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leejenowrld · 27 days ago

Text

back to you — seven (finale)

pairing - lee jeno x reader

word count - 49k words

genre - smut, fluff, angst, enemies to lovers

synopsis — an unlikely alliance throws everything off balance, and what starts as quiet retaliation spirals into an expose that shakes the campus to its core. reputations fracture, alliances crumble, and the pressure of the state championships forces every hidden crack into the light. you tell yourself it’s just the game, but jeno’s fall is faster than anyone saw coming, and as the final closes in, so does the weight of everything left unsaid. you built this together, but you can’t outrun the ruin you made. no matter how far you go, it all comes back to you.

chapter contents/warnings — college au, small town vibes, explicit language, explicit sexual content(18+), explicit themes, one tree hill inspired, early 2000s vibe, power play, dom reader/sub jeno dynamics (both switches tbh), explicit language, softest smut yet, they’re not rough this chapter lol, emotionally charged sex, riding like always, lots of crying, soft kisses, praises, desperate clinging, strong eye contact, soft dirty talk, this chapter i gets wild, expose shakes the campus, state championships scene, coach suh has his moments, y/n moves like a silent assassin the entirety of this chapter, this chapter gets very dramatic and intense, ambition vs personal sacrifice, cute friend group moments, exhibition scenes, can’t really say much here cos everything is a spoiler. i do want to say though is remember perspective is everything and not everything is as clean cut and final as you think 🖤. love you, enjoy <3

listen to 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐘𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 whilst reading <3

𝐅𝐈𝐂 𝐌𝐋

the instagram posts | two

Coach Suh’s apartment doesn’t greet you, it claims you, like a bruise that never faded, greeting you like an old scar aching under winter’s breath. The hum of the lights is soft but jagged, flickering in broken rhythm, like a heartbeat that never healed right. Each pulse throws the room into fractured light and deeper shadow, spreading glassy shards across the floor that catch the memory of your skin, your sweat, your past sins, scattering them like ghostly confetti. The leather couch slouches under the weight of old nights, your claw marks still faintly scratched into its surface, a quiet graveyard of choices. The air is stale and heavy, tasting of yesterday's whiskey and long-decayed lust, the walls soaked in cologne and sweat, time sealed in the fabric of this place like a cruel reminder.

His jacket hangs limply over the back of a chair, stubborn in its familiar drape, like he never learned to put it away, like he never let you go. You step further inside and it feels like slipping into an old skin, one stretched too tight in places, loose in others, but still memorizing your shape too well. Coach Suh watches every movement, sharp-eyed and wary, reading you like a playbook written in bruises and bitten-off moans, tracking every flex of your posture, every tilt of your gaze. He sees how you cradle the offer of your body between your teeth like a live grenade, feels the tremble of static in the air, but you don’t hand it over yet. You let the tension simmer, let it smoke in your lungs like the cigarettes he used to press to your lips, the neon wounds between you burning back to life.

“Why now?” His voice cracks the silence, roughened by history, by knowing you too well. He doesn’t ask what you want—he already knows. “We’ve already started,” he reminds you, his eyes narrowing, glinting in the broken light. “You and me both, we’re already fucking Eric and Sunwoo over, tearing down their game. What more could you need?”

You swallow hard, pulse flickering tight in your throat, chest aching beneath the weight of it as you force the words out. “It’s not enough,” you say, voice brittle, stretched thin like it’s been scraped raw inside you. “We’ve been moving too slow. We’re dragging, stalling and he’s running out of time.” The words come sharp, each one a cut against your breath, tension fraying at the edges until it feels ready to snap. “The plan isn’t final, not yet, and it needs to be—tonight.” His gaze flicks over you, sharp and knowing, lingering on the curve of your mouth, the tension coiled in your frame, the way your fingers twitch at your side like you’re holding yourself back from reaching for him. You see it ignite in his eyes, that old, dangerous flicker—he knows exactly what you’re offering, and you know exactly how much you want him to take it. The air thickens, dark and intimate, clinging to your skin like sweat, heavy with all the things you don’t say, but ache to give.

You drift closer like a shadow with intent, your movements slow but too fluid, too calculated, the kind of slow that isn't unconscious at all, it’s the kind that slices. Your mind is clouded, high off the lingering hit of Jeno but your body knows exactly what it’s doing, every motion slick with quiet provocation. The leather of your jacket sighs as you let it fall from your shoulders, the sound soft, sinful, inviting, like a lover’s breath in your ear, the slide of it deliberate enough to make him look. When you pass him your notebook, your fingers don’t just brush his knuckles, they trace him, dragging like you want to mark his skin with your touch alone, a silent dare, a threat wrapped in velvet.

His throat jerks in a swallow, that telltale flicker of want flashing in his eyes, dark and fast like a match catching fire, old hunger clawing back to the surface. For a beat it almost feels like he’ll give in, like he’s seconds away from dragging you under with him, but then he recoils, sharp and tight, his breath a knife between you. "What are you doing?" he mutters, rough, bitter, the words cut from a place that still bleeds when he thinks of you. "You don’t have to do that anymore." His voice lingers in the thick air between you, heavy with disdain, with history, but beneath it you taste the shadow of temptation, thin and sharp as a blade pressed against your ribs.

You tilt your head, lips curling into a smirk sharpened by history, and murmur, "Thought you liked when I begged."

His eyes narrow, the shadow of something fond and furious crossing his face, and his voice comes rough, low, weighted. "We don't do that anymore." For a moment, just a moment, you feel something old loosen its grip on your spine, a thread snapping loose in the knot of your chest. You sigh, slow and shallow, and nod, though you don't step away.

He exhales like he's been holding that breath since the last time he touched you, his chest lifting with the weight of it. "I don't need your body to help Jeno," he says, the words surprisingly gentle, cracking at the edges. "Jeno's a pain in the ass but I wouldn't trade sex over him." His mouth twists after the words slip out, and you both laugh, sharp and brittle, because it came out all wrong and you both know it. He rubs a hand over his jaw, a familiar tic when he's thinking hard, then his eyes settle on you with something deeper, more raw.

"You only beg for him now, don't you?" he says, quiet but cutting, and it lands like a punch to the ribs, knocking the breath clean out of you. There's no teasing in his voice, only observation, only truth. He sees it clear as day, maybe clearer than you ever have—that you're not here to survive anymore, you're here to save Jeno, because you love him, because you're too deep to climb back out. "You love him," Coach Suh says, not as a question, but as a fact laid bare between you, like an old wound split open anew.

His eyes linger on you longer than they should, not with hunger but something heavier, something thinking, reading you like a story he’s read too many times but never fully understood until now. His gaze drags from your mouth to the tremble in your breath, to the tight hold of your spine like you’re bracing yourself for impact that never comes. “You’re different,” he murmurs at first, almost like he’s speaking to himself, slow and careful, weighing each word before he releases it.

His voice carries that same familiar cadence, the one you’ve heard a hundred times across lecture halls just as much as courts, because on the side of coaching, he still teaches literature, always pacing slow in front of students, always turning every line of text inside out like it’s a puzzle only he can solve. He speaks now the way he reads poems, folding meanings open carefully, like you’re a passage he’s studied too long but never fully unlocked. It’s in the way he tastes his words before letting them go, like they deserve to be savoured, like they might bleed truth if he says them right. You can almost hear the echo of old classrooms in his tone, shelves stacked with battered books, annotated margins curling under his fingertips, stories of hunger and ruin too close to your own. He speaks like a man who has read too many books and still craves the real thing, real skin, real blood, real consequence.

“You used to fuck like you didn’t care if it killed you,” he continues, his tone roughening, dipping lower, heavier, like the memory is sinking into his chest and dragging him under, folding itself between his ribs as a permanent, throbbing ache. “Every time you came to me, it was reckless, it was violent, you’d fuck me like you were trying to rip something out of yourself, like you needed it brutal just to feel alive. Between your legs, in your mouth, in your eyes—starving, always starving, like you didn’t care what broke, what bled, what burned to the ground.”

Your silence hangs in the space between you like breath held too long underwater. He’s always been like this, you think, the kind of man who unwraps his words slowly, never rushing to the end of a sentence, always tasting each thought as if it’s a rare vintage. He has shelves of books taller than you, lines of poetry he’s memorized so well they echo in his voice even now. He was never cruel, not really, but he knew how to make language feel like a knife sliding beneath your ribs, gentle and fatal all at once.

You say nothing. You let the silence stretch, let him fill it the way he always does, with words carved sharp as blades but reverent as scripture. His eyes grow distant for a moment, narrowed like he’s remembering the way you used to tremble for him, like he can still feel your teeth on his neck, the wild, reckless way you used to take him. His mouth twists, soft and dark, almost fond. "But now it’s not like that," he goes on, quieter, closer, like he’s unwrapping you layer by layer, until all your intentions are bare in his hands. “Now you’re not chasing ruin anymore. Now you’re chasing him.”

His gaze pins you where you stand, no cruelty, no heat, only clarity, sharp enough to cut you clean through. "You only beg for him now, don’t you?” He says at last, not a question, not an accusation, but a quiet verdict, heavy and true, slipping between your ribs like a blade turned sideways. It hollows you out with its accuracy. He sees it so clearly it startles you, sees the way you’re here not for survival, not for yourself, but for Jeno—only Jeno.

Your throat tightens, breath sticking thick in your chest, but you stay quiet. You don’t have to answer—he sees it, feels it in the way your pulse flutters under your skin, your body betraying you without a sound. He lets out a breath, rough and low, lips curling with something that’s not quite a smirk, not quite a sneer, but something darker in between, something that tastes like memory and old ruin. “He’s lucky,” Coach Suh says, voice dropping rougher, slower, like the truth drags claws down his throat. “The way I used to have you...” His eyes drag over you, heavy and unflinching, and there’s no hesitation, no falter. The words come smooth, like the slow burn of aged whiskey, too familiar to regret, too dangerous to forget. “Was the best sex of my life. I still watch the videos we used to film.”

There’s no shame in his eyes, no apology lacing the confession, only the dark flicker of memory behind his gaze, sharp and alive, flickering across his expression like a spark that refuses to die out. His gaze dips, slow and deliberate, trails down your body like it still remembers the way you used to move for him, the way you chased ruin without fear, the way you invited it. His mouth twists, dark and knowing, his voice curling around the truth with no intention of softening it. “You used to fuck like you hated the world for making you want it so bad,” he says, low and blunt, words scraping over your skin, “like you wanted to ruin yourself on my cock and make me watch.”

For a moment, his eyes drift, caught between then and now, drawn into the pull of memory. His gaze clouds, hooded like he sees you bent over, breathless, wild for him, like he sees your knees bruised against the couch and your mouth slack from begging for more. But then, it sharpens, cuts clean, landing back on you with a precision that slices deeper than anything he’s said before. His voice steadies, heavy but sure, like he can no longer hold back what he knows. “But with him,” he continues, slow and certain, thick with something close to reverence, “it’s not like that. I see it. You want him to win. You want him to breathe.”

His voice roughens, tightens around the truth that lodges in the space between you both, too dense to escape, too undeniable to ignore. His eyes sweep over you once more, slower this time, dragging like they’re tracing the outline of the new woman you’ve become, like he’s seeing something raw and real blooming beneath your skin. “And you,” he says, his voice dipping to a near-growl, low enough you feel it more than hear it, “you want to be the one who gives him that air.”

You draw a breath sharp enough to slice your throat, your chest burning from how tight it coils. “I didn’t come here to write a thesis on Jeno,” you say, the words brittle at first, but then they catch fire on your tongue, turning sharp, decisive. “I came here to rewrite the ending.”

Coach Suh watches you for a beat, something flickering behind his eyes, almost like he expected this from you all along. His nod is slow, heavy, carrying the weight of a man who’s lived too many versions of this story and never seen it end well. “You know the way,” he murmurs, low and certain, and when he gestures towards the study, you move without hesitation, like crossing a threshold into war.

The study feels colder than the rest of the apartment, as if the walls remember things too well, and you drift toward the desk with an instinct that feels both familiar and foreign, like slipping into a role you were born for but never rehearsed. Your fingertips brush the edge of the polished wood, tracing the scattered papers and the metal glint of the chess set left mid-play, pieces frozen in time, black and white tangled like a lover’s quarrel. Your eyes sweep over the room, noting the small details with an almost surgical precision — the half-drunk glass of water sweating rings into a coaster, the neat stack of game reports aligned like classified files, the faint burn of an old cigar scent curling in the air like a warning. You move without thinking, circling the desk like you’re skimming the perimeter of an enemy base, checking for traps that were never there, your spine tight with anticipation. His eyes follow you, steady and unreadable, watching you take in every inch of the room like a strategist surveying a battlefield mapped in memories and mistakes. You feel the weight of his stare prick at your skin, and your breath catches in your throat before you mutter low, not even meaning to let it slip out, “What?”

His answer lands not like a question, but like a verdict passed. “I feel like I’m starting to regret sending Jeno to you all those months ago,” he says, his voice roughened by time, by too many losses and too few victories. There’s no bitterness in it, only the cool acceptance of a man who knows he played god and lost control of the storm he summoned. He tilts his head slightly, considering the weight of his next words, before they unfurl slow and deliberate from his mouth. “I should’ve known better than to send two rogue stars crashing into each other’s path,” he murmurs, his gaze dropping to the chessboard like it holds the whole galaxy between its squares. “You don’t throw fire into fire and expect anything less than an inferno.”

His tone softens, the sharp edge of philosophy giving way to something achingly personal. “But you and Jeno…” he continues, almost tasting the words as they form, “you remind me of my Hyeri.” The name cuts through the quiet like a ghost stepping into the room, and he lets it linger in the air, staring past you into a distance only he can see. Everyone knows the story — Coach Suh’s wife, the love of his life, lost to pancreatic cancer years ago, a slow, brutal erosion of the woman he loved and the man he used to be. He hasn’t been the same since. Not in the way he carries himself, not in the way he loves the game, not in the way he speaks — like every word he chooses now is a stone placed carefully on a grave.

You swallow hard, but the lump in your throat stays solid, words tangled too tightly to break free. You can’t even let yourself think about the weight of what he just said, can’t afford to touch the grief of it — not now, not when there’s something else burning hotter beneath his words, something more urgent, more dangerous. What does he mean he regrets sending Jeno to you? The question hooks deep under your ribs, drags through you like barbed wire, but you’re too caught between the shock and the pull to even speak it aloud.

His gaze darkens, not in malice, but in depth, as though he’s reading straight from your skull, seeing every fractured thought scatter through your head like broken glass catching the light. He breathes slow, like the truth is old and heavy, already settled in his bones long before you were ready to hear it. “You think this started with you?” His words are calm, but there’s an undertow beneath them, pulling you deeper whether you want it or not. “You think it started with him finding you in that bar?” He lets the question hang there, lets it rot sweet and slow in the air between you, heavy enough to crack the floorboards beneath your feet. His eyes hold you there, pinned, as if he already knows you have no answer. You don’t. You’re split open under his gaze, bare as bone.

“What?” you breathe, too quiet, too late. But it doesn’t matter. He’s already dropping the blade.

“I sent him there,” Coach Suh confesses, plain as sky, heavy as stone. “Deliberately. Placed him like a piece on the board. Told him to get out of my practice, told him to take the night off, sent him the address of that bar and said don’t let anyone see you go. I didn’t think he’d actually listen.” His voice drops lower, rougher, but there’s no apology in it — only the raw satisfaction of a man watching his orchestration unfold, hearing the violent crescendo of the symphony he conducted with his own hands. “He’d been playing like shit ever since Mark joined the team. Wouldn’t follow plays, second-guessed every shot, burned himself out trying to be perfect while Mark outran him without even breaking a sweat. He lost his rhythm, his hunger — it was like watching a lion cage itself.” His lips curl bitter, almost fond. “I watched him spiral, game after game, his fire snuffed out under the pressure, until I couldn’t stomach it anymore. So I flung him.” His gaze darkens, sharp as a blade drawn clean across your throat. “I flung him as far as I could from the court, from the suffocation, from the expectations clawing down his back, and I thought — maybe, maybe if I could get him far enough, he’d remember what it felt like to breathe again.” His pause is tight, braced, before the final blow lands.

“I knew you’d be there,” he says, no hesitation, no flourish, like he’s always known. His gaze cuts to you, deliberate, exacting, as if your whole body is a map he’s memorised in ink and blood. “Of course I did. That bar, I sent him there to find you.” He doesn’t soften, doesn’t play coy, just exhales rough through his nose like the memory still burns under his skin. “That bar led me to you. When they told me my heart was failing, I walked into that place like I was already dead, drinking to drown out the countdown in my chest.” His eyes catch the light, sharp and dark, watching you like he’s watching the memory crawl back to life between your ribs. “And then I saw you.” The words scrape his throat like gravel, his voice rougher, thicker, dipped in something far less clean than nostalgia. “You weren’t just burning, you were performing combustion. You were on that stage like you wanted to drag the whole fucking world into your fire, legs spread, mouth open, voice soaked in sin.” His lips part, almost like he can taste you again, like the phantom of you still lingers on his tongue. “Watching you, owning you, fucking you, it made me feel alive again. It made me feel like I could beat death itself if it meant keeping you under me one more time.”

There’s no filth in his tone, no sleaze, only brutal honesty carved clean and sharp, like glass freshly broken off the pane. His mouth tightens, something pulled between reverence and ruin, like he’s looking at a relic he once defiled and worshipped in the same breath. “I wasn’t looking to be healed,” he says, voice low, rough at the edges. His eyes, dark and sure, drag over you as if you’re still up there on that bar stage, raw and untouchable, wild in a way no man could ever contain. “But you made me feel something I thought I’d buried for good. When I watched you,” his throat tightens, his pulse visible at his neck, “you didn’t save me, you shook me. Rattled the rot out of my bones. Stripped me of my fear without even trying.” His gaze flickers, heavy-lidded, the weight of history pressing behind it. “So when I saw him slipping, when I saw Jeno falling under the weight of it all, when the game started to crush him like it tried to crush me,” his voice hardens, like he’s making sense of it for himself as much as for you, “I thought of you. You. Not to heal him, not to fix him, but to wake him the fuck up.”

It is stunning, how silence can feel louder than any scream. You don’t say anything, can’t even breathe properly because it feels like you’re falling backward through time, not falling weightless but falling like you’re being dragged, spine bent, ribs cracking open as every thread of memory with Jeno yanks taut and snaps, only to rethread itself around your throat. It tears through you, brutal and unforgiving, like you’re plummeting through a storm of moments you thought were your own, only to realise they were written in someone else’s hand all along. Coach Suh. His hand, his design. He didn’t just let Jeno stumble into you, he hurled him, flung him across a chessboard like a pawn racing straight for his queen, every move calculated, deliberate, merciless. He was the composer of this twisted symphony, conducting the crescendo from the shadows, raising his baton to orchestrate the inevitable clash of bodies and fates. He was the hunter, planting seeds he thought harmless, watching them grow wild and untameable until they broke through the bones of his game.

“I pushed him into the fire and called it strategy,” Coach Suh says, voice cracked open, bleeding truth like molten iron. His gaze stays on you, sharp as a conductor’s baton slicing through the final note. “Didn’t know you’d be the crescendo that swallowed him whole.”

You swallow but it doesn’t go down. It shatters, jagged and merciless, splintering its way through your throat like glass ground to dust. The weight of it doesn’t just land, it collides, slamming into your chest with the force of a star imploding. You feel it drive itself beneath your ribs, burying so deep it anchors there, inescapable, immovable. There’s no outrunning this, no folding it into denial’s soft edges. This is truth, vicious and irreversible, a blade twisting the map of your life until you don’t even recognise the roads anymore. You see it now, see it with the clarity of a sky torn clean by lightning. You were never an accident. Never a stray thread in someone else’s tapestry. You were always the destination. Always. And it burns, God, it burns, so hot you think it might eat you alive from the inside out, fire licking up your spine, clawing at your lungs, scorching your throat raw, because if you were the destination from the very beginning, if every crooked step and every hidden hand led you to this ruthless collision, then maybe, maybe you’re not just the destination. Maybe you’re the endgame. Maybe you’re the one who writes the ending.

This is not information you can carry lightly. No, this is weight, pure and crushing, the kind that carves its mark behind your eyes and leaves you seeing the world split open, exposed and bleeding. You will carry this truth to your grave, buried so deep it will rot with your bones. It doesn’t feel like a man sharing regret, or even guilt. It feels like a man unspooling the truth of his god complex, peeling back the skin of fate and showing you the machinery beneath, every cog and lever, every move he orchestrated in the dark. He says it not as an apology, but as an admission of control, a craftsman admiring the ruin he both created and feared. He played god with your life, with Jeno’s life, because he could.

Because somewhere in the marrow of him, beneath the coach and the man and the strategist, there lived a raw, reckless hunger to watch you burn. To push you and Jeno closer, closer still, until your orbits twisted into one, until the gravity between you compressed so tight it could only end one way. He kept pressing, kept forcing the distance between you to collapse, like he could already see it—the moment Jeno’s mouth would crash to yours, desperate and bruising, the moment your body would arch into his, like they were carved from the same fever dream. Coach Suh didn’t just set the game in motion. He loaded the board, he primed the fuse, he pushed you both to the very brink until you could taste it—taste him—in every breath you took.

And when you collided—God, when you collided—it wasn’t soft. It wasn’t gentle. It was raw and brutal and hungry, the kind of contact that leaves teeth marks on your soul. You didn’t fall into each other. You crashed. You tore through everything in your way. You met him in that bar and it was like your bodies had already memorised the script, your pulse already wired to his, your hunger already written in the spaces between your ribs. He pressed into you like he’d been starving his whole life for this exact taste, and you let him, you opened for him, you let him drown in you, because you were drowning too.

You didn’t just collide. You detonated. You split the sky open, you scorched his name into your bones, you carved yourself into him so deep there would never be a way to separate again. Coach Suh watched it happen, watched the fire roar to life, and he knew that he had fed two wildfires into the same wind, and there was never a chance they wouldn’t burn the whole forest down.

But you, you don’t flinch beneath it. You let the fire consume the last of your doubt, let it burn through the marrow of your bones and cauterise the wound clean. You came here for a reason. To protect Jeno. To fight for him, tooth and claw, with every jagged edge of yourself. You will not leave until you’ve done that. If anything, Coach Suh’s revelation hasn’t rattled your conviction—it’s sharpened it, honed it to a lethal point. You are more certain now than you’ve ever been. Whatever storm you were destined to become, whatever wildfire he thought he had planted like a seed, you are more. You are the storm and the wildfire.

Your eyes drift down to the chessboard sprawled across the table, pieces frozen mid-battle, black and white tangled like the twisted aftermath of a lover’s quarrel. It feels less like a game now and more like a mirror of your life, every piece representing a choice already made, a consequence already written. Dawn hovers at the horizon, but in this room, it is still midnight, thick and suffocating, strung tight with tension that vibrates beneath your skin. Your fingers hover above the queen, not moving yet, not claiming victory, but poised with the promise of it, the weight of a final strike blooming beneath your fingertips like a slow explosion waiting to be released.

Coach Suh watches you from across the table, his gaze narrow, calculating, sharp as the blade you’ve become. He looks at you the way he looks at his playbooks, not as a player caught in his strategy, but as the strategist beside him now, his equal in the war they’re about to wage. His mouth twists into something grim and knowing. “You learned how to play dirty from the best,” he murmurs, his voice rough with a private kind of pride, folding between you like smoke rising from the wreckage.

Under the dim hum of old ceiling lights, the desk sprawls before you like a battlefield map, cold and ruthless in its clarity. Footage lines the screen in jagged fragments, games frozen mid-play like bodies caught in the crossfire of a long, bloody war. Each pause is deliberate, each frame dissected like a corpse beneath your scalpel. Your spine curls tighter, shoulders wound sharp as blades, eyes narrowed to slits as you scroll back and forth, over and over, knuckles bone-white over the mouse. You aren’t just watching; you’re hunting. Obsession has devoured your pulse whole.

