Summary: A month after joining ZGDX and being met with indifference from nearly the entire team, Tong Yao finds unexpected solace in the quiet presence of the one person no one ever thought to look twice at—Support player Xiao Pang. What begins with shared meals and soft words slowly turns into something unshakable.
One-Shot
The first month passes with all the heaviness of silence pressed into the walls. Tong Yao keeps her head down, sharpens her gameplay, watches her replays at night with Da Bing curled against her side like the only thing in this new world that understands her rhythm. No one is cruel, exactly, but indifference can cut deeper than insult. Sicheng gives orders with precision but never with warmth. Lao K nods when spoken to, says little else. Mao offers nothing but curt responses in scrims. Yue teases too easily, and it always lands just a little too hard.
Ming, thank god, treats her like a human being. Pang, though... Pang is different.
He doesn't rush to befriend her, doesn't push jokes or pry into her reasons for joining ZGDX. But he always saves her the last steamed bun, always lets her go first when they're reviewing footage. And in scrims, when her timing is slightly off, it's Pang's voice—quiet, patient—that guides her back. There's no flare to his play-style, no desire for glory, just a steady, comforting presence always watching the map, always watching her , never leaving her to sink alone.
They begin eating late dinners together, half-awkward at first. But slowly, the silences between them soften into comfort. Yao doesn't talk about her past, and Pang doesn't ask. He talks about his dog, a huge old golden retriever who once ate an entire mooncake mid-autumn. She laughs harder than she has in weeks.
And then it happens.
It's after a long scrim, their third straight loss to DQ-5's defensive strat, and everyone's tense. Yue, irritated, kicks his chair back and mutters loud enough to be heard across the room. "Maybe if Fatty here hadn't been slow on the swap!" He's laughing, but Pang's jaw tics just slightly. Barely visible. But Yao sees it.
She always sees it. Before she can think, before anyone has the chance to redirect, she rises from her chair. And when she speaks, her voice isn't loud—it's lethal. "Don't call him that."
The entire room stills.
Yue blinks. "It's a joke."
"No. It's not." Her tone doesn't rise, but it sharpens with every word. "You don't get to use someone's name as a punchline just because you think it sounds funny. You want to tease someone, fine. Tease me. You've been doing it since day one. But you will not talk to him like that again."
Silence.
Sicheng's brows lift slightly from his monitor. Even Lao K looks up. No one had seen her defend herself, not when she was excluded from late-night hotpot runs, not when no one offered her help carrying her gear in the rain, not when someone muttered diversity hire under their breath during a private scrim review. But now? Now she's glaring down Yue, her voice still cool but her hands clenched at her sides, trembling—not from fear, but from rage.
And Pang, stunned, doesn't say a word. He doesn't have to. Because when she sinks back into her seat and opens her replay file like nothing happened, she doesn't look up. She doesn't need thanks. She saw him hurt. And that was enough.
Later that night, in the quiet of the lounge when everyone else is gone, Pang finds her on the couch, Da Bing curled against her thigh. He stands for a moment, unsure, before sinking down beside her. His voice is rough, quiet. "You didn't have to do that."
She doesn't answer right away. Just keeps scratching behind Da Bing's ears. "I know."
He swallows. "But you did."
Her gaze shifts to him then, steady. "You would've done it for me."
He stares at her, and something in his expression shifts—not gratitude, not admiration, but something quieter, something steadier. Something that lingers. His voice is softer when he asks, "Why me?"
She doesn't look away. "Because you were the only one who ever looked at me like I wasn't a mistake." And with that, she rests her head on his shoulder.
And in the hush of that moment, as his hand slowly comes up to rest over hers, fingers brushing gently, Pang thinks, for the first time since joining ZGDX, that maybe he doesn't have to be the Support for everyone. Maybe he just wants to be hers.
The lounge is loud with laughter, half-burnt popcorn from Yue's failed attempt at movie night still lingering in the air. Everyone's relaxed. Or at least, everyone but her.
Tong Yao sits curled in the corner of the couch, Da Bing sprawled across her lap like a guardian shield, her eyes on the movie but her mind clearly elsewhere. She hasn't said much since returning from their last review session, where Ming had once again subtly deflected Lao K's dig about her rotations without offering any real defense.
Yue, who hasn't learned how to not poke at things that should be left alone, throws a kernel at her head and smirks. "Hey, Salty Fish Maiden. You ever gonna stop dragging us down in lane?"
The room goes still.
For a second, it's as if no one breathes.
And then Pang, who hasn't moved from where he's nursing a bottled tea near the far wall, sets the bottle down with a soft thud that hits like a gunshot. His voice, usually quiet, comes out clear and sharp. "Yue. Enough."
Yue blinks, startled. "I was kidding—"
"No, you weren't." Pang pushes off the wall and moves toward them, not with anger, but with a cold steadiness that has everyone sitting up straighter. "You think because she doesn't snap back at you, it's funny? That you can keep picking at her and it doesn't matter? You've been calling her names, brushing her off, laughing when she gets left behind or has to eat alone. I've watched all of you do it." Lao Mao shifts in his seat, uncomfortable. Lao K stiffens. Even Sicheng lifts his head, eyes narrowing, but Pang doesn't stop. "And you," he turns toward Sicheng, gaze hard, "You're our Captain. You're supposed to set the tone. But you've let it happen. Again and again. You haven't defended her once."
Sicheng says nothing. His jaw is clenched, but his silence speaks volumes.
"Coach. Manager." Pang's voice cracks slightly, but not from weakness. From disappointment. "You've seen it, too. Every time she gets left out. Every time she's treated like an outsider. And you said nothing." Rui's glasses are off. Ming's arms are crossed, but neither interrupts him. "She hasn't done a single thing to deserve this. And yet she's the one who shows up early, reviews her footage longer than anyone, and stays quiet when she should be furious. I don't know why she hasn't walked out already. Because if it were me, I'd be long gone."
Yao's breath catches. She hadn't expected this, not from him. She doesn't move. Doesn't speak. But her eyes are wide, locked on Pang like he's someone entirely new and yet somehow exactly who she thought he was.
