Leaked
The first thing Enzo heard was Bayu’s laugh.
It wasn’t the kind of laugh that meant something funny. It was short, disbelieving–like a cough you couldn’t control.
Enzo blinked awake to the glow of a monitor across the room. The scrim area lights were still off, but someone had turned on a single desk lamp. It threw a cone of yellow over Bayu’s face and made the rest of the apartment feel even darker. The air-conditioning rattled like it was losing a fight with Jakarta’s heat.
Enzo’s phone vibrated under his pillow.
Not once.
Again.
Again.
He sat up too fast, mattress sliding slightly on the tile, and grabbed his phone.
The screen was a flood.
Missed calls.
Discord pings.
WhatsApp notifications.
Then the words that made his stomach drop through the floor.
KHE Team Chat (36 new messages)
His thumb hovered.
A part of him already knew.
It wasn’t a guess; it was memory. The tilt of a teenager’s phone in the mall corridor. That small, practiced motion that turned privacy into a clip.
Enzo tapped the chat.
Messages scrolled too fast to read at first.
Adit spamming question marks.
Rangga sending “calm down” and being ignored.
Bayu typing in bursts, caps locked like a weapon.
Tia:
Tia: DO NOT REPLY TO ANYONE. NO POSTS. NO STORIES. STAY OFF TWITTER.
Then a link.
Enzo clicked.
The page loaded slowly, like it was savoring his panic.
A social media post. A blurry, angled photo. Two figures in caps and masks–one clearly a girl in hijab, the other a man in a cap. The café background was recognizable if you knew the place.
The caption was in Indonesian slang, punctuated with too many laughing emojis.
“Bukan cuma main ML, ternyata meet beneran 😭💀 siapa nih cowoknya??”
Not just playing ML, turns out they really met. Who’s the guy?
The post had thousands of likes.
Comments moved like ants.
Some were excited.
Some were disgusting.
Some were cruel in a casual way that made cruelty look like entertainment.
Enzo’s eyes caught on a comment that had been pinned.
“Itu MiraCheng ga sih?!”
Is that MiraCheng?
Enzo’s pulse pounded in his ears.
He opened another link.
Another post.
Same angle, different crop.
This time someone had zoomed in until the pixels broke.
A circle drawn around the girl’s eyes.
A comparison collage–her livestream screenshot beside the blurry mall shot.
“CONFIRMED??”
Confirmed.
The word sat on the screen like a verdict.
Enzo’s mouth went dry.
He glanced around.
Bayu was sitting at the desk, phone in hand, thumb flicking hard as if he could crush the screen into something less real.
Adit stood behind him, hair sticking up, eyes wide and hollow.
Rangga leaned against the kitchen counter, arms folded, face tight.
Tia wasn’t in the room.
Her absence felt loud.
“Morning,” Enzo said, voice rough.
No one answered.
Bayu let out another sharp laugh, this time with poison in it.
“Import,” Bayu said without looking up. “Congratulations. You’re famous.”
Enzo’s stomach tightened.
Adit finally turned toward him. “Bro… what is this?”
Enzo swallowed.
“It’s–”
He didn’t know how to say it.
A mistake.
A risk.
A moment he’d wanted to keep small.
Rangga’s voice cut in, quiet but heavy. “You met her.”
Enzo’s chest tightened.
“Yes,” he admitted.
Adit made a strangled sound. “Why now? Before tournament?”
Enzo’s fingers curled around his phone. The keychain–the tiny green dot–was in his pocket. He could feel its shape pressing into his thigh, as if trying to remind him of something softer than this.
“I didn’t–” Enzo started.
Bayu slammed his phone down on the desk.
The sound cracked through the room.
“You didn’t what?” Bayu snapped, finally looking up. His eyes were bloodshot, not from crying–lack of sleep and rage. “You didn’t think? You didn’t care? You didn’t realize we are broke and desperate and the only thing we have is focus?”
Enzo flinched.
Adit whispered, “It’s trending, bro.”
