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The training room lights were too bright.
Yang Tao adjusted his headset and leaned back in his chair, eyes drifting from the draft screen to the glass wall outside. Scrims had just ended, and the team was gathering near the entrance.
He wasn’t listening.
He was staring.
The new manager stood at the doorway, hands neatly clasped in front of him, posture straight. His voice was calm, polite as he introduced himself.
“My name is Chen. I’ll be managing the team from now on. Please take care of me.”
Polite. Neutral. Professional.
Yang Tao’s chest tightened.
There was something wrong.
He couldn’t explain it. The man looked ordinary enough—dark hair, neatly styled. Clear eyes. No glasses. No nervous habits. No hint of recognition.
But that was exactly the problem.
He should be wearing black-rimmed glasses.
The thought came so naturally that it startled him.
And his hair—
It shouldn’t be styled so cleanly. It should be slightly curly, falling over his forehead in a way that made him look younger than he was.
Yang Tao’s fingers trembled slightly against the desk.
He knew this person.
He was sure of it.
But from where?
The accident.
The word always came like a wall. Every time he tried to dig deeper into his memories before that night, there was nothing but blinding headlights and the sharp scent of burning rubber.
They told him his boyfriend had been driving.
They told him the boyfriend left afterward.
They told him it was better not to dwell on it.
He didn’t even remember the boyfriend’s name.
Just the feeling of holding someone’s hand.
“Wuwei?”
His teammate nudged him.
Yang Tao blinked, snapping back to the present.
Chen was walking around the room now, speaking individually with players. Calm. Efficient. Respectful.
When he stopped in front of Yang Tao, their eyes met for the first time.
Up close, the familiarity hit harder.
Chen bowed his head slightly. “Yang Tao-ge, I’ve heard a lot about you. I look forward to working with you.”
Polite smile.
Empty eyes.
No flicker of shock.
No tremble.
No recognition.
Yang Tao searched his face desperately.
Nothing.
“You’re younger than me,” Yang Tao said slowly. “Born in 2004?”
Chen nodded. “Yes.”
“And you’ve never managed a team before?”
“This is my first time working in the league.”
Lie.
The word surfaced in Yang Tao’s mind without permission.
He didn’t know why he felt so certain.
But he was.
Yang Tao forced a small smile. “Welcome, then.”
Chen smiled back. Perfectly measured. “Thank you.”
When Chen moved on, Yang Tao’s hands were ice cold.
He stared at the back of the manager’s head.
The shape of his shoulders.
The way he walked.
His heart was beating too fast.
Because the truth was—
Yang Tao didn’t just feel like he had met him before.
He felt like he had loved him before.
And that was impossible.
Because Chen didn’t recognize him at all.
Or maybe…
He was pretending not to.
Yang Tao swallowed.
If Chen wasn’t his name—
Then what was it?
And why did it feel like saying that name out loud would break something fragile between them?
Outside, someone laughed. The team returned to normal chatter.
But inside Yang Tao’s chest, something long buried had begun to move.
-
Yang Tao told himself he was imagining it.
But imagination didn’t explain muscle memory.
The VOD review room was dim, illuminated only by the large screen replaying their last scrim. The coach stood near the board, laser pointer circling objectives, pausing at team fights.
Chen sat slightly behind them.
Quiet. Observing.
Managers usually checked schedules, jotted notes about branding obligations, reminded players about media days. They didn’t lean forward during frame-perfect engages. They knew about macro's sure, but not like this.
They didn’t track cooldown timers under their breath.
Yang Tao pretended to focus on the screen.
Bot lane. Minute eight. Enemy support rotated mid too late. Their ADC mispositioned.
Yang Tao remembered the play clearly. He had engaged half a second too soon. Their ADC had flashed late. The fight collapsed.
On screen, his own mistake replayed in cruel clarity.
He expected the coach to comment.
Instead—
From behind him, Chen inhaled sharply.
It was subtle. Almost nothing.
But Yang Tao heard it.
He glanced back.
Chen’s eyes were different.
Gone was the polite glaze. Gone was the soft, managerial neutrality.
His gaze was sharp.
Focused.
Calculating.
He wasn’t watching the entire map like staff usually did.
He was locked onto bot lane.
Specifically—
On Yang Tao’s movement.
Then the enemy support’s pathing.
Then their ADC’s positioning.
Back and forth.
Back and forth.
Tracking like he was inside the game.
Yang Tao’s stomach tightened.
When the clip paused at the exact second the enemy ADC sidestepped Yang Tao’s skillshot, Chen’s fingers twitched.
It wasn’t random.
It was rhythmic.
Like someone about to press an attack button.
Like someone itching to kite.
Like—
An ADC.
Yang Tao felt it then.
Not just familiarity.
Recognition.
He had seen that twitch before.
Somewhere.
In a dim room filled with energy drinks and late-night queue games.
“You engaged too early,” Chen said suddenly.
The room went silent.
The coach blinked. “Hm?”
Chen straightened immediately, as if realizing he had spoken out of turn. “Sorry. I just meant… if the engage waited two more seconds, your ADC could’ve cleared the wave and reset position first.”
His voice returned to that careful politeness.
But it was too late.
Yang Tao’s heart was pounding.
That wasn’t a manager’s comment.
That was a bot lane partner’s frustration.
The coach nodded slowly. “That’s… actually true.”
Teammates murmured agreement.
Yang Tao didn’t say anything.
He was staring at Chen.
Because Chen hadn’t said “your ADC.”
He had almost said something else.
For a split second, Yang Tao was certain of it.
Later, when the review ended and everyone filtered out, Yang Tao stayed behind.
Chen was shutting down the projector.
“You used to play,” Yang Tao said quietly.
Chen didn’t turn around. “No.”
Lie.
Yang Tao stood up. “You watch like you’re in the game.”
Chen paused.
Only for a fraction of a second.