Pang takes a step closer to the center of the room, voice lower now but just as steady. "You're all showing you're no better than Jian Yang."
That lands like a slap.
Ming winces. Lao K drops his gaze. Even Yue flinches at the name.
"She didn't leave CK to come here and be treated the same. And if any of you can look her in the eye and say she deserves the way you've treated her, then say it now."
No one does.
Not a sound.
Only Da Bing, flicking his tail once in irritation, sensing the weight in the air.
Finally, Pang turns, walking back to the wall. He doesn't look at Yao again. Doesn't need to. But as he sits and picks up his tea again, hands only just beginning to tremble from the adrenaline, her voice reaches him—small but strong. "Thank you." It's all she says. But it's enough to make him meet her eyes for just a moment. And in that moment, everyone else realizes what she already knows: He's not just her Support in-game. He's hers.
It starts gradually.
Pang no longer lingers in the kitchen waiting for group takeout orders. He doesn't ask what the others want or call out reminders that the boba shop closes in twenty minutes. He doesn't offer to split the delivery fee or pick up extra soy sauce packets for anyone but her. Instead, every lunch break now sees two sets of chopsticks nestled in the same plastic bag. One large bubble tea and a smaller one—matcha with honey jelly—balanced in his other hand. He doesn't say it aloud. But it's always there. And it's always for her.
Yao never asks. She simply accepts with a quiet, "Thanks, Pang-ge," and they settle into their corner of the lounge like the rest of the world doesn't exist.
He doesn't tease her like Yue used to. He doesn't prod or joke or demand reactions. But he does speak more. Little things. Quietly muttered sarcasm during replay reviews. Observations about her gameplay that are somehow never criticisms. Soft encouragement she never hears from anyone else. And she begins to lean into it. Their heads knock together when watching match breakdowns. Her knee bumps his under the table and she doesn't pull away. Once, she falls asleep on the couch during scrim week, and when Rui comes in to check on her, he finds Pang sitting beside her with a hoodie draped over her shoulders and Da Bing curled by her knees.
It becomes impossible to ignore.
Especially because Pang doesn't even try to hide it. He skips team dinners. Stops responding to late-night gaming invites. Only answers when Yao messages him, and only shows up to movie night if she's already there. And then—then—comes the moment that slams into the rest of them like a car crash at the intersection of denial and realization.
They're all gathered in the lounge, mid-replay session, watching CK's top lane crumble under pressure. It's a rare light mood day. Everyone's tired but slightly less on edge.
Yao's in her usual seat, legs folded beneath her, nursing her tea, fingers twitching near Da Bing's fur.
Pang is beside her, chopsticks still in hand from finishing lunch.
Yue tosses a comment toward the screen. "Guess CK's new Top didn't read the playbook."
"Or just didn't have one," Pang mutters, so low it's nearly lost. Then, with barely a pause, he says it—deadpan. "Still did better than your last solo queue match, Yue. You had more deaths than seconds on the clock."
There's a beat of stunned silence.
And then—
Yao breaks. Not a giggle. Not a chuckle. She folds. Head thrown back, hand over her mouth, her entire body shaking with laughter so rich, so unfiltered, so goddamn alive that everyone in the room turns to stare—not at Pang, but at her.
Ming blinks.
Lao Mao drops his pen.
Sicheng's brows lift almost imperceptibly.
Because they've heard her laugh before—quiet, reserved, sometimes sarcastic. But this? This is the kind of laughter that scrapes the air raw with joy. The kind that chases shadows from rooms. The kind none of them had ever been able to pull out of her.
Only Pang.
And Pang? He just sits there, utterly relaxed, sipping his drink with the barest of smirks curling at the corner of his lips like he meant to do that.
Yue stares at him, slack-jawed. "You've been saving those?"
Pang doesn't look away from his cup. "Only for the worthy."
And Yao laughs harder. The air changes after that. Because no one can pretend not to see it anymore. Whatever they were, whatever they are—it's not a maybe. It's becoming something real.
The knock on Pang's door comes just after eleven.
Yao's in the shower, steam drifting through the slightly cracked bathroom door down the hall. Da Bing is sprawled on her bed, tail flicking, ears twitching.
Pang doesn't answer immediately. But when he does open the door, he finds them all there—Lu Sicheng at the front, arms crossed, jaw tight. Lao K, Mao, Yue, Ming. Rui off to the side, frowning slightly but not stepping in. No one speaks for a beat, as if unsure who's going to throw the first stone.
It's Sicheng who does. "You've been avoiding everyone."
Pang doesn't react. "You're observant. Congratulations."
Sicheng's eyes narrow. "You've been skipping team meals, skipping group strategy sessions, cutting yourself off."
"I'm not cutting myself off." Pang's voice is calm. "I'm just not wasting time where it's not needed."
"You're isolating. You're dividing the team." Lao K exhales sharply, tension bleeding into his stance.
"No," Pang says simply, "I'm doing my job."
That earns a collective frown.
"You're not supporting us," Yue snaps.
And Pang, eyes lifting with the kind of exhaustion that comes from being done , replies with a quiet ferocity that shuts them all up in one breath. "I am supporting my team. Just not in-game." They freeze. His eyes sweep across them, unflinching. "I'm being the Support she needs—because clearly no one else here gives a damn about her." Mouths open, then close. No one speaks. So he goes on. "You all watched her get sidelined, ignored, and mocked since the day she arrived. You let her walk into every room like she didn't belong in it, like she had to earn your respect, as if winning nationals and being the smartest Mid in the scene wasn't enough." His voice doesn't rise. He doesn't need it to. "I've been watching her try not to break. And the only reason she hasn't is because she still believes in all of you." He looks directly at Sicheng. "You, especially."
Something flickers in the Captain's eyes.
Pang steps forward now, slow and steady, like every word has weight and he's willing to drop the entire truth on their shoulders whether they want it or not. "She didn't have to choose ZGDX."
Silence falls again.
Rui's brows pull tight. Ming straightens from where he's been leaning against the wall.
