Chapter Text
The Japanese server was usually a haven for polite silence, but Sanemi Shinazugawa didn't do polite. Logging onto his smurf account, WIND_SCAR, he was looking to blow off steam away from the prying eyes of his coaches at Kimetsu E-sports. As the star mid-laner for the Hashiras, he was expected to be a professional, but sometimes he just wanted to crush people without a team tag over his head.
He locked in a high-risk, high-reward assassin. He was ready to feast.
Then he ran into the player: Tomioka_G.
Sanemi’s team was dominant, or they should have been. Every time Sanemi executed a perfect flank to delete the enemy’s carry, he was met with a cold, blue wall. Tomioka_G, playing a defensive support, was playing with a level of serenity that felt like a personal insult to Sanemi’s aggression.
Every dive was parried. Every burst of "Wind" was mitigated by a perfectly timed shield or a displacement spell that felt like being pushed back by a gentle but firm wave. It wasn't just fast reflexes; it was as if this Tomioka_G was reading Sanemi’s intent, predicting his frustration before he even clicked his mouse.
By the twenty-minute mark, Sanemi was vibrating with irritation.
[ALL] WIND_SCAR: Support. You’re the only one with a brain on that team.
[ALL] Tomioka_G: ...
[ALL] WIND_SCAR: Don’t give me that "..." shit. Your ADC is a bot. Why are you wasting your time protecting a corpse?
The game ended in a grueling defeat for Sanemi. Despite his scoreline, he couldn’t break the defensive perimeter Tomioka had built. He checked the post-game lobby—Tomioka_G’s stats were absurdly efficient for a support, even in high-Elo.
Sanemi was supposed to be logging off to attend a strategy meeting with the other Hashiras, but he couldn't let it go. He was obsessed with efficiency, and he’d never seen a defensive player with that much raw, clinical precision.
He opened the Recently Played tab. The account was mysterious—it had a high rank, but the match history was sparse, almost as if the player only played a few high-level games before disappearing.
He fired off a friend request. It was accepted within seconds.
WIND_SCAR: Duo?
Tomioka_G: I don't usually duo with people who talk that much in all-chat. You're very... loud.
WIND_SCAR: I’m typing, not yelling. And your skills are wasted on those idiots you were just playing with. Join me or I’ll just keep hunting you in queue until I win.
A beat of silence passed. Then, the notification popped up: Tomioka_G has joined the lobby.
"Got a mic?" Sanemi snapped as soon as they entered the private voice channel. He kept his tone sharp, hiding the fact that he was actually impressed.
"I do," a voice replied.
Sanemi’s hand stalled on his mouse. The voice wasn't what he expected. It was deep, calm, and possessed a preternatural stillness—like the air in a shrine at midnight. It was a voice that sounded like it had never known the meaning of the word tilt.
"Your mid-lane rotations were reckless," the voice said, blunt and analytical. "You rely on your mechanics to save you from bad positioning. If I hadn't been there to stop you, you would have thrown the game even earlier."
Sanemi’s face flushed a deep red—half from fury, half from a sudden, inexplicable jolt of interest. "Listen here, you arrogant prick, I know what I'm doing. I won that lane."
"And you lost the game," Tomioka replied simply. "But your aggression... it’s useful. It creates pressure that most players can't handle. I can work with that."
"Yeah? Well, prove it," Sanemi growled, slamming the Find Match button. "Don't let me die, and maybe I'll stop calling you a prick."
"I'll try my best."
That night, the Japanese ladder witnessed a terrifying duo. The most aggressive mid-laner on the server was suddenly backed by a support who seemed to make the very ground his teammate stood on invincible.
They talked about objective timers, jungle paths, and synergy. But between the callouts, Sanemi found himself leaning closer to his headset, listening to the lilt of the stranger’s voice. It was grounding. It made the high-stakes game feel less like a chore and more like a partnership.
By 4:00 AM, Sanemi realized he hadn't slammed his desk once.
"Same time tomorrow?" Sanemi asked, his voice lower, the rough edges of his temper smoothed out by the long night.
"I have a stream to run," the voice replied. "I don't show my face, so it takes some time to prepare the setup. But... after that. Yes. I'd like that..."
The voice trailed off, a quiet pause hanging in the air. Tomioka seemed to realize he didn't actually know who he was talking to beyond a screen name. "...WIND_SCAR?"
