Motherboard

“HEALER, WHAT THE FUCK?”

The scream tore through the headset. Inside the room. Inside her skull.

Kang Ji-won didn’t flinch.

Twenty-three years of practice. She’d learned to let sound pass through her like water through a sieve. It was a highly useful skill. It helped when her mother was screaming. It helped when her father was being silent.

And it definitely helped when a level 40 warlock stood directly in the fire and blamed her for his lack of spatial awareness.

Her fingers moved across the mechanical keyboard. They always moved.

Q. E. R.

Cooldown timers spun. The tank’s health bar climbed back from critical red to a safe, breathing green. The raid boss—some oversized demon with too many teeth and a name she couldn’t be bothered to remember—continued its scripted rampage across the screen. Particle effects bloomed like bruises.

“Shield me, shield me, SHIELD—”

She shielded him.

Numbers were good. Numbers were always good. That was the deal: Ji-won kept people alive, and in return, she got to exist in a space where no one asked questions. Where no one looked too closely at the bags under her eyes.

Guild chat scrolled past in a blur of Korean and English. Insults. Orders. A crying emoji from someone who’d wiped the raid four times.

She didn’t read it. Didn’t need to. Health bars told her everything she needed to know about human nature. Red meant danger. Green meant safety. Green meant breathe.

Her apartment was silent except for the hum of her desktop tower and the distant drone of traffic on the bridge. June in Seoul meant the humidity pressed against her windows like something alive. Something wanting in.

She kept them closed anyway. Curtains drawn. Door locked. Chain on.

The way her mother taught her. Back when safe meant something you could verify with your own two hands. Back before safe became a lie.

“Cleave incoming—”

She pre-healed. The tank didn’t drop. The DPS didn’t drop. Boss health ticked down to twenty percent.

Ji-won allowed herself a single breath. Held it. Released it.

Then, the private message pinged.

LeeSeongmin: You’re the only reason that didn’t wipe.

She almost didn’t respond. Strangers in guilds were variables. People who might need healing, might need reviving, might scream when they stood in the fire and blamed her for it. The DPS marker next to his name meant nothing. Level meant nothing. Hours logged meant—

LeeSeongmin: I watch you. You never miss a heal.

Her fingers hesitated. Hovered over the keys.

The raid continued around her—particle effects, voice chat screaming—but she’d healed enough raids to know when she could spare attention. Twenty percent meant burn phase. Burn phase meant the tank had mitigation up and the DPS just needed to pump numbers.

She could look away. Five seconds. Maybe six.

KangJiWon: I’m just doing my job.

LeeSeongmin: No. You’re doing everyone else’s job too. Covering for the ones who stand in fire. Healing through mechanics that should kill them. I’ve been watching your logs for three weeks.

Three weeks.

The hair on her arms stood up. Not because it was threatening—it wasn’t, not yet—but because three weeks meant he’d been paying attention. People who paid attention to Ji-won eventually asked questions. Questions eventually led to the dark places she kept locked up.

LeeSeongmin: The way you play. It’s like you’re trying to be invisible. But healers can’t be invisible. Everyone sees when you save them.

Tank health dropped. She snapped back. Hit emergency cooldown. Watched the bar climb.

Boss died. Loot announcements scrolled. Voice chat exploded with celebration.

She didn’t feel any of it. Her hands stayed still on the keyboard. The plastic keys felt like ice.

LeeSeongmin: I’m not trying to be creepy. I just. I know what it’s like to be seen when you don’t want to be.

Before she could reply, the guild master’s name appeared in the system chat.

[System] DoHyvn is online.

Ji-won’s stomach knotted. Acid rose in her throat. Her jaw locked until the hinge clicked.

Do-hyun’s presence in the guild was like gravity—invisible until something started falling. He never screamed. Never raged. He just watched. Then things happened. People got moved to bench spots. People got “rested.” People disappeared from Discord and never came back.

LeeSeongmin: I have to go. But. If you ever want to talk. I’m here.

The private message window closed. The raid group disbanded.

Ji-won sat in her chair, the cursor blinking on an empty screen. She listened to the hum of her computer, the traffic on the bridge, and the sound of her own breathing. It was too loud.

She should log off. She should eat something. She should check on her sister at the hospital, even though visiting hours were over and the nurses would just give her the same update: Stable. No change. Come back tomorrow.

Instead, she just sat.

The screensaver kicked in after ten minutes. Abstract shapes drifting across black. She watched them move, letting her mind go blank the way she’d learned after the accident. After her father. After everything became before-and-after with a hard line drawn through the middle.

Then her phone buzzed.

Not a call. Not a text. A guild app notification.

DoHyvn has sent you a direct message.

She blinked at the name. DoHyvn. Like someone typed too fast and didn’t check. But Do-hyun never made typos. Do-hyun was meticulous. Do-hyun was—

She opened the message.

DoHyvn: Good work tonight. The tank said you saved the pull. That’s the kind of dedication we value here.

Normal. Professional. Exactly what a guild master would say to a reliable healer.

DoHyvn: I noticed you’ve been quiet lately. Everything okay?

The cursor blinked. She stared at it. Her pulse hammered in her throat.

DoHyvn: You know you can talk to me, right? We’re family here.

Family.

The word settled in her chest. Heavy. Familiar. Suffocating.

Her mother used that word. Used it while explaining why Ji-won needed to check in every hour. Why she needed to share her location. Why she needed to come home straight after school.

We’re family. We look out for each other. I just want to keep you safe.

KangJiWon: I’m fine. Just tired.

DoHyvn: Good. Get some rest. We have another raid tomorrow.

DoHyvn: Oh, and Ji-won?

She stopped breathing.

DoHyvn: Check your video settings. Your camera indicator is on.

Ji-won looked at her monitor.

In the corner of the guild app interface, a small icon glowed red.

Camera active.

Not the hardware light on the bezel—the software indicator. The one that meant the app itself thought her camera was broadcasting.

She never turned her webcam on. Never. The physical camera was unplugged. It had been for months.

But the icon glowed anyway. Steady red. Like a carotid artery exposed.

She reached behind her monitor. Her fingers were numb. She confirmed the USB cable was dangling, disconnected. Nothing was plugged in.

But the icon on the screen still glowed.

For three seconds—three full, agonizing seconds—it stayed on.

Then it went dark.

Her fingers wouldn’t close. They just tremored.

Her phone buzzed again.

DoHyvn: Night, Ji-won. Sweet dreams.

She sat in the dark. The cursor blinked on the monitor. The traffic hummed on the bridge. The humidity pressed against the windows like something trying to get in.

For the first time in years, Ji-won wished she had someone to call.