"She had offers," Pang continues, voice low, even. "Every top team in the region sent scouts after her performance last season. CK wanted her back. DQ-5's Captain offered her his own apartment as a signing incentive. Even FNC reached out."
Sicheng blinks. "That's not—"
"She turned them all down," Pang cuts in, his tone sharper now, cold with quiet fury. "Because she thought we were the best. She thought you would make her better. She believed in ZGDX—before any of us gave her a reason to." He shakes his head. "I used to be proud to wear this jersey." A pause. "Now? I'm just trying to make sure she doesn't regret it."
The silence that follows is suffocating. No one looks at each other. No one tries to deny it. Because there's nothing left to say.
The bathroom door opens quietly then, steam billowing out as Yao pads into the hallway in an oversized sleep shirt, towel around her neck, blinking sleepily. She stops at the sight of them. "...What's going on?"
No one answers.
Only Pang turns. He moves to her, gently taking the towel from her hands and beginning to dry her hair without a word, guiding her back toward her room like the confrontation never happened.
But just before her door closes behind them, Pang glances over his shoulder. And the look he gives them isn't angry. It's done. And for the first time, the rest of ZGDX feels it. They didn't just let down a teammate. They lost the trust of their Support.
The base is silent.
The hallway lights are dimmed, the only noise a soft hum from the fridge and the occasional creak of floorboards as someone shifts restlessly in their room.
Yao is asleep, curled around Da Bing, her breathing soft and steady for once.
Pang is awake in his own room, staring at the ceiling, the echo of his own words still vibrating in his chest.
Across the hallway, the others are not asleep either.
Lu Sicheng sits alone in the dark of the kitchen, untouched tea cooling in his hands. Rui stands near the window, glasses off, pinching the bridge of his nose. Yue has been lying on the couch in the lounge for an hour now, eyes on the ceiling, silent, for once not saying a single damn word.
It's Lao Mao who finally breaks the silence. His voice is low, rough with fatigue, but it cuts clean through the quiet. "Pang was right." No one replies. He exhales hard through his nose. "We were assholes. We let her walk in and carry all of it alone. And not one of us lifted a damn finger to help."
Yue closes his eyes.
Ming, seated nearby, doesn't argue.
"She didn't even defend herself," Mao mutters, softer now, like the guilt is settling deeper with every word. "Not once. Just kept her head down. Tried to play better. Tried to prove she belonged and we made her think she didn't."
Lao K's knuckles tap against the kitchen table once. Twice. "...She does belong," he says, finally.
"Not that we acted like it," Lao Mao replies.
Sicheng doesn't move. Doesn't speak. But there's something different in the way his jaw flexes. In the way his hand tightens around his cup. It's not defensiveness. It's not denial.
It's shame.
"She chose us," Rui says quietly, voice strained. "She had every offer. And she chose this team because she believed we'd be better."
Ming looks toward the hall where Yao's room is, his brow furrowed deep. "We failed her."
There's nothing more to say. They sit in that heavy silence, not because they don't want to speak, but because there's nothing they can say to make it better. Not yet. But maybe… Maybe they can start showing her they've finally seen what they should have from the beginning.
The morning sun filters through the base, golden light brushing across the kitchen floor and the living room couches where the team usually sprawls after scrims. But today, there's no laughter, no teasing, no early banter echoing off the walls.
Yao is the first to wake. Not because she's rested but because she always is. She moves through the kitchen quietly, preparing her tea with muscle memory and silence. Her hair is pulled into a lazy braid over one shoulder, Da Bing at her heels like a silent shadow. She doesn't glance toward the hall when footsteps start sounding behind her.
Lao Mao is first.
Then Lao K.
Rui, followed by Ming.
Yue.
Finally, Lu Sicheng.
Each of them stiffens slightly when they see her there. Not because she's glaring. Not because she's cold. But because she isn't anything at all. She nods a quiet greeting. Polite. Measured. Distant. Then she turns her focus back to her mug.
Lao Mao moves toward the fridge and grabs one of her favorite yogurt drinks, the kind she usually pretends not to care about but always finishes in two sips. He sets it gently beside her without saying a word.
"Thanks," she says simply, without looking up. Not thank you, not with warmth. Just... acknowledgment.
Yue pulls out a chair across from her and sits, shifting awkwardly. "You, uh... want to review my last game? I made a stupid mistake and could use your thoughts."
She lifts her eyes for the first time—but there's no spark there. No irritation, no snark, no curiosity. Just calm, unreadable detachment. "I have some things to get through first," she replies softly. "Maybe later."
"Right," Yue mutters, rubbing the back of his neck, gaze dropping to the table.
Lao K tries next, voice rough but genuine. "I downloaded the replays you flagged from yesterday. You were right. That mid-jungle timing was off."
She nods again. "Glad it helped."
No follow-up. No opening.
Ming sighs quietly.
Rui, always the mother hen, sets a plate of sliced fruit beside her.
Yao thanks him. But the walls are up now—walls they helped her build, whether they meant to or not.
Sicheng, who had always assumed silence meant strength, watches her now and realizes for the first time what that silence costs. She no longer looks to him for confirmation during scrims. She no longer laughs when Yue barks out an insult to a character she's playing. She no longer waits for anyone to speak first. She simply functions. Clean. Efficient. Cold. And it isn't until they hear her voice from down the hall later that they realize who she does speak to freely. Pang's low response floats back softly. Then her laughter, not the loud one, but a quieter, familiar version—genuine and warm and alive.
The others freeze in place. Because it's so clearly not meant for them. And that's when it sinks in. This won't be fixed in a day. They broke something. And now, they'll have to earn back what she no longer offers freely. Not trust. Not warmth. Not even friendship. Just the right to be let in again and for the first time, they finally understand what that's worth.
It's mid-afternoon, scrims just finished, the team loosely gathered in the lounge. Yao's curled on one end of the couch, legs tucked beneath her as she scrolls through her phone, Da Bing purring against her knee.
The others are in various states of recovery, Yue is finishing off a bowl of instant ramen, Lao K and Mao are muttering over map rotations, Sicheng is sipping an iced coffee, Pang is quietly watching her, always attuned to the smallest shift.
