Chapter Text
Chapter Nineteen
ZGDX was going harder than ever in the days leading up to their match against Obsidian. The tension had tightened around the base like a drawn bowstring, every player sharper, faster, more precise, every strategy meeting running longer, every scrim demanding more.
But while most of the team buried themselves in drills and cooldown reviews, Sicheng kept his eyes on her. Quietly. Consistently. He watched her not just during matches, but in the moments in between, when she rubbed the heel of her palm into her brow during replays, or when she lingered a second too long at her keyboard after a block was called. He’d notice when her energy dipped, when her fingers trembled ever so slightly after hour three, and when she started skipping her cooldown breaks even though Rui kept enforcing them.
Ming saw it too. He’d been watching since the second day of ramp-up when Yao failed to finish the rice he put in front of her at lunch. He didn’t say anything that day, but he made sure the next time he handed her a meal, it was warm, small-portioned, easy to finish, and that he stayed in the room until she did. And when she thought no one noticed her yawning into her hoodie sleeve before reviews, Lao K did. He started dragging her to the training pods early, not to drill, but just to stretch, reset, breathe. No lectures. Just presence.
Between the three of them, they formed a quiet rotation around her. Sicheng would brush his hand against her chair, just long enough to make her pause. Ming would set a thermos of tea beside her elbow during cooldowns, always the one she liked, no caffeine, honeyed just right.
Lao K would step in behind her during replays, nudge her shoulder, and say in his even voice, “You blinked more than twice that match. You're not a robot. Take ten.”
At first, Yao had tried to play it off. She always did. She smiled. Nodded. Pushed through. Said she was fine. Said she was just focused. But they all knew her by now. And more than that—they weren’t asking.
That night, after an especially brutal three-hour scrim block, she slumped forward in her chair, forehead lightly touching her folded arms. Her headset hung loosely around her neck, and her mouse hand was still trembling slightly from the final push. No one said anything at first—just the quiet hum of machines, the fading adrenaline of a hard-fought win.
Then Sicheng stood from his seat and walked over to her, slow and deliberate. When she looked up, he was already crouching beside her chair. “You’re done for tonight.”
“I can still—”
“No,” he said simply, and there was no heat in his voice, only quiet finality. “You’re done.”
Her mouth opened, maybe to protest, maybe to argue, but then she caught the look in his eyes. Not stern. Not angry. Just steady. Concern wrapped in command. And behind him, Ming was standing by the door, arms folded, nodding once without saying a word. Lao K said from across the room, “Ten minutes to shower. I’ll walk you back if you stall again.”
Yao sighed, letting her head fall back against the chair as a soft laugh escaped her lips. “You guys are relentless.”
“Damn right,” Pang muttered as he passed by with a towel slung around his neck. “If you collapse mid-match, who’s going to roast the enemy team into the floor while looking pretty?”
“I hate you,” she said without bite.
“Love you too,” he called back, already disappearing down the hall.
Sicheng reached out, brushing his fingers lightly against the back of her neck in a grounding touch. “Get some sleep. We’ve got you. Okay?”
She looked at him for a long second before nodding. “Okay.”
Ming, watching from the doorway, didn’t speak. But the quiet smile that touched his mouth, the one only Yao caught as she passed him, said enough. She wasn’t alone. Not even close.
Jian Yang was supposed to be reviewing draft ban rotations for their next match.
He wasn’t.
The playbook sat open on the desk in front of him, untouched. The pen he'd been holding had long since stopped moving. The lines on the page had blurred together, and the video footage looping quietly on his second monitor, enemy lane duels, itemization windows, positioning adjustments, faded into white noise behind the thrum in his chest. His thoughts were somewhere else. No, they were with someone else.
Yao.
It didn’t matter how many times he tried to shut it down, how many times he told himself it was irrelevant, that he had moved on, that she had moved on. It didn’t matter how many matches he won, how many analysts praised his playmaking, how many fans still screamed his name from the sidelines. None of it touched the thing clawing at his insides now. Because she wasn’t just Smiling anymore. She wasn’t just the former girlfriend he’d tried to manipulate, corner, undermine. She wasn’t even just ZGDX’s Midlaner anymore. She was Yu-Tong Yao. Heiress to the Yu family. Adopted by Yu Ming himself, one of the most respected and connected figures in esports development, tech, and industry. He had read the announcement ten times. Watched her official statement five. And still the words echoed in his skull like a siren he couldn’t silence.
