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Chapter Text

The crowd only ever saw her smile. Bright, radiant, camera-ready. To them, she was the cheerful prodigy, the girl who broke into a boy’s world and won.

But “Smiling” had been forged in the dark.

At fifteen, she was stolen from her world—shoved into the back of a van, wrists bound, breath gagged. Her parents tried to protect her. They didn’t survive. For weeks she lived in a warehouse that smelled of rust and despair, where every creak of the door could’ve been her last.

And then—chaos. Gunfire. Boots on concrete. A soldier kneeling in front of her, cutting her free. Calm eyes beneath a helmet.

“You’re safe now,” he told her. “I’ve got you.”

That man was Captain Li. He didn’t let her slip away into the system. He taught her how to fight back, how to read danger, how to think. “Strength can be taken,” he said, moving a pawn across a chessboard. “Strategy wins before the battle begins.”

Games followed. First chess, then tactical drills, then computer games. And somewhere in the glow of a cheap monitor, Tong Yao stopped being just a survivor. She became a strategist.

When she made her first gamer account, she stared at the empty ID box and typed one word: Smiling.
A dare to herself. A promise that she wouldn’t let the world take her smile away again.

By the time ZGDX called, Smiling was already a name people whispered online. Calm under fire. Calculating. Deadly when she wanted to be.

• Lu Sicheng, sharp-tongued ADC, tested her mercilessly. He smirked when she didn’t break.

• Lao K, the jungler, was blunt and skeptical—“Don’t slow us down.” The first time she pinged the map seconds before an ambush, saving his jungle route, he grunted. Later, after a scrim, he muttered, “Not bad. You think like a jungler.” Coming from him, that was basically a love poem.

• Ming, the original mid, eyed her like a rival. But when she pulled off a dive he wouldn’t have dared, he found himself impressed despite himself.

• Lao Mao, the quiet Top laner, gave her a single shoulder pat after she rotated to save his lane. No words, just the weight of acceptance.

• Pang, the happy-go-lucky support, was the first to make her laugh. After her first scrim, he shoved a bag of chips across the desk.

  “First blood buys snacks. You carried, so you’re exempt. Don’t tell Cheng-ge.”
  His grin was so wide it was impossible not to smile back.

• Xiao Rui, their coach, looked at her like the missing puzzle piece had finally clicked into place.

And just like that—she wasn’t alone anymore.

Now the stage lights burned down on her, the roar of the arena thundering in her chest. The name glowing above her avatar was simple, almost mocking in its sweetness: Smiling.

The countdown began. She breathed in, steady. She remembered Captain Li’s words, said years ago when she left for university:

“Don’t just live to survive, Tong Yao. Live to win.”

And win she did. Every keystroke, every call over comms, was more than a move. It was her story rewritten in real time—pain transmuted into skill, survival reborn into victory.

When the final screen lit up: Victory, the crowd erupted. Cameras found her face.

She smiled.

They thought it was beautiful. None of them knew it was born from tragedy, stitched together with courage, worn like armor.

But that was fine. Because when the world shouted her name, they didn’t shout victim.
They shouted—
Smiling.

Chapter Text

Tong Yao hadn’t meant to find a family inside a game.

The first week at ZGDX was brutal. The training room hummed with the clatter of keyboards, the glow of monitors casting long shadows over faces that barely looked at her. Every mistake echoed louder because she was the only girl, the newcomer, the one everyone was watching to see if she would crack. When her skillshot went wide in scrims, Lao K didn’t even bother lowering his voice.

Lao K: “Rookie hands. You’ll get eaten alive on stage.”

Tong Yao’s jaw tightened, ready to snap back, but before she could, a candy bar slid across her desk. Pang leaned over with a grin so bright it almost hurt to look at.

Pang: “Ignore him. Sugar boosts reflexes. Trust me, I’m basically a doctor of snacks.”
Tong Yao: (snorting despite herself) “That explains why you can’t run more than ten steps without wheezing.”
Pang: “Exactly. My sacrifice keeps me alive in-game.”

Even Ming, who carried the weight of captaincy like a second skin, showed cracks in his stern facade. When he found her still running drills long after midnight, her fingers stiff and eyes aching, he rested a hand on the back of her chair.

Ming: “You don’t need to kill your hands. Come back tomorrow.”
Tong Yao: “Not until I land this combo ten times in a row.”
Ming: (pausing, then quietly) “Stubborn. …But good.”

Bit by bit, something shifted. During a tense scrim, she caught the glint of a backdoor attempt and shouted the call before anyone else. They stopped it cold. Lao K’s eyebrow flicked upward, and his voice lost its sting.

Lao K: “Not bad. Map’s in your head like radar.”
Tong Yao: “Better than letting them stroll into our base.”
Lao K: (gruffly, but almost respectful) “Hn.”

Lu Yue, sharp-tongued and competitive, wasn’t generous with words either. But the day she found a sticky note on her monitor after practice, she stared longer than she meant to.

“You mis-timed your ult at 18:23. Rookie mistake. Fix it.”
At the bottom, almost squeezed in as an afterthought:
“Still carried lane though. …Don’t get cocky.”

And then there was Lu Sicheng.

The captain’s presence was quieter than Ming’s commands, sharper than Lao K’s critiques. He never raised his voice, but his sarcasm cut cleaner than any flame war online. The first time she over-extended in lane during practice, he didn’t even glance away from his monitor.

Lu Sicheng: “Do us a favor and stop speedrunning your own death. Respawn timers aren’t collectibles.”
Tong Yao: (bristling) “I know what I’m doing.”
Lu Sicheng: (deadpan) “Yes. Dying. Very professional.”

But when the pressure mounted, he was the one who steadied her without ceremony. In their first official match, her hands trembled as the countdown ticked. She tightened her grip on the mouse, nails biting into her palm—until Sicheng leaned just close enough for her to hear over the roar of the crowd.

Lu Sicheng: “Relax. Play your game. I’ll cover you.”

The words weren’t soft, but the certainty in them rooted her. And when her decisive mid-lane ult swung the game in their favor, it was Sicheng’s voice—flat but faintly satisfied—that cut through the chaos.

Lu Sicheng: “Good. About time you pulled your weight.”

Later, she caught the ghost of a smile tugging at his mouth when he thought no one was looking.

After a crushing loss weeks later, she stayed behind in the training room, headset still heavy on her ears, the silence pressing harder than the noise ever did. She didn’t hear Xiao Rui come in until his jacket fell across her shoulders.

Xiao Rui: “Losses happen. Don’t wear them like chains.”
Tong Yao: (quietly) “But if I don’t, why am I here?”
Xiao Rui: “Because you’re ZGDX. That’s enough.”

And when they won their first big tournament, it was chaos. Pang bounced in his chair, voice cracking as he shouted.

Pang: “Smiling! Smiling! Smiling!”

The rest of the team picked it up, their voices echoing hers back to her until “Smiling” no longer sounded like an online handle, or like a dare she’d given herself. It sounded like belonging. Even Lao Mao, who spoke sparingly, gave her a gruff nod.

Lao Mao: “Not bad.”

Which, from him, was thunderous applause.

On the ride home, the bus rattled, Pang passed around snacks, Ming argued rotations with Lao K, and Lu Yue complained about Pang’s playlist.

Pang: “Yao Yao, pick a song before Lu Yue kills us with sad indie rock.”
Lu Yue: “It’s called taste. You wouldn’t understand.”
Tong Yao: (laughing) “Fine. But only if I get to ban Pang’s playlist forever.”
Pang: “Treason!”

From the front, Sicheng didn’t look up from his phone, but his voice cut lazily through the noise.

Lu Sicheng: “Pick whatever you want. Just not Pang’s garbage. I’d like to survive the ride home.”

Tong Yao leaned back against the window, warmth humming in her chest. Somewhere between the sarcasm and the snacks, the critiques and the comfort, ZGDX had stopped being just a team.

They weren’t perfect. They were messy, loud, sometimes insufferable. But they were hers.

And when Tong Yao logged in, headset snug against her ears, the loading screen didn’t just signal another match.

It meant family.

Chapter Text

Tong Yao’s heart thudded as she stood outside the ZGDX base, suitcase handle gripped tight in her hand. Her first day. Her first step into professional esports.

For years she’d played, dreamed, argued in forums, climbed the ladder—and now here she was, about to walk into one of the best teams in the league.

She smoothed her hair, straightened her shoulders, and pressed the doorbell.

The door swung open, and her breath caught.

Lu Sicheng himself.

Tall, broad-shouldered, sharper in person than in every photo she’d pored over online. For one foolish heartbeat she thought she’d misclicked her way into a daydream. The captain of ZGDX standing in the doorway, phone in hand, gaze sweeping over her.

Calm down, Tong Yao, she told herself. You’re not a fangirl anymore. You’re his teammate now.

But before she could get her introduction out—before she could even say hello—he reached out, grabbed the takeout bag hanging from the doorknob, and shut the door.

Right in her face.

Tong Yao froze, suitcase handle biting into her palm. The sting of embarrassment bloomed hotter than her nerves.

Her phone was out before she realized it, thumbs flying with indignation.
ZGDX’s captain welcomes me by slamming the door in my face. Truly a man of culture.

She hit post with a sharp tap, satisfaction buzzing through her chest. A few seconds later, muffled laughter drifted from inside.

The door creaked open again. Lao K leaned against the frame, phone in hand, his face as impassive as always, though his lips twitched.

Lao K: “You know your post is already trending in the team chat, right?”

Tong Yao raised her chin and marched past him, suitcase rattling defiantly across the threshold.

And there he was again. Lu Sicheng, leaning against the wall, arms crossed. His eyes flicked from her to the glow of her phone screen.

Lu Sicheng: “Delete it.”
Tong Yao: (snapping) “No.”
Lu Sicheng: “Fans are already tagging me. They’re calling me ‘Door God.’”
Tong Yao: (lifting her chin) “Then maybe you shouldn’t have slammed the door in someone’s face. Or were you never taught any manners?”

The silence that followed was sharp enough to cut. Lao K raised a brow, clearly enjoying the show.

Before either could escalate, Pang came bouncing in like a referee, grin wide and unhelpful.

Pang: “Whoa, whoa—save the teamfight for scrims, not the hallway. Yao Yao, come on—I’ll show you your room. Door God can stew later.”

Tong Yao let Pang tug her away, though her glare stayed locked on Sicheng until the corner of the hall cut him from view.

That night, sprawled on his bed, Sicheng admitted to himself he’d handled it badly.

The truth was, he’d recognized her long before she walked through ZGDX’s door.

The hotel lobby during Spring Championships—standing beside their manager, awkward yet certain.

The supermarket—hovering over the last two-liter water bottle like it was treasure, before deciding to stash it atop toilet paper packets, stretching on tiptoe as if hiding it made it invisible. She looked like she was playing Tetris, and he’d nearly laughed out loud.

The lift—shopping bags dangling from her arms as she jabbed at the floor button with her elbow until he reached over to press it for her.

At the time, her antics had been amusing, oddly magnetic. He hadn’t expected her to appear on his doorstep as ZGDX’s new mid. Recognition tangled with surprise, and he’d done what he always did—covered it with sarcasm.

Maybe she was right. Maybe he really did lack manners.

The next day, they ended up in his car, heading for the supermarket. She needed basics, and somehow he’d been volunteered as chauffeur.

Silence stretched until he broke it.

Lu Sicheng: “For the record… I wasn’t trying to be disrespectful yesterday.”
Tong Yao: (arms crossed) “Slamming the door in someone’s face is a funny way of showing respect.”
Lu Sicheng: “I was caught off guard.”
Tong Yao: “By what? A person at your door?”
Lu Sicheng: (glancing at her) “By you.”

Her breath hitched, just a little. He kept his eyes on the road.

Lu Sicheng: “I’d seen you before. Lobby. Supermarket. Lift. Didn’t expect you’d show up here. It threw me. I handled it… poorly.”
Tong Yao: “So that’s your apology?”
Lu Sicheng: (dryly) “Don’t push it. I said I handled it poorly. …And I’m sorry.”

The words lingered heavier than his sarcasm.

Tong Yao: (sighing) “Anyway, I need more than groceries. My room still doesn’t have half the basics—desk, chair—”
Lu Sicheng: “Let’s be clear: I’m driving you to the supermarket, not a furniture store. You want a bed frame, you’re on your own.”
Tong Yao: (rolling her eyes) “Trust me, if I needed someone to carry furniture, you’d be last on the list.”
Lu Sicheng: (smirking) “Good. We agree on something.”

At the supermarket, Tong Yao marched down aisles with purpose, while Sicheng pushed the cart with one hand, scrolling his phone with the other. He pretended indifference, but in truth, he was enjoying himself—her comebacks came sharp and fast with every jab he threw.

Tong Yao: “You’re supposed to help, not act like this is a time trial.”
Lu Sicheng: “I am helping. I’m pushing the cart.”
Tong Yao: “With one hand. That doesn’t count.”
Lu Sicheng: “Efficiency. You should try it sometime.”

The detergent shelf nearly defeated her. She stretched up on tiptoe, wobbling dangerously.

Before disaster struck, he reached past and plucked the bottle down easily.

Lu Sicheng: “Impressive. Nearly destroyed an aisle. Do they teach that in mid-lane?”
Tong Yao: (snapping back) “At least I don’t need stilts to see my teammates.”
Lu Sicheng: (chuckling) “Says the one waging war on shelves.”

Later, she hopped furiously for a pack of yogurt drinks on the top shelf. He leaned back, watching with open amusement until she spun to glare at him.

Tong Yao: “Are you seriously just going to stand there?”
Lu Sicheng: “Why stop a live comedy show?”

Finally, he grabbed the pack—only to hold it just above her head.

Lu Sicheng: “Heroic rescue complete. Want me to autograph it?”
Tong Yao: “If you try, I’ll pour it over your head.”

His laugh was low, unguarded. And though he’d never say it aloud, he liked this—her fire, her comebacks, the way she refused to bend.

Back at the base, they wrestled through the door with bags dangling from their arms. Pang’s head popped out instantly, eyes gleaming.

Pang: “Whoa—did you two go shopping or on a honeymoon? Look at you, couple goals with matching grocery bags!”

Tong Yao nearly tripped over her shoes.

Tong Yao: “It was just shopping!”
Lu Sicheng: (deadpan) “If that was a honeymoon, I want a refund.”

Pang cackled, clearly delighted at the flush rising on Tong Yao’s face.

Pang: “Sure, sure. Keep telling yourselves that.”

She stormed down the hall with her bags, muttering, while Sicheng lingered long enough for Pang to catch the faint smirk tugging at his mouth.

Chapter Text

By the time Ming finally told the truth about the fight—the one that had nearly ended his career and left Lu Yue banned—everything changed. Pang had spent months believing that Lu Yue had thrown punches just because he could, reckless and arrogant, costing them their shot at Worlds. It turned out to be the opposite: Lu Yue had stepped in when goons showed up, furious over their team’s humiliating loss. He’d defended them. He’d taken the punishment, and Ming’s old injury had given way in the chaos.

The revelation left Pang hollow with guilt. He’d judged Lu Yue harshly, refused to welcome him back, and worst of all, he’d shared that fight clip without thinking. The fans had torn into both Lu Yue and Tong Yao until Ai Jia’s livestream cleared the air. Officially, the matter was settled. The management docked Pang two months’ salary as punishment for acting without permission. But to Lu Yue and Tong Yao, it still wasn’t enough. Money didn’t erase the sting of being vilified by fans, of seeing strangers tear them apart for something neither of them had done.

One night, Lu Yue slouched onto the couch where Tong Yao sat scrolling through her phone. He watched her for a moment, noting the small furrow in her brow, the way her thumb scrolled faster whenever old comments about “leaking videos” popped up. He asked lightly, “Still bothered?”

Tong Yao shrugged, not looking at him. “They thought it was me. They moved on. They always do.” But her voice was a shade too sharp, a little too tired.

Lu Yue smirked to cover the glint of sympathy in his eyes. “Good to know you’re still mad. Makes what I’m about to suggest easier.”

That earned him a side-eye. “What are you plotting?”

He leaned closer, lowering his voice as though Pang might be listening from another room. “He never really got what he deserved for dropping that video. Don’t you think?”

Tong Yao hesitated. For a moment she wanted to dismiss it, but then she remembered the fans’ accusations, the sleepless nights of watching strangers decide she was a liar. Her lips curved in a slow smile. “You mean… a lesson?”

“Harmless,” Lu Yue promised, already grinning. “Annoying, but harmless.”

