Archive of Our Own ^beta

Mo Guanshan never expected to stream full-time.

Sure, gaming was something he'd always enjoyed, and yelling at strangers online came more naturally than filling out job applications. But if you told him a year ago that losing yet another job — his third that year — would push him to become "DontCloseMountain," a small but steadily growing Twitch streamer, he'd have laughed and gone back to folding uniforms at the dry cleaner.

Yet here he was. Living off noodles, hoarding instant coffee packets like currency, and stringing together just enough subscribers and pity donations to get by — barely.

His setup was modest: a secondhand monitor with a fading line across the middle, a scuffed gaming headset, and a webcam he always tilted slightly upward to hide the clutter of his apartment. 

His audience wasn't huge, but they were loyal — enough to fill his chat box with emojis and inside jokes, especially when he went on his trademark rants mid-game.

"Mountain, you gonna rage-quit again or what?" a user called SpaghettiMom typed during one particularly bad run of Apex.

"Not today, Satan," Guanshan muttered into his mic. "I'm chill."

He wasn't. But he smiled anyway, half sarcastic, half entertained by the chat's roasting. Streaming gave him something close to routine. An escape. And on some nights — when his kill count was high and the chat was buzzing — it almost felt like he was winning at life.

Almost.

The problem was, winning didn't pay rent.

Guanshan was scraping by. His Twitch earnings couldn't cover his electricity bill, let alone rent. He'd applied to a dozen jobs last week and hadn't heard back from any. The weight of it settled between his shoulder blades every time he leaned over his desk. Every night he closed his eyes to sleep, he did math in his head — calculating how many subs it would take to survive, how long until his landlord kicked him out.

Then one night, something unusual happened.

He was mid-stream, halfway through a sleepy late-night streaming when it popped up on screen:

$500 donation from 69tian.

His mouse froze. His heart skipped, too.

"Uh... okay," he said, blinking at the alert like it might disappear. "That's... not a typo?"

The chat blew up.

SpaghettiMom: WHOA
user700: Yo who is 69tian??
littlechili: MOUNTAIN YOU SUGAR BABY NOW??
catchaser: LUCKY AF

Guanshan scratched the back of his neck. "Well. Damn. Thanks, uh... '69tian'? That's a... name."

He chuckled awkwardly, trying not to look directly at the name for too long. It was clearly a joke — a reference to something crass and juvenile — and yet there was something about it that made his scalp prickle.

It wasn't just the number or the smirk-inducing username. It was how it appeared. Sudden. Silent. Very weird.

Still, five hundred dollars was five hundred dollars.

That night, he didn't sleep much. He kept checking his Twitch page, refreshing the donation logs just to make sure it wasn't a scam. But it was real. The money processed. Cleared. Landed in his account.

And the next day, he streamed again — not because he wanted to, but because for the first time, it felt like there's something to look forward to.

The next few days, Guanshan kept seeing the name pop up in his donation alerts.

69tian has donated $100.

69tian has gifted 20 subs to chat.

69tian: nice kill, Mountain.

It was the first time the dono sent a chat — a simple message attached to a $200 tip. The message lingered longer than the money in his head.

It was flattering. And eerie.

Guanshan wasn't used to this kind of attention. He wasn't the hot guy with a ring light and a charming smile. His streams weren't polished. He swore too much, his lighting sucked, and sometimes he got too real about his life on air.

But whoever 69tian was... they liked it. Or him. And he may never understood why they do.

And before he knew it, Guanshan was looking forward to seeing the name in chat. He'd start streams with a glance toward his alerts tab, pretending he wasn't hoping for it.

He told himself it was gratitude. Just gratitude.

One late-night steram, Guanshan received a different type of message.

It wasn't public this time. It was a whisper — a private Twitch DM.

69tian: Hope the money helps. I'd like to ask for something in return.

Guanshan stared at it.

His fingers hovered over the keyboard. He had no idea what to reply.

DontCloseMountain: What kind of something?

There was a pause. A long one.

69tian: Nothing weird. Just say my name out loud in stream sometime.

Guanshan leaned back in his chair.

"What the hell..." he muttered under his breath.

He didn't respond right away. Didn't want to encourage it. But he also... didn't stop streaming. And 69tian didn't stop donating. The requests, when they came, were subtle. Harmless, almost. Compliment the chat. Show your face more. Read a comment in your real voice, not your "streamer" voice.

Harmless.

So why did it feel like hands pressing lightly against the back of his neck every time the name appeared?

It was one of those nights where the silence outside was louder than the sound in his headset.

The game music had long faded into background noise. Guanshan had played through three rounds of Valorant and rage-quit twice. His energy was low, his voice hoarse from shouting at his screen, and the lag in his internet was pissing him off more than usual.

He glanced at his viewer count: 73. Not bad for a Wednesday night.
The chat, though, had slowed. People were bored. And so was he.

He yawned into the mic. "Alright, chat, let's switch it up. I'm not in the mood to shoot anymore heads tonight. Let's talk."