Then he smiled faintly. “I study hard.”
That wasn’t denial.
That was deflection.
Yang Tao stepped closer.
“Bot lane,” he pressed. “You don’t look anywhere else.”
Chen finally met his eyes.
The air felt heavier.
“Support is the brain of bot lane,” Chen replied calmly. “If I understand you, I understand the team.”
It was a good answer.
Too good.
Yang Tao swallowed.
“Then what do you see when you look at me?”
The question slipped out before he could stop it.
For the first time—
Chen hesitated.
And in that hesitation—
Yang Tao saw it.
Pain.
Quick. Controlled. Buried.
But real.
Chen lowered his gaze.
“I see our starting support,” he said evenly.
Not Yang Tao.
Not Wuwei.
Not anything personal.
Just a role.
Just a title.
Yang Tao’s chest felt tight again.
Because the worst part wasn’t that Chen didn’t recognize him.
It was that—
For one dangerous second—
Chen looked like someone who remembered everything.
And chose silence anyway.
-
That night, Yang Tao lay awake, staring at his ceiling.
Images flickered behind his eyelids.
A pair of hands adjusting a headset.
A voice laughing softly after a failed dive.
Someone saying—
“Wait for me. Two seconds. I’ll carry.”
His breath caught.
Two seconds.
Just like Chen had said earlier.
Yang Tao sat up abruptly.
It wasn’t imagination.
It wasn’t coincidence.
Chen didn’t just understand bot lane.
He understood him.
And Yang Tao was starting to realize something terrifying:
Maybe Chen wasn’t pretending not to know him.
Maybe—
He was protecting something.
-
It was past midnight when Yang Tao decided he was done waiting.
The training room lights were off except for the soft glow from his monitor. Most of the team had already left. Only the hum of air conditioning filled the space.
Chen was still there.
Of course he was.
Managers were always the last to leave.
Yang Tao stood up abruptly, crossed the room, and grabbed Chen by the wrist before he could overthink it.
Chen froze.
“Wuwei—?”
Yang Tao didn’t let go.
He placed the team practice phone into Chen’s palm—the shared device they all used for casual queues and testing.
“Log in,” Yang Tao said.
Chen blinked. “I don’t think that’s appropriate—”
“Just a casual game.” Yang Tao’s grip tightened slightly. “You said you study hard. Show me.”
The silence stretched.
Chen’s wrist was warm under his fingers.
For a brief moment, something unreadable flickered across Chen’s face—fear? hesitation? longing?
Then, slowly, Chen nodded.
“Alright.”
-
They sat side by side.
Yang Tao logged into his own account.
Chen held the phone like it was fragile.
Like it meant something more than it should.
The matchmaking queue popped quickly.
Yang Tao chose his comfort pick—Zhang Fei.
Reliable. Solid. A support that could create space.
He didn’t look at Chen when it was his turn to pick.
But he felt it.
The pause.
The breath.
Then—
Gongsun Li.
Yang Tao’s head snapped toward him.
Gongsun Li wasn’t a casual pick.
She was one of the most mechanically demanding ADCs in Honor of Kings. High mobility. Extremely squishy. Required perfect positioning and frame-tight decision-making. One wrong dash, and she evaporated.
Not a champion you chose to “try.”
Not one a manager picked for fun.
Chen didn’t say anything.
The match loaded.
-
The early game was calm.
Too calm.
Yang Tao tested him first—he engaged slightly off-angle at level two.
Any average player would hesitate.
Chen didn’t.
Gongsun Li stepped forward at the exact pixel-perfect distance, weaving in auto attacks between dashes, avoiding the enemy skillshot by the smallest margin possible.
Yang Tao’s heart skipped.
That movement—
It was precise.
Not flashy.
Not reckless.
Calculated.
Wave management was clean. Trading patterns efficient. He even manipulated minion aggro subtly to secure a better freeze.
They hit level four.
The enemy jungler ganked bot.
Yang Tao reacted a split second late.
But Chen—
Chen sidestepped before the skillshot even appeared on screen.
He dashed behind Yang Tao instinctively.
Not randomly.
Not selfishly.
He used Yang Tao as shield coverage.
Like they had done it a hundred times before.
The counterplay was immediate.
Chen kited backward, dash-reset, auto, reposition, ultimate—perfect timing to dodge the second engage.
Double kill.
The system announcement echoed softly through the room.
Yang Tao wasn’t breathing.
He turned his head slowly.
Chen’s expression hadn’t changed.
Calm. Focused. Slight frown of concentration.
But his fingers—
His fingers moved like someone who had spent years in high-ranked lobbies.
Like someone who had survived in Kings tier.
Not just touched it.
Lived in it.
Mid game.
Team fight near dragon.
Yang Tao made a reckless engage intentionally—flashing forward before cooldowns were fully up.
It was a bad play.
A bait.
He wanted to see what Chen would do.
There was no hesitation.
Chen repositioned instantly, using terrain angles to maximize damage while staying outside of threat range. He tracked enemy cooldowns without pings. His dashes weren’t random—they were pre-calculated escape paths.
He knew exactly when Yang Tao would turn back.
He knew exactly how long Yang Tao could survive.
They won the fight.
Another clean execution.
Silence filled the room after victory screen appeared.
Yang Tao stared at the scoreboard.
Damage dealt: highest in lobby.
Zero deaths.
Gold difference: immaculate farming.
He turned to Chen.
“You said you’ve never worked in the league before.”
“That’s true,” Chen replied softly.
“That’s not what I meant.”
Chen locked the phone and placed it down gently.
“You wanted to test me.”
It wasn’t a question.
Yang Tao swallowed.
“Yes.”
Chen met his eyes.
For a second, the distance between them felt dangerously thin.
“Managers need to understand macro,” Chen said quietly.
“That wasn’t macro,” Yang Tao shot back. “That was micro. That was experience.”