“...Ming Shen offered me a place beside him and Lao K—not just as a teammate, not just as a friend, but as family. He wanted to make sure I knew I was not alone anymore.”
Jian Yang’s hands clenched around the arms of his chair. Family. Not a joke. Not a PR move. Real. Legal. Permanent.Yao wasn’t just backed by a powerful team anymore—she had become a part of one of the 1st Tier families in the country. A family with connections that ran into tech, finance, infrastructure, government sponsorships. The kind of money that could buy anything. That didn’t need to be in esports. The kind of name that opened every door before you even knocked.
And now she had that name.
Yu.
Yu-Tong Yao.
And Jian Yang…. Jian Yang was nobody in comparison. He had built his career clawing upward, playing ruthless, taking no prisoners. He knew how to work the media, how to make himself the narrative. He had been relevant, dangerous, desirable. But now? Now the entire world had a new darling. And they wouldn’t shut up about her. Every time he opened Weibo, it was trending.
#YuHeiress
#MidlanePrincess
#ChessmanAndSmiling
#ZGDXYuyao
#KingAndQueenOfOPL
And beneath it all, threaded through every comment, every fan thread, every reaction clip—was that name again.
Lu Sicheng.
Jian Yang leaned forward, his jaw tightening. There were photos now, soft shots snapped backstage, out-of-focus captures of Yao standing shoulder to shoulder with Lu Sicheng, his hand resting lightly on the small of her back. Video clips of him watching her while she talked to fans, of her glancing at him and laughing softly. Subtle. Inconclusive. But suggestive. And the fans had latched on like leeches.
“If they ever go public, I swear I’ll die—LOOK at how he looks at her.”
“Chessman has never protected anyone like this. Not ever.”
“He gave her the fox plushie and it’s confirmed it mimics his heartbeat?? Please just marry each other already.”
“ZGDXYuyao is real and unstoppable.”
His cursor trembled slightly over one of the posts before he closed the screen with a sharp click. But it was already too late. The image had sunk its teeth in. He knew what that look on Sicheng’s face meant. He had worn it once himself. Before Yao had stopped looking back. He dragged a hand over his mouth and stared at the reflection in his darkened monitor, jaw set hard.
She’s part of the Yu family now. She doesn’t need to play anymore. She doesn’t need a contract. Doesn’t need endorsements. She could walk away tomorrow and she’d be set for life.
And still, she stayed. She stayed and trained and fought and clawed her way through scrims like she wasn’t backed by a fortune, like her name didn’t guarantee her anything. She didn’t act like a princess. She played like a weapon. It made her dangerous. It made her desirable. And it made her even more untouchable than she had been before.
Jian Yang swallowed hard, and the sound felt thick in his throat. He should have locked it down when he had the chance. He should have put a ring on her, cemented their narrative before she’d had the chance to outgrow him. Before she found people who actually protected her. Who let her shine. Who didn’t try to control her. And now? Now she was rising. Past him. Beyond him. Into a space he had no access to anymore. But he wasn’t done. Not yet. If she wanted to play royalty, fine. Let her wear the crown.
But Jian Yang had made a career out of turning stories around. Out of pushing his way into spaces no one thought he deserved. And if she was the heiress now, if she was the one standing in the center of the spotlight with all the attention, all the power, all the backing? Then he would find a way to get close again. To stay visible. To remind her, remind everyone that Jian Yang wasn’t out of the story yet. Even if he had to burn something down to stay in it.
Jian Yang's thoughts spiraled into a dark, cold abyss as he sat alone in his room at the CK base. His mind was a whirlwind of obsession and jealousy, fueled by the knowledge that Yao had moved on and found a new life with the Yu family and ZGDX. He couldn't accept that she was no longer his to control or manipulate. The idea that she belonged to someone else, that she had found a place where she was cherished and protected, gnawed at him like a ravenous beast. His mutterings grew louder, more insistent, as he paced back and forth in his room. "She's mine," he hissed under his breath. "She always has been. No one else can have her. Not Sicheng, not Ming, not anyone. She belongs to me." His plans took on a sinister edge as he plotted and schemed, his mind racing with ways to win her back. He thought of exposing her secrets, of turning her newfound allies against her, of any means necessary to bring her back to his side. His voice took on a chilling tone as he spoke aloud, his words laced with malice and desperation. "She thinks she can just walk away, just forget about me? She thinks she can find happiness with them? I'll show her. I'll show them all. I'll make her see that she can't escape me. I'll make her pay for leaving me."
