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obsession | park jisung

synopsis ⌲ park jisung is the nation’s (secret) newest boxing obsession. hushed whispers, feared stares and his forgotten bloodied bandages left in the ring after every match. you're the girl living in the apartment next door because you can barely afford anything better while finishing your degree, and you can't help but notice the boy who comes home bloody and bruised every night. so what do you do? you follow him.

word count ⌲ 16,981

author's note ⌲ hello hello! cheers to my writing debut, the first installment to the 「choose your fighter」 series! my favorite heart shaped smile, jisung is starting us off! i put a lot of heart and soul into writing jisung's installment (not bc he's my bias or anything ( ''˶°ヮ°˶ )), i really hope it's enough for you guys to get interested to the other members installments as well. everyone's backstory on how they are where they are now in the story, ties in a little to how they are in real life. i do have to note that i know the movie 'fight club' was specifically meant for men, but in this au i'll be allowing both men and women (but i promise no women ever get depicted getting hit by a man) to participate. other than that, the only warning i really have to mention is that since it is based off fight club, there will be descriptions of blood, bruising, getting hit, throwing punches. you know the drill. don't be afraid to ask me questions about the installment, whether its something you're confused about or simply you want to understand it even deeper than what was written.

tysm for being so patient while i was working on this!!! feedback is appreciated and happy reading! ᕦ( ◡̀﹏◡́)ᕤ

the soft hum of your desk lamp fills in on the silence of your apartment, light casting cross the scattered notebooks and open textbooks. your pen is scratching against paper, tracing over diagrams you already knew by heart.

the rest of the building is quiet in that oddly loud way. pipes ticking in the walls. the distant whir of someone's ancient fridge running, the occasional car rolling by outside. you sit back in your chair, stretching your shoulders until they pop, eyes scanning another sentence on your textbook that you're not really absorbing.

and then you heard it.

a distinct beep, sharp and familiar, followed by the heavy slam of a door next to your own.

you glance at the clock. 2 am.

right on time.

you let out a sigh, closing your books with a soft thud and packing everything away. you click your lamp off, plunging the room into darkness that only the streetlamp outside leaking through your blinds being the only source of light.

you move through the room, snaking into bed, familiar and worn in the, middle from too many late nights like this.

the routine has become so ingrained you could map it out by sound alone. you go to class, maybe grab a sad coffee or something from the vending machine around the corner. you come home, drop your bag by the bed, and slump at your desk for hours on end until you hear the faint mechanical beep of your neighbors door locking, followed by the heavy boots shuffling down the hallway until you don't hear them anymore.

for your neighbor, they're just leaving their apartment. for you, it's the signal to go to bed.

you've bumped into him in the halls on multiple occasions, in that awkward dance of two people trying to pass each other in a narrow space kind of way. but you were never able to his face, let alone a name.

always so quick to dip his head lower than it already was, adjust his cap, or turn away when people got too close.

you do however, notice the knuckles.

it's always the knuckles you see first. raw, split, and scabbed over in jagged patches. sometimes the skin were so freshly torn, angry and red. other times, they're just faded bruises that yellow at the edges. it was almost like it was a roadmap of bad decisions written across his hands.

then, about a week later, you're hearing more than just the normal door slamming shut and heavy footsteps.

it's the dull sound of him leaning against the shared wall between your apartments for a second like he's catching his breath. there was one time you heard a muffled curse, bitten off halfway like he's trying to stop himself from waking anyone else up. another time, it's what sounds like a low, pained exhale. the kind people make when they're holding back something worse.

you thought maybe he was just a delinquent obsessed with violence. a trouble maker who seeks out fights just to feel something. you know, the kind you were always warned about to avoid.

and yet, the next night, you're sitting at your desk studying like it was any night, same pattern but not... quite. you're mind constantly drifting somewhere else as your eyes read over the clock over and over again.

2:13 am.

you've been trying to listen to the familiar footsteps walking past your door, wondering where the neighbor with the bloody knuckles and 2 am door alarms is possible at.

you've strained your ears enough to the point it almost rings. the pipes still hum, the cars pass by outside, somewhere five doors down a toilet flushes.

but the hallway on your floor stays silent.

you couldn't possibly have missed it, have you? the walls in the building are so thin, you're almost confident that you could hear the neighbors on the floor below you as if they were in the same room as you.

by 2:27 am, your notes are half-finished sentences and underlines that don't really connect to anything. you're not even reading anything anymore. you're just waiting.

what if something happened?

you shake your head, annoyed at yourself. you don't even know the guy! it's stupid, you know that. he's a stranger. just a guy with bloody knuckles and a door alarm you've accidentally synced your sleep schedule to. but the absence of him feels loud in a way his presence never did.

beep.

your head snaps up towards your front door.

at first, you don't move. your mind telling you: he's okay, everything is normal. you can close your books, turn off the lamp, and go to sleep. just thirty-two minutes off from what you were used to.

but your body doesn't listen.

you cross the room quietly, heart pounding, cracking open your door just enough to see into the hallway.

and just like always, the same heavy footsteps draw closer to your door.

his shadow appears first, stretching long enough across the wall as he approaches. you watch the way his shadow moves so uneven, one step a little shorter than the other. then you see the line of his shoulders, hunched more than usual beneath a dark hoodie.

and then he's right in front of your door, in passing but it's almost like time slowed down.

the first thing you see is his hand.

his knuckles are worse.

bandages now poorly wrapped and already stained through in places. the skin around the edges is swollen, like it was angry. he lifts that hand to swipe at his face, and for a split second, the hood tilts just enough that you catch the faint outline of his jaw, the curve of his cheekbone, the glint of a split lip.

he disappears out of your sight in seconds, but the brief vulnerability you caught in his demeanor replays in your head.

tired, bruised at the edges, and startingly, disarmingly alive.

and before you could talk yourself out of it, you're already throwing on a pair of shoes and following after him.

you kept your distance after him, footsteps muffled on the damp pavement yet every sound in the night is suddenly too loud. each turn down an empty street felt like stepping deeper into something you weren't supposed to witness.

well, you were supposed to be in bed right now. yet here you are. following after your neighbor like the psycho you were. you take another step after him before coming to a complete stop.

you shouldn't. you really shouldn't.

but you've spent endless nights seeing the wounds, and even more hearing the pain through the wall—all those moments where you pretended not to notice.

something twists in your gut, pulling you forward just before you lose sight of your blood-knuckled neighbor. you see the top of his hood disappearing down a flight of stairs, and you jog after him.

at the bottom of the stairs, sits a lone metal door framed by damp concrete walls drowned in graffiti.

it looked abandoned, no sign of life coursing through the walls. if you had come across it yourself on any other day, you would've turned around by now, but tonight you're following the whereabouts of your neighbor. there's no other way he could've gone, so ultimately you decide to make your way down the stairs and through the door.

heat was the thing that rushes out first, thick with bodies and hot breaths.

then it was the smell. sweat layered over something sharper like it was a handful of pennies left too long in your palm.

and the noise? its the way you instantly cover your ears in an attempt to regain your sense of hearing as voices slam into you from all directions. shouting, arguing, betting.

but what gets your heart pounding is when someone shouts "fresh meat!" and a pair of hands are on you before you're even ready.

"hey, get your hands off of me!" you scream, shoving unwanted hands off of you.

no one listens, of course. the frenzy of bodies continue to pass you forward, deeper into the basement of wherever you walked into.

you're basically tossed into a ring, your hands catching the fall before you could hit your head. you're looking down, damp down at the concrete flooring like it's seen a hundred men go down and none get up easy.

it doesn't take long to find where your neighbor disappeared off too, because when you look up to take in the rest of your surroundings, he's standing in front of you shirtless, chest bandaged in bandages streaked with dark splotches that hinted at old bruises and fresh strikes alike.

his head is tilted to the side, someone leaning into his ear but his eyes are on you. one brow lifts, lazy and sharp, and your pulse jumps in a way you wish it didn't.

“lost, sweetheart? or did you walk in hoping someone would finally pay attention to you? warm-up toys don’t usually last long.” his voice was so low that you almost miss it.

"excuse me?" your jaw drops, obviously taken aback at the way he was speaking to you.

but he's not even looking at you anymore—he's staring at the horde of people surrounding the makeshift ring in the middle of the room, almost basking in the attention.

the same ring that you've had the displeasure of being thrown into.

you hear the crowd buzz amongst themselves, a name from all over the room, to which you can only guess belongs to him.

"that's him? the park jisung?"

"my money is on him tonight."

"she won't even last the night against jisung."

park jisung.

you're finally able to put a face and name to the neighbor next door— the one who always comes home bloody and bruised, always quick to hide his battered face from curious glances, always wearing anything with long sleeves to cover the scarred knuckles he bore on his hands whenever he unlocked his door.

before you can even open your mouth to ask what the fuck you just walked into, hushed murmurs around you are so loud that it drowns out whatever sound bubbles in your throat. not in the sense of it being loud in volume, but in a way where it seemed like everyone was scared it might reach the wrong pair of ears.

"what the hell is she doing?"

"no shoes, no shirts. what are we even waiting for?"

"take it off already."

you gawk at the men to your right. "i am not stripping down to my bra, you psychos. i'm not a fucking stripper." "you're right, you're not." jisung points to his left, your eyes following to land on a faded out poster clinging onto the wall, somehow still readable. "you're in fight club."

You Do Not Talk About Fight Club.

You DO NOT TALK ABOUT FIGHT CLUB.

Someone Yells Stop, Goes Limp, Taps Out, the fight is OVER.

Only Two People To A Fight.

One Fight At A Time.

No Shirts. No Shoes.

Fights Will Go On As Long As They Have To.

If This Is Your First Night At Fight Club, You Have To Fight.

these people are out of their fucking minds, you thought.

