The lights were too bright.
They burned through Min's skull, splitting into halos that refused to stay still. Sound came late, crowd noise folding in on itself, bass warping into a low, nauseating thrum.
Focus, he told himself.
Min sat down, hands resting on the keyboard.
They felt wrong.
Too heavy. Too light. Not his.
Across from him, Tang Soo, The Wolf, sat perfectly still. Hood down now. Eyes sharp. Calm. Patient.
The Wolf was about to speak, about to ask what was wrong, when he noticed it.
Soo-Yeon.
Standing off to the side with another who he didn't recognize. Whispering. Pointing. Laughing.
At Min.
The Wolf's expression darkened.
He closed his eyes. Breathed in. Breathed out. When he opened them again, he looked first at the screen, then at Min.
Before he could say anything, the MC's voice boomed through the warehouse.
"Players ready."
The Wolf nodded once.
"Good luck."
Game One
The countdown hit zero.
Min moved first.
Too fast.
Chan-Sik's jaw tightened.
Min's fingers slipped—timing off by half a beat. Small mistakes. Nothing catastrophic. Just enough.
The Wolf punished every one of them.
No trash talk. No flash. Just clean, merciless efficiency. Min tried to compensate with aggression, but his spacing collapsed. His minimap awareness lagged. A misread here. A mistimed engagement there.
Then it came.
A timing attack.
Zerglings, early, precise, relentless. Under ten minutes, The Wolf breached Min's base. Min's own lings melted on contact.
The screen went gray.
LOSS.
1–0, Wolf.
The warehouse erupted.
Min swallowed hard. His vision pulsed.
Chan-Sik's voice cut through the noise, low and sharp.
"Slow it down."
Min nodded, though he wasn't sure his head actually moved.
Chan-Sik narrowed his eyes, watching the replay flicker on a nearby screen.
Something felt off.
He pulled MC ORCA aside.
"This isn't good," Chan-Sik muttered.
"What?" MC ORCA asked.
"He's not just Zerg."
MC ORCA blinked. "No way."
"He's Random."
MC ORCA's grin vanished.
"…That means he can play all three races."
Chan-Sik nodded. "At a high level."
"This just got real."
Game Two
Min tried to steady himself.
Too fast or too slow, nothing felt natural. His normal rhythm was gone.
So he gambled.
A four-pool.
No workers. All-in. End it fast.
The map was two-player. No guessing.
It didn't matter.
The Wolf spawned Terran.
Early scout. Immediate read.
Barracks already going up. A bunker planted cleanly at the ramp.
Min hit the wall headfirst.
The Wolf adjusted instantly, baiting Min into overcorrections. Where Min once anticipated, now he guessed. Where he once flowed, now he stumbled.
Everything felt half a second late.
His hands shook.
Gray screen.
LOSS.
2–0.
The warehouse buzzed with certainty.
"Called it."
"He's done."
"Too much stage."
Min leaned back, chest tight.
The room tilted.
For a moment, he thought he might actually pass out.
No.
He closed his eyes.
Not to escape.
To listen.
The generator's hum.
The bass shaking the floor.
The faint click of keyboards nearby.
His own breathing, ragged, uneven.
You're drowning, he realized.
Stop fighting the water.
He opened his eyes.
And let everything else fall away.
Game Three
Terran again.
Min didn't rush.
Didn't chase.
He played smaller. Cleaner.
He stopped trying to win and focused on not losing.
Short engagements. Safe angles. Fewer inputs. Less noise.
The Wolf frowned, just slightly.
For the first time, Min saw hesitation.
He waited.
Then struck.
One clean punish.
Then another.
The Wolf adapted fast, but Min had already changed. His world narrowed to rhythm, timing, intent.
The screen flashed.
WIN.
The crowd hesitated, then exploded.
Min exhaled slowly.
2–1.
Game Four
Protoss.
Min's specialty.
The Wolf leaned back, studying him now, not dismissive. Curious.
Is the drug wearing off? the Wolf wondered.
Or is he adapting?
The game was brutal.
Trades. Feints. Layered mind games.
The drug clawed at Min's senses again, edges blurring, time stretching, but he anchored himself.
Breath.
Input.
Reaction.
He missed a cue.
Recovered.
The Wolf overcommitted.
Min punished him with everything he had.
WIN.
2–2.
The warehouse detonated.
People stood. Shouted. Chanted.
Chan-Sik didn't move.
Neither did MC ORCA.
Hye-Jin and Sung-Woo stopped dancing. Eyes locked on the screen.
They watched.
Game Five
Silence.
Even the music seemed to retreat.
The Wolf leaned forward.
"You're still standing," he said quietly.
Min's voice was steady.
"I told you."
Zerg again.
A rematch.
But Min was ready this time.
No wasted movement. No excess. Every decision carried weight.
The world narrowed until there was nothing left but the screen and the steady drum of his heartbeat.
Then
A mistake.
Not Min's.
The Wolf flinched.
Min didn't hesitate.
Everything aligned.
His mutalisks surged—tight control, ruthless focus. Too much. Too fast.
The screen went dark.
Then
VICTORY.
For a moment, nobody spoke.
Then the warehouse exploded.
Sound crashed over Min, cheering, shouting, disbelief. He leaned back, chest heaving, vision swimming but clear enough to see Tang Soo stand.
The Wolf walked around the table.
Stopped in front of Min.
And bowed his head.
"You fought through poison," Tang Soo said. "That's not luck."
He extended his hand.
Min took it.
"You're a Gosu."
The word rippled through the room.
Whispers spread fast.
That title wasn't given lightly.
Chan-Sik finally smiled.
Min stood unsteadily beneath the burning lights, the crowd chanting his name.
Somewhere in the warehouse, phones were already lighting up.
Red Pulse would hear about this.
And they wouldn't be laughing.