The next day in the school hallway, Ming You encountered "Chang Wo. The coach stood by his office, frozen like a monument. Determination was etched into every wrinkle, in the tense line of his pressed-together lips. His gaze, heavy and unyielding, fell upon Ming You, pinning him to the spot.
"You will no longer play for the team," he uttered, not hiding his anger, yet not raising his voice either. "I am expelling you from the Yoshido basketball club and, if necessary, from the school. If you don't stop your antics, I will go to the police. Be thankful I haven't called your parents."
Ming You listened, understanding the danger was absolutely real. But instead of fear, he felt only indifference. The corner of his mouth twitched and then stretched into a smile. Not a joyful one, but a cold, almost sarcastic one.
"You don't understand, Coach. I'm not going to give up so easily. You know yourself what streetball is—it's a game. And I'm just playing."
"Chang Wo didn't even seem surprised by this insolence. Only contempt and final disappointment flashed in his eyes. He didn't wish to waste another second. Silently, with the air of a man disposing of trash, he turned around and with firm steps walked off towards the gym, passing by Ming You.
The moment the coach was behind him, the smile on Ming You's face twisted, became wide, unnaturally wide. A grimace he would never allow himself in public. In his eyes, usually completely empty and lifeless, a shadow of something detached and calculating flickered.
"From this point on, I'll have to act. He's become an obstacle to my goal..."
Ming You abruptly changed direction, heading not to the classroom but the opposite way—towards the teachers' lounge. His steps were quick but not running, and his face was focused. He slid his gaze along the walls and the corners of the ceiling.
"No cameras. Excellent."
He slowed his pace at a turn, listened, and glanced down the empty corridor—no one.
Taking out his phone, he checked the time.
"Nine minutes left of the big break. Teachers will start returning with tea from the cafeteria in about five minutes. But for that case, I already have an alibi: 'I was looking for the homeroom teacher to talk about the project.' It'll work."
The door to the teachers' lounge wasn't locked. Ming You slid inside silently, closing it behind him. The room, smelling of coffee, paper, and old furniture, greeted him with emptiness. His eyes quickly ran over the desks, shelves, stacks of folders. He acted methodically: quick hand movements sifting through documents, a glance picking out keywords—surnames, reports. He'd read a couple of lines—and immediately put everything back exactly in place, leaving no trace of disorder.
And there it was—a low table in the corner, piled with old sports magazines. Ming You's gaze fell on a thick green folder sticking out from under it. He crouched, moved the stack aside, and pulled it out. On the cover, handwritten: "Chang Wo. Personal."
Ming You opened the folder, and his fingers slid over the sheets. Work record book, diploma copies, medical certificate, rental agreement... The information formed a picture. Address. Family composition: wife, a twelve-year-old daughter, a two-year-old son. Phone numbers.
"Excellent," he noted mentally, scanning the lines. "Two gaps remain to fill: the exact daily schedule and transportation. In his area, judging by the address, there aren't any suitable gray spots I need..."
At that moment, his hearing caught a distant but inevitably approaching sound—footsteps in the hallway and laughter. Time was up.
Ming You closed the folder in one motion and shoved it precisely under the same edge of the table. He stood up, took a step towards the door, and listened carefully. The footsteps were already close. Without hesitation, he sharply, but not too noisily, opened the door and stepped out, immediately turning to close it behind him. In front of him, two meters away, two teachers with mugs in their hands froze, looking at him in surprise.
"Ming You? What are you doing here?" one of them asked, frowning.
"I was looking for Mrs. Pak, wanted to clarify something about tomorrow's project," he replied, pulling a mask of slight embarrassment onto his face. "But I think I'm too late."
"She's in the library, I think," the second teacher said, already losing interest.
"Thank you," Ming You nodded, walking away with a calm, student-like pace. "I'll go then."
When he turned the corner leading to his classroom, the last thought before putting on the familiar mask of indifference was clear and precise:
"The first gap is easy enough to fill, but transportation... heh-heh, I do have some debtors, after all."
...
The final bell tore through the air, not as a ring, but as a sharp, piercing scream announcing the end of the last lesson.
The classroom was filled with the familiar hustle and bustle of the school day's end: laughter, the scraping of chairs, the hum of voices. But for Ming You, it was all muffled, as if coming from behind thick glass. His own thoughts hummed louder. Without looking around, he silently began packing textbooks into his backpack. Having gathered everything, Ming You slung the backpack over his shoulder and, passing by the desks, headed for the exit.
The classroom door swung open, releasing a stream of bodies tired from the day, and Ming You merged into it. But already at the first turn, by the glass display case with sports trophies, his flow was decisively intercepted. They stood like a wall—Jung Ho, Lu Shen, Haru Lin, and a little further away, leaning against the wall, Hong Ren.