Rangga closed his eyes briefly.
Enzo stared at the floor.
He wanted to defend himself.
He wanted to say it wasn’t like that. That he wore a cap. That they chose a corner. That they didn’t even hold hands.
But the internet didn’t care about what they did.
It cared about what it could imagine.
“We need Tia,” Rangga said, as if grounding the room back into reality.
As if saying her name could summon order.
Bayu scoffed. “Tia is on call with sponsor.”
Sponsor.
Enzo’s stomach sank further.
“What sponsor?” he asked.
Adit’s laugh came out thin. “The one we begged last week? The one that said maybe? The one that wanted us to look ‘clean’?”
Enzo’s throat tightened.
Bayu leaned forward, elbows on desk, voice lower and meaner. “They said no this morning. ‘Not aligned with brand image.’”
Enzo felt cold.
One small photo.
And the little maybe they’d been clinging to had turned into a hard no.
Rangga pushed off the counter and stepped closer, eyes fixed on Enzo. “Is it true? The girl… is MiraCheng?”
Enzo’s mouth went dry.
He hesitated.
He could lie.
He could say it wasn’t her.
He could pretend the internet was wrong.
But lying to the team now would be a different kind of betrayal.
“Yes,” Enzo said quietly.
Adit cursed under his breath.
Bayu’s lips curled. “So we’re fighting champions next week and we have influencer drama.”
Enzo’s fingers dug into his palm.
“She’s not drama,” he said before he could stop himself.
Bayu’s eyes flashed. “Everything is drama when it costs us scrims.”
Enzo blinked. “Scrims?”
Adit held up his phone. “Two teams canceled this morning. Said they don’t want to be involved.”
Enzo’s chest tightened.
A scrim cancellation was not just a lost match.
It was lost practice.
Lost data.
Lost rhythm.
In a tournament where their only weapon was preparation, it was fatal.
Bayu leaned back and looked at Enzo like he was deciding whether to throw him out.
“You want romance?” Bayu said. “Go. But not here. Not now.”
Rangga raised a hand, low and calming. “Bayu. Enough.”
Bayu laughed again, bitter. “You always say enough. Enough doesn’t fix this.”
Enzo’s throat worked.
He wanted to apologize.
But apologies felt thin against the weight of consequences.
Then Tia’s voice cut through the apartment from the hallway.
“You want to blame him? Fine. Later.”
The door slammed.
Tia entered like a storm.
Her hair was pulled back tight, but loose strands had escaped, clinging to her temples with sweat. Her eyes were sharp, and the skin under them was darker than yesterday.
She held her phone in one hand like it was an active grenade.
“Everyone sit,” she snapped.
Bayu opened his mouth.
Tia held up her palm. “Sit. Now.”
Bayu shut it.
They sat.
Enzo remained on his mattress corner, back straight, hands clenched together.
Tia’s gaze swept across them.
Then it landed on Enzo.
Not angry.
Assessing.
“Did you meet her?” Tia asked.
Enzo’s throat tightened. “Yes.”
Tia nodded once, as if filing it away. “Okay.”
Bayu made a sound. “Okay? That’s it? We lost sponsor–”
“I know,” Tia cut in. “I’m the one who got the call. I’m the one who heard the polite voice telling me we’re ‘not aligned.’”
Her mouth tightened as she mimicked the corporate tone.
The room fell silent.
Tia’s gaze sharpened. “Do you know what else? Our hotel request got delayed. Our transportation deal might get canceled. People are scared of anything that looks like scandal.”
Adit swallowed hard. “But it’s just… photo.”
Tia’s laugh came out like a knife. “It’s never just a photo. It’s a narrative.”
Narrative.
Enzo felt the word settle.
Mira had said it too: control the story.
Tia tapped her phone screen. “Right now, the narrative is: we’re a joke team carried by a Filipino import who is distracted by a rich influencer. People love that story. It’s easy. It’s cruel.”
Bayu’s jaw clenched.
Rangga rubbed his forehead.
Enzo stared at his hands.