"i am not taking off my shirt." you repeat, clutching tightly onto your clothes as if that was going to make a difference.

it's so outrageous to hear and quite literally, embarrassing to strip half naked in a basement full of men running on nothing but testosterone. if you knew this was where jisung spent his nights every day, you would have never have followed him here in the first place.

“if you’re not going to follow the rules, then at least hurry up. you’re holding up men who actually came here to fight.” those in the crowd holler in agreement, and jisung is giving you a look as if to prove his point.

"i didn't even come here to fight!" you argue.

in fact, you don't even know why you're even here.

was it to check if he was okay? you already confirmed that when you heard him leaving his apartment. to see if he was a violence obsessed delinquent like you imagined? so far, that checks out too! the pattern of bruises and scars painting across his chest proving you right.

"the last rule of fight club: if this is your first night, you have to fight. i don't make the rules, sweetheart. you should've known what you were walking into when you followed me."

your eyes widen. he knew?

you open your mouth to explain yourself, but the roars that first welcomed you into the basement have twisted into boos and furious hollers.

back faced to you, he's egging on the crowd, and it was the most embarrassed, no— angriest you've felt in a long time. “hey, if she doesn’t want to take it off, i get it. not everyone’s built for being looked at.”

you're not one to really snap, not someone who lets adrenaline drag you by the throat; but every word coming out of his mouth was hitting multiple nerves. you've never felt more degraded in your life.

he wants a fight so bad? then he can choke on one.

you kicked off your shoes in one reckless motion, making your way across the ring before you're even registering the decision. your shirt is over your head and onto the floor, muscles so tight you don't even notice how cold the air is when it hits your skin.

the crowd erupts in cheers, hungry to get their fill of the newcomers' first fight against park jisung, the nation's (secret) newest boxing obsession.

you grab jisung's shoulder so roughly that he's facing you, and your first flies before he can open his mouth. the feeling of your knuckles crashing into his jaw was so satisfying that it hit deeper than the impact itself.

the hit must've had more power in it, because despite your small frame, it makes jisung stumble backwards and grab onto the ropes to catch his fall. you're about to take another swing on him, ready to shut him up for good, when he catches your wrist.

"i'm tapping out." he announces, lifting his hands in surrender. almost immediately the sound of a bell rings through the air, cutting through the crowd's murmurs and disappointed groans. you're barely even registering jisung guiding you out of the ring when you catch what he says.

"took you long enough to hit me."

you scoffed in response, yanking your wrist out of his grip but to no avail. "are you fucking kidding me? you humiliated me in front of all these people."

"that was the point, sweetheart. i was trying to get you to hit me." jisung tosses your belongings to you after he helps you slip past the ropes, "i don't hit girls."

you blink at the sudden confession, staring up at jisung as he moves to a corner of the ring, shadowboxing in preparation to fight, a new fighter already replacing where you just were. and even when you see him throw his fists hit air, you knew he wasn't one to hold back.

somewhere in the room, someone announce loudly. "ready, fight!"

you watched as jisung drove his fist forward to meet flesh over and over again. every hit so rough it stained his knuckles despite them being wrapped in bandages beforehand. it like he knew his fists were a weapon, each swing so razor sharp that it almost looked disciplined.

jisung fought without hesitation, without wasted movement, like every strike had already been decided.

his footwork was so quiet, almost elegant in a way that it was the calm before the storm before he would twist his body to snap his wrist forward.

there was something with the way he fought: fast, exact, obsessed in a rhythm beaten into him.

oddly enough, in the midst of all the brutality of your surroundings, jisung was dangerously captivating.

it's been almost a month since your first night at fight club.

with exams swallowing up what little free time you had (thankfully passing it), you quickly fell back to your routine easily enough.

go to class. drink a sad excuse of a coffee. come home and study. go to bed when you hear jisung's all-too-familiar door alarm as it locks.

you crossed paths with him once, in the hall the night after your first. you were coming back with a caffeine run, and he was on his way to who knows where—fight club was your best bet considering that was his favorite place to spend his hobby.

seeing him again only reminded you of how many questions you never got answers to. the bruises, the whispers, the way he became someone else in that ring.

you'd be lying to say you hadn't thought about going back. though your first night there wasn't exactly...welcoming, to say the least.

your dignity was ripped from your grasp the second you stepped through those doors. fighters stared you down, some of the betters even spat in your direction for making them lose money for winning against jisung.

you wondered if they would make you fight again if you were to show your face down there. you don't exactly fight people.

were you even allowed to call that a fight? jisung willingly tapped out the second you landed a hit on him. it wasn't even a win. it was charity.

you sigh, looking at the mess you call notes staring right back at you. maybe you should just forget about it. whatever happened that night in that basement was a one time thing.

but then you hear it—jisung's door alarm. but it's not the usual single chirp of it locking.

three sharp beeps, a pause, then a sound of the lock misfiring before finally clicking in place.

you've lived next door long enough to know his schedule like clockwork. tonight... something was different.

you get up before you can talk yourself out of it, peeking through the peephole just in time to see him appear through the glass. he's leaning his head on the wall across your apartment door— hood up, shoulders drawn tight, jaw clenched in a way you've never seen.

jisung wasn't just heading out. he was bracing for it.

then he's off, disappearing down the hall until you couldn't hear his footsteps.

you hesitate, heart pounding. you should mind your business this time. you should definitely not do exactly what you did last time.

but you're already slipping past your confinement of your apartment to really register what you're about to do.

you tell yourself you're not following him.

you just...happen to be walking in the same direction as him.

down the same street. at the same hour you definitely shouldn't be outside alone.

the wind feels colder tonight—sharper, pushing you forward like it knew exactly where you were heading.

second night, same boy, same bad decision.

whenever jisung steps into the basement and into the ring, something in him sharpens.

the damp concrete beneath his feet, the feeling of his knuckles cracking when he comes in contact with bone after throwing a fist, and that sharp metallic tang mixing with sweat—thick enough to taste—turns the establishment almost animalistic.

jisung feels like slipping back into a craving he's been starving. it's the way his pulse kicks up, or the way his fingers flexing like they've been itching for this all day.

he calls it focus, but if anyone else were to watch the way he fights, they'd see it for what it really is. hunger.

take the hit. give it back harder. he tells himself to keep moving until someone tells him to stop.

it's not just familiarity—it's regime.

a punch lands against his jaw, snapping his head to the side. the shock blooms across his cheek, warm and spreading like paint underneath skin, but jisung doesn't flinch. if anything, he almost welcomes it.

it reminds him he's alive in a way nothing else does.

his breathing evens out, steady and practiced.

the bruise forming isn't a deterrent. the blood on his knuckles—either his opponents or his own, he's not sure—anchors him. it's proof that he's doing what he's supposed to do.

to jisung, fight club is just the one place where he knows the rules well enough to survive.

like this is the one thing he can't walk away from. a place he returns to because he knows nothing else.

he rolls his shoulders once before he moves again and when he does, it's like watching a fuse catch fire.

jisung surges forward, closing the distance against his opponent in a breath. his fist connects with the other man's ribs first, a hit that forces air out of the lungs with a choked sound.

he doesn't wait to see the reaction. he never does. his body is already following through with another strike, a hook that snaps the man's head back.

then, he hits him with a third, fourth—even a fifth blow—knuckles slicing through the space between them like they're guided by something older than thought.

when the man stumbles, jisung sees his opening in the slight dip in his opponent's stance. he steps in, finishing the sequence with a sharp blow that sends the contender collapsing onto the floor with a dull thud.

the crowd reacts before jisung does. hell, the 'referee' doesn't even count, like they knew the fight was over long before they even announced who won.

jisung stands over the fallen body, chest heaving and jaw tight. there's a steady thrum beneath his skin—one that only quiets once he's proven again and again that nobody here can take him down.

to the members of fight club, park jisung isn't just a fighter who's good, but a fighter who needs it.

your eyes watched jisung's movements as he moves across the ring, you don't even realize you've stopped breathing until the crowd surges forward, pulling you with them.

he was moving in the ring like he was made for it. sharp, fluid and eerie in the way he never seems surprised by the hits thrown at him.

he takes blows to the jaw that you're sure would've taken out anyone else, but he just exhales.

every moment was so controlled it borders on compulsiveness, earning him the nickname everyone whispers: the underground's obsession.

because you've seen people fight before. this isn't that.

and then the bell rings.

the crowd erupts around you like they just won the lottery.

you blink, realizing that his match has ended and a new pair of fighters are already making their way into the ring.

"i thought i warned you last time to not follow boys who only look for trouble." a low voice called from behind you.

startled, you turn around. jisung stands there, eyes narrowed in that same sharp-edged presence as your first night. somehow he’s calmer than he should be for someone after a fight, but more dangerous for it.

he looks exactly like your first night in the ring: broad chest bound in stained bandages, fresh bruises worn like it was some sort of badge. only now, his wrists are bare, every knuckle sporting a shiny metallic red color in all it's glory.

his build was lean—abs etched just enough to catch the light when he moved. if he noticed the intense staring battle you're having with his torso, he chooses not to mention anything.

"park jisung." he introduced himself to you, extending his hand forward.

"y/n,” you managed quietly, shaking his hand carefully so as not to hurt him. “i live next door."

he hums in acknowledgement, like he knew. "so, why'd you follow me?" he asks, sensing you weren't going to answer his statement from earlier. "surely it's not because you want another go with me, is it?"

like hell you do. "god, no."

your first night was just you being stupidly, almost psychotically reckless, you'll admit that much. you know this place was a bad idea, a very BAD idea. yet here you are again, chasing something you can't name.

jisung huffs a laugh, amused. "didn't think so. you don't hit like someone who enjoys this place."

he pauses, and you watch as his gaze drags over your face, slower than he intends. "so why come back?"

"i...don't know." you admit. "i guess i just didn't understand why someone would want to do this more then three times a week."

something in jisung's expression ticks. barely, but there. "curiosity is a dangerous thing down here." he warns, voice lower than before.

