✰

The evening had bled into a soft, velvety darkness. The apartment was quiet now, save for the low hum of the refrigerator and the distant sigh of your son’s bedroom. Chan stood in the small, warmly lit space by your front door. The afterglow of the night—of building a truly catastrophic Lego fortress. The reading five handmade paper books with increasingly dramatic voices. Your son’s sleepy, trusting weight against his chest as he’d carried him to bed. The natural thing to do was say goodnight, to open the door. To let him leave but your feet carried you forward instead. Closing the small distance, you wrapped your arms around his waist in’, burying your face against the solid warmth of his chest. He smelled like clean cotton, the faint, sharp scent of his cologne, and the unique, comforting smell that was just him. For a heartbeat, he stiffened, a jolt of surprise running through him.

Then, with a shuddering exhale, his arms came around you. They were strong, enveloping, one hand splaying wide against the small of your back. The other cupping the back of your head with a tenderness that stole your breath. He held you like you were something precious, his chin resting on the top of your head. You both turned your heads at the same time, seeking that final closeness. And then it happened, your lips brushed against his. It was barely a touch—a fleeting, accidental meeting of skin as you both moved. But the effect was instantaneous, like a live wire had been dropped into water. Chan recoiled, springing back so suddenly he bumped against the door with a solid thud. The soft, contented man was gone—Replaced by a wide-eyed, panicking mess. His hand flew to his mouth.

“Oh my god. I’m—I’m so sorry. That was—I didn’t mean—I would never—That was completely inappropriate. I overstepped. I’m the coach, I’m—I’m so sorry. I just… I got caught in the moment and… and your hair smelled nice and… No! That’s worse. I’m making it worse. I should just—” The words tumbled out of him in a frantic, his ears were blazing red. His eyes darting from you to the door like a trapped animal. The discipline, the rules, the creed he’d built his life around came crashing down on him all at once.

You didn’t let him finish, you stepped forward, closed the space he’d created, and kissed him again. This time, it was no accident. It was deliberate, firm, and perfectly aimed to silence his spiraling panic. Your hands came up to frame his jaw, your thumbs stroking over the high planes of his cheeks. He made a sound against your lips—a choked-off gasp that melted mid-breath, into a deep, surrendering moan. His hands found your waist pulling you flush against him. He kissed you back with a desperate, hungry intensity, as if he’d been starving for this and only now realized it. His lips were softer than you’d imagined, yet insistent. One of his hand moved to the back of your head to deepen the kiss. The other stayed anchored on your waist, his fingers pressing into the curve of your hip. You walked him backward, one step, then another—Until his shoulders met the solid wood of your front door with a soft thump. He broke the kiss with a sharp intake of breath, his eyes blown black with desire and dazed confusion.

“W-wait,” he panted, his voice ragged. “We… I… This is… I’m not…” He was trying to summon the panic again, to rebuild the walls. You didn’t give him the chance. You leaned in, pressing your lips to the frantic pulse point at the base of his throat. He shuddered violently, a full-body tremor that you felt. His head fell back against the door with a dull thud, a broken, “Fuck,” escaping his lips. You kissed a slow, deliberate path up the column of his neck. Feeling the muscles jump under your mouth, tasting the salt of his skin. You nipped lightly at his jaw, and his grip on your hip became almost painful. The last of his resistance dissolved into a low, continuous groan. His hands slid down to your thighs, gripping them, urging you closer even as he was pinned against the door. When you finally pulled back, his eyes were glazed, his lips kiss-swollen and parted. He was breathing like he’d just gone twelve rounds, his chest heaving against yours. You smoothed a thumb over his damp lower lip, watching him shiver at the touch.

“Goodnight, Chan… Text me when you get home,” you whispered. He blinked slowly, struggling to process words. His dopey, utterly captivated smile was your reward. It was a smile of pure, unguarded wonder that didn’t match the fierce boxer or the disciplined coach.

“Okay,” he breathed, the word a soft, awed sigh. He nodded, his nose brushing against yours. “I’ll… I’ll text you. When I’m home… Goodnight, little lady.”

⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺

The five hours of sleep Chan managed to get were not restful, but they were euphoric. The memory replayed in fragments—the soft gasp, the crushing weight of panic, the shocking silence when your lips met his again, the feel of your back under his hands, the wood grain of the door against his shoulders.

By 4:45 AM, he was vibrating, a live wire of giddy, disbelieving energy. The gym wouldn’t open for hours, but he had to move. His first coherent thought, through the blissful fog, was:

Min and Binnie need to know.

It was a terrible, wonderful idea.

Twenty minutes later, he was using the spare key Minho had foolishly given him for emergencies. He crept into the dark, immaculate apartment. Waving hi to the three cats that stared at him but ultimately when back to ignoring his presence. Minho was a shapeless lump under a black duvet, only a shock of dark hair visible. Chan didn’t hesitate, he grabbed the duvet and yanked it off in one swift motion.

Minho groaned, curling into a fetal position in his silk pajamas. “I will cut your hands off, Chan-at. I swear on the gym.”

“Get up,” Chan chirped, his voice abnormally bright for the pre-dawn hour.

“Die. Die first.”

Chan didn’t argue, he simply bent down—Hooked his arms under his friend, and hauled him up and over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry. Minho, now dangling, was lethally silent for a three-count. “...You are dead. You are a dead man walking. Put me down.”

“We’re going to Bin’s!” Chan announced, as if this explained everything. He waved again to the cats, telling them goodbye—They ignored the two. He carried a seething, limp Minho out of the apartment. Down the elevator, and to his car, dumping him unceremoniously into the passenger seat.

Minho slumped against the window, his expression one of profound, murderous betrayal. He looked like an exceptionally grumpy cat that had been shoved into a carrying crate against its will. The drive to Changbin’s building was conducted in a silence. Only broken by Chan’s humming and the occasional, venomous sigh from Minho.

At Changbin’s door, Chan knocked with the rhythmic, persistent cadence of a maniac. After a full two minute, the door swung open to reveal a sleep-rumpled, squinting Changbin. He was wearing only a pair of sweats, his hair a chaotic mess—His expression promising violence.

“What,” he growled, the word not a question but a threat.

Chan, beaming, hefted Minho off his shoulder and set him on his feet inside the doorway. Minho immediately slumped against the wall. Sliding down to sit on the floor, closing his eyes—Hoping to transport himself back to his bed through sheer will.

“We have to talk,” Chan said, pushing past a spluttering Changbin. He was marching into the living room, turning on the main light. It flooded the space with a harsh, fluorescent glare. Changbin shielded his eyes, hissing. “Turn that off or I’m using your skull as gloves for sparring.”

Chan ignored him—He was pacing, the words bubbling out of him. “I kissed her. Well, she kissed me. We kissed. Last night. After you all left. It was—Oaky, so I panicked. I totally panicked. I started apologizing and I think I was having a stroke? And then she just… she kissed me again to shut me up—I think. And I… I melted. I literally melted. I think my bones dissolved. She backed me into her door. I panicked again, because, you know, I’m a very disciplined man—But then she was kissing my neck and I—”

“Hyung,” Changbin interrupted, his voice flat.

“—I completely lost all motor function. It was incredible. Then she told me goodnight and to text her when I got home. And I did! And then we stayed up on FaceTime until, like—I don’t even know! She was just there, on her pillow, and I was on mine, and we just… talked again! All night, it was—Ahh~It was perfect.” He finally stopped pacing, his chest heaving, his eyes shining with triumphant, sleepless joy. He looked expectantly between the two of them.

Minho, from his spot on the floor, didn’t open his eyes. “You owe me a new duvet. And a new soul, you scared mine out of my body.”

Changbin just stared. He walked slowly to his couch and collapsed onto it, rubbing his temples. “Let me get this straight. You woke up at the ass crack of dawn, cat-napped Minho, nearly broke down my door to get into my apartment, blinded me, and gave me a headache… to tell me you made out with noona and had a phone date.”

