The female coach positioned me in front of the mirror, her critical gaze tracking every inch of my posture.
"Name?"
"Han Jiwon."
"Breathe for me. Full inhale."
I complied, drawing air deep into my lungs despite the suppressants making everything feel compressed and hollow.
She circled me like a predator examining prey, fingers pressing against my diaphragm.
"Again. Slower this time."
Her touch was clinical, professional, searching for tension points and collapsed support muscles.
Behind the wire-rimmed glasses, her eyes narrowed.
"When did you last eat?"
The question caught me off guard.
"Breakfast."
"Before that."
"Dinner. Yesterday."
"Full meal or did you picked at the rations?"
My silence answered.
She withdrew her hand, making a note on the tablet balanced on the nearby speaker.
"Your breath support is compromised. Not from lack of training but from lack of fuel."