Coach Suh doesn’t look away from you, not once. He watches you like a general witnessing his finest weapon unsheath itself, piece by lethal piece. Between you, there’s a rhythm, unsaid but vicious, a war-drum beat rising under your skin. Neither of you speaks at first. You just move, in sync, as though you’ve trained your entire lives for this siege. The room seals shut around you like a war bunker, curtains drawn, the world outside dead and irrelevant. Only the hum of the laptop fills the air, ominous like old machinery powering the final assault.

He has the footage because of course he does. He’s the coach. He’s kept records of every game, every play, every misstep that ever crossed his court. But tonight those records are more than just history, they’re blueprints of a crime scene and you see it instantly. What you’re looking at isn’t coincidence, it’s the anatomy of a long war that’s been unfolding right under his nose, right under yours, woven into the muscle memory of the game itself. Eric and Sunwoo were Ravens once. They know the playbooks inside out, they know the drills, the weaknesses in the formation, the pressure points of rookies too raw to see the snare tightening around their ankles until it’s already too late. They’ve been working this scheme for years, slipping into shadows, pulling strings from the sidelines, turning players like Jeno into pawns without ever having to step back onto the court.

You go deeper, sharper, your eyes carving through the footage like blades honed for the kill. You map out their old games first — when they were still on the team, still in uniform, making deliberate turnovers, playing lazy defence that opened up easy lanes for the opposing team, fouling at moments too crucial to be accident. Then you pull their games after they left the roster and it’s there too, the same pattern, still happening, still alive. Missed plays right when the betting margins are tightest, defensive collapses lining up with spikes in shady bets. Coach Suh digs through financial records at your side, rough fingers scrolling until he finds what you need: transactions tied to burner accounts, numbers that lead to underground rings. You string it all together, every timestamp, every slip of corruption, not just for a report but for an execution. This isn't a coincidence, this is the way they’ve been bleeding the game dry for years, and tonight, you’re turning that method into a weapon.

You already had the skeleton waiting, built in shadows long before you ever walked through Coach Suh’s door. Tonight is about tightening the bolts, sharpening every loose end into a blade. While the game footage flickers like a pulse on the screen, you drag open your burner files, the ones you’ve been gathering quietly, obsessively, while the rest of the world looked away.

Sunghoon, Jihoon — names that once meant rising stars, now reduced to whispers in the dark. Two former Ravens, both swallowed by the same pattern of collapse. Their careers didn’t end by chance. They were broken. Bent under the weight of quiet threats and invisible debts until they had no choice but to disappear. You sift through the evidence, unflinching. Screenshots of texts litter the folder, grim and final. Demands to throw games, warnings to stay silent, promises that debts would swallow their families whole if they didn’t obey. One voice note plays, low and trembling, the words punching into your ribs like knuckles made of bone. "They told me to miss those shots or they’d bury me in debt."

Your spine stiffens as you thread it into the report, make it bleed into the narrative with cruel precision. You place it where no one can ignore it, where it’ll scream louder than any headline. These aren’t isolated incidents, they’re casualties of a system designed to devour the desperate. Beside you, Coach Suh moves like a man loading a weapon, no hesitation, no mercy. His burner laptop hums as he drags open files older than this season, older than Jeno’s descent. Betting slip data flashes across the screen, pulled from a bookie who owed him a favour that just came due. The spikes are unmistakable. Patterns of bets placed at the exact moments games tilted off axis, the same names tangled in every shadowed corner. Eric and Sunwoo’s fingerprints are all over it, oily and undeniable.

You go deeper, sharper, cross-referencing every spike in bets with the footage of fouls, missed plays, deliberate turnovers. It unfolds like a map of rot, arteries blackened with greed. The timing is too perfect to be chance. This is not chaos. This is design. A system so calculated it makes your teeth ache. Coach Suh’s eyes harden as he sees it, fury smouldering in his gaze like a man watching termites hollow out the walls of his home. "They’ve been bleeding this team dry long before Jeno," he mutters, voice tight and bitter. You don’t flinch.

"Then we bleed them back," you answer, cold as steel.

Together, you thread every piece into a weapon sharp enough to gut them clean. Texts, voicenotes, betting slips, game footage, testimonies from Sunghoon and Jihoon — it all stitches into the report like veins pumping poison straight to the heart of the ethics board. What you’re building isn’t a case, it’s a kill shot, the blade already pressed to their throats, and by the time you’re done, you’re not looking at evidence anymore. You’re looking at their execution order, signed, sealed, inevitable.

You finalise it all. Every filthy scrap, every poisoned thread of their own making, gathered and laid out like an arsenal waiting for your signal. None of this fell into your lap. You built this with your own hands, scavenging from shadows, following trails they thought were buried. You got the chat logs through a proxy account you planted weeks ago, back when the first seeds of suspicion cracked open inside you. You baited Yeonjun — Busan’s star player, their golden boy — into arrogance, let him swagger until he slipped, until he left himself wide open. You tore through his cloud backups, every conversation combed clean, and there it was: rookies pressed into bad plays under the excuse of team strategy, his influence festering in the team like rot.

This isn’t just about Eric and Sunwoo. It’s about the entire rotten system they’ve poisoned from the inside out. The Busans were never innocent bystanders, they were accomplices dressed as rivals, disguising their decay beneath clean jerseys and staged sportsmanship. Tearing them down means dismantling the foundation Eric and Sunwoo stood on, crumbling the empire they built from rigged games and sold-out players. In exposing the mess festering within Busan, you don’t just ruin reputations — you carve out a way to free Jeno from the snare wrapped around his throat. No more silent threats dragging him under, no more dirt clinging to his name. When the Busans fall, when Eric and Sunwoo are pulled into the fire with them, Jeno walks out of the wreckage clean. No debts shadowing his every step, no whispers behind his back, no false plays chained to his record. You’re not just burning them to the ground. You’re clearing a path out of the smoke for him to breathe.

You dig deeper, past the surface layer of team corruption, and into personal depravity. Yeonjun's behaviour toward girls and cheerleaders alike is filth, plain and irredeemable. You find private messages, lecherous and predatory, targeting female students, and even the cheer squad meant to uplift the team's image. It's the kind of scandal that eats alive not just the man but the institution. You don't just save this evidence—you sharpen it, time it, set it to explode when it will be most fatal.

Hyunjin is next, and you tear through his alibis with ruthless precision. Party photos, blurry and damning, show him high off his face mere hours before crucial games. You cross-reference the timestamps, match locations, game schedules. It all lines up too perfectly. His reckless, intoxicated grin mirrors the losses that came hours later, losses that coincided with suspicious betting spikes. Negligence? No. It reads like complicity, and you make sure the evidence screams it. Then Felix, sweet-faced and quiet, but no less guilty. You uncover bank transfers buried beneath layers of fake accounts. Large sums, deposited days before defeats that made gamblers rich. The money trails trace back to shell corporations, thin veils for Eric and Sunwoo’s operations. You fold it all into the growing dossier, tying it with iron threads no one can unpick.

You compile it not just for the ethics board, but for obliteration. The report in your hands is a guillotine, sharpened and weighted, ready to drop. However you don’t send it to the board first. you send it to Donghyuck. This is the moment he’s been waiting for, the moment to carve his name into the world he’s dreamed of breaking into. Sports media, commentary, analysis — he’s fought for scraps of recognition his whole life, and you hand him this like a weapon too dangerous for anyone else to wield. You tell him he can do what he wants with it, let it blow sky-high in his name or bury it anonymously if that’s safer. It’s his choice. You only give him three rules: he can’t ask you how you got this, he can’t mention it to you in person and he can’t ever tell a soul that you were the source. You know he’ll agree. He’s too hungry not to. He’s too smart not to see the opportunity carved out like a throne in fire.

Dawn finally breaks, brushing pale light across your faces, exhaustion carved into your bones but satisfaction simmering beneath it like embers still burning. Coach Suh's voice cuts through the hush, quiet but rough, "I never thought I'd see you fight for someone else like this."

Your eyes meet his, unwavering. "I'd burn the whole league down if it meant saving him." There is no lust left between you, no longing for what once was. Only war, only vengeance, only a partnership forged in fire and fury. And as the city wakes outside, you know: together, you'll watch the machine fall apart piece by corrupt piece, until there's nothing left to bury but ash.

It’s late, dusk bleeding into the bruised violet of night, the campus quieting but not yet asleep. Practice has ended, the court lights dimmed, and yet Jeno is not with his team. You knew he wouldn’t be. You have learned the shape of his silences, memorised the places he disappears to when the world squeezes too tight around his ribs. Lately, he has been skipping extra drills, not out of laziness but because every second on the court feels like a noose tightening around his neck. You understand this about him in the way only you can, so you don’t search the usual places. Instead, your steps take you to the old locker room, the one farthest down the hall, the one that hasn’t heard the thunder of a full team in years. The air smells of old sweat and steel, the echo of seasons long finished, and you feel the tension prickling your skin even before you see him.

His gym bag is slumped against the bench like he dropped it without care, his jacket a crumpled heap on the floor. The flickering strip lights overhead cast a dim, uneven haze, and your chest tightens as your eyes adjust to the gloom. He is there, of course he is, sat on the bench in front of his locker, elbows braced on his knees, head bowed so low his shoulders seem to carry the full weight of the sky. His hands are at his temples, massaging rough, relentless circles, as if he can press the storm out of his mind by force alone. He doesn’t see you at first. He is too far gone, trapped beneath the crush of a future he no longer feels he owns.

You step closer, not loud but not silent either, just steady, like you belong here with him because you do. He doesn’t flinch. He knows your presence without needing to look. He breathes you in like air he forgot he needed, his shoulders loosening just a fraction, just enough. You take him in, every inch of him carved sharp with silent agony. His knuckles are raw, red from fists clenched too long, and his breath scrapes out in uneven bursts, clipped and jagged like he is pacing panic in his chest. His eyes do not lift from the floor, fixed on his shoes as if they anchor him to the earth, and his lips are pressed tight, a hard line fighting not to tremble.

The state championships loom days away, a storm cloud swollen with dread, and you can feel it radiating off him. He is staring down the inevitability of throwing the game, of betraying everything he has built for the sake of men like Eric and Sunwoo, for the debts they forced around his neck like chains. His future hangs by a thread, fragile and fraying, because what is he supposed to tell the scouts when they come to watch him play, when they come expecting brilliance and see him choke on purpose instead. How is he meant to explain to the NBA what they’ll witness with their own eyes, that the star they’ve been watching all season crumpled at the finish line, threw away his chance like it meant nothing at all. This is everything he’s worked for, everything he’s bled for, and it’s all slipping through his fingers faster than he can hold it.

You draw his hand away from his temple, slow and sure, your fingers weaving through his like you’re stitching him back together, piece by delicate piece. You press closer, your body warm against his side, letting him feel the quiet weight of you, steady and real. Your thumb glides over the ridges of his knuckles, soft, patient, coaxing the tension out of him with every slow, grounding pass. His breath stutters, shallow at first, but then you press your lips to his shoulder, a kiss so gentle it barely brushes the fabric, and you feel him begin to loosen, feel his grip on you tighten in quiet desperation.

You don’t speak, not yet, just let your presence fill the space between his ribs where fear has made its home. He clings to your hand like it’s the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth, his fingers flexing against yours with something raw, something unspoken. His head dips slightly, closer to you, as if he can’t help but lean toward the only calm in his storm. His breath falls into your rhythm, a little steadier, not healed, not whole, but held together by the closeness of your touch, by the unspoken promise in your quiet, unwavering presence.

"Come here," he murmurs finally, voice gravel-rough and worn thin from holding back too much for too long, the storm in his chest tearing at his ribs like it’s desperate to be let loose. But you’re already there, already half in his lap, like always, like you belong there, your thighs straddling his as he pulls you closer still, his arms wrapping tight around your waist like he’s afraid you’ll slip away if he loosens his grip even for a moment. His forehead finds the curve of your shoulder, nestling into your skin as though you’re the only place in the world he still recognises, the only thing that hasn’t betrayed him.

You press your lips to his temple, soft as a breath, lingering long enough to feel the pulse beneath his skin, then you kiss lower, tracing to the corner of his eye where his lashes flutter shut, heavy with exhaustion and defeat. “I’m here,” you whisper, and between the words your hips roll slowly against his lap, gentle grinding that soothes more than it tempts, a quiet comfort in the closeness. You kiss him again, mouth brushing his cheekbone, letting it linger, lips barely parting as you murmur softer, “right here, I’m not going anywhere.”

His hands tighten around your waist, urgent but never rough, desperate like he needs to feel you pressed close or else he might fracture entirely. His voice scrapes out against your collarbone, frayed at the edges, raw from every storm inside him. "I don’t know," he confesses, almost a breath, almost a break, "I don’t know how much more of this I can take."

You cradle his head to your chest, your fingers sliding deep into his hair, massaging slowly and tenderly at his scalp, grounding him in the way only you can. Your lips find his hairline as you speak, a kiss threaded through every syllable. "Just a little longer," you tell him, soft but with quiet steel beneath, your hips rocking again, small, slow movements that ease his tension as much as your words. “Hold on for me, baby, I promise you’ll get out of this.”

You know exactly what you’re saying. You know. You’re threading the truth between your teeth, threading it into his skin with every kiss, every gentle roll of your hips, but you’re wise with your words. Careful. You don’t say how you’ll get him out. You don’t say what you’ve done, what you’re building behind his back, how you’re burning down entire empires in his name. No—you stay soft, you stay his, you stay the girl in his arms and not the executioner waiting in the wings. You bury your war beneath intimacy, beneath the safety of this moment, so he never has to carry the weight of knowing. So he never has to ask what you mean.

But he feels it. He feels it in the way you breathe him in, in the way you kiss his hairline like you’re sealing a vow to his skin. He feels it in the way your hands move over him, not just to comfort but to anchor him, to tie him to the moment so he doesn’t drift too far into the dark. He doesn’t understand, not fully, but something in him stirs anyway—a flicker of something that feels almost like hope, like relief so sharp it borders on ache.

His breath stutters hard against your collarbone, caught between his ribs like he doesn’t know if he should believe you, doesn’t know if hope will hurt him worse but it’s the way you say it, the way you kiss it into his skin, that makes him believe anyway. His arms band tighter around your waist, pulling you down into him until you feel every inch of his body strung tight beneath yours, until his mouth grazes your neck and he breathes you in like you’re the only air left in the room.

“Don’t let go,” he whispers, rough and low, barely holding together. His lips ghost over your throat, warm and searching, like he’s looking for sanctuary in the shape of you. “Please… just for a little longer.”

Your heart aches, swelling beneath his cheek. You kiss him again, his temple this time, lingering there, your words gentle but soaked in promise. “Not going anywhere, baby.” And you mean it. With your whole chest, with your whole heart. You’ll hold him through this storm, through the fire you’ve lit beneath their feet, through the destruction you’ve set in motion. You’ll hold him so tight he never has to feel the ground collapse beneath him. You’ll hold him until the moment you have to let him go — like a breath clenched too long in your lungs, released only when the air turns to fire and there’s no choice left but to exhale.

You feel his heart thudding through his chest, feel it pound in time with yours, and your fingers curl around his, bringing his hand to your mouth as you press a slow, lingering kiss to the back of it. Your voice is quiet but steady as it brushes over his skin, your breath warm and soft. "Don’t let them win yet." It isn’t about the game. It’s about him. His spirit. His fire. His life. You won’t let him break before you can save him, before you can pull him out of this wreckage with your own hands. He doesn’t answer, but you feel it in him all the same — his head dipping the smallest fraction, but you see it, you feel it, as clear as the sunrise waiting on the horizon you’ve promised him.

When you finally rise to your feet, you don’t wait for him to release you, you take his hand and guide him with you, fingers curling tight around his as you tug him up from the bench. He doesn’t even ask where you’re leading him, doesn’t need to, he just follows, his body obeying the silent command of yours like instinct, like gravity, like need. There’s a pull between you, low and magnetic, humming beneath your skin as you draw him out of his hollowed-out refuge, his gaze heavy on you, dark with something close to surrender. His breath shudders when you glance back, when your fingers tighten, when you lead him deeper into your fire. You leave behind the dim locker room, the flicker of weak light against the walls, but you don’t leave him behind. No, you carry him in your grip, in your pulse, in every step you take, certain in your bones you will burn the whole world down before you ever let them take him from you.

Campus is hushed at this hour, drenched in blue shadow, lamplight spilling gold pools onto the empty pathways as you guide him through the quiet veins of the university. The world feels folded inwards, private and dim, the wind brushing soft across your skin as your steps carry you past shuttered lecture halls and darkened windows. You know exactly where you’re taking him. He doesn’t ask. He never does. His gaze stays fixed on your back, heavy and reverent, burning with something wordless and aching, something that sinks into your spine and spools tighter the deeper you pull him into the night.

The study room is hidden at the far end of the library wing, your favourite secret pocket of campus, cloaked in shadow where the lights flicker less harshly, where no one bothers to look after hours. It’s quiet here, suffocatingly so, the kind of quiet that wraps around you like silk, thick and heavy, pressing you close together. Fluorescents buzz low overhead, casting a pale sheen over the empty tables, and the only sound beneath it is the soft scuff of your shoes as you step inside, drawing him with you. The laptop you abandoned earlier still glows faint on the desk, casting a tired light across the forgotten project file. The document is finished, cursor blinking idle in a sea of white, open but meaningless now, nothing more than a veil for what you really came here to do. This isn’t about the work anymore. It never was.

Your skirt is bunched messily around your waist, the hem twisted and crumpled at your hips, and his shorts are shoved down to his ankles, caught helplessly at the edge of his sneakers. You’re straddling him right there in the hard-backed chair, your knees braced on either side of him, rocking in slow, steady motions that keep him deep inside you. His breath is ragged, lips parted beneath yours, catching against every lazy kiss you press to his mouth. His hands don’t force you, they only hold — fingers splayed across your bare thighs like he needs to feel every inch of you, needs the weight of your body grounding him in place. Your hips roll with lazy confidence, grinding down until he’s seated to the hilt, until you swallow him whole and feel his chest shudder beneath your palms. He has no idea. No clue of the war you’re waging outside these walls, no inkling of the fire you’re building to burn the men trying to ruin him. He thinks you’re here for him alone, for the heat curling between your bodies, for the excuse of ‘working late.’

You feel it first not as a thought but a pulse beneath your skin, a distinct ping woven beneath the low hum of the room, not the usual noise of background notifications that you’ve long since trained yourself to ignore, but something more deliberate, sharper, the tone you assigned for priority alerts, the ones you told yourself you’d never miss no matter what you were doing, even if you were busy like you are now, sunk deep into the curve of his lap with your skirt bunched high around your waist and his shorts pushed low at his ankles, both of you tangled in the heat of each other. You weren’t expecting anything tonight, that’s the thing, not when you’d silenced almost every other channel of your life just to be here with him, not when you’d made this study room your escape from the chaos outside these walls, not when his hands are warm on your hips, not guiding you, not forcing, but simply holding, like he needs to feel the weight of you just to stay breathing. That’s why your brow tightens, your eyes narrowing even as your body continues its slow, lazy grind against his, because you know this alert, you know what it means, and it could be anything, it could be everything.

Your hips lift slow and deliberate, his cock dragging thick and aching from your body, and the moment you pull off completely, he groans, broken and strained, head tipping back against the chair as his hands fly to your hips, catching you like he can tether you back down. “Fuck, baby, no—” His voice is hoarse, rough at the edges, his breath punching out of him as his fingers flex, desperate to guide you back to where he needs you. “I was so close,” he rasps, hips jolting up like he’s chasing the slick heat you just took away from him, blinking through the haze clouding his eyes. “Don’t stop, c’mon, just come back here,” he murmurs, low and urgent, trying to tug you back onto his lap, but your attention has already broken away, your fingers sliding fast over the laptop as you reach for it, his palm skimming helplessly along your thigh. “Baby,” he grits out, frustration and need tangled in his tone, “baby, please—where are you going?”

You barely hear him, your focus already stolen by the sharp edge of the notification blinking at you. You click it open with practised speed, your heart thrumming loud in your ears, and your eyes begin to scan the lines with the precision you’ve honed through months of sleepless nights, of chasing shadows, of learning how to read urgency buried beneath polite sentences. And there it is, waiting for you, waiting like it’s always belonged to you.

It slams into your chest so hard you gasp, loud and unguarded, your mouth parting on instinct. Jeno’s eyes blink open, his brows knitting tight as confusion clouds his expression. “What? What happened?” His voice is rough, still gravelled from earlier kisses, his gaze flitting between you and the laptop as if he can see the change in the air.

You shield the screen from him without thinking, not out of secrecy but necessity, needing a moment to let your mind catch up to the storm in your chest as your palm flattens protectively over the laptop. Your eyes race down the email, hungry and disbelieving all at once, drinking in every word like they’re oxygen, like they’re the first breath after being underwater for far too long. This is no ordinary publication. This is Apex Athletics, a name that’s been rising fast across international circuits, already carving its reputation as the future of sports analysis—where performance science meets audience obsession. Known for pioneering the deep-dive, behind-the-athlete features that humanise statistics, that turn cold data into narrative, they’ve been expanding their global footprint with precision, and now they’ve set their sights on Seoul. A brand-new office, a fresh branch still smelling of fresh paint and ambition, and they want you at the helm of it. Not buried in the ranks, not just another contributor lost in the shuffle of bylines—but as one of the first architects, shaping the very voice of their expansion.

They’ve seen your work. The way you slice through complexity and serve it sharp but compelling, making even the most clinical performance breakdowns feel alive, like stories worth telling. That balance between science and soul is exactly what they’re hungry for and they’re not just dangling freelance articles or scattered commissions. They’re handing you a roadmap: fast-track promotion routes, early leadership opportunities, a career that doesn’t just keep pace but outstrips expectation. Contracts come lined with mobility clauses, a built-in promise of overseas placement once the Seoul office is solidified under your guidance. You’re not just writing—you're building legacy.

They’ve already started laying the welcome mat. Orientation timetables, cross-departmental introductions, invites to networking dinners and team-building weekends with executives from their global offices. Gift baskets. Handwritten notes from the editor-in-chief herself. We believe in you. We’re ready when you are. It’s not a bid for you to fill a seat. It’s an invitation to carve your name into the steel of something permanent. All of it is real. All of it is yours. And all you have to do is say yes.

Your breath stumbles, too sharp in the quiet, chest lifting high as your pulse kicks wild, and you feel his eyes track the change instantly, narrowing, watching you like he can sense the shift even without understanding it. “What is it, baby? Tell me,” he rasps, voice low and rough at the edges, scraping against the heat still lingering between you.

With your heart thudding hard against your ribs, you draw in a breath and turn the screen towards him, placing it carefully in his hands like you’re giving him something fragile, precious, a secret you’ve carried too long alone. His brows pinch at first, a flicker of confusion tightening between them as his eyes lower to the screen, but it unravels in seconds. You watch it all unfold across his face, the dawning realisation, the way his eyes widen as if he’s watching a sunrise for the first time, the way his lips part soundlessly, like he’s too stunned to even find words.

"Fuck," he breathes, barely above a whisper, almost reverent, and his gaze lifts to you like it’s magnetic, like he can’t help but look at you as if you’re made of something more than bone and skin, as if you’re made of gold. "Baby..." His voice folds, low and rough with feeling, thick with everything he wants to say but can’t, not all at once. His eyes roam your face, as if memorising every line, every soft part of you, every sharp part too, like you’re his whole universe condensed into this moment. His fingers tighten around the edge of the laptop, his knuckles paling, like he’s holding not just the proof of your success but the proof of you — your brilliance, your fight, your fire. "You’re incredible," he says at last, but it’s not enough for him, not nearly enough, and he shakes his head, breath catching again, eyes glossed with something that isn’t just pride but wonder. "You’re so incredible I don’t even know how you’re mine."

