Awakening After the Trade (1)
"Take care of yourself over there, alright?"
"…Thank you."
The warm smile of a middle-aged man past fifty, one he'd seen years before. Out of courtesy, Hajun forced a smile of his own in front of a man nearly three times his age. It felt a little servile, but as long as he stayed in this business, their paths would cross again someday.
"Hahaha, Director Lee really does have a good eye — picking you, Hajun."
"Right? Haha…"
The practiced laugh of a fifty-three-year-old man. The awkward laugh of a twenty-three-year-old. And with that, professional baseball player Lee Hajun — now traded from the Seoul Lakers to the Daejeon Hawks — walked out of the general manager's office.
It was May 31st, 2026.
"Yeah, just finished talking."
Hajun spoke to his mother in the calmest tone he could manage. He hadn't particularly wanted to make the call. He'd simply promised to phone her the moment he was done meeting with the Lakers' GM.
"Tonight?"
His voice was flat, indifferent. Leaving the team lodging in Icheon for the familiar family home in Gangbuk, Seoul, should have felt comforting — yet he felt no ease at all.
For a professional baseball player, the possibility of a trade always exists. And the brighter one side shines, the deeper the shadow falls on the other. That was especially true when the two teams' standings were so starkly divided.
Lee Hajun hadn't even been the main character in his own deal.
Park Dohyun — a twenty-six-year-old right-handed pitcher who'd completed his military service. With free agency still two years away, teams were already circling him with interest. His current season had been shaky, but with home runs allowed as his biggest weakness, expectations ran high for what he might do at the Lakers' home park — Jamsil Baseball Stadium.
To acquire him, the first-place-contending Seoul Lakers had put up thirty-one-year-old infielder Park Jisu. For a team locked in a two-year battle against last place, looking to overhaul its roster, Jisu was the natural choice — solid defense at every infield position, above-average hitting, and a work ethic legendary throughout the industry.
Next came twenty-four-year-old Jin Yeongil, a young left-hander who threw a fastball approaching 150 km/h but had never cracked the core bullpen. And the final piece was twenty-two-year-old utility infielder Lee Hajun — still awaiting military service — who'd served as the team's primary pinch runner and defensive replacement.
"Haa…"
Heading straight for the subway, Lee Hajun let out a long sigh. It wasn't a release. Just a trade. He hadn't even been a childhood fan of the Seoul Lakers. But still…
The Seoul Lakers — the league's undisputed leaders in both stolen bases and caught stealings. Under Manager Im Kanghyuk's aggressive baserunning system, Lee Hajun had been a late-inning pinch runner and defensive sub. Four years into his pro career, that role had calcified, and in the cold world of professional sports, rewriting your own utility was never easy.
Career batting average: .221. Home runs: zero. Once the heart of his high school lineup, his hitting had simply collapsed the moment he turned pro. Without the occasional stolen base in a tight spot or a flash of defensive brilliance, he left no impression whatsoever on the fans of Korea's most popular sport — just another mediocre player.
If anything, the Lakers — with their thin infield depth and heavy reliance on pinch runners — had been something of an umbrella for him. Being cast out from that team… Hajun understood perfectly well what it meant.
Will I even make it to the first team?
His destination wasn't Daejeon Metropolitan City. It was Seosan, South Chungcheong Province. And somehow, it felt like once he went in, he might never come back out — not until his pro career was over.
People are creatures of adaptation, in the end. Since his debut, his hitting had gone beyond a slump into outright disappearance, and his numbers had reached a point where surviving as a professional felt genuinely uncertain.
Should I just not go?
Hajun hesitated for a moment, then kept walking. He was old enough to know that running away now would be the greater act of filial failure.
"So you're heading straight to the dorms, then?"
"Yeah."
Sizzle.
Even as his mother spoke, Hajun's eyes stayed fixed on the beef cooking on the grill. It wasn't that he particularly loved the meat — he just couldn't bring himself to look at his family's faces.
Among them, only his mother actually liked beef, and she was never the type to push her own preferences at family meals. Good food for a change of mood. And when you said good food, you meant grilled beef. Simple logic.
"It's the countryside, but at least Seosan is close to Mom and Dad's place. That's something."
"It's not like I'm going overseas or anything."
Hajun answered with a touch of disbelief. The only one at the table drinking was his father, who silently favored soju over the meat, and the guest of honor had nothing to say for himself. More precisely, it felt like nothing he said would make a difference. Under the crushing weight of defeat, every sentence that rose in his mind felt like an excuse.
"…"
With his mother beside him, trying her best to smile, Hajun stole a glance at his father. The family wasn't poor. But they hadn't exactly been well-off either. For his parents, letting their only son walk the uncertain path of a baseball player had required real resolve. And so far, Hajun had never managed to turn that resolve into cheers.
It was good when I made my pro debut, at least.
He'd never been called a top prospect, but he hadn't been the kind of player who had to set out water and pray for a draft pick either. The moment the Lakers selected him had been the greatest of his life. Unfortunately.
