Dark clouds stack over Seoul like the city's holding its breath.
Alarm blares. I hit snooze twice, then roll out, body stiff from yesterday's games. I glance at my knuckles—just bruises, nothing broken. I talk over my shoulder to the empty apartment, "Every scar tells a story. Sometimes, it's just a warning label."
Shower, cold as my luck. I dress sharp—old jeans, school jacket, hair a little wild on purpose. People pay more attention to the details you control.
I pass the bathroom mirror.
"You ready, hotshot?"
Reflection smirks back, half Gojo, half nobody.
In class, the energy is different.
Sungho's seat is empty—rumor is he spent the night in a clinic after yesterday's public humiliation.
Minji leans over, dropping a strawberry milk on my desk. "They're saying you're a curse now."
I flash a winning smile. "Not the worst thing I've been called."
Jay strolls in late, slides into the seat behind me. "Expect trouble, get a story."
I boot up my phone, check my inbox: blank, except for a spam message titled "Congratulations!" I delete it. "People say you miss a hundred percent of the shots you don't take. But they forget—sometimes you dodge the shot, and the ball breaks someone else's nose."
Ms. Park's voice cuts through the chatter. "Page fifty-four, everyone. Let's focus."
The lesson rolls. I answer questions with the right mix of accuracy and attitude. Some classmates listen, some stare at the back wall, lost in dreams, lost in survival.
By lunch, word has spread—something big is coming tonight. A message circulates: "Old gym. 7 PM. All eyes open."
Rumor rides faster than the subway.
Cafeteria, I sit with Minji and Jay, food trays stacked, drinks sweating in late-morning heat.
Minji stabs noodles, "You're top of everyone's list now. King of drama."
Jay chews his sandwich. "Cheap thrones fall fastest."
I grin. "They always forget the court jester."
Minji: "You gonna show up tonight?"
I shrug. "Of course. Half the fun is seeing who's really watching."
Jay quotes, "A king's true power lies in the eyes of his subjects."
Minji snorts, but she's tense. "Watch your back. Not a joke this time."
I wink. "When is it?"
Afternoon. The clock grinds out hours. I use the time wisely—sink into my chair, daydream. Listen for gossip, jot down names, watch alliances shift with every rumor.
Random kid—Dao, transfer second-year, buzzcut and hopeful—sidles up between classes. "You heading to the gym tonight?"
I check his eyes. Sincere. Nervous.
"I never miss a party."
He smiles, then drops his voice: "Got your back."
I clap him on the arm, "You and everyone else. Just remember who writes the punchline."
Jay hovers in the hall, backpack slung low.
He glances out the window. "Storm's rolling in."
For the rest of the day, I play it cool—answer in class, flirt a little, throw off suspicion with confidence and a joke. The world sharpens before big nights, every small slight remembered, every debt called in.
Minji texts me mid-period: "Meet by the track at 6:30. Don't ditch."
I reply: "Wouldn't miss it for the world."
The sky's near-black by six.
I run a hand through my hair, pocket my phone, and head for the track. The air's thick—something electric, something old-school about this kind of anticipation.
Minji's there early, hoodie up, hands in pockets. She looks at me like she's sizing up a puzzle with half the pieces missing.
"You sure about this?" she asks.
"When am I ever sure?" I shoot back, giving her my favorite sideways grin.
Jay joins us seconds later, silent and sharp-eyed. Dao's behind him, plus a couple faces I've seen in homeroom crowd scenes but never heard talk.
Between us all, tension is a fourth person.
We slip toward the gym in twos and threes. Inside, old banners sag above the cracked floor. Bleachers creak; kids fill every shadow, every second stair.
Vasco leans against a climbing rope. Burns Knuckle muscle lines the wall—Jace, Zack, even Daniel Park at a distant angle, arms folded over his chest, watching it all like a man who already knows the score.
Sungho's crew lurks near the double doors.
There's no teacher. No parent.
Just a hundred rules waiting to be broken.
Someone tries to start a chant—gets as far as "Fight!—" before the energy cuts off, too much expectation, not enough conviction.
I step into the dead center, the crowd parting hardly at all.
Jay at my shoulder. Minji gives me a fist bump, tough as any act I've seen.
Vasco nods. "Welcome, Han Gyeol. This is your show."
I shrug. "They say the world's a stage. Didn't say I wanted to be the hero."
Sungho pushes forward from his cluster—bruises faded but fury staying strong. He points a finger at me. "You think you're untouchable?"
"No," I say, low and even. "Just hard to keep down."
There's a beat—every eye hungry for fireworks.
Sungho lunges. The gap between us closes in less than a second.
He throws two jabs, telegraphs both. I fade left, catch the edge of his sleeve, let his own momentum spin him off-center.
Weight shifts, balance tips, the crowd murmurs a warning.
I plant my feet.
His punch whiffs the shape of my head.
"One good move isn't enough," Sungho spits.
I snort. "I got a dozen. Want a catalogue?"
He comes at me harder.
I let him, throwing blocks, feints, quick steps—a dance with more crowd than contact. He gets a few touches, I let him think he's learning.
The crowd starts to hum, then build—a pulse, a rhythm feeding off our motion.
Dao shouts, "Stand tall!"
Jay's voice cuts through: "Remember, the ones who stand in the light cast the longest shadows."
Minji just whistles, fingers pressed to lips.
On impulse, I quote: "You either die a hero, or live long enough to see yourself become the villain."
Sungho swings, rage outpacing his aim.
I see an opening, twist his arm down, use my weight—not hard, not pretty, but enough to put him flat on the wood, breath knocked from his lungs.
He stares up, horrified, half-hoping I'll take the victory lap.
I crouch next to him, voice just for us:
"I don't want your throne. Make it mean something next time."
He nods, pain and pride at war inside his chest.
I stand, back to the crowd.
There's a moment—real silence.
Then every kid in the gym roars.
Minji jumps, locks her arm around my shoulders. Dao and a couple others shout in my ear.
Jay just grins, which for him is pretty much a ticker-tape parade.
Later, we trickle out under the city's flickering grid—no teachers, no consequences, just a story a little bigger than it needed to be.
Dao claps me on the back: "You're a legend now. Just don't let it stick."
Jay says, "You get it now? People aren't rooting for winners. They're just looking for someone who isn't afraid to lose."
Minji squeezes my arm, softer than she wants to seem. "Good thing you're not afraid of much."
I shrug, deadpan. "Fear and I broke up. Irreconcilable differences."
We walk—four figures, shadows stretched long in the neon.
And somewhere behind us, the world watches.
And somewhere inside me?
The world waits.