She chuckled, shaking her head. “Annoying like… kale crackers instead of chips?”

“Exactly.” His eyes gleamed. “Enough to make him crazy, not enough to get us benched.”

Tong Yao laughed, but there was steel behind it. “Fine. But if Sicheng yells, I’m pointing at you.”

Neither of them noticed Lu Sicheng leaning against the doorframe, phone in hand. He’d heard enough, the corner of his mouth twitching in the faintest smirk. He didn’t say a word, just walked away, filing the conversation away for later.

It began with Pang’s snack cabinet, every noodle cup and chip bag neatly swapped out for kale crackers. The next morning he tore through drawers in disbelief, muttering about ghosts. Tong Yao and Lu Yue bit back laughter in the hallway, only to catch Sicheng watching them again. For a moment she thought he’d scold them—but instead he murmured, “Top shelf, behind the rice cooker. He hides chocolate bars there too.” Then he walked away without another word.

By day two it was Pang’s PC: hotkeys swapped, mouse sensitivity jacked so high his champion jittered like a puppet. Every time he tried to ward, the speakers screamed, Sorry, I was wrong! Sicheng passed by again, glancing at the tangled USB cords as Tong Yao stuffed them back under the desk. “Change his wallpaper too,” he said mildly. “He hates inspirational quotes.”

The pranks continued: his in-game name altered on the scrim server to TrustYourTeamPang, his phone ringtone swapped so that the whole house erupted with Apologize to Lu Yue and Tong Yao! whenever his mother called. Pang’s curses rattled the walls, his sulking filled the dorm, and Lu Yue’s smirk grew smugger by the day.

Ming noticed, of course. So did Xiao Rui. One afternoon, the three of them sat in the office while the team ate lunch. Ming leaned back in his chair, thoughtful. “We should probably stop this before it goes too far.”

Xiao Rui sipped his tea. “They’re blowing off steam. No one’s hurt.”

“They’re also making a point,” Sicheng said quietly. “Pang went behind my back. He went behind all of us. And I know what they agreed to—harmless, just annoying. I heard them promise it.” His tone was steady, almost cold. “So let them have it. Pang deserves to sweat a little.”

Ming gave him a look, equal parts weary and amused. “So you’re letting them?”

“I’m watching,” Sicheng said. “If it gets in the way of practice, I’ll stop it. Until then, we wait.”

They all fell silent for a moment, and in the end Ming only sighed. Xiao Rui rubbed his temple but didn’t argue. For the time being, they would let it run its course.

It went on for nearly a week. The rest of the team pretended not to notice, though everyone had their suspicions. Pang grew more paranoid, his snacks dwindled, his dignity shredded with every shriek from his sabotaged speakers. He tried to retaliate once, but his efforts fizzled out in the face of Tong Yao’s innocent blinking and Lu Yue’s shameless denial.

It all came crashing down during a scrim. Pang’s support dove in at dragon pit; he mashed what should have been Flash, only to watch his champion wave healing sparkles at the air. The misplay cost them the fight, then the game, and Pang exploded, slamming his headset on the desk.

Sicheng swiveled in his chair, tone cutting through the noise like a blade. “Enough. This ends now.”

The room stilled. Tong Yao dropped her gaze to the keyboard, cheeks burning. Lu Yue tilted his head, arms crossed, still defiant. Pang looked ready to protest, but Ming’s calm voice cut in. “You’ve had your fun. And Pang—you made your mistake. You hurt them, even if you didn’t mean to. But this back-and-forth is eating into our training, and that hurts all of us.”

Xiao Rui folded his hands on the desk. “No more sides. No more dragging this out. Everyone apologizes, and we move forward. We can’t chase Worlds if we’re chasing each other.”

Pang’s shoulders sagged. His voice was quiet, but steady. “I was wrong. I didn’t trust you, Lu Yue. I should have. And I’m sorry, Tong Yao, for dragging you into it.”

Tong Yao blinked, surprised by the sincerity. Lu Yue raised a brow, mouth twitching toward a grin.

“Well?” Sicheng said, gaze sliding to his brother and his mid-laner.

Tong Yao sighed. “Fine. We forgive you.”

Lu Yue leaned back, satisfaction curling in his voice. “But you’ll never live down kale crackers.”

Pang groaned, covering his face with his hands. “I hate you both.”

But later that night, when he tossed a real snack pack into Tong Yao’s lap and muttered something about “truce,” his grin betrayed him.

The room felt lighter. The pranks stopped, the training steadied, and laughter returned to the dorms. They were messy, loud, infuriating at times—but unmistakably, they were a team. A family. And this time, Pang understood that fully.

Chapter Text

Two days had passed since the C City disaster. Tong Yao was quieter than usual, her head bent over her screen, her smile forced when Pang cracked jokes.

But what weighed heavier than her suspension notice or the pay cut was the silence.
Lu Sicheng’s silence.

He spoke to her in scrims. Issued commands in-game. But outside of that? Nothing. Not a glance, not a word.

By the third night, Lu Yue had had enough.

He found Sicheng in the kitchen, pouring water into his mug. The captain’s posture was the same as always — straight, controlled, untouchable.

Lu Yue: “You’re being an ass.”

Sicheng didn’t flinch. He stirred his drink calmly.

Lu Sicheng: “Good evening to you too.”

Lu Yue: “Don’t pull that crap. With Tong Yao. Two days of silent treatment — what the hell is that supposed to be?”

This time, Sicheng’s eyes flicked up, sharp.

Lu Sicheng: “It’s supposed to remind her to keep herself in check. I told her not to let herself get baited.”

Lu Yue’s voice rose, echoing off the quiet kitchen walls.

Lu Yue: “She was baited! Management threw us into a circus without warning, let those showgirls walk all over us, and then punished her when she finally snapped. She’s already paying for it — suspension, pay cut — and now you? You’re punishing her twice!”

Sicheng slammed his mug down on the counter, water sloshing.

Lu Sicheng: “She made the team look undisciplined! You think I can just ignore that?”

Lu Yue: “Undisciplined? She was the only one standing up for us! If one of us had retaliated, it would’ve been twisted into assault — we’d be finished. She’s the only one who could push back without destroying the team’s image, and you know it!”

From the dark hallway just outside, Tong Yao froze. She’d come out for water, slippers whispering on the floor — but Lu Yue’s voice, sharp with anger, rooted her to the spot.

Her heart pounded. She shouldn’t listen. But she couldn’t move away either.

Inside, Sicheng’s jaw tightened. His hand curled against the counter, knuckles white.

Lu Yue: “Back when I got banned, I stayed away. Thought none of you wanted me anymore. Do you know what that felt like? Like I’d already lost my place. Like the team was better off without me.”

Sicheng’s shoulders stiffened. His eyes flickered — just for a moment — with something like guilt.

Lu Yue: “That’s exactly what you’re doing to her. She’s not just punished — she’s doubting her place here. And with the way you’re acting? Cold, silent? How the hell is she supposed to know you’re not planning to get rid of her?”

Sicheng’s composure cracked. His voice snapped louder than usual, raw.

Lu Sicheng: “Because I’m not! I would never—”

The words rang through the kitchen — and the hallway. Tong Yao’s breath caught in her chest.

Lu Yue’s glare didn’t soften.

Lu Yue: “Then start acting like it. Because right now, your silence is telling her otherwise.”

The kettle clicked in the silence that followed.

Tong Yao, hidden just around the corner, pressed a hand to her chest. Her throat was tight, but for the first time in days, something eased inside her. Someone still believed in her. Someone was still willing to stand up for her.

She crept back to her room before they could notice her, heart a little lighter.

Later that night, when she returned after brushing her teeth, there was a note under her door:

Next time, don’t waste yourself on idiots. We’ve got matches to win. –L.S.C.

It wasn’t an apology. But it was enough to make her smile through the heaviness.

Chapter Text

Lu Sicheng wasn’t used to feeling off-balance. He was the one who read the map three steps ahead, who predicted the plays before they happened, who never let himself be caught off-guard. But for two days straight, he couldn’t shake Lu Yue’s words.

Lu Yue of all people — the one who rarely took anything seriously, who joked through scrims and bickered just to pass time — had been the one to knock sense into him. And now here Sicheng was, the captain who always demanded accountability, forced to reckon with his own silence.

“That’s exactly what you’re doing to her. She’s doubting her place here. And with the way you’re acting? How the hell is she supposed to know you’re not planning to get rid of her?”

The sting wasn’t that Lu Yue had said it. The sting was that he’d been right.

That was how Lu Sicheng ended up knocking on Tong Yao’s door.

She tugged off her headset, expecting Pang with some excuse, and swung the door open—

Only to find Lu Sicheng himself standing there.

Her eyebrows shot up.

Tong Yao: “Well, this is a surprise. The great Captain God at my door. What could you possibly want to talk to me about?”

He shifted awkwardly, hands shoved in his pockets.

Lu Sicheng: “Don’t get used to it. Can we talk?”

She leaned against the frame, arms crossed.

Tong Yao: “As long as you don’t slam the door in my face again.”

He stepped inside, shoulders tense.

Finally, he spoke, voice rough.

Lu Sicheng: “I was being unnecessarily harsh.”

Tong Yao blinked. Then, very slowly, she leaned back in her chair, lips twitching.

Tong Yao: “...Did the great Captain God just admit fault? Do you want me to call the others so they can hear this miracle too?”

He scowled but pressed on.

Lu Sicheng: “You’d already been punished enough. By management. By the suspension. By yourself. You didn’t need me piling on.”

Tong Yao arched a brow, clearly enjoying herself.

Tong Yao: “Mm-hm. Keep going.”

His eyes narrowed, but he did.

Lu Sicheng: “But don’t think I was angry for no reason. When you got suspended, it wasn’t just you paying the price. It was all of us. Our training, our coordination — everything we’d built around you — gone. The team bled for that mistake onstage.”

He paused, jaw tight.

Lu Sicheng: “And outside, people started questioning me. Saying I misjudged you. That I treated you unfairly. I don’t care what strangers think — but they had reason to doubt my leadership, and that’s on me as much as it was on you. That’s why I was furious. Not because I didn’t believe in you, but because I needed you to understand what your choices cost.”

Tong Yao sat frozen, her heart sinking as the truth landed. For the first time, she saw clearly: her punishment hadn’t been hers alone. It had rippled through everyone.

She drew in a shaky breath, guilt pressing down.

Tong Yao: “I… I was impulsive. You’re right. But watching them sit there and sneer, acting like we were beneath them—your silence, everyone’s silence—felt like letting them keep doing it. Like enabling it. And I couldn’t stand that.”

For a moment, Sicheng said nothing, his expression unreadable. Then his voice softened, though it carried the steel of a captain.

Lu Sicheng: “I get it. I do. And you weren’t wrong to feel that way. But actions like that—you need to think them through. Make sure they don’t backfire on you, or on us. If you hit back, it has to be at the right time, in the right way. Otherwise, you take all the damage yourself.”

Her throat tightened, the sting of both his warning and his understanding settling heavy. And before she could stop herself, the deeper fear slipped out.

Tong Yao: “Still… you know what I thought these last two days? That maybe you were going to kick me off the team.”

The words hit him harder than any insult. His head snapped up, eyes sharp.

Lu Sicheng: “What? No. Never. That’s not—”

He stepped closer, voice fierce.

Lu Sicheng: “You belong here. With us. Don’t ever doubt that, shorty.”

The silence stretched, heavy.

Finally, he spoke again, quieter.

Lu Sicheng: “...Lu Yue was right. I was being an ass.”

Tong Yao blinked, startled, then smirked.

Tong Yao: “Did I just hear that? Should I record it for posterity?”

He glared.

Lu Sicheng: “Don’t look so smug. It doesn’t happen often.”

Her grin softened.

Tong Yao: “You’re terrible at apologies. But… I forgive you. Even if you were an ass.”

Relief flickered before he covered it up.

Lu Sicheng: “Forgiven by a shorty. How humiliating.”

She threw a pillow at him. He dodged and slipped out with a smirk.

Elsewhere in the base, Lu Yue had cornered the rest of the team.

Lu Yue: “You all went along with it. The silent treatment. Why?”

The room went awkwardly quiet. Lao K shrugged.

Lao K: “Didn’t like it. But he’s the captain. Hard to step in.”

Lao Mao: “I figured he’d cool off on his own…”

Pang: (grumbling) “I hated it, but I didn’t know what to do either.”

Yu Ming’s calm voice cut in.

Yu Ming: “And that’s exactly the problem. None of us should’ve left her to think she was on her own.”

Silence again. Then Lu Yue folded his arms, eyes gleaming.

Lu Yue: “Fine. Then we fix it. He wants to act like Captain God? Let’s bring him down a peg. Pranks. Lots of them.”

The idea caught like wildfire.

The next morning, the prank war began.

Alarm Sabotage: His alarm set two hours earlier.

Mouse Trap: Mouse sensitivity lowered to a crawl, then taped underneath so it wouldn’t move at all.

Chair Swap: His gaming chair replaced with the squeaky conference room one.

Coffee Betrayal: Pang replaced his black coffee with extra-sweet milk tea.

Wallpaper Mischief: Lao Mao changed his desktop background to a giant photo of himself giving a thumbs-up, with “Captain God ♥” scrawled across it.

Schedule Swap: Xiao Rui planted fake sticky notes: “Apology Rehearsal – 2 PM.”

Keyboard Chaos: Lao K swapped his keycaps so W and S were reversed — Sicheng kept walking backward in-game.

Mic Mayhem: Tong Yao herself bent his headset mic so close it caught every breath, making him sound like a wheezing dragon in voice chat.

Yu Ming’s Touch: Calmly logged into Sicheng’s Weibo from the lounge PC and liked three random “Captain God Door Slam” memes in a row.

By noon, the captain’s eye was twitching so hard Pang swore it might get stuck that way.

He shoved back his chair — squeak echoing — and stood, glaring at the room of suspiciously innocent faces.

Lu Sicheng: “...Alright. Point made.”

His gaze swept over them, landing a fraction longer on Tong Yao.

Lu Sicheng: “She knows she’s not alone. And she knows she belongs here. Satisfied?”

The team blinked. Then Pang grinned.

Pang: “If the captain admits defeat, there’s only one thing left.”
Lu Sicheng: (sighing) “Hotpot?”
Team, in unison: “Captain God treats!”

On the way out the door, Yu Ming fell into step beside Sicheng. His voice was calm, but his words cut.

Yu Ming: “I get why you were angry. I’ve never been in her position, so I can’t pretend I understand what it’s like. But the way you handled it? Not right. And if it happens again…” (his calm smile sharpened) “...pranks won’t be the only thing you’ll have to deal with.”

Sicheng’s jaw tightened. He didn’t answer, but the message landed.

Later, while the others argued over who was paying the bill, Yu Ming drifted closer to Tong Yao.

Yu Ming: “For what it’s worth, I wouldn’t have allowed it. If anyone tried to dismiss you from the team, I’d speak up.”

She blinked, startled by the quiet certainty in his voice. He offered a small smile, then returned to the group as if it were nothing.

But Tong Yao carried the reassurance with her into the hotpot restaurant, chest lighter than it had been in days.

That night, the whole team crowded around bubbling pots, chopsticks clattering, voices loud. Tong Yao wedged between Pang and Lu Yue, Sicheng squashed into the corner by Lao K, Yu Ming quietly sliding extra beef into her bowl whenever she wasn’t looking.

The chaos only grew when the server brought out more plates of meat. Sicheng, ever the captain, tried to salvage some authority.

Lu Sicheng: “Fine. Hotpot. But shorty pays if anyone orders extra beef.”
Tong Yao: “You wish. Captain God can foot the bill.”
Team (in unison, banging chopsticks on the table): “Captain God treats! Captain God treats!”

Pang nearly fell off his chair laughing, Lao Mao snapped a picture for blackmail, and Lu Yue looked smug enough to burst.

Sicheng pinched the bridge of his nose, muttering about ungrateful teammates, but the corner of his mouth betrayed a reluctant smile.

Tong Yao glanced around the table, warmth rising in her chest. For the first time since C City, the heaviness was gone.

Family wasn’t always blood. Sometimes, it was the people who pranked you, teased you, fought you — and still made sure you never sat alone.

Chapter Text

The lounge had gone quiet after Yu Ming’s explanation. Too quiet.

For once, even Pang had nothing to say. Lao K stared at the floor, Lao Mao’s phone hung slack in his hand. No one looked at Lu Yue, who sat stiff-shouldered, jaw set.

And Lu Sicheng—Lu Sicheng turned away, storm written in every line of him.