Outside his room, the concerned murmurs of his teammates grew louder. They had been overhearing his ramblings, his delusional mutterings, and the cold, deadly tone in his voice sent shivers down their spines. They exchanged worried glances, unsure of what to do but knowing that something was deeply wrong with their teammate.
"Does he really think he can just... take her back?" one of them whispered, his voice filled with disbelief.
Another nodded, his expression grave. "He sounds like he's losing it. We need to do something."
But Jian Yang was lost in his own world, his thoughts consumed by his twisted obsession. He didn't hear the worried whispers of his teammates, didn't see the concerned looks they exchanged. All he could see was Yao, and the burning desire to possess her, to control her, to make her his again. His plans grew darker, more dangerous, as he plotted his next moves. He thought of ways to sabotage her matches, to turn her new allies against her, to make her life a living hell until she came crawling back to him. His voice grew colder, more menacing, as he spoke aloud, his words echoing in the empty room. "She thinks she can find happiness without me? She thinks she can be free? I'll show her. I'll show them all. She's mine, and I'll do whatever it takes to get her back."
The team outside his room exchanged worried glances, knowing that they had to intervene before Jian Yang's obsession turned into something truly dangerous. They couldn't let him harm Yao or himself, and they knew that they had to find a way to help him before it was too late.
Back at the ZGDX base, the evening lights had dimmed into a quiet hush, but the atmosphere was far from restful. The glow from the strategy room cast long shadows across the floor, faint echoes of click-tracked data analysis pinging through the open door as two of its occupants leaned over the central table, quiet, focused, and completely locked in.
Ming stood at one end, tablet in hand, thumb sliding across match simulations with a controlled rhythm. Across from him, Sicheng scrolled through a training calendar on his phone, his other hand braced lightly on the table’s edge, brows drawn in concentration. “She’s solid in wave response against dive rotations,” Ming said, flicking to another page. “But if Obsidian decides to bait early skirmishes top-side, we’ll need Lao K to shadow mid through minute six at minimum.”
Sicheng didn’t even look up. “Already told him. I’ll anchor bottom with Pang. If their jungle flinches wrong, we collapse from both sides.”
Ming nodded once, satisfied, then glanced toward the hallway. “She resting?”
Sicheng’s eyes shifted, and something in his expression softened, just slightly. “She is now,” he murmured. “I made sure of it.”
The words held weight, no arrogance, no performance. Just truth. The way he said it made Ming tilt his head, just a little. There was a knowing silence between them that didn’t need filling.
Then, Sicheng’s phone buzzed once in his hand, low and steady. He glanced at the screen and frowned. “Lucky?”
Ming looked up.
Sicheng accepted the call and, without hesitating, set it down on the table and hit speaker. “Go.”
On the other end, the voice came through, rough, direct, no preamble.
“Sicheng. It’s Lucky. Sorry for the time. I wouldn’t call unless it was serious.”
Ming’s eyes sharpened immediately.
Sicheng folded his arms across his chest, voice calm but alert. “What’s going on?”
There was a pause, and when Lucky spoke again, his tone had shifted, low, urgent, threaded with something neither of them had ever heard from him before.
“You need to keep Yao close. I’m not saying this to start drama. I’m not saying this as a warning from CK. I’m saying this as someone who’s standing outside my captain’s door right now, listening to him mutter her name like a mantra.”
Ming straightened.
Sicheng’s expression didn’t change. But the temperature in the room dropped a few degrees. “Explain,” he said.
Lucky let out a breath, the sound fraying around the edges. “He’s not… okay. He’s talking about her like she still belongs to him. Keeps saying she’s going to come back. That all he needs is one chance to remind her, and she’ll see it.”
Silence settled like a knife.
“Earlier,” Lucky continued, “he was pacing for nearly an hour. Kept repeating things about her being part of the Yu family now. About her having everything. Money. Status. Power. That she’s in headlines every day. That if she’s in the spotlight, he has to be in it too.”
