The Ten-Minute Smile
The VIP lounge smelled like money.
Not in a dramatic, villainous way.
In a quiet way.
Air-conditioning calibrated to a precise comfort. Leather chairs that didn’t creak. Coffee served in porcelain cups rather than paper. A low hum of conversation that never became loud enough to be called messy.
Enzo stepped inside and felt his body stiffen like it recognized a predator it didn’t know how to name.
The room was not crowded.
A few sponsor representatives sat at small tables, smiling politely, watching screens that displayed tournament highlights on mute. A staff member in a black blazer offered water with a practiced tilt of the wrist.
Tia walked ahead of Enzo, posture straight, face composed.
Enzo followed, hands tucked into his hoodie pockets to keep them from shaking.
At the far end of the lounge, a woman stood.
She didn’t look like an esports sponsor.
She looked like a magazine cover that had walked off the page and decided to become a judge.
Her hair was sleek, makeup perfect, blouse modest and expensive, jewelry minimal but clearly chosen. She held a phone in one hand and a small folder in the other. The way she stood–still, centered–made the room subtly orient around her.
Beside her was a man in a crisp shirt with a Cheng Group lanyard. He smiled as if smiling was his job.
Another woman–older, perhaps an aunt–sat with her legs crossed, watching the room with a bored expression.
And in the corner, half-shadowed by a potted plant, Zira sat.
Cap.
Mask.
Hijab tucked neatly beneath.
Her posture was rigid, hands clasped on her lap, eyes lowered as if she was trying to become invisible.
Enzo’s chest tightened.
She wasn’t supposed to be here.
Not for this.
Tia stopped in front of the standing woman.
Her smile came on like a switch.
“Mrs. Cheng,” Tia said, voice polite.
The woman’s eyes shifted to Enzo.
They moved over him the way a buyer inspected fabric.
Not cruel.
Clinical.
“So,” Mrs. Cheng said in English, voice smooth. “You’re Enzo.”
Enzo swallowed.
“Yes,” he replied.
Mrs. Cheng’s gaze held his for a moment too long.
Her smile was small.
“From the Philippines,” she said.
“Yes.”
The man with the lanyard stepped forward, offering a hand.
“Mr. Aditya,” he introduced himself. “Cheng Group partnerships.”
Enzo shook his hand.
The grip was firm and dry.
“Congratulations on the win,” Mr. Aditya said warmly. “Very exciting. People love a comeback.”
People.
Enzo’s stomach tightened.
He didn’t know if “people” meant the crowd.
Or the internet.
Or Mira’s family.
Tia gestured toward a small seating area.
“Let’s sit,” she said.
Mrs. Cheng sat gracefully, crossing her legs.
Mr. Aditya sat beside her.
The aunt stayed on the other side, gaze sharp.
Tia sat opposite, back straight.
Enzo sat beside Tia, posture stiff.
Zira did not move.
She stayed in the corner.
Enzo glanced at her.
Her eyes flicked up briefly.
Just long enough to meet his.
Then down again.
A silent apology.
A silent warning.
Mrs. Cheng folded her hands, smile intact.
“Ten minutes,” she said lightly, as if they were discussing a haircut appointment. “I know your schedule is tight.”
Tia nodded. “Yes. We have stage prep.”
Mrs. Cheng’s gaze remained calm. “Of course. We’ll be efficient.”
Efficient.
Enzo’s spine prickled.
This was not a conversation.
It was a negotiation.
Mrs. Cheng turned to Mr. Aditya.
He opened his folder and slid a printed proposal across the table.
Tia didn’t touch it.
Enzo didn’t either.
The paper sat there like a baited trap.
“We’re very impressed by Kuda Hitam,” Mr. Aditya said smoothly. “What you’ve achieved with limited resources is… admirable.”
Admirable.
Enzo thought of their torn couch.
Their flickering hallway light.
Instant noodles.
Admirable was a polite word for poverty.
“We believe in developing Southeast Asian esports,” Mr. Aditya continued. “Especially youth talent. And we believe in supporting Indonesian teams.”