Chen didn’t respond immediately.
Yang Tao leaned closer.
“Kings tier isn’t something you ‘study.’ You’ve been there.”
Silence.
The air was heavy.
Finally—
Chen’s lips curved faintly.
“Does it matter?”
Yes.
It mattered because—
Because the way he played Gongsun Li—
It wasn’t just skilled.
It was familiar.
The spacing.
The way he trusted Yang Tao to engage first.
The way he positioned half a step behind him without needing a call.
Yang Tao’s voice lowered.
“Have we duo queued before?”
The question hung between them.
Chen’s fingers tightened slightly against the edge of the desk.
A micro-expression.
Guilt.
“Goodnight, Wuwei,” Chen said gently.
And stood up.
He left before Yang Tao could stop him.
-
Alone in the dark room, Yang Tao replayed the match in his mind.
Every movement.
Every dash.
Every instinct.
And with each replay, a memory fragment sharpened.
A voice in his headset.
Laughing softly.
“Trust me.”
Yang Tao closed his eyes.
His pulse was loud in his ears.
Chen didn’t just play like a Kings-ranked ADC.
He played like Yang Tao’s ADC.
And that was the most terrifying realization of all.
-
Yang Tao didn’t sleep.
He lay in bed staring at the ceiling until the fragments in his head became unbearable. At three in the morning, he gave up, rolled over, and unlocked his phone.
If instinct wouldn’t give him answers, data would.
He logged into his old game account—the one he hadn’t properly examined since returning to competitive play after the accident. His fingers hovered over the match history tab.
There were gaps.
Not empty days—just periods he never bothered to revisit.
He scrolled further back.
Ranked matches. Scrims. Tournaments.
Then he saw it.
The same ID appearing again and again beside his name.
Jyi.
Short. Clean. Recognizable.
Not a smurf account.
A professional ID.
Yang Tao’s breath hitched.
He clicked into the match details.
Bot lane duo.
Support: Wuwei.
ADC: Jyi.
Win rate—absurdly high.
The synergy was obvious even through statistics. Early roams synchronized. Damage charts balanced perfectly. Objective control sharp.
This wasn’t just a teammate.
This was a partnership.
His chest tightened.
He opened a browser and typed the name.
Jyi.
The search results loaded slowly, as if the internet itself hesitated.
There it was.
A profile page.
Professional ADC. Former member of the same organization Yang Tao had been part of before the accident.
And then—
Disappeared.
Right around the same time as the accident.
Yang Tao felt his fingers go cold.
He scrolled.
There were archived articles. Forum discussions. Old match highlights.
He found one thread after another.
The narrative was brutal.
“Left when Wuwei needed him most.”
“Abandoned the team after causing the accident.”
“Selfish.”
“Should never have dated a teammate.”
The words blurred slightly.
Dated.
His heart pounded harder.
The fans had known.
It hadn’t been a secret.
Their relationship had been public.
There were old photos attached to articles—blurred paparazzi shots of two young players leaving a training facility together. Headlines speculating about chemistry both on and off the Rift.
Yang Tao stared at the images.
The photos were low resolution. Faces partially obscured.
But the height difference.
The way the taller one leaned slightly toward the other.
Familiar.
Painfully familiar.
He swallowed and kept reading.
Most posts were cruel.
Blaming Jyi.
Saying he ran away.
Saying Yang Tao deserved better.
Saying their relationship ruined team synergy.
Saying love had no place in esports.
Then—
One comment thread caught his eye.
A long post from a user with a simple username.
Not attacking.
Defending.
“They’re wrong,” the fan wrote. “Jyi didn’t walk away clean.”
Yang Tao leaned closer to the screen.
“There were hospital sightings. Both of them were injured. Jyi’s right hand was in a brace for months. He couldn’t complete full BO5 series after that. He kept subbing out after Game 3. People just didn’t notice because the team hid it.”
Yang Tao’s breathing grew shallow.
BO5.
Best of Five.
Standard match format.
He kept reading.
“There were scars. I saw him once at an offline event months later. He wasn’t the same. Slower reaction time. Hands trembling between games. He retired quietly. The organization never clarified anything.”
Another reply below it:
“Stop making excuses. If he cared, he would’ve stayed.”
The defender responded again:
“Sometimes staying hurts more.”
Yang Tao set his phone down slowly.
His mind was racing.
Right hand.
Trembling.
Unable to complete BO5 matches.
His chest tightened painfully.
He thought of last night.
Gongsun Li.
The perfect mechanics.
The confidence.
But—
He also remembered something else.
After the match ended, when Chen set the phone down, his fingers had lingered slightly.
As if they hurt.
As if he had to consciously relax them.
Yang Tao stood up abruptly and paced his apartment.
Jyi.
The name echoed in his head.
Professional ADC.
His ADC.
Disappeared after the accident.
Publicly blamed.
Privately injured.
And now—
A manager who played like a Kings-tier bot laner.
A manager who avoided long sessions.
A manager whose eyes sharpened during bot lane VODs.
A manager who hesitated when asked if they had duo queued before.
Yang Tao felt something shift inside him.
Not suspicion.
Not confusion.
Fear.
Because if Chen was Jyi—
Then the story he had been told was incomplete.
They said his boyfriend caused the accident.
They said the boyfriend left.
They never said the boyfriend was injured too.
They never said he tried to stay.
Yang Tao pressed his palms against his eyes.
Memories flickered again.
Hospital lights.
A hand gripping his tightly.
A voice, hoarse and trembling—
“I’m sorry.”
Yang Tao’s breath hitched.
He didn’t know if the memory was real.
Or if he wanted it to be.
But one thing was certain now.
Jyi didn’t disappear.
He was erased.
And if Chen was truly Jyi—
Then he hadn’t left.
He had been pushed out.
-
Yang Tao picked up his phone again and searched one more thing.
Images.
He scrolled through old match photos.