And then—
"Shit." Yao groans, fingers tightening around her phone. "No no no—"
Pang is instantly alert, halfway up before she even finishes the curse. "What's wrong?"
Yao drops her phone on the cushion beside her, rubs her temples, and mutters, "I forgot about the damn ball."
"Ball?" Pang echoes, frowning. "Like... sports?"
"No," she grumbles, flopping back against the cushion and pouting in a way that is somehow both regal and deeply exasperated. "Ball as in 'dust off your gown and practice curtsying' ball. My grandmother is throwing one for my grandfather's birthday and that old bastard decided if he has to suffer, so do I."
Everyone stills.
Even Da Bing lifts his head slightly.
Yue, mouth halfway open with another bite of noodles, stops mid-motion. "Wait. Ball? As in ballroom dancing? Gowns? Aristocrat-level drama?"
Yao doesn't look up, just stares at the ceiling like it's personally offended her.
"Yeah," she mutters. "The whole champagne-soaked peacock nightmare."
Yue lowers the chopsticks slowly. "Who exactly are your maternal grandparents?"
Yao sighs. Then raises a single unimpressed brow. "Sungia Sayoria and Sungia Chozo."
The silence that follows is a live wire.
Sicheng blinks.
Lao K drops his pen.
Lao Mao actually chokes on the water he was sipping.
Yue sputters. "THE Sungia family?!"
"Yeah."
"You—what—how—" Yue stands up abruptly. "You're a Sungia?!"
"I didn't marry into it, if that's what you're asking," she deadpans.
"But—you've been living like—like—middle class!"
"I am middle class," she says, grabbing her tea. "On paper. I don't take their money."
"That's not how this works!" Yue cries, hands flailing. "Do you know how many people would kill to even breathe near that bloodline?!"
"I live near that bloodline," she mutters. "They're annoying and emotionally constipated. Half of them don't know how to close their mouths without offending someone."
Rui is frozen near the hallway. Ming is staring like she's grown another head. Even Sicheng looks mildly stunned, though he masks it quickly behind his usual cool expression.
Yao sighs like the weight of the entire world just landed on her back. Then, with the resigned air of someone preparing to face a hurricane, she picks up her phone and scrolls through her contacts. "I'm calling her now," she mutters.
Pang leans in slightly. "Her?"
"My grandmother."
"Should I leave?"
"No. I'm putting it on speaker. If I suffer, you all suffer."
Yue snorts. "Can't be that bad."
Yao lifts a brow.
She hits the green icon.
The call connects.
And then—
"Ah, there you are, darling," comes a voice smooth as aged cognac and just as dangerous. "I was beginning to wonder if you were going to feign death to avoid your RSVP. I already told the tailor to begin work on your dress. You're wearing amethyst. It matches your eyes when you're being a menace."
The entire room goes still.
Yao groans. "Nǎinai... I forgot."
"Obviously. You're lucky I still love you. I should've sent a peacock to drag you here by your hair."
From somewhere behind the voice, a low, grumbling male groan filters through the line. "Sayoria, I told you I'm not wearing a monkey suit again. I burned the last one. Why can't we have a simple dinner like normal people?"
"You don't marry into the Sungia bloodline and expect normalcy," she snaps, voice razor-sharp. "You knew what this was when you put that ring on my finger seventy years ago, you old ingrate."
"Guys… that's my grandfather." Yao coughs into her palm, cheeks flushing.
"Oh, good, are your little teammates listening?" Sayoria cuts in, voice turning sugar-sweet in the way that signals lethal intent."Excellent. Bring them. I need an excuse to expand the security team. They'll all need tuxedos, obviously. I'll have measurements arranged."
"Wait—what?" Yue blurts. "You're inviting us?! "
"Yes. It's public. Bring your Captain, your Coach, your Manager. Bring that darling Jinyang girl—her father's on my board. And of course Ai Jia. He's practically family. That one's sharp. Sharp eyes, terrible posture. Fix him before he photographs."
Ming coughs, Rui mouths Oh my god, and Pang tries very hard not to laugh as Yao sinks further into the couch.
"And you, my darling," Sayoria continues, voice dipping into something gentler. "You need to bring a date."
"I—what—"
"No arguments. You will not walk in alone again. I already saw last month's gala photos. You looked like a lost dove surrounded by concrete. Absolutely unacceptable."
"I don't have a date—"
"Then find one. You have two days."
"She could take me," Pang says quietly, half teasing.
There's a long pause.
Then—
"Who's that?"
Yao groans. "Support."
Sayoria's hum is deeply, dangerously pleased. "Well, at least one of them has a spine."
From the background: "God help us, she found another one."
"Be quiet, Chozo, or I'll glue diamonds to your socks again."
The call ends with a crisp click, leaving stunned silence in its wake. The call has barely ended, the silence still heavy in the air like a fog no one can push through. The weight of what they've just heard—the effortless dominance of Yao's grandmother, the reality of her lineage, the fact that they're all about to be dragged into a high-society battlefield in tailored tuxedos—is still sinking in.
But what shocks them more is what happens next.
Pang, trying to keep the mood light, lifts a hand and murmurs half under his breath with a crooked smile, "So... am I your date?" It's teasing. He doesn't expect a real answer. He never expects anything.
But Yao, still sitting beside him, turns. Then stands. And with absolute poise, both hands on her hips, head tilted in that sharp, no-nonsense way that's become unmistakably hers, she looks directly at him and says, "You'll need a white tie. Not black. White. This is not a business function—it's high formality, and I won't be embarrassed. You'd better learn to waltz before Saturday, and if you step on my toes, I will hex your mousepad." She doesn't smile. Doesn't blush. Just gives him a once-over, like she's mentally sizing him for cufflinks. Then turns on her heel and walks off.
Just like that. Leaving six grown men sitting there like they've been collectively slapped across the face with a silk glove.
Lao Mao's jaw drops slightly.
Lao K blinks.
Ming chokes softly on his coffee.