“Yes!” Chan said, his smile somehow widening.

Changbin looked at Minho. Minho finally opened one dark, unamused eye.

“We deserve a raise,” Minho stated.

“A significant one,” Changbin nodded. “Hazard pay. For emotional and psychological damages incurred from prolonged exposure to your… romantic development.”

Chan’s giddy smile faltered into a deadpan stare. The euphoria was still there, buzzing under his skin, but it was now tempered by profound annoyance. “A raise? I just shared a life-changing personal moment with my two best friends.”

“You shared it at 5:15 in the morning, after using me as a sack of potatoes,” Minho intoned, finally pushing himself up. “And for traumatizing my precious little feral piggies.”

“And I want a new sound system for the gym,” Changbin added, folding his arms. “The one you said was ‘an unnecessary luxury.’ Consider it necessary for my continued mental well-being while being your friend.”

“I hate you both,” he muttered, but the corner of his mouth was twitching upward.

⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺

Wednesday afternoon arrived with a golden heat that seeped through the high windows of 3RACHA Gym. The space was in its mid-day lull, the air thick with the scent of old leather and the lingering musk of morning workouts. It was the kind of afternoon where the discipline of the ring gave way to the chaotic energy of the men who ran it. Over by the heavy bags, the eight of them were in the middle of what could only be described as a high-stakes game of "who can make the most ridiculous sound while punching."

Changbin was currently mid-sequence, throwing a series of rapid-fire hooks while making a sound like a dying seagull, which had Minho and Hyunjin doubled over in a fit of silent, shaking laughter. Jisung, Felix, and Jeongin were acting as the judges. The three of them were holding up makeshift scorecards made from torn pieces of cardboard.

Chan was leaning against a support pillar, his arms crossed, a small, amused smile on his face.

maybe we could meet for lunch…?

He kept glancing toward the entrance, his mind thinking back to the text you sent. He was in a state of permanent anticipation, his heart doing a strange, fluttering dance every time the door chime rang. Then, the door opened, you stepped inside, the light from the street framing your silhouette. The moment you caught Chan’s eye, you lifted a hand and gave him a small wave, beckoning him over.

It was as if someone had flipped a switch in his brain. Disconnecting the part responsible for basic motor skills—Replacing it with pure, unadulterated puppy energy. He didn't just walk toward you; he launched himself in your direction, his face splitting into a grin so wide it looked painful. He was so focused on the sight of you—the way you were looking at him, the tilt of your head—that the rest of the physical world simply ceased to exist.

Therefore he didn't notice the heavy bag that Minho had just sent into a violent, oscillating swing.

THWACK

The leather cylinder caught Chan square in the shoulder, the impact sounding like a wet slap. It didn't knock him over, but it sent him staggering sideways—His balance completely compromised. He let out a startled, "Oof!" but he didn't stop.

He couldn't stop.

You were right there.

He corrected his course with a desperate, lunging step. Only to find his foot landing squarely on a pile of damp, discarded cleaning rags that had been left on the mats. His left foot shot forward with the grace of a newborn giraffe on ice. His arms windmilled frantically, his fingers grasping at the empty air as he fought a losing battle with gravity.

For a split second, he looked like he might recover, his eyes wide, a look of sheer, determined hope on his face.

And then, there was the bag.

An emerald green gym bag, with KSM, embroidered on the front pouch. It was left haphazardly on the floor, becoming the final nail in the coffin. Chan’s toe caught the strap, and with a sudden, violent jerk, he was propelled forward. He didn't just trip; he plummeted. He went down in a spectacular, sprawling heap. His limbs flailing before he landed flat on his stomach with a resounding SMACK that echoed through the entire gym.

A heavy, suffocating silence fell over the room. The seagull noises stopped. The cardboard scorecards dropped. Minho, Changbin, and the others stood frozen, staring at the wreckage of their so called big bad boss. Chan lay there for a moment, face-down on the mat, his legs splayed out behind him.

You hurried over, your face a mixture of horror and suppressed amusement. You knelt beside him, your hand resting gently on his shoulder. "Chan! Oh my god, are you okay?" you asked, your voice laced with genuine concern, though your eyes were dancing.

Slowly, Chan lifted his head.

He didn't look embarrassed.

He didn't look frustrated.

He looked ecstatic.

He looked up at you, his hair a chaotic mess, a smudge of gym dust on his cheek. That same, dopey, lovestruck grin plastered across his face. He looked like he had just reclaimed a belt, instead of falling over his own feet. "I'm great!" he chirped, his voice a pitch higher than usual. He didn't even try to get up immediately; he just beamed up at you from the floor, "I'm fantastic. Hi. You're here."

Behind you, the peanut gallery finally broke.

"I can't believe it," Changbin whispered, his voice dripping with a mixture of disbelief and genuine disgust. "He's actually broken.”

Hyunjin shook his head, “The Wolf of the Ring reduced to a golden retriever with a concussion."

Minho covered his mouth with his hand, but his shoulders were shaking. "It's nauseating. It's physically repulsive. Look at him.”

Jeongin scoffed in disbelief, “He’s practically wagging a tail. He just took a dive that would have embarrassed a toddler, and he's smiling."

"Is he... is he actually winning her over by being a complete pabo?" Jisung asked, squinting in confusion. "Because if that's the strategy, I'm changing my entire approach to dating."

Felix sighed, shaking his head. "He's gone. We've lost him. There's no coming back from this level of simping."

Chan didn't hear them—He simply rolled over on to his back, looking up at her, "You look really pretty today.”

You chuckled, “Thank you, ready for lunch?” Chan’s smile grew—If that was possible, he lifted himself up in a sit-up before he jumped to his feet.

“Yeah, let's go!”

━━━━━━━━

The following Thursday, you arrived at 3RACHA Gym before the official start of the Baby STRAY class. The late afternoon air still crisp and smelling of distant city exhaust. Your son was a whirlwind of anticipation, practically dragging you towards the doors. His small hand gripping yours with an intensity that nearly pulled your arm from its socket. Your son didn’t just walk in; he erupted.

He tore himself away from your hand the second the doors opened. His sneakers squeaking wildly on the polished floor. He was a blur of energy, “Coach Bang! Coach Cat!” he shrieked, his voice echoing off the high industrial ceilings. 

He didn’t wait for you to catch up, he was sprinting toward the ring. Chan was already geared up, his hands wrapped in white athletic tape. Minho stood beside him, leaning casually against the ropes with a look of bored superiority. Chan looked up, his eyes landed on you both. A smile spread wide across his face, his dimples pooling to frame his smile. The others all rolled their eyes with pure annoyance but the teasing smiles they couldn’t hide. 

The stupid happy smile was glued on Chan’s face since Monday when he came into the gym. Minho and Changbin noticed immediately the new found happiness in his eyes—it was nauseating to say the least. So far it was the three of them, lucky for Chan—Or so he thought.  “What the hell has you so happy?” Minho asked, throwing an empty paper cup at him. Chan didn’t bother to block it, or glare—Or defend himself.  “I had the best night sleep of my life! [___] and I stayed on the phone, all night. Fell asleep together and it was amazing!” Chan beamed, his gym bag dropped him his shoulder onto the mats.  Minho and Changbin stared at him, confused and clearly judging their hyung. Chan’s smile flattered a bit, “Why are you staring at me like that? I’m not breaking any of my rules, friends stay on the phone all night. I stayed on the phone the other night hearing Felix and Hyunjin argue over who was a better face card.”  Changbin shared a look with Minho, before looking at Chan again. He cleared his throat, “So this actually happened… Or was it a dream?”  Chan stared them, blinking once, twice—Before he scoffed, “I am NOT that delusional!!” “Yeah you are,” a voice had the three turn their heads to the locker room door. Seungmin lead the group in from the back entrance. The others had breakfast bags and drinks in their hands. “What did our delusional boss man do now?” Jeongin asked handing Chan his usual breakfast order. “Says he allegedly stayed up on the phone all night with [___].” Minho chimed in with a laugh. The others looked at him then to Chan before they fell collectively into a fit of laughter.  Chan rolled his eyes, sighing. Still his smile grew again, just the thought alone kept him happy. He wouldn’t shut up about it, showed his call log for proof. Swooned when he brought up how cute she sounded when she sleepy. How she was nice to help her neighbor even though it was late. How funny her son was when they talked. How it was heartwarming when she told him that her son slept in her room. The guys had to hear the same words for three days straight. They got fed up with him after the first hour on Monday. But no one had said anything to him. Not because they were scared but because it was first time they saw him genuinely happy. 