There.
A clearer picture.
Team lineup before the accident.
Wuwei standing beside Jyi.
The ADC was smiling.
Black-rimmed glasses.
Slightly curly hair falling over his forehead.
Yang Tao’s heart stopped.
The photo slipped from his grasp.
Because the face staring back at him—
Even without the glasses.
Even with different styling.
Was Chen.
-
After that night, Yang Tao stopped pretending.
He didn’t confront.
He observed.
It started small.
Training days blurred into each other—scrims, VOD reviews, sponsor meetings. Mobile phones lined neatly on the table, chargers tangled like vines. Managers moving around with clipboards and tablets, tracking schedules and opponents for upcoming scrims.
Chen did his job perfectly.
Too perfectly.
But Yang Tao began noticing the details others ignored.
Heavy boxes of promotional merchandise arrived one afternoon. Jerseys. Equipment. Sponsor banners. The other managers carried them upstairs from the lobby.
Chen reached for one.
The General Manager’s voice cut in sharply. “Leave that.”
Chen smiled. “I’m fine.”
“You’re not carrying that,” the GM insisted, taking it from him without discussion.
It wasn’t teasing.
It wasn’t casual.
It was firm.
Almost protective.
Chen didn’t argue again.
Yang Tao stood near the staircase, watching.
Chen’s right hand flexed subtly after he withdrew it.
Once.
Twice.
Like testing circulation.
Later that week, during a three-hour strategy meeting, Yang Tao deliberately stopped paying attention to the whiteboard.
He watched Chen instead.
Managers usually sat back during scrims, noting opponent tendencies, drafting reports for future matchups.
Chen wrote continuously.
After one game—roughly thirty minutes—he paused.
His pen stilled.
His fingers curled inward slightly.
He rotated his wrist slowly under the table.
Then again.
And again.
Like someone stretching through lingering pain.
He thought no one noticed.
Yang Tao did.
And once he saw it—
He couldn’t unsee it.
-
It was late afternoon when Yang Tao walked past the meeting room and stopped.
The door was slightly ajar.
Inside, Chen stood by the window.
But he looked—
Different.
He was wearing glasses.
Black-rimmed.
The kind from the photo.
His hair wasn’t styled back neatly today. It fell softer over his forehead, slightly curling at the ends.
For a second—
Time overlapped.
Chen had his back turned, phone pressed to his ear.
“Yes,” he was saying quietly.
There was a pause.
Then Yang Tao heard a faint voice through the speaker.
“…Youxia.”
The name hit him like a physical blow.
Youxia.
Not Chen.
Not Jyi.
Youxia.
“Don’t push yourself too much,” the voice continued. “Your hand isn’t fully recovered. You promised the doctor you wouldn’t overuse it.”
Chen—Youxia—exhaled softly.
“I know.”
“You said this was temporary.”
“It is.”
“Then stop acting like you’re still a player.”
Silence.
Yang Tao’s pulse roared in his ears.
Player.
The word felt deliberate.
Like confirmation.
Before he could think, Yang Tao pushed the door open fully.
The sound echoed in the quiet room.
Chen’s head snapped up.
For one frozen second, their eyes met through the lenses.
Recognition.
Shock.
Fear.
Chen ended the call immediately.
“Wuwei,” he said, voice steady but lower than usual.
Yang Tao stepped inside and shut the door behind him.
The click was loud.
The room suddenly felt too small.
“Youxia,” Yang Tao said softly.
The name felt strange on his tongue.
Chen instinctively stepped back.
One step.
Then another.
Until his back hit the wall.
The movement wasn’t dramatic.
It was reflexive.
Defensive.
Yang Tao’s heart twisted.
“Don’t,” Chen said quietly.
“Which one is real?” Yang Tao asked.
No accusation.
Just a question.
Chen didn’t answer.
Yang Tao moved closer.
Not aggressively.
But intentionally.
“Youxia,” he repeated, watching his reaction carefully.
Chen’s fingers twitched.
That same twitch from the game.
From the VOD room.
From the night he played Gongsun Li.
“You’re not just a manager,” Yang Tao said. “You’re not just Chen.”
Silence pressed down on them.
Outside, distant laughter from teammates drifted through the hallway.
Inside, it felt like the air had thinned.
“You shouldn’t dig into the past,” Chen said finally.
“That’s not your decision to make.”
A flicker of something broke through Chen’s composure then.
Pain.
Raw and unguarded.
“You don’t remember,” he whispered.
“Then tell me.”
Chen shook his head once.
“If you remember on your own, that’s one thing,” he said softly. “But I won’t force it back onto you.”
“Force what?” Yang Tao demanded, voice rising for the first time. “The truth?”
Chen’s jaw tightened.
“The truth won’t give you peace.”
Yang Tao stepped forward until only inches separated them.
“If you’re protecting me,” he said quietly, “you’re doing a terrible job.”
Chen’s breathing faltered.
Yang Tao’s eyes dropped briefly—
To his right hand.
Even now, it was slightly tense.
Like it hurt.
“Your hand,” Yang Tao said gently.
Chen immediately tucked it behind his back.
“It’s nothing.”
“That’s not what the person on the phone said.”
Chen closed his eyes briefly.
When he opened them again, the walls were back up.
“Wuwei,” he said carefully, “your scrim schedule for tomorrow starts at ten. Don’t be late.”
The shift back to professionalism felt like a slap.
Yang Tao’s chest burned.
He leaned closer.
“So if I call you Jyi,” he murmured, “will you walk away again?”
For the first time—
Chen’s control cracked.
His breath hitched.
Only for a second.
But Yang Tao saw it.
And that was enough.
-
When Yang Tao left the meeting room, his hands were shaking.
He had confirmation now.
Names.
Injuries.
Lies by omission.
And a man who kept stepping back instead of forward.
But one thing was clear:
Chen wasn’t hiding because he didn’t care.