Tia nodded, expression neutral.
Mrs. Cheng’s eyes shifted to Enzo again.
“And,” she added softly, “we believe in protecting our daughter.”
Enzo’s stomach dropped.
Protecting.
The word had teeth.
Zira’s fingers tightened in her lap.
Enzo noticed.
Tia’s posture remained rigid.
Mrs. Cheng smiled. “Zira’s platform is important. She is a Muslim girl with a public image. People watch her closely.”
Enzo’s jaw clenched.
Mrs. Cheng’s gaze sharpened slightly. “And lately, they have been… entertained.”
Enzo swallowed.
Entertained.
By their private moment.
By their pain.
Mrs. Cheng leaned back, crossing her ankle.
“So,” she said, voice still polite, “we are offering support to your team. Significant support. In exchange, we need stability. We need boundaries. We need professionalism.”
Professionalism.
Enzo’s throat tightened.
Mr. Aditya turned a page in the proposal.
He began listing benefits again–numbers, logistics, facilities.
It sounded almost generous.
Like a gift.
Enzo’s mother’s voice echoed faintly:
Don’t borrow money from stupid people.
Zira’s voice echoed too:
If my family offers sponsor… I’m scared they’ll control you.
Enzo’s fingers curled in his pocket around the green-dot keychain.
Tia finally spoke.
“We appreciate the offer,” she said carefully. “But we need time.”
Mrs. Cheng’s smile didn’t change. “Of course. We’re not asking you to decide right now.”
Enzo’s stomach tightened.
A lie.
They were asking.
They were just doing it politely.
Mrs. Cheng’s gaze shifted to Enzo.
“And you,” she said.
Enzo’s throat went dry.
Me.
Mrs. Cheng’s voice was smooth. “You are talented.”
Enzo blinked.
Praise.
From her mouth, it felt like a tool.
“You have a future,” she continued. “And we respect hard work. But you must understand something.”
Enzo’s jaw clenched.
Mrs. Cheng’s eyes held his.
“In our world,” she said softly, “a story can destroy a girl.”
Enzo’s throat tightened.
Zira’s fingers tightened again.
Mrs. Cheng continued, still calm.
“My daughter is not like other girls. She is watched. She is judged. She is held to standards. You cannot casually enter her life and leave chaos.”
Enzo’s chest tightened.
Casually.
As if he had done this for fun.
As if he wasn’t the one being sliced into memes.
As if he wasn’t scared.
Mrs. Cheng leaned forward slightly.
“So,” she said, “if you care about her, you will agree to be respectful.”
Respectful.
The word again.
Enzo swallowed.
“What does that mean?” he asked carefully.
Mrs. Cheng’s smile sharpened. “It means you will not post. You will not hint. You will not chase her in public. You will not talk to media. You will not become a scandal.”
Enzo’s jaw clenched.
Mr. Aditya slid another page forward.
“A media clause,” he said. “Standard. Protects both parties.”
Protects.
Enzo stared at the paper.
Standard.
Nothing about this felt standard.
Tia’s hand moved slightly, an almost imperceptible gesture toward Enzo.
A reminder.
Don’t promise.
Don’t sign.
Enzo swallowed and forced his voice steady.
“I need time to review,” he said.
Mrs. Cheng’s eyes narrowed slightly.
Then her smile returned, smooth. “Of course. We can provide time.”
A pause.
Then she added, softly,
“But time is expensive during a tournament, isn’t it?”
Enzo felt cold.
The threat was polite.
But it was a threat.
Mrs. Cheng glanced at Tia. “Your team needs stability. You are fighting with limited resources. You will fight better with support.”
Tia’s expression remained neutral.
Mrs. Cheng’s gaze returned to Enzo.
“And you,” she said, voice gentle now, “will fight better without… distractions.”
Distractions.
Enzo’s jaw clenched.
He wanted to say:
She is not a distraction.
She is a person.
But he knew what would happen.
