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The Wirye Jeil High video series originally planned by the Seoul Twins' PR department was never supposed to be on this scale.

The original proposal called for a modest four or five videos spread across the year — the winter offseason through the high school season — with a roughly eight-part team documentary as the final product once everything wrapped up. That was why the PR department had only been assigned a team leader, a section chief, and two interns-slash-rookies, along with the vague notion that if the response wasn't terrible, they might try the same thing with another school or two.

But then—

"The PR team certainly has some momentum these days, don't they? I hear your latest video broke two million views. How are the overall numbers looking?"

It was the Seoul Twins' baseball club executive meeting — a monthly gathering where every department head, the president, the general manager, and even the outside directors assembled to review performance and ongoing projects. There, the club president singled out PR team leader Han Seo-hee with the question.

"Yes. As the materials show, our official YouTube subscribers have grown from 240,000 to 500,000 — an increase of over one hundred percent. On top of that, our existing content beyond the high school baseball videos is trending up across the board, anywhere from twenty to fifty percent in views. And that upward trend is still ongoing. Every time a new high school baseball video drops, we see another stair-step surge."

"Excellent work. Online marketing failed no matter how hard we pushed before you arrived, Team Leader Han, and now you've solved it overnight. This is exactly why you have to hire young people — people with international experience."

Uncle. Please stop promoting me so obviously.

"Ha! And the school selection was genius. Those kids each have a distinct character, real star quality. In any case, we shouldn't let this success sit — we need to steer into it aggressively. The PR department shouldn't be the only one involved. The scouting team and the strategy-analysis team should pitch in with support, and let's prepare outreach to additional schools as well."

And so the club president — riding high on a cocktail of nepotistic affection and the intoxicating rush of strong numbers — issued further directives, and the project ballooned massively. The Jeil High series, originally slated for about five videos, was expanded to a near-monthly release schedule of ten or more. The breezy eight-part team documentary with fifteen-minute episodes was re-planned as a ten-episode, thirty-plus-minutes-per-episode full-length documentary production.

So what's the conclusion here? A job you started to do moderately ended up burying you in work.

The rest of the PR staff were already being ground down, juggling their regular duties on top of scouting out suitable high school teams to extend the series with. Things had gotten bad enough that people were openly making dying sounds, so pulling in more manpower wasn't an option either. In the end, she, Section Chief Park, and the two interns had to keep handling every last bit of the Jeil High work themselves.

"I swear, I will never understand the mindset of these social butterflies."

Kim Yi-seon's interview at the very end was the single biggest reason for the episode's view-count explosion. From the comment section to every ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠community on the internet, it was absolute chaos.

Han Seo-hee found herself thinking: What if my boyfriend said something like that about me in a public interview? She couldn't even picture having a boyfriend in the first place, but she was certain that if it actually happened to her, she'd be so mortified she'd seriously contemplate suicide at least three times.

And in fact, she'd watched Miss Lee Ye-eun and Miss Kang Min-ah squirming in visible agony after the video went up. Lee Ye-eun had only managed a token amount of embarrassment, but from Kang Min-ah — even on that expressionless face — the suffering came through loud and clear.

Frankly, it had been a little entertaining. The viewers clearly felt the same way, so the video would do well. It had the students' adorable cringe-worthy moments baked right in.

Seen that way, the Wirye Jeil High project wasn't purely a slog after all. She'd been overwhelmed at first and it had drained the life out of her, but having actually experienced it, the kids turned out to be far more innocent than your typical socialites.

Was it because they did nothing but play baseball — no dating, no studying? Kim Yi-seon included, the whole roster felt like a pack of younger siblings. Thanks to that, even someone as awkward with people as she was had closed some of the distance with the students.

Watching them was like a sitcom half the time, and cute at that. She'd always counted dramas among her hobbies anyway, so if she framed it as front-row seats to a live drama, this hardly seemed like a bad deal at all.

Thus self-hypnotized, Han Seo-hee refocused on work. What was on today's agenda again — the results of the meetings with other high schools, and the editorial direction review for the Jeil High documentary?

For the record, "the community responded well" naturally included the Domestic Baseball Gallery. The tone there was just... a little different.

It was, in every sense, a detonation site.

He'd been popular from the start precisely because of those lovey-dovey videos, and nobody had ever believed a guy who looked like that would date only one person.

But to come out and say it in a public interview? It went beyond righteous indignation — it was outright betrayal. You came in to watch some baseball, and what was this splash damage supposed to be?

Of course, it was all half in jest — a ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠kind of role-play performed for the sake of entertainment rather than genuine hatred of Kim Yi-seon or Wirye Jeil High.

After all, the team had rocketed to a share of first place at seven wins and one loss, sending a fresh shock through the southern Seoul regional bracket that had been a three-power race — and if they made the national tournament, people were slowly beginning to wonder what they might show there.

Between the genuine baseball buzz and the role-play provoked by Kim Yi-seon's social-butterfly moves, Kim Yi-seon and Wirye Jeil High had devoured the lion's share of high school baseball's hype.

That was where the trouble began.