The moment stretches tight between you, trembling like a string pulled to its limit, and you don’t hesitate, not for a second, not when you can feel how much he needs you, how much you need him, dragging your body back over his, sinking down onto him like you were made to fit there, to take him deep until you feel him press against the very edge of you. His cock fills you thick, stretching you open all over again, and you gasp, hips circling down hard to seat him deeper, grinding slow like you’re savouring every inch, like you need every inch. His breath punches out ragged, hips jolting up to meet you with a desperate snap as you take him back into your heat, and the noise that rips from his throat is wrecked, ruined, helpless. “Fuck—fuck, baby, please,” he groans, words torn from him like he can’t hold them back, like they’re spilling straight from his chest.

His hands clamp your waist, greedy and bruising, dragging you harder against him as he chases the high you stole from him just moments before. You feel him throb inside you, hot and urgent, and it makes you shudder, makes you clutch his shoulders, kiss him open-mouthed and breathless, swallowing the shaky sounds of need that tumble from him, feeding them back to him like oxygen. “You feel so good,” you whisper against his lips, so desperate it cracks your voice, your hips bouncing faster, slick and wet, obscene in the quiet of the room. “I need you to cum for me, need to feel you fill me up,” you tell him, and he groans into your mouth, guttural and broken, his hips thrusting up into your tight, greedy pace, chasing every drop of pleasure you drag from him. His eyes are glazed, wild with need, locked on you like you’re the only thing keeping him alive, and you are—you are, you’re his breath, his pulse, the only thing tethering him to this earth.

His voice splits open as he rasps, “Fuck, baby, you make me lose my mind,” and you kiss him again, hard and deep, hips never slowing, your slick walls gripping him tighter, milking him for everything he’s got, and you don’t let him look away, not even for a second, you make him watch you fall apart around him just as you feel him begin to break beneath you.

It’s only when his breathing starts to settle, his chest no longer heaving beneath yours but rising and falling in rough, uneven waves, that he finally lifts his gaze to you again. His eyes are heavy, lids low, glassed with pleasure but shining too, shining like you’ve hung the stars there yourself. You see it ripple through him — not just release, not just relief, but something bigger, something aching and raw that he can’t hold back anymore. His voice comes quiet at first, thick and hoarse, like it’s clawing its way out of him, “I’m so fucking proud of you,” he says, rough and real, no teasing lilt, no heatplay, just truth. It sits heavy between you, anchoring you deeper into his lap as his hands smooth up your sides, slower now, tender in their weight, as if he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets you go. “You hear me? I’m so fucking proud.” His palms cup your ribs, not squeezing, just holding, holding you there like you’re the most precious thing he’s ever touched.

His gaze drinks you in, roaming your face with a tenderness that knots tight in your chest, and when he speaks again his voice drops lower, thick with something that sounds almost like fear. “So this means you’re staying, right?” he asks, soft but desperate, as if saying it any louder would make the answer hurt more. “You’re not leaving after all? Even with everything, even after saying you would… this means you’ll stay?”

You kiss him once more, slower this time, your lips lingering on his like you want to give him yes, like you wish you could. Your thumb traces the sharp line of his cheekbone, a tender stroke that doesn’t match the ache clawing in your throat. “This doesn’t mean I won’t still be going,” you answer softly, honest to the bone, “It’s just an option. I still haven’t turned down Deloitte. I just have a choice to make.”

His gaze darkens, a storm pulling in, his hold on you tightening as he searches your face for something steadier, something more than what you’re giving him. His next words land heavy, punched from his chest. “And you won’t factor me into that choice?”

Your fingers glide along the line of his jaw, tracing him like he’s something precious, something you want to memorise even though you already know him in your bones. Your smile is soft, small, close to your lips as you breathe him in, your chest rising against his, steadying him, steadying yourself. “Of course I want to,” you say, the words slipping out quiet but sure, like they were always meant for him. Your voice hums low as you lean in, kissing the corner of his mouth, your lips brushing over his skin with a tenderness that aches in your chest. “How could I not?”

You see the way his eyes search yours, hungry for certainty, and you give it to him — you give it, even if you don’t know what will happen tomorrow, even if your future is a storm too dark to name. Tonight, he deserves your light. Tonight, he deserves to believe. “You’re always part of my choices, baby,” you whisper, your mouth brushing his as you speak, your words warm and intimate, pulled from the softest part of your chest. “You always will be.”

His breath catches, his hold tightening like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go, and you tilt your head to kiss him again, deeper this time, your fingers threading through his hair to pull him closer. “I want you with me,” you tell him, truth laced in every syllable, “I want you in everything I do.” It’s not a promise of forever. It’s not a lie about the road ahead. But it’s real. It’s real, and it’s what he needs. His eyes soften, his chest easing beneath your palm, and you kiss him once more, like you’re trying to breathe life back into both of you, like you can carry him through this moment if you just stay close enough.

The morning unfolds not as dawn but as a reckoning, the sun splitting the sky like it, too, feels the weight of what's coming. The air is sharpened to a blade, and when you step onto campus, it feels like crossing into your own colosseum. You’re not here for drills, not for practice, not even for cheer — you are here for war. The first breath you draw tastes of roasted beans from the vendor carts, of frying oil curling from food trucks, but beneath it there’s something fouler, something metallic, like iron in water, like the scent of blood before it stains.

Today is the day. Not just any game day, not just any championship, this is the day everything has led to. Every file you compiled, every thread you pulled, every sleepless night you spent tracing the pattern of their corruption, all converging on this single, sharpened point. Traffic outside the stadium crawls under heavy security, team buses inching through the gates, headlights glaring like search beams through fog. Parent cars idle, windows fogged with breath, horns blaring in frustration. Music blasts from a cracked car stereo, clashing with the echoes of the campus’ marching band rehearsing nearby, each note fraying the edges of the morning.

Above it all, the sky presses low, cloud cover crouching like it knows the storm is about to break. Wind whips through flags hung too high, snapping at their edges, restless. There's a static charge to the air, an unseen storm coiled and waiting to rupture. Beneath the looming sky, the stadium roars to life, giant screens loop promos like cinematic trailers, student-made banners flap wild over the bleachers, dripping cheap paint and raw hope. The crowd arrives in floods, a collision of families, alumni in polished suits, and drunk undergrads already chanting themselves hoarse. Ushers strain to control the swell of bodies.

Your eyes skim the frenzy, cold and calculating. They don’t know. None of them know. Cameras sit idle on tripods, reporters stretch and sip their coffees, scrolling idle feeds, blissfully unaware they're about to be consumed by the story of the season. You catch the glint of the media tent and sharpen the image in your mind. They are about to feast, you think, your pulse steady as steel. And they don’t even know the meal has already been plated.

You and Coach Suh chose this moment deliberately. Morning was never just the start of the day, it was the hour of no return. Too late for them to pivot, too early for them to see it coming. You bled the clock dry, waited until the veins of the season swelled with attention, scouts disembarking from planes, their eyes already fixed on the court; networks wiring their feeds live, cameras trained and waiting for the tip-off; sports board officials perched at the edge of their seats, appetite sharpened, ready to pounce on headlines they believed would crown their champions. You timed it for the moment the heart beats hardest, the blood surges fastest, the body of this campus thrumming at full force. So when you slice — not if, but when — it floods. Fast, unstoppable, irreversible. They thought they were here for victory parades and confetti storms but what you’ve built is collapse, dressed in celebration’s colours.

You do not plan this as a strategist, you breathe it as an assassin, precise and patient, sharpening the blade beneath your ribs while the world sleeps on. You let the days stretch thin with normalcy, let them dress the campus in bright colours and hungry hope, watch them fill the stands and warm the broadcast lights without knowing they are preparing your stage. You keep your distance, keep your hands clean of the trigger, but every thread of this day loops back to you. Every shadow cast by the floodlights moves to the pulse of your making. You let the tension wind tighter with every headline, every player profile, every camera crew that rolls onto campus thinking they are here for a game. You let them lean closer to the spectacle, let them fatten their coverage with pregame hype, because you want them right here, right now, when the artery bursts. There is no warning shot. No clean announcement. Only the rupture. Only the freefall.

And you? You move through it all like you own it, because you do. Your cheer uniform hugs you like armour, pleats swinging with every step, crisp against the sculpt of your thighs. The ribbon in your hair is pulled tight, not decoration but declaration, the knot biting into itself the way you’ve sunk your teeth into this moment. Your nails gleam with a battle-ready lacquer, glossy and razor-sharp, painted not for vanity but victory. Beneath the clean cut of your skirt, your muscles flex with coiled purpose, a silent reminder that you are not here to dance for the crowd, you are here to dominate it.

The laptop in your bag is heavy with ammunition, files that could split the sky wide open. The burner phone at your hip buzzes like it feels the storm under your skin, the first notifications already flashing across the screen like sparks on dry tinder. Your regular phone is vibrating too, relentless, Karina blowing it up with call after call, messages stacking like smoke signals but you don’t even look down. You know exactly why she’s flooding your inbox, you missed the final practice. She’s pacing the sidelines somewhere, probably fuming, but you barely grant it a second thought. She plays games in rehearsal but you are the game.

Your steps are already cutting towards the media building, pace unhurried but lethal beneath the surface, the current of it running fast and hot under your skin. Across the courtyard, you spot him, Donghyuck, framed behind tall glass panels, his silhouette sharp against the clutter of studio equipment and hissing monitors, cameras crowding the room like vultures waiting for a kill. He is restless, pacing tight loops in front of his laptop, fingers drumming impatiently against the desk as he checks the clock, checks his phone, checks the empty doorway as if he can feel you coming. The media building hums like a live wire, an electrical storm swelling beneath its skin, static thick in the air from lights burning hot and the weight of anticipation pooling in the corners. Reporters with half-packed bags sip burnt coffee and rehearse their opening lines to dead air, still convinced today is about scores and banners, blind to the inferno you are about to set at their feet.

His eyes track you the moment you approach, sharp but curious, like he feels the voltage running hot in your veins. His shoulders straighten from where they were slouched against the cluttered desk, his breath caught somewhere between suspicion and intrigue, because he knows you would not come here, not like this, not with that look in your eye, unless it meant something. Unless it meant everything.

The space around you pulls tighter, thins to a needle-point focus, and you feel it humming beneath your skin as you reach into your bag, fingers closing around the burner file. It is heavier than it should be, but it carries the weight of history bound between its covers, the death knell of an empire sewn into every byte of data. When you draw it out and hold it between you, you don’t give it to him right away. You let it hang in the air for a breath longer, heavy with silent thunder, making sure he feels it. Making sure he understands this is not just a file. This is the kill-shot.

His brow furrows, a line cutting between his brows as he glances at it, then at you, his lips parting to ask but the words don’t come fast enough. You place it in his hands, cold and final, but keep your fingers curled around the edge a moment longer, anchoring him there with you. "What is this?" he asks, low, wary, eyes flicking to the side to make sure no one else is watching. He knows better than anyone to be careful, but even so, there’s a breath of disbelief in his voice. He was not expecting this today.

You lean in slightly, close enough that no one could ever overhear, not that they’d dare step close. Your voice is even, calm, brushed with quiet power. "Go over the files," you tell him, nothing more, nothing less. No explanation, no justification. He doesn’t need one. You already know what he will do once he sees it.

There’s no one else around. You made sure of that. You orchestrated this meeting like every step of the day, like every breath leading here, moving chess pieces into perfect alignment. You didn’t plan this as someone desperate to hide — you designed this as an architect of destruction. You built the story from the ground up, curated every strand of evidence, timed every drip of information so that when you placed the final weapon in his hands, all he had to do was pull the trigger. But you aimed it. You loaded it. You chose the target.

You need him for this, because you and Coach Suh both know you can’t be the ones to pull the trigger. Neither of you can afford to have your fingerprints on the blade. If you did, you would destroy the very foundation of the takedown you’ve built so ruthlessly, undeniability without traceability. For you, it is personal beyond anything else. Jeno can never know you were the architect of his salvation, because it would shatter the very protection you’ve been bleeding yourself dry to build around him. He would see you not as the shield but the blade. No matter how clean your intentions, in his eyes you’d become the villain.

And for Coach Suh, it’s survival in the truest sense of the word. As a faculty member, as a coach with reputation and history, he cannot risk being branded a saboteur of the league. If he’s caught orchestrating the collapse of a rival team, the sports board will hang him at dawn, mercy be damned, no matter how righteous the cause. The moment either of you steps into the spotlight, you lose everything: your moral high ground, your control over the narrative, your power. This plan only works because it was built in shadows. Because no one sees the knife until it’s already buried deep in the heart of the corruption. And from the shadows, you can keep your power, your freedom — and most of all, you can keep Jeno safe from the truth that would haunt him if he ever found out.

Donghyuck’s hands tighten around the file, his pulse visible at his neck, fast and high. His eyes flicker, sharp and calculating, skimming the surface of the knowledge you’ve placed at his fingertips. He doesn’t ask again. He doesn’t need to. You tilt your head, your gaze steady, as if to say: you know what this is. you know what to do. And he does. Of course he does. You chose him for this moment because you know him, know the fire in his bones, the ambition that crackles under his skin like a live wire desperate for a spark. You know Donghyuck won’t sit with this golden ticket idle in his lap. He will run with it, because this is his launch, his ascension, his door kicked wide open to the career he’s been clawing toward with bloodied hands. He wants headlines. He wants legacy. He wants power. And you have just given him all of it, gift-wrapped in scandal. Giving Donghyuck the files wasn’t about power or recognition — it was about precision. He could run the exposé faster, sharper, louder than anyone, cut through the noise with the exact kind of ruthless clarity this scandal demanded. You trusted him to handle the storm because he had nothing to lose, everything to prove,

Your lips curve, the barest flicker of a smile not of warmth, but of precision. Because this is not you stepping back. This is you embedding deeper into the shadows where your power lives, where your control reigns absolute. You have orchestrated this so perfectly that Donghyuck is not the driver, he is the weapon in your hand, the visible piece on the board while you remain the unseen player behind the curtain.

There is no fear in your chest. Only fire. You still own the timing. You still command the fallout. You still dictate the witnesses, the ethics board, the storm flooding the court. Donghyuck is your vehicle, your chosen instrument to deliver the blow while you stay clean in the shadows, your fingerprints nowhere near the scene but your design in every detail. He flicks his gaze up to you one last time, a silent question buried in the glint of his eyes, but you are already turning, already moving, smooth and unhurried as if the fire you’ve just lit is no more than a candle burning in your wake. You don’t wait for him to speak. You don’t need to. You’ve already moved on to your next target.

First it’s the air itself that tightens, clenching like a fist around the throat of campus, a heat swelling beneath the skin of the morning that doesn’t belong to summer, doesn’t belong to the season at all. It rises from the ground, seeps from the walls, a fever caught too late. Windows bead with condensation like sweat on trembling skin, and the breath of the place changes, turns shallow, rapid, too fast to catch. No alarms, no announcements, no sirens yet, but the pulse of it is felt in the way shadows lean sharper, in the way doorframes seem to tighten around their hinges, bracing for a collapse.

You move through it like you were made for this climate, like the fever blooming beneath the surface only feeds you, flames licking up your calves as you walk. Your spine is iron-forged, your pace unbroken, not rushed, not hesitant. You breathe in the thickening air like it sharpens you, like it’s filling your lungs with purpose. Beneath your ribs, you feel it, that churn, that promise of rupture, but you cradle it like a secret weapon. You don’t flinch when the wind shifts, don’t blink when the first ripple tears through the atmosphere. You carry it in your bones, and your bones do not break.

The cheer squad cuts through the morning like a blade, bright colours slashing against the gloom curling over campus. They are a vision, dangerous in their unity, breathtaking in their precision — not just pretty faces and glossed lips but athletes sculpted into weapons, each movement honed sharp enough to draw blood. The air crackles around them, the slap of sneakers against concrete, the hiss of pom-poms shifting like snakeskins shedding.

At the centre of it stands Karina, arms crossed, posture rigid, her gaze cutting across the courtyard like the point of a spear. When her eyes lock onto you, they don’t soften. They slice. Her chin tips up, sharp and unyielding, and the line of her mouth tightens with suspicion drawn taut as a bowstring. “Where the fuck have you been?” The words snap from her lips like a shot fired, not for show, not for performance, but a real, raw demand burning at the edges of her tongue. You collect yourself not with panic, but with precision, weaving your story in the space of a breath, stitching an alibi into muscle and sinew. Your expression doesn’t flicker. You meet her glare with a mirror-smooth mask, not too calm, not too urgent, just enough. Believable. Airtight. Not a crack to be found.

Your muscles obey out of habit, slipping into drills as though you’re just another body in formation. The rhythm of practice takes over, feet moving, breath syncing, arms lifting in time but just a few minutes in, your burner phone stirs against your hip, a low vibration that buzzes through your bones like an underground tremor. You know what it is before you even glance. You feel it in your chest first, the tightening, the quiet surge of adrenaline. You flick your gaze down with trained indifference.

donghyuck — it’s done.

No punctuation, no embellishment. Clean. Clinical. Faster than you thought he would be. You resist the curl of a smile at the corners of your mouth, swallowing it down like the taste of victory before it’s fully ripe. He’s good. He’s better than you expected. You don’t reply. You never planned to. You let the message sit there, a quiet detonation in your palm, and lift your chin, slow and deliberate, as your eyes find the stadium rising beyond the practice field.

It towers in the distance, a colossus of steel and glass, the bones of the stadium carved sharp against the greying sky, its flood lights blinking like watchful sentries, hungry for the chaos to come. Panels of glass catch the churn of storm clouds overhead, dark smudges blooming like ink in water, thick and swelling as if the sky itself is bracing for detonation. A quiet current threads through the air, prickling over your skin, running down the steel beams of the stadium, coiling in the flagpoles where the banners snap and twist like they can feel it too. It surges through the concrete beneath your shoes, sharp and restless, a pulse rising in the bones of the building itself, like the whole place is holding its breath for what’s about to come.

You pass beneath giant screens cycling game promos, slow motion clips of players captured mid-flight, chest pounding with phantom echoes of the game not yet played. The scoreboard glares “0–0,” twin hollow zeroes beaming cold across the expanse, like eyes wide open but blind to what is coming. But you see it. You see it all. Soon, those numbers will bleed red, will crackle with the heat of a scandal tearing through the league like wildfire. Soon, it won’t just be a stadium — it will be an execution ground.

Your footsteps cross the campus like fractures in glass, each stride a crack splitting wider, webbing beneath the surface, invisible to everyone else but inevitable. They just don’t see it yet. The sound of your soles against the pavement feels sharper than usual, almost too loud, like a countdown no one’s begun to count. Somewhere beneath it all, there’s a rising hum, soft at first but growing, a soundscape of tension threading through the world around you — as if the sky is wired with electricity, the clouds holding their breath, the earth beneath you aching for release. You feel it deep in your bones, deeper than nerves, deeper than muscle, as natural as your own pulse. The storm is coming, and you are the one who set it free.

Your gaze drags from the scoreboard to the veins of the campus. The clouds above Neo Tech fracture, not with thunder but with headlines, the grey sky bleeding thin into a simmering red glow that feels almost unnatural, like the light itself has caught fire from the news crackling through the airwaves. The morning air sharpens, metallic on the tongue, bitter as foil pressed to teeth, thick with a static you can’t taste but you feel curling in the back of your throat. Wind slices through campus like it’s carrying prophecy in its teeth, combing through hair and loose papers, skimming over practice mats and shaking the flagpoles until they clatter like bones. Across the stadium, the clouds coil heavier, darker, like they’ve swallowed too much smoke, and they wait, bloated with the storm you’ve unleashed. It isn’t footsteps that rush through the veins of the campus now, it’s information. A stampede, not of bodies but of breathless words, of names and scandals, of sins too big to stay buried. The storm moves invisibly first, like heat behind glass, but then it cracks wide open.

At first, the silence is so sharp it cuts the noise beneath it. Classrooms hum with fluorescent lights and the soft scrape of pens across paper until, as if on a hidden cue, the ripple begins. One student glances at their phone, brows knitting. Then another. A buzz of notification skips across the desks like a stone skimming water. Heads tilt toward glowing screens, shoulders hunch closer together. "Have you seen this?" Mouths part, breath stalling in throats. One pair of students becomes two, becomes ten, becomes entire rows of seats leaning into the eye of the storm. Professors falter mid-sentence, voices thinning as they catch the sharp glint of panic on their students’ faces. Glasses slip down noses as they squint at headlines stretched across cracked screens.

"What in the hell..." a janitor mutters from the corridor, his elbow perched on a mop handle, eyes scanning the words aloud like they’ll change if he speaks them fast enough. Security radios crackle alive, bursts of static chewing through the tension like a swarm of insects set loose in the wiring. There’s a subtle dissonance crawling into the pulse of the day, like the campus itself has caught the scent of ruin on the breeze and tenses, caught between the instinct to freeze or flee. Textbooks are pushed aside, pens forgotten mid-stroke, lectures crumble into nothing. Assignments don’t matter anymore. Practice drills dissolve into memory. The campus rotates on one axis now, spinning around the gravitational pull of this singular scandal, this detonation that no one saw coming except you.

Beyond the classrooms, the wind keeps moving. the pulse carries, snaps, across the quad. Principal Kun carves a path across the main quad, suit tight across his shoulders, advisors scrambling in his wake like panicked birds. His eyes are dark, jaw clenched, as he barks sharp orders to the team beside him, voices knotted in rapid-fire damage control. They spew out pre-planned statements, already scrambling to distance Neo Tech from the flames devouring Busan. Yet beneath their panic lies a glimmer of something alive, something almost ravenous: Neo Tech’s record, pristine and polished, is about to gleam even brighter in contrast. Behind them, alumni pace tight circles, phone screens glued to their palms, watching the empire they thought unshakeable burn through glassy eyes. One alum whispers into a call, "Get me Seoul on the line now," as if they can outrun the collapse by moving faster.

The wind stirs again, threading sharp and restless through the open ribs of the stadium, dragging the noise from the principal’s mouth and flinging it across the court, scattering it like broken glass toward the cheer practice stretching along the far sideline. You stand in line like nothing has happened, posture perfect, breath controlled, as though you aren’t the match that struck the blaze. Karina’s voice cuts through the rhythm of the drill like silk catching on a blade, not loud but decisive, a sharp seam unravelled mid-movement as the squad flows through their steps. Her phone slips from her hand at the same moment, falling with a thud against the mat, the screen still lit with the headline now burning bright enough to brand her vision. Her eyes widen fast, pupils tightening to pinpricks as the words etch themselves behind her gaze, the story pouring out in ruthless clarity. She’s reading the exposé, seeing the scandal unfurl in full, and her breath snags, not in fear nor in disbelief, but in a sharper, knowing intake, a breath that rises like she has stumbled upon a secret finally spoken aloud.

Her chest lifts beneath the stretch of her uniform, slow and deliberate, her head tilting up from the screen as though following the smoke trailing from a fire already spreading through the air. Then her eyes find you across the formation. And when they do, it is not with accusation, not with shock, but with a quiet recognition that burns brighter than any scream. She sees it. She sees you. The lines connect silently between her gaze and your stillness, as if the storm itself has drawn a map across the field and she alone knows how to read it. For a heartbeat, she does not look away. She holds you there, pinned beneath her attention, her eyes glossed with the gleam of revelation, her mind racing as it folds around the realisation like a blade snapping into place. You see it clearly now — she knows exactly what she is witnessing, and she knows exactly who set it free.