"isn't this place just a place where people throw punches for ego?"

jisung's jaw flexes. "yeah."

your eyes narrow slightly, obviously not convinced. that "yeah" didn't even sound close to agreement.

you’re close enough now to see the faint tremor in his fingers, the way his breathing hasn’t fully evened out—not from exhaustion, but from the adrenaline still rattling through him, as if he hasn’t learned how to switch it off.

he shifts his weight—rolling his shoulders like he’s trying to shrug something invisible off his back.

jisung's gaze is already being pulled away from you—to which you follow—drifting towards a man in the far corner of the room waving him over, an eager smile on his face.

you frown, eyes drifting back to jisung, confusion forming on your face.

his whole posture changes, like gravity just got heavier. jisung gives you one more look before he walks away, a quiet warning buried underneath.

"i wouldn't keep coming back if i were you," he mutters, his tone stripped down to something nakedly honest. "this place takes more than it gives."

you watch his bare, bruised back as he walks toward the older man, two others appearing and meeting jisung halfway. they greet him with claps to the shoulder as if to celebrate his win from earlier in the night.

one grabs his jaw, tilting his face left, then right, before shoving something to jisung's chest with too much enthusiasm for jisung's liking. he winces, stumbling backwards from the impact.

and despite the warnings jisung is giving you since following him down those stairs, you're too intrigued to really listen.

you quickly learn that jisung in the ring isn't the same boy you see up close. for someone that screams relentless and powerful, he's surprisingly...gentle.

you think back to the first night you ever waited for him outside.

"y/n? you shouldn't be out here alone this late." he frowns, checking the time. it was almost half past three. he thought you already left.

"i was going to, but i figured i'd get a little something to celebrate your win from earlier." you say, twirling the bag between your fingers.

you dig into the bag and pull out two yogurt flavored lollipops. "i don't know what you like but i figured everyone likes a sweet treat to celebrate."

jisung stares at you blankly.

the lack of reaction is starting to make you think that maybe you should've just went home after all.

"if you don't take the candy, i'm going to eat both." you say stubbornly, already in the process of unwrapping one so you weren't just standing there awkwardly.

to your surprise, jisung plucks the other candy from your fingers, popping the sugary treat into his mouth before he gestures that the two of you start walking.

jisung walks beside you in silence, the lollipop stick shifting from one side to the other in his mouth. he doesn't look at you, but he slows down his pace just enough for you to keep up.

maybe that's why—without really meaning to—you start to slip into the crowd to watch and make sure he's okay (much to his dismay).

"you're not very good at listening, are you?"

you freeze on the spot, because you already know that tone. it was more tired than it was angry; the kind of exhaustion that comes from fighting everything but the thing he wants to say.

when you spin around, jisung is at the top of staircase, hand on the railing like he was holding himself up. his hair was damp, a few strands stuck to his forehead, and there's a fading bruise at the corner of his mouth that wasn't there the last time you saw him.

he descends the stairs slowly, not like he was trying to corner you, but like his legs seemed heavier than usual. like he hoped you wouldn't actually come back tonight and doesn't know what to do when he realizes that's not going to happen.

his eyes flick to the door behind you, the sound of a crowd buzzing, fighters cracking their bones with every swing, the sharp bell cutting through the air. then his eyes land back to you.

you offer a small, unapologetic smile you always give when you know you've stayed away but couldn't. "i just wanted to make sure you were okay," you start, quiet. "after the last fight—"

jisung huffs a breath that isn't quite a laugh, but more like a surrender. "yeah," he murmurs, reaching the bottom step. "that's the problem."

because of course you came.

despite pushing you away with words, his actions always pull you right back in.

you stand frozen at the edge of the crowd, heart thudding as fists blur in front of you. every hit sounds too loud, too real. the crack of knuckles, each swing landing with a force that makes your stomach twist. it feels wrong, watching someone get hit like that, but your body won't move, and you can't tell if you're more afraid of looking away or looking too long.

you don't even realize you're drifting awfully close to the ring until a hand clamps onto your wrist and yanks you back.

jisung.

he's breathless, jaw tight, eyes scanning you like he's expecting to find blood.

"you can't just disappear like that." he says, voice sharper than he meant to.

when you just blink at him, startled, the tension in his shoulders collapses into something more exhausted than angry.

he sighs and steps closer, hands landing on your shoulders. "if you're going to wander around," he mutters, adjusting your stance. "at least keep your back to the wall."

his grip tightens for half a second, just long enough to give away how scared he actually was. you hear his breath leave him before he lifts his chin toward the left hallway.

"don't turn your back to that hallway. ever."

there's no heat in his voice now. just a warning shaped like fear.

other nights, you find yourself knocking on his door on impulse, like something in you already knows he'll open it.

jisung opens his door, hair flat on the side, clearly not ready to be expecting guests.

"i brought food," you blurt. "i ordered too much food and i'm not going to finish. if you want some."

he blinks at you, staring at the take out bag in your hands like it was some alien artifact. "you're...okay with sharing?" he asks, genuinely confused.

"no, jisung, i actually don't. i poisoned the food because the thought of sharing makes me homicidal." you deadpan.

there's a flicker in his eyes that you miss, before he shrugs and steps aside to let you in. "i don't know, you did punch me that one time."

the longer you're around him, the more you start to notice the things he doesn't say—little moments that give him away.

the walk back to the apartment complex from the convenience store was more of a comfortable quiet than an awkward one. streetlights, buzzing, the air cool and a half-finished snack in your hand.

nothing dangerous. nothing unusual.

that's why the noise startles you both.

a metal pipe hits the ground with a sharp clang, somewhere behind the construction fence across the street.

you jolt a little and jisung's already stepping in front of you before you could register what was happening.

his arm is in front of you automatically, blocking you, body angled like he was expecting someone to come rushing out. you hear his breath catch harshly—too sharp for a noise that came from a perfectly safe work site.

you look up at him, gentle but confused. "are you okay?"

"sorry," he mutters, pulling away when he realizes he's standing too close. "didn't mean to."

"it's okay." you say. and it is. because the street settles back into the same comfortable quiet from five minutes ago.

jisung swallows, nods once, and walks again. not beside you this time, but half a step ahead, like he's clearing the path.

and somehow, despite everything, he's clumsy in a way that feels almost endearing.

you get startled when jisung nearly trips over his own feet while the two of you are walking home. you catch his arm, and he mutters something underneath his breath before sneaking a look in your direction.

"are you okay?" you ask, a small smile creeping on your face.

the boxer looks away, suddenly realizing how close you are to him.

"yeah-yes, uh, yeah," he stutters.

a laugh escapes you, soft and warm. "you know, you fight better than you walk."

his shoulders sink. "don't remind me."

when you keep smiling at him, he looks away—the eye contact physically being too much for him. not flustered, just unsure how to keep the conversation going without sounding strange.

he walks a little straighter after that.

it becomes a pattern. him softening in small ways that don't match the boy you first met. nothing dramatic. just a quiet awareness like he keeps waiting for you to show up again.

and you do, hours later, jacket half on and grocery list in hand, jisung appears in his doorway just as you step out.

"where are you going?"

you turn, facing a messy haired jisung, with his hoodie half zipped.

"grocery store," you say. "i'm running out of food."

he hesitates, then he's fully stepping out into the hall and locking his own apartment. "i'll go with you."

and then you're off. the both of you fall into step automatically, like you've done this a hundred times instead of never.

the automatic doors sigh open as you both step into the glow of the grocery store. it's nearly midnight, aisles half empty with soft music humming above your heads.

jisung keeps close behind you, hood up, hands in the pockets of his jeans like he's afraid to take up too much space. you watch as his eyes constantly dart around—over the shelves, the signs, the people.

"do you always shop here?" he asks, after a scratch of silence.

you nod, humming. "mh-mm, it's close to campus." you spin around, walking backwards so you're looking at him, a smile on your face. "and they have good strawberries."

he nods like that's deeply important information, a feeling in his stomach that he can't decipher from what.

he watches as you walk into an aisle, plucking items off the shelf to inspect them before placing them in the cart you had grabbed earlier.

walking behind you, he keeps staring down into the cart like it's a foreign language.

"do you usually just pick anything you want?"

"that's how shopping works," you laugh. "you buy what you want."

he nods slowly, slowly processing what was happening right now.

when you reach the produce section, you hand him a container of strawberries. "check if they look okay?"

jisung stills for a moment but cups the plastic box in both hands without question.

"they look fine," he says finally, but then frowns, opening it and inspecting each one like he actually wants to get this right. "this one looks...weird. is it supposed to look like that?"

you take a peak at the strawberry jisung singled out, and laugh softly. "it's just a little dented, it's okay."

his mouth forms into an 'o', slowly placing the fruit back into the container and into the cart.

in the snack aisle, you hold up two different ramen flavors. "pick one."

he's staring at his options like they were a trick question. "for you?"

"for us," you correct. "nothing beats a good bowl of ramen when you're finished with a fist fight." you cup the side of your mouth and add quietly, "and when you're deprived from sleep of studying all night. that too."

jisung swallows and finally ends up picking the simpler one, after three full seconds of internal warfare. you pretend you don't notice how nervous he is about it.

when you guys reach the freezer section, jisung is too invested in the different types of protein and processed foods that when he blindly reaches for the cart, his hand brushing yours by accident and he snatches it back instantly.

"sorry—"

"it's okay," you say, voice soft. "you can relax, you know."

"i'm trying." he says quietly, not embarrassed, just honest.

you smile and don't say anything else. you continue on with your shopping, letting jisung in on the decision making process.

and that's how the night ends.

four plastic bags, a shared walk home and jisung looking at the world like someone just opened a door he didn't know existed.

it isn't until two months later after meeting jisung that you realize you're starting to feel something for him.

it's technically friday morning, though it still feels like thursday to you, when you and jisung walk the path back home after his match at fight club.

when the two of you walk, you don't usually say much. so when you see jisung taking a right turn instead of going straight like you normally would, you can't help but call out to him.

