The trio returned to the clan house in silence.
MC ORCA handed Hye-Jin her coffee and Sung-Woo his orange juice. No one spoke. Even the generator seemed to hum lower, as if sensing the mood.
Chan-Sik leaned against the wall, arms crossed, staring at nothing.
"I got it," he said suddenly.
Before anyone could react, he grabbed his jacket and bolted out the door.
"Wait, where is he going?" Min asked.
MC ORCA smiled, faint but knowing.
"I think he's got an idea."
Min frowned. "That was fast."
"You remember how things used to be?" MC ORCA said. "Before the networks went dark. Before Red Pulse. We fought other clans. Took wins where we could. Built names by force."
Min nodded slowly.
"We're at the bottom now," MC ORCA continued. "Which means if we're climbing back up… we don't play safe. We play to destroy."
Min exhaled. "Figures."
The house filled again with the sound of keyboards, clacks and clicks echoing off concrete walls. Matches ran back to back, screens flashing, hands moving on instinct.
But Min couldn't focus.
Soo-Yeon's face kept surfacing between engagements. Her voice. The way she'd looked at him, half regret, half resolve.
Eventually, the noise stopped. Hye-Jin stretched and leaned back. Sung-Woo cracked his neck. Break time.
The clan house felt emptier without Chan-Sik.
The generator still hummed, steady and indifferent, but the sharp edge was gone. No commands. No corrections. Just the low glow of a single monitor.
Min sat across from MC ORCA at the same battered table they'd used years ago.
"Feels weird," MC ORCA said, stretching his arms. "Just us again."
Min smiled faintly. "Like kids sneaking in after curfew."
MC ORCA laughed. "Except now everything hurts."
They loaded into a casual match.
No pressure. No stopwatch. No audience.
Min played loose, testing ideas, slipping into rhythm. MC ORCA played the way he always had: scrappy, unpredictable, built on reads instead of raw mechanics.
"You remember that rooftop setup near the river?" MC ORCA asked, eyes still on the screen. "Ran cables through laundry lines?"
Min laughed softly. "Jae-Hwan almost fell off."
"Worth it," MC ORCA said. "That match paid for three weeks of food."
Small skirmishes played out on screen. Feints. Pullbacks. Nothing lethal.
"Back then," MC ORCA said, "it wasn't about control. It was about surviving tomorrow."
Min nodded. "Now it feels… heavier."
MC ORCA glanced at him. "You feel guilty?"
Min hesitated. "Sometimes. For leaving. For coming back."
"Don't," MC ORCA said. "If you hadn't left, you wouldn't be here like this. Focused. Sharp."
Min watched the minimap, then disengaged cleanly at the last second.
"You're calmer," MC ORCA said. "That's new."
"I had a year to be scared," Min replied. "Got tired of it."
They played in silence for a while.
"Chan-Sik thinks this next match matters," MC ORCA said eventually. "Not the prize. The audience."
Min nodded. "Street cred."
"Exactly. People don't care how good you are until someone they trust loses to you."
Min smirked. "Same as always."
MC ORCA leaned back. "Han-Ryeong talks big, but he's watching. They all are."
Min's fingers slowed.
"You ready for that?" MC ORCA asked.
Min finished the engagement cleanly before answering.
"I don't want to be famous," he said. "I want Mapo back."
MC ORCA smiled. "That's why you'll win."
The match ended quietly. No GG. No celebration.
Outside, the sky darkened.
Somewhere across the city, Chan-Sik moved through basements, rooftops, and back rooms, listening, asking, hunting.
And when he found the right door to knock on, everything would change.
Min stared at the idle screen, hands resting on the keyboard.
Old rhythms never really left.
They just waited.