“Ming Shen. With me.” His tone allowed no argument.

The door to the strategy room shut behind them with a hard click.

Inside, silence pressed down until Lu Sicheng broke it.

Lu Sicheng: “You should have told me.”

Ming Shen’s voice was steady.

Yu Ming: “Lu Yue asked me not to. He was seventeen. He didn’t want you dragged into it.”

Lu Sicheng: “He was a kid. And you were the adult. You should have known better.”

Lu Sicheng’s voice rose, sharp enough to cut.

Lu Sicheng: “Do you realize what your silence cost us? Ming Shen, you lost your career. Lu Yue was banned. We lost Worlds. And me? I spent months pulling strings, cleaning up a mess I didn’t even understand — because you decided I didn’t need to know.”

His voice cracked, not with weakness but with fury barely contained.

Lu Sicheng: “You’re not just my teammate. You were my closest friend. The one I trusted most. If even you keep me in the dark, who the hell am I supposed to rely on?”

Ming Shen’s calm faltered.

Yu Ming: “If I’d told you, you’d have carried it all on yourself. I thought—”

Lu Sicheng: (cutting in) “That was my choice to make. Not yours. Not his. Mine. I’m the captain. I’m his brother. And that means every fight, every mistake, every consequence falls on me first. You don’t get to decide what I can or can’t handle.”

His eyes snapped back to Ming Shen, sharp and unrelenting.

Lu Sicheng: “And don’t fool yourself — you weren’t protecting him. You were being impulsive. You thought charging in was the answer, and you got yourself injured. That cost the team Worlds. Not just Lu Yue’s ban. Not just his mistake. Yours too.”

Both Ming Shen and Lu Yue stiffened, shock plain on their faces. They had never put it into words that way.

The door cracked open then, and Lu Yue slipped inside. His face was pale but his voice was firm.

Lu Yue: “Don’t blame him alone. I told him to stay quiet. I didn’t want the others looking over their shoulders, wondering if esports was worth risking broken bones for. I thought… if I carried it, they wouldn’t have to.”

He swallowed, looking between them.

Lu Yue: “I was stupid. Reckless. I thought being a Lu meant I could take the fall and walk away fine. I was wrong. And I’m sorry.”

For a long beat, Lu Sicheng just stared. His little brother, seventeen back then, drunk and hot-headed, carrying the weight of decisions he shouldn’t have had to make.

His voice came low, edged with steel.

Lu Sicheng: “That was never your burden to carry. You were a kid. It was my responsibility as captain. Mine. And Ming Shen should have known that.”

Then Ming Shen’s voice joined, quieter now.

Yu Ming: “And I’m sorry too. You’re right, Captain. I should have told you. Even if we decided not to tell the rest, that should have been your call as captain. I thought I was protecting the team, but I only kept you in the dark. That wasn’t mine to choose.”

The words landed heavy.

What none of them realized was that the rest of the team had drifted close, the door cracked just enough for voices to slip through. Pang muttered, “See? It was Lu Yue’s fight that cost us Worlds. He dragged Ming Shen down with him.” Lao K and Lao Mao murmured agreement.

Tong Yao’s voice cut through quietly but firmly.

Tong Yao: “No. You’re not listening. Cheng Ge’s right — Ming Shen made a choice too. He could have called. He could have warned you. He didn’t. That’s why he’s apologizing. Both of them share the blame. Cheng Ge deserved the truth back then.”

The others went silent, exchanging uneasy glances. It was uncomfortable, seeing Ming Shen — the steady one, the calm one — held accountable. But the truth was hard to argue with.

Slowly, grudgingly, they nodded.

Back inside, the tension lingered — until Lu Sicheng let out a long breath, his shoulders dropping. He met their eyes, first Ming Shen’s, then Lu Yue’s.

Lu Sicheng: “Fine. You both screwed up. But you’ve said your piece. That’s more than I expected.”

Relief flickered in Ming Shen’s expression. Lu Yue’s jaw eased, if only slightly.

That evening, the team ended up crowded into their favorite hotpot place, noise and steam rising around them.

The mood was lighter now — Pang teasing, Lao Mao snapping pictures, Lao K methodically loading Cheng Ge’s bowl with vegetables just to annoy him.

When the server brought the bill, Pang snatched it up first.

Pang: “Alright, punishment time. Lu Yue, Ming Shen — you two are covering this.”

Ming Shen only nodded, calm as ever.

Yu Ming: “Fair enough.”

Lu Yue groaned dramatically.

Lu Yue: “Why me? I didn’t even order half this stuff. Ge ate all the beef!”

Lao Mao: “Doesn’t matter. You fight, you pay.”
Lao K: “Team rules.”

Pang: “Yeah, Ming Shen’s owning up. Why can’t you?”

The squabbling went in circles until the server set the check neatly in front of Lu Sicheng.

He stared at it, then at his teammates, who were all trying and failing to look innocent.

Lu Sicheng: “Figures. I’ve got a banned little brother, an injured ex–mid laner, and four freeloaders for teammates. And somehow, I’m still the one paying.”

The table erupted instantly.

Pang: “Who’s freeloading?!”
Lao Mao: “I carried the drinks!”
Lao K: “I literally ordered the vegetables!”
Tong Yao: “You wish you could call me a freeloader, Captain.”

Their protests overlapped into laughter, voices loud and warm.

Lu Sicheng only smirked into his tea. Teammates or freeloaders — either way, they were his. And if footing the bill was the price of forgiveness, he’d pay it every time.

Chapter Text

It started small.

After a scrim, another team’s jungler sent Tong Yao a polite “Good game, looking forward to the rematch.” She answered with a quick thank you and set her phone down.

Sicheng saw the message over her shoulder. His lip curled before he could stop it. Of course. Another one sniffing around. Another player mistaking courtesy for interest. He couldn’t exactly rip the phone out of her hand and say, “No collecting strays.” So instead, he muttered, “Stamp collector.”

Tong Yao frowned. “Excuse me?”

“Another one in your album.”

“I was just being polite,” she said firmly, and left it at that.

She didn’t see how long his eyes lingered on the chat window after she walked away.

Captain Stamp’s POV

Some mid-laner from another team — couldn’t even remember which one, that’s how irrelevant he was — waved in Tong Yao’s direction as they left the stage. And of course, she waved back. Bright smile, polite as always.

Lu Sicheng’s jaw tightened. Typical. She was polite to everyone. Genuine. That was the problem. Other players mistook courtesy for interest, gratitude for invitation. And he couldn’t exactly storm across the stage and growl, “Back off, she’s mine.” Not unless he wanted headlines, bans, and a PR nightmare.

So instead he leaned down, muttering as she returned to her seat: “Stamp collector.”

She blinked. “It was just a wave, Captain.”

“First wave, then stamp,” he said, flat as math.

She rolled her eyes and turned away, but he caught the faint flush at her cheeks. And that irritated him even more.

Because here he was, the one actually sitting beside her every day, making sure she ate meals, covering for her misplays — and yet it was some rival mid-laner earning smiles.

Unacceptable.

Still, he couldn’t call her out for it directly. Not yet. Not until he figured out how to redirect all that attention — fans’, rivals’, and hers — right where it belonged.

On him.

A week later, a rival mid-laner waved to her across the stage after a match. Tong Yao, ever genuine, waved back.

Sicheng leaned down as she sat. “Stamp collector.”

She turned, exasperated. “It was a wave, Captain. Waving is not collecting.”

“First wave, then stamp,” he said flatly. Like it was math. Like he hadn’t just spent the last five minutes fantasizing about breaking the other guy’s mouse.

Tong Yao rolled her eyes so hard she nearly sprained something.

The third time was during a livestream. Fans clipped a playful exchange between her and another player in chat. She’d only said, “Don’t throw the game again!” followed by a laughing emoji.

When she came back to the practice room, Sicheng was waiting. “Stamp collector.”

“Are you serious?” Tong Yao demanded. “It was an emoji!”

“That’s how albums fill fastest,” he deadpanned.

She groaned and stomped off to get bubble tea, muttering about ridiculous captains.

Captain Stamp’s POV

He was scrolling Weibo when the clip hit trending.

Tong Yao’s name. Another player’s tag. A laughing emoji. With him.

Sicheng stared at the screen, blood pressure spiking. Laughing? At his joke? He refreshed the clip twice to be sure. No, it was there. The smile, the teasing line, the emoji that made the other guy beam like an idiot.

Unbelievable.

By the time she walked in, he was already seated at her desk, arms folded, glare sharp enough to cut glass.

“Stamp collector.”

She blinked like he’d lost it. It was just an emoji, she said. He didn’t answer, only repeated, That’s how albums fill fastest.

She stormed off, and he slumped back, jaw tight.

Because if she could toss an emoji at someone else that easily, why did it feel like pulling teeth to get one out of her for him?

By the fourth time, Tong Yao was done.

It happened after a post-match interview where another team’s AD carry praised her Orianna play. She’d nodded, smiled, and said thank you. That was it.

When they got back to the base, Sicheng leaned against her desk. “So. Which page are we on in your stamp album now?”

Tong Yao froze. Then slowly turned to face him. Her teammates perked up instantly at the sharp edge in her voice. “You’ve been calling me that for weeks. I’ve ignored it. But if you’re that desperate, Captain… maybe you just want to get yourself stamped, too?”

The room went still.

Lu Sicheng blinked. “…Excuse me?”

“Yeah,” Tong Yao said sweetly, her eyes flashing. “If you’re so desperate to make the collection, all you had to do was ask.”

Pang exploded with laughter, clutching his stomach. “SHE SAID IT! SHE SAID IT!”

Lu Yue collapsed across his keyboard, wheezing. “Captain Stamp!”

Even Ming allowed himself a dry, amused chuckle. “Looks like the collector’s collected you, Cheng.”

Sicheng’s ears went crimson. “I was not—”

“Protecting the team?” Pang interrupted gleefully. “Or protecting your spot in her album?”

The practice room dissolved into chaos. Tong Yao crossed her arms, satisfied. “Not so fun when it’s your turn, is it?”

Captain Stamp’s POV

He’d seen the whole interview backstage. The way the guy leaned in too close, smiling too wide. Complimenting her like he’d just discovered Orianna existed. And Tong Yao, oblivious, had smiled back.

Sicheng’s fingers had twitched so hard he nearly snapped his mouse in half.

Now, back at the base, leaning against her desk, he couldn’t help himself. Which page are we on in your stamp album now?

But he hadn’t expected her to snap back. Hadn’t expected the words to cut so clean: Maybe you just want to get yourself stamped, too.

The world tilted.

Pang howled, Lu Yue nearly fell out of his chair, Ming smirked like he’d been waiting for this all season.

And Sicheng—Sicheng stood there with his ears burning, cornered by his own jealousy, watching her grin like she’d finally evened the score.

Unacceptable. Infuriating.

And, if he was honest with himself—
Inevitable.

Epilogue I — Captain Stamp, Off the Record

The practice room had finally gone quiet.

Pang had been dragged off by Xiao Rui, Lu Yue was still hiccupping laughter all the way down the hall, and Ming had retreated with the faintest smirk. The chaos was over, but the damage was done.

Sicheng was still sitting at his desk, fingers drumming against the mouse. His ears no longer burned, but his pride sure did.

He waited until the door clicked shut behind the last teammate before turning to Tong Yao, who was calmly packing up her keyboard. Too calm. Suspiciously calm.

“You think you’re clever,” he said.

Her lips twitched. “I don’t think. I know.”

“You called me out in front of everyone.”

“You started it. Stamp collector this, stamp collector that. You deserved it.”

“I was protecting the team.”

She arched an eyebrow. “Protecting the team… or just yourself?”

His throat tightened. Damn her.

She smirked, stepping closer. “What’s wrong, Captain? Afraid you won’t make it into the collection?”

He scoffed, leaning back in his chair. “Please. If I wanted in, I’d be the centerpiece. Not some dusty corner stamp.”

“Oh?” Her smile sharpened. “Then why are you so worried about it?”

Silence stretched. For once, he had no retort.

At the doorway, she glanced back, eyes glinting. “Don’t worry, Captain. If you behave, maybe I’ll save you a page.”

The door shut before he could think of a comeback.

Lu Sicheng slumped back, covering his face with one hand. His pride was in tatters. His team was never going to let him live this down.

And the worst part?

He didn’t want just a page.
He wanted the whole book.
And he wanted to be the only one in it.

Epilogue II — The Collector’s Choice

Tong Yao’s footsteps echoed lightly in the empty hallway as she left the practice room.

Her grin lingered, but her chest felt strangely warm. She’d meant to tease, to flip his own words back on him, to win just one round against Lu Sicheng’s relentless smugness. Watching his ears burn while Pang and Lu Yue nearly fell out of their chairs? That had been victory enough.

And yet…

She replayed the look on his face in her mind. Not just annoyed. Not just embarrassed. Something sharper, heavier, almost possessive.

She’d tossed out the line about saving him a page in her “collection” as a joke — but for a split second, the thought had stuck. What if he actually wanted it? Not just a page, but the whole book?

Her cheeks heated at the idea, and she pressed her bag strap tighter to her shoulder. Ridiculous. She wasn’t interested in collecting stamps. She never had been.

But if Lu Sicheng wanted to be the only one in her album…

Tong Yao bit back a smile, ducking her head as she walked. Maybe she wouldn’t mind that.

Not one bit.

Chapter Text

The first time it happened, Tong Yao didn’t know what to do.

It was her second week at the base, and the team had run out of instant noodles. A grocery run later, they were unloading bags at the register. Tong Yao reached for her wallet, but before she could even unzip it, Sicheng was already handing over his card.

“Wait—” she blurted. “I can pay for my own things.”

Sicheng didn’t even look at her. “Shorty, if I had to explain accounting to you, we’d both starve. Drop it.”

The cashier beeped through the last pack of beef jerky. Tong Yao stood there with her card in hand, cheeks warm, as the others strolled out like nothing unusual had happened.

It wasn’t a one-time thing.

Delivery? Sicheng tossed his card at Pang without looking up from his phone.
Late-night snacks? Same routine.
Hotpot after scrims? Bill landed in Sicheng’s hand like it belonged there.

Every time, Tong Yao fumbled for her wallet. Every time, Sicheng ignored her. And every time, the rest of the team carried on as if this were the most natural law of the universe.

One night, fed up, she cornered Pang.

“Why does he always pay? Doesn’t it bother anyone else?”

Pang blinked. “That’s just how it works. He pays, we freeload.”

“Don’t fight it,” Lao K added from the couch, eyes glued to his phone. “You’ll only look silly.”

Lu Yue perked up instantly, grinning. “Exactly. It’s totally unfair. Ge buys me bubble tea every time I ask. Tragic, really.”

Tong Yao groaned. “You’re hopeless.”

The turning point came after her first MVP win. The team dragged her to hotpot, banners and memes about “Smiling MVP” still flooding her notifications.

When the bill came, she reached instinctively for her wallet. “At least let me cover my part—”

Sicheng gave her a look. Dry. Flat. Unimpressed.

“You think you’re special? You’re not. Everyone here is expensive. Get used to it.”

Before she could answer, Pang chimed in, waving his chopsticks. “Captain Credit Card strikes again!”
Lao K hummed his agreement. “Captain Wallet’s reflexes are faster than mine in jungle.”
Lu Yue clutched his chest dramatically. “Ge, I thought you loved me, but all this time I was just a line item on your expense report.”

The table erupted in laughter. Tong Yao froze—then it hit her. This wasn’t just about money. This was ritual. This was how they teased him, how they pulled him down from his pedestal, how they reminded each other they were family.

So she leaned back, smirk tugging at her lips, and threw in her own jab:

“Careful, Captain Wallet, or I’ll start ordering lobster.”

The team roared their approval. Pang nearly choked on his broth. Lao K gave her a solemn nod of respect. Even Lu Yue pointed at her like she’d just scored a pentakill.

Sicheng sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Freeloaders. Every last one of you.”

Tong Yao grinned, dipping a shrimp into the bubbling broth. “Guess I belong here, then.”

On the way out, Sicheng rested his hand briefly on her head. Quick, careless. Not careless at all.

Chapter Text

The van rattled back from the arena, full of the afterglow of victory.

“Such a hard match,” Pang sighed dramatically, clutching his stomach. “I’m exhausted. Starving. Probably too weak for cheap noodles tonight.”

“Mm,” Lao Mao added, voice grave. “After such grueling labor, a simple man could dream of… beef hotpot.”

“Not just beef,” Lao K said smoothly. “Premium cuts. Wagyu. That’s the taste of victory.”

