Chapter Text
The room was quiet except for the soft hum of a computer that had long stopped being used for competition.
Yu Byeongcheol sat in front of three monitors that displayed nothing more threatening than spreadsheets and old VOD files. No ranked queue ticking. No scrims. No Discord notifications lighting up with teammates asking for warm-ups. Just silence — the kind that stretched years longer than it should have.
Five years ago, the silence had been loud.
Now it was simply… normal.
He adjusted the mouse on his desk — the same model he’d used during his prime. Its surface was worn smooth, polished by hours that no longer existed. His hand hovered over it, fingers instinctively settling into a grip his body remembered better than his mind wanted to.
Old habits.
Old ghosts.
The monitor on the left suddenly flickered with an incoming call notification.
Unknown Number.
Byeongcheol stared at it for a long moment. Calls rarely came anymore. When they did, they were usually spam or journalists digging up old dirt for a nostalgia article.
He almost ignored it.
Almost.
His finger clicked Accept.
“…Hello?”
A familiar chuckle came through the speaker — low, slightly raspy, unmistakable.
“You still answer unknown numbers like a rookie, Byeongcheol.”
Byeongcheol froze.
“…Coach?”
“Ah. So you do remember me.”
Coach Han Minseok. Former T1 strategic coach. The man who had watched him grow from an aggressive ranked demon into one of the most precise aimers the Korean Valorant scene had ever seen.
Memories hit like flashbangs — sharp, disorienting.
“What do you want?” Byeongcheol asked, voice flat.
“No greeting? No ‘how have you been, Coach’? I’m hurt.”
“People don’t call me unless they want something,” he replied. “So just say it.”
A small pause lingered on the line. The joking tone faded.
“I’ve got a team,” Minseok said finally. “Tier three. Messy. Undisciplined. Talented, though. They need a coach.”
Byeongcheol almost laughed.
“You called the wrong person.”
“No,” Minseok said calmly. “I called the only one I trust to fix them.”
“I don’t work in esports anymore.”
“You still watch every VOD,” Minseok countered instantly. “You still update aim drills on private forums under fake accounts. You still use the same mouse. You never left.”
Byeongcheol’s jaw tightened.
Silence stretched between them again — heavier this time.
“I’m not going back,” Byeongcheol said. “Not after what happened.”
“I know.”
The answer came without hesitation.
“I know you didn’t cheat,” Minseok continued. “I knew it five years ago. I still know it now.”
Byeongcheol’s fingers curled slightly against the desk.
He didn’t respond.
“You disappeared,” Minseok went on gently. “You let the world decide your story because you were too exhausted to fight it.”
“That’s not your concern.”
“It is if I’m asking you to come back.”
Byeongcheol exhaled slowly.
“Why me?” he asked. “There are dozens of coaches without scandals.”
“Because those coaches can teach strategy,” Minseok replied. “You can teach survival.”
The words landed heavier than they should have.
Byeongcheol leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling.
He remembered the crowd noise. The accusations. The cold announcement that had ended everything mid-match. Anti-cheat violation. Illegal third-party software. Immediate disqualification.
He remembered the disbelief in his teammates’ eyes.
He remembered not defending himself.
Not because he was guilty — but because he was tired. Because no one wanted to listen.
“They don’t need me,” he murmured.
“They do,” Minseok said. “And… there’s something else.”
A pause.
“There’s someone on the roster you should know about.”
Byeongcheol’s brow furrowed slightly.
“Who?”
Minseok inhaled.
“Kim Gutaek.”
The name hit like a perfectly placed Operator shot — sudden, precise, impossible to ignore.
“…stax?” Byeongcheol whispered before he could stop himself.
“Yeah,” Minseok said quietly. “Kim ‘stax’ Gutaek.”
Memories surged forward uninvited.
Practice rooms filled with laughter. Late-night ranked grinds. Arguments about crosshair placement. Shared dreams spoken half-jokingly but meant with everything they had.
We’ll reach the top together, Gutaek had once said, grinning through exhaustion.
No matter what.
Byeongcheol swallowed.
“…Why is he there?” he asked.
“He stayed in the scene,” Minseok replied. “Fought for you when the scandal happened. Publicly. Loudly. Risked his own reputation.”
Byeongcheol’s grip tightened around the armrest.
“I didn’t ask him to.”
“I know,” Minseok said softly. “But he did it anyway.”
The room felt smaller.