Sanemi snorted, a small, genuine smirk tugging at his lips. He didn't want to give his full name—not yet, not while he was still the Wind Hashira to the rest of the world.
"Just call me Nemi," he muttered.
"Alright. Tomorrow, Nemi."
The call disconnected. Sanemi stared at the greyed-out icon of Tomioka_G, his heart thumping against his ribs in a rhythm that had absolutely nothing to do with the game.
The next day, the Kimetsu E-sports facility was buzzing. During the Hashiras' morning VOD review, their captain, Kyojuro Rengoku, was in high spirits, his booming voice echoing off the walls as he analyzed their recent scrims.
"Excellent aggression, Shinazugawa! Your pressure in the mid-lane is unparalleled!" Rengoku shouted, flashing a bright, toothy grin. "But you seem distracted today! Is your spirit wandering?"
Sanemi leaned back in his gaming chair, arms crossed, scowling at the floor. "I'm fine, Rengoku. Just didn't sleep well."
"A warrior needs his rest!" Rengoku declared, though he didn't push further. Beside him, Uzui leaned over, whispering just loud enough for the team to hear. "He’s probably stayed up chasing some high-Elo grudge. Very un-flashy of you, Sanemi."
Sanemi ignored them. His mind was stuck on a loop, replaying that calm, deep voice from the night before. He’d spent his entire lunch break searching for Tomioka on every platform, but he’d come up empty-handed. He felt like an idiot—he’d found the most talented defensive player in Japan and hadn’t even asked for his handle.
By the time 11:00 PM rolled around, Sanemi was back at his private setup in the dorms, logged into WIND_SCAR.
[System]: Tomioka_G has logged in.
Sanemi fired off the invite before the notification even faded.
"You're early," the voice said as the channel connected. It was just as smooth as Sanemi remembered, a low, grounding vibration that immediately cut through the lingering noise of Rengoku’s shouting from earlier.
"I'm on time. You're just slow," Sanemi grumbled, though his heart gave a traitorous little thump. He queued them up immediately, unable to handle the quiet of the lobby. "You finish your stream?"
"A few minutes ago," Tomioka replied. "It was... a bit much today. Too many people in chat."
Sanemi bit his lip, trying to sound like he didn't care as the champion select screen popped up. "Yeah? What do you even do on there? You play like a pro, but you mentioned you play chill games."
"I do. Sometimes I just wander through open-world maps. Or I play League, but I don't try to climb the ladder. I just... play. My viewers seem to like the atmosphere."
"Wander? You're kidding me," Sanemi muttered, locking in a lethal, high-damage mid-laner. "You have hands like that and you're wasting them on walking simulators? Whatever. What's the channel name? I tried looking for 'Tomioka' and found nothing."
There was a long, hesitant silence. On the screen, Tomioka locked in a protective, water-themed support.
"I don't usually tell my duo partners," Tomioka said quietly. "People act differently when they know there's an audience. They try to show off. Or they get toxic for the content."
"Do I look like I give a damn about an audience?" Sanemi snapped. "I just want to see if you're as boring as you sound when you're not saving my life."
He heard a soft, huffed sound through the headset. It was almost—almost—a laugh.
"It’s 'G_Yu'," Tomioka said. "But don't come in there and start a fight in the chat, Nemi. My moderators are very strict."
As the loading screen hit 100%, Sanemi reached for his phone. He typed G_Yu into the search bar.
His jaw nearly hit his desk.
The channel had over two million followers. The "Last Stream" thumbnail was a simple, aesthetic shot of rain hitting a window with the title: Quiet Night & Low-Stakes Games. There was no face-cam, just a high-quality wave-form visualizer that pulsed with the rhythm of his voice.
Sanemi scrolled through the clips. They weren't "Pro Highlights." They were clips of Giyuu’s character sitting by a campfire, or Giyuu calmly outplaying a three-man dive while talking about his favorite type of salmon daikon.
The comments were a sea of adoration:
“His voice is a literal hug.”
“I’ve never seen his face, but I’m already in love.”
“G_Yu, please just keep talking, I don’t even care about the game.”
"Nemi? The minions have spawned," the voice—the voice that had two million people under its spell—called out in his ear.
Sanemi nearly dropped his phone. He looked at the character model of the support player standing patiently by his side. This quiet guy was a massive celebrity, and he was currently spending his private, post-work time helping a random smurf.