You meet her eyes, unreadable, lips poised but still. Areum lowers her phone too, slowly, her gaze slicing across you, narrowing with a weight you feel crawl beneath your skin. Nahyun’s voice cracks across the circle, sharp-edged gossip disguised as concern, but it’s Yeji who trembles, her words splintering in her throat as she confesses too fast, too shaky, "I... I had a bad experience with Yeonjun once... at a party, I didn’t know what to do..." Her eyes glisten, lower lip catching between her teeth, vulnerability etched raw across her face. The squad closes around her like a shield. Ryujin wipes Yeji’s tears away, her thumb swiping beneath damp lashes with a tenderness edged in steel. "It’s over now," she breathes, fierce and certain, a warrior’s vow. Karina steadies Yeji by the shoulders, her understanding redirected into protection, her spine a wall between the squad and the storm that howls just beyond the mats.

The whistle of wind through open corridors twists once more, tugging at the edges of the world, dragging seamlessly toward the stadium. The arena’s giant screens crackle to life mid-warmup, flashing the scandal headlines in brutal loops. In the VIP box, the sports board officials flood in, their voices rising like a tide, colliding and clashing, arguments splintering into sharp fragments of disbelief. Clips of the scandal flicker and burn across every arena screen, washing the court in chaos before the first warm-up lap even finishes. The suits are in full collapse mode now, snapping orders into phones, demanding answers from subordinates too slow to catch the avalanche. A live press statement is cobbled together in haste, ethics boards sealing the names on their blacklists like caskets nailed shut.

The current drags further still, sweeping to the scouts lining the rows nearest the action. You spot them immediately — you know them all by heart, Jeno pointed them out to you across so many games, faces etched into memory like a private gallery of futures. Now, they exchange whispers, mouths tight with grim uncertainty. Pens freeze above notebooks, phones glued to ears, their eyes scanning the flashing footage with expressions carved from stone and shadow.

The pulse of this ecosystem finds its final beat for now in Coach Suh. His burner phone vibrates once in his palm, and he answers without hesitation, eyes gleaming as the message lands. His mouth splits into a thin, wolfish grin. "Bullseye," he murmurs, low and razor-sharp, the sound of a man who has felt this kind of triumph before, who tastes victory in the ash of others’ ruin. His grin is not one of surprise but the grin of expectation met, the grin of a plan unfolding as designed. In that glimmer, you see it — not surprise, not panic, but the ruthless satisfaction of a man watching his plan land dead-centre, clean and final as a bullet to the heart. The glimmer sharpens into something merciless, not surprise, not panic, but the ruthless satisfaction of a man watching his plan land dead-centre, clean and final as a bullet to the heart. The satisfaction catches the light just long enough for you to see it glint across his expression, then it turns, spreading beyond him, spilling out into the bloodstream of the stadium like a second, deeper infection.

And the next wave begins.

Media doesn’t arrive like the players or the crowd, walking through gates with programs in hand. Media arrives like a weapon, already loaded, already aimed. It crouches in the shadows at first, breath slow and steady, crosshairs fixed over reputations fat and ripe for the taking. You don’t see it until it fires. You don’t feel it until it tears clean through your name, embedding in bone. It isn’t a swarm, not yet. It is a sniper rifle waiting for the perfect moment to strike, and as Busan collapses, the shot is fired.

Then it mutates. The virus leaves the barrel smoking and begins its slow contamination, bleeding through the veins of the arena until the pulse of the day grows fevered and unstable. It doesn’t stay trapped within the stadium walls. It leaks like poison into every pipeline, slipping beneath the skin of local news, infecting national broadcasts, seeping into the throats of anchors in Seoul, commentators in Beijing, scouts whispering in New York. Each retelling twists the infection further, mutating with every tongue that tastes it, warping truth into new and deadlier forms.

Parents in the stands lift their phones with trembling fingers, faces blanching white as their screens bloom with headlines. Whispers move faster than voices, faster than the commentators trying to keep pace, faster than the score ever could have changed. The press box swells like a laboratory of disease, reporters fevered with the discovery of fresh contagion, typing at speeds that set their keyboards ablaze. Headlines spawn like spores: ‘Nation's Top Prospect Crumbles Under Scandal.’. ‘Busan's Collapse: Fixed Games and Broken Futures.’

Outside, the discarded programs flatten beneath car tyres, smudged with rain and filth. Half-eaten stadium snacks sag on the seats, gone cold and soggy as if even hunger has been forgotten in the chaos. Confetti cannons, once primed for celebration, stand mute and gaping like open wounds. The stadium floodlights blaze mercilessly over the hollowing crowd, too bright, too stark, like searchlights raking across a battlefield still smouldering with the aftermath. Reporters' shoes are thick with mud from pacing the fields, hunting scraps of reactions from players too stunned to speak.

There is no silence in the aftermath, only feeding. The cameras sharpen. They close in. They circle the wreckage like vultures over carrion, waiting to pick clean the bones of a team left bleeding on the court. It lingers like a second stormcloud, hungry for the post-mortems, for a glimpse of a sobbing mother in the stands, for a flash of a player’s tear-streaked face through locker room slats. These cameras are not witnesses. They are predators. Every zoomed shot of Mark’s pale face is a bullet in disguise. Every frozen frame of Coach Suh stiffening under questioning is already a headline waiting to devour him. They don’t film to record history, they film to feast on it.

Microphones jam at the mouths of the dying. "What went wrong today?" they ask, as if they don’t already have the answer inked and ready. They thrust them at trembling athletes, shove them beneath cracking voices, press them to lips too dry with fear to speak.

The blow lands live, in the middle of the Ravens’ press conference. Coach Suh stands composed beneath the brutal lights, reporters firing questions as flashes explode against his retinas. Taeyong savours the attention, basking in what he believes to be Donghyuck’s big triumph, wearing his father’s ambition like a crown. He plays his part with polish, smooth and camera-trained, every glance choreographed to perfection. In his mind, Jeno’s path to the NBA clears like storm clouds parting under the sun. Doyoung stands between them, poised, dignified, guiding the narrative back to the team, keeping their image sharp and untarnished.

Then it breaks. Press staff rush the podium, voices like live wires, crackling with panic. Journalists twist towards the massive screens overhead, and there it is: Breaking: Busan Disqualified. Daegu to Face Ravens in State Final. Busan collapses not in fragments but in total detonation. The rule, buried in the league’s bylaws, rises like a dormant curse: two standby teams always wait in shadow, poised for forfeiture or elimination. A rule almost never invoked, yet carved deep into the statutes. Daegu has been waiting, hungry, pacing their cage. The moment the announcement comes, they storm the court with shoulders squared and eyes alight, feral with purpose. They don’t look like underdogs. They look like wolves set loose on wounded prey. They want this win with a hunger sharpened to a blade’s edge.

Busan is not destroyed by the players alone, but by the full web of corruption now exposed like bones picked clean by vultures. The report lists them with ruthless finality: a head coach falsifying medical records, assistant coaches orchestrating rigged plays, bench players accepting hush money, faked injuries to manipulate rotations, laundered funds through athletic accounts, falsified scouting reports that have collapsed under scrutiny.

Camera lenses swing to capture it all. Reporters shout until their voices shred. Flashes crack like gunfire. Security moves fast, herding Busan’s players off the court under the blistering gaze of the world. Yeonjun, arrogant even in disgrace, sneers at you as he passes, eyes dragging low, tongue flicking over his lips in a mockery of bravado. He snaps his fingers, winks like a man still believing in his own invincibility. He still doesn’t understand that you buried him long before this moment.

Coach Suh doesn’t bother watching the spectacle. He’s gathering the Ravens, ushering them together, snapping sharp commands as he herds them towards the locker rooms. His eyes cut to Daegu’s entrance, reading their body language, calculating every angle. He knows this new opponent is fiercer, hungrier, more dangerous than Busan ever was. He knows they won’t back down. Around him, the Ravens scatter in a chaos of reaction. Jeno stands beneath the press gauntlet, cameras locked on him like heat-seeking missiles. Jaemin wipes sweat from his brow, pacing the sidelines, jaw clenched. San drags his hands through his hair, muttering beneath his breath. Mark shadows Coach Suh, tracking his every movement with a soldier’s focus. Yangyang lingers near the benches, fists tight, eyes narrowed, as if daring the future to come at him.

The noise folds around them, but it doesn’t reach you. It never does. Your focus drags away from the scattering Ravens, away from the mess of urgency and planning and tightens like a wire around a single point of gravity — him. Jeno. You can feel the pull of him before you even realise you’ve abandoned everything else, before you notice how your eyes betray you, how they follow the line of his shoulders beneath the navy curve of his jersey, how they trace the number carved into his back like it’s stitched into your pulse. It’s always him.

It’s never the strategy, never the outcome, never even the fallout of the scandal devouring the stadium from the inside out. It’s him. The way he holds himself beneath the feverish flashes of the cameras, the way he carries the storm like it’s his crown, like he was born for the chaos you lit beneath his feet. Your breath tightens, lips parting without realising, heart caged in your ribs as if it wants to break free and cross the court to him. He’s the reason you did this. He's the reason you did this. He's the reason you woke up every morning with fire in your chest and slept every night with only an hour of rest, tossing in sweat-drenched sheets, thighs pressed tight because no fantasy could ever tame the ache he left behind. He makes the sleepless nights feel worth it. He makes everything worth it.

Your gaze drinks him in, the way his jaw cuts sharp beneath the flashing lights, the way his shoulders hold the weight of the world like they were built for it. Jeno doesn’t run from the cameras. He never has. He stands at the centre like he was born there, the sun in their orbit, and they spin for him, desperate for a sliver of his fire. He knows it, too. Plays it like a violin, posture clean and tall, answers carved sharp but wrapped in that easy charm. His eyes flick to the red lights of the recorders with precision, not by accident, but by hunger, feeding the lens exactly what it wants. When they crowd closer in the tunnel, flashes bursting like fireworks, he doesn't flinch. He angles his body just enough so the number 23 sears into the lenses, burns into their retinas, marks them like it marks you.

Even as chaos detonates in every corner of the arena, even as headlines throb with blood and betrayal, he stays collected. You watch him on the monitors and from the sidelines, watch him command the scene like he commands your body in the dark. This is a man who knows exactly how to sell the story the cameras crave: the captain who weathered the storm and emerged unbroken.

He finishes one interview, slipping away like a shadow between flashbulbs, and you catch the glint of his phone in his hand. He doesn't look at you. He scrolls with casual ease, lips quirked faintly, as if the world isn't caving in around him. But you know him too well. Beneath that practised calm, there's a flicker. A glimmer of fear, yes, but stronger still, hope — the wild, impossible thought that maybe, somehow, this storm that’s been conjured isn't aimed at him. Maybe he's safe.

Your phone buzzes.

jeno — you okay my love? jeno — you keep staring at me jeno — it’s crazy what happened but don’t be worried, i’m okay and i’ll always protect you, you know that right? nothings gonna happen to u you — i know baby you — gonna see you before the game :) you — i’ll be waiting

Your phone is still warm in your palm, your last message waiting beneath your fingertips, but he doesn’t reply. He’s already back to the cameras, back to the spotlight that clings to him like second skins. Your grin sharpens, curling at the edges like flame, because you know exactly what fills his mind even now, you know what’s imprinted behind those dark lashes and the sharp cut of his jaw beneath the stadium glare. He might play the composed captain, the media-trained golden boy, but this morning he was something else entirely. You remember it so vividly it floods your mouth now, thick and filthy, the way he gripped your hair tight at the roots, fist curled hard against your scalp, dragging you down over him until you were choking, spluttering, your throat stretched wide around the full length of him, eyes blurred with tears you couldn’t even blink away.

He fucked into your mouth like it was nothing, like he owned it, like it belonged to him as much as the number on his back, hips relentless as you gagged and gasped and took it deeper, deeper still, until you felt him bruise the back of your throat and hold you there, trembling, suffocating on the heat of him. His groans had fallen low and rough from his chest, filthy things rasped out between gritted teeth as he kept you pinned and helpless, using your mouth like it was built to worship him alone.Shameless. Always. He’s a whore for your attention, a whore for the cameras, a man who lives to be watched, devoured, consumed, and you fed the hunger in him just as much as he fed it in you.

Now, he's about to give another interview, already half-turning to the broadcaster from SPN, their crew greedy with cameras and questions, when Coach Suh strides over, sharp as a blade. "Enough," Suh snaps, his voice laced with urgency. The SPN reporter pleads for five more minutes, but Coach Suh glares daggers through him, jaw tight. "If you don't back off," he growls, "I'm putting you in the hospital myself." The reporter stumbles back, hands raised in surrender, as Jeno obeys Suh's call. He tosses one last look at his reflection in the dark glass of a monitor, adjusts his collar, and follows his coach, still every inch the star. Every inch yours.

Under the concrete ribs of the stadium, it's a frenzy. Reporters jostle, shouting questions that splinter the air, their voices sharp as broken glass. Players spill from the court, sweat-slick and breathless, caught between the high of the win and the looming spectre of scandal. The media swarms like sharks to blood, their microphones thrust like spears through the gaps in the crowd, cameras flashing like lightning strikes behind storm-tossed windows.

"Lee Jeno! Lee Jeno!" Reporters bark questions like hunting dogs in full cry. Mark snaps first, shoving a microphone out of his face with a growl. "Give us space." His jaw flexes, eyes dark, shoulders squared like he’s ready for a second war. But Jeno feeds on it still. He lets the swarm devour him, lets the flashbulbs burn his silhouette into every headline. He answers coolly, voice rough but magnetic, the perfect post-championship image.

Overhead, helicopters thrum in tight circles, and from the stadium speakers, news bulletins echo — urgent, breathless updates bleeding into the roar of the crowd. "—ethics board confirmed an investigation—" "—shockwaves through the league—" "Lee Jeno is about to beat record and become the best player this league has ever seen—"

The chaos bleeds into the locker room, the noise from outside filtering through walls like an infection. Newsfeeds light up, phones vibrate on benches, alerts flash across screens, heads swivelling toward every ping. The bomb has dropped. They're not immune to it. Not even close. Chenle is the loudest first. "Yo, is this real?" He holds his phone up, screen glaring, headlines sprawled like graffiti. "They're actually—?" He cuts himself off, disbelief pitching high in his voice. Jaemin’s jaw tightens beside him, his silence louder than Chenle's shock.

Yangyang paces, fingers raking through his hair, paranoia a raw, scraping pulse in his bones. "Bro, this is serious," he snaps, mostly to himself. "If they can take down the whole Busan team, who's next?" His eyes flick to his phone, his thoughts stuck, looping over the unrecovered files you and he still need to retrieve. You can almost hear him counting the hours.

Yangyang’s paranoia drowns him quietly, and only you can hear it, even while you're still on the court and he’s buried in the locker room storm. The files still haven’t been recovered. They’re kept at a data centre off-campus, corporate-run, secure but not impenetrable. Genesis Holdings vault storage. You and Yangyang spent the night before the championship on the phone until your voices rasped, mapping the break-in like architects of disaster. You promised him: right after the Ravens take the win, while the city is drunk on victory and the campus drowns in confetti and champagne, you’ll slip away and retrieve the files. It’s a skeleton crew at Genesis during the celebrations, barely anyone at the controls. Yangyang clings to that sliver of hope like a man holding a match in a blackout. But it haunts him still. You see it in the tightness of his mouth, the way his eyes dart to every shadow, every figure that lingers too long in his periphery. He doesn’t say it aloud, but you both know — if those files fall into the wrong hands, this win means nothing for him.

Mark is unusually quiet, eyes storm-dark. He’s absorbing it, all of it, the weight of legacy and scandal tightening across his chest. "Don’t lose your heads," he finally says, low but commanding. "Focus on the game. We still have to finish this."

Jeno, the captain, cool on the surface but wired tight beneath it, stands in his media-trained posture, but his hands are clenched, white-knuckled. "We play like champions," he says. "This isn’t our mess. We finish the job." His words are clipped, controlled, but there’s a glint in his eyes that betrays the burn under his skin.

Coach Suh enters, weight in his steps, eyes scanning every face, measuring the fear, the adrenaline, the chaos simmering beneath the surface. "Listen to me," his voice cuts clean through the noise, slicing it dead. "This is a distraction. A calculated, vicious distraction. You let it in your head, you lose before you hit the court. We play our game. We stay sharp. We stay clean." He paces in front of them like a general before battle. "Let them fall apart but we do not break ranks. Understood?"

The team moves as one, fists together. "Understood."

Jeno, fire in his breath, steel in his spine. "Yes, Coach. We finish this." The words don’t settle before the storm surges forward, spilling out of the locker room like floodwater breaking its dam, dragging the noise with it, dragging you with it. Down the corridors, past the steel bones of the stadium, the pulse of the game and the scandal and the spotlight folding into one unstoppable current — and at its helm, cut from the same storm-thread, is Donghyuck.

He moves through the chaos like it was built for him, like the storm bloomed just to crown him king. His body language is all liquid confidence, loose but sharp at the edges, swagger rolling off him in waves so strong they bend the atmosphere around him. His phone hasn’t stopped buzzing, alive with notifications, emails, calls from media outlets, sports editors, investigative magazines, even podcast hosts and talk show producers, all of them clawing for a piece of the man who detonated the story of the year. He doesn't flinch. He thrives in it. He walks with the kind of ease that turns the scramble of campus into his own private stage, every spotlight chasing him, every breath of the crowd bending toward his orbit.

Shotaro stays right by his side, loyal and wide-eyed, caught between awe and disbelief. "This feels like a fucking movie," he breathes under his breath, the corners of his mouth tugged up in a grin he can't quite contain. His gaze flicks between the sea of faces and Donghyuck, like he’s watching history crack open and swallow them whole. He shadows Donghyuck not because Donghyuck needs protection, but because the energy is a whirlwind, and even Shotaro, grounded and sure-footed, feels the pull of it. Still, he sticks close, just in case.

They weave through the crowds of students with the magnetism of a comet tearing across the sky. Heads snap toward Donghyuck, eyes blown wide with awe or narrowed in wary calculation. Whispers spiral in their wake, feverish and breathless. Some reporters lunge, thrusting microphones forward like spears, desperate for a comment, but Donghyuck waves them off with a flick of his fingers, a conductor controlling the tempo of his moment. He’s recording game footage, too, like it’s second nature, switching between camera angles for his analysis content while fielding questions from professors and peers as though he’s been reporting for a decade. He multitasks like he was born doing it, his rhythm flawless.

The air around him vibrates with something electric, as if the crowd understands they’re not just watching a student, but witnessing a legend's origin story unfold in real time. He knows exactly what he’s done. You know exactly what you’ve done. Because you built this moment for him, sculpted it with your bare hands. You lit the fuse, and Donghyuck is the firestorm burning through the sky.

His momentum drags the crowd with him, the wake of his energy sweeping through the court like a live current, sparking across the sidelines. It catches the cheerleaders not by aim but by force of gravity, the swell of attention tumbling their way like the aftershock of a quake. Cameras swivel, lenses twitching toward the bright arc of the squad, flashes snagging on the sharp angles of their formation. They are already braced against the storm, muscles coiled beneath glossed uniforms, Karina at the helm, fierce and unyielding, she wears her role like armour, the captain of the squad and the shield at their front. "Off the cameras," she barks at one of the younger girls, yanking her back by the elbow just before a boom mic could catch her shaky breath. Her glare cuts to the circling reporters, sharp enough to slit throats. "They're not your story," she snaps, planting herself between her squad and the hungry crowd. Every time a lens lifts, she’s there first, intercepting, blocking, her eyes flashing with fury and command. She glances your way, too, as if she knows full well who lit this fire but she protects you all the same.

Donghyuck heads toward the cheerleaders, drawn by the heat of the storm, grin splitting wide as he reaches their corner of the court. His eyes meet Karina’s first, amusement dancing there, but then he finds you, and something darker, deeper flickers between you. He lifts his phone, still recording, capturing fragments of this chaos as if it's already content waiting to be uploaded. Shotaro watches from a distance, half-dazzled, half-proud, a silent message in his expression: only you could pull this off. And he lets Donghyuck have his moment.

Donghyuck’s charm surges, magnetic and bright, his grin cutting across the squad like a spark through dry grass. The girls, tense and battle-ready moments before, can’t help but laugh when he mirrors their routine with exaggerated flair, yet somehow perfect rhythm. He picks up the moves in minutes, his ease infuriating and irresistible, drawing a ripple of laughter from the squad. "Maybe you should step in and replace Nahyun," Karina calls out, dry but impressed. "I like the way you move."

Your breath catches tight in your chest, a sharp twist that steals the air right out of you, as Donghyuck moves like he’s always belonged there, slipping into Karina’s space with the ease of someone who knows exactly the effect he has. His mouth dips close to her ear, and though his words don’t carry, you feel them ripple through her, see it in the way her breath visibly hitches, in the way her lashes flutter, her cheeks flaring high with colour like he’s set a match to her skin. He doesn’t stop there. His hand finds the side of her neck, his thumb grazing slow, deliberate, just once, before he tilts forward and seals it with a kiss to her forehead—soft, almost reverent, but you catch the flicker in his eyes, the weight behind it. When he pulls away, Karina is frozen, her mouth parted in shock, her usual sharp composure fractured clean through. No one leaves her speechless. No one. Not Jeno, not Jaemin, not anyone. But Donghyuck does, and he does it like it costs him nothing at all.

The heat of it still clings to your skin as you turn away, each step you take pulled by a gravity that leads you away from the noise, away from the swelling roar of the arena, into the maze of back corridors twisted with too many bodies and too much breathless energy. It feels like the walls themselves shift, like you're moving through veins carrying adrenaline instead of blood, each turn teeming with staff, players, media, equipment managers — a frenzy of limbs and voices thick enough to drown even you. But you don’t drown. You carve through it, drawn by a pull that is older, deeper, stronger than chaos: him.

You feel him before you see him, you know he’s there, like the air has already thickened with his presence, like the temperature shifts in warning of his heat. He’s waiting for you, just as you promised, and the knowledge tightens in your chest like a fist closing around your heart. The corridor opens to him like it was made for this moment. He stands just beyond the last bend, not caught in the scramble, not lost in the noise, but anchored in the hush of a side hallway where light spills through tall windows in molten sheets, casting him in gold that turns every edge of him lethal and divine. His eyes are already on you, like they’ve always been on you, as though he felt you moving through the veins of the stadium, drawn to him with inevitability carved into your bones. His mouth curls slow, almost boyish, the kind of smile that comes from knowing exactly what power he holds over you, patient but burning beneath the surface, like he’s been waiting all morning just to drink you in.

Your body doesn’t hesitate. It knows the way. Your feet break into a run not from panic, not from urgency, but from inevitability, from the law of nature that governs your bones. You close the distance like gravity calling you home, arms rising to circle over his shoulders, chest flush to his, your hands curling behind the nape of his neck as if you’ve known they belong there all along. He catches you in an instant, like he never planned to let you fall, his palms claiming your waist before they slip lower, fingers spanning your hips as he lifts you clean off the ground, holding you as though he needs you caged against him to breathe.

Your lips meet his with heat that isn’t frantic but full-bodied, fast at first, yes — a spark catching on dry timber — but then it deepens, slows, a golden pour of want and worship alike. He tastes like fire, like sweat and sunlight woven together, like the victory you’re already tasting on his behalf. His breath stumbles in his chest, caught in the tight, rough gasp between kisses, and you feel it in the way his hands tighten on your body as though you might disappear with the next heartbeat. Your mouths melt together like honey slipping through fingers, breaths stitching into one thread of heat, his hold like a man trying to trap the sun in his bare palms.

Your lips find his first, his hands spread firm over your waist, fingers pressing into your skin through the fabric, holding you steady against him, close enough that you feel the heat of him everywhere, rising sharp beneath his skin like he’s already burning for you. “Go win this,” you murmur, your lips brushing his, your breath folding into his mouth like you’re feeding him the words directly, like they’re not a wish but a certainty. He exhales rough, his jaw tight under your hand as you feel him breathe the promise deep into his chest.