Messages rolled in like a tide.

Chevy19: Ayyy chill stream
SpaghettiMom: Finally
Jianjian: Story time?
user700: Ask us stuff too

He leaned into his mic. "Okay. You can ask me anything. Just don't get weird about it."

The chat exploded.

Jianjian: Favorite food?
ChickenAss: First kiss?
Sheisangry: Are you single?
Babygirl: What's your type tho
SpaghettiMom: Don'tCloseMountain has a secret gf confirmed?

He rolled his eyes. "Single. And none of your damn business," he muttered with a grin. "Next question."

Then, from a username he recognized immediately:

69tian:Ever been in love?

Guanshan's cursor froze over his stream dashboard. He could've ignored it. Could've laughed it off. But for some reason... he didn't.

He leaned back, stared at the screen, and for a moment, he forgot the 73 people watching. Forgot the notifications. Forgot the spotlight.

He rubbed the back of his neck. "I mean..."

The words stuck, rusty and dry. But they came anyway.

"There was someone," he admitted. "Back in high school."

The chat paused for half a beat — then flooded in again.

SpaghettiMom: OMG story time
user700: Tell us more
Jianjian:What happened
Babygirl: Was it serious??

He let out a breath, almost laughing at himself. "Nah. It wasn't anything. Just... someone."

He kept his voice casual, tried not to let the warmth reach his ears.

"He was one of those people that made everything feel like a dare. Annoying, flirty, impossible to read. He teased me all the time — called me stupid names, tried to get under my skin. And he did. Every damn day. Thought I hated him for a while."

The memory came back stronger than expected — the smirk, the glint in his eyes, the way he said "Don't close Mountain," every time Guanshan snapped at him.

That's where the username came from. He'd typed it out as a joke once. Then it stuck.

"I didn't hate him," he said, quieter now. "I think I was... obsessed. In a dumb, teenage, confusing way. It never went anywhere. He disappeared after graduation. Haven't really heard from him ever since. But he did leave me this PC that I use up to today."

He let that hang in the air. No names. No details.

Just a fragment of something half-dead, buried deep.

The chat buzzed, but he didn't read it right away. His eyes were blurry. And then suddenly,

69tian has donated $1,000.

His heart skipped.

He sat up straighter. "What the hell?"" he muttered, lips dry.

Then came the message attached:

69tian: That was a beautiful story. Thank you for sharing it.

He stared at it. For a long time. He couldn't believe his eyes. He thought that this 69tian guy had a lot of money to waste on a low life streamer like him. It was surreal.

Guanshan couldn't shake the feeling for the rest of the night. Something in him shifted — something warm, anxious, a little sick. He ended the stream early, blaming lag, and lay awake in bed with his phone face-down on the pillow beside him.

Why now? Why this?

And how the hell did one viewer — one dono — have this much power over him?

The next day, curiosity won.

He messaged them.

DontCloseMountain: Hey. Who are you?

No response for a minute. Then:

69tian:  69tian. But you can call me whatever you want.

Guanshan scowled at the response. The way he messages really remind him of a certain someone. Someone that still kind of lives in the back of Guanshan's mind.

DontCloseMountain: Seriously. What do you want from me? You've been donating tons to me. I am thankful but I think it's too much.

69tian:I just want To hear and watch you. That's all.

Another message popped up before he could react.

69tian: Here's a number. Burner phone. Call me.

Guanshan stared at the digits on screen. Something in his gut twisted. He tapped the number into his phone. It rang once. Twice. Three times.

Click.

Silence.

"...Hello?" he asked, cautious.

There was no answer. Just soft static.

Then his phone buzzed.

Text from Unknown: Just keep speaking. I like your voice.

It was the weirdest call of his life. He hung up after five minutes. Blocked the number. Tried to shake it off.

But he didn't stop streaming.

And 69tian didn't stop donating.

One night, Guanshan was editing clips in the dim glow of his dual monitors, the only light in his apartment coming from the flickering screen and the dull hum of the city outside. His headphones hung loosely around his neck, faint echoes of audio edits playing softly as he trimmed timelines and tweaked cuts.

Then the screen flickered.

Just for a second.

A brief distortion—almost like static—ran across both monitors. He paused, brows knitting together.

Then it flickered again. Longer. Sharper.

He frowned and instinctively reached for his mouse. Nothing moved. The cursor was frozen dead center.

His stomach sank.

And then — the camera light turned on.

A sharp, green dot in the dark.

Click.

"What the fuck?" Guanshan muttered, his voice barely more than a whisper. He stared at the light, confusion mixing rapidly with dread. His fingers hovered over the keyboard, but nothing responded. Not escape. Not Ctrl+Alt+Del. Nothing.

Suddenly, a window bloomed open on his screen.

Discord.

His Discord.

He hadn't opened it.

He hadn't touched a thing.

The app loaded itself sluggishly, almost like it was dragging something with it from the bottom of the digital abyss. And then a call launched — video.

