And while the internet has once again clocked in for its shift — which genuinely makes me wonder, does the internet ever clock out? Or is it just perpetually, tragically, gloriously rendering overtime with no PTO and zero work-life balance? Someone should really look into that. HR, maybe. If the internet had one. It doesn't. Moving on. —
LEAVEN was out. Unbothered. Living. Breathing. Thriving, even.
Specifically, they were at Myeongdong, doing what any reasonable group of young men with good taste and functioning taste buds should be doing — going absolutely feral over street food, stall by stall, bite by bite, like a very stylish and chaotic food tour that nobody planned but everyone was committed to.
And in the middle of it all, a conversation was happening.
A very sophisticated, deeply intellectual conversation.
"Girl!" Aqua exclaimed, eyes wide, as he took a bite of his steaming hotteok — the kind of bite that a person takes when they have been personally visited by a higher power.
"Guuurrrl!" Pink nodded gravely, taking a bite of his own, matching that same deeply spiritual energy.
"Oh, Girl." Javi slow-nodded, tteokbokki in hand, like a man who had just witnessed something that would change him fundamentally as a person.
"Like girl..." Kitty deadpanned, staring into the middle distance, looking personally offended by how good the food was. "Girla."
And somehow — somehow — the conversation continued. Flowing naturally. Effortlessly. As if "girl" was a fully developed language with syntax, grammar, tone, subtext, and an entire emotional range. Which, to be fair, it kind of was.
August stood slightly apart from the chaos, head tilted at a gentle angle, wearing an expression that was one part fascination, one part confusion, and one part the face of a man watching something he couldn't explain but couldn't look away from either.
"How..." he started, to no one in particular. "How do they understand each other?"
"It's an ancient language," Nox said, with the gravity and composure of a tenured professor delivering a thesis. "Passed down through generations. Takes years of dedicated study to even begin to comprehend it."
August turned to him slowly. "...Really?"
"Hm." Nox nodded, face completely unreadable.
"Huh." August looked back at the four of them, now deeply impressed. "Interesting..."
"Want me to translate?" Nox offered, casually, like he wasn't fully running a bit right now.
"You can UNDERSTAND it?!"
"It's not that hard." A shrug. The shrug of a man who had absolutely nothing to prove and knew it.
He pointed at Aqua.
"Aqua said, 'this hotteok is the bomb.com.'"
Then Pink.
"Pink said, 'bitch, stop trippin.'"
Then Javi.
"Javi said, 'oh no she did not.'"
Then Kitty — and here Nox paused, for dramatic effect, which was absolutely intentional —
"And Kitty said, 'y'all hoes be quiet. The fishcakes are the tea.'"
August stared at him for a long moment.
"Nox-hyung..." he said, voice hushed with genuine reverence. "You're amazing."
"Nah." Nox waved it off, reaching over to ruffle August's hair with the effortless ease of someone who had just committed to a bit so thoroughly that it had now become reality. "It was nothing."
"Do you want to try some?" August held out a piece of tteokbokki on a stick, generous, unbothered, the picture of innocence.
Nox took it without hesitation. Because of course he did.
One second.
Two seconds.
"...Holy shit." His face was already turning red, the betrayal setting in fast and merciless. He coughed. Then coughed again. "That's hella spicy."
August blinked. Looked down at his own cup of tteokbokki. Looked back up.
"Really?" He said, with complete and total sincerity. "It's not that spicy to me."
Nox stared at him.
August stared back.
Somewhere nearby, Kitty was still deadpanning about fishcakes.
****
Meanwhile, over at a café in Gangnam, a very different kind of chaos was unfolding — the dangerous, cavity-inducing, utterly lethal kind.
A double date.
Bobby and Lili. Jordan and Eli. Two couples, one loveseat each, and enough combined sweetness in the air to personally send the tooth fairy into a sugar-induced spiral. The rest of the group had been invited, naturally. And the rest of the group had declined — vehemently, unanimously, and with the kind of conviction usually reserved for life-or-death situations. Nobody wanted to voluntarily subject themselves to that much lovey-dovey energy on a perfectly good day out. Absolutely not. Hard pass.
So here the four of them were. Cozy. Warm. Disgustingly cute.
Bobby and Lili were tucked into their loveseat, while Jordan and Eli occupied the one across from them, the whole setup so pink and soft and sweet that it could've been plucked straight out of a dream sequence.
Jordan, scrolling idly through his phone, stumbled across Foca's post on the official Bread Music Z account and tilted his head thoughtfully.
"Why does Sir Foca call the supporters 'Patrons'?" he asked, genuinely curious. "Like — where did that come from?"