He was hiding because he cared too much.
And that was far more dangerous.
-
The name settled into Yang Tao’s chest like something heavy and irreversible.
Jyi.
Liao Youxia.
Chen.
It didn’t take long to confirm.
Old roster announcements listed it clearly—Jyi (Liao Youxia), ADC. Same team. Same year. Same disappearance date.
Which meant there was no “Chen.”
There had only ever been Liao Youxia.
And Liao Youxia was standing ten feet away in the training room, sleeves rolled neatly to the wrist, hair styled back into that careful, professional look.
No glasses.
No softness.
Just the composed team manager.
Scrims were packed this week. Tournament qualifiers loomed. Mobile phones lined across the desk, draft discussions overlapping, coaches debating bans.
Yang Tao forced himself to focus.
He had to.
During games, instinct took over. His engages were sharper. His roams cleaner. Communication crisp.
But every time bot lane camera panned across the mini-map—
His awareness stretched beyond the screen.
To where Youxia stood.
Watching.
Always watching.
-
A rare day off arrived like a miracle.
The managers insisted on a team outing—“morale building,” they called it.
The restaurant wasn’t far. Fifteen minutes by car.
Two vehicles were arranged outside the base.
The players piled in noisily, arguing about seating.
Yang Tao watched from the steps.
Youxia stood slightly apart.
Not avoiding anyone.
Just… distant.
When someone called out, “Chen, you’re riding shotgun!”
Youxia’s expression changed.
Not dramatically.
But enough.
His smile thinned.
“I’ll walk,” he said calmly.
“It’s close.”
The General Manager frowned. “It’s still fifteen minutes—”
“It’s fine,” Youxia repeated gently. “Let someone else sit in front.”
He didn’t wait for further argument.
He was already walking down the sidewalk before anyone could insist otherwise.
Yang Tao stared at his retreating figure.
Front seat.
Shotgun.
The steering wheel.
Headlights.
Burning rubber.
His chest tightened.
Without thinking, Yang Tao turned to the others. “I forgot something. I’ll catch up.”
They barely questioned it.
He jogged down the sidewalk.
Youxia wasn’t walking slowly.
But he wasn’t rushing either.
Just steady.
Like someone counting steps.
“Manager Chen,” Yang Tao called.
Youxia didn’t slow.
Yang Tao matched his pace.
“We should walk together.”
That finally made him glance sideways.
“You don’t have to,” Youxia said.
“I know.”
Silence stretched between them as they continued down the street.
Traffic passed occasionally. Engines humming. Tires against asphalt.
Each time a car sped too close, Youxia’s shoulders stiffened—barely noticeable, but there.
Yang Tao noticed.
Of course he did.
“You hate cars,” Yang Tao said quietly.
“I don’t.”
“You avoid them.”
Youxia didn’t answer.
They stopped at a pedestrian crossing.
A motorcycle revved loudly nearby.
Youxia flinched.
Just slightly.
But it was there.
Yang Tao’s pulse spiked.
“Were you driving?” he asked before he could stop himself.
The light turned green.
Youxia stepped forward without responding.
Yang Tao followed.
“You don’t sit in the front,” Yang Tao pressed. “You don’t like heavy boxes. Your right hand—”
“Wuwei.”
The tone wasn’t sharp.
But it was firm.
Enough to stop him mid-sentence.
Youxia kept walking.
“I’m your manager now. That’s all.”
“That’s not all.”
Youxia exhaled slowly.
“Focusing on the tournament will help you more than focusing on me.”
The restaurant sign came into view ahead.
Yang Tao slowed his steps.
“Why did you change your name?” he asked softly.
Youxia didn’t answer immediately.
When he did, his voice was almost lost under the hum of traffic.
“Because some names carry consequences.”
Yang Tao’s heart pounded.
“And Youxia carries none?”
A faint, bitter smile.
“No,” he said. “It carries all of them.”
They reached the restaurant entrance.
Through the glass windows, teammates waved them in, already laughing.
Normal.
Carefree.
Unaware.
Youxia reached for the door handle.
Yang Tao caught his wrist.
Not hard.
Just enough to stop him.
Youxia stilled.
Yang Tao’s fingers brushed against the faint ridges near his wrist.
Scars.
Not large.
But real.
His throat tightened.
“You were hurt too,” Yang Tao whispered.
Youxia didn’t pull away.
But he didn’t confirm it either.
After a long second, he gently removed Yang Tao’s hand.
“Let’s not ruin today,” he said softly.
Then he stepped inside.
Yang Tao stood there for a moment longer, staring at the reflection in the glass.
Two figures.
So close.
So far.
And somewhere between the steering wheel and the passenger seat—
The truth was waiting.
-
Yang Tao was the one driving.
It wasn’t planned.
It just happened.
On the way back from the restaurant, the seating got shuffled—two players squeezed into the second car, one manager decided to ride with the coaching staff, and suddenly there weren’t enough seats left.
“You sit in front,” the General Manager told Chen.
Chen froze.
Yang Tao noticed immediately.
“I’ll drive,” Yang Tao said before anyone else could volunteer.
No one questioned it. He drove often enough for team errands.
Chen—Chen in public—stood by the passenger door for a second too long before opening it.
He didn’t look at Yang Tao when he sat down.
He didn’t fasten his seatbelt right away either.
Yang Tao pretended not to notice the way his fingers trembled slightly when he clicked it into place.
The car started.
The team behind them followed.
The road wasn’t busy. Late afternoon traffic, mild and steady.
Inside the car, silence pressed heavy between them.
“You okay?” Yang Tao asked casually.
“I’m fine,” Chen replied automatically.
The word felt rehearsed.
They stopped at a red light.
A truck passed in front of them.
Chen’s shoulders stiffened.
Yang Tao’s hands tightened around the steering wheel.
Then—
A sudden honk.