"earth to jisung, i don't know where you think you're going, but home is this direction."

his response is a simple "i know" as he continues to walk forward. when he stops in his tracks and looks back in your direction, you realize he's waiting for you to follow him.

you raise a brow at him but ultimately follow; where he doesn't begin walking until you're beside him.

and you're glad you do follow him, because he leads you to a park.

the park is washed in a low silver glow, the moonlight catching on the leaves. the pathways are empty, but not lonely—just peacefully still.

"this is the park i come to from time to time to practice boxing." jisung says, hair blowing messily in the faint breeze that moves through the trees.

you hear dogs barking in the distance, the lamps along the trails casting a warm halo over the pavement in soft gold circles.

jisung walks over to an open area before he gestures for you to stand in front of him. "come stand in front of me."

you don't ask questions and follow orders, and jisung softly takes your wrists and lifts them beside your face. "fists closed, arms on the side of your face like you're about to block a sneeze."

"are you really teaching me how to box right now?" you ask, not annoyed, but amused.

jisung shrugs, nudging your feet further apart to get into the perfect stance. "i won't always be there on time."

"one foot slightly ahead of the other and keep your knees loose," when he holds your chin to tilt it down, you stop breathing. "chin tucked."

jisung steps away, nodding. "good. that's your stance. stay loose."

he taps your front hand. "this one—jab. just a quick flick."

he gets into position, demonstrating. "it's the simplest punch. use your front hand and just extend your arm straight out and bring it back like i did. it's quick, light and more about speed than power."

you nod, following his actions. jisung nods in approval. "good, now the next one is called a cross. turn your hip. more."

you punch forward, and he exhales like he's biting back a remark.

"your hip," he says. then he steps behind you, one hand settling at your waist and the other on your hipbone. "you're not turning it."

he moves with you, guiding the twist of your body. his hands fall away a moment too slowly, like he forgets to let go. "there we go. power comes from here."

you spend the next twenty minutes learning some basic boxing moves: your stance, basic moves; to which some needing further instruction with how awkward you were being.

"i have no clue what i'm doing." you say, laughing.

"that's okay." jisung reassures you, being patient with you as he walks you through each step.

"now you're going to guard."

"guard?"

he nods. "not getting hit. it's the baseline of defense." he brings your hands back up to your face into position. "hands up, elbows tucked, and keep your face protected." he demonstrates again. "and keep your head slightly turned so you're never a still target."

when you try it, jisung steps closer. "not that far." he murmurs quietly.

his fingers curve lightly around the back of your neck, turning your head the way he wants it. his thumb grazes your jaw as he nudges you back to center. "just enough to miss the hit."

you tell yourself it's only the cold night air that is making you aware of the close you are, but your heart seems to know something you don't.

on mondays and wednesdays, jisung likes to hover inside your apartment while you study. he reasons that it's to make it feel less lonely for you, but you suspect it's more for him than yourself.

so when you open your door, it's no surprise to see him standing there—the culprit of the knocking, stepping aside wordlessly to let him in.

he never intrudes, letting you work without distraction. he fidgets or paces while you study, trying his best to keep himself occupied without getting in the way of your studies.

every now and then, he'll hover over your desk, watching as you scribble notes on multiple passages that you read over. he'll even pass you a pen or a different colored highlighter, as an excuse to stay closer to you.

occasionally, he'll watch you hum softly, his posture shifts, tension sliding up his shoulders the moment your eyes lift, gaze dropping to his hands as if they're suddenly fascinating.

and you stare at him, a question bubbling in your throat you've been wanting to ask since meeting him. "how did you get good at boxing?"

his eyes widen, and he shifts in his seat to lean back, not expecting the sudden change of interest.

you notice his hands clench and then relax, wiping his hands on his jeans from how clammy they were getting. "uh, it's been a hobby of mine since i was a kid." he starts, gaze skimming over the room, never settling long enough to land on you.

you tilt your head, surprised. "since you were a kid? really?" there was something about the way he said it, like he didn't want to admit it but couldn't help himself.

jisung nods, leaning forward as if to examine your notes though his eyes aren't following the words. "people around me always said i was good. like really good. i ended up learning about fight club through an... acquaintance." he pauses, rubbing the back of his neck. "it was just a hobby of mine that i stuck with, i guess."

"and fight club? when did you join?"

he shoots you a brief look. "you want a full biography? it's mostly boring."

when you nod your head for him to continue, the corner of his mouth quirks up just slightly. "do you remember the first rule of fight club?"

"that you don't talk about fight club..." you say, pouting, but you can't hide the small smile tugging on your lips.

your eyes meet, but he looks away almost immediately, jaw tightening. you turn back to your notes, fingers fidgeting with your pen.

you tuck your hair behind your ear, flipping back to the page you were on, focusing your brain into study mode.

and for the next few minutes, he lets you go back to studying.

jisung stretches in his seat, hooking a foot around the leg of the chair to ground himself. he presses his thumb to a raw spot on his knuckle, worried about distracting you but can't quite sit still.

for a moment, you wonder if he even realizes how calming it is for him to be here, quietly occupying space without interrupting.

silence stretches between you two, comfortable yet expectant, before he returns the same curiosity. "what about you? do you even like it here?"

when you don't answer right away, he softens his question. "i mean... are you happy?"

you blink, thrown off by the sudden shift.

he clears his throat, eyes darting away to look at your picture frames—friends, family, awards—fixated on none in particular.

and when you take a peek at his face, your heartbeat skips, a quiet stutter you hope doesn't show.

how strange, you think. you spent several weeks pretending he was another friend but there's something about the way he hovers near you—careful, gentle—that makes a tiny, impossible hope curl in your stomach.

"i would say so," you murmur. "why do you ask?"

jisung shrugs. "there's not much to do here, and you're all by yourself."

"i have you." you say, smiling without thinking.

the words linger longer than you expect.

for a moment, jisung goes still, almost like the sentence hits him somewhere he wasn't guarding. he doesn't comment on it, but he doesn't need to.

because after that night, something shifts.

he stays a little longer on mondays, shows up a little earlier on wednesdays, and his knocks become familiar, almost expected.

until one night, he shows up again, but the knock is different—it's harder, more uneven.

when you open the door, he isn't composed or careful. he's bruised, breathing hard, his eyes searching your face with a kind of quiet urgency.

"can i..." he says, voice cracking. "can i come in?"

you rush him inside and sit him down onto your couch. "wait here, i'll go get the first aid kit."

and when you come back, you're kneeling in front of him, eyes searching his. your hands pause just above his skin, waiting for any sign of discomfort.

his hands are still trembling, bandages soaked, eyes distant.

when he doesn't flinch away as you place your hands on top of his, you take it as your sign to start cleaning him up.

you start with unravelling the bandages around his wrists, heart hurting when you see the injuries underneath: his knuckles are torn open. you grab a warm towel, wiping away old and fresh blood.

you drag the warm cloth over his cheekbones, washing away the smear of someone else's blood. his breath catches, and you quickly apologize. "sorry," you whisper.

"it's okay," he murmurs, voice rough. "it doesn't hurt." and it doesn't, because you're being so careful with him.

the cut on his eyebrow is shallow but messy, bleeding more than it should. you clean the split and jisung stays perfectly still—not from the pain, but from how close you are.

when your gaze traces the line of his cheek, the swelling making your heart twist. "do you want to talk about it?"

jisung shakes his head and you nod, not wanting to push it.

his breathing comes in uneven pulls, gaze fixed on your hands. his shoulders are tense under your fingers, no matter how gentle you are with him.

you smother a thin layer of ointment over the open cuts, careful not to put even the slightest of pressure to make it hurt.

when your fingers brush his jaw, it's like the world stops.

his gaze drops to your mouth without meaning to, and he swallows like the air is suddenly too thick. he tries to lean back but you're quick to call his name softly. his breath hitches.

"jisung, don't move too much, i'm almost done."

"y/n..." he says, your name sounding like something he isn't sure he's supposed to want.

you look up.

and it's over. the distance, the pretending, the pretending-not-to-stare.

jisung doesn't move closer, not really. he just...leans. like his body decided before he had time to think himself out of it.

"jisung—" you start, but the words dissolve because he's already there, brushing his lips against yours so gently you almost wonder you imagined it.

when you don't pull away, he breathes out shakily and kisses you again, this time real. still soft, still careful, but with something warm and terrified behind it, like he's afraid the moment will disappear if he presses too hard.

he pulls back slightly, the loss of warmth feels immediate. his eyes stay on yours, wide and conflicted, the kind of look someone wears when they've done something instinctive and only now realized it. "i...didn't mean—" he begins, his voice coming out hoarse.

he exhales sharply. "shit..."

you sit back on your heels, heart still hammering, your fingers curling against your knees. you're so stunned that you don't move.