Yue sputters, "Wait—was that a joke or—did she just seriously—"
Sicheng just stares after her, brow furrowed, lips parted ever so slightly as if even he isn't quite sure what to do with the moment.
And Pang—
Pang is still staring at the spot where she disappeared, stunned into absolute stillness. Because no one—no one—has ever said something like that to him with that much conviction. Not as a joke. Not as a favor. Not out of pity. But as a decision. He isn't blushing. He isn't smirking. He's processing. Because the girl who sits alone during scrims and barely speaks to the rest of the team unless required just announced in full, unapologetic clarity that he is her date. Not because he's safe. Not because he's convenient. But because she wants him. And maybe—just maybe—that realization is what hits hardest of all.
The air in the lounge is still heavy, the kind of silence that lingers not because no one has anything to say, but because everyone knows saying the wrong thing will only make the blow land harder.
Pang hasn't moved.
Yao's footsteps have already disappeared down the hall, Da Bing trailing after her like a loyal little general.
The others sit frozen, processing the words she left in her wake—white tie, waltz, don't step on my toes—spoken with the cool, lethal finality of someone who wasn't asking for permission, just stating facts.
Yue, always the first to break a silence, mutters softly, voice tinged with disbelief. "I mean... I just figured... she would've picked Cheng."
Sicheng stiffens slightly, but says nothing. He doesn't have to.
Because Ming, still leaning against the kitchen counter, finally stands. And when he speaks, it's not cruel. It's just true. "Why would she?" All eyes shift to him. "Think about it," Ming says flatly. "The Captain's been an iceblock toward her since day one. Polite, sure. Professional, definitely. But cold. Detached. Like she was a contract, not a person."
Sicheng's jaw ticks.
"And Pang?" Ming continues, turning toward the Support still sitting silently on the couch, fingers lightly grazing the fabric where she'd been sitting beside him. "He's been at her side since the first damn day. Not just in-game. Everywhere. Meals. Reviews. Quiet moments when the rest of you weren't even paying attention."
Yue frowns, rubbing at the back of his neck. "I didn't think she noticed that stuff."
"She notices everything," Ming says sharply. "She just doesn't talk about it. Doesn't mean she doesn't feel it." Silence again. And then Ming steps forward, crossing his arms and giving the rest of them a look that is equal parts coach and disappointed big brother. "She's loyal to those who've been loyal to her. That's how she operates. So if she picked Pang, it's because he earned it." He doesn't yell. He doesn't raise his voice. He just points toward the hall where Yao disappeared. "She's going into that ballroom with the weight of an entire dynasty behind her. A hundred cameras. Political families. Media. If you think this is just some party, you're wrong. This isn't cosplay and cake. This is power. Legacy." He lets that settle. Then narrows his eyes. "And she invited us. So get your butts into gear. The ball is this weekend."
Lao K stands up first, slowly nodding.
Lao Mao sighs and follows.
Yue blinks a few times, then drags his feet toward his room, muttering, "Do they even make tuxes in time that aren't rentals?"
Sicheng lingers last, hands stuffed in his pockets, jaw locked, staring at the hallway Yao disappeared down. He says nothing. But for the first time in a long while, he's not the one who was chosen. And that silence cuts deeper than anything Ming could've said.
The base has gone quiet, the usual rustling and late-night gaming chatter muted behind closed doors. Most of the lights are off now, the hallway dim with the soft amber glow of a single night lamp near the kitchen.
Pang stands outside her door, hand hovering in the air for far longer than it should have taken him to knock. His heart is pounding hard enough to make his shirt feel too tight. She hadn't looked back after saying it. Hadn't joked or clarified or even given him a chance to follow. She'd just walked away like it was already settled, like it wasn't up for debate.
And maybe it wasn't.
But still—he needs to hear it.
So he finally knocks.
Softly.
Once.
Twice.
Inside, there's a shuffle. A small click. Then the door cracks open and Yao peeks out, her long platinum hair damp and braided loosely over one shoulder, a thin, oversized hoodie clinging to her slight frame. Da Bing, ever her shadow, brushes against her ankles but stays just behind. She looks up at him, blinking sleepily. "Pang-ge?"
His throat works. "Can I—can I ask you something?"
She nods and steps aside without hesitation, letting him in. The room is simple, clean, lit by a single lamp on the desk. Her laptop's screen glows with paused footage, but she doesn't move toward it. She just stands there, a quiet presence in her own space.
Pang shifts awkwardly, then lifts his eyes to hers.
"Earlier," he says softly. "When you said I was your date. Did you... mean that?"
She doesn't answer right away. Just looks at him, those sharp, unreadable hazel eyes softening at the edges. Then, slowly, she takes a single step forward, her bare feet making no sound against the floor. He's still holding his breath when she reaches up. Her lips press gently to his cheek. Warm. Shy. Intentional. She pulls back just enough to meet his stunned gaze, her cheeks coloring the faintest pink as her voice, barely above a whisper, slips from her mouth. "Yes."
One word. But it lands like a star falling into his chest. He doesn't speak. Doesn't move. Because the moment is too fragile to rush. And when she reaches for his hand—not to tug, not to hold, just to touch—his fingers curl instinctively around hers. And for the first time in his life, Pang doesn't feel like the overlooked one in the background. He feels chosen.
Inside the base, tension simmers quietly as the two teams—ZGDX and YQCB—gather in the lounge, all suited up and more polished than any of them are used to seeing each other. The laughter is a little thinner. The nerves more pronounced. Even Liang Sheng, normally composed, is checking the sleeve of his suit with an almost compulsive regularity.
Ai Jia tugs at his collar. "Do we really have to walk the red carpet?"
Jinyang's voice floats from down the hall. "Yes, darling. And if you mess up the photos, I will crop you out of the album." She appears first—Chen Jinyang, the storm in silk and diamonds. Her dress, a pale rose pink that clings to her figure with delicate restraint, falls in elegant pleats that whisper as she moves. Her long, ink-dark hair has been swept to the side in soft curls, makeup done to perfection. She looks like she belongs on a magazine cover.
Yue whistles low. "Holy hell, boss lady."