Even Xiao Rui joined in with a long-suffering groan. “Ah, management paperwork is endless… if only I could heal my soul with fresh shrimp.”

Lu Yue, never subtle, piped up brightly: “Ge, wouldn’t it be tragic if your own brother wasted away from malnutrition?”

They weren’t asking outright. They were painting themselves pitiful, dangling hints like bait.

Sicheng, scrolling his phone, let them stew. “So much whining. If only hard work actually made you good.”

“Boss Cheng Ge,” Pang tried again, “surely you understand the importance of team morale—”

Sicheng looked up at last, one brow raised. “Morale? Lao K, didn’t you smite Baron thirty seconds late today?”

Lao K bristled. “That was strategy.”

“And Pang,” Sicheng added lazily, “didn’t you flash into a wall?”

“That was… tactical zoning!” Pang yelped.

The van dissolved into laughter. The captain had their number and was making them pay in embarrassment.

But when the bus driver pulled into the lot of the most expensive hotpot place in town, the team whooped anyway.

The meal was loud, chaotic, perfect. Bowls clattered, broth boiled, chopsticks clashed mid-air. Sicheng covered the bill without looking twice.

And then, casually, he sealed his fate.

“Freeloaders. Every last one of you.”

The table went silent.

Pang slapped the table. “Excuse me? Support is the opposite of freeloading—I sacrifice everything so you can shine!”

Lao K jabbed his chopsticks in the air. “I farm jungle camps so you don’t have to. That’s charity.”

Lao Mao pointed accusingly. “Top lane is suffering incarnate. If anyone deserves subsidies, it’s me.”

Yu Ming adjusted his glasses. “I put up with all of you daily. That’s practically volunteer work.”

Xiao Rui sighed like a martyr. “And I manage sponsor calls. If that isn’t unpaid labor, what is?”

Lu Yue clutched his chest in mock betrayal. “Ge, if I’m a freeloader, then what does that make you?”

Sicheng didn’t flinch. “Someone who’s been paying for you since birth.”

The team groaned. Tong Yao nearly choked on her broth from laughing too hard.

Thus began the Freeloader War.

New rule: whoever freeloaded the most in daily life—dishes, laundry, chores, practice rotations—would pay for the next meal.

Suddenly, the base was unrecognizable. Pang dried dishes before anyone asked. Lao K actually showed up on time. Lao Mao folded laundry with military precision. Even Lu Yue tried to keep his corner clean (tried).

Tong Yao, of course, became the secret scorekeeper.

And she noticed something else. Sicheng wasn’t playing fair. He’d “forget” to rinse a bowl, “accidentally” leave his towel on a chair, deliberately miss a chore call. Yet no one dared write his name down.

Late one night, as he reached past her for water, she leaned in.

“I know what you’re doing,” she murmured. “Pretending you don’t care, so they’ll clean up after themselves while you still pay anyway.”

He arched a brow. “Prove it.”

She smirked. “Don’t need to. Thanks, Captain Wallet.”

His hand landed briefly on her head, a pat quick enough to dismiss. Not careless at all.

The Freeloader War never ended. But the base grew cleaner, discipline sharpened, and Sicheng—though he’d never say it—was quietly pleased.

Because if freeloaders made him pay, they also made him proud.

Chapter Text

Xu Tailun caught Tong Yao in a deserted corridor before the second round.
He pressed, demanded, twisted—insisting she should’ve denied what fans had uncovered about him. She refused. His grip tightened, slamming her wrist into the wall before pinning it there. Her only way out was to sink her teeth into his wrist until he released her.

She splashed water on her face in the restroom until her hands stopped shaking. By the time she rejoined her team, she wore calm like a mask. When Sicheng asked why she looked unsettled, she brushed him off.

Onstage, Xu Tailun’s hand was bandaged. Across the rows of monitors, he smirked at her. She rolled her eyes, pretending not to care. But Sicheng noticed.

That night, after the easy win, the team sprawled in the lounge. MVP jokes, food debates. Tong Yao let slip Xu Tailun’s name when downplaying her earlier award—and froze.

Sicheng didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to. He just crooked a thumb toward the door. “Outside.”

Confused looks followed her as she obeyed. The door shut behind them with a decisive click.

In the hall, his eyes were sharp. “Explain. All of it.”

So she did—at least the parts she could say aloud. Xu Tailun cornering her, demanding she protect him, her refusal, and finally the bite.

The moment the word left her lips, Sicheng’s face hardened. He flicked her forehead, cold and final. “Stay out here.”

The door shut again. This time, it locked.

Inside, the team blinked as their captain reentered.

“What was that about?” Pang asked.

“She bit Xu Tailun,” Sicheng said flatly. “That’s all you need to know.”

“Wait.” Lao K sat up. “Why would she bite him?”

“She wouldn’t do that without a reason,” Lao Mao added.

“You didn’t even ask her, did you?” Yu Ming said, voice sharp.

Sicheng’s silence was answer enough.

The base erupted—not with laughter, but with anger. Pang jabbed a finger at their captain. “You really locked her out? Without even asking why?”

Yu Ming’s voice cut through. “She’s the only girl on this team, cornered by Xu Tailun of all people, and your first thought was punishment?”

The air grew thick with accusation. Even Xiao Rui muttered about “captains with tunnel vision.”

Before Sicheng could answer, the door cracked open. Lu Yue stood there, sheepish, having undone the lock. And behind him, Tong Yao—frozen, pale, her eyes distant.

He touched her shoulder gently. “Shorty. What really happened?”

She swallowed, voice quiet but steady. She told them. About the wrist slammed into the wall. About being pinned. About biting him to escape.

The lounge went still.

Pang’s face twisted. “And you thought she should call for help? What if we were too late?”

Lao K cursed under his breath. “We were busy—distracted by their team. It was a setup. She had no one to call.”

One by one, the others turned on Sicheng again. Yu Ming’s voice was the coldest. “You should’ve protected her. Not locked her out.”

Sicheng’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing.

Later, in the quiet of his room, Sicheng sat with his phone untouched beside him. He replayed every word, every glare, every reminder that his silence had been the wrong kind of shield.

He hadn’t thought about the wrist. He hadn’t thought about the hallway. He’d only thought of the fallout—of fans who wouldn’t care about context, only about action. Of how easily she could be destroyed for one impulsive bite.

But he’d been wrong. Again.

Because what mattered first wasn’t the fans, or the fallout. It was her.

Chapter Text

It began the way most chaos did in the ZGDX base—Lao Mao yelling.

“Oi! Everyone get in here—someone made a highlight reel of us!”

That was enough to summon the team. Pang was first, tumbling dramatically onto the couch like it was a stage. Lao K dragged over a chair, balanced precariously on two legs, and dared anyone to stop him. Yu Ming and Xiao Rui leaned in from the doorway, curious. Tong Yao tucked herself onto the sofa’s far end with a blanket over her lap.

Last was Lu Sicheng, of course. He strolled in late, phone still in hand, and dropped into his armchair with the air of someone already regretting being here.

The screen lit up, music swelling.

The opening was pure glory: Sicheng kiting flawlessly, his ADC mechanics so clean the crowd screamed. Lao Mao and Pang started whooping like they hadn’t seen it a hundred times before. “Captain Dad carrying as usual!” Pang sang, reaching over to pat Sicheng’s arm. Sicheng swatted him away without looking up. “Old news,” he muttered, though the faint curl of his lips betrayed him.

Then Tong Yao’s first pentakill filled the screen, her IGN blazing across the killfeed. The fans in the video screamed her name, and in the room, Pang threw his hands in the air. “My mid-laner is a queen!” he bellowed. Tong Yao turned crimson. “Shut up!” she yelped, tossing a cushion at his face, which only made everyone laugh harder.

The reel shifted, and suddenly it wasn’t clean highlights—it was the chaos fans loved most.

On screen, Tong Yao shrieked into her mic: “Who stole my blue buff?!” The camera tilted just enough to catch Sicheng in the background, lounging smugly in his chair.

The room erupted.
“You’re busted, Cheng Ge,” Lao K said flatly.
“Blue buff bandit!” Pang cackled.
Tong Yao crossed her arms, glaring at Sicheng in person. “I knew it was you.”
He only hummed, smug as ever. “It respawns.”

The reel cut again: Lao K “accidentally” smiting red buff during scrims. Past-Sicheng’s voice snapped off-camera, “Junglers are supposed to share, not steal.” Lao K’s reply—flat as ever—“I was securing.” In the present, Lao K only shrugged, earning groans and laughter from the others.

Then Pang’s clip: a glorious dive under turret, obviously hoping for a montage-worthy support kill… followed immediately by his character’s death, the crowd roaring in laughter. The audio caught Sicheng groaning so hard it rattled the mic: “Support? More like sabotage.”

In the living room, Pang shoved a pillow over his face. “Fake news editing!”
“Accurate news,” Sicheng said smoothly, and everyone lost it again.

The next part was practically a running joke in the fandom. Yu Ming, back when he’d guested on a stream, leaning into the camera with a smirk: “Back in my day, mids didn’t whine this much about blue buff.”

In the present, Tong Yao groaned so loudly she nearly drowned out the laughter. “Ming Shen! Betrayal!”
“You did hit me with a pillow right after that,” Ming reminded her, and sure enough, the video proved it—pillow flying into frame, Ming laughing. Xiao Rui laughed too, shaking his head.

Then came the clips from serious matches where their antics had tested Sicheng’s patience.

The footage froze on his face mid-match—head tilted back against his chair, one hand pressed to his temple, the look of a man whose teammates had just invented a new way to ruin a lead. The captions fans added read: “Captain Dad’s patience: Legendary Rank.”

“Hey, that was your call to Baron!” Lao Mao protested in the present.
“My call was fine. Your execution was trash,” Sicheng retorted.
Pang slapped his knee, laughing so hard he nearly fell off the couch. “Look at his face, look at it! He looks like he’s calculating retirement plans in real time!”

The team howled, the sound bouncing off the walls of the base.

But the laughter dimmed when the reel turned again.

Sicheng’s expression after a crushing loss, stone still. Tong Yao’s suspension notice plastered on screen, hateful comments scrolling underneath. She stiffened, drawing the blanket closer. For a moment, it felt like the words were written across her skin again.

Sicheng’s jaw tightened. Without looking at her, he reached over and tapped two fingers against her knee. A tiny gesture, but enough. She glanced up, startled, and found his eyes fixed on the screen, hard and cold. But the message was clear: you’re here now, and that’s what matters.

Then Ming appeared, arm in a sling, headset slipping as he tried to smile through the pain. Yu Ming sighed softly in the doorway, but it was Sicheng whose expression darkened most—a frown sharp enough to cut.

Finally, Lu Yue: hood up, walking alone backstage after his ban. The clip froze on his retreating back. In the room, Sicheng’s fingers drummed once against the armrest, then went still. No one said a word.

The silence lingered, heavy. Even Pang didn’t joke.

But the video wasn’t done. The music swelled again, bright and defiant. Their national title. The golden lights. The roar of the crowd as they raised the trophy together.

Cheers filled the reel, and laughter slowly returned to the room. Pang threw an arm around Tong Yao and Lao K, squashing them against him. Lao Mao wiped at his eyes, muttering about allergies. Even Xiao Rui cracked a smile.

The final caption appeared: Through wins and losses, flame wars and pentakills, ZGDX is family.

For a beat, the common room was quiet again—but this time the silence was warm.

Then Pang, never able to resist, broke it. “Family, huh? Then family hotpot. And since family shares—Captain Dad pays.”

The room erupted into laughter and protests all at once. Tong Yao ducked her head, hiding her grin. Lao K and Lao Mao chimed in: “Boss Cheng Ge’s treat!” “Team Dad’s responsibility!”

Lu Yue leaned back, smirking. “Some things never change. Ge’s been paying since birth.”
That got the loudest laugh of all, even from Tong Yao, who glanced at Sicheng. His exasperated sigh was loud enough to carry over the chaos, but there was no real heat in it.

“Dream on, freeloaders.”

Chapter Text

Dabing’s reign began the moment Tong Yao stepped through ZGDX’s doors. The cat marched in first — tail high, eyes bright, every ounce of him screaming ownership.

Lu Sicheng took one look and sighed. “Keep it away from the aquarium.”
Naturally, Dabing strolled straight to the tank and batted a fin.

Tong Yao scooped him up. “He’s friendly.”
“He’s a menace,” Sicheng said flatly.
Pang grinned. “Congratulations, Boss Cheng Ge — you’ve been dethroned.”

The others weren’t instantly won over. Lao K grumbled about “new mids and their accessories,” Lao Mao worried about fur in his keyboard, and Xiao Rui warned that he’d start billing for lint rollers.
But one by one, they fell. A single blank stare from Dabing could shame anyone into submission — Lao K showed up the next day with treats “for team morale.”

Lu Sicheng tried to resist. The cat slept on his chair, batted his mouse, and once walked across his keyboard mid-scrim just to type “6666.”
When Sicheng benched Tong Yao after a mistake, Dabing marched into the captain’s room and toppled his coffee onto the notes.
“Sabotage,” Sicheng snapped.
“Justice,” Pang declared.

Later that night, Tong Yao found both of them asleep — Sicheng in his spare chair, Dabing curled on his.

Then came the incident that cemented his royal authority.

After the fan-meet disaster and Tong Yao’s suspension, Lu Sicheng had kept his distance — wordless and cold. For two days, he barely looked at her. Everyone at the base felt it like a weight. Only one being decided to act.

That morning, the aquarium lost a fish. No splashes, no evidence — just a single damp paw print on the table.

“Dabing ate one of my children,” Sicheng groaned, staring in horror.
Tong Yao bit back a smile. “Maybe he was sending a message.”
“Yeah,” Pang said cheerfully, “‘Stop being an emotional brick wall.’”

For once, Sicheng had no retort. And that evening, he slid a bowl of premium tuna under the table without a word. A truce — sealed in fish and forgiveness.

From then on, Dabing took his role seriously. He stopped every quarrel with strategic interruptions — jumping on keyboards, sitting on notebooks, or howling until someone produced snacks. When Lu Yue returned and teased Tong Yao a little too much, the cat ambushed him from the sofa. When Lao Mao pushed too hard during training, Dabing dramatically collapsed on the mat and refused to move until everyone quit.

The housekeepers called him “the little manager.” The team called him “tyrant.” Either way, he ruled.

He was also the team’s most subtle matchmaker.
When Tong Yao dozed off reviewing match videos, Dabing would yowl outside Sicheng’s room until the captain followed — only to find the cat nestled in Tong Yao’s lap, forcing him to throw his jacket over both of them.
During livestreams, he’d start between them and then shift onto her lap, bridging the space they pretended not to notice.
Fans noticed anyway. “Dabing’s shipping his parents again!” became a trending comment.

Even Lao Mao admitted grudgingly, “Cat’s got better rom-com instincts than Pang.”

When Tong Yao was locked out after another argument, Dabing stood guard beside the door until Lu Yue opened it. The next morning, Sicheng found a hairball in his shoe. Even he had to acknowledge the verdict.

Some days later, he caught the cat watching him and muttered, “I get it. I was an idiot.”
Dabing blinked slowly, approvingly. Case closed.

Over time, everyone joined his fan club.
Lao K brought snacks before every match. Pang bought a castle-shaped scratching post. Lao Mao built him a cardboard throne. Xiao Rui kept fish jerky as bribes to keep him off the routers. Even Yu Ming, when he visited as coach, paused tactical lectures to rub behind the ears of “the only player who listens.”

And the housekeeping staff? They spoiled him worst of all — treats, praise, and a custom blanket embroidered “His Royal Highness.”

By the next championship season, Dabing had become the team’s mascot and unofficial emotional support unit. He watched every scrim from the top of the monitor, chirped when Tong Yao landed kills, and turned his back whenever Lao K died to jungle mobs. The fans loved him so much that merch requests flooded the club before their next match.

Even Sicheng stopped pretending indifference. One quiet night, as Dabing dozed beside him, he murmured, “If winning her means bribing you with tuna forever … fine.”
The cat stretched, yawned, and purred in victory.

When ZGDX finally lifted the trophy again, Tong Yao raised Dabing high above her head.
“To our true captain!” she declared.

Pang cheered with milk tea, Rui snapped pictures, Lu Yue grumbled that even he was bowing to royalty now. Sicheng just shook his head, smiling despite himself.
“As long as he doesn’t eat the medal,” he muttered.

Dabing blinked, settled on Tong Yao’s shoulders, and looked out over his kingdom — the team he had trained, disciplined, and loved into one strange, perfect family.

