feedback,” he said lazily, “they should quit esports and go stream cooking tutorials.”

It hit like a snap of a rubber band.

That tone.

That sarcasm.

That familiar, irreverent edge from before the scandal—from late-night scrims, post-match banter, and ruthless draft debates.

Zhang blinked in surprise.

But he smiled.

“Welcome back,” he said quietly.

On the other end, there was a brief pause.

When Su Muchen spoke again, the warmth vanished, replaced by the current him—quieter, more distant.

“…Don’t get used to it.”

Then he disconnected.

The call ended.

Zhang stared at the empty channel for a moment longer than necessary.

Zhang Jiayuan showed up at Su Muchen’s apartment with two plastic bags in hand.

Hot food.
Fresh takeout.
Not the half-cold, days-old leftovers he was certain Su Muchen had been living on.

He knocked once, then let himself in when there was no immediate protest.

“You’re going to rot if you keep eating like that,” Zhang muttered, setting the bags on the counter.

Su Muchen watched from across the room, arms folded. “You’re not my mother.”

“No,” Zhang replied dryly. “I’m worse. I’m your superior.”

That earned him a look.

That afternoon, Zhang joined the team’s Discord call—not from his usual setup, but from Su Muchen’s account.

Camera on.

Zhang angled the webcam toward himself, careful, deliberate. But even so, part of the apartment slipped into view behind him—dim lighting, cluttered desk, a corner of unwashed bottles just out of frame.

Su Muchen stayed off-screen, moving somewhere behind the camera.

“Why are you here?” Su Muchen asked flatly.

“Coaching,” Zhang replied, already pulling up draft notes.

“And you couldn’t do that on your own computer?”

“I could,” Zhang said. “But your connection’s faster.”

“Liar.”

“Pragmatist.”

A pause.

Then Su Muchen scoffed softly. “You’re impossible.”

“You’re grumpy,” Zhang shot back. “Eat the food.”

“I will later.”

“You said that yesterday.”

“Xiao Zhang,” Su Muchen said lazily, “did you come here to coach or to babysit?”

Zhang smirked despite himself. “Both.”

The banter felt… familiar.

Light.
Sharper.
Alive.

Zhang could feel it—the slow return of the man he remembered. Not fully. Not the same. But closer than before.

On the call, the rookies listened in quiet awe.

Their Head Coach sounded different today. More relaxed. Faster on the counterarguments. Like he was talking to an equal instead of carrying the room alone.

Then the mid laner hesitated.

“Uh… Coach?”

Zhang glanced at the screen. “Yes?”

“…Your mic is unmuted.”

The channel went dead silent.

Zhang froze.

Behind him, Su Muchen stopped moving.

The implication hung in the air.

A second too long.

Zhang calmly reached forward and muted himself—then met Su Muchen’s eyes off-camera with a look that said we’ll deal with this later.

Su Muchen huffed quietly, half-annoyed.

But there was the faintest hint of amusement.

The suspicion started small.

The support was the first to notice it.

During a VOD review, he tilted his head at the screen. “Coach… is someone else in the room with you?”

Zhang Jiayuan didn’t miss a beat. “No.”

But the camera shifted slightly as he adjusted his posture—and for a split second, a shoulder passed behind him.

Dark hair.
Out of focus.
Gone almost instantly.

The ADC blinked. “Wait—rewind that.”

“Focus,” Zhang said calmly. “We’re reviewing Baron setup.”

They obeyed.
But the seed had been planted.

Next scrim.
Draft phase.

Zhang leaned closer to the camera while discussing pick priorities.

Behind him—

Footsteps.

Su Muchen crossed the edge of the frame, just barely out of view.

“Coach,” the jungler said slowly, eyes narrowed, “your camera—”

Zhang moved fast, dragging the camera angle lower, framing only himself.

“Draft,” he repeated. “Now.”

They complied.

Barely.

After the scrim, Zhang exhaled. “Good job today. Review notes tonight.”

He leaned back.

And forgot to mute.

Su Muchen’s voice cut in immediately, sharp and irritated.

“Are you trying to get me exposed on purpose?”

The channel went silent.

Every rookie froze.

Zhang blinked. “Relax. No one saw you.”

“You moved the camera like a bronze streamer with stage fright,” Su Muchen snapped. “If they connect the dots—”

“It’s fine,” Zhang replied dryly. “You’re overreacting.”

“I am not overreacting,” Su Muchen scoffed. “You’ve always been reckless. No macro in real life. Zero map awareness.”

The rookies stared at their screens.

Zhang shot back, automatically, like muscle memory kicking in.

“And you’ve always been a control freak who thinks flaming equals leadership.”

“Better than being a soft-hearted mid who thinks friendship wins championships.”

“You literally lost a game once because you refused to gank me out of spite.”

“You deserved it.”

The argument escalated—sharp, precise, perfectly timed.

It felt old.

Familiar.

Then Su Muchen scoffed and delivered the line.

“God, Xiao Zhang, you’re still the same—all brain, no hands.”

The channel exploded.

The rookies clamped hands over their mouths, shoulders shaking, trying not to laugh.

That insult was ancient.

A meme from old LPL days.
A running joke.
Clips, edits, compilations—all brain, no hands.

Zhang paused.

“…You’re one to talk,” he muttered.

Only then did he realize.

Muted too late.

Silence followed.

The rookies tried to look professional.

They failed.

The next morning, Zhang Jiayuan barely made it through the door before the questions hit him.

“Coach—”
“Luck-ge—”
“Head Coach Zhang—”

He stopped in the middle of the practice room and looked at all five of them.

“…What?”

The rookies exchanged looks like conspirators who had already agreed on the truth.

The jungler leaned forward first. “Coach. Hypothetically.”

Zhang narrowed his eyes. “If this is about drafts—”

“Hypothetically,” the jungler insisted, “if a former LPL jungler with god-tier macro and a very specific flaming style—”

“—and a voice that sounds like it came straight out of 2019 highlight reels,” the ADC added.

“—and insults that belong in esports history,” Support chimed in.

Mid swallowed, then said it plainly.

“Are we being coached by Su ‘Moon’ Muchen?”

The room went dead silent.

Zhang Jiayuan stared at them for a long second.

None of them looked scared.
None of them looked disgusted.
None of them looked wary.

If anything—

They looked excited.

“That would be insane,” Top said under his breath, grinning. “He’s literally a legend.”

“Even if the scandal stuff,” ADC shrugged, “there was never proof, right?”

“His VODs carried me through solo queue,” Support admitted. “If that’s him… that’s an honor.”

“Honestly?” Mid smiled, eyes bright. “It explains everything. The macro. The timing. The ruthless feedback.”

Zhang listened quietly.

He had expected fear.
Resistance.
Doubt.

Instead, he got admiration.

He exhaled slowly.

“Stop speculating,” he said at last. “Focus on improving. Whoever helps you—famous or not—your job stays the same.”

“Yes, Coach,” they replied, but this time it came with grins they couldn’t fully hide.

As Zhang turned away, he heard the ADC whisper:

“Still… if it is him, that’s kind of sick.”

Zhang’s lips twitched despite himself.

That night, Zhang sent Su Muchen a short update.

They’re guessing.

A reply came after a moment.

Annoying.

Zhang smiled faintly at his screen.

Later that evening, during review, the rookies hesitated—then Mid spoke up.

“Coach,” he said carefully, “can we… talk to your assistant coach directly?”

Zhang paused. “You already are.”

“I mean,” Mid clarified, nervous but determined, “with camera on. Not just a voice.”

The others nodded.

“We just want to say thanks,” Support added quietly.
“He’s helped a lot,” ADC said. “It’d be nice to… see him.”

Zhang’s chest tightened.

“I’ll ask,” he said neutrally.

But his mind was already racing.

He switched to Su Muchen’s DM.

They want to speak to you. With camera.

The typing dots appeared.

Stopped.

Appeared again.

Then vanished.

A minute passed.

Two.

Finally, a message came through.

No.

Zhang frowned. You don’t have to show your face. Just be there.

The reply came instantly this time.

No. Don’t ask again.

Before Zhang could respond, Su Muchen called him.

The moment Zhang answered, he knew something was wrong.

“You’re pushing too far,” Su Muchen said, voice tight. “This was never part of the deal.”

“I’m not forcing you,” Zhang replied carefully. “It’s just a request—”

“You think it’s just a request?” Su Muchen snapped. “You think I can just sit there and let them look at me like I’m a story? A comeback? A mistake?”

His breathing sounded off.

Shallow. Uneven.

“You don’t get it,” Su Muchen continued, faster now. “If they see me, really see me, they’ll start digging. Old posts. Old clips. Old lies. And then—”

His voice broke.