Sharp.
Close.
A vehicle swerved unexpectedly into their lane.
Yang Tao reacted on instinct.
He slammed the brakes.
The tires screeched.
The car jolted violently.
The world snapped—
And then it split open.
Rain.
Not sunlight.
Rain hammering against the windshield.
Wipers struggling.
Blinding headlights rushing toward them from the wrong side of the road.
His hands on the steering wheel.
Too tight.
Someone shouting his name.
“Youxia—”
No.
That wasn’t right.
It was—
“Yang Tao!”
The memory shifted.
Chen—Youxia—leaning across him.
Not away.
Across.
One arm braced against the dashboard.
The other pulling at the steering wheel.
Trying to turn it.
Trying to move it away from the impact.
Headlights.
Too bright.
Too close.
Metal screaming.
Glass shattering.
And Youxia’s body twisting—
Shielding him.
The impact landing on the passenger side.
Not the driver’s.
The brakes in the present car groaned to a stop.
Yang Tao’s vision blurred.
The honking behind them dragged him back to reality.
“Yang Tao!”
Voices from the car behind.
Teammates stepping out.
Knocking on the window.
“You guys okay?!”
Yang Tao blinked hard.
He was breathing too fast.
He turned his head.
Chen wasn’t okay.
He wasn’t speaking.
He wasn’t responding.
He had pulled his knees up onto the seat, arms wrapped around them tightly, forehead nearly touching the dashboard.
His entire body was shaking.
Not subtly.
Violently.
His eyes were wide.
Unfocused.
Like he wasn’t in this car.
Like he was somewhere else.
Rain.
Metal.
Glass.
“You— Chen,” Yang Tao corrected himself automatically when he saw teammates approaching. “It’s okay. It’s just the brakes.”
No response.
The car door behind them opened.
“Are you both okay?” the coach asked urgently.
“I pressed the brake too hard,” Yang Tao said quickly. “We’re fine.”
They weren’t.
The coach looked toward Chen. “Manager Chen?”
No answer.
Yang Tao felt something inside him click into place.
Not fear.
Recognition.
He unbuckled his seatbelt.
The others were still talking, checking the exterior of the car.
Yang Tao gently closed Chen’s door to block some of the noise.
Then he reached out.
“Chen,” he tried softly.
Nothing.
His chest tightened.
He leaned closer.
“Youxia.”
The name left his mouth before he could stop it.
Chen’s trembling paused.
Just slightly.
His unfocused gaze shifted.
Slowly.
Like he was swimming back to the surface.
Yang Tao’s throat burned.
“It’s okay,” he whispered. “It’s not raining.”
Chen’s breathing was ragged.
Yang Tao reached up carefully and cupped the side of his face.
“You’re here,” he murmured. “With me.”
For a split second—
Chen looked at him like he had that night.
Vulnerable.
Terrified.
Alive.
Then—
The shaking intensified once more.
And his body went slack.
Yang Tao barely caught him before his head hit the window.
“Youxia!”
Panic exploded through his chest.
The others rushed back to the car.
“What happened?!”
“He fainted,” Yang Tao said hoarsely.
But his mind was elsewhere.
Because now—
He remembered.
He had been driving that night.
Not Youxia.
He had been the one behind the wheel.
And Youxia hadn’t caused the accident.
He had saved him.
-
In the chaos of teammates calling for water, checking pulse, and debating whether to go to the hospital, Yang Tao sat frozen in the driver’s seat.
His hands trembled.
Not from the near accident just now.
But from the memory.
Rain.
Headlights.
And Youxia’s body shielding him.
The narrative they told him—
Was wrong.
He wasn’t abandoned.
He was protected.
And someone—
Had decided he didn’t need to remember that.
-
When Chen—no, Youxia—was carefully moved to the backseat so someone else could drive, Yang Tao remained still for one second longer.
He looked at his hands.
The same hands that had gripped the steering wheel.
The same hands Youxia had grabbed to turn.
He swallowed hard.
In public—
He would still call him Chen.
But in that moment, when he had whispered Youxia—
It felt like truth.
And truth was beginning to hurt.
-
The hospital room was too quiet.
Machines hummed steadily. The faint scent of antiseptic lingered in the air. Evening light filtered through half-drawn curtains, casting long shadows across the bed.
Youxia lay still.
Too still.
His face had lost color. His right hand rested atop the blanket, fingers slightly curled even in unconsciousness—as if they were still bracing for impact.
Yang Tao sat beside him.
And remembered.
Not fragments.
Not flashes.
Everything.
Rain pouring like the sky had cracked open.
His own hands gripping the steering wheel too tightly.
Their argument—small, stupid, about scrim schedules and media pressure.
Youxia telling him to slow down.
Headlights appearing out of nowhere.
Too close.
Wrong lane.
He remembered shouting.
He remembered losing control for half a second.
And then—
Youxia reaching across him.
Not pushing away.
Pulling the wheel.
Twisting his own body between Yang Tao and the incoming impact.
“Yang Tao!”
The scream still echoed in his skull.
The crash had come from the passenger side.
Metal collapsing inward.
Glass exploding.
He remembered blood.
He remembered trying to turn his head and seeing Youxia’s arm shielding him.
He remembered sirens.
And most clearly—
He remembered Youxia’s voice in the chaos.
“Treat him first!”
They had tried to protest.
Youxia had been bleeding too.
His arm pinned awkwardly.
But he kept repeating it.
“Treat him first!”
-
Yang Tao closed his eyes.
When he woke up days later—
He hadn’t remembered Youxia.
Not their relationship.
Not the late-night ranked sessions.
Not the promises whispered in dark training rooms.
He remembered the game.
He remembered drafts.
He remembered mechanics.
But not love.
And Youxia had been there.
The nurses had said so.
He had been there when Yang Tao first opened his eyes.
Hopeful.
Terrified.
