Interview (Just Chatting)

The 2023 Platform Exhibition.

Held once every March, this long-standing tournament existed for a single purpose: to decide, across the four great platforms, who was the strongest at a given game.

Of every roster that had ever entered, Kwitch held the most titles. In six exhibitions, Kwitch had won three.

This year, though, hardly anyone expected anything from them. Every starter on the Kwitch team that had taken the 2022 Platform Exhibition had announced they would sit this one out.

The exhibition had always selected first for skill and name recognition, and the result was that lineups barely changed from year to year. A face here, a substitute there. Never anything seismic. This was the first time all five members had been replaced from the year before—an outright anomaly.

Some of them had been broadcasting on Kwitch for ages and had simply never been picked. Others were rookies who had only just found a foothold. Among the starters there was one rising star people called the greatest prospect the scene had ever produced, but he had yet to prove a thing in a team setting, and one player alone, however brilliant, had an obvious ceiling. Viewers took it as given that this roster could not win.

The result could not have been further from what anyone expected.

They had won—and not by scraping through. They had won while putting an overwhelming level of play on display, and they had done it undefeated. Not a single loss, scrims included, all the way through the official matches.

If someone who hadn't watched asked how a team like that could possibly have taken the title, most people would have given the same answer. You'd get it if you just watched.

An interview had been set for Youngest and Oldest, the team that had won the exhibition.

First up was Spax of KZ: active pro, and the man who had taken the coach's seat for Youngest and Oldest.

"First, let's meet this event's coach, Spax. Hello!"

"Ah—ah, can you hear me?"

"Yes, loud and clear! Spax, this is the first time we've seen you since LOCK//IN, isn't it?"

LOCK//IN was the most recent international event, and Spax had fallen just short there in the semifinals. A sore spot, as far as he was concerned. To anyone else a semifinal finish was nothing to be ashamed of—high, if anything—but Spax, at least, did not see it that way.

"Yeah... that's right. And here we are on LOCK//IN again. Ha ha."

"Aigoo, that was our slip. Ahem. Spax, this tournament was your first time in the role of coach. How did it feel?"

"Ah, coaching? Honestly, watching Coach Yoo Seonho do it, I thought the whole job was a total freeload."

From another player, a line like that might have been a problem.

"Puhahaha!"

"Turns out it's a lot harder than it looks. The guys played so well, I think we kind of won too easily."

The friendship between Coach Yoo Seonho and Kim Seungtaek had already ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠run four years, and the man who had found Spax back when he was still a middle schooler was none other than Coach Yoo himself.

"You're going to be all right dealing with the aftermath, yes?"

"Come on. Our coach isn't that petty."

"Well! We hope to see you at the PCT in one healthy piece, Spax."

"I am going to survive, right?"

"Ha ha. The aftermath is yours to deal with."

Once the coach's interview was over, the next guest was the Finals MVP.

"Next—this tournament's Finals MVP! Let's meet Eunha!"

Needless to say, that glorious seat belonged to the main entry. Eunha.

Chat surged like a tide. At the mere announcement that Eunha was about to appear, viewers were losing their minds.

"Wow, the audience is on fire."

"Well, she gave them a performance hot enough to earn it. Oh—we're connected. Eunha, hello!"

The play she had shown today was more than enough to captivate this many people.

"Ah... ah. Hello..."

At last she appeared: the player whose play had captivated every one of them. Viewers roared at her entrance.

Of course, the thing they were losing it over was subtly different from before. Maybe it was that young, attractive voice, the kind that could pull in anyone regardless of gender. Maybe it was that the owner of the voice was a fresh-faced seventeen-year-old high school girl. The biggest reason, though, was surely that the person all of those things belonged to also had the skill to stun every last one of them.

"Eunha, your voice is shaking quite a bit. Are you all right?"

On the interview, she did not sound well at all. She sounded like someone one step from collapsing.

"Ah... I used up too much energy..."

"Aigoo... then you must be exhausted, so we'll keep this quick. You've been named MVP of this match. How do you feel?"

"It's just—the entry role is a position that stands out. If you play badly, you stand out for how badly you played, and if you play well, you stand out for how well you played. That's how I think of it. Our team was so good that I wonder if that's the only reason I stood out."

Eunha had sat through interview after interview back in her pro days, so a promotional event like this did not make her nervous. The point was simple. She had played well, but the team had played well too, and she was in a position that drew the eye, and that was why she had been given MVP. A thoroughly standard answer. The casters, of course, had no intention of letting it pass.

"So—entry is a role that stands out the better you play it, and you got MVP because you played well. That's what you mean?"

The interview had been full of respect for her teammates, but folded inside it was confidence in her own play. The tells were obvious. Entry stands out exactly as much ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠as you play well. I was the one who stood out most on the team. Casters who had interviewed plenty of pros did not miss it. If this had been the PCT, they might have let it go. But the Platform Exhibition was a tournament full of broadcasters, and broadcasters do not let a point like that slip.

"Uh... yes, that's right? Ah—! No, that's not what I—!"

The reaction was nothing like the interviews she was used to, and Eunha was thoroughly rattled. Inside Project A she improvised like a genius. Out here, she was just a mess.

"So you're saying you didn't play well?"

"No, not that! I... I did play well, but the team matched me? Backed me up? That's what made it poss—"

"Ah! 'I did play well.' Now that is the confidence of a player named MVP!"

"We were joking. Next question. From where we sat, your playstyle changed sharply starting with the second set. Was that a team adjustment?"

"...No."

She seemed to deflate even further in an instant. Nothing like the monster she had been in-game—she looked frail. That gap, of course, was part of her charm, and the viewers liked her this way too.

"It's just that AFS is the kind of team that wins on raw weight class. So I fought them the same way. If you clash using different strengths, you can't know how it'll end. But if the same strength goes up against itself, the heavier side wins every time, right?"

This answer was not like the one before. Before, the confidence had only leaked out between the lines. Now she was stating it outright.

Humbling herself and lifting the team was only a habit worn in over a long life as a pro. When it came to Project A, there was no one more overflowing with confidence than Choi Eunha.

A mid-sized company, XX—also a subcontractor of the conglomerate H Group. From the president's office of that XX, a middle-aged man's shout was ringing out.

"You little shit! I told you to stop causing trouble!"

It was the voice of the president himself, Kim Hyeongcheol. He had been tearing his hair out over his disaster of a nineteen-year-old son, Kim Dongwon, and this was that same disaster again. One week the boy was begging him to sue somebody. The next, he was the one on the verge of being sued.

"Haa. You just lie low for now. I'll handle it."

"Honestly. Not a single quiet day with this worthless son of mine."

"Uh... sir? You have a visitor...?"

"Haa... who is it, this early in the morning?"

The president's voice was frayed. As a rule, the employees of XX left him alone when his son had put him in a mood, and whenever they could, they tried to handle things quietly. This visitor was not someone they could brush off.

"It's... someone from H Group..."

"...What? Who?"

"It's... Director Choi Eunseo. He's here in person."