“—and then it happens again.”

Zhang stood up instantly. “Muchen. Breathe. Slow down.”

“I am breathing,” Su Muchen said, but it came out ragged. “I can’t— I can’t go through that again, Jiayuan. I can’t—”

The words collapsed into silence.

Then—

A sharp inhale.
A choking sound.
Panic, raw and unfiltered.

Zhang grabbed his jacket.

“Stay on the line,” he said, already moving. “I’m coming.”

Zhang Jiayuan was in his car within minutes.

The engine roared to life.

He drove faster than he should have, knuckles white on the steering wheel, phone on speaker beside him.

“Muchen,” he said, keeping his voice steady despite the pounding in his chest, “listen to me. Inhale. Count to four. Exhale. Four again.”

There was no immediate reply.

Just breath.
Too fast.
Too shallow.

“I’m almost there,” Zhang added, softer. “You’re not alone. You hear me?”

The streetlights blurred past.

Zhang Jiayuan barely remembered locking the car.

The stairwell felt endless, heart pounding in his ears as Su Muchen’s ragged breathing crackled through his phone speaker. Every step carried the fear that he’d be too late—that he’d arrive to silence instead of gasps.

“Su Muchen,” he said, forcing his voice steady, “I’m here. I’m coming up. Stay with me.”

The door was unlocked.

He pushed inside and found him on the floor near the couch, back pressed against it, one hand clawed into his hair, the other shaking like it didn’t belong to him. His chest hitched violently, breaths shallow and broken, eyes unfocused.

“Hey,” Zhang Jiayuan said softly, dropping to his knees in front of him. “Hey. Look at me.”

Su Muchen didn’t seem to hear him.

Zhang Jiayuan reached out carefully, slow, deliberate. “Muchen. It’s Jiayuan. You’re safe. You’re in your apartment. No cameras. No reporters. No one else.”

He waited for the reaction—the snap, the sarcasm, the instinctive pushback.

Instead, Su Muchen’s body flinched hard at the sound of his name.

Zhang Jiayuan swallowed. “Breathe with me. In. Four seconds. Out. Four seconds.”

He counted aloud, voice low, anchoring.

“In… two… three… four… Out… two… three… four…”

Gradually, the rhythm shifted. Still messy. Still fragile. But no longer spiraling out of control.

When Su Muchen’s eyes finally focused, they were glassy, red-rimmed, haunted.

“…I can’t,” he whispered. “I can’t do this again.”

“You’re not,” Zhang Jiayuan said firmly. “You’re not doing anything alone.”

Su Muchen let out a broken laugh that sounded more like a sob. “You don’t get it. They destroyed me, Jiayuan. They didn’t just take my career—they took my name. My face. Everything.”

His hands trembled harder.

“I used to open my phone and see hate,” he went on, voice cracking. “Everywhere. Messages. Articles. Rumors. I stopped going outside. Stopped sleeping. Stopped—” He swallowed hard. “Stopped wanting to wake up.”

Zhang Jiayuan felt something twist painfully in his chest.

“I started drinking,” Su Muchen admitted, staring at the floor. “At first, it was just to sleep. Then it was to forget. Then it was because I didn’t want to feel anything at all.”

His lips curled into a bitter smile. “It works. For a while.”

Silence stretched between them.

“I knew it was bad,” Su Muchen murmured, almost to himself. “But my name was already dragged through the mud. What did I have left to lose if the media found out I was a mess too?”

Zhang Jiayuan moved before thinking.

He pulled him into a hug.

For a split second, Su Muchen went rigid—body stiff, breath catching, old reflexes screaming at him to pull away.

Zhang Jiayuan didn’t tighten his grip. Didn’t force it. Just stayed.

Slowly, Su Muchen relaxed. His forehead pressed against Zhang Jiayuan’s shoulder. His hands fisted into the fabric of Zhang’s hoodie like a lifeline.

And then he broke.

The sobs were raw, ugly, years of swallowed pain ripping their way out. Zhang Jiayuan held on, eyes burning, letting him fall apart without judgment.

When the crying finally burned itself out, Su Muchen’s strength seemed to vanish with it. His body sagged, breath shallow, eyelids heavy.

“…I’m tired,” he whispered.

“I know,” Zhang Jiayuan said softly.

Su Muchen slumped against him, half-conscious.

Zhang Jiayuan carefully eased him onto the couch, grabbed a blanket, and draped it over him. He watched until Su Muchen’s breathing evened out, until the tension in his shoulders eased.

Only then did Zhang Jiayuan pick up his phone.

His message to the organization was calm, professional, neutral:

We’re taking a day off.
The team’s been pushing hard. Everyone deserves a break to reset.
We’ll resume tomorrow.

He made it sound like a strategic decision.
Not an emergency.
Not a breakdown.
Not a secret he was desperately trying to protect.

Zhang Jiayuan set the phone down and looked back at Su Muchen.

For the first time, the weight of what he was carrying truly settled in.

And he stayed.

The apartment looked… livable now.

Zhang Jiayuan had opened the curtains just enough to let afternoon light bleed in, aired out the stale scent of alcohol, stacked empty bottles into a trash bag, and wiped down surfaces that hadn’t seen a cloth in far too long. He moved quietly, efficiently—but never too far from the couch.

Su Muchen was still there, bundled under a blanket, breathing slow but uneven.

Zhang Jiayuan stayed within earshot. Every few minutes, he’d glance over. Make sure his chest was still rising. Make sure he hadn’t slipped back into that spiral.

He had just sat down on the floor beside the couch when a hoarse voice broke the quiet.

“Do you understand now why I refuse?”

Zhang Jiayuan turned his head. “You’re awake.”

Su Muchen stared at the ceiling, eyes bloodshot, voice rough. “Why are you still here, Jiayuan? You should leave. Luck has a career. Something to prove.” A bitter breath left him. “Moon? He’s already a dead man walking, Jiayuan. Just leave.”

The words tumbled out, muttered, fractured—self-loathing wearing his voice.

Zhang Jiayuan felt the shift immediately. The tilt toward another spiral.

“Su Muchen.” He inhaled slowly. “Can you look at me for a second?”

Silence.

For a moment, Zhang Jiayuan thought he’d be ignored.

Then Su Muchen turned his head.

The instant their eyes met, Zhang Jiayuan reached out and flicked his forehead.

A sharp, light tap.

Just like Su Muchen used to do to him—years ago, back when Zhang Jiayuan would spiral about drafts, losses, pressure, expectations.

A familiar reprimand. A familiar anchor.

Su Muchen recoiled. “What was that for?” he snapped, instinctive, irritated.

Zhang Jiayuan’s lips twitched. “You’re overthinking again.”

Su Muchen scoffed weakly. “You think this is overthinking?”

“I think,” Zhang Jiayuan said calmly, “that you’re trying to convince me you’re already dead so I won’t bother staying.”

Su Muchen’s jaw clenched. “I’m telling you the truth.”

“No,” Zhang Jiayuan replied. “You’re telling me your fear.”

He met Su Muchen’s gaze evenly. “You’re not a dead man walking. You’re a traumatized one. There’s a difference.”

Su Muchen looked away. “…You should still leave.”

Zhang Jiayuan leaned back against the couch. “Then kick me out.”

“…Idiot.”

Zhang Jiayuan smiled faintly. “There it is.”

A beat of silence passed.

Softer, quieter this time, Zhang Jiayuan added, “You don’t get to decide your worth alone anymore. Not while I’m here.”

Su Muchen didn’t answer.

But he didn’t tell him to leave again.

“I needed to admit something.”

The words came out rough, like they scraped his throat on the way out.

Zhang Jiayuan looked up from where he’d been sorting medicine and water bottles. “Go on.”

Su Muchen stared at his hands. They were shaking—not violently, but enough to notice.

“I was… never fully sober. Not when we scrimmed. Not when we talked.” A humorless breath left him. “This is… the first time my head actually hurts like this. Maybe this is what sober feels like.”

He pressed his fingers to his temple, eyes squeezing shut. “It’s loud. My thoughts. My mistakes. Everything.”

Withdrawal sat on him like a weight. Guilt. Fear. Shame. Regret.

For a moment, Zhang Jiayuan said nothing.

He could’ve snapped. Could’ve demanded answers. Could’ve vented weeks of frustration, worry, helplessness.

But he didn’t.

He already knew anger would only make it worse.

“You’re here now,” Zhang Jiayuan said quietly. “That’s what matters.”

Su Muchen gave a weak, incredulous laugh. “You’re not even mad?”