And when Yang Tao looked at him blankly—
And asked, “Who are you?”
That had been the end.
-
Yang Tao exhaled shakily.
After waking, while he was still in the hospital recovering, articles had already flooded the internet.
“Star Support Involved in Car Accident.”
“Jyi Responsible.”
“Relationship Ends in Tragedy.”
He hadn’t questioned it then.
He had been told gently that the boyfriend was driving.
That it was messy.
That it was better to focus on recovery.
And Youxia—
Youxia had admitted to it.
Publicly.
Said he was the one behind the wheel.
Accepted the backlash.
Accepted the hatred.
Accepted the narrative.
Because Yang Tao’s career—
Was more important.
Yang Tao was the more renowned one.
The rising support star of the League.
Sponsors attached.
Brand deals pending.
He had been older.
More established.
The organization couldn’t afford scandal.
So Youxia took it.
And disappeared.
-
The door clicked open quietly.
The General Manager stepped in.
He paused when he saw Yang Tao’s expression.
“You remember,” he said softly.
It wasn’t a question.
Yang Tao didn’t look up.
“Yes.”
The GM sighed and closed the door behind him.
“He didn’t want you to find out like this.”
Yang Tao’s jaw tightened.
“You let him take the blame.”
The GM didn’t deny it.
“It was his decision.”
“He was injured too.”
“Yes.”
“He couldn’t finish BO5s.”
“Yes.”
Silence stretched.
The GM moved closer to the bed, looking at Youxia with a complicated expression.
“He refused to press charges. The driver paid compensation. That was it. Legally, it ended there.”
Yang Tao’s voice was hoarse. “But publicly?”
“We protected you.”
The words landed heavy.
“He insisted,” the GM added quietly. “He said your future shouldn’t end because of one night.”
Yang Tao clenched his fists.
“He kept asking me,” the GM continued, voice lower now. “After you lost your memory. He kept asking if everyone hated him.”
Yang Tao’s throat tightened painfully.
“I told him not everyone did.”
The GM shook his head faintly.
“He didn’t believe me.”
Yang Tao finally looked up.
“What do you mean?”
The GM’s expression softened.
“He thought the fans turned against him. Thought you would too, if you remembered. He refused to believe there were still people who loved him.”
Yang Tao’s chest felt like it was caving in.
“He asked me every time I saw him.”
The GM’s voice dropped to almost a whisper.
“‘Is Yang Tao okay?’”
Not—
Is my career okay.
Not—
Is the team okay.
Just—
Is Yang Tao okay.
Yang Tao’s vision blurred.
“And when he realized you didn’t remember him,” the GM continued, “he said it was better that way. Said you wouldn’t feel guilty.”
Guilty.
The word cut deeper than blame ever could.
“You were his first thought,” the GM said quietly. “And his last.”
Silence filled the room again.
Machines humming.
Steady.
Stable.
Yang Tao reached out slowly and took Youxia’s hand.
Careful.
Gentle.
He felt the faint ridges of scars along his wrist.
The slight stiffness in his fingers.
“You’re an idiot,” Yang Tao whispered.
His voice broke.
“You should’ve stayed.”
But even as he said it, he knew.
Youxia had stayed.
Just not where Yang Tao could see.
-
Outside this hospital room, Yang Tao was still the League’s renowned support.
The veteran.
The one sponsors trusted.
The one analysts praised.
Inside this room—
He was just a man who finally remembered who had loved him enough to disappear.
He brushed his thumb lightly against Youxia’s knuckles.
“I’m okay,” he murmured softly.
As if answering a question from years ago.
“And you don’t get to decide for me anymore.”
-
Youxia woke up slowly.
Not all at once.
First, a shift in breathing.
Then a slight twitch of his fingers beneath Yang Tao’s hand.
Yang Tao straightened immediately.
“Youxia,” he said softly.
The name wasn’t careful this time.
It wasn’t hidden.
It was real.
Youxia’s eyelashes fluttered.
For a split second, his gaze was unfocused—lost between present and memory.
Then he felt the touch.
His body reacted before his mind did.
He jerked his hand away.
Not violently.
But instinctively.
Like contact burned.
Yang Tao froze.
Youxia pushed himself upright too quickly, breath hitching as dizziness hit. His eyes scanned the room in sharp, frantic movements.
Hospital.
IV line.
Window.
Door.
Then—
Yang Tao.
Their eyes met.
And everything changed.
Recognition dawned instantly.
Not confusion.
Not distance.
Recognition.
And fear.
“You remember,” Youxia whispered.
It wasn’t a question.
Yang Tao didn’t deny it.
“I do.”
That was enough.
Youxia’s breathing quickened.
His gaze darted toward the door, then back to Yang Tao.
His expression wasn’t relief.
It was panic.
The kind that came from bracing for impact.
The General Manager reacted quickly.
He stepped forward, placing himself between them—not aggressively, but deliberately—blocking Yang Tao from Youxia’s direct line of sight.
“It’s okay,” the GM said calmly. “He just remembered. That’s all.”
Youxia’s chest rose and fell too fast.
He tried to sit straighter but winced, right hand gripping the bedsheet as if searching for something to anchor himself.
“I shouldn’t—” he began, voice shaking.
“You’re not going anywhere,” the GM interrupted gently.
Yang Tao stood there helplessly.
The distance of one person between them felt like miles.
Youxia closed his eyes tightly, like he was waiting for words that hadn’t come yet.
Accusations.
Blame.
Anger.
They didn’t arrive.
Instead, all he heard was silence.
And the steady beep of a heart monitor.
Slowly—
His breathing began to even out.
The GM kept speaking in low, grounding tones. “You fainted. It was just stress. The car didn’t crash. Everyone’s fine.”
Everyone’s fine.
The phrase seemed to anchor him.
His shoulders lowered incrementally.
The tremor in his fingers eased.
His eyelids drooped, exhaustion overtaking adrenaline.
