Game 5: Don't Call Yourself My Dad
Han Tae-yang (한태양) froze.
So loud, so familiar, so irritating, that voice.
He turned his head slowly, as though he already knew the jump scare was coming in a horror movie but still looked anyway. His heart gave one stroke, not of fright but of the recognition of the type of man who can dispel a mood by his presence.
And there lay he
Kim Lee Soo
He was plump and big-shouldered, and his face was smug, as though a half-price leather jacket and sunglasses at night had made him a star. His smile was ear to ear, those white teeth that would yell dental sponsorship money.
Then the words fell down
"Haha! It is Han Tae-yang, all right, Kim Lee yelled, and everybody in the subway concourse turned. His voice was falsely friendly, full of sarcasm, the voice that was a greeting and an insult at the same time. "What's this? And was your father here also?"
The word dad was dirty, contorted.
Han Tae-yang awoke. His jaw contracted.
Dad? This clown?
In his head, he was shouting, I would rather say that my pet goldfish brought me up than say that about you.
His lips were closed, aloud his eyes simply narrowed, a warning glitter in them that was not usual on his otherwise calm face.
Kim Lee was not finished yet. He was sitting forward, shaking his finger at me like some fake preacher telling children they stole candy.
"You brat. You shut yourself up in your little gamer cave, you ignored the world, ignored people, ignored your health, ignored everything, just to grind this one game all day. And how thou hast changed." His laughter bounced off the walls of the subway that were lined with tiles. "Still stuck in the same game, but hey, now it's real life!"
Laughter rippled from the people nearby. Not because the joke was funny, but because they were nervous, and nervous people laugh at anything that isn't silence.
Han Tae-yang tilted his head. His hands slid into his pockets, thumbs tapping slowly against his thighs. His heartbeat was calm, but behind his eyes, tiny sparks of irritation were already lining up like soldiers waiting for the command to fire.
He could ignore him. Walk away. Save his energy for real battles.
But then…
The name popped in his brain like a curse word.
Kim Lee Soo.
Streamer. Celebrity. 500,000 subscribers. The face is plastered across YouTube's trending page every week. And not just a streamer. The CEO of the very company Han Tae-yang had once worked for.
The same company that had chewed him up and spat him out.
The same company that dangled "opportunity" in front of desperate streamers, then shackled them with contracts written by devil lawyers in suits so shiny you could use them as mirrors.
Han Tae-yang's fingers twitched in his pocket. He remembered those nights too clearly.
---
Back then, the company offices had been like a trap. Neon signs on the outside, "We make dreams real!" written in glowing letters, but the inside smelled like old coffee, tired sweat, and broken hopes. They promised fame. They promised fortune. But what they delivered was debt.
Streamers were signed in like guests at a fancy hotel, handed golden keycards in the form of contracts. Once inside, the keycards became shackles.
"You'll be big! You'll be rich! You'll be famous!" Kim Lee Soo had said, back then, patting shoulders and shaking hands with oily confidence.
But as weeks turned into months, reality showed its teeth.
Streams locked behind company-controlled schedules. Revenue cuts that made even slave drivers blush. "Promotions" that cost more than they paid. The more these streamers worked, the more they sank into debt.
Han Tae-yang had watched comrades break. Some cried in the bathroom, covering their sobs with running faucets. Others stopped streaming altogether, disappearing without a trace.
One memory burned sharper than the rest.
The night his girlfriend left.
Her words still rang in his ears: "Sorry, Tae-yang… I can't waste my life with someone who's broke. Kim oppa can actually take care of me."
And there she went. Into the arms of this grinning bastard.
Kim Lee Soo.
The man who stole not just her, but his trust, his hope, his damn sanity.
---
Back in the present, Tae-yang's lips curled into a faint smirk. He looked Kim Lee dead in the eye.
"Don't you have a streaming schedule right now?" Tae-yang asked, his voice flat, almost bored.
The question wasn't innocent. It was a blade. A reminder. A jab at the man's chained lifestyle.
Kim Lee chuckled, unfazed, and jabbed a thumb at the group of half-panicked survivors huddled behind him. "Streaming? At a time like this? What good would that do me? Look around, Tae-yang. The game is here. The real game. No more cameras or fakes. This is our stage."
He stepped closer, clapping a hand on Tae-yang's shoulder like they were old drinking buddies. His perfume hit first—overpowering, sharp, the kind meant to announce itself three seconds before the man arrived.
"By the way," Kim Lee continued, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, "what floor did you reach back in the day, huh? Come on, share a little. Tell your old colleague a secret or two."
His hand squeezed Tae-yang's shoulder, almost mock-friendly, almost threatening.
"I know you're skilled. I've seen your old plays and YouTube videos. Hell, I even praised them once or twice on my streams. Don't act shy. Let's help each other, eh? You give me some info, and I'll rewrite the contract. Make it… mutually beneficial."
The words slithered like snakes.
Tae-yang blinked slowly. Then he turned his head.
Their eyes met.
In that single second, the entire station seemed to hold its breath.
Kim Lee's grin didn't waver. His teeth shone under the harsh fluorescent lights. He thought he still had control. He thought he was still the puppet master.
But in Tae-yang's gaze, something cold flickered.
Ice.
Not the gentle kind in a drink, but the kind that sank ships.
"Kim Lee Soo," Tae-yang said softly. His voice had the weight of a thousand swallowed curses. "The world has changed."
His lips twitched, curling upward just enough to show it wasn't a smile.
And then he leaned in, his words cutting sharp and clean.
"Don't talk to your dad like we're friends, you jerk."
Before the meaning could even land, his fist moved.
It wasn't a sloppy swing. It wasn't rushed. Not only that, but it was a textbook punch, every muscle in his shoulder, arm, and wrist working together in perfect sequence. His knuckles connected with the side of Kim Lee's mouth, hard enough that the shockwave seemed to echo through the floor tiles.
For half a heartbeat, silence ruled.
Then.
CRACK.
Two white shapes flew through the air.
Teeth.
Kim Lee's eyes bulged. His body twisted as he stumbled back, blood already pooling around his lips, the metallic tang spraying with each ragged breath.
And the subway concourse erupted.