Because at ZGDX, crowns weren’t for players.
They belonged to cats who ruled with claws, purrs, and flawless instinct for justice. 👑🐾

Chapter Text

It began, as all ZGDX scandals did, over something suspiciously wholesome.

Every morning, a perfectly brewed cup of coffee appeared on Captain Lu Sicheng’s desk — no one ever saw who brought it, but the timing was too consistent to be coincidence.
The team had their theories.

“Maybe the coffee fairy exists,” Pang mused one morning.
“Maybe the coffee fairy has eyeliner and an MVP trophy,” Lao Mao shot back.

Sicheng didn’t even blink. “You two seem undercaffeinated. Want to run extra drills?”
They didn’t ask again.

A week later, the “they’re totally dating” conspiracy gained momentum.

Pang caught Tong Yao leaving Sicheng’s room with Dabing cradled like a baby.
“Borrowing the cat?”
“Returning him.”
“Right, and you borrowed the captain’s shirt too?”

She glanced down at her oversized hoodie — navy blue, unmistakably his.
“…Laundry mix-up.”

Lu Yue looked up from his screen. “Sure. Same laundry room, same hoodie, same boyfriend.”
“Same mouth that wants to be fed through a straw,” Tong Yao replied sweetly.

Sicheng, overhearing from the hall, smirked and said nothing. She was learning fast.

They weren’t technically keeping it secret — just… not confirming it.
Which is why, when Sicheng offhandedly told her to “take a break from scrims,” and she suggested bubble tea, it wasn’t a date.
It was just two coworkers hydrating together.

At least, that’s what they told themselves.

The moment they stepped outside the base, disguised in hoodies and masks, the illusion of secrecy cracked.
Fans outside the café gasped, phones lifted like paparazzi spotlights.

Tong Yao froze. “We’re doomed.”
Sicheng’s reply was dry. “If we run, they’ll think it’s scandalous. If we sit, they’ll think it’s romantic.”
“So?”
He shrugged. “Might as well have a good drink.”

They sat — two professionals sipping quietly while Weibo exploded in real time.

ZGDX’s Captain God spotted with Smiling at milk tea shop!
‘It’s not a date,’ says source. Sure, Jan.

When they returned to base, the team was waiting in perfect formation.

Rui crossed his arms. “Have fun… hydrating?”
Pang grinned. “So, Captain, when do we get our bubble tea bonuses?”
Lu Yue just held up his phone. “You’re trending. Again.”

Tong Yao buried her face in Dabing’s fur. Sicheng merely said, “At least we look good.”

The unspoken agreement continued for weeks.
Everyone pretended not to notice the shared umbrella, the two toothbrushes in the bathroom, or Dabing choosing Sicheng’s lap more often than Yao’s now.
The base ran smoother than ever — mostly because nobody dared break the spell.

Then came the match in Nanjing.
They crushed their opponents. Adrenaline ran high. The team celebrated late into the night with takeout and mock interviews.

Pang: “Captain, any thoughts on Smiling’s amazing mid control today?”
Sicheng: “She played as instructed.”
Tong Yao: “You mean carried your lane?”
The room howled.

Mid-laughter, Tong Yao reached for Sicheng’s drink, took a sip without asking, and handed it back.
He didn’t hesitate before drinking from the same straw.

Every conversation died instantly.

Lao K blinked. “Uh… team bonding?”
Lu Yue: “Yeah, must be in the new handbook.”
Rui: “Should I order a wedding cake or…?”
Dabing meowed judgmentally.

By the time the post-match livestream rolled around, their “secret” was hanging by a pixel.

Dabing trotted into frame, curled up between them, and promptly started purring into the mic.
The chat lost it.

DABING THIRD-WHEELING AGAIN!
THE WAY HE PURRS LIKE HE APPROVES 😭

Tong Yao tried to move the cat, but Dabing refused, tail flicking across Sicheng’s wrist like divine approval.
Even he couldn’t help a quiet laugh.

Afterward, as they wrapped up the stream, he murmured,
“Dabing’s working harder than our PR department.”
She smiled. “Maybe he just wants his humans to stop lying.”

Sicheng reached over, brushed a strand of hair from her face, and whispered, “Then we’d have to admit it.”
“Maybe that’s not so bad.”
He didn’t answer—just leaned in, brushed a quick, warm kiss against her temple.

Everyone saw. Everyone pretended they didn’t.

Later, during dinner, Pang raised his cup.
“To our fearless leaders. May their ‘nonexistent relationship’ continue to fund our takeout!”
The whole team cheered. Even Dabing batted at the chopsticks like he was clinking a glass.

Lu Sicheng sighed, exasperated but faintly smiling. “You all live to test my patience.”
Tong Yao leaned closer, voice low. “But you still pay the bills.”
He gave her that look — fond, resigned. “Don’t push it, shorty.”

She grinned. “Too late.”

Chapter Text

The base was louder than she expected. Not the professional hum of focus she’d imagined, but the constant thrum of clattering keys, someone laughing in the kitchen, and a kettle screaming that nobody cared enough to silence. Dabing shifted inside his carrier with the offended dignity of a monarch in transit.

Lu Sicheng opened the door mid-call, ended it halfway through a word, and looked her up and down. “You brought a cat.”

“He travels better than people,” she said.

He stared at the moving carrier. “That’s supposed to reassure me?”

She unzipped the flap. Dabing stepped out, inspected his new kingdom, hissed at the captain, and pressed himself against her leg like he’d claimed his territory.

Sicheng blinked. “…He hates everyone?”

“Selective,” she said, scooping him up. “Good instincts.”

He sighed. “Fine. Third room on the left. And keep him away from my fish.”

“You have fish?”

“They don’t argue during scrims.”

From the hall Pang yelled, “He’s lying, the fish hate him too!”

That was how Tong Yao’s first day began—with a hiss, a warning, and laughter she didn’t yet know how to join.

The next morning was scrims, sharp and fast. Lao K, the jungler, called rotations in clipped tones that made the air tighten. When she mis-timed a roam, he barked, “Watch your flank!” The word hit like an alarm, and she froze. There was a pause, then the quietest, “Good catch next time.” No lecture, just trust renewed. Later, she found a protein bar on her desk labeled for focus. She logged that gesture away like data she didn’t want to lose.

Lunch brought Lao Mao and his theater. He waved his chopsticks like conductors’ batons, claiming that strategy was ninety percent instinct and ten percent art. When she frowned, he dropped a dumpling into her bowl and announced, “Now you’re inspired.” Dabing promptly stole it, earning applause.

Pang was chaos incarnate. He filled every silence and still managed to hear what people didn’t say. After a frustrating scrim, he shoved a cup of bubble tea at her. “Sugar therapy,” he said. “Math later.” She didn’t drink it immediately—but when he wasn’t looking, she did, and the shake of laughter that escaped her throat startled even her.

Xiao Rui operated on managerial omnipresence. He appeared beside her chair like a pop-up notification, holding a clipboard. “Sleep logs,” he said. “Yours is blank.”

“Data privacy,” she countered.

He smiled, unbothered, and returned fifteen minutes later with a blanket for her chair. Dabing immediately claimed it. She decided he could keep it; some variables weren’t worth fighting.

Yu Ming was the kind of quiet that steadied noise. He found her reviewing replays alone one night and watched her fast-forward, rewind, annotate, all precision. “You analyze well,” he said finally. “You trust less.”

She looked up. “How long until that changes?”

“When you lose together,” he said. “And win after.”

He left a small notebook on her keyboard later, labeled Data of Heart. She called it sentimental nonsense and filled the first page before morning.

Lu Yue arrived later in the season—a grin and an attitude wrapped in expensive sneakers. He paused at the sight of the cat and muttered, “Traitor species.” Five minutes later Dabing was asleep on his lap. Yue looked at Tong Yao like she’d set him up. Their rivalry bloomed naturally: sharp words, sharper plays, unspoken respect. When she bombed a match and hid in the stairwell, he left his hoodie beside her without comment. She found cat fur on it later and smiled.

The fish incident cemented Dabing’s legend. Pang’s shout echoed through the base: “CAPTAIN! YOUR FISH ARE UNDER ATTACK!” They arrived to find the cat perched on Sicheng’s aquarium, paw submerged, eyes glittering with curiosity. Water everywhere. Sicheng’s patience evaporated. “He’s banned,” he declared. “From this room. Maybe the building.”

“He was testing gravity,” Tong Yao offered.

The next morning, Dabing deposited a dead cricket on the captain’s desk. Peace was restored. Sort of.

Loss hit mid-split. The base went silent except for the aquarium’s hum. Tong Yao reviewed replays until the pixels blurred. Sicheng appeared without announcement, set a cup of warm water beside her, and left a quiet command behind: rest. Dabing curled on her lap, purring a rhythm she hadn’t realized she needed. When she finally looked up, the team was scattered around the room, pretending not to watch her. It was their way of saying you belong.

Then came the push—scrims blending into matches, stress into laughter. Lao K grew gentler, Pang louder, Lao Mao more dramatic. Xiao Rui used his bullhorn to wake them for physical training, earning a feline vendetta. Yu Ming kept them in line with calm precision. Lu Yue grumbled about everything but stopped leaving after practice. Even Sicheng’s sarcasm softened at the edges; his coffee count dropped whenever she remembered to hand him tea instead.

Dabing learned the schedule too. He attended scrims, stole shrimp, patrolled the hall like a tiny supervisor. The fans noticed his cameos during livestreams—sometimes on Tong Yao’s lap, sometimes wandering across Sicheng’s keyboard mid-match—and declared him the real captain.

The day before finals, Tong Yao found a toy mouse on her chair. No one claimed it, but everyone smiled when she tucked it into her pocket.

Under stage lights, noise became music. Lu Sicheng’s voice in her headset steadied her: calm, clipped, the anchor she hadn’t known she relied on. “Reset,” he said after a misplay, and she did. Game by game, breath by breath, ZGDX clicked into perfect sync.

When they lifted the trophy, confetti rained down and the crowd roared their names. In the chaos, someone’s phone buzzed with a trending post—Dabing wearing a virtual crown, captioned Bring the trophy home or no treats.

Back at the base, the trophy sat between the aquarium and the cat. Pang saluted. “His Majesty approves the win.”

Sicheng scratched behind Dabing’s ear and said quietly, “Don’t tell anyone, but I think we all work for him now.”

Tong Yao leaned an elbow on the table, watching the reflection of gold in glass, the fish gliding lazily, the team bickering about dinner, the cat content in victory. “You finally learned diplomacy,” she said.

He glanced at her, mouth curving. “Maybe I finally learned home.”

For once, she didn’t analyze the sentence. She just smiled—and this time it wasn’t calculated at all.

Chapter Text

It started, like most ZGDX disasters, with a “quick meeting.”

Xiao Rui stood in the lounge waving a clipboard like a white flag.
“HQ wants a charity stream. Two hours. Raise money, raise morale, show that we’re not all emotionally unavailable.”

“Speak for yourself,” Lu Sicheng murmured without looking up from his phone.

“It’s for a children’s coding foundation,” Yu Ming added. “Good PR.”

Pang grinned. “Translation: we’re pretty.”
Lao K corrected, “Loud.”
“Loud and pretty,” Pang said proudly.

“Smiling leads the stream,” Rui continued. “The fans adore her.”

“Because she doesn’t swear at chat,” Sicheng muttered.
Tong Yao smiled sweetly. “I swear politely.”

Rui rattled his clipboard. “There’ll be milestones — pepper-eating, karaoke—”
“No,” Sicheng said instantly.
“The children!” Pang cried.
“Fine,” Sicheng sighed. “But if chat goes feral, I’m muting them.”

Right then, Dabing leapt onto the table, pawed the keyboard, and yowled like he’d just volunteered.

“See?” Pang said. “Even His Royal Highness approves.”
Tong Yao scratched behind the cat’s ears. “Then it’s settled. For the kids — and the cat.”

“Title idea,” Lao Mao offered. “‘Streamer Mode On.’”
Everyone stared.
He shrugged. “Sounds professional. Also doomed.”

Go Live

Countdown. Three… two… one.

“Hello everyone!” Tong Yao beamed into the camera. Pang waved like a game-show host; Sicheng nodded once and somehow trended anyway.

smilingSTAN: THEY’RE LIVE 😭😭😭
captainGODpls: CHENG GE LOOK AT HER
dabing4life: WHERE IS THE CAT 🐾

Cue Dabing hopping onto the desk, tail stealing the shot.

Lao Mao: “The real star has arrived.”
Sicheng: “Move the cat.”
Chat: DON’T MOVE THE CAT.

Half an hour in, chaos reigned. Pang narrated donations like slam poetry; Lao K and Lao Mao argued builds; Lu Yue spammed emotes until Rui threatened his paycheck. Tong Yao teased, Sicheng pretended not to smile, and chat turned every glance into fanfic fuel.

The Milestone

The donation ticker blinked red at ¥20 000.

“No,” Sicheng said flatly.
“For the kids,” Yu Ming reminded.
“The children!” Pang cried, already cueing Karaoke Mode.
“The memes,” Lu Yue added.

Tong Yao leaned forward, eyes glinting. “Just one line, Boss Cheng Ge. You choose.”

He sighed, resigned. “Fine. One line. No clips.”

And then — in that low, maddeningly steady voice —

You say we’re just teammates,
But your laugh sounds like home.
Queue up or fall asleep,
Either way — I’m not solo.

The words hung in the air like static. For a heartbeat, no one moved.

smilingSTAN: HE SANG 😭😭😭
adc4ever: IS THIS A CONFESSION DLC??
dabing4life: DABING PRESS REPLAY 🐾
mod_rui: no recording (why is everyone recording)

Tong Yao blinked up at him, startled. “That was—”
“Old training song,” he said quickly. “Happy?”

She barely had time to nod before—

Blue buff stolen, red buff gone,
Someone’s screaming ‘jungler wrong!’

Pang had jumped in, Lao K followed half a beat late, Lao Mao added something resembling harmony, and Lu Yue yelled the bridge like a battle cry. Yu Ming, ever composed, delivered perfect harmony.

Sicheng groaned into his hand. “Oh my god.”
Tong Yao laughed until her mic cut out. Dabing meowed right on beat.

Maybe we’re more than a lobby code,
More than rank or fame or gold,
The screen lights up, and somehow I know—
Together, I’m never solo!

Chat lost its collective mind.

chorusfangirl: BOY BAND CONFIRMED 😭😭😭
midlaneMom: TONG YAO’S LAUGH IS MY SEROTONIN
mod_rui: please don’t request an album

By the time the chorus faded, half the team was crying from laughter, Pang was campaigning to make it their victory chant, and Lu Sicheng had that rare, quiet smile that meant he’d already lost control and didn’t really mind.

End Stream

“Two hours,” Rui said, dazed. “Record donations. Record chaos.”
“Same thing,” Lu Yue said.
“Worth it,” Tong Yao grinned.
Dabing yawned into the mic.

Sicheng reached over, muted the feed. “End stream.”
Tong Yao smirked. “You wish.”

Chapter Text

Rumors always filmed better than reality.
That was what the producer of Behind the Highlights told herself as her van rolled through Shanghai’s morning haze.
Her tablet glowed with headlines: Captain God Too Cold for Fans, Smile or Strategy? The League’s Queen of Mid, ZGDX – Talent or Trouble?

Perfect. Every story needed villains.

“They know we’re coming?” asked her cameraman, Wei Zhen, checking the focus ring on his shoulder rig.

“They agreed to it,” she said, smiling thinly. “Sponsors love ‘authenticity.’ No one stays perfect once the mics stay on.”

Outside, the van stopped in front of a sleek townhouse with mirrored windows and six bold letters across the gate: ZGDX.

Inside, Xiao Rui clapped his hands. “Ten minutes until the crew arrives. No yelling, no fighting, and try not to set off the smoke alarm.”

Pang lifted his head from the couch. “Define yelling.”

“Anything above whispering,” Rui said.

“Then define whispering.”

Lu Sicheng shut his laptop. “Reject the shoot.”

“Too late,” Rui sighed. “They’re already outside. Try to look like you don’t hate each other.”

Tong Yao grinned, tying her hair. “But we do hate each other.”

“You two don’t count,” Rui muttered. “You’re legally bound by flirtation.”

Sicheng looked up. “We are not.”

Tong Yao leaned close enough that he had to glance away. “Sure, Captain.”

The doorbell rang. Pang, holding an unstable tower of instant noodles, answered it. The tower immediately collapsed onto the producer’s shoes.

A single cup rolled to Sicheng’s feet. He looked at it, then at the camera. “Welcome to professionalism.”