Tia inhaled slowly, as if forcing herself into manager mode instead of whatever exhausted human she actually was.
“We have two options,” Tia said. “We panic and kill ourselves. Or we lock in.”
Bayu scoffed softly.
Tia’s eyes snapped to him. “Bayu. If you want to quit, quit. But don’t poison this room.”
Bayu’s lips pressed together.
He didn’t quit.
Tia continued. “I’ve already contacted alternative scrim partners. Smaller teams. No names. But they’ll play. We’ll grind.”
Adit’s shoulders loosened slightly.
Rangga nodded.
Tia’s gaze returned to Enzo.
“Now,” she said, voice lower. “Enzo. This part is yours.”
Enzo swallowed.
Tia’s tone was not accusatory. It was practical.
“Are you going to keep meeting her?” Tia asked.
The question landed like a weight.
Enzo’s chest tightened.
He pictured Mira’s eyes above her mask.
The brief touch on his forearm.
The keychain.
He imagined telling her he couldn’t see her anymore.
He imagined the green dot going dark.
His throat burned.
“I–” he began.
Bayu leaned forward, eyes sharp. “Say no.”
Enzo’s jaw tightened.
Tia held up her hand again, stopping Bayu without looking.
Enzo forced himself to breathe.
“I won’t… do anything that hurts the team,” Enzo said carefully.
Bayu snorted. “Too late.”
Enzo’s eyes flicked to him.
Tia’s gaze stayed on Enzo, unwavering. “That’s not an answer.”
Enzo swallowed.
He didn’t want to lie.
He didn’t want to promise something he couldn’t keep.
“I don’t know,” he admitted.
Bayu’s laugh burst out, loud and bitter.
Tia’s eyes sharpened. “Bayu.”
Bayu raised his hands, mock surrender. “Okay, okay. He doesn’t know. Great.”
Enzo’s fingers clenched.
Tia’s voice softened–only slightly, but enough to feel like a concession to humanity.
“I’m not asking you to cut her off forever,” she said. “I’m asking you to understand timing. We have tournament in weeks. We are already fragile. One more photo and we don’t just lose sponsors–we lose scrims, security, maybe the slot.”
Enzo’s stomach tightened.
Slot.
The thought of being kicked out before they even played offline made his chest feel hollow.
Rangga leaned forward, voice calm. “We’re not saying your feelings are wrong. We’re saying… this is not a solo game.”
Enzo nodded, throat tight.
Tia exhaled. “Good. Then here is the rule: no meetings. Not in public. Not in malls. Not in places where teenagers have phones. If you must talk, talk online. Private.”
Enzo’s mouth went dry.
Online.
Back into the screen.
Back into a place where the world couldn’t easily touch them–
until it could.
“I understand,” Enzo whispered.
Bayu muttered something under his breath.
Tia ignored him.
“Now,” she said, clapping once. “We have practice. We have to play like we’re invisible. Because right now, the internet wants to watch us bleed.”
She looked at all of them, eyes sharp.
“Don’t give them the satisfaction.”
By noon, the posts had multiplied.
Enzo tried not to look.
But the internet was a tide, and he was standing barefoot.
Adit’s phone kept buzzing with notifications–fan accounts, esports pages, meme edits. Someone had already made a clip compilation: Mira’s livestream laugh cut with Enzo’s highlights from ranked, dramatic music underneath.
Bayu saw it and threw a cushion across the room.
“Stop watching!” he snapped.
Adit flinched and put his phone face down.
Enzo sat at his desk, hands on mouse and keyboard, staring at a draft screen he wasn’t reading.
The keychain was looped around his finger.
The green dot pressed into his skin.
Online.
Still.
His phone buzzed.
Mira.
He stared at the notification without opening it.
Tia’s rule echoed.
No meetings.
Keep it private.
But this wasn’t about meeting.
This was about what the world had just done to her.
Enzo’s chest tightened.
He opened the message.
MiraCheng: are you okay?
Enzo swallowed.