His eyes flicker down to your mouth, dark and focused, and his voice comes low, hoarse at the edges, “I will.” There’s no hesitation, no stumble, just raw, hungry belief like he’s already tasting the victory you’ve placed between his teeth. “For you.”

Your fingers hook into the collar of his jersey, knuckles grazing his throat, and you pull him closer, claiming him fully as you press your mouth to his, deeper this time, tasting him slow and sweet like you’re pouring everything you have into him. His lips catch yours with a quiet growl, his hips drawing you flush against him, one hand dragging up your spine like he wants to feel every line of you, every breath. “Take everything,” you breathe against him when you pull back, not far, just enough for the words to slip from your lips into his waiting mouth.

His forehead rests against yours, his eyes burning into you, and his voice roughens to a whisper, “I will. No one’s stopping me.” he whispers. breath pouring hot over your lips, and when you tilt into him, closing the sliver of air between you, his lips pry yours open, tongue sliding in deep without hesitation, hot and slick and greedy as it tangles against yours with a full claim, the wet heat of it gliding rough and hungry, tasting you like he needs you to burn on his tongue, and you give it to him, parting wider, pressing harder, feeding the kiss with every ounce of breath you have, your tongues twisting, wet and filthy, catching on each other like friction turned to fire, saliva stringing between your mouths when you draw back a fraction just to gasp, but he chases you, lips catching yours again, tongue stroking deeper, filling your mouth until you’re swallowing down a whimper, your fingers curling tight in the collar of his jersey as his grip bites into your waist, holding you there like he’ll never let you go, your lips dragging against his when you murmur, breath ragged, “I’m so proud of you.”

His breath catches hard in his throat, his mouth still slick and parted against yours, voice rasping low like it’s clawed straight from his chest, rough and raw and soaked in heat as he growls, “gonna win for you.” His tongue swipes slow over his bottom lip to taste the kiss you left behind, eyes burning into yours like he’s fucking you with his gaze alone,

Your lips barely part from his, breath trembling as you whisper back, soft but burning with weight, “You already have.” The words catch in the heat between you, folding into the tension coiled tight in his body, your eyes locked to the slow, deliberate sweep of his tongue over his lip. You follow it without thinking, your mouth claiming his once more, deeper, hungrier, tasting the raw promise lingering there, pulling him closer by the nape until you feel the low growl pulse through his chest. “Do it for me again,” you murmur, voice thick, your lips brushing his as you speak, like you’re feeding the words straight into his bloodstream.

“I’ll win this fucking game if it kills me.” His mouth grazes yours again, teeth flashing in a promise, his grip branding you closer, “Watch me.” You feel it rise beneath your palms like a living thing, not something you placed there but something you’ve torn loose from where it was buried inside him, the heat rushing up his spine, coursing through his veins like molten ore waking beneath the crust of the earth. His pulse thrums loud and wild against your skin, not begging, not grateful, but surging, fierce, like it’s always been there waiting for a touch brutal enough to awaken it.

His grip tightens until it brands you, as though his body refuses to release the conduit of this ignition, as though letting you go would mean caging the fire you’ve unchained. His breath lands hot against your cheek, fevered with purpose and in that moment you know you haven’t simply fed him flame—you’ve struck the spark straight into his marrow, you’ve pulled the storm back into his chest where it belongs. His eyes burn into yours like they already see the victory waiting at the end of the tunnel, like you didn’t give him anything new but rather reminded him of what was his from the start. It was always there.

Your hand curves beneath his chin, holding him still like you own him, your thumb tracing slow across his bottom lip, feeling the heat there, the way he’s burning for you already. “Every point you drop, you get me once,” you say, steady, smooth, like you’re calling plays straight from his playbook. “Fast break? you get to take me fast after. Free throw? you get me with no hands, just mouth.” His breath kicks rough against your fingers, his eyes glued to you, dark and sparking wild. You lean in closer, lips just brushing his ear. “Three-pointer,” you whisper, soft and cutting, “i’ll let you do anything you want to me.” His chest rises hard, tight beneath his jersey, and you don’t stop. You press your mouth to his, kiss him like a taste of the win, then drag back just enough to finish it, softer but deadlier. “Win the whole game, and I won't tell you to stop.”

His eyes search yours, slow and deep, like he’s seeing straight through every layer you’ve ever built, and his voice drops rough but honest when he says, “You know you’re the only thing I think about out there.” His thumb skims your jaw, the barest touch, like he’s memorising you. “No plays, no scores, no noise, just you.” His breath brushes your lips, warm and reverent. “When I’m on that court, I see you in every move, every shot, every breath in my chest,” he murmurs, soft but wrecked, as if admitting it makes it even more real. “And when it’s over, I want you waiting for me,” he breathes, closer now, his words a thread pulling tight between you, “so I can show you exactly how much.”

Your lips catch on a breath of a smile, soft and real, your chest tight in a way that feels almost fragile, almost dangerous. You don’t try to fight it. Your eyes flick down to his mouth, then back to his eyes, and you say low, just for him, “You make it hard to think straight.” Your thumb drags slow beneath his bottom lip, feeling the way it’s still hot from your kiss, your voice softening more, slipping out like truth you can’t keep caged. “Hard to want anything but you right now.”

You feel him steady, not just his breath but all of him, like your touch coaxes the storm inside him to settle into rhythm, deep and certain, no longer thrashing wild but flowing sure beneath the surface. He had drifted too close to the edge, the pull of collapse dragging at his heels, the threat of Eric and Sunwoo wrapping round his chest like a noose waiting for the final tug, shadows of them lurking in every breath, every glance over his shoulder, their weight heavy in his blood, but under your hands you feel him shed it, you feel the shift, the quiet revolt of his pulse against defeat, the way his body answers to you alone, moving with a new certainty as though you’ve guided the current back to its rightful path.

Beneath your palm his heart kicks steady, not fast, not fading, but full and sure, thudding strong enough to tell you it’s alive, alive because of you. His chest swells deeper, breath tasting clearer, the tight coil of dread unwinding from his ribs until there is space again, space for strength to take root. It isn’t a blaze that devours too quick, it’s weight and force collecting quietly beneath the surface, something inevitable rising slow through his veins, building power in silence. You see it in the way his shoulders square beneath your touch, in the way his gaze sharpens as if he can already see the court in front of him, the game laid bare, and when he steps onto that floor, you know, you feel, he won’t just play for survival. He will take the game in his hands and crush it until nothing remains of them but ruin.

Beneath it all, without him knowing, without anyone knowing, you built him this tide. You made sure of it with hands steady as a surgeon, with choices sharp as blades. His name never touched the exposé. Not a shadow of it crept onto the page. The report thundered through campus, a rupture, a reckoning, but you carved it with precision. You named the predators, you cut out the rot, but you kept him in the quiet. Safe. Unnamed. Unscathed. It was never a question. His story belongs to him. If he chooses to share it, it will be by his voice, not torn from him and printed in ink that dries too fast for truth. You would never let them scorch him with pity. No headlines baited with his name, no career reduced to a cautionary tale. You know him too well. He would never want the world to see his wounds like that, never want their sympathy, their softened eyes. You spared him because you understood. You spared him because you loved him too deeply not to.

Your aim was clean and exact, and it landed like a lightning strike straight to the heart of the empire. You felt it when he read the words "multiple players," the subtle bracing in his shoulders, the way he swallowed against the expectation of pain. But it never came. His teammates look at their screens, at each other, but not at him. No eyes linger. No fingers point. There is no stain on him. Only that strange, quiet disbelief, the kind that breathes relief into his lungs like oxygen. He expected to fall with the wreckage but he still stands. He still stands because you kept him upright.

Jeno stands like a monument to survival, like the storm swirled around him but left him untouched. His posture holds firm, grounded as bedrock, his breath measured and sure. You did this. You built the shield around him with your own two hands, and he doesn’t even know. If he knew, truly knew, he would be furious. Not at your brilliance, but at the cost you paid. He would hate the thought of you stepping into the fire to shield him from the flames, would rage at the vulnerability you allowed yourself for his sake. Because you knew he needed to step onto that court free. Free to play not as a victim of this war but as its victor. And when he plays, when he moves across that floor with power in his veins and steel in his spine, you will see it in every drive, every sprint, every shot. You will see him carry your choices in his pulse. You will see him carry you.

Your breath barely has time to settle before his mouth finds yours again, like he was never done, like he was always meant to come back to you. Jeno catches you in full, his hands curling tighter beneath the hem of your skirt, heat burning through your skin where his palms press firm to your thighs, holding you closer, closer, like even the smallest breath of space between you is too much to bear. His lips move with yours in a deep, unhurried pull, tasting you slow, devouring like you’re the only thing anchoring him to the earth. The heat of him bleeds straight into your bones, seeping deep, setting your heart pounding wild and uneven against your ribs. Under your hands, his chest heaves, rising fast and hard beneath your palms, like the breath you steal from him is the only air he knows how to take.

Then a cough scrapes through the quiet like a jagged tear, and you freeze, your lips still parted against his, breath catching sharp in your throat. For a split second, your stomach knots, dread knotting tight beneath your ribs. You think it sounds like Taeyong, think you feel the shadow of him breathing down your neck, your blood chilling in an instant. But you turn, slowly, and it’s Mark—his gaze not on you, not on Jeno, but fixed deliberately away, a line of tension carved into his jaw. He doesn’t meet your eyes, doesn’t look at the way Jeno’s hands still grip your ass under your skirt, but his voice cuts through the heavy air, low and dry. "You guys do know that Taeyong is like two hallways away."

Your eyes widen instinctively, a flicker of nervous heat you can’t quite smother burning across your face. You shoot Mark a sharp glance, a silent warning masked beneath a veil of faux calm. Why would he say that in front of Jeno? The thought spikes through your chest like a live wire, but you smooth it over, force your expression to stay even, though your gaze lingers hard on Mark, willing him to shut up, to leave it buried.

"What’s this supposed to mean?" Jeno’s voice edges in, rougher, sharper, his eyes narrowing slightly, never missing a shift in your body, never blind to the pulse beneath your skin. He knows you too well—too well not to notice the way your breath stalled, the way your muscles tensed at Mark’s words. His gaze pins you, dark and cutting, but you don’t let him press further. “So what if he is?”

Your lips find his again, urgent, silencing, a desperate tether to pull him back into you before he can dig too deep. You kiss him slow at first, like you’re convincing him to forget, to focus only on the heat blooming between your mouths, but you feel the tension in his jaw, the way his thoughts still spin even as he kisses you back. You steal kisses from him like you’re trying to hoard them all before the clock runs out, quick and soft, one after another, your mouth brushing his like a secret you can’t stop whispering.

Jeno smiles against your lips, rough and quiet, eyes shadowed but soft, like he’s tasting something he never wants to lose. His breath catches when you lean in again, and you feel him, the way his grip tightens on your waist, greedy but gentle, the way he chases your mouth with his own. He lets you take from him, lets you press closer, steal more, like every kiss is something carved out of time itself, but even as you drown in him, something shifts in the air. Subtle first. A ripple through the current, a tight coil winding invisible beneath the surface.

Your senses flicker, hairs prickling at the nape of your neck, and then it’s there—the sound not of footsteps, not of voices, but of pressure folding in on itself, like the building exhales all at once and forgets how to breathe back in. A tension grips the corridors, sharp and palpable, like the bones of the arena are bracing for impact. Somewhere to your left, down the spine of the hallway, you catch it: the flash of movement, a police officer pausing mid-step, fingers to his earpiece, posture stiff as stone. Another follows suit, bodies coiled tight as live wire, the muscles in their jaws set.

Then the loudspeaker cracks to life, splitting through the corridor like a blade tearing through fabric. “All attendees, remain in your positions. This is an emergency lockdown. Repeat, emergency lockdown in effect.”

The message loops, sterile and inhuman, echoing off the steel bones of the stadium until it feels like it’s seeping into your bloodstream. Your breath catches, lips parting from Jeno’s, the taste of him still warm and lingering on your tongue. His arms are already tightening around you, no hesitation, pulling you flush against the hard plane of his chest like he’s locking you into place, like nothing and no one is getting to you while you’re in his hold. His fingers flex at your waist, gripping you with a force that dares anyone to try. His eyes darken, narrowing sharp, every line of his body coiled, alert, dangerous. His gaze flicks once down the corridor, fast and cutting, then comes right back to you, like you’re the only thing he needs to anchor him through the rising storm. His chest rises deep under your palms, steady but fierce, his breath tight as he cages you closer still, instinct ruling him now, his whole body a wall between you and whatever is coming.

Mark’s glance cuts fast across the space, tactical, scanning exits and choke points, but you barely see it, barely register the calculation in his eyes, because all you can feel is Jeno, the way his hold brands you to him, the heat of his skin, the shield of him wrapping around your pulse like armour. Your chest tightens, not from fear, but from cold, bone-deep awareness: they’re here.

The lockdown slams into place like a predator snapping its jaws shut. Metal doors grind closed, heavy and final, their mechanical thud vibrating through the floor beneath your sneakers. Locks seal hard across corridors, storage rooms, tunnel entrances. This isn’t a drill, isn’t precaution, it’s a hunt. You feel it in your chest, the weight of inevitability. Eric and Sunwoo had slipped past the outer perimeter, tried to bury themselves in the crowd, to taste the pulse of the championship one last time before everything fell. But the tip-off had landed hours earlier. The authorities knew they were circling, waiting, desperate for a final strike or a desperate escape. The evidence Donghyuck detonated had been too damning to run from, too precise to deny. Now, the jaws have closed around them.

This lockdown isn’t for precaution. It’s for capture. For clean, surgical containment. You can see it in the sharp movements of the officers locking down the exits, their urgency not of panic but of precision. They’re sealing every artery of the campus to suffocate the threat in place. To make sure Eric and Sunwoo have nowhere left to run, no crevice left to crawl into. The announcement repeating overhead is confirmation that the final play is in motion. This is the moment the storm stops brewing and breaks clean open.

The storm travels, rippling across campus in real time. In the team prep room, Coach Suh barks into his radio, voice sharp as steel, snapping orders at the flood of static. His shoulders are squared, pacing tight circles like a commander preparing for siege. “Status report, now!” Out by the practice mats, Karina’s head whips up from the squad, her sharp eyes scanning the flood of noise as she yanks the cheerleaders tight into formation, protective, fierce, teeth seething as she’s noticing one team member is missing — you. “Stay together!” she orders, her voice cutting through the tension, her spine straight as steel. You can almost feel the way her heart punches beneath her uniform, but she keeps the squad shielded beneath her wings.

Near the bench corridor, Donghyuck and Shotaro freeze mid-conversation, eyes darting to the emergency lights that begin to pulse red over their heads. Donghyuck’s jaw tightens, Shotaro’s brows draw tight in confusion. They trade a glance, adrenaline kicking hard in their veins, waiting for orders. Up in the VIP box, Principal Kun is already locked in fast conversation with law enforcement, his eyes sharp, voice pitched low and urgent. The board members cluster around him, faces pale, hands gripping their phones as if to steady the world spinning out beneath them. The crowd stirs next, the panic swelling like a tide. Parents clutch their children close, students jolt in their seats, phones lift in unison to capture the chaos, the news already spilling across livestreams and message threads. Voices rise, questions spit sharp into the air, tension snapping in every breath. You feel it all, every heartbeat of this building locking into place, a system sealing its prey inside its ribs. Your eyes flick to Jeno, his gaze already steady on yours, as if he knows, you know. The final hunt has begun.

Mark’s brows pull together, confusion flashing across his face. "The game’s about to start," he mutters, almost to himself, but the loudspeaker crackles again, as if answering him directly.

“The State Championship has been temporarily postponed. Remain in your current positions until further notice.” The announcement settles like a weight over your shoulders, heavy and inescapable. Mark’s reaction is instant, his gaze slicing to the corners of the corridor, already tracking exits like he’s mapping the fastest route out of a burning house. His mind is already five steps ahead, running the plays like muscle memory, eyes dark with strategy. Jeno’s body tightens around you, the line of his spine hardening, muscles corded beneath your hands. His hold is fierce, instinctive, like if he keeps you close enough, nothing can touch you. His eyes stay locked ahead, sharp and unblinking, not at the exits, not at the threat but at you. Like you’re the only thing he needs to shield and to protect.

The intercom crackles to life moments later, clear and brutal: “Suspects Son Eric and Kim Sunwoo are in custody.”

They tried to run for the media building first. It made sense, desperate men clawing for the last weapon they could find, one last broadcast to twist the story in their favour before the system swallowed them whole. Cameras. Mics. Streams to the nation. They thought they could hijack the narrative, snatch control from the jaws of collapse and turn it live but they miscalculated. The academic wing’s media centre had already been flagged, swarmed with quiet security measures the second your exposé dropped. You’d counted on it, predicted their hunger for a final stage. Every feed was monitored. Every exit covered. They were cornered before they even crossed the threshold.

Your mind floods with the images: Eric and Sunwoo forced to their knees, swarmed by law enforcement, wrists twisted behind their backs as metal cuffs bite into their skin. You picture their faces, contorted with fury and fear, every ounce of their bravado drained dry, reduced to prey caught in the jaws of justice. Somewhere, you know phones are capturing it, broadcasting it live, the final page of their story written in cold steel and sirens. Minutes later you read that Eric had tried to run, one last feral burst, but it was over before it started. His legs were swept from under him, chest hitting the ground with a bone-deep thud, his breath punched out of his lungs as cold steel closed over him.

A beat of silence and then — another announcement, fast, decisive, the voice cutting cleaner now, no static in its authority: “Lockdown is lifted. All entrances secured. The State Championship final will commence immediately.” It feels like the air punches back into your lungs at once. The lights above shift, no longer the oppressive glare of emergency reds, but pure, clean white, bright as daylight breaking open across the storm.

“They really thought they could pull that off,” Mark says, voice flat but edged in quiet derision. He’s not looking at you anymore. His eyes stay pinned somewhere just past Jeno’s shoulder, but the weight of his words lands square between them.

Jeno’s jaw tightens, a shadow cutting clean through the line of it. “Guess they thought wrong,” he fires back, cool but clipped, like his patience is thinner than breath.

Your pulse skips, quick and shallow, as Mark tips his head just slightly, not smirking, not provoking — but knowing. “Some people gamble stupid when they know they’ve already lost.” It hits you first before it hits Jeno, the sharp edge tucked beneath the casual delivery, and your eyes flick fast to Mark, a silent warning flaring hot behind your gaze. But it’s too late. Jeno’s already caught the scent of it, his attention locking in with dangerous precision.

Jeno’s hand tightens around yours, slow and deliberate, like he means to make a point of it, as if the curl of his fingers against your skin is a message carved between the three of you. He doesn’t look away from Mark, doesn’t flinch, his jaw flexing once under the weight of words unspoken. “Talking about them, right?” His voice cuts low, clipped at the edges, smooth as pulled wire but strung tight beneath the surface. His eyes stay fixed, sharp and unwavering, no blink, no break, holding Mark’s gaze like he’s holding the air still between you, like the whole room revolves around this beat, this tension, this quiet claim.

Mark doesn’t budge. His mouth curves, not into a smile, not into a sneer — just a shadow of something that cuts deeper for how mild it seems. His gaze drags lazily over where Jeno’s hand tightens around yours, and then he lifts his eyes back, steady and knowing. “Of course,” he says, smooth as glass, but there’s a flick under the surface, something pointed left unsheathed. “But you’d know all about desperation.”

Jeno steps forward, the space between them vanishing like it was always meant to close. His fingers flex against yours, still wrapped tight in your grip, but you feel the coil of muscle beneath his skin like a wire pulled taut to snapping. His jaw grinds shut before he spits it out, low and loaded, every syllable bitten off sharp as a blade. “Don’t test me, bitch.”

Mark’s eyes flash, catching not on Jeno’s face but on your linked hands, the way Jeno’s palm cages yours like it belongs there. He scoffs, a sound without humour, shaking his head slow as he shifts his weight forward too, refusing to give ground. His stare is cold, flat, like stone skimming water with no intention of sinking. “Figures,” he mutters under his breath, but loud enough to slice through the tight space between them, sharp as flint. “Got her hand in yours and you think you’re untouchable.”

The tension climbs hard up your spine. Before either of them can push it further, you move, quick and clean, stepping into the small breath of space that still exists between them. Your hand lifts, firm against Mark’s chest, a push just enough to stall his forward motion. He stiffens beneath your touch, like it cuts deeper than it should. “Drop it,” you snap, your voice tight, clipped, no softness left in it. “Both of you.”

For a heartbeat, neither moves. Air buzzes sharp between the three of you, stretched too thin, too brittle to hold. But they listen. They have to. You know exactly why he snapped. Mark, for all his control, for all his quiet fury masked in calm, is fraying beneath the surface. He wants to protect, because it’s the only power left in his hands when so much else has been stripped away — the game he loves, Areum, the girl he tries not to love too loudly, the family ties that slip further from his grasp every day. He lashes out not because he wants to take something from Jeno, but because he’s afraid of losing what little he has left. And Jeno — Jeno can feel it, the way Mark tries to wedge himself into places he doesn’t belong, tries to hold ground that Jeno has claimed for himself. He hates it, hates that it threatens his own grip on you, on this moment, on his life. It’s a stalemate. Neither of them is right, neither of them is wrong. But right now, they’re both burning.

You’re cut from your thoughts when the door swings open with a hard sweep of air, and Doyoung strides in like the world is on fire behind him. His eyes cut across the room fast, sharp as flares, landing first on Mark, then Jeno, taking them in with a soldier’s urgency. His breath is tight, words clipped and clean. “You two, let’s go. The game is about to start.” His gaze snags on you and Jeno for a beat longer, just long enough for something unsaid to flicker behind his eyes. He doesn’t speak to it, doesn’t let it surface, but you catch the quick pull at his mouth, the fraction of breath he catches when he sees the way Jeno’s hand is locked with yours, how you refuse to let go. He looks away first.

Your fingers tighten around Jeno’s instinctively, a squeeze not just of affection but of something deeper, something anchoring him to this moment, to you, to what comes next. He doesn’t look at you yet, but you feel it pulse through him, rising hot beneath his skin, steady in his breath. That quiet, savage fire you saw flickering in him earlier now roars awake, not wild, not reckless, but controlled — caged power about to be unleashed. You see it in the way his chest rises, the way his shoulders square, the way his jaw sets like steel. He’s walking into the fight of his life, and you know, you know, he’ll play it like a man who understands the weight of his future rests in his own hands. This game will change everything. It will carve a new path under his feet, one you helped blaze, one he’ll tear through like it was always meant for him.

The arena burns electric, voltage crackling through the air like it can’t decide whether to spark into glory or disaster. It isn’t noise, it’s thunder, a living storm folding over itself in the ribs of the stadium. The Seoul Hill Ravens stand as the favourites, all eyes devouring them, but this is no blind worship. The crowd wants blood. After the exposé detonated and the lockdown tightened around the day like a noose, there’s a raw hunger in the stands, a car-crash obsession with watching either a crowning victory or a catastrophic fall. Jeno stands beneath it all, caught dead centre in the floodlights, and you can feel the weight of it bleeding through his skin. Sweat beads cold along his temple before the first whistle even screams, crawling like it has nowhere else to go. His jaw locks tight, muscles ticking beneath the strain of holding it all in place, teeth grinding behind a mouth set into a hard line. His eyes move like they can’t help themselves, scouring the crowd not for fans, not for cheers, but for ghosts. Like he still sees Eric and Sunwoo lurking in every shadow, hiding behind every face, even though they’re long gone.