She ignores him with the ease of a queen dismissing a court jester, her eyes flicking toward the hallway behind her.
And then—
The moment shifts.
The soft echo of heels against polished wood draws every head to the hall as Yao steps forward. She walks slowly, the hem of her dress brushing the floor like a whisper, a Grecian-style gown of pure white silk wrapped around her figure with effortless grace. Golden embroidery trims the edges, delicate and precise, glinting faintly beneath the light. Her shoulders are bare, collarbones dusted with a soft shimmer, a single gold bracelet wrapping her left wrist like a piece of living flame. Her hair is swept up in an intricate braided crown, soft curls framing her face, and her makeup—light, ethereal—only enhances the natural sharpness of her features.
No one speaks.
Not Yue.
Not Sicheng.
Not a single player from either team.
Because this is not the quiet, hoodie-clad Midlaner they thought they knew.
This is Tong Yao. And for the first time, they see it.
Yao, blinking under the weight of so many eyes, hesitates slightly, her hand brushing down the front of her gown as though to make sure it's still real. Then her gaze finds Pang. He stands a little straighter, his dark formal suit crisp and perfectly tailored, his tie white and gloves pristine, the picture of respectful elegance—and something else. Something she had chosen. She smiles. Soft. Shy. Real. And moves toward him, her steps unhurried, every inch of her lit with quiet certainty despite the blush rising along her cheeks.
Pang's breath catches. And when she reaches him, her hand slips into his like it had always belonged there. He holds it carefully. Like it's something sacred.
Sicheng, standing in the corner, says nothing. But his hands curl slightly at his sides. Because she never looked at him like that. Not once. And he knows now—too late—that she never would. Because she had offered everything when she first arrived. And he hadn't taken it. But Pang had. And she had chosen. With the grace of a queen. And the heart of someone who never forgets who stood by her side when no one else would.
The limousines roll smoothly through the streets of Beijing, soft instrumental music drifting through the speakers, muted city lights painting shifting reflections across the tinted windows.
In the first limo rides ZGDX and Yao, seated beside Pang, her fingers loosely twined with his beneath the edge of her white silk wrap, her expression composed but eyes flicking out the window as the reality of where they're headed begins to settle.
Jinyang, in the second limo with YQCB, is sitting gracefully across from Ai Jia, her legs crossed, one hand loosely resting against her clutch, the other tapping out a text to confirm their arrival time with the Sungia estate staff.
That's when it happens.
Kim Eun-suk— X-Bang —leaning casually against the window across from her, scrolling through his phone for distraction, freezes mid-motion. His body stills. His head lifts. Then his eyes lock onto Jinyang as he utters, slow and low, "Wait... Sungia. "
Jinyang lifts a brow, unconcerned.
X-Bang's voice gains speed as his thoughts tumble out in rapid succession. "Sungia Sayoria. That's her grandmother. Which means—her family owns Tencent."
Everyone stills.
Rong-Rong's head turns. Liang Sheng stiffens.
Ai Jia doesn't flinch.
And Jinyang?
She just smiles faintly.
X-Bang's eyes go wide. "They own Tencent... which means... they own Riot Games." Another beat. "Which means—" His voice drops to a whisper. "They own League of Legends."
The silence is immediate.
A long, drawn-out pause that spreads across the interior of the limo like someone cracked the air open and let all the noise leak out.
Even Rong-Rong looks shaken. "So you're telling me... we're about to walk into a ball hosted by the family that owns the game we play professionally?"
"Yao's family," Liang Sheng murmurs. "The girl we all thought was just some quiet newcomer Midlaner."
"She's still that girl," Jinyang says calmly, never lifting her eyes from her phone. "She just also happens to have the weight of a global tech empire at her back."
X-Bang slumps back in his seat. "Holy shit. And we've been treating her like a patch update."
Ai Jia lets out a quiet laugh. "Yeah. You might want to upgrade your respect a little."
They lapse into stunned silence once more. And when they glance toward the other limo in the distance ahead of them, they all know—there is no such thing as "just Yao." Not anymore. The limousines glide to a smooth stop at the edge of the marble-lined courtyard. The estate looms beyond—an intricate blend of modern opulence and ancestral legacy, all towering gates, sculpted hedges, and staff lined in uniform rows as if plucked from a royal drama.vSecurity is discreet but omnipresent. Cameramen adjust their rigs, flashes already sparking as guests begin to emerge—high society draped in floor-length gowns, custom suits, and vintage jewels that haven't seen daylight in decades.
The door to the first limo opens.
Jinyang steps out first, poised and camera-ready, the wind catching the soft chiffon of her rose-pink dress as she smiles faintly and guides Ai Jia after her, the two of them gliding into the unfolding sea of power with practiced ease. Behind them, the second limo pulls up, its doors opening to reveal the players of ZGDX and Yao, now all moving with careful precision. Sicheng is the first out, eyes scanning the crowd with practiced detachment. Lao Mao and Lao K follow, tugging at their sleeves. Rui smooths his coat lapels, Yue breathes out a low whistle.
Then Pang steps out, offering his hand.
And Yao takes it.
The cameras ignite like a wall of lightning. Her white and gold gown glimmers under the lights, her posture perfect, her expression serene but unreadable. She looks every inch the heiress the world is just now realizing she is—flanked by a man who holds her hand like it's the only truth that matters.
From behind them, loud enough to cut through the hum of the crowd, Rong-Rong stares at the ornate crest on the estate gates and blurts out, " Her grandparents own Riot Games. "
The words hit like a gong.
The ZGDX group freezes.
Ming stops mid-step. Rui's brows shoot up. Yue's mouth opens but nothing comes out.
Lao K spins to look at Yao, blinking in visible confusion. "Wait—what?"
"She's a Sungia," Rong says again, now fully invested. "Her grandparents own Tencent. Tencent owns Riot. Riot owns League of Legends. She's basically the heir to the damn throne of this entire game."
The realization ripples like an earthquake through the group.
Sicheng, who had kept his gaze on the estate steps, finally turns his head toward her. The full truth settling across his face like stone.