“You’re early, little man!” Chan greeted, his voice was warm. He looked at you over the boy’s head, his gaze lingering for a heartbeat too long. He bowed his head to you, and you returned the small act with a soft smile. The phone call repeated, the way his sleepy voice was smoothing in your ear. 

You adverted your eyes, looking down at the top of your son’s head, “Yeah… Him and Tiger couldn’t wait to see you and Coach Lee fight.”

“You guys are gonna fight, right? You’re gonna spar?!” your son asked, bouncing on his heels.

Chan chuckled, a soft sound that vibrated in his chest. “Yeah, we are. Just something light, a quick session before the other kids come in.”

Minho, who was tightening the wrap around his knuckles with clinical precision. He shot a sideways glance at the boy. A mischievous glint sparked in his cat-like eyes. “You better be cheering for me loud and clear, kid. I don't want any of that Wolf-energy in my corner.”

Your son giggled, leaning in to whisper loudly to the air beside him. He nodded, then looked up at Minho, “Tiger says you’re fast. But Coach Bang is stronger!”

He looked back at Minho, grinning. “Tiger is cheering for you, though! He says you’re scary!”

Minho smirked, his voice dropping to a playful, teasing tone. “I can hear him. Tiger’s got taste.”

As your son drifted back toward the mats where Jeongin—Coach Innie, was setting up for the class. He wanted to show off his "dragon steps.” Jeongin smiled, ruffling his hair to praise his form. 

The other STRAYs had drifted over, Hyunjin—Who was draped in a silk robe, specifically designed for him. It looked more like high fashion than athletic wear, slid into your personal space. He leaned in, the scent of expensive cologne clashing with the gym’s raw musk.

“You know… We’ve been wondering when you’d start coming in earlier,” he murmured, his voice a smooth drawl. “The gym is much more beautiful when you’re in it.”

Then came Jisung, “Yeah Noona… The lighting in here is terrible—But you still manage to look like a dream.” 

Felix joined the duo, flashing a dazzling grin. “Seriously. We should get you a membership. Or maybe just a permanent spot on the bench so we have something nice to look at during training.”

You felt the heat climb up your neck, your breath hitching. You let out a small, awkward laugh, shifting your weight from one leg to another. Looking down at your shoes, you weren't used to this—The direct, unapologetic flirting of men who looked like they’d been sculpted from marble. “Uhm… You guys use lines like that to get the quota met?” 

The three stared at her for a moment before chuckling with a bashful blush like they were caught their hands in the cooking jar. From the ring, the atmosphere shifted. The air around Chan suddenly felt ionized. The was thick with a possessive tension he shouldn’t have felt. You looked up to see him glaring—

You could practically feel the heat of his stare boring into the back of their heads. His jaw was tight, his posture rigid, the disciplined coach suddenly replaced.

Changbin stepped in, shoving Chan’s shoulder with a loud thump. “Focus, you pabo. If you keep staring a hole through Hyunjin, Minho’s gonna knock you out before the bell even rings..”

Chan waved him off with a sharp flick of his wrist, the tension in his shoulders didn't vanish. His eyes still anchored to you for one more pulsing second before he turned toward the ring. You moved quickly, calling your son over. He ran with Jeongin, who was carrying him on his shoulders. You took him and set him on the chair Seungmin brought over for him to stand on.

“Mama! Cheer for Coach Bang!” your son urged, tugging on your sleeve.

Minho leaned over the ropes, pointing a finger at the boy with a mischievous glint in his eyes. “If she does, I might just have to make you do fifty jumping jacks, you little traitor!” Your son shrieked with laughter, hiding behind your leg while still peering out to cheer for his idol.

Then, the bell rang. Clang

The gym fell into a focused, hungry silence. The other STRAYs, the few parents and kids who also arrived early gathered around the ring. The energy peaking—Half the room roared for Chan. The other half, led by the more chaotic elements of the gym, screamed for Minho. It was a dance of violence and precision. 

Chan moved like a force of nature—steady, oppressive, and powerful. While Minho was a blur of speed and agility, slipping through Chan’s guard with effortless grace. Your son was a one-man cheering section, yelling “WOLF POWER!” at the top of his lungs. While also arguing loudly with Tiger about whether a jab or a hook was more effective—Though he barely knew what he was talking about.

Round one was a dance of lethal precision. Minho was a blur, his movement erratic and lightning-fast. He circled Chan, peppering him with sharp, snapping jabs that sounded like whip-cracks when they connected with Chan’s guard. Chan was the anchor—steady, powerful, absorbing the blows with a disciplined endurance. 

He waited, his eyes locked on Minho’s hips, timing the rhythm. Just as Minho lunged for a hook, Chan stepped inside the guard. A heavy right cross clipping Minho’s shoulder and sending a shockwave through the ring. The crowd gasped, the sound of the impact echoing.

Round two escalated into a brawl of high-level skill. The grace was gone, replaced by raw aggression. They traded blows in the center of the ring, a rhythmic, brutal symphony of leather on skin. Thwack. Thud. Crack. You watched, mesmerized and terrified, your hands clenched in your lap. 

Chan’s breathing was heavy now, a guttural sound that seemed to vibrate in your own throat. He caught Minho with a devastating body shot that forced the other man to gasp. Minho countered instantly, a lightning-fast upper-cut that snapped Chan’s head back. It sent a spray of sweat flying through the air—“WOAH!!MAMA DID YOU SEE THAT!?”

“Y-Yeah… Pretty cool…?”

By the third round, both men were glistening, their skin flushed a deep, angry red. They were exhausted, their movements slowing but their intensity peaking. They leaned into each other, gloves blurring in a flurry of desperation. It was a deadlock of will. In the final ten seconds, they both launched a simultaneous hook. 

The impact meeting in the middle with a sound like a gunshot. They recoiled at the exact same moment, chests heaving. Staring each other down as the final bell echoed through the rafters. They stood center-ring, gloves lowered, eyes locked. Changbin stepped in, looking between the two of them. 

He raised both their hands, “Tie! No winners! They’re both losers!”

The gym erupted. Your son—Who looked personally offended by the unofficial decision. He was in an immediate, heated debate with the empty air. “No, Tiger! Coach Bang hit him first! He’s the winner! Hey!! You’re just being a meanie!” your son shouted. Gesturing wildly at the ring while the other kids cheered around him.

You helped him down from the chair, “easy lamb… Go start your warm up with Coach Innie.” With a furious pout your son stomped away towards the matted area for the Baby STRAYs. You approached the corner where Chan was leaning against the ropes. His chest heaving in deep, shuddering expansions. 

He looked wrecked—his skin was a map of glistening sweat and blooming crimson. His hair plastered to his forehead in blonde, damp clumps. A thin trail of sweat running down his temple. He looked raw, powerful, and utterly exhausted.

“You were... pretty good,” you murmured, your voice barely audible over the noise.

Chan looked up, the intensity in his eyes didn't fade, but it shifted. It turned into something softer, about the way he looked at you in that moment. He was stripped of his professional armor, he smirked. The expression tugging at the corner of his mouth, and the look in his eyes darkened. 

“Just 'pretty good'?” he rasped, his voice a low gravelly vibration that seemed to echo in your own chest. “I’ll have to work harder next time to get a 'great' out of you.”

You shifted, your eyes tracing the wreckage of the fight. Now that you were close, the details emerged. A thin, jagged cut split the skin above his right eyebrow. A bead of crimson blooming and trailing down his temple. His lower lip was swollen, a small smear of blood staining the edge. 