The first morning of filming was what polite people called “unusable.”
The crew had pictured neat B-roll: morning stretches, healthy breakfast, gentle music.
What they got was Pang smoking up the kitchen, Lao Mao unplugging the toaster for his phone, and Dabing strolling into every frame like an A-list star.

“Your cat’s a menace,” Wei Zhen whispered.

“He’s middle management,” Tong Yao said.

Sicheng tried to lift the cat off his keyboard; Dabing immediately jumped back, tail flicking in triumph.

“Boss fight: lost,” Tong Yao murmured.

Sicheng didn’t dignify it, but the twitch at the corner of his mouth gave him away.

When scrims began, the noise level spiked to comic levels.

“Pang, ward river!”
“I am warding—oh wait—wrong side!”
“Why are we screaming?”
“Because it’s bonding!”

The producer blinked. “They do this every day?”

“Twice a day,” Rui said proudly. “Keeps them humble.”

Amid the yelling, their movements were razor-sharp. Jokes overlapped with flawless mechanics.
Tong Yao’s voice cut clean through the noise, Sicheng’s orders were short and steady, and somehow—despite the chaos—they won.

Then came a rematch that turned brutal. The banter stopped mid-sentence; the air changed texture.
Fingers moved faster, breaths shortened, the room went taut with focus.
No laughter, no sound but keys and the low rhythm of call-outs:

“Mid vision.”
“Bot reset.”
“Wait—now.”

The final fight broke like lightning. Victory, again.

For five seconds, no one spoke. Then Pang exhaled, “We’re terrifying when we shut up.”

“You should try it more often,” Sicheng said.

By late afternoon the chaos had returned full-force.
Tong Yao chased Pang around the lounge with a slipper for stealing her milk tea.
Yu Ming confiscated the slipper mid-swing. “Save your energy for tomorrow’s match.”

Sicheng looked up from his screen. “She saves no energy.”

“She’s your problem,” Lao K said.

“She’s everyone’s blessing,” Tong Yao corrected, plopping down beside Sicheng and stealing half his chips.

Wei Zhen caught the moment—the way he didn’t stop her.

That night, the producer crept back for extra footage and found them reviewing replays on mute, dissecting errors with surgical calm.
No PR masks, no posturing—just the sound of trust.

She lingered by the door, quietly lowering her camera. Some things didn’t need staging.

The editing room overflowed with footage: Pang’s theatrics, Lao K’s sarcasm, Dabing’s endless photobombs.

“Too cheerful,” the producer muttered. “Where’s the edge?”

“Underneath,” said the editor. “Listen.”

He cued a clip: the chaotic scrim folding into that deadly silence before victory.
Then Tong Yao’s interview voice: ‘Even when we lose, we don’t leave each other behind.’
Followed by Sicheng’s: ‘They drive me insane. But they’re my team.’

Wei Zhen looked up from his console. “We came for conflict. We found commitment.”

“Keep it,” the producer said. “Keep all of it.”

Two nights later, ZGDX gathered for a private pre-release viewing.
No sponsors, no press—just them, the crew, and Dabing sprawled across the couch like a king.

“Remember,” Rui warned, “if you hate it, we can still ask for cuts.”

Pang puffed out his chest. “If I look good, we keep it. If I don’t, it’s modern art.”

“Modern disaster,” Lao Mao said.

The projector flickered to life: noodles collapsing, the smoke alarm blaring, Sicheng’s immortal “Welcome to professionalism.”
Half the room dissolved into laughter.

“Why did they keep that?” Tong Yao cried.

“Historical accuracy,” Sicheng said.

The laughter faded as scrim footage appeared—the usual shouting, the abrupt switch to focus, the quiet “reset,” the win.
Even they seemed surprised by the transformation captured on-screen.

Then Tong Yao’s voice filled the room: ‘Even when we lose, we don’t leave each other behind.’
Her cheeks flamed. “Why didn’t anyone warn me I sounded sentimental?”

“Because you are,” Yu Ming said.

Onscreen, Sicheng’s line followed: ‘They drive me insane. But they’re my team.’

Tong Yao looked at him sideways. “Still true?”

He gave her hand a brief squeeze. “Especially now that you’re quoting me.”

“Captain Wallet showing emotions,” Pang whispered.

“Pillow, please,” Sicheng said, and obligingly threw one at him.

The final montage rolled: trophies, laughter, Dabing dead-center in every frame.
Every highlight begins at home.

For once, the base went quiet.

“They made us look… decent,” Tong Yao said.

“Speak for yourself,” Pang sniffed. “I looked majestic.”

“You looked unhinged,” Lao K replied.

“Majestically unhinged.”

Rui rubbed his temples. “So, final vote?”

“Approve,” Tong Yao said. “It’s messy. It’s us.”

Rui hit pause. The projector dimmed, leaving them in the soft afterglow of pride and popcorn crumbs.

Behind them, the crew exchanged looks.
The producer let out a long breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. “You were supposed to be villains,” she admitted. “You ruined my documentary.”

Tong Yao smiled. “We ruin things beautifully.”

“Hotpot?” Sicheng asked, already reaching for his wallet.

“Captain Wallet treats!” Pang shouted.

Wei Zhen laughed from behind the lens. “Still calling it Behind the Highlights?”

The producer glanced at the frozen frame on her monitor—six players, one cat, one heartbeat of laughter.
“Yeah,” she said. “Because that’s exactly where they shine.”

Outside, the team spilled into the night: Sicheng and Tong Yao shoulder to shoulder, Pang arguing over spice levels, Dabing yowling until someone scooped him up.
Their noise faded down the street, leaving warmth in its wake.

Chapter Text

The rain started polite.
By the time Xiao Rui finished counting heads for the sponsor dinner, it was plotting murder.

“Everyone ready?” he yelled over the thunder.

“Define ready!” Pang answered, already wearing sunglasses indoors.

Tong Yao stood in the doorway, watching the chaos. “You’re all coming back drenched and dramatic.”

“Standard Thursday,” Lao K muttered, tightening his hoodie.

Rui glanced at her. “You sure you’re staying?”

“Too tired. Also, humidity hates my hair.”

Lu Sicheng looked up from his phone. “I’ll stay. Someone should guard the base.”

Pang gasped. “ ‘Guard the base.’ Right.”

“Shut up,” Sicheng said.

They left in a storm of umbrellas and bad decisions. Pang poked his head back in just long enough to yell, “Try not to kiss over the soup!” before the door slammed and his voice was devoured by rain.

The base went quiet except for water against glass. Dabing prowled to the window, tail flicking like a weather forecast.

Tong Yao exhaled. “Guess it’s just us.”

Sicheng looked at the door. “Finally, peace.”

Lightning cracked. The lights flickered. Dabing fled under the couch.

“Okay,” she said. “Half peace.”

Twenty minutes later, their peace was starving.

“Delivery canceled,” Sicheng announced. “Flooded streets.”

“Perfect,” Tong Yao said. “So we improvise.”

He opened the fridge, sighed. “Tragic.”

“It’s called resourcefulness,” she said, stacking whatever looked edible. “We make hotpot.”

“Out of what?”

“Courage.”

He leaned on the counter. “You’re not allowed near the burner.”

“Watch me.”

Within ten minutes, the kitchen resembled a team fight.
Mushrooms threatened rebellion. Noodles plotted escape. Dabing supervised from the counter, eyes full of judgment.

“Don’t cut toward yourself,” Sicheng warned.

“Don’t captain me in the kitchen,” she said.

He reached over to steady the board anyway. Their hands brushed. Neither mentioned it.

The storm clapped. The lights blinked. She flinched; he didn’t move away.

“You’re fine,” he said.

“You sound very sure.”

“I calculate probabilities.”

“Of me surviving or of you being a liar?”

“Yes.”

They ate with the door cracked open to the sound of rain.

“This isn’t bad,” she said around noodles.

“It’s terrible.”

“Liar.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You overcooked the noodles.”

“Take it back.”

“No.”

“Fine. Then it’s my portion. You’re left with tofu.”

“Mutiny,” he said, but he let her win.

Outside, thunder rolled again, slower now. The power flickered once, then steadied.

She looked up at him, half teasing, half something else. “So… guarding the base together. Romantic.”

“Tragic,” he said. But he smiled when he said it.

Dabing eventually claimed the warm spot between them. Tong Yao rested her chin on her knees.

“Next time,” she said, “we invite the team.”

“Next time,” he said, “we order food.”

“Next time,” she said, “we don’t pretend it’s not a date.”

He stilled for half a beat too long. Then the door burst open.

“WE BROUGHT DESSERT!” Pang shouted.

Six drenched humans and a box of egg tarts crashed into the room like a typhoon.

“Are we interrupting?” Lao K asked.

“No!” Tong Yao said.

“Yes,” Sicheng said.

Yu Ming looked around at the half-eaten hotpot, the candle, and the cat snoring between them. “This is a domestic crime scene.”

Pang gasped. “COUPLE BOWLS!”

“They’re just bowls,” Tong Yao said.

“They’re just bowls,” Sicheng echoed, which did not help.

Rui removed his glasses. “Okay, rule: next time it rains, we buy extra broth cubes.”

“That’s the rule?” Sicheng asked.

“It’s the excuse,” Rui said.

“For what?” she asked, smiling even as Pang filmed everything.

“For nights like this.”

And that, for once, earned silence—the comfortable kind that comes with belonging.

The storm outside finally stopped. Inside, the noise came back stronger than ever. Laughter, steam, and the sound of Dabing knocking over a tart because love should always taste like trouble.

Chapter Text

They called it an off day.

For ZGDX, that only meant the scrims were paused—not the noise. Pang was loudly arguing with Xiao Rui about nutrition packets, Lao K and Lao Mao were fighting over a controller, and Yu Ming had retreated to his office muttering about early retirement.

Tong Yao stretched under her blanket, sunlight pooling across her phone screen. Eighty-seven unread messages.

Pang: OFF DAY!!!
Pang: Base is silent by captain’s orders!!
Pang: So obviously we should annoy him!!
Lao K: Don’t.
Yu Ming: Don’t.
Xiao Rui: DON’T.
Pang: cowards

She grinned, tugged on the first hoodie she saw—his hoodie—and padded to the kitchen.

Lu Sicheng was already there: barefoot, half-awake, coffee mug in hand. Captain God in sweatpants still short-circuited her brain.

“Morning,” he said.

“Morning,” she echoed, shooing Dabing off the counter.

From the hallway came a meow; Xiao Cong trotted in dragging one of Sicheng’s socks like a trophy.

“Your accomplice is stealing again,” she said.

“My investment is thriving.”

“Investment?”

“I brought him home to make you say yes, remember?”

Her eyes narrowed. “You blackmailed me with a kitten.”

He smirked. “And it worked.”

“You’re a menace.”

“A successful one.” He crouched to scratch Xiao Cong’s chin. Dabing hissed in outrage.

“Your children are fighting again,” she sighed.

“They’re reflecting their parents,” he said mildly.

Breakfast became a comfortable ritual—toast, eggs, Dabing’s judgmental stare, Xiao Cong purring at their feet.

“So,” she said, “what’s the great Captain doing today?”

“Nothing.”

“Real nothing, or your nothing?”

“My nothing.”

“So still working.”

“It’s called reading.”

“It’s called pretending,” she teased.

He gave her a look; she grinned. “We could escape.”

“Escape where?”

“Somewhere with sunlight.”

“You mean a date?”

“I said sunlight. You heard date. That’s on you.”

He sighed. “Fine. Two hours. Daylight only.”

“Deal.”

They left quietly, though Pang caught them at the door.

“Going somewhere, lovebirds?”

“We’re buying cat food,” Tong Yao said.

“For three hours?”

“Dabing’s picky.”

Sicheng didn’t even pause, just held the door open like a man ignoring incoming chaos.

The drive was lazy and sun-washed. She fiddled with the radio until his hand covered hers.

“Don’t,” he said.

“You could just admit my music taste is better.”

“I’d rather feed myself to Baron.”

“Romantic,” she muttered, smiling at the window.

At the café, she ordered something sweet. He stole a sip.

“Too sweet.”

“You’re too bitter.”

“Balance.”

They lingered over coffee, hands brushing whenever they reached for napkins.

Then the mall: matching sneakers (“coincidence,” he insisted), the bookstore where she bought manga and he claimed “strategic research,” and the pet shop—where she froze.

“Cheng Ge.”

“No.”

“Cheng Ge.”

“No.”

“He’d like a new toy.”

“He has six.”

“He deserves seven.”

“Fine. One.”

They left with three.

“You’re hopeless,” she said.

“You’re persuasive.”

“I learned from the best.”

When they got back, the team was sprawled across the lounge.

“Back already?” Lao K asked.

“Just lunch,” Tong Yao said.

“With shopping bags?” Pang pointed.

Lu Yue snorted. “Ge, you look too happy. Suspicious.”

“Eat your snacks,” Sicheng replied.

“So… a date,” Lao Mao said.

“No,” he said flatly.

“Yes,” Tong Yao said at the same time.

The room exploded.

Yu Ming sighed. “Next time, tell us before Weibo finds out.”

“Too late!” Pang crowed, showing his phone. “Fan photo! Caption: ZGDX’s Captain and Smiling spotted on ‘not-a-date’ date!”

Sicheng exhaled through his nose. “Unbelievable.”

“Public figures, Captain Ge,” Tong Yao said sweetly. “Smile for the brand.”

He shot her a look promising revenge later.

That night, when the base finally quieted, Tong Yao found him in the fish room. The hum of filters filled the air. Xiao Cong lounged beside the tank, tail flicking; Dabing sat opposite like a furry supervisor.

“You look suspiciously domestic,” she said.

“Don’t ruin my image.”

“Too late. The internet already did.”

“They still don’t get along.”

“They do,” he said. “Xiao Cong’s teaching Dabing patience.”

“Or villainy.”

“Same thing.”

Their shoulders brushed. In the reflection on the glass they looked almost ordinary—a boy, a girl, two cats, and too many fish.

“I only meant to keep Xiao Cong a week,” he murmured.

“You also said that about me.”

“And look how that turned out.”

“Blackmail works, huh?”

“Only when the target’s cute.”

“Captain.”

“Hmm?”

“Shut up.”

He kissed her anyway, soft and quick, and the cats immediately yowled in protest.

“Even they can’t stand our fluff,” she murmured.

“They’ll live.”

“Off days are dangerous,” she said.

“Then we’re doomed,” he replied.

Chapter Text

ZGDX didn’t mean for the stream to go off the rails. In their defense, it had started normally enough.

The club’s marketing team had begged them for weeks to host another charity event after the last one raised record numbers—and even more memes. This time, it was supposed to be simple: a Q&A livestream. Answer a few fan questions, play a quick custom match, raise money for a good cause. Easy, right?

Except “easy” wasn’t a word in the ZGDX vocabulary.

Lu Sicheng had been the hardest to convince. “I’m a pro player,” he’d told Xiao Rui flatly. “Not an entertainer.”
“You’re both,” Xiao Rui replied. “Smile for the fans.”
“I’d rather uninstall the game.”

Still, when the camera light blinked red, there he was, front and center beside Tong Yao, both in matching ZGDX hoodies. The rest of the team piled in behind them like a chaotic studio audience — Pang manning the chat feed, Lao K and Lao Mao buried in snacks, and Lu Yue “monitoring chat behavior,” which meant watching his own fan edits on mute.

On Tong Yao’s lap, Dabing sprawled in full imperial glory, tail curling across her arm. Perched on the back of Sicheng’s chair, Xiao Cong, his sleek gray cat, stared at the screen like it personally offended him.

The chat exploded the second they went live.

“THE CATS ARE BACK 😭😭😭”
“Queen Dabing 👑 and Prince Xiao Cong 😼 reunited!!”
“Captain’s cat looks ready to file HR complaints.”

Yu Ming muttered from off-camera, “It’s for charity. It’s for charity.”

That lasted maybe a minute.

“Who’s the messiest in the dorm?” Pang read dramatically from his tablet.
“Pang,” said Lao K instantly.
“That’s slander!” Pang yelped. “I’m organized!”
“Organized chaos,” Sicheng said, not looking up. “Mostly chaos.”

Tong Yao tried to smooth things over, but the chat had already descended into chaos.

“CAPTAIN’S SO DONE WITH THEM 💀”
“Smiling protecting Pang? QUEEN ENERGY.”
“Who’s gonna clean the dorm after this???”

Xiao Rui muttered, “Donation numbers spike every time they insult each other. Don’t stop.”