Enzo: team angry. sponsor dropped
He hesitated, then added:
Enzo: i’m sorry
Three dots appeared.
Then:
MiraCheng: not your fault
A second later:
MiraCheng: they’re calling me “sugar mommy”
Enzo’s stomach twisted.
He pictured her–cap, mask, careful steps–being turned into a punchline.
He typed slowly.
Enzo: i saw comments. i hate it
Three dots.
Then:
MiraCheng: my mom saw
Enzo’s chest tightened.
He stared at the words until the room around him felt far away.
Enzo: what happened?
No reply.
Three dots.
Gone.
Three dots again.
Then:
MiraCheng: i can’t type
A call request popped up.
Enzo’s heart kicked.
He glanced around.
Bayu was in the kitchen, arguing with Rangga about scrim schedules.
Adit was staring at the ceiling like he wished he could leave his body.
Tia was on her laptop, typing furiously.
No one was looking at Enzo.
He accepted.
Mira’s voice came through immediately, tight and hushed.
“Enzo,” she whispered.
His throat tightened. “I’m here.”
A pause.
He heard her breathing–controlled, but not calm.
“My mom said… she knew it,” Mira said, voice trembling slightly. “She said I was being careless.”
Enzo’s jaw clenched.
“I’m sorry,” he said again, because he didn’t know what else to offer.
Mira exhaled sharply. “Don’t. Don’t say sorry like you did something dirty.”
Enzo swallowed.
He heard something in her tone–anger, but not at him.
At the world.
At the rules that made a meeting feel like a crime.
“What did she do?” Enzo asked.
Mira’s voice lowered further. “She called my manager. She called my aunt. They… started talking about damage control.”
Enzo’s stomach dipped.
Damage control.
PR.
The machine.
Mira continued, words spilling faster now, as if she’d been holding them in her mouth. “They want me to post. They want me to say it was a fan meet. They want me to say you’re… a coach. A hired player. Something.”
Enzo’s throat tightened.
A hired player.
Coach.
A label that made him less threatening.
Less romantic.
Less real.
“And?” Enzo asked quietly.
Mira’s breath hit the mic. “And… my mom said something else.”
Enzo’s heart hammered.
“What?”
Mira’s voice trembled. “She said… if I want to keep gaming and keep being ‘proper,’ then the story must be controlled. She said… if I want to support a team, we can sponsor.”
Enzo’s chest tightened.
Sponsor.
The word again.
“Mira–” he started.
“I didn’t say yes,” Mira cut in quickly. “I didn’t. But she said it like… like an offer. Like she’s saving me. And she said if the team takes it, they have to sign things. NDAs. Media clauses. And… you.”
Enzo’s stomach dropped.
Me.
“What about me?” he asked, voice careful.
Mira’s pause was long enough that Enzo’s skin prickled.
“She asked who you are,” Mira whispered.
Enzo’s throat tightened.
“I said… you’re just someone I play with,” Mira continued, voice thin. “I said nothing romantic. But she looked at me like she already knew. And then she said… if you’re going to be in the story, you have to be… respectable.”
Enzo’s jaw clenched.
Respectable.
He didn’t know what that meant in her mother’s mouth.
To Enzo, respectable meant working, paying rent, not making his mother cry.
To her mother, respectable probably meant money, pedigree, controllability.
“What does she want?” Enzo asked softly.
Mira’s breath shook. “She wants me to cut you off.”
The sentence landed like a punch.
Enzo’s chest hollowed.
For a second, he couldn’t breathe.
“I’m not–” Mira added quickly, voice cracking. “I’m not going to. But she said it like… like she can make it happen.”
Enzo swallowed hard.
His fingers tightened around the green dot keychain.
He stared at the floor.
He wanted to tell Mira to run.
He wanted to tell her to ignore her mother.
But he could picture it–money, control, the family machine.
It wasn’t a villain in a movie.
It was a system.
And systems didn’t need to raise their voice to win.
“Mira,” Enzo said quietly, forcing his voice steady. “Are you safe?”