Jung Ho took half a step forward, and the shadow from his broad shoulders fell upon Ming You.
"Not going to practice today?"
"I'll be practicing outside," he replied, looking not into Jung Ho's eyes but somewhere past him, at a dusty sunbeam at the end of the corridor. "Besides, the coach kicked me off the team, so he won't let me play with you."
"Hmm?" Jung Ho frowned.
Lu Shen, who always moved like a malfunctioning spring, suddenly froze.
"Huh?" he squeezed out, and the syllable came out ragged. "What the fuck?!"
"Holy fuck..." whispered Haru Lin.
And then Hong Ren moved from his spot by the wall. He approached and stood to the left of Ming You, shoulder to shoulder.
"I see. Then I'm with you."
"Hey!" Lu Shen exploded, waving his arms as if fending off invisible enemies. "What, you're just gonna accept what the coach says?! No objections at all?!" He shifted his gaze to Ming You, shouting loudly. "You're our captain, Ming!"
"Never thought I'd say this," Haru Lin's voice sounded tired and honest, "but Lu's right. We can't just leave it like this."
Jung Ho, observing them, straightened up, declaring:
"Decided. Then we're leaving too."
They moved. Not as a group, but as a single current, pulling Ming You along with them down the corridor towards the exit. Lu Shen, gulping air like a swimmer before a race, added:
"Agreed! We're not ditching you that easily!"
"Exactly!" Haru Lin chimed in. "We'll show him such a..."
"Stop, guys."
Ming You said it quietly, but they froze halfway to the wide staircase leading downstairs. He stepped forward, turning to face them. The sun from the high window fell on his back, leaving his face in shadow, but they saw the gesture—a palm thrust forward like a stop sign.
"No need to be so radical and disband the club. You'll only make things worse."
"Then what should we do?" asked Jung Ho, cutting out everything superfluous. "Do you have a plan?"
The shadow on Ming You's face shifted, and he put on a fake, defiant smirk that was clearly visible in the light.
"There is one: you just need to stay on the team and go to practice..."
"You mean you're suggesting we leave everything as is?" Jung Ho asked incredulously.
"We're not leaving you like that! We'll..." Lu Shen flared up again, but Ming You stopped him with another look.
"Listen, I haven't finished." He paused, letting the words sink in. "You'll go to practice, but practice as if you're missing a key player—meaning me. And then the coach will have to bring me back."
Jung Ho slowly nodded, and understanding mixed with respect flared in his eyes.
"You're right. Without you, we won't have the necessary team spirit. The link won't work."
Lu Shen, finally grasping the idea, grinned widely, and his energy immediately found a new outlet.
"So, we'll practice like we don't give a fuck!"
Haru Lin, already back to his usual role, immediately inserted a barb, shaking his head with feigned reproach.
"You always practice like you don't give a fuck, Lu."
"Fuck you!" Lu Shen barked, but without malice, and his fist lightly bumped Haru's shoulder.
Ming You, watching this familiar scuffle, sighed and adjusted the backpack on his shoulder.
"Anyway, you go practice in the gym, and I'll be outside." He turned and started descending the stairs. His team watched his retreating back.
Halfway down, he turned around to wave goodbye and threw out one last remark:
"Good luck with practice."
Lu Shen lunged sharply towards the railing, leaned over it, and, cupping his hands like a megaphone, shouted after him:
"Hey, Ming! Don't lose to those asphalt rats out there!"
His voice echoed loudly under the arches. Hong Ren simply raised his palm and slowly waved. Jung Ho also raised his hand in a farewell gesture. Haru Lin, leaning against the wall, just raised two fingers in a casual salute.
...
The street basketball court greeted Ming You with the cold breath of the late evening. The air was saturated with the smell of asphalt heated during the day, dust, and the distant smoke of city streets. The lamp above the basketball hoop hummed low and insistently, casting a yellowish, deathly light.
On a bench further away, almost completely submerged in shadows, several people were sitting. Indistinct, rough silhouettes in black leather and bomber jackets. But one of them stood out. He was standing slightly apart, leaning against the fence, and even in the semi-darkness, the dazzling whiteness of his long-sleeved shirt was visible, adorned with intricate black patterns, like spiderwebs or cracks on porcelain.
This was Tae Sagi. His posture was relaxed, almost careless, but this carelessness exuded such confidence and control that it was more frightening than any threatening stance. His face, illuminated from below by the glow of someone else's cigarette, seemed carved from marble — beautiful, cold, and absolutely impenetrable.
Ming You took a few steps forward, decisively entering the circle of light under the lamp. He stopped at a respectful but not timid distance — far enough that one couldn't reach him with a hand, but close enough for his words to be heard without strain.
The corners of his lips twitched, forming a false smirk, and he waved his hand in a strange, half-friendly gesture:
"Hi-hi."