“You're bleeding,” you murmured. Your voice sounding small and breathless even to your own ears. You reached out instinctively, your fingers hovering just an inch from his face. But you caught yourself and jerked your hand back. “You have a few cuts. And those bruises are already starting to darken.”

Chan didn't seem to notice your hesitation—He was too busy tracking the movement of your lips. “It's nothing,“ he said. Though the way he leaned slightly toward you suggested he wanted that touch. “We have an in-house physician. I'll just—”

Just then, Seungmin appeared, already halfway to the door with his arm around his wife. He gave a brief, unapologetic wave. “Alright losers, we’ve gotta run. Her appointment is in twenty minutes—You’re on your own.” He disappeared through the steel doors before Chan could even respond.

Chan sighed, the sound a guttural huff of amusement. “Right. I’ve got a first aid kit in my office. I can patch myself up.”

You looked at him—really looked at him—and the maternal instinct that usually governed your life with your son flickered. With a mix of something way more visceral you didn’t want to name just yet. The idea of him sitting alone in a dark office, felt wrong. The thought of him clumsily trying to bandage his own brow—While shaking from the adrenaline made something soften in your chest. 

“I could help,” you offered, your voice gaining a flicker of confidence. “I... I have a lot of experience. Between lamb’s ‘battle armor' phases and the general chaos of a five-year-old, I'm basically a certified bandage expert.”

Chan froze, the reaction was instantaneous with the way he stared at you. His pupils blown wide, his breathing hitched wile a deep flush crept up Chan’s neck. The blush staining the tops of his ears a vivid red. He blinked, his composure momentarily shattering. He looked like he wanted to say no. 

To maintain the boundary, to keep his discipline intact. He didn't just look at you; he looked through you. Searching for the catch, the joke—To be jerked away from a dream. Or maybe Minho did win the match and he was unconscious.

“Chan…?” You tilted your head.

“You’d… you’d do that?” he asked, his voice dropping into a whisper.

“Okay," he breathed, the word barely a whisper. “Yeah. I'd... I'd like that.”

He led you away from the noise and the prying eyes of the other STRAYs. Guiding you up the stairs to his office. His space was a sanctuary of dark wood, leather, and old boxing journals. The moment the door clicked shut behind you, the roar of the gym vanished, replaced by a silence so heavy it felt physical. The room was dim, lit only by a desk lamp that cast long, amber shadows across the walls.

“Give me a second to find the kit,” he mumbled. He looked through his desk drawers, grabbing the cheap first aid kit. Chan walked back around the desk, sitting on the edge of it. His legs spread wide, the black gym shorts clinging to his muscular thighs. He looked up at you, he handed you the white plastic kit. 

His fingers brushing yours for a fraction of a second. The contact was electric—a jolt of pure heat that sent a shiver straight down your spine. You opened the kit and stepped between his knees. While pulling out the antiseptic and a stack of cotton pads. “Lean forward,” you whispered.

As he obeyed, you stepped into his space. You were so close now that you could feel the radiant heat coming off his body. The scent of salt and adrenaline clinging to his skin. You soaked a pad in antiseptic and reached up, your fingers grazing his jawline to steady him. Chan let out a sharp, shuddering breath. 

He froze, his entire body locking up under your touch. The proximity was overwhelming, you were so close you could feel the heat radiating from his chest. You could see the individual beads of sweat clinging to the golden hairs of his skin. You dampened a cotton ball with antiseptic, your hand trembling slightly, “Hold still,” you murmured.

As you reached up to dab the cut on his brow, Chan closed his eyes. A low, guttural sound vibrating in his throat—almost a moan, almost a sigh. He didn't move, but he leaned into your touch. His head tilting just a fraction to make it easier for you. You worked in silence, your focus narrowed down to the small patches of broken skin. 

Your touch was light, meticulous, the way you would be with your son. But the atmosphere in the room was anything but innocent. Every time your fingertips brushed his skin, you felt him shiver. You moved to his lip, your thumb gently pulling the skin aside to clean the small tear. You looked up to check the alignment of a bandage, and you caught him staring.

A breath left your lungs, he wasn’t looking at the bandage. Or at the cotton pad—Or the first aid kit. He was staring at you, not at your lips, at your eyes. The expression was so raw, was stripped bare. No discipline, no coach's mask, no professional distance. 

It was a look of pure, sweet longing. His eyes were soft, hooded, and filled with a desperate kind of reverence. As if you were something fragile and holy that he was terrified of breaking… Yet dying to touch. 

“Did I hurt you?” you whispered.

“You're very gentle,” he murmured, his voice a low rough whisper.

The silence in the office became heavy, you could hear the rhythmic thumping of his heart. Or maybe it was yours—It was impossible to tell where one ended and the other began. Your hand lingered on his cheek, your thumb tracing the bone of his jaw.

“I’m done… I should go watch lamb out there…” you whispered again. Chan took a soft breath, letting out a shaky sigh as he sat up. Your hands dropped to your side, you cleaned up the little mess. 

He watched for a second before taking the trash from your hands, “I got it… Go ahead, I’ll be out in a few minutes.” 

You nodded, giving him a small smile that he returned. He watched her leave the office and a quiet whimper of defeat finally slipped out. He tossed the trashed into the small bin, “Get it together Christopher…” 

━━━━━━━━

The following Thursday arrived with a tension that felt personal. The walk to 3RACHA Gym was quieter. Your son’s small hand was a vise-grip around your fingers, his earlier bravado replaced by a wide-eyed anxiety. He wore his shark shirt again, for luck, he said. You’d triple-knotted his shoes.

“What if he’s mad?” he whispered for the tenth time, his steps slowing as the gym came into view.

“He’s not mad, lamb. He was just surprised last time, like you were.”

“But I yelled ‘stranger danger’ at the Wolf of the Ring—Then killed him for five minutes,” he whined, as if confessing a capital crime. “Tiger says I’m doomed. Moonbeam says to offer him a rock as a peace treaty.” He patted the pocket of his shorts, which bulged ominously.

You pushed through the heavy doors, the wall of sound and sweat hitting you anew. This time, the chaos was more organized. The Baby STRAYs area was set up with colorful mats, miniature agility ladders, and a pile of bright red foam mitts. A few other parents milled at the designated seating area—a row of benches just outside the taped boundary. Some mothers being entertained by some half dressed men wearing the 3RACHA Gym logo on their sweats. A blonde with freckles had offered a mom with a baby on her hip a free two week session with him. 

And there he was. Bang Chan was across the gym floor, demonstrating a footwork drill for a pair of teenage STRAY. They were a junior boxer under Jisung and Felix’s coaching, Chan helped whenever he could. His movements were economical, precise, a lesson in controlled power. He finished the sequence, clapped the younger boxer on the shoulder, and turned. His gaze found you both immediately, as if pulled by a thread.

For a second, his expression was unreadable—the same focused intensity. Then, his eyes softened. He didn’t smile, but he gave a single, slow nod in your direction, a slight bow of his head. An acknowledgment. An apology held within a simple gesture. Then his attention shifted to your son, who was trying to become one with your leg. Chan’s gaze held no trace of laughter, only a quiet, steady regard before he turned back to his students.

We settled everything last week, but why does it feel off? Is it me? It’s probably me—Should I ask the guys—No they would make it worse. What if her son things I’m a zombie—No that’s…Well he does have imaginary friends so I guess…Are they still looking at me? Should I go over and talk to them—

“Do not speak to her,” Minho appeared at his side, making Chan flinch. The latter stared at the other with a frighten look—

“Was I speaking—“

“No but you are very transparent, Chan-ah. Just let the fox handle the parents and you coach the ankle biters.” Minho clapped a hand heavily on Chan’s back, making him hiss from the contact. 

“See, he’s alive and…Well?” you murmured, gently prying your son loose. “Not mad.”

