Min woke up close to noon.
The house already smelled like tofu soup. Hye-Jin and Sung-Woo were in charge of lunch and had thrown together a quick meal, soft tofu stew, side dishes, and a pot of rice that steamed against the kitchen window.
Min barely spoke. He ate quickly, mechanically.
The front door opened.
Chan-Sik stepped in carrying a long black case.
It looked like it could hold a rifle.
Min paused mid-bite.
"What is that?"
Chan-Sik set it down carefully on the table.
"This," he said, "is for you."
MC ORCA entered behind him, leaning against the wall with a knowing grin.
"Our secret weapon," he added. "Your secret weapon."
Min stood.
He set his bowl aside and approached the case. The latches clicked open.
Inside…
A keyboard.
But not just any keyboard.
A worn membrane keyboard. The spacebar slightly faded. The W key polished smooth from years of use.
His brother's keyboard.
The room went quiet.
"We kept it," MC ORCA said softly. "We knew Jae-Wan wanted you to have it."
Min didn't respond.
He just lifted it.
For a moment, he could almost feel warmth in the plastic, as if it remembered.
He plugged it in.
Moved his current keyboard aside.
Logged into the private network.
Found a match.
The loading screen faded.
The game began.
And something shifted.
His fingers moved.
Fluid. Precise. Controlled.
Not frantic.
Not desperate.
Controlled.
Marines split before splash damage landed. Dropships threaded through vision gaps. Expansions timed to the second. Attacks layered with purpose.
Chan-Sik's eyes widened.
"That… that shouldn't be possible," he muttered.
MC ORCA folded his arms, watching in silence.
Min wasn't playing.
He was conducting.
Units moved like instruments. Pressure built like a crescendo. Every click is deliberate, no wasted motion.
He wasn't reacting.
He was orchestrating.
The final push came like a closing movement, clean, overwhelming, decisive.
Victory.
No one spoke for a second.
Hye-Jin looked stunned.
Sung-Woo exhaled slowly. "That was… different."
Min removed his hands from the keyboard.
"This," he said quietly, "is what I need."
Chan-Sik nodded. "Yeah. It is."
Min stood.
"I'm going for a walk. I'll be back."
MC ORCA gave him a small nod. "Sure."
As the door closed behind him, Chan-Sik glanced at ORCA.
"He's got it."
ORCA didn't look away from the screen.
"Yeah," he said. "This is it."
The training house was loud in its own quiet way, keyboards clacking, chairs rolling, muted strategy talk.
Min needed something that didn't hum.
Didn't buzz.
Didn't glow blue.
He walked.
Three blocks down sat a small neighborhood park. Faded swings. A rusted slide. A baseball diamond no one used anymore.
The city softened there.
He sat beneath a crooked tree and leaned back.
Sky.
Wide. Pale. Indifferent.
"You'd laugh at all this," he muttered.
The leaves shifted in the wind.
"They scheduled it in the same building."
His fingers twitched unconsciously, rubbing together, tapping air.
"They think I'll break."
Silence.
"I didn't watch your last match for years."
His throat tightened.
"I watched it yesterday."
He stared upward.
"You weren't perfect."
A faint smile.
"But you weren't scared either."
He swallowed.
"I don't know if I'm playing to win anymore… or to make sure you didn't die for nothing."
The words lingered.
"And if I lose…"
He didn't finish.
Instead, his hands began to move.
Invisible keyboard.
Invisible mouse.
Tap. Tap-tap. Drag. Flick.
Muscle memory.
"You're still supply blocked there," he murmured. "Fix the timing."
"Are you playing an invisible piano?"
Min flinched.
A girl stood a few feet away.
Light blue hair caught the afternoon light, soft, almost blending with the sky behind her.
Curious eyes. Not mocking. Not pitying.
Just curious.
"No," Min said.
She tilted her head. "Then what are you doing?"
"…Practicing."
"With nothing?"
"It's not nothing."
She stepped closer, keeping distance.
"You looked serious," she said. "Like you were defusing something."
"Sometimes it feels like that."
Her gaze drifted to his hands.
"You move like you're controlling something small and fragile."
That caught him off guard.
"Do you always analyze strangers in parks?"
"Only the ones arguing with the sky."
He almost smiled.
"Were you talking to someone?" she asked more gently.
"My brother."
She nodded.
No pity. No probing.
Just acknowledgement.
"I was just practicing my movements for my keyboard" Min finally said.
After a moment, she said, "Like a piano? Or for a computer?"
"A computer."
"Ahh. I don't like technology much."
He blinked. "You don't?"
"Too loud. Too fast. Everyone glued to screens. Feels like people live inside rectangles."
"I kind of live in one," he admitted.
"What do you do?"
He hesitated.
"StarCraft."
"The computer game?"
"Yeah."
"You get paid for that?"
"Sometimes."
"You argue with ghosts over it?"
"…Sometimes."
She laughed softly.
"I've never seen it," she said. "Is it just shooting?"
"No."
The answer came instantly.
"It's timing. Information. Prediction. Pressure. You're building while defending while attacking while thinking three minutes ahead."
She watched his hands move again.
"And you were doing that just now?"
"Yeah."
"With no computer."
"Yeah."
She walked around and sat on the far end of the bench.
"Show me."
"You said you hate technology."
"I hate mindless technology," she corrected. "That didn't look mindless."
He studied her.
"Ha-Eun," she said suddenly.
"My name."
He nodded slowly. "Min."
"Okay, Min," she said. "Show me how you fight without fighting."
He began explaining.
"There are three races…"
As he spoke, his hands illustrated everything, expansions, splits, drops, flanks.
She watched more than she listened.
"You're calmer when you talk about it," she observed.
He hadn't noticed.
"It's controlled chaos," she added.
He looked at her.
"That's… accurate."
A breeze passed between them.
"You don't look like someone who's afraid," she said.
"I'm not."
"Good."
"Why?"
"Because of the way your hands move?" She gestured lightly. "That's not someone running."
He stared at his palms.
They weren't trembling.
"Would you actually want to see?" he asked quietly.
"Play?"
"Yeah."
She considered.
"I've never seen StarCraft."
A small shrug.
"I suppose I should understand what kind of invisible war you're fighting."
He stood.
"It's not invisible," he said.
She raised an eyebrow.
"No?"
He glanced toward the skyline beyond the trees.
"It's very real."
She stood too.
"Then show me."
As they walked back toward the house, Min didn't feel lighter.
He didn't feel healed.
But something had shifted.
The sky behind him was still wide.
Still indifferent.
But for the first time
He wasn't looking at it for answers.
He was ready to build something beneath it.