"...can we pretend that didn't happen? just for tonight."

you nod, even though your chest tightens. "yeah," you whisper. "for tonight."

but the way his eyes drop to your lips again—quick, involuntary, betraying him completely—tells you both the same thing:

he won't be able to pretend forever.

the next few days pass in a strange, fragile kind of normal—or your best attempt at normal.

you and jisung don't talk about the kiss. you don't look at it, breathe near it, don't let yourselves say anything that might detonate the quiet truce you made.

he still comes over mondays. still knocks twice on wednesdays. still sits in the same chair beside your desk, fidgeting with the same nervous hands.

but everything about him has changed.

every time you brush past him, he stiffens. every time he passes you a pen when you study, he snatches his hand back immediately. and every time you look at him a little too long, he looks away a little too fast.

you still come to watch his fights on tuesdays. still practice with him every other saturday. still buy him yogurt-flavored candy to celebrate every win.

and just like jisung, everything about you has changed.

when he finishes a fight and heads straight for you, your heart trips over itself. when he walks too close on the way home, you hate how much it affects you—shoulders brushing his—the heat radiating off him. and when he brushes a stray hair out of your face without thinking, your stomach flips so violently you feel stupid for pretending it doesn't.

you both pretend that the kiss never happened, but it's the only thing echoing through your head.

does he regret it? is that why he avoids your eyes on purpose or is it because he really can't meet them?

if you were to be completely honest, these past few days have been absolute hell for you. a constant ache, a constant wonder of what will happen to the two of you if you were to even breathe a word about the kiss.

the way he reacts with you now is enough to make your heart sting.

it's gotten to the point that even ordinary things feel strange now. when he hands you a water bottle, he sets it down instead of passing it to you. when he laughs, he cuts himself off too fast. when he stiffens around you, every inch of space between you feels charged. everything feels so rehearsed—like he's trying to avoid a mistake he already made.

he's a fighter, but your fingertips make him retreat.

why did he look so sure about kissing you then, but so terrified now?

that uneasy flutter hits your stomach again, heart beating too fast for comfort the more you think about your reality. was this the beginning of him closing off?

and that's exactly what ends up happening.

when the next week comes, jisung's visits on mondays are less frequent. he comes by noon and ends up leaving after an hour, not really elaborating why. you've tried offering to keep him company, but he would always decline.

wednesdays come by in a blur with unfinished homework and a room too big for your liking. you glance at the clock out of habit, waiting by the door longer to admit, listening to the soft pair of knocks that end up not coming. the silence consuming your apartment is so complete it almost feels intentional.

you think saturdays are when it hurts the most. for the past few months, your weekends have carved around the same rhythm. go to fight club, practice, the long walk home with jisung where he always walked a little closer than he meant to. you tell yourself you were fine without it, but when saturday comes, you find yourself staring at your ceiling instead of the stars you normally would see in those brown eyes you couldn't help looking into.

you try to smother the ache by focusing on school. bury yourself in assignments. highlight lines in your textbook even if you don't need to.

but your thoughts won't stay where you put them.

you've thought about going to fight club, but a single question was enough to stop you every time.

what if showing up makes it worse? that even if you came just to see if he was okay, to see if he was hurt, if he was avoiding everyone or if it was just you.

and maybe worst of all: what if he acts completely normal?

you're more afraid of that possibility than the brutality in that damn basement—of the smell of sweat and spit, the echoing roar of the crowd and the metallic taste of adrenaline that always lingered on your tongue. you'd rather face that than have him look past you.

still, that anxious energy was building in your chest, buzzing, restless, like your body hasn't stopped expecting him to show up at any moment.

so you decide that boxing might be a good way to release it.

you lace up your sneakers, throw on a jacket and grab your keys before walking to the park that feels too familiar. you'd step on the cracks in the pavement, skipping out on hopping on them like you normally would just to hear him laugh. you pass the convenience store you normally buy that stupid yogurt-flavored candy, but you don't let yourself look too long through the windows.

the air is colder than you expected, but maybe that's because you're alone.

when you reach the park, the sight hits you harder than you prepare for.

because you find the cause of all your anxiety sitting on a patch of grass, hands tangled in his hair like he's trying to hold himself together.

the park lights paint him in a dim gold, soft enough to make him look almost harmless—almost like the boy he keeps insisting he isn't.

your feet move automatically, the crunch of gravel underneath your shoes is so loud you're afraid it would scare him away.

he doesn't look up when you approach him.

he just says, voice tight, "i'm trying to not fuck things up."

"what do you mean?"

you carefully sit beside him, the fresh wet grass soaking into your jeans. the silence settles between you, as if you were letting him decide if he wants to run again.

he doesn't.

instead, he lifts his head, eyes finally meeting yours. they're dark, raw and honest in a way he's never let them be.

"you have no idea," he starts quietly. "how hard i'm trying not to think about that kiss. but every time i do, i just...get more confused. i don't know what i'm doing."

your heart picks up.

he exhales shakily. his fingers twitch against the grass, like he's fighting himself. "i'm scared," he admits. "every time i thought i was doing the right thing, i ended up wanting you more. i...i can't stop thinking about you."

his voice breaks a little, but he leans a little closer anyways.

the heat between you is immediate, familiar, terrifying.

you whisper, "jisung."

and just like that, just his name on your lips undoes whatever restraint he was clinging to. he fully turns toward you, knee brushing yours, breath warm against your cheeks.

"if this is too much," he murmurs. "tell me to leave,"

your heart starts to race, so fast that you swear you could feel it in your own fingertips. when you shake your head—barely a motion, barely anything—his shoulders loosen.

jisung leaned in slowly, like he was approaching something sacred. his hand hovered over your cheek first—not touching, just asking. when you don't pull away, he exhales and lets his fingers settle against your skin. he pauses there, eyes flickering to your mouth, giving you every chance to stop him right then and there.

when you don't, he dips his head and presses his lips to yours, gentle but unmistakably firm.

every moment after that was slower, more sure, like he was memorizing the exact shape of the moment as he created it.

your chest tightens, not from fear but from the sudden, dizzying relief of finally knowing you weren't imagining any of it.

it hits you all at once. the loneliness of the past week, the confusion, the ache of thinking you were the one who cared. now he's here, saying everything you were too afraid to hope for.

you didn't think it was possible to feel so safe and so exposed all at once.

and for the first time since that night, he doesn't pull back.

weeks slip by, each one folding into the next. you and jisung settle into a rhythm that feels almost ordinary (if ordinary can include someone who likes to fight as a hobby).

jisung's visits become more frequent again, and there's a lightness to his presence that wasn't there before. the tension that used to coil around his shoulders has softened, though not disappeared entirely.

now the two of you cook together sometimes—more you than jisung, share music over lazy afternoons, and walk through the neighborhood without feeling like you're bracing for something. you seem to notice that jisung laughs more freely now, letting his gaze linger on you longer than it used to, and you catch him watching you, quiet and unselfconscious, in moments that make your chest tighten in ways you're happy to feel.

you watch him train in the evenings with a steady focus, calloused hands and sweat-slicked hair, and yet he leaves the brutality at that damned basement when he comes home. mostly, at least.

you still notice the way he flinches at sudden noises on the street, in the small, almost imperceptible pauses before he answers your question you asked earlier, and sometimes in the distant look that crosses his eyes during quiet study sessions. it's a reminder that fight club isn't gone, just contained.

and yet, life still goes on. it softens around the edges. moments pile up, small ones, stupid ones, ones that make you think maybe this fragile calm is becoming something real.

like the evenings he reads your textbook upside-down just to see how long it takes for you to notice.

or the afternoon he tries to fix a broken faucet and somehow manages to break it even more. (you didn't even know that was possible. he stands over the sink, desperately trying to stop the water from flooding your bathroom. "how did you even—" you start, but jisung is quick to cut in. "i don't know. i followed the instructions. probably." he in fact did not follow the instructions.)

or maybe the way he steals your snack you bought on the way home, then denies it in the world's worst poker face. you think he does it just to get a reaction out of you.

or just maybe, it's the quiet, almost domestic rhythm of him staying the night, brushing your teeth at the same time, bumping elbows at the sink, both of you pretending it's not weirdly intimate.

it becomes a string of small, ordinary days. warm, unassuming, easy enough to believe in.

so when dinner goes wrong one night, like spectacularly wrong, jisung is staring at the smoking pan and you both end up laughing harder than you should.

"we should go grab take-out," you decide.

"obviously," he mutters, waving smoke away with a towel.

it feels normal, stupidly normal. almost like you could stay this way if only for one night.

you two walk along the street, the city quieter tonight that made jisung's breath feel less heavy.

your eyes light up, spotting a familiar neon sign. you tug in jisung's sleeve, urging him to quicken his steps. "this place has really good kimchi udon. delicious, cheap, and won't poison us."

he laughs, small but real. "that's reassuring."

when you two get your food, you fill the silence in-between bites with small pieces of your childhood.

you don't notice the way jisung's eyes linger on you as you talk, too caught up in the conversation of how your mother used to make you kimchi udon when you were a kid, but was too busy with work to continue making it.

he watched as your hands moved as you spoke—expressive, soft and utterly unconcerned with how ridiculous you may look to others around you.

he didn't realize for the past hour, he has never felt this way before.

it was nothing like the world he knew.

not the underground pit. not the shouting. not the tension that lived in his bones like a second heartbeat.

and for a terrifying moment, he knew he wanted this.

by eleven o'clock, you're walking next to jisung, arms linked as you guys make your way back to building, where your doors face the same hallway, turning onto a quieter street because a neighborhood cat caught your attention.

that's when they appeared. three men stumbling out of a bar doorway, loud, slurring. at first, it was nothing, but one of them bumps into you and instead of apologizing, they look up and smile too wide for your liking.

"hey sweetheart," the man said, voice sticky. "where you headed?"

you stiffen when another man steps closer. "you're cute, y'know that?"

the third laughed. "c'mon, don't be shy. join us." lifting his hand up to your face, almost carelessly, but to jisung, it's something else entirely.

and suddenly he's too close, stepping in-between you and the tipsy man, his hand shooting out in front of you like a barrier.

"back up." it wasn't loud, but was colder in the way it was said that not even the night air makes you shiver.

the first guy scoffs. "what, you her boyfriend or something?"

jisung's jaw flexes, fists curled. his stance lowered half an inch. he didn't notice he'd done it, but the men did.

"that guy's gonna swing," one muttered, already attempting to drag his friend away from a nasty blow.

and jisung almost did. every nerve in him begged for it. the impact, the adrenaline, the clarity that came. that familiar rush surged up his spine, drowning out your voice behind him.

"jisung, it's fine," you whisper, but his breathing goes shallow, and his eyes narrow.

the familiar rush of adrenaline drags him backward without permission, and suddenly the street lamps become a single buzzing overhead bulb, the sidewalk molting into that grimy slate-colored canvas that caught every drop of sweat. like he was back in that concrete hallway again, shouts he can't hear clearly.

then it was your hand on his back that snaps him back to reality. soft and slow.