Mira exhaled, shaky. “I’m safe. I’m just… trapped.”
Enzo’s throat tightened.
He closed his eyes.
He imagined her living room–cream sofas, gold accents, flowers that always looked fresh.
A beautiful cage.
“What do you want to do?” Enzo asked.
A pause.
Then Mira whispered, “I want to disappear.”
Enzo’s heart kicked. “Disappear?”
“I want to delete everything,” Mira said, voice trembling. “I want to go offline. I want to stop being watched. I want to stop making content. I want to–”
Her words broke.
Enzo’s chest tightened.
He didn’t know what to say.
Because part of him wanted that too.
Not because he didn’t want her.
Because he wanted her without the world.
“Mira,” he whispered. “You don’t have to do anything for me.”
Mira’s breath hit the mic, a sound like she was trying not to cry. “I’m not doing it for you. I’m doing it because… I’m tired.”
Enzo swallowed.
He glanced at the scrim area.
Rangga was calling something out.
Bayu’s voice rose.
Tia’s keyboard clacked.
His team was a different kind of pressure.
Everyone wanted something from him.
But Mira’s voice was the first thing that made him want to give without being asked.
“You should rest,” Enzo said softly.
Mira let out a humorless laugh. “Rest where?”
Enzo’s throat tightened.
Then he did the only thing he could.
He offered her the smallest truth he had.
“I’m here,” he said.
A pause.
Mira’s voice softened, fragile. “I know.”
Enzo swallowed. “Don’t… don’t do anything dangerous. Don’t disappear like that. Not alone.”
Mira’s breath steadied slightly.
“Okay,” she whispered.
Enzo’s chest tightened at the word.
Okay.
Their word.
Then Mira’s voice dropped further. “Enzo… if my family offers sponsorship to your team… what will you do?”
Enzo froze.
He pictured Kuda Hitam’s torn couch.
Their flickering hallway light.
The way Bayu complained about chairs.
Money could fix a lot.
Money could also come with strings that wrapped around their throats.
Enzo exhaled slowly.
“I don’t know,” he admitted.
Mira’s breath hit the mic. “I’m scared they’ll use it to control you too.”
Enzo’s throat tightened.
Control.
He stared at the green dot.
A tiny circle.
A leash.
A lifeline.
“I won’t let them change me,” Enzo said quietly.
Mira’s voice trembled. “Can you promise?”
Enzo swallowed.
He thought of his mother’s face at the airport.
Smart brave.
He thought of Tia’s eyes.
Fragile.
He thought of Mira’s voice.
Trapped.
Enzo’s chest tightened.
“I can promise I’ll try,” he said.
Mira exhaled.
It sounded like relief.
Then, suddenly, another voice cut into the line–faint, but sharp.
“Zira?”
Enzo’s stomach dropped.
Mira’s breath hit the mic.
“I have to go,” she whispered.
Enzo’s throat tightened. “Okay.”
“Enzo,” Mira said quickly, voice urgent, “don’t reply to posts. Don’t fight. Don’t make it bigger.”
Enzo swallowed. “Okay.”
Mira’s voice softened for a fraction of a second. “I’m sorry.”
Enzo’s jaw clenched. “Don’t.”
A pause.
Then Mira whispered, “Stay online.”
Enzo’s throat tightened.
“I will,” he said.
The call ended.
Enzo stared at his phone.
The green dot went dark.
Offline.
For the first time since he met her, it didn’t feel like a normal sleep.
It felt like a door being shut.
In Jakarta’s polished house, Nadzira Cheng stood in front of her mother with her phone hidden behind her back like a teenager.
She wasn’t a teenager.
But her mother’s gaze could still reduce her to one.
Her mother sat on the cream sofa, legs crossed, posture flawless. Her hair was sleek, her blouse crisp. She looked like she’d stepped out of a magazine and into a courtroom.
On the coffee table lay a printed photo.
The blurry mall shot.
Printed.
Paper made it feel permanent.