His hands keep wiping down his shorts, over and over, a small unconscious tic that betrays the storm screaming beneath his surface. Donghyuck’s voice cracks over the commentary speakers, the bravado forced sharp and bright, but you hear the fracture underneath. “Lee Jeno,” he calls, his tone trying to climb into its usual swagger, “all-state forward, the name that’s lit up headlines all season, the player every scout worldwide has been watching. This is the moment they wrote about, buddy. Let's see if the ice holds. “Ravens looking to recover after a… let’s call it an eventful morning,” he tacks on, the words twisted like they’ve been wrung dry.

When the tip-off comes, it doesn’t hit like thunder, it hits like a punch to the gut. From the start, Jeno’s rhythm is wrong. His movements lag half a second behind his instinct, his pump-fakes stutter too long, leaving him sealed into dead ends by Daegu defenders who close him out like vultures on carrion. He drives to the rim, but his hesitation cracks through the play, and he pulls up short, botching the layup. His hands fumble a clean inbound from Mark, the ball skittering loose across the hardwood. Mark’s eyes flash frustration sharp as a blade, but no words slip through, only the tight twitch of his jaw before he resets.

It’s not Daegu that’s beating Jeno. It’s Jeno himself. It’s the echoes in his head, the shadows he can’t outrun. Eric’s sneer slices like shrapnel through his focus, Sunwoo’s empty glare sears through his peripheral like a phantom. Every time he hears footsteps behind him, his body stiffens, primed for something more lethal than defence. The damage lingers, a bruise spreading under his skin, invisible but bleeding him dry. On the sidelines, the Ravens bleed frustration into their movements. Palms flip up in disbelief after missed connections, thighs slapped in quiet fury, towels whipped sharp through the air. Coach Suh paces tight circles, his posture grinding tension into the air, assistants murmuring frantic corrections.

Daegu smells the blood. They feast on it. They close in like wolves circling prey, relentless in their pursuit. They double-team Jeno, force him into the corners of the court, choking off his sightlines, crowding him until his options suffocate. Their full-court press squeezes the Ravens like a vice, weaponising fatigue. The refs swallow whistles, let the physicality slip unchecked, and Daegu plays it dirty, plays it cold. Their execution runs ruthless and precise, plays snapping clean into place like blades locking in sequence. Every point they score detonates loud eruptions from their bench, jeers thrown like daggers across the court.

The crowd starts to turn. It’s slow at first, an undercurrent of unease rippling through the stands, but it spreads like fire in dry grass. Missed free throws spark bruising waves of boos, murmurs swell restless, eyes flick away from the court like it hurts to watch. Cameras pan to the Raven board members, their mouths drawn tight, their faces locked stiff in disappointment, tension coiling like wire in their jaws. Karina holds the cheerleaders together by sheer force of will. Her commands snap sharp in the air, yanking the squad into blistering routines, fighting against the deadening pulse of the arena. But even with you right beside her, she feels the weight dragging at their feet, like something is missing from their core, like the heart of the team is slipping through their fingers. You feel it too — in the stumble of the rhythm beneath your soles, in the way the ravens across the court mirror it, their steps heavy, their fire dimming. It coils tight in your chest, sharp and cold, because no matter how loud you chant, no matter how fierce the moves, you can’t fight the way the game is bleeding out from the inside.

The weight of expectation is suffocating. Jeno was meant to be the storm, the prodigy sharpened for this stage, the all-state forward with the path to the NBA carved straight beneath his feet. But under the lights, he moves like the court is folding beneath him, like the future he chased with bloody hands is slipping grain by grain through his fingers. He was never afraid of the fight, he trained his whole life to devour it but what festers now is the fear of coming this far only to fail, of the scouts watching with pens poised to strike his name clean off their lists. His breath carves shallow through his chest, tight and fast, his jaw flexing hard enough to crack his teeth, his hands adjusting his jersey like he can still control something, like grip alone could hold back the spiral.

The court itself cages him. Every missed shot tightens the bars, every turnover welds them shut. The game doesn’t feel like a stage anymore, it feels like a noose. Cameras slice to the scouts courtside, their expressions unreadable, their eyes tracking him like predators scenting wounded prey. Pressure coils in his muscles, acid-hot, as if his body knows the stakes even when his mind tries to block them out. He moves as if haunted, not just by ghosts of the past but by the cold, creeping terror that the future he’s sacrificed everything for is slipping beyond reach. NBA dreams, draft potential, contracts, glory — all of it suspended over his head by a thread fraying thinner with every second on the clock.

Donghyuck’s voice slashes through the noise, edged and raw, the usual cocky swagger stripped to bone. “Lee Jeno,” he tuts, and you hear the grim disbelief, the heartbreak caught in his throat, “usually all muscle and momentum but tonight he’s looking like the weight of the world’s strapped to his shoulders.” It is. You see it in every line of him, every muscle drawn tight, every step heavier than the last. The crowd can’t feel it the way you do. They don’t know what you know. They didn’t watch him bleed through this season, didn’t carry the storm with him through every night, didn’t gamble their soul on his survival. But you did. Every sacrifice, every sleepless night, every silent war you fought in the dark for him bleeds useless beneath the surface now, slipping through your fingers faster than you can catch, as if the flood was always destined to rise.

The buzzer slices through the arena like a guillotine, sharp and merciless, but the Ravens don’t flinch—they can’t. They’ve been flinching all quarter, and now there’s no room left for recoil. The scoreboard flashes brutal in the overhead glare: Daegu Falcons 47, Seoul Ravens 25. twenty two points down. Jeno stands at the edge of the court, chest heaving under the weight of it, his palms braced on his hips, head bowed as though the numbers are carved into his spine. Sweat shines at his temple, streaks down the line of his throat, but his eyes—his eyes are the worst of it. Haunted, splintered, like he’s not just seeing the scoreboard but the ruins of everything he’s chased his whole life. His legacy, his future, the NBA dream, the fight for survival, the fire you struck in him flickering low as though the storm outside has drowned it. Around him, the Ravens funnel into the tunnel, heads low, shoulders tight, tension choking them silent. Mark’s chest is heaving like he’s swallowed razor blades, Chenle rips his mouthguard free with a snarl, and the bench players sag under the weight of it, disjointed and fractured. The Daegu side roars, their players slap hands, confident, riding momentum straight into halftime like they own the air.

Your eyes stay on Jeno. Fixed. Locked like he’s the only thing left alive in this dying game. The noise of the arena folds into static around you, sharp and hollow, like you’re hearing it all from underwater, but your heartbeat doesn’t fade. It kicks harder, faster, thudding up your throat until it feels like it’s pushing you forward on instinct alone. Beside you, Karina’s voice cuts in, tight with strain. “Where are you going?” she snaps, sharp to mask the tremor beneath it, her hand catching at your elbow. She’s desperate to hold the formation, to keep the cheerleaders standing tall as the stadium buckles around them.

Your words don’t come clean. They splinter in your throat, rough and tangled. “Jeno,” you manage, and it’s not an answer, not really. It’s a breath, a compulsion, a truth too raw to shape into explanation. You’re not thinking beyond him. You can’t. You just know you have to move, to reach him before he folds further under the weight clawing at his chest. Karina’s grip loosens. She knows you too well to pull you back. Her gaze flicks to where Jeno lingers at the tunnel entrance, shoulders bowed under a storm no one else can see, and her eyes harden. “Go,” she says, low and firm, like an order but like permission too. Like she understands that whatever happens next, it begins with you.

As you move past the cheerleaders, your gaze cuts through the noise, sharp and singular, but Taeyong catches you mid-stride, his voice low and taut, dripping with a sharp mix of desperation and edge. “Go after him,” he snaps, the words rough and biting, “Fix whatever the fuck you need to fix. He’s bleeding out in ther, fix it before I put on a jersey myself and take his place.”

Your head doesn’t even turn, but your voice cracks back like a whip, “fuck you.” You spit it, raw and fast, but you twist it tighter with a snap of venom at the end, “you’d snap your spine trying. Your heart condition won’t be the only thing that lands you in hospital.” The words leave your mouth sharp, hot as blood, but you don’t spare him a second glance. Your focus has already torn ahead, locked onto the shadow of the Ravens vanishing through the tunnel, disappearing one after the other into the dark maw of the locker room. Your pulse kicks hard beneath your ribs, heavy enough to feel it in your throat, beating in time with the thud of their footsteps as they vanish from sight.

You barely register the slap of your sneakers against the floor as you push off into a run, breath burning fast through your chest, lungs clawing tight, like your body is chasing something it refuses to let slip through its grasp. The noise of the arena dulls behind you, folding into a muffled roar in your ears, like the whole world is narrowing down to this single, breathless pursuit. Ahead, you catch them—navy jerseys streaked with sweat, heads hung low, towels slung over shoulders, the Ravens file into the locker room like soldiers retreating from a war they’re too battered to keep fighting. You brace yourself, jaw locking tight as you cross the threshold, the heavy door swinging wide under your palm.

Inside, chaos hums low and bitter. Coach Suh is already calling the players into a huddle, his voice sharp but fraying at the edges. Some of the guys have their jerseys stripped off, sweat streaking down their torsos, muscles twitching with frustration. A few have towels slung low over their hips, others not bothering at all, cocks out in plain sight, but you don’t look—won’t give them the satisfaction. Your gaze is locked on Jeno alone, so singular it burns. You ignore the low whistles, the half-bitten comments, the way eyes track the slope of your spine and ass as you move through the locker room like you belong to the war, not the aftermath. Taeyong stands frozen by the far wall, eyes glued to the grainy replay flickering across the overhead screen, trapped between the wreckage of the first half and the storm he knows is still coming. Good. Let him stay shackled to his fear. He deserves to drown in it.

Your hand tightens on Jeno's, unforgiving, decisive, and you pull him away from the cluster of players. No words. No permission. None needed. Your body moves with intent so fierce it cuts through the stagnant air, slicing clean toward the corner of the locker room where the shadows deepen and a door waits, half cracked, dark beyond. It’s a small alcove, dimmed out deliberately, privacy afforded to no one but the desperate. You shove the door open, usher him inside, and when it clicks shut behind you, you twist the lock until it bites into place, sealing the world out.

Jeno’s back hits the door with a quiet thud, breath gusting from his lungs as though you’ve knocked the last tether of air from him. You plant your hands on either side of his head, framing him in, your eyes drinking him in, every fractured piece of him. He looks at you like you’re the last light in a collapsing tunnel, like he wants to say something but can’t trust his voice to hold. His eyes—those breaking eyes—they tremble, glossy and dark, but they hold on to you as if you’re his gravity. As if you’re the only thing keeping him from disintegrating completely. You stare into him, no softness, no surrender. Only fire.

“What the fuck are you doing?” The words land hard, loud against the locker room walls, sharper than any whistle, cutting through the dead static in the air. They claw straight from your throat, raw and unfiltered, tight with something caught between fury and fear. Your voice cuts low, steady but sharp enough to carve through the fog in his mind. “You’re playing scared,” you tell him, your breath a burn against his skin. The words don’t flinch between you; they land solid and brutal.

He barely reacts, but you see it. The twitch in his jaw, the flicker of his eyes narrowing, like the truth of it bites deep beneath his skin. He swallows hard, Adam’s apple bobbing tight, and your grip only tightens, your knuckles whitening in the fabric of his uniform as you refuse to let him drift. “You think you can afford that?” you demand, your tone flaring hot with the weight of the moment. Your eyes rake over him, down the taut line of his throat, across the veins bulging tight in his forearms where his hands curl into fists. “You think you can let the weight of all this choke you now? When has that ever stopped you before? Even with the point shaving you still came out as the winner.” Your words don’t need an answer. It carves through him like a blade, and you feel him tense against your hold, feel the muscles of his body coil under your fingertips like a man on the verge of remembering what it is to fight.

You press closer, your breath mingling with his, your chest brushing his so he feels every beat of your heart, every surge of your fire. “You love the pressure,” you say, low and fierce, your voice softening into something darker, more intimate, something that slides beneath his skin and finds the place he’s hidden from the rest of the world. “You feed on it. You crave it. You’re starving for it, Jeno.” His breath catches on yours, shallow and unsteady, and his eyes darken as they hold you captive in his stare. “Don’t pretend you don’t know how to play when the world is watching,” you whisper, your lips brushing the corner of his mouth, heat bleeding between you. Your words burn into him, breath to breath, searing hot and unflinching. “You were made for this. Every second of your life, every shot you’ve taken, every bruise you’ve worn — it all led you here.” His gaze shudders against yours, and you see it break open inside him, the war between fear and fury tilting toward the fire.

And then you kiss him. Hard. Desperate. Like you’re punching oxygen back into his chest with your mouth alone. His lips catch on yours in a bruising crush, his breath rough and ragged as you feed him something fierce, something molten, something alive. Your hands curl tighter in his jersey, dragging him closer, anchoring him to this moment, to you, to the fire burning between your bodies. He breathes you in like salvation, like you’re the last thing tethering him to this earth.

Your lips part just enough to breathe against him, your voice a slow, dangerous whisper against his mouth. “Play like you’re already the champion.” The words melt into his lips, soak into his pulse, and when his eyes lift to yours again, they burn brighter, harder, sharper than they have all game. Jeno swallows and finally responds. “You think I don't want to? You think i don’t fucking feel it? all of it? The whole damn world is waiting to watch me burn.” His eyes blaze hotter, shadows flickering behind them. “I want to give it to them. I want to give you everything.”

His hands come rough to your hips, bunching your skirt fast around your waist, desperate fists in the fabric, breath breaking ragged across your cheek, and as you feel him shove down his shorts with the same fevered urgency, your eyes narrow sharp, tutting under your breath, your voice cutting through the steam of it. “Really? You have the state championships to win in five minutes.”

You watch the flush streak across his cheekbones, but he doesn’t falter, doesn’t freeze—he groans straight into your ear, mouth pressed hot to your skin, words unspooling like he’s already lost control of them. “I can do a lot in five minutes,” he rasps, his voice cracked open with need, like he’s chasing breath that won’t fill him unless it’s you, and his next words catch hard in his throat before he spills them, wrecked and raw, “Need to feel you, need to fuck you before I win this thing, need to feel why I’m winning.”

Your heart kicks fast, skipping against your ribs, but your pulse doesn’t waver. You meet him head-on, bracing him with a flash of teeth, grinding down hard to taste the way he throbs for you already, and your mouth curls wicked against his. “Only five minutes,” you grit through your teeth, warning him and yourself all at once. You give him what he’s begging for, press closer until your bodies melt tight, until there’s no space left between you, until your breath is his breath, until he’s trembling under your touch, and you tell him like you’re sealing the damn fate of this game with your own mouth. “Take it, Jeno,” you breathe, the words molten against his lips. “Take it. It belongs to you.”

He does—he fucking does, and it’s brutal, fevered, a thrust so deep and reckless you feel your breath punch out of your lungs, crushed between the wild slam of his hips and the cold bite of the metal wall at your back. The force drives you up the wall, his cock plunging into you thick and heavy, stretching you wide in one savage push that leaves your cunt clutching around him like it’s begging to hold him there forever. Your mouth finds his fast, greedy, your lips crashing into his not for sweetness but survival, not for affection but for silence, because you know the locker room is alive just feet away, players shifting, voices rising, the risk sharp as a blade against your skin. You moan straight into his mouth, desperate and high, while he grunts into yours, raw and guttural, both of you swallowing every sound you make like your lives depend on it. His tongue claims you, rough and insistent, tasting your cries from the source, catching them before they can fall loose and betray you both to the world outside this door. The heat spilling between your mouths is frantic, dripping with need, thick with the tension of having to stay quiet while your bodies burn recklessly out of control.

His breath is ragged against your cheek, his forehead pressed hard to yours, sweat slicking your skin, his hands locked beneath your thighs like iron as he grinds in deeper, rougher, like he’s trying to bury the weight of the world in your cunt, leave it there, purge it from his blood so he can step back onto the court reborn. He snarls against your lips, the sound vibrating through your teeth, your chest, your spine, “You feel this? You fucking feel this?” His voice is shredded, brutal, desperation bleeding raw through every word as he drives into you again, again, each thrust harder, each stroke rougher, claiming you in a way that feels like he’s soldering himself back together with every savage push. “This is it, fuck—this is what puts me back in the game.”

You feel it in the way his hips snap, relentless, the way he forces every ounce of fear and pressure into the drag of his cock, using your body like a crucible to burn it all away. His control frays with every thrust, his movements growing faster, more brutal, hips punching into yours like he’s trying to fuck the entire weight of the championship out of his system. He’s close—you know it, you feel it in the twitch of his muscles, the tremor in his thighs, the way his cock pulses deep inside you, thick and desperate, every grind stealing breath from your lungs. “Fuck, for you,” he groans, teeth grazing your cheek, voice rough and breathless, “always for you.” His words melt into your mouth as you crush your lips to his again, swallowing him down, drinking his broken sounds like they’re the only air you need. He moans straight into you, his voice hoarse, messy, wild, and you give it right back to him, your own cries flooding his tongue, because you need him to feel it, to taste it, to know this is where he comes alive. You feel it, every brutal inch of it, as he chases the spark of himself inside you, as he feeds off you like you’re the oxygen he’s been starved of all game, as he claws back his purpose, his fire, his future, until there’s no room left in him for fear, only this—only hunger, only rage, only you. This is the fire that will carry him through the second half, through every play, every shot, every second under the blistering lights, through the weight of the scouts’ eyes and the roar of the crowd, through the ruthless pull of destiny dragging him forward. He fucks it all into you, pours it into you, burns it into you, until you’re both searing from the inside out.

The stadium hums like it’s been left on a live wire, buzzing too sharp beneath the skin of the moment, but still, there’s a deadness clinging to the Ravens’ section, heavy and suffocating. Even as the teams retake the court, as the scoreboard glares its brutal deficit into the eyes of every supporter, there’s a lull, a void where belief used to sit. It hangs thick in the air, unspoken but felt in every held breath, every knotted fist in the crowd. Then, like a flint spark catching dry wood, Shotaro moves. He’s out of his seat before anyone else can register the absence of noise, hands coming together in sharp, clean claps that echo against the cavernous silence. It’s awkward at first, lonely even, the sound small compared to the enormity of the arena, but Shotaro doesn’t falter. His chest lifts, shoulders back, and with every clap, he builds his own rhythm until his voice punches through the stillness, clear and certain. “Ravens! Ravens! Ravens!” he chants, the words raw and stubborn, like he’s willing life back into the bones of the team by sheer force of will alone.

It almost feels foolish—until it doesn’t. Because a second later, Doyoung catches the pulse of it, his sharp eye flicking from the players to the crowd, reading the moment like a tactician spotting an opening in enemy lines. He joins without hesitation, voice cutting through louder, stronger. “Ravens! Ravens!” it rolls, it climbs, it builds like a storm front crawling over the stands. Donghyuck, perched at his commentator’s mic with tension creasing his forehead, seizes the moment and drives it home with a spark of his usual bravado, sharp and fast: “Looks like the Ravens found their heartbeat again, and it’s thundering through number twenty-three.” His voice ricochets through the speakers, a fuse catching fire, and Karina doesn’t miss a beat. She spins on her heel, commands the cheer squad into formation with a snap of her fingers so sharp it could slice through steel. The cheerleaders pick up the chant, their voices woven tight, fierce and defiant, until the entire Ravens section erupts, shaking the arena with the force of their resurrection.

Jeno stands at the free-throw line, shoulders stiff beneath the crush of noise, but the crowd barely grazes him. What pulses through his veins is rawer than applause, deeper than chants. It’s you. It’s your breath still clawing at his throat, the way you broke him open in that locked room, your body pressed tight like you were feeding him life itself. His chest swells, breath dragging slow and full, and a flicker ghosts across his mouth—that flicker, the one that feels carved from your hands, from the way you gripped him and demanded he remember exactly who the fuck he is. He rolls his shoulders back, deeper, hungrier, and the charge beneath his skin sharpens like a live current, like he’s still tasting the heat of your mouth. His fingers curl firm around the ball, knuckles streaked with the echo of your hips, and when his eyes lift, they burn clear, singular, carrying you in his bloodstream straight to the net.

Donghyuck’s voice spikes sharp through the roar, no longer commentary but the crack of lightning finding a live wire. “Lee Jeno’s back on the court, and it looks like somebody lit a fire under him!” The sound tears through the dead weight of the arena, slicing clean through the fog of disbelief, and everything that follows feels like history cracking open at the seams. Jeno moves—he devours. His first step cuts brutal into the hardwood, no caution left in his bones, only raw appetite, only hunger sharpened to a blade’s edge. He reads the Daegu pass a breath before it leaves the player’s hands, intercepts it with a predator’s precision, and launches down the court like a storm uncoiled from the sky itself. His body moves faster than thought, muscle memory and instinct fused to something higher, something carnal, and when he leaves his feet for the dunk, it’s destruction. His hands slam the ball through the hoop with savage finality, the rim trembling, the backboard quivering like it’s afraid of him, and the crowd detonates. The sound rips through the rafters, surges through the veins of the arena, and you feel it so deep in your chest it feels like your own pulse syncing to the beat of him, like he’s grabbed life by the throat and dared it to stop him.

The scouts in the stands jolt upright, pens falling from fingers, eyes wide and burning as they lean forward, transfixed. They’ve seen talent before, they’ve seen brilliance, but they’ve never seen a man resurrect himself in real time, never seen a player create destiny out of ash and ruin. One of them, the one who scoffed at halftime, who folded his arms like the game was already written—he sits forward now, mouth parted, unable to look away. Beside him, another mutters something under his breath, scribbling notes so fast his pen threatens to split the paper. Lee Jeno, they write, and their hands can’t move fast enough to capture what their eyes are devouring.

Daegu tries to tighten their defence, tries to claw back the momentum spiralling out of their grasp, but Jeno moves as if their pressure is smoke beneath his sneakers. He cuts through double coverage like it’s made of threadbare fabric, sinks a three-pointer from deep, and the net sings as the ball slices through it, pure and violent. Donghyuck is rapid-fire on the call, voice cracking with adrenaline. “He’s torching them alive! Lee Jeno is unstoppable right now!” And it’s true—you see it in the way Jeno bends the game to his will, the way he orchestrates the court like a symphony of destruction. When Daegu collapses on him at the arc, he doesn’t force it—he spins out, fluid as water, and feeds a perfect assist to Chenle, waiting sharp at the paint’s edge. Chenle catches, releases, scores clean, and the roar doubles, triples, until the arena vibrates with sound, until it feels like the whole world is chanting his name. Lee Jeno. Lee Jeno. Lee Jeno.

Coach Suh, pacing tight coils at the bench moments ago, is frozen in place now, watching like he’s witnessing a miracle unfold from the ashes. His lips part, breath dragging shallow, and you catch him wiping a hand down his face, eyes shining under the weight of what’s unspooling in front of him. His player—his player—is rising from ruin, burning so hot it feels like he could light the state championship trophy aflame with a single touch. And you, you are right there, the heartbeat beneath every second of it. He feels you in his bloodstream, in the marrow of his bones. Before a clutch free throw, his fingers lift, ghosting over his lips, your lips, sealing the fire you lit inside him, like a silent promise made visible. His eyes flick to you in the cheer line, sharp and glinting with everything you carved back into him, and you give him that nod—firm, unwavering, the weight of everything you are pressing into him from across the court. He doesn’t blink. He swallows you whole. And when you blow him a kiss, loud, unapologetic, screaming his name until your throat aches, he absorbs it like oxygen, like lifeblood, like you’re the spark that turned him immortal. Jeno takes every ounce of it. He drinks it down, devours it, sets the court ablaze until the game isn’t a game anymore—it’s a battlefield, and he is the storm swallowing it whole.