The caller ID:
69t_backup

Guanshan's heart dropped into his stomach. His breath caught in his throat.

69t? 69tian?

No. Impossible.

And yet — there it was.

The call connected.

And the screen lit up.

Not with an icon. With an empty camera feed.

“What the actual fuck?” Guanshan whispered, his voice trembling.

No response.

Until the screen behind the video call flickered again, revealing something layered beneath the Discord window.

Photos. Screen grabs.

Of Guanshan.

From tonight.

From seconds ago.

Him editing. Him frowning. Him confused.

The final one — him staring in horror at the screen.

Guanshan’s blood turned to ice.

He didn’t hesitate — he lunged toward the plug and yanked it out from the wall with every ounce of force he had.

The monitors went black. The fan in the CPU clicked to a halt.

But then behind him, he heard a soft chime.

Bing.

From his phone.

Still lit. A message notification from a number he didn’t recognize.

Unknown number: You shouldn’t have done that, Mo Guanshan.

For the next two days, Guanshan didn't stream. Didn't even open his PC. He would sleep with one eye open if he could.

He turned off every notification, unplugged his webcam, and stuffed it in a drawer like it had teeth. He refused to touch Discord. Every time his phone buzzed with a burner number, he ignored it — until the same number texted.

Unknown number:  You still drink black coffee with two sugars.
Unknown number: Meet me at Wanhua Café. 9PM. I'll be at the back."

No name. No push. Just that.

Guanshan stared at it for a full minute. He had enough of this 69Tian. No amount of donations could compare to the horror he felt that night - and today, he planned to put an end to it. He brought a pocket knife with him and grabbed his coat.

Guanshan’s pulse thudded in his ears as he stepped out of the café, scanning the empty street. The night air bit into his skin, neon signs flickering dimly above the cracked pavement. His hand tightened around the knife. Each step toward the alley made his heart pound harder.

That message from the unknown number — it kept echoing in his head. He had to end this. Whatever this was.

A shuffle behind him made him spin around, blade raised.

A figure stepped out of the shadows — tall, familiar, annoyingly casual. His face was half-hidden, but Guanshan recognized that presence instantly. His chest clenched.

“Stay back. I’ve got a knife!” he warned.

The figure didn’t move.

“I said, stay the hell back.” His grip tightened.

But in one fluid motion, the man stepped forward and grabbed his wrist. The knife fell from Guanshan’s hand like it was nothing.

“Long time no see, Don’t Close Mountain,” the voice drawled.

Guanshan froze. The neon above flickered, finally revealing the bastard’s face — He Tian.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” Guanshan growled, yanking his arm back. “You’re the one behind this crap? You’ve been messing with me for weeks?”

He Tian smirked, cocky as ever. “I like to think of it as… watching over you.”

“I ought to stab you with your own damn ego,” Guanshan snapped. “You think this is funny? You scared the hell out of me! You think showing up like some cryptic stalker erases whatever nightmares you planted in my head?!”

He Tian shrugged, the smirk faltering just a bit. “It wasn’t supposed to go that far.”

“You’re unbelievable,” Guanshan muttered.

There was a pause. He Tian looked away for a second, dragging a hand through his hair. “I didn’t know how to come back. I didn’t know if I could. So I just… kept my distance. Donated to your stream here and there. It was the only way I could still see you without... crossing a line.”

“Oh, and this isn’t crossing the line?” Guanshan scoffed, gesturing wildly between himself and He Tian with the knife.

He Tian winced. “Okay, fair. But when you started talking about that love story on stream…” He exhaled. “I got greedy. I saw the opening from there. I wanted back in.”

Guanshan stared, chest tight. “You could’ve just messaged me, you moron.”

“I thought you’d ignore me,” He Tian admitted, voice quieter now. “It’s been a long time. You’ve always been good at shutting people out.”

Guanshan narrowed his eyes. “Okay, then riddle me this — how the hell did you get into my PC?”

He Tian blinked. “...Borrowed access?”

“Borrowed?!” Guanshan’s voice shot up. “You went through my personal files and you’re calling it borrowing?!”

“I didn’t snoop too much,” He Tian said quickly, hands raised in mock surrender. “I just wanted to see if… if I was still in there somewhere.”

“And?”

“Well…” He Tian gave a crooked smile. “You kept a folder. With my pictures. Cute ones, too.”

Guanshan’s face burned. “I don’t—! That’s—! I—God, you’re the worst.”

“I know.” He Tian stepped forward, a little softer this time. “But I’m sorry. For everything. I just... I couldn’t stay away anymore.”

Guanshan stared at him, every part of him tense. Then, with a sigh, he muttered, “You’re a pain in the ass.”

He Tian grinned. “But I’m your pain in the ass.”

Guanshan raised an eyebrow, trying not to let his lips twitch. “You really have no shame.”

“Zero.” He Tian leaned in, brushing their fingers together. “Can I start over?”

Guanshan looked down at their hands, then back at him. “You pull this shit again, and I will make sure you regret it.”

He Tian smiled. “Deal.”