Yao, still composed, squeezes Pang's hand once, gently. Then she looks over her shoulder at them. And her voice is calm, almost amused. "I told you I didn't take their money. Not that I wasn't born into it." She turns back without another word, her white gown trailing behind her as she and Pang ascend the steps beneath a flood of camera flashes, every inch the empress they never knew they were training beside.
The grand hall opens like a world apart, crystal chandeliers draped above in arcs of light, marble floors glistening beneath heels and polished shoes, and golden filigree threading through every bannister and archway like whispers of legacy.
The ballroom is a living painting. Soft classical music swells from the live string quartet stationed on the mezzanine. Waiters in white gloves carry silver trays of champagne and hors d'oeuvres between drifting conversations in Mandarin, French, and crisp British English.
Pang's grip on Yao's hand tightens just slightly—not out of fear, but the sheer gravity of it all.
And then the air shifts.
Yao stops mid-step, and Pang follows her gaze.
At the top of the steps descending into the main ballroom stand two figures.
Sungia Sayoria.
Sungia Chozo.
Her grandmother is an effortless storm of presence, draped in midnight blue velvet, her silver-white hair swept back into a braided twist pinned with gold combs. Her posture is flawless, her eyes sharp enough to cut steel, and her every breath carries the weight of someone used to empires rising at her nod. Her grandfather, in contrast, is dressed with the reluctant elegance of a man who lost every battle and simply decided to look good losing. His salt-and-pepper hair is neatly combed, his suit tailored to perfection, but the visible sigh on his face suggests he's already regretting not faking an injury. They descend slowly.
Sayoria's gaze never once leaving her granddaughter. Until they reach the base of the stairs and her eyes finally land on Pang. She looks him over once. Head to toe. Then again. And finally she hums. Not disapprovingly. Not dismissively. But with a pointed, deliberate approval. "Your posture is solid. You didn't flinch in the cameras. And you held her hand like you know her worth." A pause. "I approve."
Pang, stunned but trying not to show it, nods politely. "Thank you, ma'am."
"Good," Sayoria replies crisply. "Because if you had stepped on her hem or breathed like an idiot in front of those photographers, I would've had you thrown into the fountain."
Behind her, Chozo sighs. Loudly. He claps a hand on Pang's shoulder as he steps forward, ignoring the barely contained mirth in his wife's expression. "Welcome to hell, kid."
Pang blinks.
Chozo leans in with a conspiratorial grimace. "If she ever asks you to help plan an event, run. And don't ever suggest buffet seating unless you want to be lectured for an hour on imperial dining structure."
Yao tries, valiantly, not to laugh.
But Pang just grins faintly, adjusting the collar of his white tie with a steadiness that surprises even himself. "Thank you, sir. I'll keep that in mind."
Sayoria's lips twitch—just slightly. Then she turns to Yao. "You look radiant, granddaughter."
Yao, cheeks faintly pink, bows her head slightly. "Thank you, nǎinai."
Sayoria brushes her fingers under Yao's chin lightly, eyes gentling for a heartbeat. "I knew the moment you picked him, it meant something."
Yao glances to Pang—who still hasn't let go of her hand—and smiles. "It did."
The ballroom breathes with the weight of old wealth and quiet warfare. Cameras no longer flash, but they linger—subtle lenses tucked discreetly into the folds of velvet drapes and behind manicured floral arrangements. The music shifts into a rich waltz as couples glide across the polished marble, their gowns and tuxedos swirling like a curated storm of silk and prestige.
At one edge of the ballroom, Sicheng and Yue stand near a table lined with crystal flutes and white-gold trim, both of them watching with unreadable expressions as Pang gently guides Yao into a waltz at the center of the room. Her gown catches the light like water, gold-trimmed and graceful, her steps precise, posture poised, and her eyes—soft but steady—focused entirely on Pang. She doesn't look at anyone else. And yet, they all look at her.
Yue exhales heavily. "I still can't believe she's one of them."
Sicheng doesn't respond. But his jaw tightens. Then comes the voice he'd been dreading all night.
"Lu Sicheng. Lu Yue."
They both turn simultaneously, instinctively straightening at the sight of the two approaching figures.
Their parents.
Lu Wang Lan, matriarch of the Lu family, dressed in deep green silk with her silver-and-emerald necklace resting just beneath the sharp line of her collarbone, surveys the room with a cool, tactical gaze. Beside her, her husband—taller, quiet, his suit impeccably tailored and eyes sharp—inclines his head toward the crowd. Behind them, Lu Zheng crosses his arms, giving both sons a long, unreadable glance.
"I assume," Lady Lu says crisply, "you two have noticed who the guests of honor are."
Sicheng opens his mouth. Closes it again.
Yue huffs softly. "Yeah. That's our Midlaner."
There's a pause.
Lady Lu blinks once. "...Excuse me?"
Yue shrugs, utterly deadpan now. "You know. The girl we all ignored. Called a diversity stunt. The one who's currently waltzing with the only guy in our lineup who had the spine to treat her right." He takes a slow sip of champagne. "She's ZGDX's starting Mid."
There is a rare, sharp silence that follows.
Mr. Zheng blinks. "Sungia Yao is your Midlaner?"
Sicheng doesn't move.
Yue just grins faintly. "Yep."
Lady Lu's gaze cuts like glass as it shifts to the dance floor again. To Yao—her posture perfect, her smile faint but real, her eyes glowing not with power, but with self-possession. The woman she clearly was always going to become. Lady Lu narrows her eyes. "And who," she murmurs, low and dangerous, "allowed the rest of you to treat her like she was beneath you?" Neither son responds. But Lady Lu doesn't need an answer.
Because it's already written across their faces and across the ballroom floor, Yao glides across the marble in Pang's arms, radiant in her silence, the weight of her legacy trailing behind her like a second gown, invisible to her but unmistakable to everyone else. And for the first time, even the ones who had known power their entire lives. See it. And feel small in its presence.
The music swells around them, violins pulling at the edges of the heart with elegant, deliberate grace. In the center of the ballroom, Pang gently spins Yao under the golden chandelier light, her gown catching the glow in shimmering arcs as laughter escapes her lips—soft, real, free .