Zira’s throat tightened.
Her father sat at the far end of the room, quiet as a shadow. He held a cup of tea and said nothing, but his eyes moved like they were cataloging damage.
Her aunt sat beside her mother, lips pursed.
Her manager stood near the doorway, tablet in hand, face carefully blank.
Zira felt like she was inside a meeting about a company asset.
Which, in a way, she was.
Her mother tapped the photo with a manicured fingernail.
“Explain,” her mother said.
Zira’s palms dampened.
“It was… a friend,” Zira said carefully. “A gamer friend.”
Her mother’s eyes sharpened. “A friend you meet in secret?”
Zira’s throat tightened.
Her aunt scoffed. “This is why girls should not play too much games.”
Zira’s jaw clenched.
Her mother didn’t look at her aunt.
She kept her gaze on Zira.
“A Muslim girl does not meet men like this,” her mother said softly.
The softness was worse than shouting.
It meant control.
Zira swallowed. “We were in public. We didn’t–”
Her mother raised a hand.
“Don’t,” she said.
Zira stopped.
Her mother leaned forward slightly. “Do you know what people are saying?”
Zira nodded.
Her mother’s smile flickered–thin, cold. “They are calling you sugar mommy.”
Zira flinched.
Her mother’s eyes hardened. “They are calling you hypocrite. They are calling you haram. They are calling you everything because they want you to fall.”
Zira’s throat burned.
Her mother continued, voice still calm. “And they are calling him…”
She paused.
Zira’s stomach dipped.
“A nobody,” her mother said, as if stating a fact. “A random Filipino boy.”
Zira’s jaw clenched.
The words felt like dirt thrown at Enzo.
Her mother’s gaze sharpened at Zira’s reaction. “You defend him?”
Zira swallowed hard.
Her father’s tea cup clinked softly as he set it down.
The sound was quiet.
But it carried weight.
“Zira,” her father said, voice measured. “Your mother is not trying to hurt you. She is trying to protect what you built.”
What you built.
Zira’s chest tightened.
She’d built it with sleepless nights, yes.
But also with her family’s money.
Their connections.
Their insistence that she be ‘proper’ in front of the camera.
Her mother leaned back. “We can control this,” she said.
Zira’s stomach dipped.
Control.
Her manager nodded slightly. “We can issue a statement. We can frame it as a fan meeting. Or as a professional gaming collaboration.”
Zira’s throat tightened.
A collaboration.
A lie, wrapped in PR.
Her mother’s gaze remained sharp. “And we can do more.”
Zira’s pulse stuttered.
Her mother continued, “This team–Kuda Hitam. They are poor. They are desperate. They are already losing sponsors because of you.”
Zira’s throat tightened.
Because of you.
Her mother spoke like it was a lever. “We can sponsor them.”
Zira’s heart kicked.
Her manager’s eyes flicked up, interest flashing.
Her aunt leaned forward. “Sponsor? For what? So Zira can keep her little game?”
Her mother ignored her aunt again. “We sponsor them. We become their title sponsor. We provide facilities, travel, security. We buy them stability.”
Zira’s mouth went dry.
Her mother’s smile sharpened. “But the story becomes ours.”
Zira’s chest tightened.
Her mother leaned forward, eyes fixed on Zira. “You will not be seen with him again. Not alone. Not in malls. Not anywhere.”
Zira swallowed.
“And,” her mother added softly, “he will sign a media clause. He will not speak about you. He will not post. He will not imply. He will be respectful.”
Respectful.
The word sounded like a threat.
Zira’s jaw clenched.
Her mother continued, “If he wants to play in Indonesia, if he wants a career, he will understand that our family is helping.”
Helping.
The word tasted like poison.
Zira’s throat tightened. “So you sponsor them to control me.”
Her mother’s eyes flashed. “I sponsor them to control the narrative. Because you are not a normal girl, Zira. Your life is public. If you make mistakes, people will destroy you.”
Zira’s hands trembled.
“I didn’t make a mistake,” she whispered.
