"Kwon Raon," the coach muttered under his breath as he noticed the tall boy walk in.
The name wasn't unfamiliar — the volleyball prodigy who'd carried his junior high to nationals. Coach Gang had seen his highlight reels back then. Lightning reflexes. Near-perfect coordination. The kind of raw athleticism that couldn't be taught.
Still, seeing him here — in his gym — was unexpected.
Raon bowed slightly, voice steady but resolute.
"I'd like to join the basketball team."
The coach raised a brow. "You want to what?"
"I want to join," Raon repeated, voice calm but steady.
Coach Gang sighed. "You're aware this isn't the volleyball hall, right?"
Raon nodded once. "Yes, sir."
Coach Gang crossed his arms. "You've got guts, I'll give you that. But we're not exactly a beginner's club. You ever played before?"
Raon shook his head. "Not formally. Only in local matches… pickup games."
The coach arched a brow. "So no real training. No experience. And you want to join this team?"
Raon's voice didn't waver. "Yes."
"Then tell me, Kwon Raon. Why basketball? You were a star. Volleyball was your thing. And here—" he gestured around the court, "you're starting from zero."
Raon hesitated briefly, eyes flicking toward the polished wood beneath his shoes. "Because I never really liked volleyball."
The answer was simple. Too simple. But his tone — firm, certain — made the coach pause.
"You didn't like it," Gang repeated. "And you think you'll like basketball?"
Raon exhaled slowly. "I don't know yet. But I want to find out."
There was something in his gaze — not ambition, but hunger. Not for fame, not even for winning — for feeling alive in motion. The kind of fire that either burned bright or burned out fast.
Coach Gang studied him for another long moment, then tossed him a ball. "Show me."
Raon caught it cleanly, the sound sharp against his palms.
"Let's see what you've got," the coach said. "Basic dribble, right hand then left. Then run a short sprint."
He started dribbling, awkward for a second or two, then smoother, sharper. The coach's eyebrows rose as Raon adjusted his stance, feet light, reaction time impeccable. When he sprinted from one side of the court to the other, Raon's speed was startling.
That's when the players began to notice.
"Who's that?"
"Never seen him before. Maybe a new member?"
"Wait, isn't that the volleyball guy?"
"He's fast."
By the time Raon finished the last drill, the coach was already nodding. He blew his whistle sharply, and the whole team turned toward him.
That was the exact moment the door opened again.
Jae-Hyun walked in — fresh from class, sleeves rolled up, bag slung lazily over one shoulder. His calm gaze swept the court, then landed on the unfamiliar face beside the coach.
Coach Gang noticed him instantly. "Perfect timing, Jae-Hyun."
"Alright, everyone — gather round," Coach Kang called. "Meet Kwon Raon, our newest member."
A few surprised murmurs ran through the group.
"Another tall one?"
"He's almost as tall as Jae-Hyun."
"Why do first-years keep getting taller every year?"
"Great, now I'm the shortest starter again."
The coach smirked. "He's new to the sport, but he's got solid instincts. Ji-Woon, take care of him. And he'll need to work harder to keep up. But if we polish him right, he could become a core player for the upcoming competitions."
"Yes, sir," Ji-Woon said, already curious about the new boy beside him.
"Alright, back to practice," the coach ordered, blowing his whistle again.
As everyone scattered, Ji-Woon strolled over to Jae-Hyun, grinning. "I'm so jealous, Mr. Genius. You get to come to practice whenever you like and no one picks on you. I'm the captain, and I don't even get that privilege."
"You being the captain," Jae-Hyun said flatly, "is exactly why you don't."
Ji-Woon made a mock gasp. "You're as cold as always." He looked at Raon and draped an arm around his shoulder. "Anyway, since I'm the generous type, I'm putting you in charge of him."
"No."
Ji-Woon blinked. "Come on. If anyone can polish him up in two weeks, it's you."
Jae-Hyun frowned. "Why are we trying to polish him up in two weeks? Is he that bad?"
"Well," Ji-Woon scratched his neck, "he was famous in middle school as the volleyball prodigy, but surprisingly decided to join us in senior high. He's a first-year like you."
Jae-Hyun's gaze shifted to Raon. "Why's a volleyball player joining the basketball team?"
Raon met his eyes steadily. "I never really liked volleyball."
"And you like basketball?"
Raon hesitated. "I guess so."
"You guess so," Jae-Hyun repeated, voice dry. "So you're not sure. Then what makes you think you'll like basketball?"
Raon's lips curved slightly. "You."
The silence that followed was heavy — so sharp you could almost hear the sound of Ji-Woon's jaw dropping.
Jae-Hyun just stared at him, expression unreadable — not impressed, not amused. Just a look that said I expected a better reason.