“I’m worried,” Zhang Jiayuan replied. “There’s a difference.”

Silence fell between them.

Then Zhang Jiayuan stood and stretched, rolling tension out of his shoulders. “I’m telling the org we’re taking a week off.”

Su Muchen’s head snapped up. “Don’t.”

Zhang Jiayuan met his gaze. “We are.”

“They’ll think something’s wrong.”

“Something is wrong,” Zhang Jiayuan said plainly. “You’re detoxing. I’m exhausted. The rookies have been scrimming nonstop. A week won’t kill anyone.”

Su Muchen frowned. “You’re overreacting.”

Zhang Jiayuan almost smiled.

There it was.

Not the hollow, withdrawn shell. Not the half-drunk, detached man drowning in avoidance.

This was him.

Defensive. Sharp. Stubborn. Annoying.

Alive.

“I’m a head coach,” Zhang Jiayuan said dryly. “Overreacting is literally in my job description.”

Su Muchen huffed. “Idiot.”

“Captain,” Zhang Jiayuan shot back lightly, “you’re in no position to argue.”

Su Muchen paused.

The word hit, but this time it didn’t break him.

It grounded him.

“…Don’t call me that,” he muttered, but there was no real heat in it.

Zhang Jiayuan watched him carefully.

The sarcasm. The irritation. The bite. The familiar rhythm of his speech.

No longer the hollow man from the dark apartment.

Something was clawing its way back.

And Zhang Jiayuan silently promised himself—he wouldn’t let it slip away again.

Su Muchen didn’t get out of bed.

Or the couch.

Or from under the blanket he’d pulled over his head like a shield.

Withdrawal hit in waves—sweat, chills, shaking hands, nausea he refused to admit out loud. Zhang Jiayuan tried to coax him up. Tried to get him to drink water. To eat something. Anything.

“Not hungry,” came the muffled reply.

“You haven’t eaten since yesterday.”

Silence.

Sometimes Su Muchen answered. Sometimes he didn’t. Sometimes Zhang Jiayuan wondered if he was asleep, only to notice the faint rise and fall of his breathing beneath the blanket.

He didn’t push too hard.

He stayed close instead.

On his phone, messages kept piling up.

Rookie ADC: Coach, where did you disappear to?
Support: Are we actually getting a break? This feels illegal.
Top Laner: Is Assistant Coach okay? He vanished too.
Jungler: Don’t tell me you both got kidnapped.

Zhang Jiayuan replied with light jokes, vague reassurances, and short updates.

Rest week. Don’t overthink. Touch grass.

He didn’t mention the tremors. The half-eaten soup. The way Su Muchen flinched at sudden sounds.

That night, when the worst of the shaking ebbed, Su Muchen finally pushed the blanket down.

His eyes looked glassy. Tired. Too honest.

“Jiayuan,” he murmured, voice thin. “Sit.”

Zhang Jiayuan moved closer to the couch.

For a while, neither spoke.

Then Su Muchen whispered, “I’m scared.”

The admission landed heavier than any insult or argument ever had.

“Of what?” Zhang Jiayuan asked gently.

“Of the camera.” A weak, humorless breath. “Of their faces. Of seeing me and realizing I’m… not who they remember.”

“They’re excited to meet you,” Zhang Jiayuan said.

“I know.” Su Muchen swallowed hard. “That’s worse.”

He turned his head away. “If they see me—washed up, shaking, sober and broken—what if it kills whatever respect they think they have? What if it hurts you? Your team?”

Zhang Jiayuan leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.

“You think hiding forever will hurt less?”

“At least hiding doesn’t drag you down,” Su Muchen muttered.

A pause.

“I can’t turn the camera on,” he admitted quietly. “Not yet. Maybe not ever.”

Zhang Jiayuan didn’t contradict him.

Instead, he said, “Then we go at your pace.”

Su Muchen closed his eyes.

“…You’re an idiot.”

“Yeah,” Zhang Jiayuan replied softly. “But I’m your idiot.”

For the first time in days, Su Muchen let out something dangerously close to a laugh.

Zhang Jiayuan didn’t push the camera.

He pushed something else instead.

“Then don’t show your face,” he said, calm but firm. “Just… talk. Actually coach them. Not just when you’re annoyed. Not just one-liners. Full feedback. Full brain. Full you.”

Su Muchen frowned, buried under the blanket, eyes half-lidded. “You think that helps?”

“I know it will,” Zhang Jiayuan replied. “You don’t have to be seen to matter.”

A long pause.

“…Fine,” Su Muchen muttered. “Voice only.”

The next scrim day, Zhang Jiayuan joined the call as usual.

But this time, when the match loaded in, another voice spoke first.

“Alright,” Su Muchen said, steadier than he felt. “Jungle pathing first. If you’re going to invade like that, do it with purpose—or don’t do it at all.”

The rookies froze.

Then listened.

He didn’t just reprimand.
He explained.
He broke down rotations.
He corrected positioning.
He predicted enemy tempo before it even happened.

“Mid, stop reacting late. Track the jungler’s second clear.”
“Bot lane, your wave state is griefing your own gank window.”
“Top, don’t ego the matchup—play the map.”

This wasn’t just feedback.

This was coaching.

By the end of the scrim, the rookie team sounded different. Sharper. Focused. Fired up.

ADC: Wait… Coach, Assistant Coach is actually talking now?
Support: This feels illegal.
Jungler: He sounds scary. I like it.

Someone joked, “Are we getting the premium version now?”

Zhang Jiayuan smirked. “Be grateful.”

The rookies laughed.

Top Laner: Coach Luck, is he okay though? He sounds… intense.
Mid Laner: Yeah, don’t overwork him. We still need him alive.

Zhang Jiayuan glanced sideways at Su Muchen.

He was leaning back, eyes closed, breathing slow but steady.

“…They tease you,” Zhang murmured quietly.

Su Muchen scoffed under his breath. “Brats.”

But there was no real venom in it.

Zhang Jiayuan stayed beside him the entire time—phone, water, presence. A silent anchor.

When the call ended, Su Muchen exhaled.

“…That was exhausting.”

“You did great,” Zhang Jiayuan said softly.

“…You’re still annoying.”

“Yeah,” Zhang Jiayuan replied. “But you’re still coaching.”

And that mattered more than anything.

A few days passed.

The scrims got longer.

The calls got sharper.

And Su Muchen pushed himself too far.

By the fourth match in a row, Zhang Jiayuan noticed it—the slight lag in response, the longer pauses, the edge in his tone turning brittle instead of sharp.

“Fifth game,” one rookie said eagerly.

“No,” Zhang Jiayuan cut in.

“What? Coach—”

“We’re done for today.”

There was a beat of confusion, then mild protest. But Zhang Jiayuan had already muted the team channel.

He turned to Su Muchen.

“You’re done.”

Su Muchen frowned. “We’re not finished.”

“You are,” Zhang Jiayuan replied flatly.

A scoff. “Don’t baby me.”

Zhang Jiayuan grabbed a water bottle and held it out. “Drink.”

Su Muchen hesitated, then took it—obediently, annoyingly so—and drank in slow gulps.

Zhang Jiayuan watched him over the rim of his own bottle.

“I should’ve remembered,” he muttered, quieter now, “that you tend to overwork when you’re focused on something.”

Su Muchen leaned back against the couch, eyes half-lidded. “Pot. Kettle.”

Zhang Jiayuan huffed. “You nearly passed out.”

“Did not.”

“You looked like you were about to.”

“…You exaggerate.”

But he didn’t push it further.

It had been a few days since the panic attack.

A few days since he’d started trying—really trying—to stay sober.

It wasn’t perfect.

Some mornings were worse than others. Some nights left him staring at the ceiling, jaw tight, breath shallow.

But it was working.

Somewhat.

They’d fallen into a routine without ever discussing it.

Zhang Jiayuan slept on the couch.
Cooked—or tried to.
Cleaned the apartment a little more each day.
Stayed.

Somehow, without words, he’d taken residence in Su Muchen’s life again.

And Su Muchen… let him.

More than that—he was slowly going back to the man Zhang Jiayuan remembered.

Sharper remarks.
Dry sarcasm.
That familiar, infuriating smirk.

Sometimes, when Zhang Jiayuan teased him too much, a pillow would fly across the room.

“Shut up, Luck.”

“Temper, Captain.”

Another pillow.

Zhang Jiayuan laughed, ducking just in time.

And Su Muchen, for the first time in years, looked less like a ghost—and more like someone alive

It happened late at night.

Too late. Too quiet. Too easy to spiral.

They were sitting side by side, VOD paused mid-teamfight, throwing strategy back and forth like they used to—sharp, focused, almost comfortable.