Her mother’s gaze sharpened. “Meeting a man in secret is a mistake.”
Zira’s jaw clenched.
Her father cleared his throat, voice calm. “Zira, listen. We are not forbidding you to have friends. But you must be careful. If you want to keep this ‘Mobile Legends’ image, we must manage it.”
Manage.
Zira’s chest tightened.
She could see the outline of the trap.
If she accepted, the team would be saved.
Enzo’s team would have money.
But Enzo would be placed under her family’s control.
If she rejected, her mother would tighten her grip anyway–through threats, through withholding, through cold silence.
Zira’s throat burned.
She glanced at the printed photo.
It was so small.
Two figures.
Caps and masks.
A moment that felt tender.
Now, paper.
Now, leverage.
Her manager stepped forward carefully. “We can do this gently,” she said. “We can protect you and protect him. We can make it professional. It will calm the internet.”
Zira’s eyes flicked to her manager.
Protect him.
Protect.
Zira knew what protection looked like in her family.
It looked like ownership.
She swallowed.
“What if I say no?” Zira asked softly.
Her mother’s smile didn’t move.
“If you say no,” her mother said, “then you stop gaming. You stop streaming. You stop putting yourself in this kind of situation. We will focus on your real future.”
Real future.
Zira’s chest tightened.
Her father’s gaze held hers, quiet but firm.
Her aunt’s lips curled in satisfaction.
Zira’s palms dampened.
The room felt smaller.
Zira wanted to scream.
She wanted to run.
Instead, she inhaled slowly.
She thought of Enzo’s room in Manila.
The thin mattress.
The peeling phone case.
His mother’s tired voice.
She thought of how Enzo had held the cap brim up for her, letting her see his face clearly.
Not a dream.
Real.
Zira’s chest tightened.
She looked at her mother.
“I won’t post,” Zira said quietly.
Her mother’s eyes narrowed. “What?”
“I won’t post a statement,” Zira repeated, voice steadier. “Not yet.”
Her mother’s smile sharpened. “Zira–”
Zira raised her chin. “If you force me to post a lie, the internet will smell it. They always do. And then the story becomes worse.”
Her manager hesitated, then nodded slightly–as if reluctantly agreeing.
Zira continued, voice controlled. “Give me one day.”
Her mother’s gaze hardened. “One day for what?”
Zira swallowed. “One day to calm things down. One day to think. One day to… not make a mistake under pressure.”
Her mother stared.
Zira’s hands trembled, but she kept her posture straight.
Her father spoke quietly. “One day is fine.”
Her mother’s eyes flashed toward her husband.
Then back to Zira.
“Fine,” her mother said, voice still smooth. “One day. But understand this, Zira.”
Zira swallowed.
Her mother leaned forward, eyes sharp.
“If you choose that boy over your future, you will lose more than a sponsor.”
Zira’s throat burned.
She nodded once.
Then she turned and walked upstairs with measured steps.
She didn’t run.
She didn’t slam doors.
She simply moved, because in this house, movement was the only rebellion that didn’t get punished immediately.
In her room, she closed the door and leaned against it.
Her breath shook.
She pulled out her phone.
Enzo’s chat was there.
His messages.
His apology.
His small, stubborn presence.
She wanted to call.
She didn’t.
Because calling was a risk.
Because her mother’s eyes could be everywhere.
Instead, she typed.
MiraCheng: i’m sorry i went offline. i’m okay.
She hesitated.
Then she added:
MiraCheng: please don’t hate me if i act weird. i’m trying to protect you too.
She stared at the message for a long time.
Then she hit send.
And watched the green dot beside Enzo’s name blink.
Online.
Still.
For a moment, the tightness in her chest eased.
Just a little.
Back at bootcamp, Enzo read Mira’s message with his throat tight.
Protect you too.
He stared at the words until they felt like they were sinking into his skin.
He didn’t want her to protect him.
Not because he didn’t appreciate it.
Because protection from rich families came with strings.
He knew that.