“He’s still playing?” Byeongcheol asked.
“Yeah. Not Tier One anymore. Took hits to his career after backing you. But he never stopped grinding.”
Byeongcheol closed his eyes briefly.
Gutaek had always been stubborn. Loyal to a fault.
“He doesn’t know you’d be the coach,” Minseok added. “None of them do.”
“…Why tell me this?”
“Because you deserve to know that someone never stopped believing in you,” Minseok said. “And because maybe… you owe yourself a chance to stand beside him again.”
Byeongcheol didn’t respond immediately.
The hum of the idle computer filled the silence.
He imagined stepping back into a practice room. Hearing keyboards clatter. Seeing young players look at him without knowing who he was.
He imagined facing a world that had already decided he was a cheater.
“…I’ll think about it,” he said finally.
Minseok let out a quiet breath — not relief, but acceptance.
“That’s all I’m asking,” the coach replied. “I’ll send you their VODs. No pressure. Just… watch them.”
The call ended a few seconds later.
Byeongcheol sat alone again.
The monitors glowed softly as a new folder appeared in his inbox: Team Scrim Footage.
He hesitated.
Then clicked it open.
The first video began to play.
Chaotic comms. Misplaced utility. Raw aim hiding under layers of bad habits.
And in the middle of the screen — a familiar voice, calm and steady despite the chaos.
“Relax,” Gutaek said over comms. “We reset next round. We climb together.”
Byeongcheol’s chest tightened.
He watched until the video ended.
Then he started the next one.
-
Byeongcheol told himself he would only watch one match.
Just one — enough to satisfy curiosity, enough to prove to himself that Coach Han Minseok had exaggerated their potential.
The first VOD ended at 3:12 a.m.
The second ended at 4:47.
By the time dawn crept through the curtains, six different scrims had played through his monitors, paused and replayed so many times that the progress bar barely resembled a straight line anymore.
His desk no longer looked like that of someone who had “left esports.”
A notebook lay open, pages filled with tight handwriting — crosshair placement notes, utility timing diagrams, positioning errors circled in red. Arrows. Question marks. Corrections. Frustrated scribbles.
He leaned forward, elbows on the desk, eyes narrowed as another round began.
Gutaek’s voice filled the speakers.
“Hold for contact. Don’t peek early—”
The duelist on the team swung wide anyway and got punished instantly.
Byeongcheol paused the video.
He rubbed his temples, muttering under his breath.
“Why is he swinging without info…?”
His hand moved instinctively, rewinding the round ten seconds. He watched the minimap instead of the action this time — tracing rotations, counting footsteps, analyzing angles as if he were still the one about to take the duel.
Muscle memory didn’t ask permission.
He could feel it — that old instinct — the invisible tension in his shoulders when a clutch situation appeared. His fingers tapped against the desk in the rhythm of strafing movements he hadn’t performed on stage in years.
He resumed playback.
Gutaek anchored a site alone, utility perfectly layered despite teammates panicking over comms. His aim wasn’t as explosive as it used to be — slightly slower on the flicks — but his positioning was immaculate. Controlled. Experienced.
Older.
Byeongcheol noticed something else too.
At the start of each round, Gutaek flexed his fingers slightly before gripping the mouse again.
Small.
Subtle.
But consistent.
Byeongcheol paused the video again.
He zoomed in on a player cam clip included in the broadcast recording. Gutaek’s wrist rolled once, twice — tension hidden beneath calm leadership.
Cramps.
Years of gripping the mouse too tightly. Too many hours. Too many seasons pushing past physical limits.
Byeongcheol exhaled slowly.
“Idiot,” he murmured — not with anger, but with quiet concern.
The next match started.
And without realizing it, Byeongcheol began speaking to the screen again — voice low, analytical.
“You’re taking fights without trading structure.”
“Your duelist hesitates after entry… confidence issue.”
“Gutaek’s overcompensating for everyone’s mistakes.”
He paused another round, opened a blank document, and started typing.
Notes — Team Review
Duelist positioning too wide; crosshair height inconsistent.
Entry hesitation caused by lack of structured trade protocol.
Default structure nonexistent — rounds resemble ranked queue.
Flex-anchor overloaded; emotional center of the team compensating excessively.
Mechanical potential high; discipline weak.
Utility timing delayed by 1–2 seconds — loss of space control.
Additional note:
Gutaek’s hand strain visible. Needs reduced mechanical load and role adjustment before injury becomes permanent.
