Against the Algorithm

Chapter 26: The Weight of Eyes

Summary: The stage is set, the brackets drawn, but the real tension plays out in the silence between names, in the glances that linger too long, and in the spaces where power quietly shifts. Tong Yao stands apart—not unseen, but unmistakably watched. And when the past steps forward, demanding to be acknowledged, she doesn't flinch. Not because she's fearless, but because this time, she isn't standing alone.

Chapter Twenty-Six

The arena was quiet in that distinct, anticipatory way that only ever settled in the moments before something official—the hush that preceded the lights coming up, the cameras flickering on, the transformation of a dim, echoing space into a stage of spectacle and sound. Below, the Drawing Ceremony stage was being prepped—a sleek construct of polished glass panels and gently pulsing screens that flashed league logos, seasonal brackets, and the scrolling names of every team slated to compete this season.

In the central pit—a bowl-like depression carved just beneath the main floor for ideal camera angles—the players were already in place.

At the center of ZGDX's row sat Lu Sicheng, his long legs angled forward in that signature sprawl, one arm hooked lazily over the back of his chair, posture steeped in effortless command, his expression the same cool, impenetrable mask it always was.

On either side of him were Lao K and Lao Mao, their expressions unreadable to most, but to those who knew them, clearly broadcasting a carefully maintained mix of focus and barely restrained boredom. Pang lounged with arms crossed, his jaw set in that faint line that usually meant he was hungry, and Ming sat slightly forward, tapping his fingers in rhythm against his knee, his eyes darting between the stage and the exits like he was already calculating escape routes.

Yao, however, wasn't seated with them. She was in the audience—four rows back from the front, near the edge where the coaching staff and management had been instructed to sit. She was nestled between Coach Kwon and Rui, hands folded neatly in her lap, the soft glow of the stage lights casting a muted sheen over the silver braid that lay over her shoulder. Yue slouched beside Rui with all the grace of a bored teenager, chewing gum and twirling a pen between his fingers as he leaned just far enough forward to glance toward the lower tier.

"Looks like there's a delay," Yue muttered, voice flat with disinterest. "Tech guy's still fiddling with the bracket system."

Yao gave a small nod but her eyes weren't on the stage. They weren't on the screens. They weren't even on her team. Her gaze wasn't on the stage, nor the flickering screen, nor the murmuring rows of teams below. It was fixed—pointedly, uncomfortably—on someone seated several rows across the pit, flanked by the sharp blue and white accents of the CK roster.

Jian Yang.

He hadn't looked away from her since the moment she entered.

Not once.

At first, she'd thought it was coincidence—a glance caught mid-scan, a flicker of recognition. Maybe curiosity. But it hadn't stopped. Every time her eyes drifted, even slightly, toward that section of the arena, his were already waiting—watching, lingering. Too direct. Too deliberate. Too familiar. She shifted, subtle but precise, her fingers moving to adjust the hem of the fitted ZGDX blazer she'd worn for the ceremony—black, crisply pressed, collar set just so. Her posture remained straight, composed. But her shoulders had gone rigid, tension tightening along her spine in silent protest.

Kwon didn't notice. His focus was locked on the bracket algorithm, muttering about tier matchups and potential seed disadvantages. Rui, for once, was too distracted by the tech delay, whispering furiously to himself about sponsors who couldn't be bothered to fund a proper set of HDMI cables.