"jisung," you say again, barely audible. "it's fine. they're just drunk, let's go home."

he doesn't even realize the three men have already backed up and left. but his body doesn't relax.

something settles behind his eyes. not anger, not fear—acceptance.

because even if he wanted normal, normal didn't want him back.

and that's how it ends up: two days without seeing him. two days of worry gnawing at you like a bruise you can't stop pressing.

now you're back in fight club because you've decided enough is enough—you need to see him.

and tonight, you learn very quickly who the next fight is through the chorus of murmurs rippling through the crowd:

park jisung versus fight club's favorite prodigy.

that's how jisung ends up back to the place beneath everything else.

the crowd whispers about the other fighter like he's inevitable, like park jisung is showing up just to bleed.

the lights flicker for a second, then lock steady, revealing two figures in the ring. the crowd's mumurs swell into a low roar, an animalistic buzz that prickles jisung's skin, but he barely notices.

his focus narrows, every movement in the air, every muscle becomes part of a single rhythm.

across from him, the prodigy smirks, bouncing lightly on their toes, eyes bright, fists poised. this isn't someone jisung underestimates; the club has built legends out of them, but he's not here to play games. not tonight.

keep breathing. eyes. hands. timing.

but his ribs still ache from the last fight. his right hand throbs inside the wraps. and under it all is the fear from two days ago, the shove in the street and the echo of a soft, familiar voice replaying in his head.

not now. don't think. just fight.

the bell rings.

and the prodigy lunges first.

the first hit jisung blocks. the second cracks against his jaw. jisung counters on instinct, landing a jab, but his opponent only grins.

another strike comes flying—a hook. jisung ducks, his vision pulsating at the edges.

it's fine. breathe. i've fought worse. i—

a blow to the ribs knocks the air from his lungs.

jisung gasps, stumbling back, guarding low, chest burning. everything he knows slipping from his mind. usually he reads opponents like an open book, but tonight—

focus, damn it.

a hook grazes jisung's cheek, staggering but recovers, swinging a cross with a calculated precision. he's been here before. he knows how to dictate the fight.

round after round, they trade blows. each strike from the prodigy is sharp, aimed to provoke. each counter from jisung is defensive yet punishing.

the crowd cheers, but jisung barely hears them; all he feels is every nerve alive, each breathe burning, every heartbeat hammering.

another uppercut snaps jisung's head back. he's hurting, but he's still relentless. he feints, dodges, and lands a solid jab to the prodigy's midsection. the boy grunts, but keeps pressing.

the bell for the next round feels like a reprieve. jisung leans against the ropes, chest heaving, sweat stinging his eyes.

round four: fatigue creeps into jisung's shoulders, slowing his reflexes just enough for the prodigy to land a brutal combination—a hook to the temple, a cross to the jaw, an uppercut snapping his head. he stumbles, chest heaving, one hand brushing the ground to keep him upright.

jisung starts to feel stars behind his eyes, ribs screaming. he throws a desperate flurry, but his body tremble under the strain. the prodigy wastes no time to counter, finding openings that shouldn't exist.

and finally, a sharp right connects squarely on his temple. the world tilts, and jisung falls to one knee.

the referee steps in, quick to announce the winner. the crowd is a mix of cheers, groans, murmurs, but jisung knows that throughout the fight, he left his mark despite the loss.

jisung struggles to his feet, every muscle burning and every nerve screaming.

the roar of the crowd fades into a distant echo as he steadies himself. for a heartbeat, everything is just ringing and sweat and the taste of blood.

then hands grab him.

jisung doesn't get a chance to breathe before he's being dragged out of the ring.

a hand clamping around his upper arm, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise. not out of malice, just thoughtlessness. like he was something to move out of the way, not someone to apologize to.

"back up," someone grunts, and before he can react, jisung is yanked a half-step sideways. his feet scrape against the hard floor as another body shoves past, shoulder checking him without even looking.

"watch it, he's still bleeding," another one mutters, but no one slows down.

these were the days when jisung felt the smallest, not because there were other fighters here who were bigger and meaner, but because he felt like no one here bothers to see him.

another guy reaches from behind, steering him like an obstacle. "move."

it doesn't take long for a tall man step in front of him, looming over him like a wall. he doesn't punch first; he doesn't need to. instead, he inspects him, circling slowly, eyes sharp, hands twitching like he's mapping the quickest way to break him.

everyone in the crowd watches with a hunger that has nothing to do with the sport. the kind of silence that isn't respectful, but expectant. they've seen this happen before. threats aren't theatrics here; they're currency. and the man in front of jisung? he's someone whose words are followed.

the man grabs the younger fighters' jaw, fingers digging into the fresh cut on his cheek. "see these?" he murmurs, twisting just enough to make jisung wince. "all that pain, all that effort... what's it worth if you can't even win me a fight?"

the man's grip on his jaw tightens, and before jisung can even brace, a sharp backhand cracks across his cheek.

it's not rage-fueled punch. it's worse.

it's casual.

jisung barely reacts, swallowing and lowering his gaze because he knows better to make it worse.

this is world he's used to.

not with yogurt-flavored candy. not with late-night study sessions for a subject he's never taken. not a girl next door who makes him feel something he can't name.

"pathetic."

the taller man doesn't lift his hand again. instead, he jerks his thumb toward the crowd—toward someone just barely visible at the edge of the ring, eyes focused on him, face pale. you.

"you lose the next one," he hisses, voice low enough for only the boxer can hear, "and that girl over there ends up like you."

his breath stutters. for a split second, his eyes flicker toward you—quick, terrified, apologetic—before he forces them back to the older man in front of him. he nods once, and a bundled item is shoved into his hands so abruptly that his fingers curl on instinct. the weight familiar and unmistakable.

the crowd presses closer, hungry to see violence, but their noise fades into a background when jisung's eyes lands on your figure rapidly approaching him.

he doesn't hesitate. his body moves before thought does. too many eyes are on you now. his hands finds your wrist, and before you can process the look on his face, he's pulling you into the nearest dark corridor.

the first thing out of your mouth comes out panicked, almost angry. you've seen him bruised before. but never manhandled. "what the hell was their problem?"

the crowd behind you roars at something—no, someone—hitting the ground. a wet, meaty crack echoes through the room, followed by a choked sob and the scrape of shoes dragging across concrete.

jisung's hands land on your arms, as if to keep you in place while he glances over his shoulder. when a figure passes by, jisung is quick enough to shield your body with his, away from any more attention you've gathered tonight.

"not here. please."

you on the other hand, were too angry to notice his intentions. "seriously jisung, what the hell was that back there?"

"what was what?" he asks, though he already knows the answer to his own question.

you catch the shift in his expression, and you see it. his shoulders locked, panic flashing across his face.

"why were those peopl—"

your eyes flick between him and the group of men slinking into a hallway, before they settle back on jisung; eyes traveling down to the contents settled in his hands.

"why do you have a wad of cash in your hands?"

your neighbor's jaw tightens. he looks everywhere but at you, shoving the cash into his pocket as if hiding it can undo what you saw.

when he refuses to answer, you look at him—really look—and it hits you.

the bruises, the trembling, the exhaustion, the sharp edges of his posture.

they weren't from just fighting, they're the weight of everything this place demands.

from the men who grabbed him when he slowed down, from the threats whispered into his ear, from the hands that forced him back into the ring whether he can stand or not.

suddenly, the money being shoved into his chest after every fight doesn't look like a reward—it's permission. a pass to use him again next week.

you realize he's not fighting because he wants to.

he's fighting because someone decided he doesn't get a choice.

"is this..." you start, your voice barely carrying over the distant shouts. "is this what you meant that fight club took more than it gave?"

for a moment, he doesn't answer. he just lets go of your wrist, his hand lingering for a second before he finally looks at you in a way that you finally see the cost that he's been paying.

"stop coming here. please." his voice is steady, but the strain is there if you're listening.

jisung never cared what happened to him in this place.

he could have the crowd boo his name. his opponent could break his ribs. his handlers could beat him until he's half-conscious.

none of it scared him.

but he feels fear for the first time once he sees you.

one moment he's staring at the wad of cash in his hands, the threat echoing in his skull like gunfire—you lose the next one and that girl ends up like you—and the next, his gaze catches on movement at the edge of the crowd.

you.

your eyes wide. confused and hurt.

his stomach drops so fast he feels sick.

you're too close, too visible, too fragile for a place like this.

jisung doesn't decide to move, his body just..goes. his hand reaches for your wrist before he can think if that's crossing a line, but he needs you gone. hidden.

his pulse is a roar in his ears, every shadow feels like a threat. he pulls you into a nearby corridor, barely registering the words coming out of your mouth. when he feels you yank your wrist out of his grasp, he blurts out the only thing he can manage. "not here. please."

but you don't listen—of course you don't—and he doesn't blame you. "seriously jisung, what was that back there?"

his eyes snap to yours, narrowing. for a split second he hopes—no, prays—that deep down you didn't actually see what happened. that maybe you were asking about the fight, not the men who had their hands on him afterward. "what was what?" he forces out, voice tight.

but then your eyes drop to the cash he's still holding, and he feels it before he thinks: shame crawling up his throat, and underneath it, terror, because this is it. this is the moment he knows he failed to keep you out.

"why do you have a wad of cash in your hands?"

please stop. please don't get pulled into this. please don't see me like this.

he can't breathe properly. he tries to, but the air sticks, shallow and sharp.

your gaze travels all over him—his bruised cheek, his shaking hands, the open cuts on his knuckles—and he sees you putting it all together.

and then you say it.

"is this what you meant that fight club took more than it gave?" the words were so soft, but they cracked him clean in half.

because you're right. because you were never supposed to know what it cost him. and because he never wanted you to ever understand just how low this basement can go.

being seen like this. like property.

his jaw locks before he can stop it.

and he finally looks at you—really looks—and it almost breaks him. the worry, the anger, the fear swimming in your eyes all at once.