Coach Suh takes the risk. He has to. With the clock bleeding down and the air carved sharp with urgency, he signals for Mark to check back in, the decision bold, dangerous, and absolutely necessary. Mark peels off his warm-up, sweat already clinging to his skin from the brutal minutes he played earlier, but there’s no hesitation in his steps, no fear clouding his gaze. His eyes lock onto Jeno’s across the court, something unspoken but thunderous pulsing between them. When he steps onto the hardwood, it’s like watching a fuse spark alive. As the play unfolds, Mark becomes the axis the entire team spins around. He takes the inbound under pressure, defenders hungry to smother him, but he doesn’t falter. He doesn’t force the shot. He sees Jeno tearing down the lane, sees the future crashing toward him at full speed, and with a flick of his wrist, he delivers a no-look pass so clean, so lethal, it slices straight through the heart of Daegu’s defence. The ball lands perfect in Jeno’s hands, like it was always meant to be there, and he doesn’t waste a breath — rises, explodes, and hammers the dunk home with a ferocity that shakes the entire rim. Mark’s hand flies to his chest, but it isn’t pain that draws it there, it’s pride. It’s legacy. It’s him saying, without words, finish this for both of us.

The crowd detonates. Roars peel through the rafters, tidal waves of noise crashing against the court. And Karina, sharp as ever, catches the rhythm instantly, dragging the cheer squad into a new tempo that doesn’t just echo the energy — it drives it. She calls sharp commands, her voice cutting through the noise, arms snapping with precision as she leads the squad into a stomp-clap so fierce it feels like it shakes the earth beneath the players’ feet. The whole stadium begins to sync to their beat, a pulse surging through the floorboards, under the soles of the Ravens, feeding them momentum with every vibration. When the crowd hesitates, she doesn’t flinch — she amplifies, louder, harder, her eyes on you for a beat, sharing that silent charge that crackles through the air like lightning about to strike.

Across the court, Jaemin plays like a blade honed to kill. His defence is merciless, stalking Daegu’s star player like prey, cutting off angles before they even form. There’s no mercy in his eyes, no celebration in his victories — just cold calculation, a predator circling its target. But it’s the way his gaze slides, between plays, from Jeno to you that cuts sharper than any steal. There’s a flicker of recognition in his eyes, dark and knowing. He sees you, understands what you are to Jeno in this moment, the fire blazing in his chest because of you, and there’s something in Jaemin’s expression that tightens, something between envy and dangerous curiosity, as if he’s watching the very weapon that could dismantle or crown them all.

Then Yangyang unleashes chaos like it’s his native language. He intercepts a reckless pass from Daegu, his hands flashing fast, and before anyone can blink, he’s hurtling down the court with the ball blazing in his grip. His eyes glint wild when he throws it up high, an audacious alley-oop that arcs like a comet through the air, and Jeno catches it mid-flight, slamming it home so violently the basket shudders on its hinges. Yangyang’s grin cuts toward you instantly, wide and sharp, a silent dare flashing in his teeth: keep him burning. keep feeding the fire. He knows what you’re doing, how you’ve poured gasoline into Jeno’s bloodstream, and he’s reckless enough to want more of it.

Chenle fans the flames higher, playing the crowd like it’s his personal instrument. After every timeout, he waves his arms, cupping his hands to his ears to pull louder cheers from the Raven side, then turns, bold as sin, to point and taunt the Daegu section, provoking their fury, feeding off their hate. He thrives in the role of villain, a grin splitting his face as the noise swells to deafening heights. With every gesture, every spark of showmanship, he drags the atmosphere deeper into madness, into mania, until the whole stadium feels like it might combust.

And from the sidelines, Doyoung commands like a general, his eyes cutting across the chaos with ruthless precision. He barks orders sharp enough to slice through bone, catching defensive holes before they widen, directing traffic with an intensity that feels almost preternatural. When Daegu tries to sneak a baseline cut, thinking they’ve found a crack in the armour, Doyoung’s voice explodes, calling the play, snapping the Ravens into position like he’s reading the future off a script only he can see. His leadership anchors the frenzy, keeps it from tipping into chaos, and tightens the noose around Daegu’s neck with every passing second. The game is bleeding toward climax, and all of it — every flicker of momentum, every breath, every heartbeat — is crashing toward Jeno, burning straight through him like he’s the conductor of this entire storm.

Jeno stands at the top of the key, the ball heavy in his palm, sweat streaming down the arch of his throat, his chest thundering tight under his ribs, but his eyes are cut from something elemental, something forged in fire and trial, sharpened by every second that’s led to this breathless, unbearable moment. The clock bleeds down in brutal strokes, the numbers draining like life itself, but he doesn’t blink, he doesn’t flinch. Everything around him, the roar of the crowd, the suffocating press of defenders, the hammer of his heartbeat, collapses into one narrow corridor of clarity, and it’s you at the end of it. Always you. You in the cheer line, your voice still ringing in his skull, your fire still searing his skin, your name tattooed beneath every rib. He plants his feet, weight sinking low, knees coiled, and as he rises into the shot, the entire arena seems to lift with him, breath suspended in a collective prayer.

His wrist snaps clean, the release smooth as silk, and the ball cuts the air like a blade, a perfect arc drawn against the stadium lights. The defenders lunge too late, their hands slashing empty space, and for a heartbeat, for the smallest, infinite heartbeat, time suspends. The ball spins, perfect backspin, kissed by the fingertips of fate, and when it falls through the net, it doesn’t rattle, it doesn’t clatter, it devours. The swish explodes through the silence, sharp and consuming, like thunder cracking a stormless sky, like the sound of history being written in real time. The Ravens bench erupts, the crowd detonates, a thousand voices screaming his name into the rafters as the scoreboard blazes: Ravens 75, Daegu 73. They take the lead.

But it isn’t over. It can’t be over yet. Daegu scrambles for the inbound, desperation in their limbs, but Mark is there, Mark, whose chest is burning with defiance, with the last ounce of strength he owns, closing down the ball-handler with the fury of a man who refuses to let this slip away. He reads the pass before it’s even made, cuts it off clean, and without hesitation, he feeds it straight into Jeno’s waiting hands. Jeno clears the ball, drives it back down the court with the precision of a weapon primed to kill, and as the final seconds melt off the clock, he spins past one defender, weaves through another, and lets the buzzer blare as he punches the ball into the hardwood with a victorious, snarling force that shakes through his whole body.

The horn screams, and the game ends. Ravens win.

Jeno rips at his jersey, fists the fabric at his chest, and roars, a sound torn from the depths of his soul, from the grave where he buried his fear, from the fire you resurrected inside him. His teammates swarm him, Mark’s palm slapping the centre of his chest. The crowd combusts, voices rising into a single, unstoppable wave, the thunder of feet pounding the bleachers like a second heartbeat for the team that refused to die. Cameras flash in a seizure of light, so blinding it looks like the whole arena’s caught fire, and Donghyuck’s voice fractures with sheer delirium as he yells into the mic, “Jeno Lee, number twenty-three, you beautiful son of a bitch! You’ve just made history!” But it isn’t just the chaos of fans — in the stands, the scouts who once scribbled tight-lipped notes now stare wide-eyed, frozen in place, pens hovering useless over paper as if they’ve just witnessed a star burn into existence before their eyes. You catch it too, the slight ripple in the coaches’ row, the disbelief cracking across their expressions like they’ve just watched the future of the league explode from the palms of their hands. Even the Daegu section is silent, stunned into a breathless hush, heads tilted back like they can’t fathom the storm that just levelled them. And you, standing on the edge of it all, chest rising fast beneath your uniform, you watch him drenched in sweat and triumph, jersey half torn from his body, carved from survival and clutch fire, and you know that this is the moment that will haunt history, the second Lee Jeno rewrote his fate with his own bare hands.

Jeno finds you first. He moves through the chaos without rush, without stumble, each step carved from something deeper than adrenaline, something older than the game itself. He crosses the court like a man coming out of war, not running toward you but walking with the weight of every battle he’s just survived, like you are not the finish line but the beginning of everything that matters. His eyes find you and hold, and the rest of the arena disintegrates into a blur of bodies and sound, because you are all he can see, all he wants to see, all he has fought for. His chest heaves, breath dragging rough through his lungs, but his hands are steady as they rise to cup your face, palms warm and certain against your cheeks. His grip is unyielding, like if he lets go you might vanish into the smoke and echoes around you, and then his mouth claims yours, fierce and hungry, kissing you like the game never ended, like the victory was never the point, like you were always the prize.

Crowd noise splinters and fades. It’s there, roaring at the edges of your awareness, but it doesn’t reach you. It’s drowned beneath the thud of your heartbeat, the heat curling tight in your chest as his lips press harder against yours, as his breath mixes with yours in frantic, hungry pulls. For you. Always for you. His voice is rough silk against your mouth, the promise dragged raw from the depths of his chest, and it sears into your spine, into the hollow behind your ribs, claiming every pulse of your blood. You barely even notice the eyes that never leave you, but you feel them, burrowing cold beneath your skin. There’s something watching, something heavy and dark, threading chill through the heat of Jeno’s kiss, something that coils like barbed wire at the back of your mind. It isn’t the crowd. It isn’t the noise. It is something else entirely. Something that knows you, that sees too much, that tastes the split second you fall too deep into Jeno to notice the storm circling your ribs.

High in the stands, Taeyong’s eyes remain fixed, unwavering, carved sharp and ruthless as he watches Jeno like a hawk watches prey slowed by fatigue. His jaw is locked tight, unreadable, chest hardly moving with breath, as though holding it will sharpen his focus. He doesn’t flinch at the celebration. He doesn’t flinch at the roar of the crowd. His gaze traces every line of Jeno’s body, every crack beneath the glory, seeing the rise but never missing the fault lines beneath it. His stare is a storm waiting to split the sky in half.

Jeno’s mouth is still burning against yours when he pulls back just enough to breathe, just enough to see you clearly, and his eyes catch fire all over again. He is glowing from the inside out, victory dripping from him like sweat, like he could set you ablaze just by touching you. "Let’s get out of here," he rasps, his voice rough and wanting, thick with need that no crowd could ever satisfy. "There’s a party, but I don’t give a fuck. I want you. I want to take you home and celebrate properly." His hands tighten on your waist, dragging you closer, his meaning unspoken but thrumming through every line of his body.

Your breath catches sharp, your eyes flicking over his shoulder where you catch it, catch him — Yangyang. He is still and watchful in the crowd, standing there with an unreadable expression, not joy, not relief, but something sharper, something carved out of knowing. His gaze shifts once to Jeno’s possessive hands, then slices back to yours with the quiet finality of a blade kissing the back of your neck. In his eyes, it’s written plain as prophecy: this is the moment, the narrow window to retrieve the misplaced files before they disappear into the shadows for good, the chance you carved from chaos itself, and it waits on the blade-edge of now.

Your pulse shudders. Jeno looks at you like you are the sun itself, like you are the reason he burned through every shadow, and it kills you, it carves you open, because you know what you’re about to say will cut him deeper than any opponent ever could. You swallow hard, force your palm to his jaw, keep your touch soft even as your chest cracks wide. You press one last kiss to his mouth, gentler now, slower, like goodbye. When you pull back, your breath trembles between you. "I’m sorry," you whisper, and it feels like a splinter under your tongue.

Jeno’s brows pull tight, his fire flickering into confusion and frustration in an instant. His mouth parts, then sets hard, jaw clenching as he searches your eyes for an answer you don’t give him. "What are you talking about?" His voice is sharp, his breath chopping short like it pains him to say it. He tracks your gaze, catches the flicker to Yangyang standing at your back, and you see it hit him like a punch to the chest. His lips curl in something closer to a snarl than a frown. "Really?" His tone spikes, sharp and dangerous, brittle with the heat of betrayal. "What’s this about?"

You exhale shakily, your gaze pleading without words, your chest aching with the weight of it. "I need to do something. I can’t tell you what though." you manage, voice tight, rough, every word scraping against your throat like glass. Your hand slides from his jaw, and he seizes it, holds on like he can stop you through sheer force of will. His fingers curl around yours, desperate and furious all at once, and for a moment, you feel him begging you not to go, though no words leave his mouth.

But you know you have to. You have no choice. Your hand slips free of his grip, and his hangs in the air between you, fingers still outstretched like he can’t bear to pull them back. Slowly, you turn toward Yangyang, and you feel Jeno’s eyes burning into your back, scorching paths down your spine as Yangyang steps forward and places his hand at the small of your back. He doesn’t rush you, doesn’t push you — he only guides, subtle and sure, as if he’s the one in control of this moment. You let him. You let him because you know appearances matter here, you know the game is bigger than the crowd, bigger than Jeno’s fury burning in your wake.

Jeno watches you go, his chest heaving, his fists clenching at his sides. He watches as Yangyang’s hand settles possessively at your waist, as you walk away from him and toward something he doesn’t understand, something he can’t follow. And in his eyes, you see it clear — the heartbreak, the anger, the storm rising, the betrayal that will chase him long after the final whistle blew. He watches until you’re gone, until the weight of your absence carves hollow into his chest and as the tunnel swallows you from sight, you slip from his world and into another, one far colder, one that demands you move fast before the door slams shut.

The air outside the arena hits sharp against your skin, cold with the bite of early evening, but you barely feel it through the churn of adrenaline still rushing in your veins. The roar of the crowd is swallowed by distance as you and Yangyang slip away from the noise, your steps quick, tight, filled with a silent urgency. Neither of you speak. There’s no need. The moment thrums between you, unspoken but heavy, a pocket of time carved out of the chaos, precious and fleeting. Everyone’s locked inside the arena, all eyes glued to the aftermath of the championship — and you only have this sliver of freedom to act, this slim window before the storm swallows you whole again.

Your footsteps echo across the empty campus, sneakers scuffing concrete, heartbeat drumming in your ears louder than the victory chants still howling from the stadium behind you. Every step away from Jeno feels like peeling skin from bone, like you’re splitting yourself in two, and it simmers hot beneath your ribs, burning into frustration so fierce it makes your breath shake.

The door to the old storage wing creaks under your shove, metal rasping against metal, and you step inside first, your eyes already locked on the concealed compartment tucked beneath the floor panel. You don’t wait for Yangyang. You kneel, yank the panel free with a rough twist, and snatch the drive from its hiding place, clutching it tight in your palm. Without wasting a second, you cross to the old terminal, your fingers moving with furious precision, slotting the drive into the port as the screen flickers awake. Your access credentials slip in clean, a bypass few would dare attempt, and you begin pulling every buried file, every corrupted folder, every fragment Yangyang had lost to chaos. The loading bar claws across the screen, agonisingly slow, until at last it spills green, complete. Swiftly, you transfer the full recovery onto a fresh port, identical to the one he lost, identical enough to fool any inspection. The new drive clicks into place in your hand like a loaded weapon, and your gaze slices back to him, sharp as glass. “You better pray this is worth it,” you bite out, your voice low and venom-laced, trembling at the edges because all you can think about is Jeno, still inside that arena, still waiting for you, still burning in your chest.

Yangyang tries to play it cool, like always. His mouth tilts into that crooked smile, the one that used to loosen your guard, used to tease tension from your spine, but now it just feels tired, pathetic. “Come on,” he says, soft and smug, like he can still get under your skin. “It always is with us.” But it’s not. Not anymore. You slam the drive into the port, watch the screen flash to life, and stare down the progress bar as it fills steady, ruthless, green and merciless in its finality. Success. The message burns across the display, confirmation clean and clear. Yangyang’s in the clear. His mess, for now, is wiped clean. The silence stretches, but it’s not empty — it’s loaded, heavy with everything that never needed saying. You feel him shift closer before he moves, his gaze dipping to your mouth like a reflex, like a man chasing the last hit of a high he knows is about to run cold. His hand brushes your arm, lingers a beat too long, his breath grazing your cheek as he leans in.

Your palm hits his chest, firm and unforgiving, your glare spearing through him like it never once belonged to anyone but Jeno. “Don’t look at me like that,” you say, your voice carved out of ice and heat together, sharp enough to bleed him clean. “There’s only one man who’ll ever touch me.” Your breath twists close enough to sear him, “And it’s not you.” Your eyes don’t waver, drilling the truth straight into his bones. “It never was.”

Yangyang’s breath catches, his chest lifting shallow, and for a second — just a flicker — his cocky mask fractures. A bitter laugh slips from his throat, tight and hollow, like he always knew this was how it would end but needed to feel the blade cut anyway. His eyes flick over you once, slow, deliberate, memorising the parts of you he’ll never touch again, then he steps back, out of reach, out of your life. “Guess I should’ve known,” he says, the words rough but quiet, fading into the cold echo of the empty room.

You don’t spare him the grace of an answer. Your grip cinches hard around the drive, your knuckles paling with the force of it, and then you slam it into his chest, shoving it into his hands like a weapon, like a punishment, like the final nail sealing the coffin between you. You turn on your heel, your steps quick and certain, already burning to get back to Jeno, already gone in your mind, your heart, your pulse. Yangyang watches you go, but you never look back.

The door clicks shut behind you, a sound too soft for how hard your chest is beating, your breath still uneven from what just unfolded, but your mind is already spiralling elsewhere, already chasing him, as if the entire length of the campus isn’t enough to contain how fast you need to get to him, how much you need to say. You are done hesitating. You’re done questioning what you feel, what you want, what you have wanted all along, and it’s him. It has always been him. You are ready to run to him, prepared to throw every sharp-edged fear aside and confess in full that you are here, you want him, you want him as deeply, as desperately, as he has always wanted you, and even though you know you need to apologise first, know there’s every chance he won’t even listen, won’t even let you explain, you push through it anyway because the weight of staying silent would crush you alive. The heat still stains your skin from Yangyang’s gaze but you don’t let it anchor you. Your feet are already turning, already setting you toward him, when your phone buzzes in your hand.

Not a message. A notification. The screen lights up, and your eyes fall to the name of the provider before they ever read the headline. It punches the air from your lungs. Your blood chills so fast it feels like your breath catches in shards inside your chest. You know this provider. Not just surface-level familiarity, not casual trust—no, this is the same channel you turned to, time and again, during your exposé. They are ruthless but they are clean. They have ninety-nine percent validity, industry-trusted, boardroom-fed, data-backed. When they publish something, it is not guesswork. It is the kind of truth that moves markets, that seals fates.

Your thumb trembles against the screen as you open it, and the words sprawl in front of you, heavy and brutal, pressing their full weight down on your chest until your ribs ache from holding it in. "Jeno Lee, Questionable NBA Future After Inconsistent Season, Pre-Draft Reports Suggest." The article cuts cleaner than a blade. They dissect him line by line, metric by metric. First-half state championship performance: shaky. Season-wide reliability: patchy. Post-exposé recovery: promising but fragile. A select few scouts are rooting for him, they admit, but others are already dismissing him, leaning conservative in their recommendations. They say it in clinical, corporate language, but you can hear the undercurrent clear as day: the league doesn’t want risk. They don’t want temperamental. They want safe bets. And to them, Jeno is looking less like a sure thing and more like a cautionary tale.

The phone rattles in your grip from how tight you hold it. This will break him. It will destroy him. Your throat burns because you see the same nightmare from two angles at once—the exposé you fought for with every cell in your body, the one that was supposed to shield him, is not enough. Worse, it threatens to fold in on itself, to swallow him whole instead of saving him. You can already imagine how he will read this, how he will internalise it, how it will convince him that no matter what he does, he was never destined to win.

Your pulse spikes so hard it leaves your ears ringing. You don't think. You move. Your feet carry you across the quad before your brain has caught up, as if your body knows there is only one place you can go, only one way to fight this. You cut through the campus, not seeing anyone around you, not feeling the wind knifing against your cheeks. You push open the door to your favourite study room with your shoulder, heart battering your ribs, throat tight with desperation as you slam your things down onto the desk. It is instinctual, a soldier returning to the war room, back to the battlefield you know best.

This is where you began to build the exposé. This is where you dismantled an empire. This is where you tear fate from their hands. This is where you flip the ending they wrote for him. Your laptop blinks awake, the familiar glow of the screen reflecting off your wide, glassy eyes. Files scatter across your desktop, all those months of work, research, and precision. The skeleton is already there. The project is done, finalised, submitted—but you can build from it, you can make it into something more. Something targeted, something lethal.

Your hands fly over the keyboard, pulling folder after folder into your workspace. You don’t need to start from scratch. The data lives here already, sharpened and waiting like a knife beneath your pillow. You build the file like a dossier, sleek and sharp, no excess, no emotion, just truth. You title it simply: Subject: #23 Performance Validity & Draft Eligibility: Verified Report Submission.

Your first section is the player performance data. You drag in Jeno’s clutch-time statistics, your fingers moving faster than thought as you collate everything: his shot success rate in pressure moments, time-stamped footage from the state championship final—the second half, especially, where he clawed the team back into life, where his shots fell clean and his passes carved open defences like glass. You include effective field goal percentage, player efficiency rating, defensive win shares. You don’t embellish. You don’t need to. The numbers speak louder than any plea could. You build the consistency map next. You know they will attack him for being "up and down," so you preempt it, constructing a season-long arc that shows the trajectory of his improvement. You acknowledge the dips, you chart them openly, but you anchor them against his recovery curve, you let the facts show how he rose out of every slump stronger, faster, sharper.

You compile comparison charts between Jeno and other draft prospects in his position, cold hard numbers that prove he is not just viable, he is exceptional. Vertical leap. Sprint times. Reaction speed. Stamina. You pull in biometric data from internal college athlete testing, heart rate data under pressure, oxygen intake during high-intensity plays. His physiological markers are gold standard. You move to the next section: body and heart data. This is where you elevate it. You include oxygen utilisation efficiency during the fourth quarter. Heart recovery rates between plays, demonstrating his conditioning, his resilience. Stress response markers that reflect not panic, but control, under game-deciding circumstances. You back it all with internal team reports, scans, data you fought to access during the exposé.

Your third section: career-long accolades. You list every credential. High school state records. Regional MVPs. Fastest player in college history to hit key thresholds. All-time assist leader. You anonymise and quote coaching staff who once vouched for his relentless work ethic, his dedication, his refusal to miss a single training session even during injury recovery. You add a section for intangibles, but you make it empirical. Clips of him helping opponents to their feet, moments he diffused on-court tensions, commendations from referees, commentators' praise on his game intelligence. Team captaincy votes. Huddle footage where he rallied the squad from despair. His decision-making speed, assist-to-turnover ratio, his on-court IQ crystallised in measurable, digestible data.

Lastly, you contextualise. You lay out the timeline cleanly, dispassionately. The exposé tore through the league, destabilising the ecosystem around him—but he did not falter. He fought. You show pre-exposé performance, the meteoric rise, then post-exposé resilience, his upward trajectory even while the institution collapsed under its own corruption. He is not a victim of scandal. He is proof of survival. You seal it with disclaimers: all data verified, all sources internal and national databases, no personal commentary, no bias. You append the evidence, every clip, every data sheet, every scan, cross-referenced and timestamped. You attach a final letter:

To whom it may concern,

This submission consolidates verified, internal, and public data to highlight the athletic merit and exceptional potential of player #23. The aim of this document is to ensure accurate evaluation of the athlete's capacity for professional advancement, independent of circumstantial disruptions throughout the current season. The evidence provided confirms resilience, physical fitness, leadership, and high-performance delivery under pressure. It is recommended this submission be reviewed in parallel with scouting assessments to ensure a holistic understanding of the athlete's profile.

Respectfully submitted, anonymous.

You sit back, breath jagged, chest tight. Your cursor hovers over the "send" button, your heartbeats thundering between your ribs. There is no signature. No name. No trace. You send it to every scout, every analyst, every journalist with a whisper of influence. You send it to the league’s player association, to highlight reel creators, to anyone who can tilt the scales in his favour. Your heart does not stop hammering in your chest, but for the first time, it feels like it is beating for something other than fear. It feels like hope.