At the edge of the room, Lu Sicheng stands frozen, champagne flute in hand, untouched. His eyes haven't left her once. Not since she stepped out of that limo. Not since she walked down those stairs like she had always belonged. And certainly not since she chose someone else.
Lady Lu, ever composed, steps to his side.
She doesn't look at him at first. She simply follows his gaze. Watches what he watches. And then, with the weight of generations behind her and the precision of a scalpel, she speaks. "Your own fault." Three words. Clipped. Final.
Sicheng stiffens. But she doesn't elaborate. Because she doesn't need to. He turns his head slightly, jaw tightening. "I don't know what you mean."
Her gaze slides toward him now, sharp as winter glass. "Yes, you do." Still no raised voice. No anger. Just quiet judgment laced with truth he has no defense against. She looks back at Yao—laughing as Pang whispers something in her ear, cheeks blooming pink, gold embroidery catching the light like fire. "She walked into your team with every intention of offering the best of herself," Lady Lu continues, voice low, "and you froze her out." He says nothing. She lets the silence stretch before she adds, "I warned you once not to mistake a woman's quiet for weakness." His throat tightens. Her expression remains unreadable as she turns her attention back to the crowd, her hand resting lightly on her emerald pendant. "She made her choice, Lu Sicheng. And you," she pauses, gaze flicking over him with one last assessing glance, "made yours." Then she walks away. Leaving him standing there.
The ballroom has become a living river of elegance, music, laughter, and the gentle clinking of crystal weaving together into a rich, heady hum. But on the far side, near a towering arched window overlooking the candlelit gardens, a moment of stillness blooms like frost.
Yao stands alone. Her hand is wrapped delicately around the stem of a crystal flute, the pale gold of the champagne catching the warm chandelier light. The soft candle-glow from the window haloed her in quiet gold. Her dress, still pristine, flows around her like liquid silk. Her braid is flawless. Her eyes, however, are distant. Across the ballroom, her grandmother had swept Pang into a private conversation near the main balcony—shoulders squared, voice low, but clearly intense. Pang nodded carefully, trying not to look overwhelmed, while Chozo hovered nearby with a glass in hand, muttering under his breath. "I'll keep an eye on the kid. Make sure your dragon of a grandmother, doesn't eat him alive."
Yao doesn't see it. She's too focused on the air in front of her, the way it still tastes like starlight and memory, the way everything around her feels like a dream she hasn't decided whether she wants to wake up from. A familiar presence shifts into place beside her. She doesn't need to look to know who it is. She doesn't move.
Lu Sicheng stands with his hands in his pockets, suit sharp and untouched, hair a little tousled, eyes fixed on the same horizon through the window that she's watching.
Neither of them speaks. Not at first. Not for several breaths.
Then his voice, low and even, slips through the quiet like a shadow. "You look beautiful."
Yao doesn't blink. Doesn't flinch. She simply replies, voice soft, unshaken. "Thank you."
Another pause.
He glances at her. Her eyes remain forward. There's no malice in her face. No fire. No ice. Just a distance he's never been allowed to cross. Not even now.
"I didn't know," he says eventually. "About your family. Your name."
She finally turns her head slightly. Her expression is unreadable. "That's because it didn't matter."
He looks at her then, truly looks. At the girl who once sat beside him in the lounge waiting for a nod of approval. At the player who trained longer hours and took more notes than any of them. At the woman who now holds the power of a legacy in one hand and the loyalty of a man in the other. And who had never once asked him for anything he wasn't willing to give. "Why didn't you say anything?" he asks quietly.
Her gaze is steady. "Because if I had to use my name to earn respect, then it wasn't worth having." The words land with quiet finality.
Sicheng's throat tightens. He nods once. Then says, even softer, "I should've seen you."
She offers a faint smile. Not cruel. Not forgiving. Just... honest. "But you didn't." And before he can respond, before he can find something—anything—to hold onto, her gaze lifts slightly. Pang is returning. And she straightens. Her body shifts not in hesitation, but in recognition. Of who she chose.
And Lu Sicheng?
He steps back. Because he understands now. It's not that she changed. It's that she finally let the rest of the world see what Pang already had. And it's too late for him to follow.
The night winds down. The music softens into the kind of gentle swell that brushes across skin like memory. The crowd thins, coats retrieved, farewells exchanged, political smiles flashing as families of influence and fortune slip back into the world they built.
But at the far edge of the ballroom, where the world feels far away, Pang waits just outside the entrance to the garden, his white tie slightly loosened now, the cufflinks Sayoria had handed him tucked carefully into his pocket, as though they were too precious to wear for long.
Yao joins him quietly. Her steps make no sound. She doesn't speak as she comes to stand beside him. But she doesn't have to. He turns to her, eyes soft, unsure for the first time since the evening began. "You okay?"
She nods once. Then slips her hand into his, fingers interlacing easily with his own. "It wasn't as terrible as I thought," she murmurs. "Though my grandmother did mention something about a winter gala, so... enjoy your reprieve while it lasts."
He chuckles quietly, gaze dipping to where her hand rests against his. "I think I can survive."
She looks at him then, eyes lit not with spotlight or legacy or titles—but something deeper. Something quietly hers. "You weren't supposed to be part of this world."
"I know," he says.
"You didn't flinch."
"I never would."
She smiles softly. And when he lifts her hand, pressing a feather-light kiss to her knuckles like it's the most natural thing in the world, she exhales like it's the first full breath she's taken in years. "I think I'm going to keep you," she says.
He doesn't tease. He doesn't joke. He just smiles. "I'm already yours."
From the ballroom doors, distant and fading, laughter trails behind them. The others are still inside, unaware of the moment blooming just beyond their reach.
Yao leans into him gently, her head brushing his shoulder. And in the hush of a winter night steeped in silk and starlight, two people who were never expected to fit found each other anyway. No crowns. No titles. Just hands held. And choices made. The ones that mattered most.
Notes:
Author's Note: The Muse would like to say that all comments, even small ones, are very much welcomed and they very much enjoy reading them!