5. Sorry... Not.

Noh In-seong's interview — where he'd roasted the owner of not one but two (dark) galleries simultaneously — became a hot topic in every possible way.

The draft hall only allowed for brief interviews, and those snippets multiplied into countless shorts and clips in the blink of an eye.

For the viral hogs, starving for views and subscribers, all of it converted straight into money off the wallets of the reposter crowd who fed themselves by flipping other people's content.

"C'mon, you can't expect me to just stop here."

The problem was that Noh In-seong had zero intention of stopping in the first place.

After all, the moment he'd started doing whatever the hell he wanted, his image was, by any measure, that of ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠a complete mad dog. Charitably speaking, he was somewhere around the peak era of that blond player in the K-League.

"You know, back when he was kicking opposing defenders square in the head."

Well, if it had come to this, then the image needed to be built properly. He had to become the mad dog who killed people with his words.

Not some ignorant loudmouth spewing nonsense, but a mad dog driven by a specific conviction, deaf to anything anyone else had to say.

"Noh In-seong, do you have any intention of apologizing to the Busan side?"

That was the entire point of this short, platform-sponsored press event.

One reporter frowned as he asked the question. In-seong couldn't remember the face, but he remembered the name tag perfectly. A Busan newspaper — and if he recalled right, one that had been cozy with the old team president.

Then there wasn't the slightest reason to hesitate. Time to give them exactly what they deserved, right up front.

"Busan is the one who should apologize to me. They passed on me so someone else could pick me up, and now I look like a bargain-bin product, don't I?"

The trick was to come out shameless. Me, the guilty party, saying sorry? Anyone who took that lying down was third-rate.

"As it happens, perfect timing. I've still got a whole truckload of things I want to say to Busan."

And so he laid into them, wholesale — the front office, the manager, and even the brain-dead press circling the franchise like vultures, taking everything in one sweeping pass.

"To begin with, I never had any intention of joining an organization that's not rebuilding but blowing up the whole building like a demolition crew."

The reporters, who'd clearly expected a tearful apology press conference, stared at him in a daze.

What did you think this was — a "sorry for what I said" presser?

"If they'd actually picked me, sure, I probably would've blown up the pick and gone to college, or chosen the majors. The pick itself was sound."

Though honestly, he wasn't sure that was true. His mother, for one. Siyeon, for another. And his father, who was overseas on business trips earning the money that fed them all.

If paying them back quickly and standing on his own was the filial thing to do, then attending college on a full scholarship would've been the bare minimum anyway. Going to the majors, though... hmm. He'd have barely seen his family's faces.

And... ah, right. Apparently a little wistfulness lingered in him after all. Compensation complex, maybe.

"But setting all that aside — you pissed me off."

No more of that kind of thinking. He'd already climbed onto the tiger's back.

"Besides, I accepted the Doubles' pick, which means apologizing would be even more inappropriate."

I will become the true villain of this league.

"And you're another team anyway. So what exactly do you want me to do if you're offended? Stay offended. Live your life offended."

And this live broadcast interview ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠would be where it all began.

"So no, I'm not particularly sorry... for anything. Next question?"

The devil bared his teeth.

The comment section exploded.

An unprecedented player — one who had abandoned media groveling entirely, right out in the open.

At the very least, the people leaving only these kinds of comments were neutral fans, or Doubles supporters busy doing their duty of shielding their own player. After all, he was one of theirs.

But the fans of a certain other club — the one whose rookie's arrows of scorn were slowly starting to dig into living flesh, live on a public platform, no less?

Their heads weren't working right from the rage, and their tempers were flipping their jerseys inside out.

And then there was the guy who'd flipped his jersey — cheerfully serving up fan service right down to the final second of the broadcast. It was enough to drive a person insane.

Not retreating a single inch in the face of any insult, while generously sprinkling extra salt on the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠fans whose jerseys were already inside out — it was madness. Every last jab delivered in perfectly polite, honorific speech, so there was nothing to fine, nothing to discipline, nothing anyone could even touch.

"Awww, so you can't slap a fine on me? Feel wronged? And what, exactly, are you planning to do about it?"

The biggest problem was that the guy doing the taunting knew all of this better than anyone.

If you had no interest in being loved by the public, then there was nothing stopping you from acting like the most insufferable bastard on the planet.

The life he'd lived before — endless years rotting on the bench as a backup — had shown him exactly how to walk the villain's path.

After all those controversies and the floods of petitions demanding the madman be disciplined immediately had washed past the association, the calendar turned again.

At the ballpark of the Seoul Doubles, who had begun quietly preparing for fall baseball, the day arrived for the rookies to make their formal introductions in suits.

"And the Doubles' first pick! NOH! IN! SEONG!"

Ordinarily, etiquette demanded the highest draft pick lead the introductions — but the front office was terrified.

What do we do if this lunatic flips the script and raises his middle finger instead of bowing...

That the youngest member of the event team was losing sleep over this was, in a strange way, a perfectly rational anxiety. Hadn't In-seong said on signing day that he had "no particular feelings" toward the organization or its fans?

Honestly, they would've preferred to skip his introduction entirely and ship him overseas to polish his pitching in peace.

The event team, the scouting team, the general manager, the president — every one of them prayed this time bomb wouldn't go off today.

In a black suit and black tie, dressed exactly like a fresh corporate hire, Noh In-seong took the microphone, bowed his head deeply, and delivered a perfectly proper greeting.

"It's a pleasure to meet you all. This year's first-round pick for the Seoul Doubles — I'm Noh In-seong."

He even bowed at the waist. No scowl, no sneer. Flawless.