"Yeah, yeah, I'm moving," Sanemi muttered, his face heating up. "And for the record... your fans are weird. Who simps over a voice?"
"I don't know," Tomioka replied, his tone as placid as a still pond. "I don't really listen to myself. Ready? They're going to try to invade."
"Let 'em come," Sanemi grinned, leaning into his monitor with a new kind of fire. "They have to get through you first."
A few weeks into their "routine," the two had become a fixture of the high-Elo late-night ladder. Sanemi had grown used to the Giyuu effect—that strange, grounding calm that allowed him to play at his peak without the usual explosive tilt.
However, playing on a smurf account like WIND_SCAR meant Sanemi usually held back. He played at about sixty percent power, just enough to win, but not enough to draw the attention of analysts or rival scouts who could recognize his specific fingerprint on a champion.
But tonight, someone on the enemy team was typing.
[ALL] Enemy_Jungler: Lmao imagine being this hardstuck. WIND_SCAR is a fraud.
[ALL] Enemy_Jungler: Sit down, mid-gap is massive.
The enemy jungler had just pulled off a lucky gank, killing Sanemi while he was momentarily distracted by Giyuu describing a particularly good bowl of ginger pork he’d had for lunch.
Sanemi’s grip tightened on his mouse until the plastic creaked. The "Wind Hashira" didn't handle insults well, even on a secret account.
"Nemi, don't," Giyuu said, his voice coming through the headset like a cool compress on a burn. "He’s just trying to provoke you. We still have the scaling advantage."
"Scaling my ass," Sanemi hissed. "He’s talking trash because he got lucky? I’m going to end his entire career."
For the next ten minutes, the game stopped being a chill duo session. Sanemi stopped talking. He stopped listening to Giyuu’s food stories. He entered the Flow State that had made him the most feared mid-laner in the Hashiras.
His clicks per minute tripled. He began tracking the enemy jungler's position without even having vision, predicting camp timers with mathematical precision.
In a lightning-fast sequence, Sanemi executed a four-man dive under the Tier 2 tower. It was a play that required frame-perfect timing—something only a handful of people in the world could pull off. He dodged three skill shots with a single dash, flashed a finishing blow, and escaped with exactly 12 HP.
The chat went silent. Even the enemy jungler stopped typing.
[ALL] Enemy_ADC: ...Wait.
[ALL] Enemy_ADC: That combo. There's only one guy who does that dash-cancel.
[ALL] Enemy_Jungler: No way. Is that a Hashira?
Sanemi realized his mistake the second his heart rate slowed down. He had just used a specific, high-level mechanic he’d invented during a match against a Korean team last month. It was his signature.
"That was... impressive," Giyuu said. His voice was still calm, but there was a new edge of curiosity to it. "I’ve seen pro players fail that combo in the LJL finals. You did it like it was nothing."
"Luck," Sanemi grunted, his face turning a furious shade of red. "I got lucky. Shut up and ward the Baron."
"You don't play like someone who relies on luck, Nemi," Giyuu replied softly. "You play like someone who lives and breathes this game. Like it’s the only thing that matters to you."
After they secured the win—a complete stomp fueled by Sanemi’s accidental pro-level display—they sat in the lobby. Sanemi was sweating, his adrenaline still spiking.
"Nemi?"
"What?" Sanemi snapped, still trying to play it cool.
"Why are you hiding?" Giyuu asked. It wasn't an accusation; it was a genuine question. "You’re better than ninety percent of the people I see on the ladder. You could go pro. You could be on a team like the Hashiras."
Sanemi let out a harsh, jagged laugh. "Maybe I just don't want the headache. Maybe I like playing with a boring streamer who talks about ginger pork too much."
There was a pause. On the other end of the line, Giyuu smiled—though Sanemi couldn't see it.
"I see," Giyuu said. "Well, whatever you're hiding, I don't mind. As long as you keep playing with me. I've grown... fond of our nights."
Sanemi choked on his water. "Fond? Don't say weird, sappy stuff with that voice of yours! It’s gross!"
"My fans say it's my best quality," Giyuu teased gently. "Do you want to play one more? Or is your 'luck' starting to run out?"
"Shut up! Queue it up!"
As the timer ticked, Sanemi realized he was in deep. He was a pro player keeping a secret, playing with a famous streamer keeping a secret, and for the first time in his life, he didn't care about the win—he just wanted to hear Giyuu say his name again.