He stopped typing.
Stared at the last line.
His fingers hovered over the keyboard for a long moment before he saved the document.
The clock read 7:02 a.m.
The sky outside had turned pale.
Byeongcheol leaned back in his chair, exhaustion settling into his bones — not from watching, but from feeling like himself again. The part of him that had once lived for analyzing rounds, breaking down mistakes, imagining better executions.
The duelist.
The one who saw fights three seconds before they happened.
He hated how natural it felt.
His phone buzzed on the desk.
A new message from Minseok.
Did you watch them?
Byeongcheol stared at the text for a long moment.
Then he attached the file.
Team_Review_Notes_v1.docx
A few seconds passed before the typing indicator appeared.
Stopped.
Started again.
Stopped.
Finally, Minseok called.
Byeongcheol answered on the second ring.
“You said no pressure,” Byeongcheol said immediately.
Minseok laughed softly.
“No pressure. Just… wow.”
Silence lingered on the line.
“These are detailed,” Minseok continued. “Scarily detailed.”
“They’re obvious,” Byeongcheol replied. “Anyone paying attention could see it.”
“Not like this,” Minseok said quietly. “You broke down individual mental patterns. Even predicted their mid-round hesitations.”
Byeongcheol didn’t respond.
“I can implement these immediately,” Minseok added. “They’ll help the team a lot.”
“That’s fine,” Byeongcheol said. “Use them however you want.”
Another pause.
“Are you sure you don’t want to—”
“Don’t contact me again,” Byeongcheol cut in.
The words came out flat. Firm. Final.
“The duelist that existed five years ago is gone,” he continued. “That person isn’t here anymore. These notes are just… old habits.”
Minseok was quiet for several seconds.
He had known Byeongcheol long enough to hear the unspoken truth — that the duelist wasn’t gone. He was just buried under layers of fear and exhaustion.
“…Alright,” Minseok said finally. “I won’t push you.”
“Good.”
“But thank you,” the coach added softly.
Byeongcheol ended the call without another word.
The room fell silent again.
He stared at the paused VOD still sitting on his screen — Gutaek frozen mid-round, eyes focused, posture tired but unwavering.
Byeongcheol closed the file.
Shut down the computer.
And told himself that was the end of it.
-
Coach Han Minseok leaned back in his chair, phone still in hand.
He sighed — long and knowing.
“Stubborn kid,” he muttered to himself.
His gaze drifted to the document open on his monitor.
The notes were unmistakable.
Sharp. Precise. Brutally honest.
He didn’t need a signature to know who wrote them.
And neither would Gutaek.
Minseok glanced through the practice room window where the team was scrimming. Gutaek sat at the center desk — shoulders slightly hunched, flexing his fingers between rounds when he thought no one was watching.
Older than most of the roster.
Tired in ways only veterans understood.
Still carrying more weight than anyone should.
Minseok knew exactly what would happen the moment he shared these notes.
Gutaek would recognize the voice behind them immediately.
Not because of the wording.
But because of the way the analysis saw through people — not just gameplay.
Minseok exhaled again.
“…You two really are the same,” he murmured.
-
The practice room buzzed with low chatter and the rhythmic clicking of keyboards.
Scrims had ended fifteen minutes ago, but no one had left their stations yet. Everyone lingered — some scrolling through stats, others arguing over missed rotations and questionable pushes.
Coach Han Minseok walked in carrying a tablet.
“Alright,” he said, clapping his hands once. “Gather up.”
Groans followed immediately.
“Are we getting flamed again?” one of the younger players muttered.
“You deserve it,” another replied.
Gutaek leaned back slightly in his chair, rolling his shoulders and flexing his fingers discreetly under the desk before standing. His movements were slower these days — careful, controlled. Years of grinding had carved quiet aches into his joints that never fully went away.
The team gathered around.
Minseok placed the tablet on the table and projected a document onto the large monitor at the front of the room.
Team Review Notes — Internal Analysis
The players straightened slightly.
“This,” Minseok said, “is analysis from an assistant coach who used to play duelist professionally. They reviewed our recent VODs and left detailed notes.”
“Assistant coach?” one of the rookies asked. “Since when do we have one of those?”
Minseok smiled faintly. “Since recently.”
He scrolled.
Bullet points appeared on the screen.
Duelist positioning too wide; crosshair height inconsistent.
Entry hesitation caused by lack of structured trade protocol.