Ji-Woon quickly stepped in, laughing awkwardly. "Okayyy— now that you two have met," he clapped his hands once, "Jae-Hyun, take care of him, alright?"
"No," Jae-Hyun said again, already turning toward the locker room.
Raon and Ji-Woon watched him go.
Raon tilted his head slightly. "Is he always like that?"
"Unfortunately, yes."
A faint smirk tugged at Raon's lips. "That makes him more fun."
Ji-Woon gave him a long, unimpressed look — the kind that said what is with these first-years?
He sighed. "Shinseong High… producing weird prodigies since forever."
The gym came alive as practice kicked off — two sides locked in motion, perfecting every rotation, every strategy, until rhythm became instinct.
Sneakers squeaked against polished wood, the ball thudded in a rhythm that echoed through the rafters, and sweat misted in the fluorescent light.
The sound wasn't chaos — it was organized pulse, the heartbeat of a team that had started to move like one organism.
Pass. Step. Cut.
No words. No shouting. Just motion syncing with motion, breath syncing with breath.
Coach Gang stood at the sideline with his arms folded, watching closely. Something about today's practice was off — not wrong, but… unnatural. The team moved too well. No one was hesitating, no one tripping over plays. They were reading each other's intent like shared instinct.
His gaze drifted toward the center of the court.
Jae-Hyun.
Calm, unreadable, expression carved from stone. He wasn't barking orders, wasn't trying to lead — yet every adjustment he made, the team mirrored without realizing. He'd pass one beat earlier than expected, forcing Ji-Woon to sharpen his timing. He'd shift half a step left and the entire defensive line corrected. Even his silence carried gravity.
Coach Gang scribbled something in his notebook, frowning.
"Why does it feel like he's playing them, not with them?" he muttered.
Ji-Woon's lay-up landed clean. Another score. Another roar of triumph. The team was electric, alive — but none of them saw how one boy was quietly pulling their strings.
When the whistle finally cut through, the players slowed, panting. Coach Gang flipped his notebook closed.
"Jae-Hyun," he called out. "Take a seat."
Jae-Hyun tilted his head slightly. "Excuse me?"
"You've been running hard. Let's see how the team holds without you."
That earned a few surprised glances. Ji-Woon frowned. "Coach, the lineup's balanced right now—"
"Bench. Now," Gang said, firm.
Jae-Hyun's gaze lingered for a moment before he stepped off the court, towel draped loosely around his neck. The moment he left the floor, the rhythm shifted.
It wasn't immediate chaos, not yet. But the tempo faltered.
Passes went a fraction wide.
Timing slipped.
Energy frayed.
"Reset!" Ji-Woon barked, forcing the team back into formation.
They tried again. Still off.
A play that had looked effortless minutes ago now tangled into hesitation and near-misses.
From the bench, Jae-Hyun watched quietly, one elbow resting on his knee, chin balanced on his hand. His eyes followed each player like he was dissecting a living organism.
Gang's brow furrowed deeper. The proof was undeniable — it wasn't talent or strategy holding them together. It was him.
"Alright," the coach finally said, voice low but sharp. "Jae-Hyun, back in."
Jae-Hyun stood, unhurried. He walked onto the court, and the air itself seemed to adjust to his stride — tension dissolving, pulse resetting.
"Run the same play," Gang ordered.
They did.
And just like that, the machine rebooted — precise, clean, unstoppable. Every player moved half a second faster, cut cleaner, passed smarter. It wasn't even conscious — they simply synced to him again.
Gang's whistle lowered from his lips, forgotten.
"He's not just playing the game," he muttered under his breath."He's controlling it."
The drill ended. Cheers filled the air, high-fives all around. Jae-Hyun didn't join. He just wiped his hands on a towel, expression neutral, gaze distant — as if already replaying the experiment in his head.
A faint smirk ghosted across his lips.His thoughts were surgical, almost clinical.
Humans are predictable.Give them confidence, and they move differently.Give them rhythm, and they stop thinking.It's almost too easy.
Coach Gang kept watching him from across the court — the still center of the storm.
From a corner of the gym, Raon leaned against the wall, a towel slung over his shoulder. He hadn't been part of the rotation today — Coach had told him to observe and that he'd have his own special practice. But even from the sidelines, he'd seen it.
The shift. The eerie sync.
The difference in rhythm of the team's play.
When Jae-Hyun was on court, they were unstoppable — smooth, sharp, almost too perfect. But the moment he'd stepped off, it was like watching a machine lose its power source. Every pass dragged. Every play stumbled. The flow just… died.
Raon's brows furrowed. This wasn't just skill — it was something else. Something that didn't sit right.
He exhaled slowly, muttering under his breath,
"This is bad. Really bad."
If the team didn't learn to play without him — to think, move, and adapt on their own — they'd crumble the moment Jae-Hyun couldn't step onto that court.
And that thought…was terrifying.