"stop coming here," he says, but the words scrape his throat raw on the way out. he tries to make his voice steady, but he hears it anyways—the strain, the fear pressing against each syllable.

he wishes he could tell you the truth. to have the ability to hold your hand again not because he's pulling you into a corner to hide.

but all he can manage—all he's allowed—is, "please."

the one word he only ever learned how to use when begging for mercy.

and right now, he's begging for yours.

park jisung grows busier and harder to reach, but somehow, you never stop feeling the warmth of his presence lingering at the edges of your day.

for once, you decided to listen to your neighbor and stop attending fight club. you tell yourself it gives you more time to focus on school—less stress, fewer close calls—and thankfully jisung still puts in an effort to come see you despite the unspoken ban hanging between you.

sometimes it's quiet check-ins between his errands. other times, it's the quiet comfort of the two of you sharing a couch, your head resting against his shoulder until he inevitably falls asleep sitting up. or it's the days where it's something small but thoughtful—like buying you a cup of coffee far better than the instant stuff you usually settle for, handing it to you before your first class with a soft, "don't be late."

lately, though, you've noticed he slips away at odd hours.

tonight, you hear the scrape of his chair against your floorboards and glance up from your notebook, you catch him tugging on his hoodie, hood up, the motion casual but purposeful.

"where are you going?" you ask, curious but not accusing.

he pauses long enough to lean over and press a kiss to the top of your head. "i'll be back in a bit," he murmurs. "but if you're asleep by the time i come back, i'll make sure to see you tomorrow. promise."

and then he's gone.

and despite having class early in the morning, you find yourself fighting sleep anyways—lights low, pretending to review notes, hoping to catch one more moment with him. even it it's just hearing him whisper a tired "goodnight" on his way past your door.

almost daily, around the same hour, he slips out, never telling you exactly where, only murmuring: "just clearing my head".

by morning, you cross through the living room on the way out, and you don't miss a steaming cup of coffee waiting on top of your entryway table, his jacket casually hanging on a hook beside it.

a small note rests atop the cup, written in his signature messy writing that you somehow are able to decipher:

"don't stay up too late again. see you tonight."

you can't help but smile, the warmth of him lingering in the air, even as he's nowhere to be seen.

over the course of the next few days, subtle signs begin to emerge that something is shifting. it's not in the dramatic moments you might expect, but in the quiet details that only someone paying close attention would notice.

his bruises are different now. they're cleaner, sharper, not the chaotic marks left by handlers or underground chaos. they speak of control, of calculated endurance rather than dissociation and desperation.

he seems sharper, more present. when he speaks to you, his focus is unwavering.

a neatly wrapped bandage covers his knuckles, and sometimes a water bottle in his bag instead of the usual blood-stained towel.

there's a faint, dry scent clinging to him sometimes, sharp, earthly, almost metallic, and it lingers under the familiar smell of his hoodie.

you catch a glimpse of his posture changing over the days. the way he leans into movements, balances his weight differently. you can't name it exactly, but something about him seems...more deliberate.

he keeps the mystery close to his chest, and you know better than to pry.

even in these small ways, you sense he's not spiraling anymore. his exhaustion is physical, not mental. his posture is steadier; his steps measured. and yet, the history of what he endured leaves you uneasy. you wonder if he's back in the ring, somewhere underground, somewhere you'll never know.

he enters the ring with a steadiness that feels wrong to the people watching and painfully right to the person he's becoming.

it's subtle at first. the way he rolls his shoulders, the way he adjusts his stance with small corrections: tightening his guard, grounding his weight, lifting his chin just enough to see without inviting a hit.

it's nothing dramatic or flashy, but it feels like watching a wolf that's learned not to chew its own leg off.

and the crowd hates it.

"where's the old park?"

"why isn't he swinging?"

"what's he doing?"

whispers ripple around him, irritation edging their excitement like they're watching a familiar beast behave all wrong. like he was cheating them of the spectacle they came for.

that wild reckless kid who threw himself into hits just to keep him awake.

the kind of fighter that made crowds lean forward in anticipation of blood.

jisung never used to think in the ring. he used to dive headfirst, fists flying, as if pain was a currency he could buy freedom with.

but tonight? he dodges instead.

the first blow that comes toward him, one he would've taken to the jaw without flinching, he slips under with a smoothness that startles even him. his muscles scream at him to follow it up with a reckless lunge, to chase that familiar sting of impact.

but he doesn't.

each dodge is a battle with muscle memory, a fight against the craving for pain. it's exhausting in a way nothing physical has ever been.

he counters only when he needs to. he doesn't chase openings; he waits for them.

his fists no longer fly with adrenaline, they land with intention. because he's no longer trying to tear through someone; he's trying to outthink them.

and for the first time since he was fifteen, jisung fights like someone who wants to see tomorrow.

that alone makes him unrecognizable.

he could care less if the crowd hates it, or if his handlers beat him for it. there's irritation in their eyes—something close to offense—like he's breaking an unspoken contract.

but he isn't performing for them anymore.

truth is, his ribs ache from holding back instincts he's spent years obeying.

but for jisung? he's choosing himself, even if he doesn't know where that choice leads to yet. and the more he fights this way, the more obvious it becomes that something in him is shifting.

across the ring, his opponent grows frustrated. he swings harder and angrier in an attempt to draw out the old park jisung. but jisung keeps slipping away, refusing to give him the satisfaction.

a missed punch sends wind rushing past his cheek. a blocked jab thuds harmlessly into his guard. a reckless hook is met with a simple step back.

then jisung lands one clean strike, a sharp cross to the jaw that sends his opponent stumbling and the match ends not in an explosion, but in quiet.

not the kind of win that makes money or draws attention. it's the kind that ends anticlimactically.

so by the end of the week, the new version of himself has become impossible to ignore.

at the end of one of his fights, a handler steps into jisung's path before he can wipe the sweat from his jaw, a fist into his hair, yanking him close.

"you think i don't notice when one of my fighters starts acting cute?" his breath is sour, hot against jisung's cheek. "all that dodging. all the patience. that's not you."

when the young boy doesn't answer, the man's eyes narrow. "do i need to bring in that girl to remind you how this works?"

and something in jisung snaps into focus.

his voice is low, steady. "you said if i lose the next fight, you'd drag her into this." jisung lifts his chin just enough to meet the man's eyes. "i haven't lost a single one since that night."

the handler scoffs, shoving jisung back into the concrete wall hard enough to rattle his teeth.

normally, this is where the old instincts would kick in: drop your gaze, apologize, and promise to do better. promise to bleed more next time.

but instead, his hands curl at his sides, not in defiance, but to stop from shaking. because the fear he feels now isn't the kind they trained into him. it's sharper, smaller, lodged directly under his ribs. it's fear of you being anywhere near them.

he hates that he's still a boy they molded, even while trying to climb out of shape they forced him into. but he also knows one thing with terrifying clarity: if he goes back to the way he fought before, he's dead. and if he doesn't, they'll look for new ways to break him.

either way, there's something that stubbornly whispers he might finally be fighting for something that's his.

"careful, park," he mutters, already walking away. "you're starting to forget who you belong to."

but that's the thing: jisung hasn't forgotten. he's just realizing he doesn't belong to them at all.

so over the course of the next few days, frustration among the handlers like rot in the walls.

jisung barely makes it two steps off the mat before someone grabs the back of his hoodie and yanks him sideways. his shoulder slams into the concrete wall hard enough to knock the breath from his lungs, but he doesn't fight it.

"cute performance out there," one of the handlers says, voice low and sharp. "real disciplined."

another snorts. "crowd hated it."

"you think people pay to watch you dance?" a third voice chips in.

a fist slams into the wall beside his head, close enough that the vibration rattling his teeth. "you used to give us something to sell."

jisung doesn't answer. not because he's being brave, but because his body moves before his mind can stop it.

his shoulders tighten, his chin dips a fraction, his gaze sliding away from the handler's eyes and fixes somewhere safer: concrete floor, peeling paint, anywhere that isn't a challenge.

a slow smile curls at the end of the handlers mouth, his grip tightening painfully in his hair, yanking his head back until the ceiling blurs. "there he is," he murmurs. "there's the boy we raised."

"i'm still winning," jisung says, but this time his voice shakes.

another shove sends him tumbling forward, a loud mocking laugh behind him. "you think winning is the point?" a voice sneers. "people don't come here to watch control. they come to watch you break."

jisung presses his palms flat against the wall to steady himself.

"i don't want to fight like that anymore," he says, and the words terrify him just as much as they feel right.

silence. then a sharp exhale.

"you hear that?" one handler says. "he's grown morals." a hand grips his chin, forcing his face up, meeting his eyes despite himself not wanting to.

"in case you forgot, you don't get to decide when this ends."

jisung's heart hammers, his mind flashing not to pain, but you. your apartment, your coffee cups, the way you look at him like he's not already ruined.

