The Contract and Its Poison Clauses

Just three hours earlier — the moment Yoon Seoha's call had come through — Kim Hanseong had felt like he owned the world.

Even if the salary took a hit, factoring in the team's popularity and its ceiling made the deal pure profit. He'd even figured he could claw back the losses by slipping open-season event appearances into the contract terms.

...Is this a dream?

Kim Hanseong stared blankly at the business card the beauty in front of him had handed over — a woman who looked uncannily like Yoon Seoha.

Daehan Law Firm. A major firm that had just won a lawsuit against an American corporation; there wasn't a soul in Korea who didn't know the name.

"Hello. I'm Kim Hanseong, coach of a Korean Challengers League pro team. If I may ask — your relationship to...?"

He pulled himself together, produced his own card, and asked about the connection.

"I'm Seoha's mother."

Kim Hanseong had assumed they were related — they looked that much alike — but a parent? That had never crossed his mind. She looked young enough to be a sister.

And besides...

A parent who was a lawyer at a major firm, a daughter who would be a first-division prospect the second the age restriction lifted. It was the kind of family that made you wonder what they did for a living.

But the only thing that mattered right now was signing Yoon Seoha. Kim Hanseong shoved every other thought into the far corners of his memory and spoke.

"I believe Para — Seoha — has extraordinary talent. That's why our team is prepared to offer a salary comparable to a lower-tier LCK player."

Calling the LCK and the Challengers League completely different leagues wasn't an exaggeration. Top Challengers salaries sat around forty-five million won; the LCK minimum was sixty million. Offering a lower-tier first-division salary to a rookie who hadn't even debuted was, frankly, insane.

The woman, however, had something more important to discuss.

"I understand that you rate Seoha highly. But on our end, setting salary and other matters aside, there are minimum conditions we need to propose."

"What sort of conditions?"

She drew several sheets of paper from her bag and handed them to Kim Hanseong.

All of this...?

They were conditions that fully deserved the label of poison clauses. In a way, the confidence was impressive — a clear statement that she would only sign if these rights were guaranteed.

Honestly, most of the items were doable with a little effort. The problems were numbers three and six.

I'm going to lose my mind...

Should any player approach Yoon Seoha with romantic interest, that player's contract is terminated immediately and liquidated damages paid.

Easy to write. Human hearts, though, didn't obey just because you told them to. Celebrities dated behind the scenes all the time — and these were guys who lived locked in rooms playing games, now sharing a space with a girl that pretty and their own age?

He couldn't guarantee a thing.

"If it's too difficult, then so be it."

As Kim Hanseong reviewed the documents with a low groan, the woman made it clear she was fine walking away.

But Kim Hanseong was a veteran who'd spent decades in this business. He wasn't some rookie who'd fold under pressure and sign a one-sided deal.

"I have a question about clause three."

"What about it?"

"You wrote 'approach with romantic interest.'"

Kim Hanseong looked at Yoon Seoha as he spoke.

"What happens if Seoha and the other party share mutual feelings?"

One-sided pursuit, he could shut down as a coach for the good of the team. Mutual attraction, though — that wasn't something you could simply block.

Yoon Seoha answered as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

"Me? Don't worry about that. If I ever do, you can put in a clause that I forfeit my entire salary and play for free. I don't mind."

Kim Hanseong went blank for a moment.

Was she saying that mere pro gamers — second-division ones, no less — could never catch her eye? That was certainly how it sounded to him.

"Understood. Then I also have a question about clause six."

"Please, go ahead."

"Esports runs primarily on sponsorships, so there are sponsor ads and events every year."

Yoon Seoha spoke up as if she'd been waiting for exactly that.

"Who's ARK's main sponsor right now?"

"Air Asia."

Air Asia — a Korean low-cost airline that had ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠come on as ARK's main sponsor two years prior.

"I'll do the main sponsor ad and event once a year. Everything else, we'll see depending on the situation."

From Kim Hanseong's perspective, even that much was a relief. Sponsor ads only happened once a year anyway, and the events were basically just off-season fan meetings.

"Then let's start aligning the terms."

"I'm sorry...? We can meet every condition you've presented here."

"Those are the minimum conditions. Shall we discuss salary and contract length now?"

"As I mentioned, we can set the salary at the LCK minimum of around sixty million."

"Does that sixty million include incentives?"

"Incentives...?"

"As I understand it, there are usually clauses for kill counts and game MVP awards."

This was a lawyer from a major firm that negotiated against corporations for a living. Kim Hanseong felt like he was staring at the devil himself.

"Th-then, first — when is Seoha's birthday?"

"May third."

"So she can't play Spring, but she can start from Summer in June."

"Is the age restriction based on birthday?"

"Yes. It's based on full age, so the birthday has to have passed."

Kim Hanseong didn't miss the brief flicker of surprise on the woman's face. He pushed forward the documents he'd brought.

"The contract our team wants is a year and a half."

"A year and a half?"

"Yes. We're aiming for promotion this year, no matter what. And we want to go to the LCK with Seoha as well."

"With the salary frozen?"

"We'll make that an option — upon promotion, LCK minimum salary plus incentives."

"Hmm... I know esports isn't baseball, but this still seems a little off."

The woman pulled out a pen and drew an X across the document.

"We'll go with an option contract, but structured as half a year plus one year. The option triggers at the end of this season, and the player decides."

"Th-that's..."

If they promoted and then Yoon Seoha — the player they'd planned to build around — walked away, the whole thing was meaningless. There was a real chance of getting relegated the moment they got promoted.

"We're not terrible people either. If the organization shows genuine commitment over those six months, she'll be more than willing to stay."

"...Is that true?"

"Yes. Even the coldest world of contracts is still a place where people live."

The woman removed her glasses, smiled, and said,

"I think ARK could be a very good team for Seoha. What do you think, Coach?"

"My daughter — a real pro now, huh?"

A few days later, after signing the revised contract, Mom smiled at me.

"There's still half a year left, though."

"I'd love to come watch every day, but things are about to get busy again. It's a shame."

"Just come on the important days."

"Important days?"

"Like the finals."

"Oh? Already planning on making the finals?"

I gave a noncommittal answer and took a sip of the chocolate frappuccino I'd ordered ahead of time. In my past life I'd hated anything sweet, but after becoming a girl it had become something I couldn't live without.

Why does he look like he's seen a ghost, though?

The Kim Hanseong I knew from my past ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠life had been the dictionary definition of a cold-blooded operator. But every time he sat down with Mom, he shriveled up like a terrified puppy. And the second the contract was done, he'd grabbed his papers and bolted like he was fleeing the scene, muttering about some urgent business.

Well, she is beautiful.

He was a man, after all — standing in front of someone as pretty as Mom, that reaction made sense.

Anyway, the question was what to do with the remaining half year. Grow the stream a little more? Hang out with friends while I still could, since that would get harder soon? ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Or just play games?

Nothing particularly appealed to me. Even after I got home, I still couldn't think of anything I actually wanted to do.

I was lying on my bed staring blankly at the ceiling when it hit me — there was at least one person I should tell about joining a team.

The second I messaged Choi Eunseo, her reply came back with the usual razor-sharp speed.

Does this girl just live glued to her phone?

I was pretty sure she was a good student, too. The thought crossed my mind, but I let it go.

Spring arrived the moment winter ended, and then it was gone just as fast.

I hadn't done much of anything, and somehow it was already June.

Today was the day of my debut match.

My first appearance in an official pro tournament. The job ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠was simple: burn the name of this player into everyone's memory.