Coach Innie—Jeongin—bounced over, his fox-like smile kind and disarming. “Oh thank god you’re back—I mean, Hey! You came back! Ready for some fun?” He held out a fist to your son, who, after a moment’s hesitation, bumped it with his own tiny knuckles. The spell of fear broke, just a little.

You settled on the end of a bench, pulling your hood up slightly, a futile shield against the overwhelming sensory tide of the place. You watched as Jeongin corralled the dozen or so children towards Chan. The others had shifted to Seungmin, who remained on the far side of the gym. You were focusing solely on your son, but you couldn’t help to notice Chan. His presence was a low hum in the space, a magnetic north you were unconsciously aware of.

The session began, boxing basics—were transformed into a game. Chan, with infinite patience, had them mimicking his movements—“Jab like you’re popping a giant bubble! Step-step, like you’re sneaking past a sleeping dragon!” Your son, initially hesitant, watched the other kids. Then he threw a tentative jab. Then another. When Chan praised his “dragon steps,” a grin broke through, brilliant and unguarded. You saw him lean and whisper, “Did you see that, Rocket? I’m popping bubbles!”

After the initial demonstration Chan let Jeongin take lead on watching the kids technique.  He didn’t retreat to his office. He leaned against the ropes of the main ring, arms crossed over his chest, observing. His eyes tracked the children’s chaotic progress, but too often, their path drifted. They drifted to the bench. To you. They would flicker over your profile, the way you worried your thumbnail, the faint, anxious smile that appeared when your son succeeded. Each glance was quick, a stolen snapshot, but it carried a weight that felt anything but casual.

During games and activities, an obstacle course was assembled—built by Hyunjin and Minho. Your son, now fully unleashed, scrambled through tunnels and balanced on low beams with shrieks of joy. He high-fived a little girl after a relay race. He was, for the first time in weeks—years if anything, not talking to his imaginary friends. He was present, here, in a world of real, sweating, laughing children.

And still, Chan watched. 

You could feel it like a sunbeam on your skin—warm, persistent. You kept your eyes forward, glued to your son, but your periphery was full of him. The way he stepped forward each time a kid almost lost their balance, or when one fell and he was the first on by their side. His voice was soft, a kind smile and his dimples comforting the child, “Ah mate. If you get knocked down, you always try to get up again and give it your best. Yeah?”

Then his gaze would return, always return. Only for a second or two, to your solitary figure on the bench. It wasn’t predatory. It was… contemplative. Hungry in a way that had nothing to do with anything physical. But in a way that craved specific approval.

The final segment, life skills, had both Chan and Jeongin sitting the kids in a circle. They talked about teamwork, about helping your partner. “Like how Coach Bang helps all of us,” the younger coach said, gesturing. Your son’s head swiveled, looking at Chan with the same stars in his eyes, but they seemed significantly brighter. Like a little universe in his eyes as he silently praised his idol.

The hour and thirty minute session ended. Children spilled back toward their parents, buzzing with energy. Your son ran to you, cheeks apple-red, hair plastered to his forehead. “Mama! I did a real jab! And I didn’t even tell Tiger what to do, he just copied me! And Coach Bang says I’m a natural!” He was breathless, vibrating with a pure, uncomplicated joy that made your own anxious heart swell. As you helped him gather his water bottle, you felt a presence approach. Not the light, bouncy energy of Jeongin. This was denser, a shift in the atmosphere. You looked up.

Chan stood a respectful distance away, holding a small, black 3RACHA wristband. He crouched down, bringing himself to your son’s eye level, moving with a deliberate slowness this time.

“You worked really hard today,” Chan said, his voice deeper, softer than it had been with the other kids. “You listened to Coach Innie and I. That’s important.” He held out the wristband. “This is for good focus on your first day. Official STRAY gear.”

Your son stared, utterly starstruck. He looked at the wristband, then at Chan’s face, then at you. You nodded. With trembling fingers, he took it. “Thank you, Coach Bang,” he whispered, then blurted, “I’m sorry for yelling stranger danger!! You’re not a stranger! You’re the Wolf of the Ring! And I’m sorry I killed you!! Thank you for not eating my brains!! You’re really good for a zombie!!”

A real, genuine smile—wide and undeniable—touched Chan’s lips. It transformed his face, carving pools in his cheek, I knew he thought I was a zombie. 

“It’s okay. We’re friends now, zombies don’t mess with friends.” He gave another small nod, this time to your son, before his eyes lifted to meet yours. In that brief, silent exchange, everything was conveyed. The apology from last week, the acknowledgment of your quiet vigil on the bench. It was a look that acknowledged a line existed—coach and parent, the chaos of his world and the quiet of yours—and simultaneously wondered, with a restless, disciplined curiosity, what it would feel like to cross it.

Then he stood, the moment broken. “See you next Thursday,” he said, the words meant for both of you. You exhaled a breath you didn’t know you’d been holding. Your son chattered excitedly, fastening the wristband with clumsy fingers. As you led him out, back into the fading afternoon, the ghost of that look stayed with you. And beneath the pounding music and the echoing shouts of “1…2…3RACHA!” Chan had watched you both walk down the sidewalk with a blush taking over his ears first before it painted the rest of his face.

“So…” Changbin and Minho looked at their hyung, their dumb, lovestruck, hyung. Changbin continued, “Are you going to rewrite your creed?”

“I think the pabo already did.” Minho added with a dry amused huff and a smirk growing.

Chan waved them off, “Shut up… I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

   ⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺

[___] sent you a message

▶ ııııılıl||llıllılıl||lıllıl||ıııı  0:25 *𝗉𝗈𝗈𝗋𝗅𝗒 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝗌𝗉𝖾𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀* 𝗁𝗂 𝖼𝗈𝖺𝖼𝗁 𝖻𝖺𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗍𝗌 𝗆𝖾 𝖨 𝗍𝗈𝗈𝗄 𝗆𝗒 𝗆𝖺𝗆𝖺𝗌 𝗉𝗁𝗈𝗇𝖾 *𝗉𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾* 𝖽𝗈𝗇𝗍 𝗍𝖾𝗅𝗅 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗈𝗄𝖺𝗒 𝗇𝗈 𝗋𝗈𝖼𝗄𝖾𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝗍𝖺𝗅𝗄 𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗁𝖾𝗌 𝗆𝗒 𝖿𝖺𝗏𝗈𝗋𝗂𝗍𝖾 𝖻𝗈𝗑𝖾𝗋 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝗒 𝗉𝗎𝗉 *𝗉𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾* 𝗒𝖾𝖺𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗐𝗁𝗈 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖼𝖺𝗅𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝖼𝗈𝖺𝖼𝗁 𝗂𝗇𝗇𝗂𝖾 𝖺 𝖻𝖺𝖽 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝖽 *𝗉𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾* 𝗈𝗁 𝗋𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗂𝗆 𝗍𝖺𝗅𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝖼𝗈𝖺𝖼𝗁 𝖻𝖺𝗇𝗀 *𝗉𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾* 𝗎𝗁𝗆 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇𝗄 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗋𝗂𝗌𝗍𝖻𝖺𝗇𝖽 *𝗌𝗁𝖺𝗄𝗂𝗅𝗒* 𝗂𝗍𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝗀𝗂𝖿𝗍 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋

Chan stared at his phone, his hand tighten around it hearing the last few seconds of the audio message. He could tell [__] was getting choked up over the gift, it made his heart ache. He sighed softly, wanting his own voice to be steady before he pressed the mic to record the message. 

