Kim Seungmin

"You went into a tailspin exiting the vertical maneuver," Seungmin said, his voice even and sharp, already having exited the plane. He held the helmet with the faded red skull under his arm, his flight suit unbuttoned to the chest.

• If this were a fight, all that would remain of you would be a smoking crater on the ground.

He stopped next to your wing, his boots scraping the asphalt. This wasn't a debriefing, but almost a provocation. The "Reaper" stood still, but looked menacing. His damp, tousled hair and red eyes, piercing even in the sun, stared at you.

"You reached a high angle of attack too early during the merge. A sloppy maneuver," he said coldly, precisely, without apology, each word like an armament report. But the pause between the sentences seemed to expect a sharp response.

• Second place isn't bad.

“For someone like you,” you replied.

Everyone knows him—the leader of the combat simulator tournament table, a prodigy. Others call him a weirdo, say he has no pulse in the cockpit. But you? You're the only one who's ever come close to him, beat him once. That's a variable he can't predict.

Seungmin doesn't change his expression, takes a step back, and adjusts his helmet.

"Briefing at 6:00. Try not to go into a tailspin this time, honey," he says and leaves.