Overrated

It might sound strange to put it this way, but Nebula used to talk a lot when he played.

Not in the sense of filling the channel with noise. Enemy utility still up, where the spike had been planted, the timing on our own skills — he only ever briefed what actually mattered.

All of that was information the whole team needed to hold in their heads. Tracking which skill was down ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠and which was still live is the bare minimum. But because Nebula handled every piece of it himself, the rest of us could give the fight our full attention. If I had to name it, it was like he'd installed an alarm.

And his own fighting never fell off while he did it. There was a reason high elo loved him as the first-choice duo.

Too quiet.

The game kept rolling, and before I knew it the first half was nearly over. In that span I'd put up an absurd twenty-one kills in fewer than ten rounds. Show them a performance like that, I thought, and he'd at least spare me a little attention.

"Mm..."

He doesn't care about me at all, does he?

I didn't think my play in this game was any ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠worse than it had been that day. Back then most of the team were inflated ranks who couldn't play anywhere near their tier, and the people beside me now were rankers from the very top of the ladder. When the season ended, Nebula and I had been sitting at rank one and rank three. In a way, it was only natural.

The better the team, the less spotlight my play could steal, and knowing his personality, a performance like this probably wouldn't even register.

"Yeah... well. It was a little childish anyway."

Thinking it over again, the idea of catching his eye with my play looked childish all on its own. The whole plan had been born from a refusal to be the one who reached out first.

And...

He was probably having a hard time of his own.

The incident out of the PCK CL final — that was the controversy over SC tearing itself apart. They had lost the final to JG, 3–0, and what the cameras caught of the roster once the match was over was more than enough to start a fire. Glaring at one another, heaving sighs: they hadn't grabbed each other by the collar, and that was the only difference between that picture and a fight about to break. A third party who knew nothing about any of it could not possibly have looked at them and believed they were one team.

Honestly, fighting with your teammates can be a good sign. A fight means there was resentment. A fight means that resentment got said out loud. You have to live like family for a year at the short end and three at the long, and it is far better to blow up once than to stack every little grievance. Most pro gamers are late teens or early twenties anyway, and boys that age get close by fighting.

Coaching staff who understand that want their players to air what they're holding. Fight, make up, don't let the resentment sit — get it out and be done. The longer you bottle it, the deeper the rift between you has to get.

And on that score, SC was in seriously bad shape. Forget airing it. They wouldn't even try to talk.

Cases like that are usually one of two things. One side simply hates the other, or their goals were never compatible enough to share a team. Maybe both.

Either way, I debuted at KZ and I retired at KZ, and I only ever met good teammates and good staff. I can't relate. I don't particularly feel like stepping in to play the senior, either. Going pro was Han Seongun's choice. Choosing SC as the team he would debut for was Han Seongun's choice too. It would be hard. It was a trial he had to get through himself, and there was nothing I could do for him.

So I'd only sent a little support — and he'd ignored even that, so...

"No. There I go again."

The way my thoughts kept sliding in that one direction, being left on read must have stung more than I wanted to admit.

Fine. I'll be the one to say I'm Eunha. If you want to get technical, I'm twenty-one. That makes me the older one.

"First, win this game."

Walking over first, with all the gracious generosity of someone older — that wouldn't be so bad.

I'd thought that, and yet even with me and Nebula on the same team — rank one and rank three, the duo that had quite literally blown up the Platform Exhibition — the game was razor close. The bracket sitting this high was part of it. The bigger reason was something else.

Nebula was playing differently than he used to.

Not that he was playing badly. He was doing everything an initiator is supposed to do. He just wasn't showing any of the old IGL — the one who ran the team and called the rounds. Now he only did his own job in silence. Instead of steering his teammates, he was only trying to dissolve into the team.

That isn't wrong. I'm playing exactly that way myself. Hand the judgment and the leading to teammates you can trust, and put your own focus on the fight. It's how you push each person's strengths as far as they'll go. That's what collaboration is.

But if you think about what Nebula is actually good at, that approach kills it. He isn't like me. I'm not saying one of us is better. This isn't a question of who's above whom. It's only a difference in style.

A shot cracked.

Still — his position right now is entry. If you think about how an entry is supposed to play, that is the right way. But...

Ha. Look who's worrying about whom. After FOXY, I must have started thinking of Nebula as a junior of sorts, because I was worrying too much.

Another shot.

Really. When he's actually lost — when he can't find the road at all — then I'll help a little. I put my focus back on the game with that thought. I'd started the match. Losing it would just be irritating.

The word came up on the monitor, and Han Seongun, seated in front of it, stared blankly at the screen. He wasn't blank because they had won. He was blank because of the text sitting in the chat at the lower left.

The moment the game ended, a message arrived from the Jett who had been on his team.

"Haha... so it really was her."

The Jett who had dominated from start to finish and dragged the team to a win was none other than Eunha. There had been more tells than he'd expected, now that he thought about it: that bizarre crosshair, a ranker from the very top, and the fact that she never used voice chat at all.

He had drawn the line that coldly, and she had still reached back out. A fresh gratitude toward his friend moved through Han Seongun, and he still couldn't find the shape of a reply. Should he say he was sorry, or should he say thank you? Unable to choose which was better, he chose to answer a question with a question.

Hard to call it a wise choice. He was curious, though.

...Did I really talk that little?

Looking back, it seemed as if his words in-game had thinned out sharply at some point. The timing... right. When they lost to JG, 2–0. More precisely, when he came face to face with his teammates smoking on the roof of the office after the loss.

Until then, things with the team had been fine. No — he had thought they were fine. Aside from Hanbyeol-hyung, every one of them was a minor, and if the staff caught them it would be a problem, so he had gone over meaning only to talk them down.

Looking back now, there might have been a better choice. Unlike the present, sunk as far as it could go, that moment might have been the last golden window he could still have salvaged.

Back then, I was pretty emotional. A loss — and a powerless one, the kind where nothing I did could have changed the result. The posts going around were busy blaming all of it on me.

After that day, I quit being IGL. My position had been locked to entry after the JG match anyway, so I couldn't have called even if I'd wanted to.

Doesn't suit me... huh.

Does she think there's something special about my calls? Nothing changes whether I call or not.

I learned it after I debuted. My talent doesn't sit on the special side of things. Once again he was reminded that he was no genius — and still, Project A was fun, and he still wanted to keep dreaming the pro dream. So unlike before, he didn't run. He kept walking toward it.

I'm not the talented person she thinks I am. Next to someone like me, stuck in the second division, Eunha might be the one those words actually fit. The greatest prospect the game has ever had.

No. She definitely is. She already has the recognition of countless pro gamers.

But.

Why does someone like her keep overrating me?

I don't know. Maybe it's just empty comfort, because we're friends.

"We've arrived, miss."

I hadn't really thought I'd be coming back here.

"Wow... nothing's changed."

Half a year. Half a year — that's how long it had been since I'd come back to this place. And three years. That's ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠how long I'd lived here.

"Thank you for making the trip. I'm Yoon Jaeha, coach for KZ."

The moment I stepped out in front of the building, a man who had been waiting came over.

"Hello. I'm the streamer Eunha."

After half a year, I was back at the KZ headquarters where I had spent three years.