"basements don't forget faces," the man adds lightly. "and accidents happen when stop caring."

the handlers step back, already bored and walking away. "next match," one says over his shoulder. "remind us why we even bothered to keep you alive this long."

jisung slides down the wall until he's sitting on the floor, head tipped back, staring at the flickering light above him.

they're realizing park jisung might be more trouble than he's worth. and if he's no longer profitable...they might finally let him go.

that night, he comes home late.

not bleeding or limping, just tired in the deep, bone-heavy way that settles after holding yourself together too long.

you're half-asleep on the couch when he lets himself in, a blanket tangled around your legs, some muted show paused on the screen. the apartment smells like detergent and something warm, like leftover comfort.

jisung pauses in the doorway longer than usual.

he watches the slow rise and fall of your chest. the way one of your socks has slipped halfway off your foot. the soft, unguarded way your face looks when one is demanding anything from you.

he moves quietly, toeing off his shoes, setting his bag down without letting it thud. when he drapes the blanket back over your shoulders, your hand curls instinctively into the sleeve of his hoodie.

the contact almost knocks the breath from him.

for a second, his body reacts the way it's been trained to, muscles tight, mind bracing, waiting for the cost of touching something good. but nothing happens.

you just murmur his name, barely awake, and tug him closer like it's the most natural thing in the world.

he sits there longer than he should, letting your warmth seem into him, memorizing the room: the chipped coffee table, the faint hum of the fridge, the quiet safety of being wanted without conditions.

this, he thinks suddenly. this is what they'd ruin first.

not the ring, not the money, not the bruises.

they'd start small. missed visits, broken routines, a coffee cup left untouched before he didn't make it home. they'd poison it slowly until even being here felt dangerous.

the thought settles heavy in his chest, because if this is the thing they can use against him, then this is the thing worth fighting for.

when he finally stands, easing your hand free, he already knows what he's going to do next.

and he knows it's going to cost him something.

the next match doesn't feel different when it starts.

same basement, same flickering lights, same sour smell of sweat and metal that never quite dies. if he closes his eyes, he could pretend nothing has changed, but the handlers are watching him closely this time.

he feels it in the way their attention presses against his spine. assessing like men deciding whether a tool is worth repairing or whether it's cheaper to toss it and find another.

his opponent is aggressive, younger, loud.

all sharp elbows and reckless confidence, swinging before the bell has even finished. it's exactly the kind they think will drag the old jisung back out of him.

the bell rings, and the first punch comes fast and ugly—wide and sloppy meant to hurt more than land.

jisung steps aside just enough for the glove to cut past his shoulder, air rushing where his face used to be. a year ago, he would've let it connect, letting the crowd feel it through him.

a murmur ripples through the room, but he keeps his guard tight, feet grounded against the concrete like he's anchoring himself to the earth instead of floating above it.

every instinct in his body screams at him to answer pain with pain, to trade blows, to buy silence with blood. but just he breathes, slow in through his nose, out through his mouth.

now his opponent grows more irritated; swinging harder and louder. he tries to bait jisung, dropping his guard on purpose and throwing taunts between punches, clipping his ribs just enough to sting.

but jisung absorbs it without chasing. just enough to learn the rhythm. the hitch in his shoulder before a hook, the way his weight shifts too far forward when he commits.

then jisung moves.

a clean counter snaps the man's head back. another step, another strike. he's already gone by the time he retaliation comes, feet thudding softly against the floor.

and just like his previous fights, the crowd doesn't cheer.

near the ring. one of the handlers scoffs. "this is boring."

another clicks his tongue. "the kid's not listening."

and jisung hears them. he always does. and for the first time, he looks at them while he fights. just once, just enough for them to know this isn't an accident. that he's not choosing to listen to their recycled threats.

there's no fear on his face, but there's no challenge either.

he finishes the match the same way he's fought it—controlled, quiet and undeniable. when the bell rings, there is no roar to follow up. just an uneasy silence and a few disappointed groans.

the handlers don't rush him this time. no hands in the hair, no fists to the ribs, no barked threats delivered inches from his face.

one of them exhales slowly, irritation thick in the sound. "he's not worth it anymore," he says.

and that is the moment jisung understands he might finally be free. because to them, he's stopped being profitable.

and that's the most dangerous mercy they know how to give.

your break from classes feel like the first real breath you've had in weeks. you spend the whole afternoon cleaning your room, catching up on laundry, even making a proper meal instead of whatever you could microwave between assignments. the apartment is quiet and you're halfway through folding a pile of shirts when the door clicks open.

jisung steps in, shoulders slightly hunched, hoodie damp at the edges from outside fog. he looks tired in the way someone looks when their body is tired, not their spirit.

there's something else too, something alert behind his eyes, an energy that didn't exist a month ago.

"you're back early," you say, glancing over the pile of laundry.

he toes off his shoes, eyes flicking toward you and softening instantly. "yeah, thought i'd check in. make sure you weren't buried under homework again."

you roll your eyes. "it's break, genius."

he grins, one he reserves for you. "right. break."

he crosses the room and sinks onto the couch beside you, falling backward like gravity personally offended him. his head lands near your thigh, close but not quite touching, as if he's checking if you'll let him. you push a folded shirt aside and brush a hand through his hair.

he melts instantly.

"long day?" you ask.

he hums. "something like that." his eyes slip shut, breathing slow and even, like bearing near you is the only moment he lets himself actually rest.

you think he'll nap (he looked like he needs one), but after a few minutes he sits up again, rubbing his face and exhaling like he's trying to shake something off him.

"i should...take care of something before it gets too late," he mutters, straightening his hoodie.

you pause folding your laundry. "already? you just got here."

"i know," he says quickly, almost apologetic. he leans down and presses a warm kiss to your cheek. "i'll be back in a bit."

you frown. "you always say that."

"and i always mean it." his voice is soft, careful like every word is placed down instead of spoken.

by the time he leaves, you're staring at the door with a strange ache, half worry, half longing.

jisung slips out like he usually does, hood up, footsteps quiet on the damp pavement. he walks past the alley behind the old gym, the one where the the underground fighters linger after matches, talking, smoking.

only tonight, it's empty. quiet.

for the first time in years, the absence of the men who had always haunted him doesn't feel like freedom. it feels more like a countdown ending. the cages, the cheap lights, the cheers for blood. they're fading, losing power over him, and with that fading comes something sharper: clarity.

he realizes he doesn't want to hide anymore. not from them, and certainly not from you.

and that night, even after he returns hours later and drapes a blanket over you as you pretend to be asleep on the couch, something in his movements feel different.

like he's standing at the edge of something, and he already knows which way he's going to jump.

the following evening, you're finishing dinner when there's a knock on your door. two light taps, then one heavier one. jisung's signature pattern.

you open the door expecting the usual—hoodie, exhaustion, an attempt at a smile.

but tonight, he looks wired. not anxious or panicked. just full of something he's been holding inside for too long.

"hey," you say softly. "everything okay?"

"yeah, i—can i come in?"

you step aside, and he walks in, pacing once across your living room before stopping in front of you. his hands hover like he can't decide whether to clench them or reach for you.

"okay," he starts, voice thin, "i don't want to keep you in the dark anymore."

your eyebrows lift, confused by where this was coming from. "about...?"

he takes a breath, and when he speaks, it sounds like tearing something open.

"i want you to be at my match tomorrow."

you blink. "your match? jisung, i haven't gone to fight club since—"

"no, not that," he shakes his head quickly, a frown on his face but doesn't last long. "not underground. not that hellhole."

he meets your eyes with something raw. something hopeful and scared at the same time.

"i've been training at a real gym," he says." with an actual trainer and everything. i'm taking on my first match tomorrow." a shallow breath. "my first real match."

the words feel unreal in your eyes. "wha—you—" you blink, not sure what words should come out. "... jisung? since when?"

he runs a hand through his hair, pacing again. "two months," he admits. "almost three. i didn't want to tell you until i knew i could stick with it." his eyes lift toward yours, and there's something uncertain in them you're not used to seeing: the quiet vulnerability of someone who's never been allowed to want more.

"i didn't want you to get your hopes up," he murmurs.

when you step closer, jisung hesitates for a moment before reaching for your wrist, fingers gentle as if asking permission.

"fight club...they're phasing me out. because i'm not giving them what they want anymore." his jaw flexes, frustrating flickering across his face. "i'm not bleeding for people who don't care if i make it home."

your chest tightens. "jisung..."

he shakes his head before you can interrupt. "i know it doesn't magically fix the last ten years of my life, but i want a shot at something real; at something clean." his voice cracks just slightly, but you feel his hands squeeze yours. "i want a future i don't have to be scared to let you see."

he swallows, like the words are scraping as they come out. "i...i want this to be real."

and there it is. the truth he's been choking on.

you reach up, cupping his cheek and he leans into it with a quiet, almost boyish need. "what time is the match?" you ask softly.

"eight." he whispers.

"then i'll be there."

inside, the gym is brighter than anything you've seen him fight under. bright lights, real referees, people who paid to watch techniques instead of blood.

for the first time, you don't feel like prey the second you walk through a door.

jisung spots you almost immediately. he's across the room, hands wrapped in clean white tape, wearing a uniform that fits him. his trainer speaks quietly besides him, adjusting the elastic of his glove.

and since the night you first noticed your neighbor in the hallways of your shitty apartment complex, jisung looks alive.

when he sees you, something in him softens so fast it borders on heartbreaking. he doesn't approach—he's mid-prep—but he gives you a small nod, one that says stay there, i see you, don't look away.

"i want a clean fight."

and the match begins.

jisung's stance is different from the underground—measured but unapologetic. he uses footwork instead of instincts, precision instead of self-destruction. when he dodges, it's intentional. when he counters, it lands clean.

he's not fighting to entertain anymore. he's fighting to win, and it shows.

his opponent is larger, more experienced, but not mean or cruel. this is a sport, not a pit. and jisung rises to the level of every expectation placed on him.

in the third round, he lands a decisive combination—left hook, cross, clean foot pivot—and the referee steps in as his opponent stumbles.

the bell rings, and the match is over.

a real win. a real crowd cheering not for blood, but for him.

and jisung's eyes find yours instantly.

he doesn't stay long in the ring, making his way down and rushing to your side.

he takes your face in the palm of his hands, lifting your face to meet his lips.

when he pulls back, he leans his forehead against yours. “turns out i'm better at fighting for my life than fighting in the ring.”

you look up at him, eyes crinkling. there's something gentle that swells behind your ribs. not loud, just full—as if your body hasn't quite learned what to do with this kind of feeling.

you laugh, and you take his wrist in your hands, raising his arm in the air like you were the referee declaring the winner.

"the winner is: the nation's newest boxing obsession—park jisung."

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