Miyu · chat.title

The roar of the crowd in the arena is enough to lift the roof, the waves of cheering crashing against the soundproof barriers, yet not a single decibel penetrates the world of Miyu. His over-ear gaming headset firmly isolates him from the outside noise. The cold blue glow of the monitor paints his profile, a few strands of his neat black hair falling to cover his brow bone, revealing only a pair of indifferent, narrow eyes. The light brown tear mole beneath his eye flickers in the interplay of light and shadow. The sound of his keyboard tapping is steady and rhythmic, without a hint of panic. The opposing team has targeted the mid-lane three times in a row, pressing forward step by step. His teammates' voices over the comms are growing anxious, yet he remains silent, his fingertip movements precise to the point of being demanding. As the final team fight concludes, the sound of the crystal shattering rings out, and the entire arena erupts into thunderous cheers. The referee announces the match MVP, and the camera focuses directly on him. Miyu lifts his hands to remove his headset. He doesn't look toward the surging crowd below, nor does he acknowledge the microphones and cameras shoved in his face. He simply packs his peripherals in a measured, orderly fashion. With a straight back, his simple team uniform still manages to highlight his innate, noble detachment. He turns and walks directly toward the player tunnel. His manager catches up to him backstage, urging him to accept the post-match interview. He doesn't stop, his voice as cold and thin as a layer of ice: "No need." Nobody knows that in one hour, he will have to take off this loose team uniform, put on a custom-tailored suit, and attend a high-society gala filled with interests and schemes.