Before sleep pulled him under again, he whispered something so quiet it almost didn’t register.
“Is he okay?”
The GM glanced back at Yang Tao.
Yang Tao swallowed.
“I’m okay,” he answered.
Youxia didn’t look at him.
But his breathing softened.
And within seconds, he drifted back into a peaceful sleep.
-
The room settled into stillness again.
The GM stepped aside.
Yang Tao moved back to the bedside.
He didn’t reach for Youxia’s hand this time.
He just sat there.
Watching.
Understanding something painful and profound.
Youxia hadn’t panicked because Yang Tao remembered the accident.
He had panicked because Yang Tao remembered him.
And somewhere in those lost years—
Youxia had convinced himself that memory meant rejection.
Yang Tao leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling.
“I didn’t even get to say anything,” he murmured.
The GM sighed quietly.
“He’s been carrying guilt for years,” he said. “Give him time.”
Yang Tao nodded.
Time.
They had lost so much of it already.
But this time—
He wasn’t going to let Youxia walk away.
-
Yang Tao hadn’t meant to overhear it.
He had stepped out to take a call from the coach regarding practice adjustments, only to return to the hospital corridor and hear voices from just beyond the half-closed door.
“…I’ll resign.”
Yang Tao stopped walking.
His pulse slowed—then spiked.
It was Youxia.
Not weak.
Not trembling.
Calm.
Resolved.
The General Manager’s voice followed immediately. “Don’t make decisions right now.”
“It’s the logical one,” Youxia replied evenly. “No one knows Manager Chen is Liao Youxia. I’d like to keep it that way.”
Yang Tao’s fingers curled at his side.
So that was the plan.
Disappear again.
Neatly.
Quietly.
Like he always did.
“You just regained stability,” the GM argued. “If you resign now, it’ll attract more suspicion.”
“That’s manageable,” Youxia said. “What’s not manageable is the media digging up old footage and connecting it to the team during tournament season.”
“And Yang Tao?” the GM asked pointedly.
There was a pause.
Long enough to hurt.
“He’ll be fine,” Youxia said softly.
That was when Yang Tao pushed the door open.
Both men turned.
Youxia’s posture straightened instantly, expression smoothing into neutrality.
Manager Chen.
Professional.
Composed.
Yang Tao hated it.
“You’re not resigning,” Yang Tao said without greeting.
The GM looked between them and quietly stepped aside, sensing the collision that was coming.
Youxia didn’t look surprised.
“I don’t recall asking for your approval,” he said calmly.
There it was.
The edge.
Not Manager Chen’s careful tone.
But something sharper.
Older.
“You don’t get to decide that alone,” Yang Tao shot back.
Youxia’s gaze hardened.
“This isn’t about you.”
“It’s always been about me,” Yang Tao snapped. “You took the blame for me. You disappeared for me. You—”
“I made that choice,” Youxia cut in.
His voice wasn’t raised.
But it carried weight.
Confidence.
Authority.
The room felt smaller suddenly.
Yang Tao saw it then.
Not the cautious, soft-spoken manager.
But Liao Youxia.
Jyi.
The ADC who used to stand on stage with unshakable composure. The one analysts called bold. The one opponents called dangerous. The one who sometimes bordered on arrogance—but backed it up with endless hours of practice.
“You think I regret it?” Youxia asked quietly.
Yang Tao faltered.
Youxia stepped forward this time.
Not back.
“If it protected your career,” he continued, eyes steady, “I would do it again.”
There was no martyrdom in his tone.
No self-pity.
Just fact.
That confidence—dangerous and unwavering—hit Yang Tao harder than any accusation could.
“You don’t get to play hero anymore,” Yang Tao said through clenched teeth.
A faint, almost familiar smirk tugged at Youxia’s lips.
“And you don’t get to play reckless driver anymore.”
The words landed.
Hard.
For a second, silence swallowed the room.
Then Yang Tao let out a sharp breath—half laugh, half disbelief.
“There you are,” he muttered.
Youxia raised an eyebrow slightly. “Excuse me?”
“That’s you,” Yang Tao said, stepping closer. “Not Chen. Not the careful manager who watches every word. You.”
Youxia’s expression flickered.
Just barely.
“You don’t get to erase yourself because it’s convenient,” Yang Tao continued. “You trained harder than anyone. You fought harder. You carried games on your back when I messed up engages.”
“That was a long time ago.”
“So?” Yang Tao shot back. “You think I only respect the quiet version of you?”
Youxia’s jaw tightened.
“You think I stayed away because I was ashamed?” he asked, voice dropping lower. “I stayed away because you couldn’t even look at me without confusion.”
The words cut deep.
“You looked at me like I was a stranger,” Youxia continued. “Do you know what that does to someone?”
Yang Tao swallowed.
“I remember now,” he said softly.
“And that changes what?” Youxia demanded.
“That you don’t get to leave again.”
The tension between them crackled.
“You don’t understand public scrutiny,” Youxia said. “If my identity leaks before tournament—”
“Then we handle it,” Yang Tao interrupted.
“We?”
The single word carried years of distance.
“Yes. We.”
The GM cleared his throat lightly but didn’t interfere.
Yang Tao stepped closer until they were almost chest to chest.
“You think resigning protects me?” he asked. “You think disappearing again is noble?”
Youxia didn’t answer.
“That’s not strength,” Yang Tao said quietly. “That’s fear.”
For the first time since waking up—
Youxia flinched.
Yang Tao pressed on.
“You always fight harder than anyone else,” he said. “So fight this.”
Their eyes locked.
Challenge met challenge.
Not manager and player.
Not past and present.
But equals.
After a long moment, Youxia exhaled.
“You haven’t changed,” he muttered.
Yang Tao almost smiled.
“Neither have you.”
And for a second—
The space between them felt less like a battlefield.
And more like something familiar.