▶ ııııılıl||llıllılıl||lıllıl||ıııı  0:15 *𝖺𝗅𝗌𝗈 𝗉𝗈𝗈𝗋𝗅𝗒 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝗌𝗉𝖾𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝗆𝖺𝗍𝖼𝗁 [__]* 𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝖻𝗎𝖽𝖽𝗒 𝖽𝗈𝗇𝗍 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗋𝗒 𝖨 𝗐𝗈𝗇𝗍 𝗍𝖾𝗅𝗅 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗆𝗈𝗆 *𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗋𝗍 𝗉𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾* 𝗂𝗍𝗅𝗅 𝖻𝖾 𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗍𝗅𝖾 𝗌𝖾𝖼𝗋𝖾𝗍 𝗈𝗄𝖺𝗒 *𝗌𝗈𝖿𝗍 𝖼𝗁𝗎𝖼𝗄𝗅𝖾* 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗈𝖿 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗌𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋𝖾 𝗐𝖾𝗅𝖼𝗈𝗆𝖾 𝗂𝗆 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝗀𝗅𝖺𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗋𝗂𝗌𝗍𝖻𝖺𝗇𝖽

▶ ııııılıl||llıllılıl||lıllıl||ıııı  0:18 *𝗐𝗁𝗂𝗌𝗉𝖾𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗅𝗅* 𝗈𝗁 𝗎𝗁𝗆 𝗂𝖿 𝗋𝗈𝖼𝗄𝖾𝗍 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝗆𝖾𝖾𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝗒 𝗉𝗎𝗉 𝖨 𝖼𝖺𝗇 𝗁𝖺𝗏𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖺𝗋𝗋𝖺𝗇𝗀𝖾𝖽 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖻𝗈𝗍𝗁 *𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗋𝗍 𝗉𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾* 𝖽𝗈 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗁𝖺𝗏𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝗒 𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖿𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖽𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗐𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝗆𝖾𝖾𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗂𝗋 𝖿𝖺𝗏𝗈𝗋𝗂𝗍𝖾 𝖻𝗈𝗑𝖾𝗋𝗌

Chan set his phone down on his chest, he laid on the couch in his apartment. He was rewatching an anime, background noise to fill the otherwise empty apartment. A small peaceful smile formed on his lips, “He’s a sweet kid… She's so lucky…” He mumbled to himself, a second later a chime dinged with a vibration humming on his chest. He picked up his phone immediately—

▶ ııııılıl||llıllılıl||lıllıl||ıııı  0:42 *𝗅𝗈𝗇𝗀 𝗉𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾， 𝖺𝖿𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝟣𝟢 𝗌𝖾𝖼𝗈𝗇𝖽𝗌 𝖺𝗇 𝖾𝗑𝖼𝗂𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗌𝖼𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗆 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗅𝖺𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗇𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝟣𝟢 𝗌𝖾𝖼𝗈𝗇𝖽𝗌*  𝗒𝖾𝗌 𝖼𝗈𝖺𝖼𝗁 𝗒𝖾𝗌 𝗈𝗁 𝗆𝗒 𝗒𝖾𝗌 𝗋𝗈𝖼𝗄𝖾𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗇𝗍𝗌 𝗍𝗈 𝗆𝖾𝖾𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗆𝗈𝗈𝗇𝖻𝖾𝖺𝗆 𝗐𝖺𝗇𝗍𝗌 𝗍𝗈 𝗆𝖾𝖾𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖺𝗎𝗌𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗅𝗂𝖺𝗇 𝖽𝗋𝖺𝗀𝗈𝗇 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗂𝗀𝖾𝗋 𝗐𝖺𝗇𝗍𝗌 𝗍𝗈 𝗆𝖾𝖾𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝗅𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝖼𝖺𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝖽 *𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄𝗀𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽； 𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖽𝗈𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗐𝗁𝗒 𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗈𝗇 𝗆𝗒 𝗉𝗁𝗈𝗇𝖾* *𝗐𝗁𝗂𝗇𝖾* 𝗆𝖺𝗆𝖺 𝗂𝗆 𝗍𝖺𝗅𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖻𝗎𝗌𝗂𝗇𝖾𝗌𝗌 *𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄𝗀𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽； 𝗅𝖺𝗆𝖻 *𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗋𝗍 𝗉𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾* 𝗐𝗁𝗒 𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝖺𝗅𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝖼𝗈𝖺𝖼𝗁 𝖻𝖺𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇* *𝗌𝗊𝗎𝖾𝖺𝗅𝗌* 𝗁𝗈𝗐 𝖽𝗈 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗐 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖽𝗂𝖽 𝗅𝖺𝗋𝗋𝗒 𝗌𝗇𝗂𝗍𝖼𝗁 𝗎𝗌 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝖨 𝗍𝗈𝗅𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝖨 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗀𝗈𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝖾𝗅𝗅 𝖼𝗈𝖺𝖼𝗁 𝖻𝖺𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗇𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗆𝖾𝖾𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝗂𝗀 𝗆𝗎𝗌𝖼𝗅𝖾 𝗆𝖺𝗇 *𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄𝗀𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽； 𝗒𝖾𝗌 𝗅𝖺𝗋𝗋𝗒 𝗌𝗇𝗂𝗍𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖽 𝗇𝗈𝗐 𝗀𝗂𝗏𝖾 𝗆𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝗁𝗈𝗇𝖾*

You ended the recording, intending to delete it but it sent anyway. You sighed, looking down your son who was hugging a pillow with a pout that melted your heart. You sighed, sitting beside him and pulling him into your arms, “My sweet little lamb. You need to go to sleep, I’m sure Coach Bang and Coach Innie go to sleep on time.”

“You don’t know that—“ he argued but cut himself off. His eyes lit up with a mischievous gleam as he reached for your phone, “let’s ask Coach Bang!!” 

You pulled the phone out of reach, “Not so fast little one.” You laughed, stretching your arm more with him giggling as he still tried to reach for it. You lowered your arm enough to let him win, he took it from your grasp when it dinged with a notification.

▶ ııııılıl||llıllılıl||lıllıl||ıııı  0:14 *𝖼𝗁𝗎𝖼𝗄𝗅𝖾* 𝖺𝗂𝗌𝗌𝗂 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄𝗌 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝖻𝗎𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗍𝗅𝖾 𝗆𝖺𝗇 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝖽𝗈𝗇𝗍 𝖻𝖾 𝗍𝗈𝗈 𝗁𝖺𝗋𝖽 𝗈𝗇 𝗅𝖺𝗋𝗋𝗒 𝗈𝗄𝖺𝗒 *𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗋𝗍 𝗉𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾* 𝗎𝗁𝗆 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗐 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗁𝖺𝗏𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝖾 𝖻𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗀𝗒𝗆 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖿𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖽𝗌 𝖼𝖺𝗇 𝗆𝖾𝖾𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗀𝗎𝗒𝗌 𝗁𝗈𝗐 𝖽𝗈𝖾𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗌𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽

▶ ııııılıl||llıllılıl||lıllıl||ıııı  0:25 *𝗌𝗊𝗎𝖾𝖺𝗅 𝗂𝗇 𝖾𝗑𝖼𝗂𝗍𝖾𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍* 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗌𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽𝗌 𝗌𝗈 𝗆𝗎𝖼𝗁 𝖿𝗎𝗇 𝖼𝗈𝖺𝖼𝗁 𝖻𝖺𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇𝗄 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇𝗄 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇𝗄 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝗌𝗍 *𝗂𝗇𝖺𝗎𝖽𝗂𝖻𝗅𝖾 𝗋𝖺𝗆𝖻𝗅𝖾， 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄𝗀𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽； 𝗅𝖺𝗆𝖻 𝖻𝖺𝖻𝗒 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗈𝗄𝖺𝗒* 𝗆𝖺𝗆𝖺 𝗐𝖾 𝗀𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗄𝖾𝗇𝖽 𝗋𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗉𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗌𝖾 𝗉𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗌𝖾 𝗉𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗌𝖾 *𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄𝗀𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽， 𝗉𝗅𝖺𝗒𝖿𝗎𝗅 𝗌𝗂𝗀𝗁； 𝖨 𝗀𝗎𝖾𝗌𝗌 𝗌𝗈 𝗅𝖺𝗆𝖻 *𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗋𝗍 𝗉𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾* 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗈𝗇𝗅𝗒 𝗂𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝖺𝗄𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖻𝗎𝗍𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝖻𝖾𝖽 𝖼𝗈𝖺𝖼𝗁 𝖻𝖺𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗌 𝗀𝗈𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝖻𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈𝗈 𝗋𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝖼𝗈𝖺𝖼𝗁* 

