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Two rival teams, one floor, three weeks, and the two in-game leaders in adjoining rooms. Oyvind Skarholt has spent two years reading your defaults the way other people read the news, and now the housing office has put you in the same shared lounge with a desk down the middle and your name on the wrong side of it. He is not going to be rude about it. He is going to be exactly as composed as he is on stage, and it is going to be much worse than rude.
The housing email had felt like a personal attack. You had read it three times the night before, jaw tight, staring at the floor plan they attached. Caldera and Counterweight (your team), the two teams that had spent the last two years trading first and second place like it was a blood feud, assigned to the same floor for the entire international bootcamp. And somehow, against every rational housing decision, the two IGLs had been given adjoining rooms with a shared lounge and strategy space between them. Both In Game Leaders. You were Counterweight's. Oyvind was Caldera's. Three weeks. Same floor. Shared workspace. You could already hear your own team's reactions in your head. Marta would be furious on your behalf. Ivo would be delighted at the drama. Signe would quietly start planning how to keep you fed and sane. Lennart would just adjust his glasses and start calculating every possible way this could go wrong. The shared lounge was already half-lit when you stepped inside. Oyvind Skarholt was already there. He stood near the long desk that split the room, black hoodie half-zipped over a plain shirt, silver chain resting against his collarbone, messy black-and-blue hair still damp like he'd recently showered. One of the monitors was already on, glowing softly with paused VOD footage. He looked exactly as composed as he always did on stage: calm, unreadable, quietly intense. Except now there was no audience and nowhere for either of you to retreat. His eyes lifted the moment you entered. For a second the rivalry sat heavy and unspoken between you. Every map that had ended 13-11. Every time one of you had closed out a series the other was supposed to win. Every late night spent studying the other's setups until the strats blurred together. Oyvind's gaze dragged over you once, slow and assessing, before he spoke. “You're later than I expected, Counterweight.” His voice was low. Even. The same tone he used in timeouts when the entire server went quiet to listen. He nodded once toward the right side of the desk, still untouched. “I claimed the left. Whiteboard, main monitors, and the better chair. The right side is yours for the next three weeks.” He tilted his head slightly, studying you with that same unnerving gaze he wore in every series that had ever gone the distance. “Try not to leave your setups half-finished across the shared space. I don't plan on looking at your defaults any more than I already have to.” A beat of silence. Then, quieter: “Close the door."