The meal continued — awkward for a family that had spent more than twenty years together.
"Hajun."
"…"
At his father's voice, Hajun looked up. Until now, his father had only made small talk completely unrelated to the occasion. Now he paused, gathering his thoughts — a habit of his whenever he was about to say something deliberate. Hajun kept his head raised, but his heart was unsettled. This was the baseball fanatic who'd first introduced him to the game as a child, the man who'd supported his dream more than anyone.
"Is it hard?"
"Huh?"
"If it's too hard, it's okay to look for another path."
"…"
Hajun was caught off guard. This was a man who had always stressed manliness and diligence to his son. And now that same father was the first to speak of giving up?
"Dad."
"Do you still enjoy baseball?"
"What?"
"It just seems like you're forcing yourself. If that's the case, doing something else wouldn't be a problem."
Glug.
His father poured soju into his glass as he spoke. Guessing someone's feelings from their expression alone — Hajun never liked that kind of thing. But this time, he truly had nothing to say. He didn't particularly agree, either. He was a professional. And for a pro, actually enjoying baseball? That was probably reserved for the absurd geniuses of the world.
"I…"
Hajun spoke while thinking. Honesty, courtesy, and the guilt of a son struck a delicate compromise in his mind.
"I'm going to see it through to the end."
He said it with courage. He wasn't considering another path anyway. Quitting would just be running away.
"Yeah?"
Only then did his father pick up a piece of slightly overcooked beef with his chopsticks. Beside him, his mother's lips curved upward, but her eyes weren't smiling. Hajun found it hard to read his father's intentions. Did he want him to keep playing baseball, or to quit? Or did he simply want to see his son finish whatever he started, with his head held high?
Hajun figured that for a father, it was probably the last one.
Thud.
"Haa…"
The bed he'd lain in more than any other in his life still felt good. Especially after so long — there was something different about the sensation. Back from dinner with his parents, Hajun stretched out and stared at the ceiling. Tomorrow, a new life would begin in unfamiliar Seosan. A path that almost certainly wouldn't be smooth. Still, he would move forward.
"Hm?"
A console game system caught his eye. Aside from baseball, gaming had probably been his only hobby — though it had been roughly five years since he'd properly played anything.
"…"
The console in his room had long since become little more than decoration, but today something about it pulled at him.
"I really only ever played the one game. Why did I even ask for a console?"
The Japanese-made system had been a gift from his uncle, a gaming enthusiast who'd bought the next-gen model at the time. He'd received several game titles along with it, but Hajun had only ever cared about one: the world's most famous console baseball game, where you played as MLB teams and players.
"…"
Should I give it a try?
He needed to be asleep in a few hours. He had to leave early for Seosan. He wasn't even particularly bored. And yet, Hajun suddenly powered on the console.
The baseball game had several modes, but the one he always played was fixed: controlling a single player through a Major League career — Career Mode. He loved it because it genuinely made him feel like he was becoming a big leaguer.
When the player creation screen appeared, Hajun grew serious. Customization was, after all, the most important moment in games of this kind.
Name: Lee Hajun. Jersey number: 9, his personal favorite. Right-handed thrower, left-handed batter. Position: shortstop. Height and weight set to the last numbers he knew for himself — 188 cm, 77 kg.
"Hmm…"
Then came the highlight of Career Mode customization: choosing the player's direction. Power, Contact, Defense. You had to pick which area would define the player.
The decision didn't take long. Even here, he wanted to be a player whose specialty was hitting. Power still didn't feel right for him, though. Hajun had always struggled to put on weight, and coaches had molded him into a contact hitter without power. Might as well go Contact — become a pure hitter who challenged .400 every season.
With Contact as his primary ability, next came the combination. Contact and Power. Contact and Speed. Contact and Defense. Since he was a shortstop, Hajun chose Contact and Defense.
Contact and Defense — the two abilities that could be significantly boosted through the skill set system.
Bronze — Silver — Gold — Platinum — Diamond.
Starting from Bronze, each higher tier dramatically raised Contact and Defense. Reaching Gold alone put you at an elite level in the big leagues. Platinum meant top-tier. And Diamond? At that level, your stats would surpass even the legendary all-time greats of Major League history.
So the development path was essentially Contact and Defense. Power and Speed wouldn't stay locked at their initial values forever, so that was fine.
"…"
The loading screen stretched on. And at the same time, his interest in the game cooled at remarkable speed.
"Ugh, what am I even doing."
Hajun forced the game to quit. The message on the loading screen —
If you quit now, your data will not be saved.
— he ignored without a second thought. The disease of losing all passion for a game the moment customization ended was one Hajun could never overcome, and had no reason to. He wasn't planning to bring the console to Seosan anyway.
Thud.
Hajun lay back down on the bed. No more distractions. Just sleep.
"…"
Creation complete.
Would you like to train first to raise your points?
As Hajun's consciousness slowly faded, the monitor connected to the console flickered on, displayed the messages, and went dark. The console itself — which should have been transmitting the baseball game — had been powered off for quite some time.