Then Zhang Jiayuan’s phone buzzed.

A notification banner lit up the dark.

Trending Topic: Six Years Since the LPL Match-Fixing Scandal — How the Mighty Have Fallen

Screenshots. Old headlines. Comment sections full of mockery, rumors, recycled hate.

A name that never really disappeared.

Su Muchen.

Zhang Jiayuan felt it before Su Muchen even spoke—the shift in the air.

Su Muchen’s jaw tightened. His breathing changed. Too shallow. Too fast.

“…Six years,” he muttered, hollow. “And they still won’t let it die.”

“Hey,” Zhang Jiayuan said quickly, locking his phone and setting it aside. “Don’t—”

“I ruined everything,” Su Muchen snapped, voice breaking mid-sentence. “The team. You. Myself. Maybe I deserved the ban. Maybe I should’ve just—”

“Stop.”

Zhang Jiayuan turned fully toward him, tone firm but not harsh.

“You’re spiraling.”

Su Muchen laughed bitterly. “What else is new?”

His hands started to shake.

Not as badly as before.

But enough.

Zhang Jiayuan shifted closer. “Breathe. In. Out. Slow.”

Silence. Then a rough exhale.

Minutes passed like that—grounding, steadying, refusing to let him fall back into self-destruction or blame.

Eventually, the tension ebbed.

Su Muchen slumped back against the couch, exhausted.

Zhang Jiayuan grabbed a blanket and nudged it toward him.

“Do you need your blanket?”

“Not a kid,” Su Muchen muttered.

“You had—well, almost had—a panic attack,” Zhang Jiayuan replied dryly. “So I think an emotional blanket is warranted.”

A huff.

Then quieter, almost embarrassed: “…Sorry. You must be tired.”

“Su Muchen.”

He looked over.

“Don’t apologize for surviving a bad moment.”

A pause.

Then Su Muchen asked, carefully, “Have… have you told your organization about your assistant coach?”

Zhang Jiayuan nodded. “Yes. But I didn’t reveal your name. At all.”

Su Muchen’s shoulders eased just a little.

“…Good.”

For a while, they just sat there.

Two people. Six years of regret. And something fragile, rebuilding.

Zhang Jiayuan had just come back from a full day of scrims.

His head still buzzed with drafts, rotations, missed timers, and clutch moments. Su Muchen had been on call as usual—voice steady, feedback sharp, presence familiar.

By the time Zhang Jiayuan reached the apartment door, exhaustion finally started to catch up with him.

He unlocked it.

Opened it.

And froze.

The apartment was empty.

Too quiet.
No low hum of the fan.
No faint sound of typing.
No sarcastic comment waiting for him.

“Su Muchen?” he called.

No answer.

His heart dropped.

He pulled out his phone immediately.

Call.
No answer.

Message.
Delivered. No reply.

Voice note.
Unread.

Another call.

Nothing.

Zhang Jiayuan started pacing, running a hand through his hair, mind spiraling faster with every unanswered ring.

Did he relapse?
Did he leave?
Did something happen?

He crossed the living room. Turned back. Checked the bedroom. The kitchen. The couch.

Empty.

“Pick up,” Zhang Jiayuan muttered under his breath, trying again.

Still nothing.

Then—

The front door unlocked.

It opened.

Zhang Jiayuan whipped around.

Su Muchen walked in like it was any other day.

Hair freshly cut—short, neat, no longer falling into his eyes. A pair of black-rimmed glasses perched on his nose, giving him a sharper, more composed look.

He blinked at Zhang Jiayuan. “What? Why are you pacing like a—”

He didn’t get to finish.

Zhang Jiayuan crossed the distance in two strides and slammed into him, arms wrapping tight around his shoulders.

A hug.

Sudden.
Hard.
Desperate.

Su Muchen stiffened in surprise. “…Oi—Luck—what the hell—”

“You disappeared,” Zhang Jiayuan muttered into his shoulder. “You didn’t answer. I thought—”

Su Muchen’s irritation softened, just slightly.

“…I just went to get a haircut,” he said more quietly. “And glasses. My eyes were getting strained.”

A beat.

Then, more awkwardly, “…You’re overreacting.”

But he didn’t push Zhang Jiayuan away.

Not right away.

When Zhang Jiayuan finally pulled back, he exhaled shakily. “Next time, tell me.”

Su Muchen looked away. “…Fine.”

Still, the corner of his mouth twitched.

And for the first time, Zhang Jiayuan saw him not as a ghost from a scandal—

—but as someone stepping forward again.

Zhang Jiayuan finally let go of him, hands lingering for half a second too long before dropping.

He looked Su Muchen over properly this time.

Shorter hair. Cleaner lines. The black-rimmed glasses. A sharper silhouette—less like a man hiding, more like someone bracing to be seen.

“…Why the sudden makeover?” Zhang Jiayuan asked, trying to sound casual and failing just a little.

Su Muchen clicked the door shut behind him. “It’s not a makeover.”

“You cut your hair. You got glasses. You disappeared without warning. That’s a statement, Captain.”

Su Muchen rolled his eyes, but he didn’t fire back immediately.

He hesitated.

That alone made Zhang Jiayuan straighten.

“…I almost didn’t come back,” Su Muchen admitted quietly.

Zhang Jiayuan’s chest tightened. “Moon—”

“I didn’t mean like that,” Su Muchen muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. “Not… disappearing. I mean—I stood in front of the mirror and realized I still looked like someone who gave up.”

He looked away. “Like someone waiting to rot.”

A beat.

“So I figured,” he added more softly, “if I’m going to try again—even a little—I shouldn’t look like I’ve already lost.”

The words were rough. Honest. Unpolished.

Zhang Jiayuan stared at him for a second, then scoffed lightly. “You’re really committing to the comeback arc, huh?”

Su Muchen shot him a look. “Don’t make it sound dramatic.”

“It is dramatic,” Zhang Jiayuan said, grinning despite the tightness in his throat. “You vanished for years. Now you’re coaching again. New hair. New glasses. Next you’ll tell me you’re ready to touch the camera.”

Su Muchen’s expression flickered.

“…One step at a,” he muttered.

Zhang Jiayuan softened. “One step is still forward.”

Su Muchen looked at him for a long moment.

“…You really think I can come back?”

Zhang Jiayuan answered without hesitation.

“I know you can.”

Su Muchen didn’t meet Zhang Jiayuan’s eyes when he spoke.

“I’ve been reading the comments,” he admitted quietly.

Zhang Jiayuan’s expression tightened. “Moon…”

“The sixth anniversary post,” Su Muchen continued. “Clips. Threads. People reminiscing. Mocking. Defending. Blaming.” A hollow laugh slipped out. “It’s funny. Even after six years, they still argue about whether I deserved it.”

He clenched his jaw.

“Some of them said they miss me,” he said, voice rough. “Some said I should’ve disappeared for good.”

Silence fell between them.

“I thought I could handle it,” Su Muchen muttered. “But the more I read, the more it feels like… if I try to come back, it’ll just reopen everything. For them. For you. For me.”

He swallowed hard.

“I told you, didn’t I?” His voice cracked. “I couldn’t survive a second time. I couldn’t—”

“Hey. Hey. Hey.”

Zhang Jiayuan stepped closer, hands firm on Su Muchen’s shoulders.

“Breathe. Breathe.”

In.
Out.
Slow.

Su Muchen squeezed his eyes shut, breath shaking before gradually evening out.

“…Staying hidden hurts less,” he whispered. “At least there, I only disappoint myself.”

Zhang Jiayuan shook his head softly. “You’re not just hiding from hate. You’re hiding from the people who still believe in you.”

Su Muchen didn’t reply.

But he didn’t pull away either.

The next few days felt different.

Su Muchen laughed more.
Snapped back quicker.
Argued strategies with the same sharp confidence he used to.

He’d lean over VODs, nitpick rotations, predict enemy decisions before they happened.

And Zhang Jiayuan kept catching himself thinking—

This is him.

Not the broken man buried under blankets.
Not the ghost of a scandal.

But the Captain.

The one who led with instinct, discipline, and ruthless clarity.

The one Zhang Jiayuan could never picture anyone else replacing.

And for the first time in years, it felt like that version of Su Muchen wasn’t gone.

Just… returning.

The retreat invite landed on Zhang Jiayuan’s phone like a ticking clock.

Team Retreat — Mandatory.
Management Attendance Confirmed.
Assistant Coach Presence Strongly Encouraged.

The organization had been thrilled with the rookie team’s growth. Too thrilled. Too curious.

They wanted to meet the mysterious assistant coach who had transformed the team in weeks.