Ming’s jaw tightened.
Lucky’s voice lowered. “It’s not just ego anymore. It’s obsession. And it’s getting worse. Our management hasn’t stepped in yet. But me and some of the guys… we’re getting worried. Real worried.”
Sicheng’s voice came soft, deceptively soft. “Why are you telling me this?”
“Because I know what Jian Yang is capable of when he decides something is his,” Lucky said, no hesitation. “And I’ve never seen him this far gone.” Another pause. Then, quieter: “And because I saw the way you looked at her the last time we played you. You’re not just protecting her on the Rift. You’re protecting her. Period.”
Sicheng didn’t answer immediately. He reached out and picked up the phone, held it in his hand, staring at the screen like he could see Lucky’s face through it. When he finally spoke, his voice was steady. Final. “She won’t be left alone. Not for a second.”
Ming, who had remained silent throughout the call, nodded once, slow, deliberate.
“Good,” Lucky murmured. “That’s good. I’m sorry. I just… I didn’t know who else to warn.”
“You called the right person,” Sicheng said coldly.
Lucky let out a breath that sounded like relief. “We’ll keep him on watch. If anything else happens, I’ll call.”
“You do that.”
The line clicked off.
The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was calculated. Heavy. Filled with unspoken decisions.
Sicheng set the phone back down and looked at Ming.
The older man didn’t ask. Didn’t speculate. He just said flatly, “We tell the team and security.”
“Lu and Yu security plus telling my mother.” Sicheng added, his voice low, almost dangerous.
“Agreed.”
Sicheng exhaled slowly through his nose, then turned toward the hallway, his eyes already tracking exactly where Yao was sleeping. “She needs to be told as soon as we can work out the details.”
“Understood.”
And just like that, the game shifted. Obsidian was no longer the only opponent on the board.
Sicheng didn’t speak a word as he left the strategy room. He didn’t need to. Ming stayed behind, already forwarding the details to Rui with clinical precision, but Sicheng moved with purpose, measured, silent, not fast, but definite. His steps barely made a sound down the corridor. He didn’t stop to think. He didn’t let himself feel the full gravity of Lucky’s voice in his ear. There would be time for that later, time for the confrontation, the management, the fallout.
But right now?
Right now, all he could think about was her. And whether she was really asleep behind that door like she was supposed to be, in her room. He opened it quietly. The room was dark, save for the soft night light near her bedside and the faint LED shimmer of the ambient lights overhead. The faint, rhythmic sound of gentle breathing, mechanical, not human, filled the silence. The plush fox was activated, the mimicry of his heartbeat rising and falling in slow, steady pulses.
And there she was. Lying on her side, still in her sleep shorts and tank top, one arm wrapped around the plush, her brow faintly furrowed despite the stillness of the room.
The second the door clicked shut behind him, Yao stirred. Her head shifted slightly on the pillow, eyes still half-lidded with sleep, and for a moment, she just stared blearily at the silhouette of him by the door like she wasn’t sure if she was dreaming. Then she frowned, just the faintest crinkle between her brows, and whispered into the quiet, voice soft and heavy with exhaustion. “…Cheng-ge?” He stepped toward her, slow and measured, and saw the way her fingers tightened instinctively around the fox’s soft fur. She blinked, just once, then let out a small, frustrated sigh, her voice a quiet murmur. “…can you come lay down next to me please, like you did the other night?” Her tone wasn’t needy. Wasn’t dramatic. It was quiet. Honest. Fragile in that way she never let herself be outside of this room, with him. Her cheek stayed pressed to the pillow as she shifted slightly, making room beside her, one hand tugging the blanket down instinctively in invitation. “…I can’t sleep.”
Sicheng didn’t hesitate. He crossed the room in three silent steps, kicked off his slippers, and slipped beneath the blanket beside her in one practiced, natural motion. His arms found her just as she leaned into him, the warmth of her body pressing close before the full contact had even settled. He exhaled once, slow, and let his hand slide gently along the curve of her spine, feeling the way her breath hitched before settling against him again. She didn’t ask what was wrong. She didn’t ask where he’d been. Maybe she was too tired to notice. Maybe she just knew better than to pry when the air around him felt tight and cold in a way it hadn’t been in weeks.
