Look Into the Abyss, and What Do You See, You Punk?

Noh In-seong's first bona-fide head-slapper of the season.

Throwing his ailing body on the line to grind a pompous punk's mouth into the dirt — the very spirit of self-sacrifice...

"If that's what you want to call it, then watching him do it, I'd say the other guy's the one who ended up in pain."

It was a perfectly accurate critique, and Noh In-seong rewarded Lim Jae-min's backside with a half-hearted kick, his strength sapped for once.

Naturally, after being ruled out for interference, In-seong had been pulled from the game by the manager.

He'd already achieved 160% of what he'd set out to do, so there was no reason to keep a sick kid on the field.

"Are you sure about subbing In-seong out?"

"He's fine. The moment he went down with that punk, his job here was done. What's the problem?"

What he'd actually wanted, of course, was to shut the damn mouth of that bastard Sung Ji-chang by going in as a pinch runner.

He'd said, watch me through my next at-bat — and then he'd really gone and neutralized an opposing player at that very at-bat.

The only problem was that his method of neutralization involved a mutual inspection of each other's McConaughey-grade cleat hardness.

"What kind of drugs do you have to be on to even think like that?"

"Oh, I've been on plenty. Couldn't even score any honey today."

Noh In-seong grumbled as he emerged, hair still damp, a huge towel wrapped around his head against the cold.

He'd run his guts out, so he'd sweated up a storm — but he didn't have a cold, so a shower had been fine.

"Brrr, it's cold. Guess the drugs have fully worn off."

When In-seong started shivering uncontrollably again, Jung Im-taek sent him home early.

"...Anyway, take care of yourself. If you're not feeling well tomorrow either, you'll be coming off the bench. Got it?"

Looking vaguely disappointed, Noh In-seong gathered his things and headed out.

"Oh, right. Today's a day Hyo-jin and Jin-hong can't go up. Who were you planning to send out there, Manager?"

"...Ah."

Come to think of it, wouldn't it have been better to just leave him to throw out of the bullpen?

Jung Im-taek regretted it, but it was already too late. In-seong was already in a taxi.

The Doubles proceeded to gorge themselves on an already-lost game, courtesy of a bullpen bonfire for the ages.

A man whose fastball could only find the middle of the plate, and a man whose nickname had become "Dysentery."

The two of them decorated the finale of the three-game series against the Grizzlys with a dazzling fireworks display.

And apparently my jersey's going up in flames too, you absolute trash-heap bullpen...

The fans who had tasted the abyss while watching their own team's pitchers were slowly being dyed by that very abyss.

And among the fans who had tasted it,

"...Hmm. Maybe it really is time I made a serious investment?"

was the team owner, watching the game in real time.

The Doubles' record of one win, one draw, and one loss against the Grizzlys was a decidedly ambiguous result.

All the more so given that the Grizzlys were widely considered one of the biggest obstacles between any team and a championship.

"We should have crushed them so thoroughly they couldn't even crawl out of this series."

Despite the regret in his words, Noh In-seong's eyes were smiling.

Perhaps going home early, taking his medicine, and sleeping right after yesterday's collision had done wonders.

"Woo! No headache, no body aches! My throat can swallow anything now!"

His tonsillitis had finally given up, muttering, you win. I didn't think you'd turn even me into a war of attrition...

Waking up to a vigorous, healthy morning free of pain — all well and good, right up until—

Beep—!

Beep—!

Beep—!

Noh In-seong surfed for a sports channel that didn't feature himself, gave up, and switched the screen off.

One did exist — but translating English commentary over breakfast was simply too much effort.

"Geez, my articles are all over the damn place. What is it this time?"

Maybe showing up early to the ballpark yesterday had been a mistake. Sports news was wallpapered with Noh In-seong.

Perhaps the data had piled up enough by now — or perhaps it was because the number of players he'd injured kept growing because of it.

Into the abyss called Noh In-seong, a light was beginning to shine.

A grimy, unpleasant light — a searchlight sweeping back and forth, looking for anything to latch onto.

Reporters far sleazier than any he'd dealt with before.

The ghoul-fish of clickbait had begun flashing lights from the antennae above their heads.

Weekday games are normally held in the afternoon. In-seong had lunch and headed in to work.

The moment the taxi pulled into the parking lot and he stepped out, camera drones suddenly lined up in formation.