And the retreat location?

The same town Su Muchen grew up in.

The same place he hadn’t returned to.
The same family he hadn’t spoken to in years.

When Zhang Jiayuan brought it up, Su Muchen went still.

“…You’re kidding,” he muttered.

“I wish I was,” Zhang Jiayuan replied gently. “They’re asking again. Management. Sponsors. Analysts. Everyone.”

Su Muchen dragged a hand down his face. “Tell them I’ll think about it.”

Zhang Jiayuan hesitated. “Moon—”

“I said I’ll think about it,” Su Muchen snapped, a reflexive edge returning. “Not now. Not today.”

He stood, grabbed a pillow, and tossed it at Zhang Jiayuan’s chest.

“Out.”

Zhang Jiayuan blinked. “You’re kicking me out?”

“You’ve been freeloading for weeks, Luck,” Su Muchen muttered, shoving him toward the door. “Go home. Sleep. Touch grass.”

At the doorway, Zhang Jiayuan paused. “You’re not running, right?”

Su Muchen scoffed. “…Annoying.”

The door shut.

But this time, it didn’t feel like abandonment.

It felt like someone needing space to decide whether to face their past.

Zhang Jiayuan checked his phone again.

No new messages.

He set it down. Picked it back up two minutes later. Refreshed. Locked it. Unlocked it again.

The rookies noticed.

“Coach,” the jungler whispered to the ADC, “he’s been doing that all morning.”

“Waiting for his secret boyfriend?” the support joked under his breath.

“Focus,” Zhang Jiayuan snapped automatically—then immediately glanced at his phone again.

Later that afternoon, the team made a quick run to the convenience store downstairs.

They ran into a man at the counter.

Tall.
Wearing a clean-cut suit.
Short, neat dark hair.
Black-rimmed glasses.
Composed posture. Quiet voice.

He bought bottled water and a black coffee.

“Same building?” the top laner asked casually when they noticed him scanning into the same residential tower.

The man nodded politely. “Yeah.”

Something about him felt… familiar.

Not in a face way.

In a vibe way.

“He feels like an esports guy,” the mid laner whispered as they walked toward the elevators.

“Or a CEO,” the ADC muttered. “Or both.”

“Or a villain,” someone else joked.

They laughed, but the feeling lingered.

They parted ways at the lobby, leaving the man with the security guard.

Back in the training room, they brought it up casually.

“Coach,” the jungler said, spinning his chair, “we met this guy downstairs. Suit. Glasses. Same building. Weirdly familiar.”

“Yeah,” the support added. “Felt like someone we should recognize.”

Zhang Jiayuan froze.

“…What did he look like?” he asked, too quickly.

They described him.

Suit.
Short dark hair.
Glasses.
Calm voice.
Sharp presence.

Zhang Jiayuan’s eyes widened.

His chair scraped harshly against the floor as he stood.

“Coach?” the rookies blinked.

Zhang Jiayuan was already grabbing his jacket.

“I’ll be right back,” he said, voice tight.

Then he ran out of the room.

The rookies stared at each other.

“…Did we just accidentally meet someone important?”
“…Was that the assistant coach?”
“…No way, right?”

Zhang Jiayuan didn’t even wait for the elevator.

He took the stairs two at a time, chest tight, mind racing with worst-case scenarios.

Why would he show up?
Why now?
Did he really go through with it without telling me?

By the time he reached the management floor, he was already out of breath.

He pushed the meeting room door open—

—and stopped short.

Inside, the higher-ups sat around the long table. Sponsors. Managers. Analysts.

And standing across from them—

Su Muchen.

Suit crisp. Hair neatly cut. Glasses resting comfortably on his nose. Back straight. Expression calm.

Collected.

Professional.

Like he had never disappeared.

Like he had never broken.

“…It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Su Muchen was saying, voice level. “Thank you for giving me this opportunity.”

Someone noticed Zhang Jiayuan at the door.

“Coach Zhang?” a manager blinked. “Perfect timing. We were just—”

“Su Muchen,” Zhang Jiayuan cut in sharply, stepping forward. “What—”

Su Muchen turned his head.

Their eyes met.

For a split second, the composure cracked.

Just a hairline fracture.

Then it smoothed over.

“…Luck,” Su Muchen greeted lightly, like this was planned. “You’re late.”

Zhang Jiayuan stared at him, disbelief and adrenaline tangling in his chest.

“You said you’d think about it,” he hissed under his breath.

“I did,” Su Muchen replied quietly. “And I thought fast.”

The management exchanged curious looks.

“So,” one of them said carefully, “you two already know each other?”

Zhang Jiayuan swallowed.

“Yes,” he said.

Su Muchen glanced at him again, eyes steady.

“And if you’re going to introduce me,” Su Muchen added calmly,
“do it properly.”

The meeting ended with cautious handshakes and even more cautious smiles.

The higher-ups looked nervous. Sponsors whispered. PR teams mentally drafted ten different crisis statements.

But in the end—

“We’ll proceed,” the director said carefully. “On our terms. Step by step.”

Their reputation mattered.

But so did results.

And Su Muchen’s impact on the rookie team was undeniable.

Zhang Jiayuan caught him in the hallway right after.

“Su Muchen.”

Su Muchen stopped walking but didn’t turn around immediately.

Zhang Jiayuan stepped closer, voice tight. “What were you thinking?”

Su Muchen finally faced him. “I was thinking about not hiding behind you forever.”

“You didn’t even tell me,” Zhang Jiayuan snapped. “Do you know how terrifying that was? Walking in and seeing you in front of management like that—”

“I’m not made of glass, Luck,” Su Muchen said quietly.

“I know,” Zhang Jiayuan replied, softer now. “That’s why this scares me.”

Hurt.
Worry.
And… undeniable admiration.

“You looked like yourself in there,” Zhang Jiayuan admitted. “Confident. Calm. Like the Captain I used to know.”

Su Muchen’s lips twitched faintly.

“You’ve done enough for me,” he said, meeting Zhang Jiayuan’s gaze head-on. “Let me do this on my own, alright?”

Zhang Jiayuan shook his head slightly. “Su Muchen.”

“Zhang Jiayuan.”

Their names sat between them like a challenge.

“I’m not letting go,” Zhang Jiayuan said quietly. “But I’m not stopping you either.”

For a second, Su Muchen looked… grateful.

“…Good,” he murmured.

They walked back toward the training room side by side.

Not shoulder to shoulder—yet—but close enough that the tension between them had softened into something steadier.

The door slid open.

Conversation died instantly.

The rookies stared.

First at Zhang Jiayuan—because Head Coach energy always meant something—
then at the man beside him.

The suit.
The short, neatly trimmed hair.
The black-rimmed glasses.

The convenience store guy.

“…Wait,” one of the rookies said slowly.
“No way.”

Another leaned forward, eyes widening. “That’s—”

Su Muchen sighed quietly, already bracing himself.

“Ah,” Zhang Jiayuan said, not bothering to soften it. “Since you’ve all met him once already, I might as well make it official.”

He stepped aside.

“This is our assistant coach.”

A beat.

Then—

“SU MOON MUCHEN?!”

The room exploded.

“You’re that Su Muchen?”
“The Captain Su Muchen??”
“The Moon?? The Moon from six years ago?!”
“WAIT you bought me ramen—”
“Coach, are you actually real??”

Su Muchen barely had time to blink before he was surrounded.

Questions flew from every direction.

“Are your comms really that clean?”
“Is it true you used to call rotations three fights ahead?”
“Did you really once reverse-sweep with a broken wrist?”
“Why do you look cooler in person?!”

Zhang Jiayuan leaned against the wall, arms crossed, watching with a fond, relieved expression.

Su Muchen raised both hands. “One at a time. Please. I’m still human.”

That only made them louder.

The announcement dropped that evening.

Clean. Controlled. Carefully worded.

OFFICIAL STATEMENT:
We are pleased to welcome Su Muchen as Assistant Coach to our roster…

The name alone detonated across social media.

Support flooded in.

THE MOON IS BACK
This team just leveled up
If anyone can fix their macro, it’s him
I waited six years for this

And then—

The other side.

Oh wow, guess scandals expire now
Did we forget what he did?
Hope the rookies know who they’re working with
Mighty have fallen, huh

Su Muchen didn’t look at his phone.

Zhang Jiayuan did.

Then he quietly turned it face-down and pushed a bottle of water toward him.

“We’ll filter it,” Zhang Jiayuan said. “You don’t need to see everything.”

Su Muchen exhaled slowly.

“…I know,” he said. “But this time—”

He looked up, eyes steady.

“I’m not running.”