Any emotion in this room could be used against him.
So Enzo kept his face calm.
He lowered his eyes slightly.
“I understand,” he said.
Mrs. Cheng smiled like she’d won a point.
Zira’s nails pressed into her palm.
Enzo saw it.
He felt something in his chest tighten–not love, not desire.
Anger.
A clean, controlled anger.
Because Mira had been forced into a corner.
Because this conversation wasn’t about safety.
It was about ownership.
Mr. Aditya continued, “We can also assist with PR regarding the recent… situation.”
Situation.
Another polite word.
“We can shift the narrative,” he said. “We can position MiraCheng as supporting local esports development. A positive story. We can calm the online chatter.”
Mrs. Cheng nodded. “We can make it respectable.”
Respectable.
The leash again.
Tia finally spoke, voice measured.
“We will consider. But our focus is tournament. We cannot make decisions under pressure.”
Mrs. Cheng’s smile remained. “Pressure reveals character.”
Enzo’s stomach dipped.
Mrs. Cheng turned her head slightly toward the corner.
“Zira,” she said softly.
Zira flinched.
She stood quickly, hands still clasped.
Mrs. Cheng’s smile warmed just a fraction.
“Tell Enzo,” she said, “what you want.”
Enzo’s chest tightened.
Zira’s eyes widened.
Her gaze flicked to Enzo.
Then to Tia.
Then back to her mother.
Enzo could see it–the trap.
If Zira asked Enzo to sign, it would look like her choice.
If she stayed silent, she would look disobedient.
Mrs. Cheng’s smile stayed calm.
Zira swallowed.
Her voice was barely audible.
“I want…”
Her words caught.
Enzo’s chest tightened.
Zira’s eyes met his for a heartbeat.
There was apology there.
And fear.
And something else–
a stubborn refusal.
She inhaled.
Then she said, voice steadier,
“I want him to play.”
Silence.
Mrs. Cheng’s smile faltered for the first time.
Mr. Aditya blinked.
The aunt’s eyebrows lifted.
Tia’s gaze sharpened.
Enzo’s breath caught.
Zira continued, voice still soft but clearer now, as if she’d found a small pocket of courage.
“I want him to focus on his team,” she said. “I want him to win. I don’t want… more drama.”
Mrs. Cheng’s smile returned, but this time it was tighter.
“Of course,” she said. “That’s why we’re here.”
Zira swallowed.
She glanced at Enzo again.
Her eyes spoke what her mouth couldn’t.
I’m sorry.
Enzo’s chest tightened.
He forced his voice calm.
“I’ll play,” Enzo said quietly.
Mrs. Cheng nodded, satisfied.
“Good,” she said.
She stood.
The meeting was over.
Ten minutes.
Not even.
“Please review the proposal,” Mr. Aditya said, sliding the folder closer.
Tia finally touched it–picked it up, not opening it.
“Thank you,” she said politely.
Mrs. Cheng smiled at Enzo.
Her eyes were soft now, almost maternal.
Which made Enzo’s skin crawl.
“Enzo,” she said, voice gentle, “you can be part of something bigger. Don’t waste it.”
Enzo swallowed.
“Yes,” he replied.
Because no was dangerous.
Mrs. Cheng turned and walked out, heels silent on carpet.
Mr. Aditya followed.
The aunt followed last, gaze lingering on Enzo like a final assessment.
The door clicked shut.
The room exhaled.
Zira remained standing, frozen.
Tia’s posture loosened slightly, but her eyes were still sharp.
Enzo didn’t move.
He stared at the closed door.
He felt like he’d been dissected without blood.
Tia broke the silence.
“Zira,” she said, voice low. “You shouldn’t be here.”
Zira flinched.
“I know,” Zira whispered.
Enzo’s throat tightened.
He looked at her.
She was still in cap and mask, but he could see the tension in her shoulders, the tremor in her hands.
“Why did you come?” Enzo asked softly.
Zira’s eyes lifted.
For a second, they were raw.
“Because if I wasn’t here,” she whispered, “she would speak for me.”
