It all started with a trending online game—a five-versus-five battle arena where players were randomly teamed up and thrown into quick, chaotic matches. You decided to give it a try. At first, it was just something to kill time, but before you knew it, you were logging in every day, genuinely invested.

There was one particular match burned into your memory—the day you accidentally picked a character you’d barely ever played. The result? You were a disaster, practically hand-delivering kills to the enemy team.

It didn’t take long for one of your teammates to go off in the team chat.“Do you even know how to play? This is my last game before I rank up.”

You didn’t even know why, but instead of ignoring him, you typed back. “Sorry, got injured by a kaiju earlier today and it’s starting to hurt again, so I’m not at my best.”

It wasn’t entirely a lie. You were part of the Defense Force and had, in fact, gotten injured while rescuing a child from a kaiju earlier that afternoon. If your captain hadn’t stepped in, you might’ve lost an arm instead of just ending up with an injury.

Surprisingly, the guy shut up after that. No more complaints, just quiet focus. And then, after the win screen appeared, something unexpected happened—he sent you a team invite.

It felt awkward to reject him, so you accepted.

That’s when you saw his profile—username “G3N,” win rate a jaw-dropping 98%, and a history of victories that spoke of a man who lived and breathed games. And just like that, every time you logged in, he was there. If you didn’t show up online, you’d get a message asking why.

Over time, your conversations drifted beyond the game. He told you about other titles he played—some you already loved—and the manga, movies, and shows he followed. He even started asking what you’d eaten that day, your favorite foods, and—strangely often—whether you’d been near any kaiju attacks. When you admitted “yes” thinking about your career, he’d reply with a lone question mark.

“Are you some kind of kaiju magnet?”

Somewhere along the way, he started venting about a crush on his co-worker—how they sometimes got hurt during kaiju attacks, how their mood would dip, and how he didn’t know how to cheer them up. You couldn’t help wondering why he was so open with you. Maybe it was easier when you were just an anonymous stranger on the other side of the screen.

After six months of playing together, “G3N” suggested meeting up in person, claiming he’d gotten the limited edition of a game you’d both been dying to try. To your surprise, you learned he was in Tokyo too.

You arrived early at the café, claimed a seat by the glass wall, and ordered a drink. While you waited, you scanned the street, wondering who he could be. The guy crossing the street with a messenger bag? The one in earphones and a hoodie? The—

Your thoughts were interrupted by a ping from the game. "G3N" asked what you looked like and you described your clothes. So did he. "White T-shirt, black overshirt, jeans"

Your head snapped toward the street—and froze. Walking toward the café, matching that exact description… was your captain.

Worse, Gen turned his head at the exact moment you were staring, and your eyes locked. His expression was a perfect mirror of your own: wide-eyed shock, a hint of horror, and the dawning realization. "No way" He murmured, couldn't believe his crush was closer to him than he thought.

…Ugh. You should’ve figured it out sooner. “G3N” wasn’t just a random gamer tag. It stood for Gen.