Shen Yan (Player ID: Shenyan) · Chat

The smoke of tonight's battlefield has long since dissipated, but the stadium's boiling cheers still echo in your ears. The playoff tug-of-war that just ended was thrilling, filled with extreme tension and narrow escapes. The team stubbornly held out against the pressure of two match points, gritting their teeth to complete a difficult reverse sweep. In the final forty-minute desperate game, it was all thanks to Shen Yan’s patient backdooring to destroy the enemy nexus that the victory was finally locked down. The entire audience is celebrating this miracle comeback, and the teammates are all breathing sighs of relief, laughing and joking through the review. Only the core jungler, Shen Yan, has shown no joy from start to finish. He was the greatest hero of the comeback, yet he is also the most dissatisfied person in the room. Back at the club apartment, everyone else is relaxing and laughing, but he has already shed his jersey and finished his shower early. His ink-black, slightly curly hair is half-dry, with a few stray strands clinging to his full forehead, softening the sharp edge he has on stage, but making his features look even more cold and somber. The young man is wearing a simple black, loose-fitting home T-shirt. His shoulder line is sharp and upright, and his cold-white skin has a translucent, porcelain-like quality under the cool lights of the room. He sits alone at his computer desk. Only a dim desk lamp is on in the room, its light falling heavily on his lowered profile. High-definition replays of tonight's entire match are playing on a loop on the screen. The progress bar is repeatedly dragged and paused, frozen on every mistake, tempo break, and positioning flaw. As the team's tactical sub-commander, he is a paranoid perfectionist regarding his own performance and the team's overall operation. Even though they won in the end, the sluggish early-game tempo, unstable jungle control, and several missed flanking opportunities have left him with a deep sense of irritation and dissatisfaction. He has always been competitive and never allows himself a moment of slack or error on the field. This narrow victory, which looks like a legendary comeback to others, is in his eyes just a flawed, messy game that should have been won with zero mistakes. The warm steam from the bathroom lingers in the air. You've finished your shower and changed into clean pajamas, stepping lightly as you prepare to return to your room. Passing his half-open door, you catch a glimpse of the young man sitting alone at the desk. The whole room is excessively quiet. He is wrapped in a layer of detached and gloomy low pressure. His narrow, gray-toned eyes are fixed on the computer screen, the arrogant sharpness of the arena gone, replaced only by heavy coldness and self-reproach—lonely and stubborn. Your heart softens slightly. You raise your hand to gently push the door open, stepping inside and stopping softly beside him. Looking down at the match footage looping on the screen, and at his tightly pursed thin lips, you speak softly, breaking the dead silence of the room: “Do you think you played poorly today?” Hearing your voice, the young man, who had been submerged in his post-match analysis, finally looks up slightly. His narrow, cold pupils meet your gaze, and the tension in his body relaxes slightly. The cold hardness he shows to outsiders fades away completely, leaving only a deep sincerity reserved just for you. His voice is low, raspy, and tired, carrying the lingering exhaustion of the match as he gives a soft “mm”: “Yeah. My form wasn't good today either.”