Enzo’s chest tightened.
“She already is,” he said before he could stop himself.
Zira’s eyes shimmered.
She nodded once.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered.
Enzo’s jaw clenched.
Don’t.
He wanted to say it.
But he didn’t.
Because her sorry wasn’t a small apology.
It was grief.
Tia stepped closer, voice firm but not unkind.
“Listen,” she said. “We have matches. You cannot be seen here. If anyone connects you to us again–”
Zira nodded quickly. “I know. I’m leaving.”
She hesitated.
Then she looked at Enzo.
“Enzo,” she whispered.
His chest tightened.
“Don’t sign anything,” she said.
Enzo’s throat worked.
“I won’t,” he said quietly.
Zira’s eyes softened.
“Promise?” she asked, voice trembling.
Enzo swallowed.
He thought of his mother.
He thought of Tia.
He thought of the contract’s words.
He thought of Mira’s earlier message.
Then win.
He nodded once.
“I promise I won’t sign without thinking,” he said.
Zira’s breath hit the mask.
“Okay,” she whispered.
The word trembled.
Then she turned and slipped out the side door, moving quickly, practiced, like she’d been trained to disappear.
The room felt emptier after.
Tia exhaled sharply.
“She’s brave,” Rangga said quietly from the doorway.
Enzo blinked.
He hadn’t realized Rangga was there.
Rangga stepped in, gaze on Enzo.
“You okay?” Rangga asked.
Enzo swallowed.
He wasn’t.
But he didn’t have the luxury to fall apart.
“I’m okay,” he lied.
Rangga’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t lie. Just… be functional.”
Enzo huffed a small laugh, bitter.
Functional.
Yes.
That was what this tournament demanded.
Tia straightened. “We go.”
They walked out of the VIP lounge and back into the harsh fluorescent corridor.
The muffled roar of the arena returned.
They passed staff.
They passed sponsor booths.
They passed a group of fans taking selfies.
Enzo felt his skin prickle.
Every phone was a threat.
Every smile could become a caption.
In the warm-up room, Bayu slammed his headset onto the desk.
“Rich people,” he spat. “Always smiling. Always controlling.”
Adit whispered, “But… money.”
Bayu snapped, “Money is poison.”
Rangga’s voice stayed calm. “Poison can be medicine if you dose it.”
Bayu glared at him.
Rangga held his gaze. “We win first. Then we decide. We don’t let them split us now.”
Enzo sat down at his station.
He stared at the screen.
He felt the contract’s weight on his skin even though he wasn’t holding it.
His phone buzzed in his pocket.
He didn’t need to check to know.
But he did anyway.
Mira.
MiraCheng: are you okay?
Enzo’s throat tightened.
He typed:
Enzo: i’m okay. your mom is scary
Three dots.
Then:
MiraCheng: i know
A pause.
Then:
MiraCheng: i’m sorry
Enzo’s jaw clenched.
He typed quickly.
Enzo: don’t say sorry
Three dots.
Then:
MiraCheng: okay
Okay.
Their word.
Now it felt like a bandage pressed onto a wound that wouldn’t stop bleeding.
Enzo locked his phone and slipped it away.
Rangga clapped once.
“Lower bracket continues,” he said. “We keep winning. We make them wait.”
Bayu grinned, eyes bright with something dangerous.
Adit swallowed hard, but nodded.
Fikri exhaled.
Tia’s face was controlled.
But Enzo could see the exhaustion in her eyes.
And he understood.
Winning now wasn’t just about trophies.
It was about leverage.
It was about refusing to be owned.
It was about writing yourself back.
As the next match timer ticked down on the schedule board, Enzo placed his hands on the keyboard.
He flexed his fingers.
He breathed.
In.
Out.
And somewhere outside the arena’s noise, behind a cap and mask and a family’s polished walls, Zira was also breathing–trying to stay hers.
Ten minutes.
That was all it had taken to feel the shape of a cage.
Now Enzo had to play like he could break it.