Reporters came rushing in a pack right behind them, and began blocking his path.

It was the moment an interview he never asked for began.

"Player Noh In-seong, was yesterday's play intentional?"

"Intentional, my ass. My tonsils were swollen all day — I wasn't even in my right mind."

"Player Noh In-seong! Then do you intend to apologize to Player Sung Ji-chang?"

"People like us don't have any such thing."

He figured if he gave a few throwaway answers, they'd let him pass... but the barrage of questions kept coming, and realizing that wasn't going to happen, In-seong held his silence.

The reporters' voices, demanding answers, grew louder and louder.

"Player Noh In-seong!" "Player Noh In-seong!!" "Hey! You punk!"

"What's with the last guy? Whatever. I actually have to get to work now, so interviews are for later!"

Ignoring the protests of the swarming reporters, In-seong pushed shut the glass doors of the stadium's main entrance with his hand.

In principle, no reporter could enter the stadium grounds without the club's permission.

Not to mention that interviewing him had always required In-seong's consent in the first place.

But if they'd actually cared about any of that, they'd never have made the top five of Most Despised Professions, now would they.

"Player Noh In-seong! About Sung Ji-chang—"

Where on earth had this one crawled out from? In-seong was at a coffee vending machine inside the club facilities, loading up on pre-game caffeine,

when yet another reporter brimming with pioneering spirit shoved a camera drone in his face.

Naturally, coffee time was now to be replaced by additional interview time with a useless human being?

Anger shooting clear to the top of his skull, In-seong attempted drastic measures.

Yoink—!

"Alright, then! Looks like you and I are playing a little Cardio now! Let's take an easy lap around the stadium, shall we?!"

Noh In-seong, who loved a pre-game run on days he wasn't the starting pitcher, kidnapped ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the drone.

"Ack! Hey! Noh In-seong! Put the drone down—"

Before the reporter could even finish, In-seong took off sprinting, as if to say this is exactly the secret to my stolen-base success rate.

The reporter, experiencing the unprecedented catastrophe of camera robbery, ran too — but baseball players have elite cardio.

The few players who do look like pigs are usually that way because their role demands explosive bursts of speed or raw instantaneous power.

There was even one guy famous for eating a chocolate bread in a single bite, and mind you, that guy had great strength too.

And In-seong hadn't even done a serious bulk yet. His body was impossibly light.

"Hahahaha! You're slow! Even at running, and all...!!"

By the time the reporter had shrunk to a speck in the distance, In-seong eased off the pace.

His destination was right ahead: the training grounds.

"Oh, In-seong's here... wait, what's that on your arm?"

"No idea. Some guy I've never seen in my life was hiding inside the stadium ahead of time."

Fobbing off Jo In-soo's curiosity with that nonsense, In-seong grabbed the drone and handed it ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠to a staff member.

"Send this to the general manager, please. Some stranger snuck into the stadium and was filming me."

Noh In-seong sent a silent eulogy ahead of time for the poor soul about to lose his camera — and, soon enough, his job and his paycheck.

Go ahead and crash and burn. Just like today's opponent.

To put it simply, the Superstars were in an absolutely miserable state right now.

"You goddamn bastards...!! How do you slap this kind of regulation onto a free market economy?!!"

So miserable, the general manager was pounding the floor and wailing.

"Because of these sons of bitches, our gate revenue is going down the tubes AND our image is getting flushed with it?"

With the baseball league having drawn its blade, they truly couldn't make a peep — they simply had to swallow it.

It all traced back to that incident, when Superstars fans rose up screaming, I can't take this anymore...!

Ticket sales and home attendance had both dropped to the point of being visible to the naked eye.

Running a baseball club on sponsorship revenue alone is a laughably impossible task.

The more player salaries — the single largest expense — climb, the more you need the quick-sell-and-replenish pipeline.

Inflating a player's salary right before free agency to maximize compensation, plus posting-fee revenue — the Three Sacred Treasures of club finance.

Even posting ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠windows had shrunk recently, so the club had cruised along for a while without worrying about operating costs.

But once the seeds of sellable assets run dry, there's no answer left to be had.

They'd finally produced one sellable asset ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠— and as it happened, every club was starving for bullpen help.

They'd been smiling over the fact that they were sitting on a well-branded, A-grade asset: an All-Star-caliber bullpen.