Instead, she tucked her face against his chest and whispered, “Thanks…”
His hand slid into her hair, fingers curling at the base of her skull, grounding her. Holding her. “I’m here,” he said softly, voice low and unshaken. “Sleep.” She mumbled something in response, barely audible. He kissed the top of her head. And as her breathing started to even out against his chest, her body slowly going slack with the pull of sleep, Sicheng kept his eyes open, gaze fixed on the ceiling above them, heart steady, but jaw set tight.
Ming walked down the hallway toward Yao’s room a little before dawn, his tablet tucked under one arm. He wasn’t there to wake her or to talk about strategy; he’d just wanted to be sure that after the last few days, she was actually getting the rest she needed. The light under her door was low and warm. He pushed it open a fraction, quietly enough that the hinges didn’t creak.
Inside, the room was still. The hum of the night‑light painted everything in soft gold. Yao was asleep, her cheek pressed against Sicheng’s chest, her small hand fisted in the fabric of his shirt. He was half sitting against the headboard, one arm around her shoulders, the other resting protectively across her waist, fingers moving in the slow rhythm of breathing he hadn’t realized he’d matched.
They didn’t stir.
For a moment Ming just stood there, watching the rise and fall of two steady heartbeats, the calm that had finally replaced the worry of the past week. He felt the tension in his own chest ease. He closed the door halfway, pausing long enough to let out a quiet breath that sounded very much like a laugh. “That man,” he muttered under his breath, shaking his head, “is completely gone on her.” A small smile curved his mouth, fond and resigned at once. “Completely and utterly smitten. Head over heels.” He shut the door the rest of the way, leaving them in peace, and walked back down the hall with the faintest trace of amusement still on his face. The world could wait a few more hours; ZGDX’s captain wasn’t going anywhere.
Yue crept down the hallway with the exaggerated care of someone who clearly thought he was being far stealthier than he was. His socks made no noise against the floor, and he moved with the unearned confidence of a youngest sibling on a mission. Clutched in his hand was Yao’s phone, liberated from the charging station outside her door.
He grinned.
The plan was simple.
Crack the door open just enough. Snap one, maybe two, perfect photos of Sicheng and Yao mid‑cuddle while asleep. Save them to a private folder labeled something innocent like “Match Data” or “Build Notes,” then send it anonymously to the team group chat with the caption: ZGDX’s actual OTP. It was going to be legendary. He reached the door. He stretched his hand toward the knob. Almost—
A hand clamped onto the back of his shirt collar.
Yue yelped, arms flailing as he was yanked backward with absolutely no mercy, heels scraping against the floor like a cartoon character being dragged offstage. “No—! No no no wait I didn’t even open the door yet—!”
Rui’s voice was like steel wrapped in silk, every word soft but edged with that particular manager tone that promised hell. “Yue.”
Yue twisted around in his grip, looking up at Rui with a sheepish grin and wide innocent eyes.
“It was just one picture.”
“You stole her phone.”
“Borrowed,” Yue corrected, wincing.
“You were planning to take a photo of your starting Midlaner and your captain while they were sleeping.”
“Affectionately!” Yue added helpfully. “Lovingly! For team morale!”
Rui didn’t blink. “Dish duty. For a week.”
Yue’s mouth fell open. “But!”
“For everyone. Including Da Bing’s dishes.”
“That’s animal cruelty!”
“Would you like to scrub the bathrooms, too?”
Yue’s shoulders slumped in defeat as Rui steered him down the hallway by the back of the neck like a misbehaving toddler being escorted out of a candy store.
“Unbelievable,” Rui muttered. “I manage professionals. Allegedly.”
“I was doing it for the memories,” Yue mumbled as he was marched toward the kitchen.
“I’ll print you a team photo. You can glue glitter on it and cry later.”
Somewhere back in Yao’s room, oblivious to the chaos she had narrowly avoided, she slept on peacefully, none the wiser to Yue’s failed sneak mission and the fact that her dignity had just been narrowly saved by the iron grip of ZGDX management.
Ming wandered into the kitchen, hair slightly tousled from sleep, tablet tucked under one arm as he made a straight line for the coffee machine. The smell of freshly brewed espresso always helped sharpen strategy meetings, but the sound that greeted him instead of peaceful silence, running water, a clatter of dishes, and a long, suffering sigh—made his steps slow.