The pushback didn’t come from analysts.
Or veterans.
Or PR.

It came from the rookies.

It started small—one reply under a nasty comment.

“You don’t know him.”

Then another.

“We work with him every day. He’s the reason our scrims stopped falling apart.”

Someone clipped a voice-only coaching session—accidentally, they claimed—blurred names, distorted voices, but the cadence was unmistakable. Calm. Precise. Patient.

This was Su Muchen coaching.

The replies stacked.

“He stayed up with us reviewing until 3 a.m.”
“He never once talked down to us.”
“If you think he ‘fell,’ you should see how hard he’s pulling us up.”

It went viral overnight.

Fans noticed the tone—too raw to be scripted.
Too messy to be PR.

Even the harsher voices hesitated.

By the time they were packing for the retreat, the mood had shifted.

Not quiet—focused.

Suitcases lined the hallway. Gear bags piled high. Someone was arguing about who stole whose charger.

Su Muchen stood near the window, checking a list on his tablet.

“Don’t forget,” he said, without looking up, “altitude fatigue hits faster there. Hydrate early.”

“Yes, Dad—sorry—Coach,” a rookie blurted.

Zhang Jiayuan snorted.

Su Muchen shot him a look. “Don’t encourage them.”

“Too late,” Zhang Jiayuan said easily. “You’ve been doing it yourself.”

The rookies exchanged glances.

They were starting to notice things.

How Zhang Jiayuan wordlessly handed Su Muchen water before long meetings.
How Su Muchen leaned closer when Zhang Jiayuan spoke, like tuning into a familiar frequency.
How disagreements never turned sharp—just quiet, intense, and solved.

One rookie whispered, “They argue like an old married couple.”

Another replied, “Respectfully? I’d follow both of them into hell.”

Su Muchen paused, eyes flicking toward them.

“…I heard that.”

They scattered instantly.

Zhang Jiayuan laughed, the sound light and unguarded. “See? They adore you.”

Su Muchen huffed, but the corner of his mouth lifted.

“Let’s go,” he said. “We’re not late.”

And for the first time in years, he didn’t feel like he was walking alone.

The bus slowed as it left the highway.

Fields stretched wide outside the windows, broken by old shop houses, faded signboards, and narrow streets that twisted between familiar landmarks.

Su Muchen didn’t say anything at first.

But Zhang Jiayuan noticed the way his shoulders went still.
The way his eyes tracked every corner like he was reading a memory only he could see.

“…You okay?” Zhang Jiayuan asked quietly.

A beat.

“Yeah,” Su Muchen replied. His voice was steady—too steady. “Just… haven’t been here in a long time.”

They passed a small noodle shop with a peeling red awning.

Su Muchen’s fingers tightened around the strap of his bag.

“That used to be open until 2 a.m.,” he murmured, almost to himself. “We used to scrim in internet cafés and come here after.”

The rookies perked up immediately.

“Coach had a nightlife era?” one gasped.

“Coach ate carbs?” another added dramatically.

Su Muchen rolled his eyes, but there was a softness in it. “Get off my bus.”

Zhang Jiayuan smiled quietly beside him.

Not hollow.
Not withdrawn.

Just… him.

They stopped near the retreat venue—a modest training resort with mountains rising behind it.

The team spilled out of the bus in chaos: bags, jokes, complaints about leg cramps.

Su Muchen adjusted his glasses, keeping slightly to the back like instinct told him to.

Then—

“Excuse me…?”

A small voice.

Everyone turned.

A teenage fan stood near the gate, clutching a worn team jersey. Her eyes moved nervously between Zhang Jiayuan… and Su Muchen.

“…Coach Zhang,” she started, then hesitated. Her gaze lingered on Su Muchen’s face. Recognition flickered.

The old fear tightened in Su Muchen’s chest.

He braced himself.

“…Are you… Moon?” she asked softly.

Silence.

The rookies froze.

Zhang Jiayuan didn’t move—just waited.

Su Muchen swallowed. “…Yeah.”

The girl’s eyes filled instantly—not with anger. Not with accusation.

“With relief.

“I watched your old matches with my dad,” she said. “You… you made me want to play. I saw the announcement and—I just wanted to say welcome back.”

She handed him a pen with shaking hands.

Su Muchen stared at it like it weighed a thousand pounds.

Then he took it.

Signed carefully.

“Thank you for… waiting,” he said quietly.

She bowed repeatedly before running off, grinning so hard she nearly tripped.

The rookies exploded the second she was out of earshot.

“COACH YOU HAVE FANS HERE—”

“That was so wholesome—”

“You didn’t even panic!”

Su Muchen exhaled slowly, like something heavy had loosened inside his ribs.

“…That went better than expected,” Zhang Jiayuan said softly.

Su Muchen nodded once. “…Yeah.”

And for the first time since arriving, the town didn’t feel like a battlefield.

The retreat schedule was packed.

Team-building. Media training. Scrims.

And then—

Management called a meeting.

“We’d like Assistant Coach Su Muchen to lead tomorrow’s full strategy workshop,” one of the executives said. “Entire roster. Analysts included.”

The room went quiet.

The rookies turned toward him with barely contained excitement.

Zhang Jiayuan watched him instead.

Su Muchen adjusted his glasses. “…Full workshop?”

“Yes,” management confirmed. “Your systems have already improved team cohesion. We want you leading the long-term macro development.”

The old fear flickered.

Public speaking.
Eyes on him.
Responsibility on his shoulders again.

But then he remembered the girl at the gate.

The rookies’ voices during scrims.
The way Zhang Jiayuan trusted him without hesitation.

“…Okay,” Su Muchen said.

The rookies cheered like they’d just won a tournament.

The next day, he stood at the front of the training hall.

Whiteboard filled with diagrams. Clips queued. Tactical layers broken down with surgical precision.

And he talked.

Not short commands.
Not clipped reprimands.

Full explanations.
Questions. Challenges. Humor slipped between serious moments.

Even analysts leaned forward.

Even management stopped whispering.

Zhang Jiayuan sat in the back with his arms crossed, watching like someone witnessing a long-lost star finding orbit again.

Su Muchen paced slowly, voice steady.

“This team’s strength isn’t mechanics,” he said, tapping the board. “It’s adaptability. But adaptability without structure becomes panic. We’re building a framework so you can improvise without losing identity.”

The rookies nodded, eyes bright.

Not intimidated.

Inspired.

By the end of the session, no one wanted to leave.

And when the last player finally packed up, one rookie whispered to another—

“Coach Moon is terrifyingly cool.”

Zhang Jiayuan overheard and smirked.

Su Muchen pretended not to.

But his shoulders stood a little straighter.

The retreat quieted after dinner.

Most of the rookies were still buzzing from the workshop—replaying strategies, arguing about drafts, loudly declaring that they were now “macro geniuses” after one lecture.

But eventually the noise faded.

The mountains settled into night.

And Su Muchen found himself sitting alone on the wooden steps outside the lodge, sleeves pushed up, glasses slightly crooked from a long day.

He stared at nothing in particular.

The door creaked behind him.

Zhang Jiayuan walked out carrying two cans of soda. He didn’t say anything—just handed one over and sat beside him.

Silence stretched comfortably between them.

For once.

“…You were good today,” Zhang Jiayuan said finally.

Su Muchen huffed softly. “You say that like you were surprised.”

“I wasn’t,” Zhang replied. “I just… hadn’t seen you like that in a while.”

Su Muchen rolled the cold can between his palms.

“…I forgot how loud rooms feel,” he admitted. “How many eyes. How many expectations.”

“You didn’t look scared.”

“I was,” he said simply. “I just… didn’t want the kids to see it.”

The mountain wind rustled the trees.

“I almost walked out when management asked me to lead,” Su Muchen continued quietly. “My brain kept saying—what if they look at you and only see the scandal? What if they regret letting you stand there?”

Zhang Jiayuan didn’t interrupt.

“But then…” Su Muchen’s mouth twitched faintly. “…they started arguing over lane assignments like idiots. And one of them called me ‘Coach Moon’ like it was the most normal thing in the world.”

He exhaled.

“And suddenly it felt… familiar again. Like before everything broke.”

A long pause.

“…Thank you,” he added, voice softer. “For not forcing me faster than I could go.”

Zhang Jiayuan leaned back on his hands. “You did the hard part. I just… hovered annoyingly.”

“You always did that.”

“Yeah,” Zhang smirked. “And you used to flick my forehead for it.”

Su Muchen’s eyes softened.

“…You stayed anyway,” he said quietly. “Even when I told you to leave.”

Zhang glanced at him.

“I wasn’t going anywhere.”