In contrast to the friendly reaction online, the reaction on the ground was considerably more neurotic.

Through last year — before they'd proven anything — the prevailing treatment had been: all looks and no substance, coasting through baseball on their faces, better suited to idol fantasies than using the sport as a popularity gimmick.

But less than a month into the season, Wirye Jeil High was already sitting second in the weekend-league regional standings and making noise. Which meant the glances flying their way now carried far more hostility than before.

Among the established powerhouse schools, the thinking had hardened into something outright ugly: they've dragged professional franchises into high school baseball, the axis of evil shattering the sport's innocence, villains stealing attention away from players who should be judged fairly, by skill alone.

What kind of sophistry that was, she had no idea — but a substantial number of school officials and diehard fans who disliked Wirye Jeil High genuinely believed it.

On top of that, Jeil High's out-of-district recruits — actively poached from other regions — were dredged up as another grievance, and so while fan opinion stayed positive, inside the baseball establishment itself, Wirye Jeil High was being frozen out.

And malice always arrives wearing an unexpected face.

"You're picking a fight with me, aren't you? I tell you to say you love me more often, and you go and make a public confession."

"Ow — stop pinching me."

"Aigoo, this shameless boy. What am I going to do with you?"

"So you didn't like it?"

It was the morning after the video dropped. Other than recovery training, there was nothing on the schedule, but waking early and getting to the baseball club was habit by now, so I'd headed to school at the crack of dawn.

Ever since the training-camp stay ended, Ye-eun had apparently resolved never to be apart from me, trailing along at dawn rubbing sleep from her eyes. Today too she'd nodded off on the bus, only to bounce back to full energy the moment we stepped off.

"Who said I didn't like it? Just do it when the two of us are alone, that's all."

That was what she said, but she clearly looked pleased. Should I do it again next time?

So I was bantering with Ye-eun as we reached the baseball club when we spotted an unfamiliar box sitting in front of the storage shed.

"Haah... If the coach is going to order deliveries, please, please tell us in advance. He always just dumps them in front of the storage shed without a word to the managers. So what is it this time that he needed to— GYAAAAH!!!!!!"

"What?! What is it?! Ye-eun, are you okay?!"

She'd opened the box and started screaming. I bolted over and pulled her away from it.

"Th-that! There's something in that box!"

Ye-eun was trembling all over, her face on the verge of tears. I looked inside the box as carefully as I possibly could.

"...Fuck. Star..."

Inside that box was a large dog, horrifically dismembered — along with a kitchen knife.

It hadn't simply been killed. It had been carved apart with such cruelty that the intent was unmistakable: we wanted you to see this and be shocked.

Ye-eun, pressed against my chest, couldn't stop shaking. She'd never been able to stomach violent movies even back then.

I forced down the torrent of curses and vitriol rising in my throat and quietly soothed her.

"It's okay. It's nothing. Don't shake. I'm right here."

She seemed to calm down little by little, though she still looked shaken. Unable to bring myself to pull her out of my arms, I called the police right there.

"Yi-seon. I can't sleep. Hold me."

"If you can't sleep, no point ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠forcing it. They say falling asleep right after a shock is actually bad for you."

"You are genuinely hopeless. Hold me, now."

Ye-eun lay in my bed, arms spread wide. Any other day I might have teased her for it, but tonight I quietly lay down beside her and pulled her close.

"Heehee... this is nice."

Nice, my ass.

The day we found the box, I reported it to the police immediately and sent Ye-eun home early. Only she was too anxious to be alone — she refused to leave my side — so I went home early too.

And today, the day after, she was out sick. This morning I'd gone with her to the hospital for a trauma evaluation; they said there was no major problem for now, but that she needed a stabilizing presence around her.

Hence the two of us still glued together like this in my room.

"Remember? Back in elementary school, you'd cling to me whenever we watched a scary movie too."

"Yeah. I remember all of it."

I'd been complacent until now. In my past life, hadn't I run into strange people and causeless malice constantly — on anonymous forums, on social media, in daily life, in the army, at part-time jobs, everywhere? Eighteen years of this life surrounded by nothing but goodwill and affection, and I'd briefly forgotten.

My molars ground together. The real mistake was assigning the PR management and paparazzi handling to Ye-eun in the first place. Today had only been the most shocking — surely there had been a dozen smaller incidents before it.

And today had ended at the level of a threat. I couldn't guarantee that next time nobody got seriously hurt, or that nothing worse happened. Big incidents are always preceded by small ones.

So once we were back at school, outside of class hours I would—

"Yi-seon, I heard you'd be here, so I came to find you — but I suppose I read the room wrong? It seems your firstborn is planned to come from Ye-eun unnie, not me."

The door burst open without so much as a knock.

"No, no, no — it's not like that, I was just calming Ye-eun down!"

"There's no need for excuses. Jealousy toward a fellow wife is hardly becoming of a dignified one, is it? You're a conservative, traditional man, Yi-seon, so I'll be the one to adapt. Please, carry on."

Min-ah had appeared out of nowhere — no telling how she'd found the place.