He blinked once.
Yue was hunched over the sink, sleeves rolled up, suds nearly up to his elbows, scrubbing what looked like three sets of bento boxes and Da Bing’s metal water bowl. Rui stood a few feet behind him with his arms folded and that look, the one that meant someone had pushed their luck and Rui was now collecting payment, with interest.
Ming reached for a mug and said calmly, “Do I want to know what the pest did this time?”
Rui didn’t hesitate. “Didn’t respect boundaries.”
Yue made a noise of protest but was immediately silenced by a sharp glance.
“Got it in his head,” Rui continued, his tone flat, “that it would be a good idea to sneak into Yao’s room and take a photo of her and Cheng while they were asleep.”
Ming froze mid-pour, eyebrows lifting. “…Ah.”
“Claimed it was for memories. Team morale,” Rui added, expression unchanging. “What it actually was, was one step away from a hospital visit. If Cheng had caught him, I’d be filling out injury reports.”
Yue groaned behind them. “It would’ve been cute!”
Ming sipped his coffee, unbothered. “So would your memorial.”
Rui pointed a slow finger at Yue. “One week. Dishes. Da Bing’s bowls included. Any whining, and you’re on laundry, too.”
“I am a victim in this team,” Yue muttered, rinsing the chopsticks.
“You’re lucky you’re not a ghost,” Rui replied, sipping his tea without breaking eye contact.
Ming took another sip of his coffee, leaned against the counter, and smirked. “Next time, maybe just draw fanart like the rest of the internet.”
Yue glared at them both as he reached for a new sponge.
Worst. Team. Ever.
Yue had just finished rinsing another bento box when he felt it, that shift in the air, the faint chill of someone’s eyes on the back of his neck. He turned slowly. Ming was still standing by the counter, coffee cup in hand, but his posture had changed. Gone was the relaxed older-brother smirk, replaced now with something quieter, far more dangerous. His eyes had narrowed, not in annoyance, not even in Rui’s brand of managerial disappointment, but with that very specific edge that came out only when something personal had been touched.
And Yue knew that look. He’d seen it once before, the week Yao joined the team, when he had gone the girl’s account as a prank…..the Coach had ripped into him, gave him a verbal write up and gave him to Lao Mao with telling the Toplaner to train him into the ground when the older man shoved him into their gym.
Now Ming was giving him that same look.
“You remember that’s my little sister you’re talking about, right?” His voice was low, calm, but cut through the air like drawn wire.
Yue blinked, the sponge still in his hand. “Ming-ge, I wasn’t going to post anything—just maybe, you know, one shot for our group—”
Ming took a slow step forward, not threatening, not loud. But the pressure in the room shifted anyway. “You think this is funny. You think it’s teasing,” he said, still soft, still composed, but every word sharp. “But if you even think about sharing something like that, before she’s ready, before she decides how and when to show that part of her life—then you’re not going to have to worry about what Cheng would do.” Yue opened his mouth, but Ming didn’t stop. “Because I’ll deal with you first.” There was no anger in his voice. It was worse than that. It was the quiet promise of someone who meant it—the kind of still, unflinching warning that came from family. From someone who’d had to watch Yao fight her way into a place where she could finally breathe, finally rest, finally be safe. “And if for some reason I don’t?” Ming added, tone not changing an inch, “Then Madam Lu will.”
Yue paled slightly. “Okay, wow. No need to summon the League Grim Reaper.”
Ming raised an eyebrow. “No need, as long as you remember your place.”
Yue nodded quickly, the sarcasm gone. “Message received. Loud and clear. Sister and Cheng are off-limits. Even if they’re being disgustingly cute.”
Rui, watching from nearby, took a slow sip of his coffee and muttered, “Took him long enough.”
Ming backed off with a small nod, the sharpness in his gaze fading as quickly as it had come. He turned back toward the counter, refilling his coffee with that same silent efficiency.
Yue, still at the sink, sighed heavily. “I didn’t even get the picture.”
“Good,” Ming said without looking back. “Because if you had, I’d be holding your phone in pieces right now.”
Yue, defeated, returned to his scrubbing.
Worst. Team. Ever. But maybe… also the best.