▶ ııııılıl||llıllılıl||lıllıl||ıııı  0:13 *𝗌𝗈𝖿𝗍 𝖼𝗁𝗎𝖼𝗄𝗅𝖾𝗌* 𝗈𝗁 𝗎𝗁 𝗒𝖾𝗌 𝗆𝖺𝖺𝗆 𝗀𝗈𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝖻𝖾𝖽 𝗋𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗇𝗈𝗐 *𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗋𝗍 𝗉𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾* 𝗀𝗈𝗈𝖽 𝗇𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 [__] 𝖻𝖾 𝗀𝗈𝗈𝖽 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗆𝖺𝗆𝖺 𝗒𝖾𝖺𝗁 𝗌𝗅𝖾𝖾𝗉 𝗐𝖾𝗅𝗅 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗍 𝖽𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗆𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝗈𝗍𝗁 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎

▶ ııııılıl||llıllılıl||lıllıl||ıııı  0:11 𝗀𝗈𝗈𝖽𝗇𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝖼𝗈𝖺𝖼𝗁 𝖻𝖺𝗇𝗀 𝗌𝗅𝖾𝖾𝗉 𝖽𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗆𝗌 𝗌𝗅𝖾𝖾𝗉 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝗆𝖺𝗆𝖺 𝗍𝖾𝗅𝗅 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗍𝗈𝗈 *𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗋𝗍 𝗉𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾； 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄𝗀𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽* 𝗀𝗈𝗈𝖽night 𝖼𝗈𝖺𝖼𝗁 𝖻𝖺𝗇𝗀 𝗌𝗅𝖾𝖾𝗉 𝗐𝖾𝗅𝗅 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗍 𝖽𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗆𝗌 

C. Bang has loved a voice message.

━━━━━━━━

Three days ago…. The bell above the door of Starlight Records jingled like a distant, off-key piano note, cutting through the low hum of a crackling jazz vinyl spinning in the back. Sunlight slanted through the wide front windows, casting hazy, golden pools on warped wooden floors and shelves crammed with colorful album sleeves. The air smelled of dust, old paper, and the faint, sweet tang of incense from a stick smoldering in a seashell on the counter. A failed attempt to mask the scent of decades. Beneath it all, the constant, warm hiss of a needle in a groove.

You straightened from alphabetizing a bin of 00s K-pop, you glanced up, expecting another college student hunting for an album not in store. Instead, your son burst in like a pint-sized tornado. He marched straight down the central aisle, his kindergarten backpack bouncing wildly against his small frame. He wore his usual uniform: scuffed sneakers, cargo shorts stuffed with mysterious treasures (a shiny rock, a plastic robot arm, a half-eaten lollipop wrapped in a receipt), and a faded T-shirt with a cartoon shark he'd declared his "battle armor." His cheeks flushed pink from whatever adventure had occupied him during the walk home from school.

"One-two-three left, right foot,” he chanted at full volume. His voice pitching high and off-key, fists pumping like he was shadowboxing invisible opponents. "No, Tiger, you're marching wrong—left foot first, like this!" He stomped dramatically, veering around a listening station with giant headphones, then halted to whirl on empty air. "Moonbeam, stop whispering! The big boss will hear you!"

Your lips twitched into a fond smile, your heart doing that familiar, tender squeeze. His imaginary friends were legion today—a whole platoon, by the looks of his corrections. You set down the record you were holding and leaned on the glass counter, watching him. A couple of customers—a man in a leather jacket flipping through blues. A girl with headphones already around her neck, lost in her phone—paused to watch, their faces lighting up with quiet amusement.

“Hey my little lamb, what’s in your hand?”

He froze mid-argument, staring at his hand as if it had betrayed him. His big eyes—mirror images of yours—widened in pure bafflement. "Huh?" He uncurled his fingers slowly, peering at the paper clutched there like it had teleported. "Oh. Uh..." He squinted, then spun to berate the void. "Moonbeam! Did you put this in my hand? No? Then who—? Fine, but if it's a trap, you're sleeping outside tonight!"

You bit your lip to stifle a laugh. The man by the blues section chuckled softly into his hand. Your son huffed, crossing his arms, then marched up to the counter with world-ending purpose. He look at the paper for a good minute before he thrusts the flyer forward. His face deadpanned into the most serious expression a kindergartner could muster. “Mama. I can't read this. Too many words.”

The record store, already warm with sound, seemed to swell with the moment. You snorted, clapping a hand over your mouth as giggles bubbled out. The man’s chuckle turned into a full, rumbling laugh. The girl by the new releases smirked, shaking her head. Your son blinked rapidly, processing the betrayal.

"What? What's so funny?" His voice pitched defensive, tiny fists balling at his sides. He whipped around, jabbing a finger at thin air between a rack of city pop and another of hip-hop. "Was that you, Rocket? Saying I'm too little? I heard you! Take it back!"

“No, no, no, baby. it's okay, Rocket didn’t say anything about you,” you soothed. Reaching over to scoop him onto the stool behind the counter before he could launch into full tantrum mode. You smoothed his hair, your touch light—always light. You unfolded the flyer he’d surrendered.

The flyer had advertised something named, "BABY STRAYS CAMP." It was program providing free boxing lessons for children 12 and under at 3RACHA GYM. The flyer outlines a daily schedule from Thursday to Sunday at 1525, with specific age brackets for each day ranging from ages 5 to 12. 3RACHA Gym, you knew that place, it was a block away. You walked passed it a few times, each time you told him that to stay clear of the weird men. But he loved watching them on the tv.

"Boxing lessons," you read aloud, your voice softer than the music. You traced the line-art illustration of a boxer with your fingertip. "At the gym, I told you to stay away from.”

His eyes lit up like fireworks. He screeched—a piercing, joyful wail that cut through the jazz—"3RACHA?! MAMA! PLEASE! I wanna go! I wanna be a STRAY!"

You winced, rubbing your ear, but your smile lingered, helpless. "Whoa, slow down, champ. Boxing? You sure?"

He nodded so hard his whole body wobbled on the stool. "Yes! 3RACHA's the best gym in the world! The STRAYs win everything! They're right here in District 9, Mama—like superheroes! Please? They’re weird but soooo cool!”

You hesitated, glancing at the flyer again, you heard the chants. The roar of "1…2…3RACHA!" during open spars, the STAYs mobbing the doors, a tidal wave of noise and sweat and fervor. A world of impact and collision. Not your world of quiet corners and whispered lyrics but his eyes pleaded, wide and unblinking. His face you saw a chance for something solid, something with rules that might contain all that glorious, terrifying energy.

"Alright," you sighed, the word leaving you with a quiet exhale. Your heart twisting with that familiar mix of love and a quiet, formless dread. "We'll check it out."

He launched himself at you, hugging your legs with a victory yell that vibrated through your bones. "Yes! STRAY power!"

⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺

The following Thursday, the air in Dokryeon-gu carried the first hint of approaching summer. A sharp contrast to the furnace you knew awaited you. You stood in a line that stretched down the block, a river of eager children and weary parents snaking from the polished steel doors of 3RACHA Gym. The building was a monolithic presence of dark glass and exposed industrial beams, the roaring rooster logo lit from within, pulsating like a heartbeat.

Your son vibrated beside you, a live wire in untied sneakers. You’d double-knotted them three times at home; they were already loose, laces dragging like tired serpents. He wore sweatpants and a white t-shirt he’d decorated himself with fabric markers. A lopsided, fiercely grinning shark with “BABY STRAY” written beneath it in chaotic, enthusiastic letters. You’d let him decorate your shoes, too—old canvas sneakers now sporting green lightning bolts and shaky stars. In your oversized hoodie and basketball shorts, you look more like his slightly overwhelmed older sister than his mother.

“Tiger says the line is moving too slow,” he announced, tugging your hand. He then turned to address the empty space by the lamppost. “I know, Rocket, but we can’t just fly over them. Mama says it’s rude. So we have to wait our turn. It’s the rules by the big boss.” He nodded sagely at the nothingness, then gasped. “Moonbeam! You can’t say that about the lady’s hair! That’s rude.” He shot an apologetic look at the woman in front of you, who glanced back, bewildered.

