"Hi-hi, everyone."
Ming You captured their attention, but it wasn't a lively, excited attention. It was the attention of drowning people spotting a lifebuoy. All heads turned towards him. A weak, sickly flicker of hope ignited in Jung Ho's eyes. Lu Shen lifted his head, his face etched with mute suffering and a question.
"What's going on, Ming You?" asked Jung Ho, setting the ball aside. His voice was hoarse, stripped of its usual velvety confidence. It sounded almost pleading.
Ming You's gaze swept over each of them, letting them feel the weight of his attention. His look was a scalpel, dissecting their frailty.
"I have an announcement for you. The final game against those… newcomers is today. And the only one among us who hasn't utterly crushed those losers yet is you, Hong Ren."
He shifted his icy gaze to Hong Ren. The latter slowly moved his eyes from the spot on the wall to Ming You. Something complex flickered in his usually empty eyes — residual suffering, excitement, and a new, sharp craving. A craving not just for victory, but for that state of flawless clarity, that chemical high that turned the game into predetermined mathematics and him into the god of the court.
Ming You held a small, masterfully calculated pause to let this craving flare, to let the fear of withdrawal transform into an aggressive desire for a reward.
"And the rules remain the same," he continued, his words falling into the tomb-like silence like stones. "Your shot points are multiplied by four."
Haru Lin, as if hit by an adrenaline shot, jumped up from the floor. His trembling ceased for a moment.
"Four! Hear that?! Four times!" he shouted, and his voice rang with a strange, unhealthy note. He was no longer seeing a game, but that very night at the club, that very high that would be the reward. He saw the girls, the laughter, the feeling of omnipotence.
Lu Shen, whose nervous system was still twitching with withdrawal convulsions, didn't miss the chance to make a jab, trying to reclaim a shred of his former bravado. A nervous, twitchy grin appeared on his face.
"So, there will be six losers playing on the court? One of ours and five of theirs?"
Hong Ren, who had been staring into space, slowly turned his head towards Lu Shen. The movement was smooth, but there was a hidden spring in it.
"If I'm a loser, then in that case, you're the eternal virgin. I hope your shaking won't interfere with my game. I'll be seeing trajectories, not your convulsions."
Everyone in the locker room froze, then laughter broke out. But it wasn't healthy, friendly laughter. It was stifled, nervous laughter of relief, a release of tension. Even Ming You allowed himself a thin, artfully played laugh — the corners of his lips twitched, emitting a short, soundless exhalation like a "hmph." That was enough to give them a positive signal.
Lu Shen, blushing but feeling a surge of strange energy from the argument, raised his hands in surrender.
"Okay, okay, I won't interfere. I'll just sit and watch you tear those losers apart. And… and how we'll all celebrate afterwards. Right, Min?"
He looked at Ming You with a silent plea in his eyes, seeking confirmation that the celebration, that very chemical reward, would definitely happen.
Haru Lin finally joined the conversation, tearing himself away from his inner demons with difficulty. He straightened up, trying to regain his mask of arrogance. But his eyes were still too wide open, his fingers trembling slightly.
"If you two keep chatting like this, we might not even make it to the game," he said, his voice sharp, almost irritable. He needed action. He needed the adrenaline of the game to somehow eclipse the horror of the emptiness inside. "We need… to focus. Train. Not discuss Lu Shen's eternal, nervous virginity."
"Oh, don't worry, Haru," Lu Shen snapped back, his grin widening, though his eyes still darted around. "After Hong wins against those losers, at the club I'll show you who's a virgin and who's not! I… I'll take two! At once! So one can cheer and the other can suck!"
He almost shouted it, trying to drown out the internal trembling with loudness.
"I think it's already pretty obvious," Haru Lin retorted, a crooked, pale smile appearing on his lips. "The only one doing any sucking will be you."
Veins bulged on Lu Shen's forehead, but it was a good anger, anger that distracted from the withdrawal.
Jung Ho, watching their interaction, couldn't suppress a smile. But his smile was also tired, strained. However, that same fire had reignited in his eyes — the fire of a leader who sees a goal. The chemicals were leaving their bodies, but the seed of addiction, the craving for that state, was deeply planted. And the game, the victory, the reward promised by Ming You — all of that was water for that seed.
"Alright, enough joking," Jung Ho said, and his voice gained firmness. He stood up, squared his shoulders, overcoming the heaviness in his bones. "Hong Ren, tear them apart completely. Make them crawl to us on their knees after the game. And our task," his gaze swept over Haru Lin and Lu Shen, "is to support him. Create space for him. Be the wall they can't break through. We'll do it. Because after that…" He looked at Ming You, and in his gaze was a silent question and hope.
Ming You gave him an almost imperceptible, approving nod. That was enough.
The team straightened up as if on command. Their postures became more confident. The pain and emptiness receded, replaced by anticipation. Anticipation not just of victory, but of returning to that paradise they had tasted. They were ready to tear anyone apart, just so the key to that paradise — Ming You — would turn in the lock again.
Ming You, seeing the levers pressed, the mood set, took a step towards the exit. About to leave, he casually threw over his shoulder:
"Good. I'm glad about your attitude. Now I have to go warn those losers that today is their last game. Their last chance to save face. Or what's left of it."
His words, spoken with icy nonchalance, hung in the air. They didn't sound like a threat. They sounded like a statement of fact. And that made it even more frightening and exciting for his team.
The players nodded, their eyes burning. Sounds returned to the locker room — but now it wasn't nervous whispering, but confident thuds of a ball against the floor, squeaks of sneakers on tile, short, purposeful remarks. The laughter that now rang out was different — less hysterical, more aggressive, hungry. They felt not like sick men, but like soldiers on the eve of a decisive battle, after which awaited not just victory, but a long-awaited reward. A reward only he could give. Ming You.
He left the locker room, leaving behind that cocktail of withdrawal, aggression, and craving. In the hallway, he paused for a second, listening to the sounds from behind the door. A satisfied, almost weightless smile touched his lips.