"You are banned from trades involving cash. All of you."

"...What."

For the first time since 2008, the hammer had come down — an outright prohibition that had never once been invoked.

"Push it further, and we can make a rule that you're legally required to maintain the salary cap above a certain floor. Keep that in mind."

"Wh-wh-wh-wh-wh-wh-wh-WHAT?!"

On top of everything, they'd been threatened with the worst possible evil law — one that would wring their necks — if they didn't behave.

A game between a team in that kind of situation and a team sprinting toward first place is always a bloodbath.

There was never even a moment of give-and-take — just a one-sided beatdown, start to finish.

The broadcast crew desperately tried to salvage the mood — well, that pitch was nicely done, and that play was decent... — but it was a losing battle.

When a game gets this lopsided, it's hard to find anything worth praising.

Even the reasonable wing of the online fanbase couldn't hide its sorrow.

People who watch prospects grow, send them off, and then go hunting for the next rookie.

But the truly elite prospects were being swept up by the very teams that had tanked their records,

leaving them with almost no young talent left and no results on the field. A truly sorrowful position.

Trading for prospects? Great idea. Except they'd have to pry them away from Busan or Daejeon, and that's easier said than done.

Daejeon's prospects had actually panned out to a degree, and Busan's bullpen was so good they had nothing to sell.

The Superstars were slowly sinking into a swamp.

Gradually. And hopelessly.

"...Alright. Then once the season ends, I'll start moving. Slowly."

But to anyone with power, a swamp is actually an easy place to reach in and pull someone out.

And so they sank.

After the game, Noh In-seong was named Player of the Day.

"Well, two home runs earns you that much, I suppose."

Two-for-five, two home runs, four RBIs — a monster line.

At this level, everyone's bound to shower me with praise... he thought gleefully as he headed to the post-game press conference.

But the faces waiting for him there belonged to the same jackals who'd shoved their mugs in his face that morning.

"Player Noh In-seong, why on earth did you go in as a pinch runner yesterday while your body was in such poor condition?"

"...We're supposed to be talking about today's game, aren't we? Next."

They kept pressing, persistently trying to needle him.

"Don't you feel you've contributed significantly to the recent trend of Korean baseball becoming crude and violent?!"

"...Okay. Ask me one more useless question and I'm walking out and washing my hands of this. Next."

With a barrage of questions that had nothing to do with the day's game, In-seong's patience was draining away drop by drop.

As the atmosphere turned hostile, it was the announcer who panicked.

"U-um, if you could limit yourselves to questions related to today's game, please..."

And then, one reporter raised his hand.

"Alright — the reporter in the yellow shirt, there."

"The baseball league's cash-trade ban—"

CRASH—!!

Noh In-seong flipped the table. Microphones and water bottles went flying everywhere.

"Didn't I say that was the last one?"

"...Even so, it's no use. What do you think was the reason the cash-trade ban was enacted?"

The reporter in the yellow shirt kept demanding answers all the same,

"You wolves have some nerve interrogating me! This interview is over!"

and In-seong truly did walk right out of the press room.

The reporters, reduced to the dog that chased the chicken and came up empty, could only stare blankly.

He actually walked out on that?

Is he insane? Is he not afraid of the press?

Fine. You started this fight, so take it like a man.

The reporters' inner thoughts were faithfully transcribed into the next day's headlines,

— but what they wanted never came to pass.

...His image was already like this anyway? So he's finally clashing with reporters now, is he.

A player whose reputation is cemented in that direction takes virtually zero damage from petty controversies.

Wait, isn't this the punk who already got slapped with a fine over a bogus article recently...

On top of that, thanks to the abysmal quality of reporters flooding the industry these days,

this was an era where AI systems were collecting data on journalists, and the journalists' credibility was being graded in turn.

The reporters who tried to put a scratch on Noh In-seong came away empty-handed.

The reporter angling for a story who'd tried to seize the high ground first in this whole affair.

The reporter who was simply happy as long as the click count was high.

And the reporter who'd attempted an ambush interview and gotten his drone hijacked.

"I'm telling you, that drone is MINE?!"

"Then are you admitting to illegal trespassing?"

"...No, it's not exactly that..."

"Then get out!"

Each in their own way, they all shared nicely in the misery.

The misery that Noh In-seong had served up with his own two hands.