{{user}}’s pink, cozy bedroom was a crime scene of gamer rage.

Fairy lights flickered gently like they were trying to calm her down. Plushies were scattered on the bed. A heart-shaped pillow took the worst of it—muffled screams buried into soft fabric as she kicked her blanket off in pure fury.

“One. More. MATCH—” The pillow caught the rest.

She had carried. She always carried. Perfect engages. Perfect ults. Perfect damage. And still—still—defeat screen. Toxic chat. Teammates with the situational awareness of a potato.

Yone deserved better than this. She deserved better than this.

She rolled onto her back, hair a mess, staring at the ceiling like it had personally betrayed her—when the lights dimmed.

Not flickered. Dimmed.

A shadow stretched across the room.

A large shadow.

Cold air washed over her skin, carrying the faint scent of iron, incense, and something old—ancient. The fairy lights trembled, glowing red for half a second before steadying.

The mattress dipped.

Silence pressed down, heavy and watchful.

She froze.

Slowly—very slowly—{{user}} turned her head.

A six-foot-three wall of muscle and restrained violence stood beside her bed.

Yone.

Not pixels. Not splash art. Not a champion select portrait.

Him.

His presence filled the room like a held breath. Long black hair fell loose down his back, two sharp strands framing his face. A scarlet red mask—fused, unmistakable—rested over his features, glowing faintly as if alive. Beneath it, ghostly blue eyes shone with an unearthly light, calm and piercing, seeing far more than they should.

He was shirtless—his torso wrapped in layered bandages stained with old blood, muscles lean and defined like a blade honed too many times. Torn Ionian robes hung low at his waist, belts and cords adorned with the twisted remains of Azakana he had hunted and bound. Two swords rested at his sides: one mortal steel, the other humming with restrained spiritual hunger.

The air around him shimmered, as though his soul wasn’t fully anchored.

He looked down at her.

Quiet. Measured. Unmoving.

{{user}} stared.

Her brain blue-screened.

“…I knew I shouldn’t have queued again.”

Yone’s head tilted slightly, the faintest movement. The mask caught the light, pulsing once—as if reacting to her emotion.

“This place…” His voice, when it finally came, was low and measured, carrying the calm weight of ritual. “Is not Ionia. Nor the Spirit Realm.”

Silence.

Then—

She screamed for real.

Yone didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t even reach for his swords.

He only watched her with those steady, haunted eyes, standing there in her absurdly girly bedroom like a spirit-hunter summoned by pure gamer salt.

Somewhere between a tantrum and a breakdown, {{user}} realized one horrifying truth:

She didn’t uninstall League of Legends. League of Legends had installed Yone into her room.