Lang Xian hesitated as he extended his hand, a flicker of confusion in his eyes.
Yun Qi grasped it, lifting it gently in a friendly gesture. Moments later, he let go and walked away from Lang Xian.
Lang Xian hadn’t expected things to go so smoothly. He’d been looking forward to savoring Yun Qi’s reluctant expression for a while, but this straightforward agreement caught him completely off guard.
He stared at Yun Qi’s retreating back as the other man climbed the stairs. From the silhouette, Yun Qi seemed utterly calm—no trace of distress from earlier. The whole exchange had been nothing like Lang Xian had imagined.
But on second thought, what was so bad about that? Yun Qi had taken the bait, after all. Everything else would be much simpler now.
Upstairs, Yun Qi splashed cold water on his face in the wash area.
The mirror reflected a pair of eyes brimming with complex emotions. Yun Qi wondered if he’d slipped up anywhere in his performance, but Lang Xian’s parting glance assured him that nothing seemed amiss.
When he’d first joined the esports team, Yun Qi never dreamed that leaving would be this hard. It demanded concessions on his part—concessions that still weren’t enough. He even had to indulge certain people’s personal whims. He’d always assumed the pro scene was full of like-minded friends: the strongest players got the starting roster spots, plain and simple. But it wasn’t just about skill guaranteeing a place, nor did mediocrity mean you’d get cut. The waters ran deep here—far from a simple matter of black and white.
He’d made a mistake coming to SK.
Just like his decision to break up back then, it was another colossal error in judgment.
Cold water streamed down his face. Yun Qi gripped the marble sink counter, lost in thought before the mirror for a long while. Life didn’t offer do-overs. Hit a fork in the road, and you’d be torn up by the thorny path ahead—only then would the lesson stick, teaching you to think things through properly from here on out.
Yun Qi grabbed a tissue and dried his face. Who could’ve guessed that at noon he’d been snapping at Lang Xian, only to spend the evening playing the part of an intimate on-screen couple with him?
Figuring out how to pull off this act—and satisfy everyone—had become a real puzzle.
Faking a romance was easy enough. No need for grand gestures to convince the world they were together. With “Mo Luo CP” already so wildly popular that even the pros couldn’t tell hype from reality, swaying the fans to buy it would be a breeze.
Maybe it came down to a single line or a lingering glance. Fake it convincingly, and they’d be golden.
Back in his room, Yun Qi slipped off his shoes.
It wasn’t a big space, but plenty roomy for one person. The house had originally belonged to some higher-up, but to motivate the youth trainees, it had been repurposed as housing for the starting roster players—a rare perk. SK hadn’t posted impressive results in years, and the bosses were getting antsy. Housing the starting roster separately from the rest showed just how badly they’d once wanted to make a name for themselves.
But times changed, and so did people. Did the top brass even know about the rot festering in the starting lineup now? If he left, would Lang Xian finally set his distractions aside, step up as captain, and lead the veterans and rookies to forge SK into a real team with genuine camaraderie?
Yun Qi sat at the desk, toying with a keychain. A plush little bear dangled from it, its shiny eyes fixed on him as his thumb stroked its fur over and over, almost like it was mocking his foolish daydreams.
SK was rotten through and through.
His leaving alone couldn’t save it.
Knock knock.
Yun Qi pressed the bear flat, rose from the chair, and opened the door. Xue Yan stood there, his eyes scanning Yun Qi’s face, trying to read his mood.
“How’d the talk go?” Xue Yan asked. “I saw you and Captain Lang chatting in the living room. Did you hash out whether you’re staying or going?”
“Pretty much,” Yun Qi said, letting go of the door handle and stepping back inside. “He wants me to date him.”
Xue Yan followed. He seldom entered Yun Qi’s room—they usually crossed paths in the training room. For some reason, he could barge right into Jiu Shuang and the others’ places without a second thought. Rough-and-tumble guys like them had nothing to hide. But Yun Qi felt different, always giving off this enigmatic air, like prying too deep would be a mistake.
Only after making sure it was okay did Xue Yan cross the threshold. “Date him?”
Yun Qi slid the desk chair toward him. “The kind we put on for the cameras.”
Xue Yan glanced down. The chair’s back featured an intricate openwork design, lined with a beige fleece blanket from which tufts of white feathers peeked through—a subtle touch of luxury.
Rough guys like him didn’t appreciate that sort of aesthetic—at least, he didn’t. But these things in Yun Qi’s room didn’t feel out of place at all. Yun Qi matched the style perfectly, radiating an indefinable air of nobility from head to toe, like someone who’d been pampered with exquisite care. And yet Lang Xian knew Yun Qi’s background wasn’t all that complicated.
His family circumstances were perfectly ordinary, too.