Default structure nonexistent — rounds resemble ranked queue.
Flex-anchor overloaded; emotional center of the team compensating excessively.
The room grew quieter with each line.
“…Okay, that’s kind of brutal,” someone muttered.
“But accurate,” another admitted.
Gutaek didn’t speak.
His eyes traced each sentence slowly — not just reading, but listening. Hearing the rhythm beneath the words. The precise way mistakes were described — not cruel, but unfiltered. Focused on improvement rather than blame.
His jaw tightened.
Minseok continued scrolling.
Mechanical potential high; discipline weak.
Utility timing delayed by 1–2 seconds — loss of space control.
Recommend reducing mechanical load on flex-anchor to prevent long-term physical strain.
Gutaek’s fingers stilled.
He stared at that last line longer than the others.
No one else noticed the significance.
But he did.
Because only one person had ever watched him closely enough to say something like that — someone who noticed the tiny wrist rolls before rounds, the hidden discomfort behind calm comms.
Someone who saw beyond the game.
Minseok closed the document.
“We’re implementing these starting today,” he said. “Scrim adjustments, role refinements, and new drills. Questions?”
The team immediately began discussing strategies — impressed, confused, slightly intimidated by the thoroughness of the analysis.
Gutaek stayed silent.
He waited until practice resumed.
Waited until the room emptied for a break.
Then he walked straight toward Minseok’s office.
-
Minseok looked up when the door opened without a knock.
Gutaek stepped inside, arms crossed, expression unreadable.
“You want to tell me something?” Gutaek asked.
Minseok leaned back slightly in his chair.
“About?”
“The notes.”
Minseok raised an eyebrow. “What about them?”
Gutaek laughed — sharp, humorless.
“You think I wouldn’t recognize those wordings?”
“Recognize?” Minseok tilted his head. “What makes you think that this is Byeongcheol? Many duelists would make these types of notes.”
Gutaek’s laugh came out harsher this time.
“And I have played with that man from the very beginning,” he said. “Even before we came to T1. When we were still in our former team — DRX.”
Minseok stayed silent.
“I’ve IGL’d for him for years before someone else took over that role,” Gutaek continued. “I’ve duo’d with him during our off time for years. I’ve watched how he sees the game — how he talks about players, how he notices things nobody else pays attention to.”
His voice lowered slightly.
“Are you saying I don’t know my own partner?”
The room felt heavy.
Minseok studied him for a long moment.
Gutaek looked older than he used to — not just physically, but in the way his shoulders carried quiet exhaustion. Lines of experience carved into his posture. Hands that flexed unconsciously when tension rose.
“You miss him,” Minseok said gently.
“That’s not the point.”
“It might be.”
Gutaek’s jaw tightened.
“Is he involved?” he asked finally. “Yes or no.”
Minseok didn’t answer immediately.
Instead, he stood up and walked to the window overlooking the practice room where the younger players were laughing loudly over a failed eco round.
“…If he were involved,” Minseok said slowly, “would you push him to come back?”
Gutaek didn’t hesitate.
“Yes.”
“Even if he said the duelist he used to be is gone?”
Gutaek’s expression softened for a brief moment.
“He can lie to himself,” Gutaek said quietly. “But he can’t lie to me.”
Minseok exhaled.
“He told me not to contact him again,” the coach admitted finally.
Gutaek’s shoulders tensed.
“So he is—”
“I didn’t say that,” Minseok cut in, though a faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
Gutaek huffed out a breath — frustrated, but not fooled.
“…He watched our games, didn’t he?”
Minseok said nothing.
Which was answer enough.
Gutaek let out a long, tired laugh.
“Of course he did,” he murmured. “He never could ignore bad crosshair placement.”
Silence settled between them.
Then Gutaek straightened.
“If you talk to him again,” he said, “tell him I’m still here.”
Minseok raised an eyebrow. “That’s it?”
Gutaek hesitated.
“…Tell him my hands still cramp,” he added with a crooked half-smile. “Maybe that’ll guilt him into coming back.”
Minseok chuckled softly.
“I’ll… keep that in mind.”
Gutaek turned to leave — pausing at the door.
“…He didn’t ruin my career,” he said quietly without looking back. “I chose to stand with him. And I’d do it again.”
The door closed behind him.
Minseok stared at the empty doorway for a long moment.
Then he glanced back at the notes on his tablet.
“…You two are going to drive me insane,” he muttered.