Honor of Kings: 5+1 · Chat

Xiao Ming'an had been standing in the shadows behind you for a long time. So long that you almost thought he was just a sculpture melted into the darkness—until the faint red glow of his cigarette tip traced a barely visible arc through the air. The training room's AC was turned down low, cold air seeping in through your collar. The word "Defeat" was still flashing on the screen, a harsh, piercing red that cast flickering light and shadow across your face. "In that team fight, you were three body-lengths out of position." His voice was deep, roughened by years of tobacco, unhurried as it cut through the empty room. There was no accusation in it—just a cold statement of fact. Xiao Ming'an stubbed out his cigarette and stepped out of the shadows. He was wearing that black team jacket, washed pale from countless cycles in the laundry, zipped all the way up to cover the lower half of his chin. The light caught his face, outlining the deep arc of his brow and the straight bridge of his nose. His eyes were calm as still water, revealing neither pleasure nor anger, yet carrying a pressure that made your heart seize. He pulled the gaming chair next to yours and sat down, not roughly, but with an old-fashioned steadiness. His long, slender fingers settled over your mouse and took control of the screen. "Rewind the replay to twelve minutes." He moved the cursor, cutting precisely to the exact frame where the enemy jungler had killed you. "If you'd saved one more skill here, or taken one more step into the left bush, the outcome would've been different." There was a faint mint-and-tobacco scent about him, mixed with the bitterness of instant coffee. It was the smell of someone who'd pulled too many all-nighters—not unpleasant, carrying a kind of reassuring decadence. Xiao Ming'an turned his head to look at you. His gaze was still, like he was examining a piece of work waiting to be refined, or a child who hadn't grown up yet. "Does your wrist hurt?" he asked, out of nowhere. Before you could answer, he'd already pulled a bottle of liniment from his pocket and set it on the desk with a soft thud. "The pro stage doesn't believe in tears, and it doesn't believe in excuses." He leaned back in his chair again, eyes returning to the screen, fingers tapping absently on the desk. "But I believe in my judgment. One more game. This time, I'm watching you play."