Then came the question that doomed them.

Pang, grinning like the devil, said, “Oh, this one’s good!”
Sicheng didn’t look up. “Read it first.”
Too late.
“Question for Smiling and Captain — who’s your favorite teammate?”

Tong Yao’s smile sharpened. “Favorite person, or favorite player?”
“Same thing,” Sicheng said lazily.

She pretended to think. “Then… Pang. He gives me snacks.”

Pang whooped, fist pumping. Lao K groaned. Lao Mao threw popcorn.

Lu Sicheng finally looked up, expression unreadable. “You can keep your snacks,” he said smoothly. “I’ll keep you.”

The room froze.

Tong Yao blinked. Pang choked on his water. Lu Yue dropped his phone. Lao K started laughing so hard he nearly fell off the couch.

And the chat detonated.

“🚨 CONFESSION BUG 🚨 CONFESSION BUG 🚨”
“CAPTAIN SAID KEEP HER???”
“CAPTAIN DOWN BAD 😭😭😭”

Tong Yao, pink creeping up her cheeks, recovered quickly. “You mean keep me on the team, right, Captain?”
“Obviously,” he said, perfectly calm.
“Obviously,” she repeated, much too sweetly.
“Yeah, Captain,” Pang wheezed, “the chat definitely bought that.”

The moderators had given up on containing the chaos.

“WHEN’S THE WEDDING??”
“NAME THE SHIP #KeepHer OR #ConfessionBug”
“Dabing, meow twice if it’s true!”

There was a beat of silence—then Dabing, tail flicking, queenly as ever, let out a loud, decisive “meow!”

Pang dropped his tablet. “She didn’t.”
She had.

The chat went nuclear.

“CONFIRMED BY DABING 👑”
“ROYAL DECREE ISSUED!!!”

Then came a second “meow.”

Every head turned toward Xiao Cong, perched behind Sicheng’s chair, blinking in slow betrayal.

Lu Sicheng stared at both cats. “Traitors,” he said. “All of you.”

Pang was wheezing. Lu Yue was crying from laughter. “Ge, even your cat’s shipping you!”
Lao Mao clapped his hands. “Two meows, double confirmation!”
Tong Yao buried her face in her hands. “I hate both of you,” she muttered—to the cats or the team, no one was sure.

“DOUBLE CONFESSION 😭😭😭”
“PET APPROVAL SECURED 🐱🐱💍”
“CAPTAIN DOWN BAD AND HIS CATS KNOW IT.”

Sicheng pinched the bridge of his nose. “I really, really hate streaming.”

By the time the camera shut off, laughter had completely drowned out reason.

Lu Yue leaned forward, still grinning. “Congrats, Ge. You just confessed to half a million people.”
Pang raised his drink. “To #ConfessionBug — may it trend forever.”
Tong Yao folded her arms. “#Bug fits. His brain lagged.”
Sicheng groaned. “I’m uninstalling all of you.”
“Can’t,” Lao K said. “We’re queued with you for life.”

By midnight, Keep Her had trended in ten countries. The VOD hit ten million views. Yu Ming tried to delete it. Xiao Rui, of course, had already forwarded it to sponsors with the subject line ‘Organic marketing opportunity.’

Hours later, the dorm had gone quiet. Lu Sicheng sat beside his fish tank, blue light rippling across his face. Xiao Cong purred beside him, eyes half-closed.

Tong Yao appeared in the doorway, Dabing padding at her heels. The two cats met halfway, sniffed, then settled into a peaceful truce.

“You know,” she said softly, “you basically told the world you like me.”
He didn’t look up. “No,” he said. “I told the world I’m keeping you.”
Her laugh was small and bright. “Too late to patch that bug.”
He looked up then, smirking faintly. “Good,” he said. “Wasn’t planning to.”

Out in the living room, the rest of ZGDX was already re-watching the clip on loop, laughter echoing down the hall.
Pang crowed, “Twelve hours later and they’re still trending!”
Lao K snorted. “At least they finally admitted it—sort of.”

Tong Yao sighed into her tea. “We should start charging rent for how much we live online.”
Lu Sicheng’s hand brushed hers—just a quiet, deliberate touch. “Too late,” he murmured. “The internet already moved in.”

And somewhere in the background, Dabing and Xiao Cong batted a bottlecap back and forth like they owned the place.
Which, honestly, they did.

Chapter Text

The first theft was not premeditated.

At least, that was what Tong Yao told herself later.

After a long night of scrims, the air conditioning in the ZGDX base had decided to impersonate a meat locker. The boys were fine — they were always fine — running hot and complaining instead that the PCs were too warm. Tong Yao, on the other hand, could no longer feel her fingers.

The rest of the team had wandered off in various states of exhaustion. She stayed behind to review one last replay, hugging herself, teeth set.

There was a hoodie hanging over the back of a nearby chair. Black, thick, familiar ZGDX logo on the chest. No name tag, no warning sign, nothing that said: This belongs to your captain and wearing it may cause long-term complications.

She hesitated for a second, then reached for it, pulled it on, and nearly groaned in relief when warmth closed around her.

It was only halfway down the hallway, when the scent hit her — clean shampoo, cedar detergent, and something that was just quietly, undeniably him — that she realized she was wearing Lu Sicheng’s hoodie.

She stopped dead.

Her brain offered three options:

Take it off right there in the hall like a weirdo.

March back, return it, and explain that she had accidentally robbed her captain.

Pretend this never happened and deal with it tomorrow.

Tong Yao adjusted the sleeves over her hands and kept walking.

“Emergency,” she told herself. “Strictly a survival measure. Tomorrow, it goes back.”

Tomorrow came.
The hoodie did not return.

The second theft was the jacket.

Rain hammered the bus windows as they left an away match. The heater was broken. Half the team was damp and miserable.

Tong Yao had been the last to get off, and in the scramble, she’d grabbed her backpack but forgotten her thin windbreaker in the back row. By the time she realized it, they were already at the arena entrance, security funneling them inside.

She shivered through the post-match interviews. The corridor backstage was cold, the air conditioning overcompensating for the humid rain outside. They lined up for media photos, and her teeth were actually chattering between smiles.

On the way back to the bus, she fell in step behind Lu Sicheng. His jacket — thicker, insulated, very obviously not hers — swung from his hand.

She tried not to look at it.
Really, she did.

He glanced back once, took in the way she was hugging herself and walking like a disgruntled penguin, and held the jacket out without ceremony.

“Put it on,” he said.

She blinked. “I’m fine. It’s not that bad. I’ll be warm once I’m on the bus.”

“You are already shivering,” he replied. “Unless you plan to use that as a new mid-lane strategy, this is not useful to anyone.”

“It’s your jacket,” she reminded him.

“And I am not currently the one auditioning for an icicle role,” he countered. “Take it.”

Her fingers brushed his as she accepted it. The jacket was still warm from being over his shoulders. It swallowed her almost completely.

She ducked her head inside the collar, both to hide the blush and to breathe in the delicious heat.

“You know,” she mumbled into the fabric, “this doesn’t mean I’m keeping it.”

He gave her a flat look. “We are not negotiating a hostage transfer, shorty. I expect the jacket back at some point in the foreseeable future.”

She made a small noncommittal noise.

Three days later, the jacket was hanging on the back of her chair in the training room.

He saw it, of course.
He also walked past it without comment.

The third theft was the headphones.

It was a quiet afternoon. Everyone else had disappeared into their own corners of the base — some for solo queue, some for naps, some allegedly to “work out,” which for Pang meant half-hearted stretching before he wandered back to the fridge.

Tong Yao sat down at her station, ready to review VODs.

She reached into her bag, rummaged around, and came up with exactly nothing.

“Where are you,” she muttered, digging deeper. “I literally just had you yesterday.”

No headphones.

She glanced around. Her gaze landed on the pair sitting neatly folded on the desk next to hers. Matte black. Comfortable. High-end.

Captain’s.

She stared at them.
They stared back in silent temptation.

“It’s only for a bit,” she told the empty room. “I’ll put them back exactly where they were.”

She lifted them gently, as if they might scream, and settled them over her ears.

The world muffled instantly. The sound of the air conditioning, the distant footsteps in the hall, the murmur of someone streaming in the lounge all faded away. The replay loaded on her screen, and for the first time in a while, it was just her and the game, clean and clear.

She was mid-pause, rewinding a skirmish, when a fingertip tapped lightly against the top of her headphones.

She jumped, slid them off, and turned.

Lu Sicheng stood there, expression neutral, arms crossed.

“That’s an interesting choice of equipment,” he said. “Especially since I’m fairly certain you own your own pair.”

“I do,” she said quickly. “They’re, um, charging.”

He raised an eyebrow. “All day?”

She clung to the last scraps of dignity. “You left these here. I assumed they were… available.”

“For public use?” he asked. “Like shared cutlery?”

She winced. “If you want them back right now, I can—”

He studied her for a beat. She was perched at the edge of her chair, hoodie sleeves pushed up to the elbows, his headphones still in her hands, looking prepared to bolt.

“You’re using them,” he said finally. “Finish what you’re doing. Just don’t break them.”

She blinked. “That’s it? No lecture about respecting boundaries or signing out borrowed equipment in triplicate?”

“Do you want a lecture?” he asked. “Because I can deliver one, but then your review will be delayed, and I will have to listen to you complain later. I am choosing the option that gives me the least headache.”

That was not a no.
That was, in fact, an explicit yes with extra sarcasm on top.

Her shoulders relaxed, and she let the headphones slide back into place around her neck. “I’ll take good care of them,” she said.

“You’d better,” he replied. “If they break, I’m sending you the receipt.”

From the doorway, an outraged whisper cut through the hallway.

“Did you hear that?” Pang hissed. “She is now stealing his sound as well as his wardrobe.”

“You say that like the headphones didn’t stay on her for three games last night already,” Lao K muttered. “We’re late recognizing the trend.”

That evening, a whiteboard appeared in the living room.

On it, in Pang’s messy handwriting:

HOODIE: STOLEN
JACKET: STOLEN
HEADPHONES: STOLEN

And beneath that, in bigger letters:

CURRENT SCORE
Tong Yao: 3
Captain: 0

The next morning, Tong Yao emerged from her room to find the whiteboard propped against the sofa, surrounded by a suspiciously eager audience.

Pang pointed at it the moment she stepped into the room. “The thief has arrived.”

“What is this,” she asked, “and why does it look like a police report written by a toddler?”

“This,” Pang said, “is a record of wrongdoing. The fans deserve transparency.”

“Fans?” she echoed. “You posted this already, didn’t you?”

“Of course not,” he said quickly. “We are not that irresponsible.”

That was exactly when Lu Yue looked up from his phone and announced, “Ge, someone on Weibo just made a compilation calling it ‘The Migration of Captain’s Wardrobe.’”

Tong Yao closed her eyes. “I hate all of you.”

Lu Sicheng wandered in, still half-asleep, hair a little messy.

He squinted at the board. “Why is there a scoreboard in my living room?”

“Because you are losing a game,” Lao Mao said, “and we think you should be aware of it.”

“I didn’t agree to play,” Sicheng pointed out.

“That,” Pang declared, “is what makes it more fun.”

Tong Yao crossed her arms. “If Captain has a problem with me borrowing his things, he can tell me directly instead of letting you all run some kind of public shaming campaign.”

All eyes turned to Sicheng.

He took in the hoodie she was wearing — his, again — and the familiar shape of his headphones still hanging around her neck. Then he looked at her face, at the defensive tilt of her chin.

“I don’t recall saying I had a problem with it,” he replied calmly.

Lao K leaned over to Pang and whispered, “He doesn’t even try to deny it. We’re doomed.”

The fans noticed, of course. They always did.

It started with a few screenshots under some match highlight clips: Tong Yao in a black hoodie that looked a little too big, then the same hoodie at a fan meet, then a different jacket at the airport clearly two sizes too large, then his cap sitting backwards on her head during a backstage stream.

Someone posted a collage:
“Does Smiling Own Clothes or Just Borrow Captain’s?”

Another fan followed up with a fake academic thread titled:

The Migration of Captain’s Hoodies: A Twelve-Part Visual Study
Featuring: timestamps, zoomed-in frames, and a chart of “Shared Wardrobe Incidents Per Week.”

Xiao Rui nearly choked on his coffee when he saw it.
Yu Ming took one look and said, “I’m not paid enough for this,” and walked away.

Pang read out loud: “‘Hypothesis: Smiling is either secretly living in Captain’s closet or the laundry system at ZGDX is communal. Discuss.’”

“Delete that,” Sicheng said without looking away from his phone.

Tong Yao hovered behind him, mortified. “Do not interact. If you reply, it will get worse.”

Pang refreshed. “Too late. They’ve started a poll.”

Poll: Does Smiling live in Captain’s wardrobe?
Yes – 81%
Not yet – 19%
Absolutely not – 0%

“That is a surprisingly unanimous rejection of basic privacy,” Tong Yao muttered.

Lu Yue grinned. “The fans have spoken. They ship the hoodies.”

“Stay off the internet,” Sicheng said to all of them. “It has rotted your brains.”

His ears, however, had turned faintly pink.

Life at the base continued. So did the theft.

She wore his hoodie when she stayed late to review replays.
She wore his jacket when they went out for late-night convenience store runs.
She wore his cap pulled low in the airport when she was too tired to deal with cameras.

He started hanging the hoodies she liked most in closer places. No one commented on that either.

One evening, she fell asleep on the couch mid-VOD with his hoodie half-zipped, the sleeves swallowing her hands. Dabing sprawled across her stomach, purring. Xiao Cong lay draped over the back of the couch, tail occasionally flicking against Sicheng’s shoulder where he sat at the far end, studying pick-ban stats on his laptop.

When he glanced over and saw her head tipped to the side, hair falling into her eyes, he sighed, bookmarked his tab, and set his laptop aside.

“Move,” he told Dabing quietly.

Dabing blinked once, then very deliberately did not move.

He slid an arm under the cat anyway, shifting her aside just enough to pull the hood up around Tong Yao’s ears. She murmured something incoherent and leaned into the warmth without waking.

Dabing repositioned herself, now half on the hoodie, half on Tong Yao, purring even louder.

From the hallway, a phone camera clicked.

“Adorable,” Pang breathed. “This is going straight to the folder.”

“If you post that, you’re replacing our bot lane,” came Sicheng’s voice without him bothering to turn.

Pang froze and scampered off like a guilty raccoon.

The confession, when it finally arrived, wasn’t really a confession at all. It was more like a quiet acknowledgment wrapped up in the same ordinary evening noise as always.

The team had finished dinner. Lao Mao and Pang were arguing about whose dish had used more oil. Lao K and Lu Yue were half-watching a replay on the TV. Xiao Rui was answering emails at the table.

Tong Yao rinsed her bowl in the sink, then went to pass by the whiteboard propped against the wall.

The “score” had evolved.

Now it read:

SMILING: Official owner of Captain’s hoodies / jackets / caps / headphones
CAPTAIN: Has surrendered. No longer counted.
CATS: Joint custody of both humans.

And at the bottom, in smaller handwriting:

Sometimes something borrowed is never meant to be returned.

She stared at that last line.

“That looks familiar,” she said.

“It should,” came Lu Sicheng’s voice from behind her. “I wrote it.”

She turned, eyebrows raised. “You? The man who answers ‘fine’ to complex emotional questions?”

“I answer ‘fine’ because I am surrounded by chaos,” he said. “If I told the truth in interviews, we would get fined for unprofessional conduct.”

“Big words for someone who cannot keep track of his own wardrobe,” she teased lightly.

He walked closer, stopping just a little too near, like always. “Why would I keep track of it,” he asked, “when I know exactly where it all ends up?”

Her heart tripped over itself. “That sounds dangerously like you are saying you don’t mind that I took it.”

“If I minded,” he replied quietly, “you would have heard about it long before there was a scoreboard.”

She dropped her gaze to his shirt, then back up. “So what do you call it, then? All of this?”

“‘All of this?’” he repeated.

“Me,” she clarified, tugging at the hem of the hoodie she was wearing — his again, obviously. “Your clothes. The fans making conspiracy threads. The boys keeping score. You pretending not to care and also not stopping me.”

He was silent for a long moment. The sounds of the others in the background blurred into a soft, distant hum. Dabing padded across the floor and sat primly at her feet. Xiao Cong brushed against his ankle like he was nudging him.

“I call it,” he said at last, voice low and even, “evidence that you live here. Not as a guest. Not temporarily. As part of this team. And as part of my life.”

Her breath caught.