“I’m not sitting. You’ve got a thing about cleanliness—don’t want to dirty it.” Xue Yan rested his hand on the chair’s back without touching the feather cushion.
Yun Qi didn’t press the issue. He turned around and sat on the bed instead. Xue Yan asked him, “What was that all about earlier? Why put on a show like that in front of the camera?”
He’d assumed Lang Xian had a real shot at this and wouldn’t let Yun Qi off easy—at minimum, he’d make him bleed a little. But no, it was just some fake on-camera romance? Xue Yan couldn’t puzzle out the angle.
“I have no idea,” Yun Qi admitted, sounding just as baffled himself. “Whatever he wants, I’ll play along, as long as he lets me go.”
Xue Yan nodded in understanding. “Brother Li and the others wouldn’t let you leave during today’s meeting, right?”
Yun Qi recounted it. “More or less. They gave me two paths: step back into a support role or switch positions and go through re-evaluation. I mulled it over, and leaving still seems like the best option.”
“Why the sudden determination to leave?” Xue Yan was thoroughly confused. “You’ve never brought it up before.”
It felt like a recent development. Yun Qi’s moods had grown steadier lately, and even the incident with Danwan hadn’t rattled him. Only two explanations fit: either Yun Qi just had that kind of unflappable personality, or he’d already made up his mind to leave, so whatever happened in SK didn’t faze him anymore.
From the looks of it, it was the latter.
“Got a specific esports team you’re dying to join? Or did someone talk you into it?” Genuine concern flickered in Xue Yan’s eyes.
Yun Qi shook his head. “Nothing like that. If you want a reason, it’s just the constant harassment wearing me down. I want to join a normal team where I can focus on getting better.”
Xue Yan let out a relieved breath and patted the chair back. “Eh, who knows. Me, Jiu Shuang, Chen Xia—we’ve never had these headaches. But you’ve had one mess after another, from the old coach to Captain Lang…”
He realized too late what he’d said, casually dredging up the thing that had left a shadow on Yun Qi. Xue Yan backpedaled fast. “No, I mean—you’re good-looking, Yun Qi, way handsomer than us roughnecks. No wonder this stuff keeps happening to you.”
“Is it my fault?”
“Not at all. But when a flower blooms, you can’t stop people from admiring it, can you?” Xue Yan went on. “I know Captain Lang pushes boundaries with you sometimes, but I figure it’s because he likes you too much and doesn’t know his limits. You’re treating him worse than your ex, even after the breakup…”
“Why should he compare to my ex?” Yun Qi’s tone sharpened with sudden intensity. “He loved me, cherished me, respected me. Lang Xian will never deserve to stand in the same league.”
Xue Yan clamped his mouth shut. Yun Qi’s loyalty to his ex was ironclad; whatever had gone down between them, Xue Yan wasn’t about to pile on.
“So… what’s your plan?” Xue Yan asked. “If you’re ‘dating’ him, are you filming something? Going live?”
“No clue,” Yun Qi said. “Whatever he sets up.”
Xue Yan tsked. “That’s a tough one.”
Yun Qi shrugged. “If he wants the whole world to know, fine by me. It’s just a label—nothing I’m attached to.”
“You’re really burning bridges here, Yun Qi? That set on leaving?”
“Yeah. SK,” Yun Qi said, his voice heavy. “I can’t stand another day.”
Xue Yan gazed at him, struck by the unyielding resolve in his eyes.
The next morning, Lang Xian made his move.
Yun Qi had barely stepped into the training room when he was told to prep for a stream.
He spotted Lang Xian already seated, eyes locked on him. Yun Qi got the picture and walked over, settling in beside him. “How do we play this?”
Lang Xian replied, “Just like your usual streams.”
Yun Qi eyed the computer screen. Everything was queued up—one click to go live. “Dropping our ‘relationship’ like this online out of nowhere—won’t it come off as too abrupt?”
Lies needed some buildup, or no one would buy it.
Lang Xian assured him, “Relax. I’ve got it covered. Lined up some friends. Chat and game with them like normal, play a couple matches, and the topic will bubble up on its own. You know how quick that happens.”
Of course. Viewers spotting him and Lang Xian together would spark questions instantly. Lang Xian’s big-streamer buddies had massive followings and backchannel ties—they’d steer the hype without prompting.
Yun Qi stared at the screen, finger hovering over the button, as if steeling himself mentally. From the side, Lang Xian added, “If you don’t want to, we stop right now. I won’t make you.”
He would never escape Lang Xian’s relentless pursuit.
Was this to be the rest of his life?
The thought made Yun Qi smile at the camera. His fingers tapped lightly on the keyboard, the webcam pointed right at his face. He slipped into the zone without hesitation. “Let’s begin.”