For a moment, neither of them looked away.

Then—

“COACHES—!”

A rookie’s panicked scream shattered the calm.

Both men blinked.

“…That sounded like a fire hazard,” Su Muchen muttered.

“…That sounded like our rookies,” Zhang Jiayuan sighed.

They stood up at the same time.

The retreat schedule had included “team bonding through cooking and bonfire setup.”

Management had assumed this would be wholesome.

Management had underestimated the rookies.

When Su Muchen and Zhang Jiayuan reached the courtyard, chaos greeted them.

Half-cut vegetables scattered everywhere.
One player was trying to light damp wood with a hairdryer.
Another had somehow set off a smoke alarm using instant noodles.

“WHO LET YOU COOK WITHOUT SUPERVISION?” Zhang Jiayuan barked.

“TEAM BUILDING!” someone shouted back defensively.

A small fire pit smoked aggressively but refused to ignite.

The staff looked one step away from despair.

Su Muchen took in the scene—fast. Efficient.

The old captain instincts snapped into place before he even realized it.

“Okay,” he said sharply, voice cutting through the noise. “Everyone stop moving.”

And they did.

Not because he yelled.

Because the tone carried authority.

“You,” he pointed to one rookie, “stop pouring lighter fluid like you’re watering plants. You’ll burn your eyebrows off.”

Snickers.

“You two—dry wood only. Stack in a pyramid, not a pile. Airflow matters.”

They moved immediately.

“You,” he added, taking a knife from another player’s hands, “your chopping technique is a safety violation. Sit. I’ll show you once.”

The rookies watched, wide-eyed.

Management watched too—whispering among themselves as Su Muchen effortlessly took control of the situation.

He moved through the chaos like he’d never left the spotlight.

Calm. Precise. Slightly sarcastic.

“Head Coach,” one rookie whispered to Zhang Jiayuan, “he’s scary when he’s competent.”

Zhang snorted. “He’s always competent.”

Within thirty minutes—

The bonfire crackled steadily.
Food cooked without casualties.
The rookies worked like a coordinated unit instead of a disaster movie.

And somewhere along the way…

Staff started filming.

Not formally. Just small clips—Coach Moon guiding players, laughing when someone burned marshmallows, flicking a rookie’s forehead for trying to shortcut safety rules.

Visible.

Public.

Natural.

Su Muchen only realized later—when the team settled around the fire and he caught Zhang Jiayuan watching him with that quiet, proud look again.

“What?” Su Muchen asked.

“You just led a team crisis in public,” Zhang said. “Without realizing.”

Su Muchen paused.

Then looked around.

The rookies laughing.
Staff relaxed.
Management whispering approvingly.

The firelight reflected in his glasses.

“…Huh,” he said softly.

And for once—

He didn’t feel like hiding from the light.

The bonfire burned lower as the night deepened.

Rookies sat around it in loose circles—some roasting marshmallows into charcoal, others arguing over draft theory like it was a life-or-death debate.

And somehow—

Every question kept landing on Su Muchen first.

“Coach Moon, is it better to swap tempo after second Herald or—”

“Coach Moon, earlier you said my positioning was illegal—can you show me again—”

“Coach Moon—”

Zhang Jiayuan watched this happen three times.

Four.

Five.

Finally, he crossed his arms.

“…Why are you asking him,” he said loudly, eyebrow raised, “when I’m the Head Coach?”

The rookies froze.

Then one of them grinned, eyes sparkling with mischief.

“Head Coach Zhang is jealous?”

The team burst into laughter.

Zhang Jiayuan scoffed. “Jealous? Of him? Please. I raised him from a cave.”

“Excuse me?” Su Muchen muttered.

Another rookie leaned closer to the fire dramatically. “We just thought… Assistant Coach Moon looks scarier. So we ask him first.”

“Wow,” Su Muchen deadpanned. “Fear-based respect. I’m proud of you.”

“Also,” another added innocently, “Head Coach Zhang always explains things nicely. Assistant Coach Moon explains like our lives depend on it.”

Zhang Jiayuan narrowed his eyes. “…So I’m the nice parent and he’s the terrifying one?”

“Correct,” three rookies answered in unison.

Su Muchen snorted.

Zhang rolled his eyes but couldn’t hide the faint smile tugging at his mouth.

“Fine,” he said, uncrossing his arms and dropping onto a log. “But remember who signs your scrim schedules.”

Immediate groans.

“Abuse of power!” someone cried.

Su Muchen leaned back slightly, watching the scene—the chaos, the teasing, the comfort.

And then—

One rookie handed him a burnt marshmallow.

“For the captain,” the kid said casually.

Su Muchen blinked.

“…You mean coach.”

The rookie shrugged. “Same thing.”

For a second, Su Muchen didn’t respond.

Then he took the marshmallow.

“…It’s completely burnt,” he said.

“Character building.”

Zhang Jiayuan laughed quietly beside him.

And for the first time that night—

When another question came up—

A rookie asked, “Coach Zhang, what do you think?”

The balance settled naturally.

Not replacement.

Partnership.

The bonfire video wasn’t supposed to leave the retreat.

It was just a shaky phone clip—orange firelight, rookies laughing too loudly, someone nearly setting their sleeve on fire… and in the middle of it all—

Su Muchen.

Laughing.

Not the guarded half-smile he gave on calls. Not the hollow quiet Zhang Jiayuan had seen months ago.

He was relaxed. Shoulders loose. Giving instructions while flipping skewers like he’d done it a hundred times. A rookie saluted him dramatically and he shoved the kid’s head aside with a snort.

Someone captioned it:
“The scariest Assistant Coach actually smiles???”

It went viral within hours.

At first—

Support flooded in.

“Wait… is that Su Moon Muchen?? He looks… healthy?”
“He’s coaching again? GOOD.”
“Look at how the team reacts to him. That’s real respect.”
“He deserved better back then.”

Former fans resurfaced. Analysts praised his workshop clips leaked later. Old teammates posted vague but supportive emojis.

And then—

The other side came.

“Funny how people forget scandals after six years.”
“Ban should’ve been permanent.”
“PR stunt.”
“Don’t let him near rookies.”

Threads grew.

Arguments exploded.

News outlets picked it up.

And Su Muchen saw it.

—

The first day he didn’t come out of his room, Zhang Jiayuan thought he just needed space.

The second day—

The door stayed shut.

No voice.

No footsteps.

The rookies whispered during breakfast.

“Is Assistant Coach… okay?”

Zhang Jiayuan forced a smile. “He’s resting.”

But he knocked.

Once.

Twice.

“Su Muchen,” he said quietly. “Open the door.”

Silence.

Staff tried next.

“Coach Su? We just need to check in.”

Nothing.

They had schedules. Media meetings. Workshops for sponsors. Scrims arranged months in advance.

And the retreat house wasn’t theirs forever.

Management pulled Zhang Jiayuan aside in the hallway.

“We need to know if he’s continuing,” one of them said gently. “We can’t delay the entire schedule.”

Zhang Jiayuan nodded.

“I’ll handle it.”

And he did.

For two days—

He ran every meeting. Every scrim. Every public appearance. Every strategy session that used to be shared.

The rookies noticed the difference immediately.

He was sharper.

Shorter tempered.

Quieter when the day ended.

At night, he sat outside Su Muchen’s door.

Sometimes he heard movement.

Sometimes he thought he heard breathing.

But no voice.

On the third morning, the staff knocked again.

“Coach Su,” someone called, anxiety creeping into their tone. “We’re checking out tomorrow. We need to pack.”

Still nothing.

The rookies stopped joking entirely.

One of them placed a bottled drink outside the door.

Another left a sticky note:
“We’re not scared of you. Just miss yelling with you.”

Zhang Jiayuan didn’t knock that night.

He just leaned his back against the door and spoke quietly.

“You don’t have to come out for the media,” he said.
“You don’t have to read anything.”
“You don’t even have to coach.”

Silence.

“…But you can’t disappear again,” he added softly. “Not without saying something to me.”

He waited.

Minutes stretched.

The hallway lights flickered.

And then—

From inside—

A faint shift.

A breath.

But still—

No answer.

Zhang Jiayuan closed his eyes.

“…Okay,” he murmured. “I’ll be here tomorrow morning.”

He stayed sitting there long after everyone else went to sleep.

Because this time—

He wasn’t leaving.

The knock came soft.

Almost hesitant.

Zhang Jiayuan woke up slowly, disoriented, the clock beside his bed glowing an ugly 3:12 AM. He sat up, eyes heavy, trying to figure out if he had imagined it—

Another knock.

Quieter this time.

He dragged himself to the door and pulled it open.