“Ge,” she said softly, “you realize that sounds a lot like you are admitting something very dangerous on an open floor where everyone is capable of eavesdropping.”

“It’s fine,” he replied. “They already know. The fans know. The cats definitely know. The only one who needed it spelled out was you.”

She tried to answer with something sharp. Something teasing. Something that would cut the tension and make her heart stop pounding so loudly in her own ears.

What came out instead was, “I like wearing your clothes.”

He blinked.
“You what?”

“They’re comfortable,” she said, the words tumbling faster now. “They smell like you. They make me feel… grounded. Like I belong here even on days when my hands won’t listen and chat is brutal and I start to question if I deserved any of this. When I put on your hoodie before a match, I feel like I’m not just walking onstage alone. I feel like—”

She stopped, suddenly self-aware. “And now I’ve said too much.”

He watched her, eyes softer than she was used to seeing outside of late-night queues.

“You didn’t say too much,” he said. “You said exactly enough.”

He reached out, gently catching the sleeve where it hung past her hand, and squeezed.

“In that case,” he continued, “keep taking them. All of them. As many as you like.”

Her lips parted. “Are you sure? Because the boys will absolutely update the board.”

“They can write whatever they want,” he said. “The final decision is not theirs.”

“Whose is it, then?” she asked.

His gaze didn’t waver. “Ours,” he answered. “And the cats’, apparently.”

Dabing let out a perfectly timed meow.
Xiao Cong added a dignified rumble.

She laughed then — bright, helpless, a little shaky. “Then I guess something borrowed is not being returned.”

“Good,” he said. “It was never on loan to begin with.”

That night, the fandom did what it always did: screenshot, zoom, speculate.

Someone posted a set of photos from past weeks: Tong Yao in his hoodie in the airport, his cap backstage, his jacket at a fan meet, his headphones in a practice clip.

The caption read:

“She looks happiest when she’s wearing his stuff.”

The comments flooded in.

“It’s not just a hoodie, okay, it’s EMOTIONAL ARMOR.”
“Shared wardrobe, shared life, I don’t make the rules.”
“Dabing and Xiao Cong have joint custody and I respect that.”

Tong Yao saw the post around midnight, lying in bed with Dabing curled into her side.

She stared at the comment for a long time, then quietly hit the save button.

On the other side of the wall, Lu Sicheng saw the same post.

He didn’t interact with it either.
He did, however, open his closet, look at the vaguely organized chaos inside, and think that if it slowly emptied out onto her side of the base, he probably wouldn’t complain.

The next morning, the whiteboard had been updated again.

OFFICIAL RULING
Smiling: Owner of Captain’s soft things.
Captain: Disqualified for losing willingly.
Cats: Approve.

Underneath, in small script, someone had added:

Sometimes love is just:
hoodie → jacket → headphones → everything else.

Tong Yao read it, smiling despite herself.

Pang pointed at the board dramatically. “This is the truth, signed by the whole team. There is no appeal process.”

“You realize you’re the one who wrote half of that,” Lao K said.

“I am merely the scribe of destiny,” Pang replied.

Tong Yao shook her head, but there was no real protest in it.

As she walked by, Lu Sicheng reached out and tugged lightly at her sleeve again — the same too-long hem, the same familiar fabric.

“Shorty,” he said quietly, for her alone, “if anyone asks, tell them the hoodies defected willingly.”

She glanced up at him. “So you’re saying they chose me.”

“I’m saying,” he replied, eyes steady, “I did.”

Chapter Text

ZGDX’s downfall began at 10:02 AM.

Xiao Rui stood in the living room with a clipboard, radiating delusional optimism as he addressed the team.

“Everyone, today we act like a normal professional team. No chaos. No screaming. No unusual incidents.”

The team nodded solemnly.

The team lied.

Because at 10:03 AM, Lao K opened the fridge and screamed like a man discovering betrayal.

“Who—who put sparkling water in here?! Why is it spicy?!”

Tong Yao froze mid-eyeliner stroke. Pang froze mid-chew. Even Xiao Cong, perched on the counter like a small loaf, froze mid-blink.

The culprit was obvious the moment Pang started sweating.

“It’s just… hydration variety?” Pang offered weakly.

Lao K pointed at him as if he were announcing a public execution. “You almost killed me with bubbles. I thought my throat was being attacked.”

From the sofa, Lu Sicheng did not bother to look up from his phone.

“A jungler who gets jump-scared by carbon dioxide shouldn’t talk this big,” he said calmly.

Tong Yao snorted. Pang looked personally wounded. Dabing, draped across the arm of a chair like a bored prince, yawned in judgment.

10:20 AM – Dabing Issues Divine Retribution

Someone—with expensive shoes and even more expensive audacity—had placed a protein shaker in Dabing’s sacred sunspot by the window.

Dabing found him.

The cat hopped onto Lu Sicheng’s lap, stared deeply into his soul, and with royal malice, swatted the shaker off the desk. It clattered across the floor and rolled away, trailing a faint smell of artificial vanilla.

Lu Sicheng blinked. “Are you seriously starting a fight with me over sunlight?”

Dabing responded with a slow, unimpressed meow.

Tong Yao leaned over the chair. “He says you offended his ancestors.”

Pang gasped loudly. “Dabing has ancestors?!”

“Of course,” Tong Yao said. “Kings always do.”

Dabing turned one circle, kneaded Sicheng’s thigh with pointed claws, then settled triumphantly.

10:47 AM – The Vacuum Disaster

The housekeeping auntie proudly wheeled in a new industrial vacuum—the type used to clean airport hangars.

“This one is very strong,” she announced.

Xiao Rui lit up. “Perfect! Our base will finally—”

He flipped the switch.

The vacuum roared to life like a jet engine. Within four seconds, it had aggressively inhaled:

• one of Pang’s shoelaces,
• half of a mousepad,
• the corner of Lao Mao’s hoodie.

Screaming ensued.

“MY SHOE!” Pang screeched.

“MY MOUSEPAD!” someone howled.

“MY HOODIE!” Lao Mao cried, still half-attached to the machine.

The auntie calmly turned it off and shook her head. “Children,” she said. “Please.”

11:15 AM – The Motivational Speech Massacre

Coach Yu Ming assembled everyone for a lecture.

“We need discipline. Focus. No more chaos today. Not one more mish—”

A crash echoed down the hall.

Tong Yao immediately shouted, “DABING!”

But a moment later, Lu Yue emerged holding half of a toppled lamp.

“Correction,” he said. “This one was me. But Dabing supervised.”

Yu Ming closed his eyes. “Why does something break every time I say ‘discipline’?”

12:10 PM – The Salad Coup

“Healthy lunch today!” Xiao Rui declared, unveiling boxes of salad.

The team stared at the bowls as if they were evidence bags.

“Where’s the fried chicken?” Pang whispered.

“This is chicken,” Xiao Rui insisted.

“This,” Pang said gravely, “is sadness with lettuce.”

Dabing hopped onto the table, sniffed Lu Sicheng’s bowl, and knocked it off with royal disdain.

Tong Yao brightened. “See? The king supports us.”

The auntie walked by, glanced at the mess, sighed. “The cat has more sense than all of you.”

1:30 PM – Scrim Screaming Hour

Five minutes into practice, diplomacy collapsed.

“Why are you in my lane?!” Tong Yao screeched.

“THE MAP IS FOR EVERYONE!” Lao K yelled back.

Pang nearly fell out of his chair laughing. Xiao Cong had curled on Sicheng’s foot, immobilizing their ADC.

“Shorty,” Sicheng said wearily, “please lower your volume. My eardrums are scared.”

“Tell him to stop stealing my creeps like a goblin!” she shouted.

“Impossible,” Sicheng said. “He is feral by nature.”

“I HEARD THAT!” Lao K protested.

“Good,” Sicheng replied. “I wasn’t whispering.”

3:00 PM – The Fire Incident

Old Cat attempted to toast bread using the warmth of a PC tower.

“Do not do that,” Yu Ming warned.

Five minutes later, Tong Yao smelled smoke and found the bread smoldering.

A tiny flame appeared like a cursed birthday candle.

“FIRE!” Pang shrieked.

Tong Yao smothered it with a mousepad.

The mousepad caught fire.

Pang threw sparkling water on it.

Bubbles. Smoke. Chaos.

Lu Sicheng took in the flaming mousepad, the smoking PC, the panicking team, the two unimpressed cats.

“I hate this family,” he declared.

“No you don’t,” Tong Yao said. “You’re just allergic to our personality.”

5:25 PM – The Post-Apocalypse

The base looked like it had survived a low-budget disaster movie.

Salad leaves under the table.
A mouse in the freezer.
A chair missing a wheel.
Two cats sprawled belly-up like miniature emperors.

The team slumped together on the couch, exhausted. Tong Yao curled at one end, Dabing claiming her lap instantly. Xiao Cong occupied the armrest beside Lu Sicheng, tail flicking with clear favoritism.

Pang sighed happily. “That was a good day.”

Xiao Rui stared. “Something caught on fire.”

“Character development,” Pang said.

“Brain-cell regression,” Sicheng corrected, leaning back with the suffering of ten lifetimes.

Lu Yue nudged him. “Ge, you're really in a mood.”

“I watched someone toast bread on a PC,” Sicheng said. “I am entitled to several moods.”

Laughter rippled through the room — tired, genuine.

Dabing lifted his head, meowed once like a royal decree, then flopped back down. Xiao Cong chirped and nudged Sicheng’s elbow until he scratched behind the ear.

“Traitors,” Sicheng muttered, but he kept petting.

Tong Yao watched them — Pang’s ridiculous grin, Lao K’s dramatic sulking, Lu Yue tangled in tape, Xiao Rui clutching his clipboard, Yu Ming massaging his temples, the cats ruling the sofa, and Sicheng himself, pretending to be annoyed but soft around the edges.

This chaos.
This noise.
This ridiculous team.
This secretly soft captain.

Her family.

She wouldn’t trade a second of it.

She stroked Dabing’s fur and smiled. “Yeah,” she whispered. “I like it like this.”

Chapter Text

ZGDX had survived scrims, patch reworks, mistakes on stage, fan meet meltdowns, Lu Yue’s suspicious cooking experiments, and Pang’s karaoke — yet nothing, nothing, prepared Tong Yao for the moment Xiao Rui opened the refrigerator.

The empty refrigerator.

He stared inside it with a desperation Tong Yao had only ever seen in horror movies.

“We’re out of food again,” he whispered.

Yu Ming sighed with the exhaustion of a parent whose children had once again failed him. “Someone needs to go grocery shopping.”

That should have been a normal suggestion.

But six heads turned toward Tong Yao with military synchronization.

She blinked. “Why me? What did I do?!”

“You’re the responsible one,” Xiao Rui said.

“Since when?!”

Lu Sicheng didn’t look up from his phone. “Since right now.”
And the man had the audacity — the nerve — to pat her head like she had already accepted her fate.

Tong Yao opened her mouth to protest… but that was when Dabing, lounging on top of the fridge like a mafia boss, blinked slowly, as if saying:

Go forth, human. Face your destiny.

And somehow that was the final straw.

THE STRATEGY MEETING (AKA: THE PRE-LOSS)

Fifteen minutes later, they stood outside the supermarket.

Yu Ming attempted a pre-mission briefing like they were about to execute a four-man Baron steal.

“Listen carefully,” he said, pacing in front of them. “We move in formation.”

Everyone nodded.

“No one splits the party.”

Pang nodded vigorously.

“Stick to the list.”

Lu Yue was already tilting his head toward the snack aisle visible through the glass.

“Captain,” Yu Ming said, turning toward Sicheng, “please control your brother.”

Lu Sicheng shrugged. “Impossible.”

“Pang — snacks are LAST.”

“Understood,” Pang said.

He was lying.

“And Dabing,” Yu Ming added, turning to the cat perched on Tong Yao’s shoulder, “no seafood crimes.”

Dabing meowed innocently.

Everyone sighed, because that definitely meant he would do seafood crimes.

Yu Ming clapped his hands. “Alright. Stay together. Stay focused. Stay—”

They walked through the door.

Instant formation collapse.

THE ESCALATION OF CHAOS

“WE NEED INSTANT NOODLES—!” Pang screamed, sprinting to Aisle 3.

“WE NEED REAL FOOD,” Lao Mao shot back, grabbing a basket.

“Snacks,” Lu Yue stated, laser-focused.

“Vegetables,” Yu Ming insisted.

“Blue buff,” Tong Yao muttered, eyeing the energy drinks.

“Don’t even think about it,” Lu Sicheng warned.

“Why are you like this?” she snapped.

He shrugged. “Because I’m the only one here with a functioning brain.”

As if summoned by chaos itself, Dabing leapt from Tong Yao’s tote bag and headed straight toward the seafood tanks.

A nearby employee screamed: “Ma’am! Your cat— your cat is— your cat is—!”

Tong Yao bolted. “DABING, STOP HARASSING THE CRABS!”

Behind her, Lu Sicheng sighed. “Fish crimes. Again.”

FAN ENCOUNTERS: UNINTENTIONAL PUBLICITY

Two teenage fans rounded the corner, froze, and then whispered very loudly:

“Oh my god… is that ZGDX?”

“It IS! And— and is Pang fighting over chips??”

One of them immediately started recording.

Tong Yao chased Dabing through the aisles. “GET BACK HERE!”

The recording caught it all.

Later, that clip would trend under:
#SmilingVsSeafood
and
#CaptainPleaseControlYourTeam

When Tong Yao finally grabbed Dabing, the fans squealed.

“Smiling! Can— can we have a picture?”

She tried to hide her dishevelled hair and panting breath. “Sure— one second — drop the fish, Dabing— DROP—”

Click.

Posted in 30 seconds.

STAFF POV: MAXIMUM REGRET

Meanwhile, the butcher watched in horror as Dabing stared down the lobsters.

“Sir,” the man whispered to Lu Sicheng, “your… your pet is—”

“Not my pet,” Sicheng corrected, pointing at Tong Yao.

“Still— your… group… needs supervision.”

Sicheng shrugged. “They won’t die.”

The butcher wasn’t so sure.

At checkout, the cashier stared at the avalanche of snacks, ramen, detergents, the suspicious steak, cat treats, and absolutely zero vegetables.

“Was this… intentional?” she asked.

“No,” Tong Yao sobbed. “It was war.”

CHENGYAO MOMENTS (AKA: THE ONLY CALM IN THE STORM)

Somewhere between Aisle 5 and Aisle 7:

Lu Sicheng quietly took heavy items from Tong Yao’s arms without being asked.

When she reached for something on the top shelf, he casually lifted her by the waist — one-handed — so she could grab it.

She squeaked. He smirked.

Later, she fixed his hoodie zipper after he snagged it on a promotion banner.
He nudged her shoulder in thanks.

Fans who witnessed these moments posted:

“ChengYao energy detected.”
“Captain God carrying Smiling… literally.”
“Marriage when?”

Sicheng ignored them.

Tong Yao pretended not to blush.

Pang fanned himself dramatically.

THE CART OF DOOM

What ended up in their cart:

• 14 snack bags
• 10 ramen bowls
• one expensive steak (Lu Yue claimed it “spawned in his hands”)
• three detergents
• cat treats Dabing stole
• a pack of AA batteries (no one knew who added it)
• zero vegetables

Yu Ming stared at it like witnessing war crimes.

“I am resigning tomorrow,” he whispered.

CHECKOUT — THE FINAL BOSS

Tong Yao tried to organize items.
Lu Sicheng slipped forbidden items back in.
Pang tried bribing the cashier for stickers.
Lu Yue attempted to negotiate noodle prices.
Dabing sat on the counter like a king.

Employees whispered, “Are they always like this?”
“Is this a prank show?”
“Why is the captain smiling like he enjoys the chaos?!”

He wasn’t smiling.

He was smirking.

Which was worse.

THE ENDING: THE FORGOTTEN TRAGEDY

Back at base, they unloaded bags everywhere.

Tong Yao collapsed on the couch. “I hate all of you.”

“You love us,” Pang said.

“No,” she muttered.

Lu Sicheng sat beside her. “You survived.”

“Barely.”

He nudged her. “Next time—”

“There is NOT going to be a next time.”

“There will be.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

She glared.

He patted her head.

Then Lu Yue froze mid-step.

“…Guys,” he whispered, horrified. “We forgot the eggs.”

Everyone turned slowly to the counter.

No eggs.

Yu Ming inhaled sharply. “We… have to go back.”

Tong Yao stood, gathered her things, walked to the door—

And kept going.

“SMILING COME BACK—!”

“WE NEED YOU—!”

She didn’t look back.