Page 56 of Lethal in Pink

My gaming chair screeches like a dying animal every time I shift my weight. The manufacturer called it “ergonomic racing style”; my downstairs neighbor considers it justification for aggravated assault.

It’s 11:30 PM. The dual monitors throw a cold, electric-blue wash across my desk. On the left screen: the map of Apex Legends, blue light reflecting off my knuckles as I rest my fingers on WASD. On the right: Discord, where Kiho’s avatar—a cursed, mid-chew selfie from a street vendor in Mapo—lights up green every time he yells into his mic.

“—차지 라이플을 한 번만 더 고르면, LA로 날아가서 네 손을 부러뜨려 버릴 거야.” (“if you pick the charge rifle one more time, I am flying to LA to break your hands”), Kiho’s voice crackles through my headset, fluent Korean laced with gaming profanity. “진짜로, 형. 그건 조준도 못 하는 겁쟁이들이나 쓰는 무기예요.” (“Seriously, hyung. It’s a weapon for cowards who can’t aim.”)

“The charge rifle is about precision,” I say, taking a sip of flat, room-temperature energy drink beside my mousepad. The liquid leaves a sticky, chemical aftertaste on my tongue. “Some of us value hitting what we target.”

“Some of us value having a soul,” Kiho counters, instantly dropping into English. “Drop Fragment. I’m feeling toxic.”

We drop. The digital skyline rushes up to meet us—decaying skyscrapers, narrow alleys, tight sightlines. For ten minutes, my brain clears out to the steady, rhythmic clack of my mechanical switches. Kiho shrieks into my ear every time he lands a headshot, the bright, obnoxious noise filling my headset with the familiar comfort of home. Not the Seoul of expectations and schedules, but the Seoul of his bedroom at three in the morning, two teenagers huddled over two laptops, trash-talking each other in Korean so foul their mothers would have slapped them both.

Then my filter fails.

We’re looting a building in the central plaza, clearing rooms with mechanical efficiency, when I watch Kiho take a blind, aggressive angle around a corner without checking his flank.

“You know, my Ethics partner would tear you apart for that,” I mutter before my brain can catch the sentence. “You act like you’re pulling off a tactical masterpiece, but your risk assessment is garbage. She’d look at your setup, point out three ways you’re setting yourself up to get ambushed, and make you feel like an idiot before you even hit the ground.”

The words hang in the air, heavy and uninvited.

Kiho’s character stops dead in the middle of the hallway.

It isn't a lag spike. It’s the loaded, predatory silence of a man who just heard a tripwire snap in the dark.

“Ya. Hyung.” His voice drops into a terrifyingly sweet register. “Are you talking about that law girl again?”

My fingers freeze over the keys. “I’m critiquing your garbage positioning.”

“Bro, you’ve brought her up three times tonight,” Kiho croons, leaning so close to his mic I can hear the grin in his throat. “First it was some random detail about how she structures her notes, then how she corners people during arguments, and now she’s apparently backseat-driving your Apex drops? Hyung, you sound completely compromised.”

“Focus on the corridor,” I bite out, my hand tightening around my mouse until the plastic creaks.

Kiho doesn't focus on the corridor. Instead, he pitches his voice into a breathy, melodramatic falsetto that sounds like a dub on a bad daytime drama.

“‘Oh, Kiho-ya,’” he swoons into his headset. “‘She’s so sharp, Kiho-ya! She wears a little pink bow in her hair and shreds my logic to pieces! She smells like vanilla and plum blossoms and I just love watching her win—’”

“Shut up.”

“‘—and when she presses her shoulder against mine in the library, I forget how to breathe—’”

Kiho breaks into a wheezing, hysterical laugh, his character standing wide open in the courtyard.

Snap.

A sniper round takes Kiho’s character clean through the helmet. His avatar collapses instantly into a wooden box of digital loot.

“LOOK WHAT YOU DID!” Kiho screams, his voice cracking into full-blown theatrics. “I DIED BECAUSE OF YOUR CRUSH! THIS IS A DIRECT CASUALTY OF YOUR UNREQUITED LONGING!”

“I don’t have a crush,” I say. The sentence comes out flat, devoid of any conviction, dissolving the second it hits the room.

“Right. You don’t have a crush. You just talk about her every day, compare every other girl to her, and you could probably describe her perfume in you sleep. You’re right. That’s not a crush—that’s full-blown simp infection.”

I lean back in the chair, letting the frame screech against the quiet of my apartment. I stare up at the blank white ceiling, feeling the cool draft from the window against my ankles, and click the button to respawn his idiot character back into the match.

“Speaking of being a simp,” I say. “How’s your girlfriend?”

“Don’t soft-pivot me, you coward. My girlfriend is great. She told me to tell you that you’re fucked, by the way.”

“She’s never even been part of the conversation.”