You offered a weak, awkward laugh—that high, breathless sound—and a shrug. “Imaginary friends,” you mumbled, feeling your cheeks heat.

Finally, the steel doors swallowed you whole, the inside was a cathedral of controlled chaos. The sound hit first—a symphony of pounding rap beats from towering speakers. The rhythmic thump-thump-thump of heavy bags being punished, the sharp smack of leather on leather. And beneath it all, the grunts and shouts of effort. The air was thick, warm, and smelled profoundly of sweat. Disinfectant, vinyl flooring, and something else—the sharp, clean scent of determination. It was three stories of open space, with a central ring on the ground floor visible from the elevated running tracks that circled the second and third levels. Everywhere you looked, there were bodies in motion: sculpted, glistening, moving with a lethal grace that felt utterly foreign.

A young man with a soft, fox-like smile and kind eyes wearing a white jersey with 3RACHA Gym over his right peck. The back in block orange letter read, The Maknae Phenom but his lanyard said—Coach Innie. His short chopped brassy looking hair was spiked from him running his hands through it. He was herding a group of wide-eyed children into a cordoned-off area with mats and tiny, colorful gloves. Your son’s gaze locked onto the scene, his earlier narration ceasing in pure awe.

“Go on,” you said, giving his shoulder a gentle nudge. “I’ll be right back. Just going to the bathroom. Stay with the group, okay?”

“Okay, Mama,” he breathed, already drifting toward the other kids like a planet pulled into a new orbit. You watched him for a second, this tiny piece of your heart walking fearlessly into the roar. Then you turned to find a restroom, needing a moment to steady your own breathing. Inside the stall you pulled out your phone to read through 3RACHA Help Center thread. You read it five time since you asked your question, Coach Bang’s response had brought an odd sense of comfort to you.

Back on the gym floor, the scene had evolved—Your son was standing directly in front of Jeongin. His head tilted, he’d apparently been studying the coach’s face with the intense scrutiny of a five-year-old art critic. The surrounding chatter from the other STRAYs, the regulars who worked out and trained there. Then the group of terrifyingly handsome, sweaty men lounging by a water cooler—They were waiting for the inevitable fuck up of either their maknae or hyung. The betting pool was on the latter.

“You look like a fox,” your son declared, his voice carrying perfectly in a momentary lull between songs.

Jeongin blinked, then his smile widened, genuine and bright. “Thank you. I get that a lot.”

The group by the cooler erupted softly with muffled chuckles. A man with an elegant grace and a freshly undercut, Hyunjin covered his mouth with his towel. Another, with a mischievous but bright grin, Felix—leaned against the heavy bag, where he hid his face. A shorter but muscular man with a small scar on his chin, Changbin—turned completely to hide the smile growing on his face. It was at this moment that Bang Chan emerged from a glass-walled office on the mezzanine level. A stack of parent waivers in his hands. He was dressed in simple black gym shorts and a black tank showing off the defined musculature of his arms and shoulders. His hair was damp, his expression one of focused calm, the laughter drew his gaze downward.

He saw the kids, saw Jeongin’s amused face, and then he saw your son. The boy, energized by the laughter he’d caused, had taken it as a starting pistol. With a whoop, he began running laps around the mat, arms outstretched like an airplane. “C’mon, Tiger! Race you!” he yelled to his phantom friend. The other children, catching the fever, joined in. Jeongin’s smile fell immediately, his hands frozen in the air with hesitation. Like he didn’t know whether or not to stop them or let run wild for the time being.

Chan descended the steel stairs, a faint, amused quirk on his lips. He moved to intercept the ringleader, stepping smoothly into his path. Your son, not looking where he was going, ran face-first into Chan’s legs. Large, steady hands caught him by the shoulders, preventing a fall. Your son looked up, and up, and up. Into the face of the man whose posters were on his bedroom wall, whose fights he watched with rapt silence on your laptop. His little mouth formed a perfect ‘O’. He leaned to the side, toward where he perceived ‘Rocket’ to be, and failed spectacularly at a whisper. “It’s him. The best boxer ever. It’s the Wolf of the Ring CB…”

Chan heard every word. His brow furrowed, confusion and deep amusement warring in his dark eyes. He crouched down to his level, the movement fluid and powerful. “Hey there, little man. What’s your name?”

The direct address, the proximity of his idol, short-circuited your son’s brave front. The panic was instant and total. His eyes went saucer-wide. He took a gasping breath and screamed, at a decibel that cut through every other gym noise, “STRANGER DANGER!” He wrenched himself out of Chan’s loose hold and took off, a blur of terrified tears and untied laces, sobbing incoherently.

Chan remained crouched, frozen in place, utterly dumbfounded. The laughter from his STRAYs reached a new, painful crescendo. Jisung was on the floor, wheezing. Minho watched with dry, sparkling eyes, shaking his head. Seungmin simply held out his hand with a smile tugging at his lips. Hyunjin, Felix, Changbin and the other two placed won bills the palm of the smug palm of the Mighty Pup Seungmin.

Your son crashed into you just as you exited the hallway, his small body colliding with your legs. You instinctively scooped him up, his arms locking around your neck, his face burying into your skin, hot tears and frantic, wet breaths against your collarbone. “Whoa, baby, what’s wrong? What happened?” you asked, your voice low and soothing, one hand cradling his head. You looked over his shoulder, searching for the threat.

And you saw him—Bang Chan was striding toward you, his earlier confusion replaced by a palpable, flustered panic. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to— he just ran into me and I—” The words tumbled out, but then his eyes met yours, and his sentence died. He stopped a few feet away, close enough that you could see the faint sheen of sweat on his temples. The dark, concerned depth of his eyes, the way his throat worked as he swallowed.

He was… immersed.

Not physically. Though the sheer presence of him, the width of his shoulders, the defined lines of his chest under the thin fabric, made the air feel thinner. It was the intensity, the disciplined focus usually directed at opponents. His stare was now entirely, uncomfortably, on you. He stared, taking you in—your worried face. Your protective hold on your sobbing son, your lightning-bolt shoes. The stare lasted a beat too long, crossing from concern into something else, something heavy and quietly arresting. The silence between you stretched, filled only by your son’s diminishing hiccups and the distant thump of the gym’s heartbeat.

From the sidelines, the spectacle was complete. The laughing STRAYs had fallen into a silent, agonized parody of mirth. Hyunjin was bent over, clutching his stomach, shoulders shaking soundlessly. Felix had tears streaming down his smiling face as he leaned against Changbin, who was biting his own fist, his eyes screwed shut. They were all watching their usually composed head coach, the disciplined cornerstone of their world. Just standing frozen and flustered before a tiny, crying child and a woman in a hoodie—Who looked increasingly uncomfortable by the second.

Chan finally broke the gaze, looking back at your son with a helpless, earnest softness that seemed to fracture his severe exterior. “I really am sorry. I just asked his name.”

You adjusted your grip on your son, feeling the protective walls inside you rise, tall and swift. “It’s okay,” you said, your voice quieter than you intended. “He’s… a lot. And he knows who you are. It was probably overwhelming.” You were apologizing for his panic. The absurdity of it hung in the thick air.

Chan nodded slowly, his eyes flicking back to yours for a fleeting, electric moment. “Right.” He took a careful step back, giving you space, a gesture that felt oddly respectful in the middle of the bedlam. “The, uh, sign-in and waivers are over there. With Coach Innie… Uhm…. The classes start next week.” He gestured vaguely, his usual command completely absent as he muttered.

“Thank you,” you murmured, and you turned, carrying your son—your little lamb—toward the fox-like coach. Feeling the weight of six silently laughing eyes, a stare of a genuinely confused Jeongin and the one stare that didn’t feel like laughter at all. The burning hole between your shoulder blades that made you lift your shoulders to your ears. It was a stare that felt like a touch you hadn’t asked for, and a promise of something you definitely shouldn’t want.

━━━━━━━━