Even without living in her world.
Tia walked past behind him, phone pressed to her ear again. He caught fragments of Indonesian.
“Ya… saya paham… tapi kita butuh scrim… ya… betul…”
Enzo swallowed.
He typed slowly.
Enzo: i don’t hate you
Then, because he needed to say something real:
Enzo: i’m scared they’ll make you choose
He hesitated, then added:
Enzo: and if they offer sponsor to KHE… i don’t want you trapped
He hit send.
Then he stared at the green dot keychain looped around his finger.
A tiny circle.
A reminder.
He wondered what it meant now.
Online.
Visible.
Owned.
Adit slumped into the chair beside him. “Bro,” he murmured. “This is insane.”
Enzo didn’t look away from his screen. “Yeah.”
Adit swallowed. “Do you really… like her?”
Enzo’s chest tightened.
He could lie.
He could say it was nothing.
But he was tired of lies.
“Yes,” Enzo said quietly.
Adit exhaled slowly, shaking his head. “Damn.”
Enzo glanced at him.
Adit’s face wasn’t mocking.
It was almost… sympathetic.
Adit leaned closer, voice low. “Just be careful. People here… if they smell money, they change.”
Enzo’s throat tightened.
He nodded.
Across the room, Bayu’s laughter rang again–short, bitter.
Rangga’s voice stayed calm, trying to steer the room back into practice.
Tia’s phone calls continued.
Outside, Jakarta’s traffic moved like a living thing.
Enzo stared at Mira’s chat.
He imagined her upstairs, leaning against her door.
He imagined her mother downstairs, already shaping contracts and clauses like knives.
Enzo’s chest tightened.
He didn’t know how to win against champions.
He didn’t know how to survive lower bracket.
But suddenly, he realized something even harder.
He didn’t know how to fight a story.
Because a story didn’t need to be true to hurt.
A story didn’t need to be fair.
It just needed to spread.
Enzo’s phone buzzed.
A new notification.
A new post.
This one from a bigger esports page.
A caption that made his stomach drop again:
“BREAKING: MiraCheng spotted with KHE’s Filipino import. Will this affect their tournament run?”
Breaking.
As if love was a scandal and not a human thing.
Enzo closed his eyes.
He breathed.
Then he opened them and looked at his team.
They were tired.
They were broke.
They were angry.
But they were still here.
Enzo unclipped the green dot keychain from his finger and held it in his palm.
A tiny circle.
A reminder of someone choosing him in the dark.
He whispered to himself, so softly no one could hear.
“Okay.”
Then he stood.
“Rangga,” Enzo said, voice calm.
Rangga looked up.
Enzo’s chest tightened, but his tone stayed steady.
“Let’s scrim,” he said.
Bayu scoffed. “With who? Everyone scared.”
Enzo’s eyes held Bayu’s.
“Then we play anyone,” Enzo said. “We play until our hands hurt. We play until the story gets bored.”
The room went quiet.
Adit stared.
Rangga’s gaze sharpened.
Tia paused mid-typing.
Bayu’s jaw clenched.
Enzo’s voice lowered, controlled. “They want us to tilt. They want us to break. If we break, the story wins.”
Rangga inhaled slowly.
Then he nodded.
“Okay,” Rangga said.
One word.
The same word.
And in that cramped apartment full of secondhand gear, Enzo felt something shift–not fixed, not healed, not safe.
But aligned.
Because even if the world watched them,
and even if Mira’s family tried to buy the narrative,
Kuda Hitam still had one thing money couldn’t manufacture.
A refusal to stop.
As the team queued into the next practice lobby, Enzo’s phone buzzed again.
Mira’s reply.
He didn’t open it yet.
He couldn’t.
Not while the map loaded.
Not while his team needed him.
But the green dot beside her name blinked.
Online.
Still.
And somewhere in Jakarta, behind polished walls and sharp smiles, a girl with too much to lose was choosing to stay connected.
For now.
For one more game.
For one more night.
For a future that was already starting to cost.