Su Muchen stood there.

Hair slightly messy from sleep. Glasses crooked. A small suitcase dragged behind him, wheels tilted awkwardly like he had stopped midway through packing and never fixed it.

He didn’t say anything.

But he was shaking.

Not violently.

Just enough that Zhang Jiayuan noticed immediately.

No words were exchanged.

Zhang Jiayuan stepped aside.

Su Muchen walked in slowly.

The suitcase rolled across the floor and stopped near the bed.

And that was enough.

Mother hen mode activated.

Zhang Jiayuan closed the door gently, grabbed a spare hoodie, and draped it over Su Muchen’s shoulders. No questions. No lectures. Just routine—water placed into his hand, lights dimmed, curtains pulled.

Su Muchen didn’t protest.

Didn’t speak.

Just sat on the edge of the bed like someone who had run a marathon without moving an inch.

Zhang Jiayuan moved quietly around the room, setting things in place the way he used to during long tournaments years ago.

Same motions.

Same silent understanding.

He pushed two beds together without asking.

Su Muchen watched him for a second, then lay down without a word.

No arguments.

No sarcasm.

Just exhaustion.

Zhang Jiayuan lay on the other side, facing him—not too close, not too far.

A distance they had perfected over years of shared hotel rooms, overnight scrims, tournaments that blurred days into nights.

They didn’t need to talk.

They just needed to see each other when they woke up.

Like twins who had spent too long apart and forgot how to sleep alone.

Minutes passed.

Su Muchen’s breathing slowed.

At one point, his hand twitched slightly—like he wanted to reach for something, then stopped.

Zhang Jiayuan didn’t move.

Didn’t make it obvious.

Just stayed there.

Present.

Steady.

And sometime after that—

Su Muchen finally fell into real sleep.

The kind that didn’t look like escape.

The kind that looked like rest.

Zhang Jiayuan watched him for a moment longer before closing his own eyes.

Tomorrow would be hard.

Checkout.

Media.

Decisions.

But for now—

They were just two exhausted former teammates sharing silence in a dimly lit room.

And that was enough.

Morning came too fast.

Sunlight filtered through thin curtains, dragging both of them awake whether they wanted it or not.

Zhang Jiayuan sat up first, blinking blearily—then glanced to the side.

Su Muchen was already awake.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, cap pulled low. Hoodie zipped all the way up despite the warm weather. Suitcase already packed neatly.

Ready to leave.

But quiet.

Very quiet.

No jokes. No sarcasm. Just… present.

Zhang Jiayuan didn’t comment on it. Just tossed him a bottle of water and stretched. “Checkout in twenty.”

A small nod.

That was all.

—

The retreat house buzzed with movement—staff carrying boxes, rookies arguing over who forgot their charger again, management double-checking schedules.

And Su Muchen—

Stayed right behind Zhang Jiayuan.

Not beside him.

Behind him.

Close enough that his shoulder almost brushed Zhang’s back when they walked through narrow hallways.

Cap low.

Eyes down.

If a rookie spoke to him—

“Assistant Coach, did you—”

“…Mm. Good job yesterday,” he’d reply quietly.

Short.

Polite.

Then fall back into position behind Zhang Jiayuan again like a stubborn shadow.

One rookie whispered to another, “Is… is he hiding behind Coach Zhang?”

Zhang Jiayuan didn’t turn around, but his mouth twitched. “He’s using me as a human shield.”

“…I heard that,” Su Muchen muttered.

“Good,” Zhang shot back softly. “Means you’re alive.”

A faint huff escaped Su Muchen’s nose.

Progress.

—

During breakfast, Su Muchen took the seat closest to the wall.

Zhang Jiayuan sat next to him automatically—blocking most of the room from view without making it obvious.

The rookies talked normally. No pressure. No big questions. Just casual chatter about scrims and food disasters.

Every now and then—

Someone would slide a drink toward Su Muchen.

Or quietly ask a small strategy question they knew he’d enjoy answering.

And he answered.

Still not looking up.

Still stubbornly staying behind Zhang Jiayuan when they stood.

But answering.

—

Checkout time.

As they walked toward the buses, a small group of fans stood across the street—phones raised cautiously, unsure if they should approach.

Su Muchen froze for half a second.

Zhang Jiayuan slowed his steps just enough for him to adjust.

Without looking back, Zhang said quietly, “You don’t have to do anything.”

“…I know,” Su Muchen murmured.

He pulled his cap lower.

And kept walking.

Behind Zhang Jiayuan.

Onto the bus.

—

Inside, he took the seat directly behind Zhang Jiayuan’s again.

Same formation.

Same stubborn shadow.

The rookies didn’t tease him this time.

They just… let it be.

Because even if he didn’t look up—

He was still here.

Still answering.

Still walking forward, even if it was one step behind someone he trusted.

And for now—

That was more than enough.

The bus hummed steadily as it rolled out of the retreat town.

For the first hour, it was quiet—half the team asleep, the other half scrolling through their phones or staring out the window.

Su Muchen sat where he always had been lately.

Directly behind Zhang Jiayuan.

Cap low.

Hoodie pulled tight.

Silent.

Zhang Jiayuan didn’t look back, but he knew.

He always knew.

—

It started small.

One rookie leaned over the seat, voice casual.

“Assistant Coach… can I ask something?”

A pause.

“…What,” Su Muchen replied quietly.

The rookie scratched his neck. “Back when you told me to stop trying to be flashy and just… trust my timing… I thought you were being harsh.”

Another rookie chimed in from across the aisle. “He cried in the bathroom after that.”

“I did not—”

“You did.”

Laughter broke the silence.

The first rookie continued, quieter now. “But… you were right. And you didn’t just yell. You stayed after scrim and helped me fix it.”

Someone else added from the back, “You remember when I wanted to quit after my first bad series? You didn’t tell me to toughen up. You told me losing is data.”

“And you said,” another voice said softly, “that mistakes are just… unpolished experience.”

Su Muchen didn’t respond.

Didn’t look up.

But he was listening.

A quieter rookie leaned forward slightly.

“I didn’t know who you were before,” the kid admitted honestly. “Not really. I only saw old VODs after joining the team.”

A small pause.

“But… I admire you because you stayed when we were bad.”

Silence filled the bus.

No one joked.

No one teased.

Zhang Jiayuan’s fingers tightened slightly on the armrest.

Behind him—

A faint exhale.

“…You guys talk too much,” Su Muchen muttered.

But his voice wasn’t cold.

Just… unsure.

—

Halfway through the ride, Zhang Jiayuan’s phone buzzed.

Management.

He answered quietly near the front.

“…A livestream?” he repeated under his breath.

The organisation wanted to ride the momentum of the viral video. A short team Q&A from the bus—casual, relaxed, good PR.

“And they want both coaches,” Zhang Jiayuan said flatly.

A pause on the other end.

“…I’ll ask him.”

He hung up.

Turned around slowly.

Su Muchen was already looking at him—eyes visible beneath the cap for the first time that day.

“They want you on camera,” Zhang said gently. “But you don’t have to.”

Silence.

The rookies pretended not to listen.

Failed terribly.

Su Muchen looked at the aisle floor.

His fingers tapped against his knee.

“…If I don’t,” he said quietly, “they’ll keep pushing.”

“…Probably.”

“…If I do…” his voice thinned slightly, “it won’t just be the team watching.”

Zhang nodded.

“…We can do voice only,” he offered.

Su Muchen didn’t answer immediately.

Instead—

He stood up.

The rookies shifted to make space.

And then—

Instead of returning to the seat behind Zhang Jiayuan—

He dropped into the empty seat beside him.

Close enough that their shoulders almost touched.

Zhang Jiayuan blinked.

Didn’t comment.

Just adjusted slightly so their elbows wouldn’t bump awkwardly.

Su Muchen stared forward.

“…Camera stays on you,” he said after a long pause.

Zhang didn’t speak.

“…But,” Su Muchen added quietly, “…I’ll answer questions. On mic.”

A small breath left Zhang’s chest.

“Okay,” he said simply.

The livestream started twenty minutes later.

The rookies were loud, chaotic, completely unfiltered.

Zhang Jiayuan handled most of the talking.

And beside him—

For the first time—

Su Muchen spoke without hiding behind distance.

No camera.

No spotlight.

But present.

Audible.

Part of the team.

And when one fan in chat asked, “Assistant Coach Moon, are you really back?”

There was a pause.

Zhang didn’t look at him.

Didn’t pressure him.

Just waited.

“…Yeah,” Su Muchen said quietly into the mic.
“I guess… I am.”

—

The chat exploded.

But this time—

He didn’t disappear.

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