"Right?" Eli said, fork already halfway to his red velvet cake. "Is that just a fancy word for customers? Because if he's trying to be subtle about it, it's really not subtle." He cut off a small piece and held it up toward Jordan without even looking — casual, instinctive, completely natural. Jordan leaned over and ate it off the fork with equal casualness. Like breathing.
"Sir Foca is just... really something, isn't he," Bobby said, smiling softly into his drink.
"Zhat's what happens when you're born a prodigy," Lili said, with the quiet certainty of someone who had firsthand evidence. "You're bound zo have a few quirks. And zhankfully, his are zhe tolerable kind. Kinda cute, even." She paused, a small nostalgic smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. "Little bread has always been an odd one, since he was small."
"Oh, that's right —" Eli pointed his fork in sudden recognition. "You're Sir Foca's cousin."
"Guilty," Lili said with a light laugh.
"What was it like, watching him grow up?"
Lili was quiet for a moment, the kind of quiet that comes with actually thinking something through rather than just answering.
"Honestly?" she started. "Anyone related to little bread has had at least one moment in zheir life where zhey genuinely questioned zheir own self worth. Including me." She said it without bitterness — just fact, warm and matter-of-fact. "He is just zhat talented. His entire family is. Zhey're a family full of monsters, honestly — each one an anomaly in zheir own right. Jonathan in leadership. Pearl in business. Alexandrite in science. And little bread in performing arts." She shook her head lightly, fond exasperation written all over her face. "So yes. Zhere was definitely a moment — maybe two — where I wanted zo personally smack him in zhe head for being so irritatingly, effortlessly perfect."
The table laughed.
"Wow," Jordan said after a beat, shaking his head slowly. "It's surreal, hearing you describe him like that. Because in person he's just... so normal? So genuinely human? Like, you're painting this picture of someone almost larger than life, and then I think about how he actually is with us, and it's —" he paused, searching for the word — "it doesn't compute. In the best way."
"Zhat's what's always been so amazing about little bread," Lili said, and there was no mistaking the quiet pride in her voice. "No matter how high everyone lifts him up, his feet never leave zhe ground. What you see is what you get. How he is with you — zhat's not a performance. Zhat's just him. Zhe real him."
A comfortable silence settled over the table. The kind that didn't need filling.
"I'm just really glad," Bobby said quietly, "that I get to work under him."
"Don't we all," Eli said, smiling into his cake.
Lili and Jordan nodded, soft and simultaneous.
And the café stayed warm, and pink, and just the right amount of sweet.
"So going back," Eli said, pointing his fork with the energy of a man who had been sitting on this question and refused to let it die. "Why Patrons?"
"Well," Lili said, as if the answer was the most obvious thing in the world, "if you haven't noticed by now — little bread really, really likes bread."
"I mean," Bobby said, gesturing vaguely at the concept of everything, "he did name his entire company after it, so."
"Exactly!" Lili said. "So in short — he treats zhe company as a bakery. A literal metaphor, if you will. Bread Music is zhe bakery. LEAVEN is zhe bread being sold. And zhe Patrons are zhe loyal regulars who keep coming back. Aka zhe fans."
A beat of silence as the table collectively processed this.
"Okay," Eli said slowly, nodding. "Okay, that actually makes a lot of sense."
"Sir Foca is genuinely operating on a completely different plane of existence from the rest of us," Jordan said, with the quiet awe of a man who had made peace with that fact.
"You're one to talk," Bobby said, the smile already creeping onto his face. "'Dancing Alchemist.'"
Jordan made a face. The table knew the title well — it had stuck, and it was not letting go anytime soon.
"I'm nowhere near Sir Foca's level though," Jordan said, and he meant it — no false modesty, just quiet, genuine honesty. "I still have so much to learn before I could ever say something like that with a straight face. But I'll get there." A beat. Then, with a small but certain smile — "I'll work hard."
"ATTA BOY, BABE!" Eli said, so suddenly and so loudly that it startled the table, beaming at Jordan like a proud parent at a school recital. "THAT'S what I'm talking about!"
Jordan turned approximately the color of the red velvet cake.
Bobby's eyes slid sideways. Slowly. Deliberately.
"...Babe?"
"Oh, don't even," Eli said immediately, pointing at him. "You and Lili call each other 'honey' like it's a personality trait. I call Jordan babe ONE time and suddenly it's breaking news?"
"So it's public public now?!" Lili perked up instantly, leaning forward with the barely contained excitement of someone who had been waiting for this announcement.
"Not — no. Not exactly," Jordan said carefully, shooting Eli a look. A cute look. A very specific look that was trying very hard to be stern and was not succeeding even slightly.
Eli met it with a smirk. Slow. Smug. Completely unrepentant.
The look of a man who had said what he said and would say it again.
And thus, the double date carried on — warm, sweet, and just the right amount of chaotic.