She clearly wasn't serious, just teasing — I could see that plainly — but if I treated it as a real joke, I'd absolutely be unable to handle the aftermath.

I scrambled up to explain myself to her, but Ye-eun had her arms locked around my waist and showed no sign of letting go.

"No. He's mine."

This is genuinely driving me insane. And I can't exactly peel her off.

While I floundered, Min-ah gave a light wave of her hand as if to say it was fine.

"Still, I'm relieved you look more energetic than I expected. If you withered away to nothing, Yi-seon would just get all sulky along with you, and that would be a problem."

Then she quietly met Ye-eun's eyes. Were the two of them... using telepathy or something?

After a long moment of staring at each other, Ye-eun gave a small nod. No, seriously, what was that.

Min-ah cleared her throat softly, then opened her mouth with deliberate care.

"First — the perpetrator has been caught."

"Who the hell was it?"

"I'll tell you everything, so please calm down and listen."

Her posture made it clear: if I flew into a rage, the story stopped there. Only after I loosened my shoulders and showed her a somewhat settled face did she begin, slowly.

Ha. Seriously? That was the reason?

Two days after the incident, Ye-eun had more or less settled down. I'd even considered skipping a start in the rotation to stay by her side, but she insisted that would only make things harder on her and ordered me back to training.

My heart didn't ease easily, but Ye-eun's begging wore me down, and I returned to my usual game-prep routine.

The aftermath of the incident was wrapped up cleanly. Through the combined efforts of the police and the school, the perpetrator was caught within a single day, and the legal and media responses were being handled flawlessly by the agent.

The headmaster and the board chairwoman pledged to shore up the school's lax security, preparing additional CCTV and a duty room for a school-assigned police officer. The Seoul Twins, for their part, promised active cooperation with anything the school needed.

Inside the school, at least, we could call ourselves safe now. The paparazzi who used to lurk around had always been caught by the discipline teachers, the student patrol, or the managers personally — but from now on, an actual police officer would be stepping in directly.

I doubt I could have handled it any cleaner myself. About the best I could manage going forward was to personally escort Ye-eun and Min-ah to and from school.

And so daily life resumed, training carrying on as if nothing had happened.

March was slipping toward April, and the days were stretching longer — the hour when winter would already have gone dark, yet the courtyard inside the lab wings was drenched in the gold of the setting sun.

Drawn by the sorcery of that sunset light, I sat down for a moment and let my mind drift blank — until a thump sounded beside me as someone dropped down to sit.

"Oh, Kang Min-hyuk? It's nothing. I'm fine now. Everyone handled it well, so I just have to trust them. It's not like I'm traumatized or anything—"

"You'll trust the people around you? What kind of nonsense is that, Kim Yi-seon?"

What is with this guy now.

"I heard the whole story too. The logic is absurd. Because you're handsome, everything you do — every ounce of effort, every skill on the field — gets chalked up to your face?"

Right. The perpetrator's motive had been every bit as ridiculous as it sounded. The claim was that our attention was pure face privilege, and that people who weren't taking baseball seriously had no business existing in the baseball world.

Line up every bastard who's never tasted face privilege and I doubt half of them could match my teammates' effort — but according to that woman, that was how it worked.

"Punishment for the crime, future countermeasures — yes, those things are properly left to the adults. But is that where it ends?"

"There's more than that?"

What was he about to spout.

"If someone falls short in effort or skill and insists it's all about faces, then there's only one answer: we open their eyes by force and make them watch our skill. Am I wrong?"

This bastard had been grinning like an idiot for no reason, so I gave him one warning look and his expression normalized. Where does a grown boy get off flashing a sunshine smile like that? Save it for the girls.

"So let's blow every last one of them away."

"There's not exactly another way, is there."

"Shall we call it a Grand Slam, then?"

"We have to."

Nothing about Kang Min-hyuk's bearing suggested a joke or an offhand remark. He spoke with the calm certainty of a man who believed it was genuinely possible.

There isn't another lunatic like him. Well — that was exactly why he'd barged into a scrappy nothing-school like Wirye Jeil High declaring he'd win the Bonghwangdae.

The Grand Slam.

"Someone out there works harder and plays better than us, and doesn't get the attention? If we prove we're officially, indisputably the best, then no one can even make that argument."

The record that no team had ever succeeded didn't concern Kang Min-hyuk in the slightest. If we wanted to prove we were the unquestioned strongest, he said, this was the only way.

"Or what — does the great Kim Yi-seon have cold feet? Think you can't manage it?"

This bastard really knows how to get under someone's skin.

"Kang Min-hyuk. From now on, if you lose to me in league play, you're dead. Pitch a winning game every single start. Non-negotiable."

Then I guess I have to.

Honestly, until now I'd treated high school baseball as nothing more than a preparatory stage on the way to the pros — playing just hard enough to display my talent and nothing more.

Only converted to pitcher in second year of middle school? Naturally — the whole point was preventing injury, so why would I push myself to win? Losses left me wistful but never angry — because it was all just bonus content.

Winning or losing here had never brought me real joy or real regret.

"That's the Kim Yi-seon I know."

But now — now I had to win.