"I won't be able to take part in this year's fall baseball, but I'm happy that at least I'll get to watch my seniors play in it."

Whoa. Is he seriously congratulating a team milestone this naturally? Has he finally matured?

In the very instant they let their guard down, a pitch that broke late out of the strike zone came whistling in and smashed into the ribs of everyone who'd dared to hope.

"Unlike those gout-ridden alcoholics squatting in 'their' Seoul stadium — the ones who'll flop out of fall baseball — well, we're comparatively gentlemen, aren't we?"

Ah. No, he hasn't. Chulgu must've possessed him. The man was smashing faces in with a wrecking ball, and it was their first time meeting.

"...And in the middle of all that, he seriously roasted the opposing club's parent company? A liquor company?"

This game was an in-Jamsil matchup. Which meant the opponent was the Seoul Grizzlies — and naturally, every word of this introduction carried straight into their dugout.

"Hey! What the hell is this? Did that rookie just talk down to us?!"

The opposing manager came sprinting over, demanding to know what was going on. The emcee should have cut the mic or wrestled it away — but his reflexes were a beat too slow.

"It's October, you know. When you're watching us play fall baseball, why not rake up some fallen leaves and roast a sweet potato? Bet it'd be delicious."

"AAAGH, you lunatic!"

The barb hurled straight into the opposing manager's face detonated through the Grizzlies' entire body.

And so ended the brief greeting that hovered endlessly close to a broadcast disaster — a declaration of war, by any reasonable reading.

"Geez, boring."

"BORING?! BORING?!! You insane bastard, do you have any idea how hard we worked to do damage control?!"

Thus, Noh In-seong was banned from conducting any interviews for the remainder of the year.

The eventful rookie introduction day — one that had nearly erupted into a full bench-clearing brawl — came and went. More time passed, and at last the magic number dwindled to zero, sealing the year's final standings.

And in the middle of it all, the Busan Marines had somehow done it again: they'd landed the first overall pick of the 2051 rookie draft.

"I'm sick of it now... Fine. Do whatever you want."

"Watching them tread water in place, year after year."

That's right — they'd received another A-grade pick. But then, they'd also earned solid reviews for landing a good starting pitcher and an instant-impact college position player in the draft.

"Next year will be different! Next year we can do it!"

So said the Marines' manager, trying to talk down the fans who had seized the team bus and set it ablaze, as In-seong watched the scene scroll past his screen.

"You think that's going to work?"

From where he stood, you think that's going to be easy? was the only possible response.

It wasn't that he was cursing them. He was genuinely baffled after looking at the team's actual plan for next season.

Starting pitchers don't just slot into a league that easily. College position players? That was even worse.

If there were only a couple of holes to plug, fine — you could squint and call it workable.

"But your team isn't a peddler's chest with a couple of holes. It's a peddler's chest that shattered into pieces."

The club was currently short a center fielder, a right fielder, a second baseman, a shortstop, and a catcher — and they thought a college position player would cover all of that?

Not a chance. Obviously they'd have to pull in outside resources.

"They'll have to bring someone in from the outside... So which team would the candidates come from?"

A trade — the mechanism of acquiring another club's player by paying something in return, whether money or players.

And one of the places with a deep enough position-player surplus to slap some super glue on that shattered chest just happened to be the club In-seong currently belonged to: the Seoul Doubles.

"...But do we even have anyone worth selling? Those idiots are hopeless at player development."

Well, the front office would sort that out themselves.

"...The bullpen was decent as of last year, so probably not from there. What would they even take in return?"

Even if the results had roller-coastered up and down, the Doubles were still a competent team — certainly more capable than drifting motionless in Busan's calm coastal waters like a sunken concrete drum.

Aaand stretch—!

Noh In-seong sprawled across the bed in the team dormitory, extending both legs as far as they'd go.

He'd eaten well and trained well. It was just about time to lie flat and get some sleep.

"What's that kid up to these days?"

The Doubles' manager, Jeong Im-taek, asked one of his coaches.

"...He's staying at the team dormitory. Says ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠he plans to bulk up before the season starts."

"Is he angling to play as a pitcher? Or as a position player?"

Unless they pinned down his position soon, there'd be no rough outline for In-seong's development next year.

Privately, Im-taek felt the pitchers were starting to age, one or two at a time — and a fresh arm coming in now would be nice and lively.

"It'd be easier if he went to the mound..."

Start him in high-leverage relief, then stretch him into a spot starter or swingman by the end of the season?

The relatively forgiving depth of the pitching staff made giving him chances there fairly painless. But—

"...Benching a current starter and just handing him a job feels a bit awkward."

If he went to the lineup instead, then before anything else — position, tool, anything — the traffic needed untangling.

"And I don't know if the current players would accept that... Ha. Honestly, we won't know a thing until we see him in the intrasquad games."

Whether from age or from overlapping positions, the roster was saturated everywhere — infield and outfield alike. On top of that, two players were due back from Sangmu military service, and there were the prospects they'd been raising in the minors.

"I don't know. Let's have him attend spring camp, run him around a bit, and talk then."

There was even talk from the front office about making a trade early in the season after sizing things up at camp.

And just as Jeong Im-taek was about to stamp the decision PENDING—

Ding-♪

Is it impossible for this guy to be a decent human being for even one moment?

Of all times, a message arrived on the head coach's computer. Three short syllables, typed with total disregard for even the most basic etiquette.

"Uh... he says he'll do both, sir."

"Oh, for god's sake. He's lost his mind. Wait — no, I forgot. This bastard was always a lunatic."

Jeong Im-taek, the manager doomed to deploy this lunatic for years to come, pressed a hand to his brow.

Noh In-seong. Declaration of intent: two-way player.