****
And while some went gallivanting — yes, I used a premium word from my vocabulary subscription for that one, you're welcome, applause accepted, moving on — around the night markets of Seoul, and while others opted for the quiet, pink, aggressively sweet atmosphere of a trendy café, Leo, Monarch, and Yone had a completely different pilgrimage in mind.
The T1 base camp.
Holy ground.
"The holy land for all things T1..." Monarch said, stopping just short of the entrance, voice dropping to the reverent hush of a man standing before something greater than himself. "...I can already smell the scent of champions from here."
"Let us take a moment of silence," Leo said, equally solemn, head slightly bowed.
"I know you're both excited — you haven't stopped yapping about it since we left — but could you perhaps have your spiritual awakening AWAY from the doorway?!" Yone said, physically steering both of them out of the entrance before they became a permanent installation. They stumbled forward, apologizing to the people around them with the sheepish energy of men who had absolutely no regrets.
The other patrons, for their part, found the whole thing deeply amusing. Two grown men treating a gaming café like a destination for religious pilgrimage. Honestly, fair.
PCs booked. Deluxe ramyun ordered. Milkis acquired. The full PC bang experience, properly, respectfully executed.
Leo and Monarch settled into their seats like kids who had just been let loose in a candy store — practically vibrating, bouncing slightly, eyes bright with the particular kind of joy that only a gamer in their natural habitat truly understands.
And then they logged into League of Legends.
And then the match started.
And then the atmosphere shifted.
"LEO! What the HELL was that?! I was TANKING — why weren't you KITING?!"
"WHERE is your map awareness?! It was a 4v1! I'm not engaging that, are you INSANE?!"
"You COWARD! We could've taken two of them before you dipped, it would've been worth it even if I DIED! Hay, PUTA!"
"Why did you even ENGAGE when mid was MISSING?! Get your head OUT of your ass!"
"The ADC and supp were both LOW! I saw an angle, I took it! Not my fault my carry is apparently ALLERGIC to fighting!"
And there it was. The true nature of the gamer — unleashed, unfiltered, and absolutely feral.
They trash talked each other with the passionate fury of two people who genuinely could not stand what the other just did. And then, in the very same breath, hyped each other up without hesitation, because respect goes where respect is due. That's just the law.
"I'm looking, I'm looking!"
"I'm here, I'm here!"
"Ready — and GO!"
"I'm zoning the ADC!"
"I'm going HAM, I don't even care anymore!"
"ULT in 3... 2... 1—"
PENTAKILL.
"THAT'S WHAT I'M TALKING ABOUT!"
"NICU!!!!"
"Good FUCKING shit, man." Leo said, breathless, grinning.
"Right back at you," Monarch said, equally breathless, equally grinning. "Good FUCKING shit."
Meanwhile, up in the top lane, Yone was having a completely different kind of game.
Now — one might assume that a person named Yone would, naturally, play Yone. A reasonable assumption. A logical assumption.
A wrong assumption.
Yone was up in the top lane playing Teemo. Gleefully, deliberately, and with what could only be described as concerning levels of personal investment. Tanky build. Shrooms everywhere. The entire top lane had been converted into what was essentially a minefield — so thoroughly covered that enemies were dying before they even got close enough to properly gank him. The enemy team, after several failed attempts, quietly gave up on top lane entirely and redirected their attention to mid and bot, leaving Yone blissfully, peacefully, dangerously alone.
Which gave him more time to plant more shrooms.
Which he did.
"Hehehe..." Yone murmured, eyes fixed on the screen, watching an unsuspecting enemy wander directly into his trap. "Die... burn... DIE, BITCH—"
He was enjoying himself.
Possibly too much.
Leo and Monarch both felt a chill run down their spines at the exact same moment — a silent, mutual agreement to never, under any circumstances, get on Yone's bad side. In game or otherwise.
When the VICTORY screen finally lit up, Leo was already turning around.
"Again. Let's go. Hurry up."
"Dude." Monarch stared at him. "Give us literally sixty seconds to exist as human beings."
"Rest is for the WEAK!" Leo said, with the unhinged conviction of a man fully possessed by the spirit of ranked grinding. "Rest when you're DEAD! We go AGAIN!"
"Okay, okay — YEESH." Yone leaned back, shaking his head with a slow smile. "Would've been really great to see this energy during rehearsals, just saying."
The table laughed — easy, warm, the kind of chirp that lands softly because everyone knows it's true and nobody actually minds.
Because they all knew. Leo was a T1 fan. A Faker fanboy, specifically, of the highest and most devoted order. This visit had been circled on his internal calendar for longer than he'd ever openly admit. Monarch and Yone were fans too — absolutely — but Leo? Leo was in a category of his own.
And honestly? It showed. And it was kind of the best thing ever.
The gaming continued.