You sit back, barely breathing, the weight of what you’ve just done still heavy in your chest. Your heart is thundering, your blood feels like it’s running too fast, and you’re too wound tight to even let the relief in, too strung between fear and hope to process anything else. Your hand drops to your phone almost without thinking, the silence still ringing in your ears from how long you’ve shut the world out, the screen dark, quiet, until you brush your thumb over the side and flick off the silent mode. The sound comes down on you like a crash. Notifications pour in, relentless and suffocating, your phone vibrating so hard it slips against your palm. They stack like dominos, message previews flashing and disappearing too fast to read, missed calls layering over one another in thick, suffocating waves: your friends, your family, your professors, even numbers you don’t immediately recognise but know must be connected. It’s chaos. It’s so overwhelming it feels like you’ve been hit square in the chest by it, your eyes catching fragments of words—“exhibition,” “previewed early,” “your work is already up,” *��congratulations”—*but you’re scrolling too fast, your breath catching sharp and painful in your throat. The first notification you click is the group chat, every message stamped with ‘read’ by everyone but you, the only silence left in the noise.

You swipe out of the group chat, and it’s only then you see everything else piling onto your phone like it’s spiralling out of control. Your email pings next, loud in the storm, and you open it instinctively, eyes scanning the lines until they snag on the header: “Surprise Live Premiere – Seoul Masterworks Exhibition | Early Reveal Notification” and your heart just about drops out of your chest. You freeze, blinking hard at the screen like the words might rearrange themselves, but they don’t—the email explains how, due to overwhelming anticipation and critical acclaim, the exhibition curators decided to debut your project early as a centrepiece, calling it a visionary contribution, a standout of the showcase. And it’s already happening. Right now. Live. Your lungs squeeze tight, a quiet, breathless gasp slipping out as you nearly lose your balance, stumbling back from the desk with a hand flying out to brace yourself against the chair, your pulse ricocheting so fast it’s a wonder you’re still upright. You swipe through the incoming calls, your throat closing as you see their names—mum, dad, your older sister, Professor Suh, Karina, Donghyuck, Jaemin, Jeno… you don’t even have time to read them all before another wave floods in, and the horror hits you like a flood: they’re all there. They’re all at the exhibition. The place Jeno first took you to, your first date, your first breath of belief in yourself, and you’re not there—you didn’t even know, you’re not there.

Panic coils sharp and cold in your chest, and you’re already moving before you can think twice, rushing from the desk with your breath ragged in your throat, but you catch sight of your reflection in the glass cabinet by the door, and it stops you dead. You’re still in your cheer uniform. You can’t show up to the most prestigious exhibition in the city, to your exhibition, dressed like this. Not when your name is on the wall. Not when they’re all standing there under your work. Not when he’s there. Your fingers fumble at your bag, snatching up your keys, and you break into a sprint, practically tearing through campus until you’re spilling breathless into your apartment, kicking the door shut behind you as you claw through your wardrobe.

Your hands find it fast—a long, backless black satin gown that pours like ink over your skin, clinging in all the right places, clean lines and quiet elegance, something that feels like it was made for a moment you didn’t know you were walking towards. It catches the light as you pull it on, the smooth fabric brushing your thighs, pooling at your ankles like liquid midnight. Minimal jewellery, a simple pair of earrings, your rings, your wrists are bare, save for the delicate weight of two bracelets — the charm bracelet you’ve worn until the metal softened against your skin, and the finer, thinner band Jeno once fastened there himself, his fingertips grazing your pulse as he clasped it closed like he wanted to stay there forever. You do your makeup quickly—sharp liner, a swipe of gloss, a flush of colour just to catch the light. Clean. Understated. Enough to look like you belong in the room they’ve built around your name.

You barely have time to check yourself once in the mirror before you’re grabbing your phone again, hailing an Uber with hands that won’t stop trembling, nerves crawling electric under your skin as you tear down the stairs and into the car, breath caught in your throat as you give the driver the address, your heart thundering so loud it drowns out everything else. You need to get there. Now. Before it’s too late.

The moment you step inside, it almost knocks the breath clean out of your lungs. Light blooms across every surface, soft and commanding, the entire space alive with quiet electricity, holding its pulse just beneath the skin. Vast glass cases stretch from floor to ceiling, towering monoliths that catch the overhead beams and scatter them into rivers of gold that spill across the marble under your feet. Your name is everywhere, not in loud proclamations but in elegant, breath-catching details: etched into crystal plaques, embossed in brushed ivory banners that drape from the high arching ceilings, stitched subtly into the velvet ropes guiding the crowd. It feels less like an exhibition and more like a cathedral raised in your honour, consecrated by sweat, sleepless nights, and every decision that carved this moment into existence.

The scale of it is staggering. Spotlights warm your skin as you move deeper, while the cool breath of the marble floors chills your ankles, a shiver running through you not from fear but from awe. Every detail is precise, the atmosphere curated down to the very air in your lungs. Ivory and gold interplay with sharp crystal clarity, casting reflections that make the whole space feel infinite, like you could walk these halls forever and still discover new echoes of yourself hiding in the corners, and as your gaze roams, you realise — this isn’t just the project you built with Jeno, it’s every triumph you’ve carved your name into, every accolade that bears your fingerprints.

It’s everything that ever carried your name, every impact you etched into the world before anyone was watching and every way you forced it to listen once they were — your urban regeneration essay at sixteen that restructured green spaces across five districts, the community radio series preserving migrant voices, your data project on period poverty that reshaped NGO funding, the translated materials you authored for refugee children, your co-founded climate youth forum that grew into a national task force; the energy reform policy paper you co-authored at nineteen, accelerating renewable energy grants across Seoul’s infrastructure, the global women’s health initiative you led, amplifying underrepresented voices and shifting reproductive healthcare policy, your published series on minority rights in elite sports institutions, cited across legal reviews and academic panels, your flood mitigation fieldwork securing emergency housing for hundreds of displaced families, your keynote at the International Sustainability Summit, your voice unwavering as you laid out corporate accountability strategies. Every corner of the room holds proof not just of ambition but of impact, of change made tangible, your work folded into the world’s bloodstream, reshaping it piece by relentless piece — a living archive of rebellion, resolve, and the belief that the world was always yours to rebuild.

It feels as though you have stepped not into a room, but into the future that once seemed so impossibly far away, now unfolding beneath your feet like the floor itself is carved from tomorrow. The architecture curves high above your head, seamless glass and light pouring down like a second dawn, casting you not in shadow but in brilliance, as if you are the energy source powering the entire world. No dread claws at your throat, no past failures dragging against your ankles. Instead, there is a weightlessness, a sublime defiance of gravity, as though you have unshackled yourself from history and are hovering in this moment suspended between what was and what will be. It is cathedral and spaceship at once, sanctified and electrified, and at its core is you, the architect of a future they will study long after you are gone. You are no longer the observer at the edge of the frame. You are the centrepiece, the nucleus around which every orbit turns, and beneath the gilded lights, you feel it like a living pulse in your bones: this future belongs to you, and you will not let it slip through your hands.

Your group drifts through the exhibition. Mark is closest, his hand briefly brushing your back as he takes it all in, eyes bright with something that feels older than the years you’ve shared. Jeno lingers a few steps behind, watching in silence, gaze steady and unreadable, yet you feel it, tethering you, weighty and inevitable. Donghyuck and Jaemin lean into each other’s shoulders, grins flickering across their faces as they point out moments frozen in time, while Chenle and Shotaro trace the displays with boyish wonder, their laughter hushed but warm. Karina stands regal by the cheer archive, eyes sharp with satisfaction, while Areum surveys the space with her arms folded tight across her chest, gaze flicking from display to display, like she can’t decide whether to admire you or resent you. And Nahyun—her smile is too tight, her glances too fleeting, a shadow of envy coiling in her posture, held in place by the fragile thread of composure.

Beyond them, the distance crowds fill the space like an empire of onlookers: Coach Suh with pride softening the stern lines of his face, Taeyong locked in low conversation with Nahyun’s father, the man’s presence a quiet storm of influence, his tailored suit speaking louder than any words. Doyoung and Irene move through the room with ease, pausing to offer you sincere congratulations, while Irene catches your hand for a fleeting second, her touch warm, her eyes glistening with something maternal and fierce. This time, the adults are not obstacles in your path but witnesses to your rise, folded into the narrative you’ve written for yourself. And farther still, professionals from every corner of your career circle the exhibits: analysts from APEX, representatives from Deloitte, observers from the institutions that once doubted you, and tucked within them, unmistakable, the scouts from the NBA, their eyes darting between your displays and Jeno’s name glowing under glass. It feels like the last time the crowd gathered for you, that terrible night at the bar but this time, there is no ruin waiting at the end of the story. This time, your pulse races not from fear but from pride, because every single eye in the room is here for you.

You step deeper into the exhibitions. Every surface catches your reflection, not in whole but in scattered fragments—a thousand slivers of yourself glinting back, a constellation stitched from every motion you’ve ever made, every choice that dragged you here. You drift past the first case and then the next, breath folding into the reverent hush that thickens the air, a quiet murmur of awe living between the spotlights and the shadows they cast. The cases flank you like sentinels, proud and towering, each one holding a frozen fragment of history, pulsing still with the life you lived alongside them—your friends, your rivals, the people who coloured your days and cut into your nights. You see the echoes of their triumphs, the bruises of their failures, the quiet perseverance hidden in places no one else thought to look. You see the story you built together, piece by aching piece, suspended here in glass and light, as though time itself bowed to let you walk through the architecture of your own legacy.

Jeno’s display is the first to pull you still. His mended jersey hangs not pristine but lived in, scars and stitches visible beneath the gentle spotlight, the bloodstains faint yet unhidden, a raw testament to the seasons that nearly broke him. Beneath the fabric, your handwriting curves in tight, familiar loops: "worn thin but never breaking." A short looped video flickers beside it, his body dragging back to defence, exhaustion clawing at his limbs but his will refusing to buckle. And layered under it all, your voice, soft and steady, reading from your project notes: "Resilience isn’t innate. It is earned, inch by inch." His breath hitches as he stops dead, eyes scanning every corner of the case, lingering longest on your words, like they’re a lifeline pulled from the wreckage. His jaw tightens, his chest lifts with something silent but full. He sees it. He sees you in this, in him.

Mark's river court ball rests beneath the glass like a relic of the earth itself, sun-bleached and worn, the faded scrawl of signatures from neighbourhood kids looping across its surface. There's a ribbon too, a scrap from a childhood tournament, the kind that meant more than medals. His thumb traces the lines of the ball through the glass, eyes softening, mouth tugging at the corners with a memory too heavy to hold entirely. His caption reads: "from nowhere to everywhere." And he feels it, fully, a quiet gratitude blooming in his chest as he stands there longer than he needs to.

Karina's cheer stick gleams, encrusted with crystals, engraved with the names of captains before her, her own a fresh carving gleaming under the lights. She brushes invisible dust from its surface, lips pressed tight in pride and restraint, her gaze hard and shining. A photo rests alongside, her mother holding the same stick decades ago, their poses mirrored across time. The caption beneath sings: "leading the galaxy to dance." Areum’s black-and-white photo of Mark captures him post-fight, eyes defiant, lip split but chin lifted high. Her camera rests beside it, lens capped but ready, a hint of her next journey waiting beyond these walls. She stands frozen, gaze pinned to the image like she’s still framing the shot, fingers tightening around her camera strap, a war between nostalgia and unfinished desire flashing across her expression.

Donghyuck’s game commentary is printed and pinned in bold type, his wry notes scribbled in the margins: "Hail Mary? More like Hail Hyuck!" His headset perches beside it, wires frayed but proud. He laughs under his breath, half disbelieving, a crooked grin breaking across his face. "They really kept this?" he mutters, but pride glints in his eyes, warm and undeniable. Chenle’s playbook is open to the play that turned the semi-final on its head, his chaotic, brilliant scrawl dancing between the lines. "this won us the semi-final, you know," he nudges Jaemin, half-bragging, half-joking, but fully proud.

Jaemin’s display is soft but devastating: a delicate collage like a hospital inspiration board. Snapshots of him with the team, bandaging wrists, ice pack in hand, crouched beside a child fan with a signed ball. Highlighted textbook pages on paediatrics, sticky notes in bright colours: "always be gentle," "kids hide pain well — look closer." A crumpled note from a child patient, barely legible: "thank you Dr Nana!!" His gaze lingers, throat tight, fingertips brushing the glass over the child’s note. His lips part, but no words come. Instead, a breath leaves him, slow and weighted, as he whispers to himself, "keep going," like a promise made to the future version of him, the man still growing into this path. A man who, one day, will cradle his daughter in these same hands, holding her through every fever and fear, bringing the same tenderness to his home that he brought to this team. A man who will carry her on his hip through hospital corridors, who will fight for other children with the same ferocity that fills his chest now. The thought tugs at something deep inside him, an ache and a quiet pride, a life he hasn’t lived yet but already feels written beneath his skin.

Yangyang’s case is chaos contained but deliberate, a storm bottled beneath glass: torn strategies scrawled with half-serious plays ("backflip pass?") and a snapped headset tangled with a bright friendship bracelet, all pulsing with the same wild energy he carried into every game. In the centre, a weathered disposable camera, still loaded with unseen moments, captures the thrill of what was never meant to be perfect. The display hums with the unpredictable force he brought to the team, the irreplaceable spark of chaos that kept their fire alive, a reminder that not every legacy fits neat lines or polished frames—some burn brighter because they refuse to be tamed. In the centre, a weathered disposable camera, still loaded, never developed. A small empty trophy base sits waiting, unnamed. He tilts his head, a grin curling as he taps the glass over the camera. "Man, that's so me," he laughs, eyes bright with mischief. His gaze catches the empty trophy base, a flicker of thought crossing his expression, but it never settles into regret. Only wild, untamed satisfaction.

Shotaro’s practice shoes, worn thin to almost nothing, sit humbly in their case. He presses his palm to the glass, eyes soft, and whispers, "worth it," with a quiet, unshakable certainty. Nahyun's cheer ribbon lies small and subdued, barely marked, easy to overlook. She spares it a glance, bitterness tightening her jaw before she turns away, gaze flitting anywhere else.

Your steps carry you deeper, past the brilliance of your friends' legacies, until the current of it all pulls you to the centre, as if you were always meant to arrive here. And there’s your case, tucked at the heart of it all. Blueprints and drafts sprawling like constellations, margins frantic with ink, proof of your relentless mind in motion. But beneath them, quieter still, are the unfinished pages of your music. Scattered compositions, smudged notations, a battered mp3 recorder labelled: "Jeno — idea sketch." If played, it hums a raw, incomplete guitar riff, your breath counting time before cutting off mid-bar. The caption reads: "Some songs end before the chorus." It sits in quiet contrast to your triumph, a soft echo of the dream you buried beneath your brilliance, the muse you lost along the way.

"You always did outdo yourself," a voice says from behind, light and polished, and you already know the words before they leave Joy’s lips. She steps beside you, the ambassador’s smile gleaming as bright as the display lights, her gaze sweeping the exhibition like she is already claiming it for the next set of Apex portfolios. "This is extraordinary," she breathes, turning her full attention on you. "Having you on our team would be revolutionary, life changing, you’d be doing us a favour—"

You barely hear her, the noise of your own blood rushing faster. You catch flickers at the edges of the room: Deloitte executives. International program directors. Apex scouts, corporate magnates. NBA representatives, their attention split between you and the sports legacy built around you. Eyes everywhere. They are here for you. They are here because of you. But you only feel the weight of one pair of eyes, the ghost who never left. Jeno is here. Not near you, not close, but present like a shadow that knows your name. He hasn’t come to you yet, and it carves at you beneath the surface, a hollow ache you pretend not to feel.

Joy leans in like she means to continue, another pitch poised on her tongue, but before she can speak again, the speaker system crackles to life. "Y/N," Coach Suh’s voice booms across the hall, warm and insistent, "come up here. Say a few words."

Your body stiffens. Your mind blanks, just for a breath. Joy tilts her head, a small, knowing smile curling her lips. "You have got this," she says, like it is obvious, and she smooths the air with her hand as though brushing the weight off your shoulders. "We can continue this conversation after."

Relief floods your chest in a strange twist—you would rather stand before every soul who ever mattered in your life, bare and breaking beneath the stage lights, than hear another word of Apex’s hungry courtship. Before you can move, you feel a nudge at your side. Irene, her eyes shining with something deeper than pride, gestures you forward. On your other side, Mark catches your hesitation and gently takes your wrist, pulling you aside from the crowd, away from the suffocating hum of voices.

His hands are steady, warm against your skin, and when you look up, you find the same boy you grew up beside, but more. Stronger. Wiser. Full of unshakable belief in you. He draws you in, presses his lips to your forehead with a reverence that tightens your throat, then pulls back just enough to meet your eyes. His hands fold around yours, grounding you when you feel like you are floating out of yourself. "You worked harder than anyone," he says, his voice low and sure, threaded with quiet awe. "If anyone deserves to stand here, it’s you."

Your chest pulls tight. "And you are not just brilliant," Mark goes on, his grip on your hands a tether. "You have the purest heart, you’re all of this," he gestures to the vast, gleaming exhibition, to the lives you’ve changed, "you built it because you care deeper than anyone else I have ever known. You feel so much, and instead of letting it swallow you, you turn it into something that changes the world." His eyes soften, full of the kind of pride that cannot be faked, cannot be bought.

Then his breath tightens, and something shifts in the way he looks at you, more urgent now, more brother than friend, more believer than bystander. “You have to fight him,” Mark says, low but certain, like the thought has lived in him longer than the words, like he’s just been waiting for the moment to set it free. “Don’t let Taeyong win. Fight back. I’ll fight with you. I always have.” His hands squeeze yours once, hard, a silent vow pressed into your skin, and you feel it spark in your chest, because you already know — you know this is what today has been building toward, every step, every breath, every fight not just for yourself but for something bigger, for someone you could never stop choosing even when it hurt. You close your eyes for the briefest second, and when they open, the answer is already there, written into the marrow of your bones. You nod, sharp and full, because what today has taught you is simple, clean as breath: you do not go down without a fight, and Jeno is worth every single ounce of breath you have left to give.

Mark watches you, something knowing flickering in his gaze, and then his lips pull into the faintest, wry curve, almost like he can see straight through you, like he’s always been able to. “I know it was all you,” he says, voice low but unwavering, a truth slid between you like a blade too sharp to deny. You tilt your head, play dumb with a hum in your throat, but your eyes do not leave his, you do not give him an inch of retreat. He does not let you. “Don’t deny it,” Mark continues, his brow lifting as he narrows his gaze on you, a challenge and a grin woven into one. “The exposé. Donghyuck isn’t as smart as you, it has your signature all over it. I know you.”

Your breath catches in your chest, but you do not falter, you do not look away, and in that single heartbeat, you feel it settle between you, unspoken but understood, the kind of secret that no one will ever prise free from your hands. You meet his eyes, lock the truth between them like a key turned quiet in its lock, and Mark’s smile pulls just a little wider, softer at the edges, because he knows — this is another secret you will share, and protect, and carry between you like a quiet oath.

The crowd is still waiting, the weight of expectation crackling in the air like static against your skin, but Mark tips his chin toward the stage, his voice steady, full of the kind of faith that could move mountains. “Go,” he whispers, nodding you forward. “Go show them.” Your breath steadies beneath his words. Slowly, you pull your hands from his, and he lets you go with a final squeeze of your fingers—but you feel his faith in you lingering, fierce and unyielding, as you step away. You move towards the stage, the light swelling around you, the world folding open at your feet.

The microphone is warm in your hand, you lift it slowly. Your fingers are tight around it, breath caught high in your chest, heart thudding loud enough you wonder if it echoes through the speakers before you even say a word. You look out, and it does not hit you all at once. It unfolds in layers, like a photograph developing in slow motion. Faces you know, faces you love, faces you have fought for until your knuckles split and your lungs burned. "My name is Y/N," you begin, your voice not rehearsed, not perfect, but real. You let it come from the tight place in your chest, raw and full. "I stand here tonight not because the path was clear, but because I kept walking through every shadow it threw at me."

The words pulse in your throat. You take another breath, slow and shallow, eyes flicking to the reflections in the glass around you. Your name, etched across the walls. Your history, scattered in fragments like stars in constellations only you know how to read.

"We are not built by victories alone," you say, softer now, the truth of it thickening your voice. "We are built by the days we wanted to give up, but didn’t." A pause, your eyes slipping closed for half a heartbeat. "By the nights we questioned everything, but still woke up to fight again. By the moments that no one else saw, but we felt burning in our bones."

"For every spotlight that shines," you continue, your voice threading into the quiet like a confession, "there is a shadow behind it. A cost. And I have paid it. Gladly." You feel it then—your chest tightening, your throat roughening around the next words, but you let them out anyway. "Because sometimes, you fight for someone else’s future like it is your own." Your eyes catch on Jeno again, just for a second. His display case stands nearby, your handwriting folded into it, a testament to all you have carried for him without him ever knowing the full weight of it.

"And sometimes," your voice lowers, softer, like you are speaking only to him, "when you do, you find the pieces of yourself you thought you had lost forever." You draw a breath, shaky but full, and let your gaze sweep across the faces gathered here—not as a crowd, but as fragments of the story you built together. “This is not my story alone," you say, steady now. "It never was. We wrote this together. Every bruise, every breath, every loss—it is written here. It belongs to us all."

Your fingers tighten just once around the microphone, grounding yourself in the pulse of this moment. "This room," you tell them, voice gentle but fierce, "is not a shrine. It is a mirror. If you see anything in these walls, let it be the shape of your own fire. Let it be proof that survival does not belong to the chosen few. It belongs to anyone brave enough to keep going."

You let the silence breathe. You let the moment stretch like dawn over the horizon of your chest. “Everything we build leaves a mark," you say, gaze caught on your own reflections scattered in the glass. "Everything we survive becomes the ground we stand on. These displays are not just history. They are footprints, pressed deep into the future, not yet dried."

“So if you take anything from this,” you finish, your voice catching just enough to pull the whole room into your chest, “let it be this: it’s not about never falling. It’s about the thousand times you rise. And we’re not finished. This isn’t the final chapter. It’s the breath held tight before the next step, the spark still burning under the ashes.”

You lower the microphone, but you don’t step back. You stay exactly where you are, grounded beneath the light you dragged out of the dark, and you let them see you — really see you. No longer the girl clawing through shadows, but the woman who split the sky open with her bare hands and carved a sunrise from the ruins. The ember they once thought would die out, now blazing so bright it scorches every corner of the room, searing your story into the bones of this place. And you let it burn, because you earned this fire.

The applause hits you like a heartbeat outside your chest, pounding and rising until it fills every part of you, until you have to press your hand flat over your ribs like you can hold it all in, like you can stop yourself from overflowing. Your smile comes easy, softer than you expect, curling at the edges with something that belongs to the girl you used to be, the one who stayed up too late wondering if anyone would ever see her at all, if anyone would ever care enough to look. And now they are looking, all of them, the whole room caught in the glow of what you built from nothing, breathing in the same air as your dreams made real. It swells thick, warm, alive around you, claps still stretching long after you stop hearing them properly, like the sound has moved inside your chest, like it is part of your pulse.

But even in the flood of it, even in the way your body soaks in every beat of praise, you feel it. That hollow space beneath the noise, the shadow threading through all the gold. You see her first, Nahyun, lingering at the crowd’s edge, arms tight across her chest, her mouth pinched into a smile that feels too sharp to be real. Her eyes catch yours for half a second before they flick away, quick and tight like she cannot bear to hold the gaze. It aches in a way you cannot shake, the way she stands like this room belongs to you and not her, like she’s been pushed to the sidelines of something she used to think was hers. Envy coils beneath her skin, but there is loneliness too, a quiet kind, bitter in the corners of her expression, like she is watching the world leave her behind.

Jeno stands on the other side of the room, further back than the rest, tucked away in the place you cannot reach. He doesn’t clap or move. He just watches, his eyes pinned to you like you are something behind glass, like he’s not breathing the same air you are, like this whole exhibition, this whole life, is something built from your shared history but carved clean of him. Your pulse catches sharp at the sight, trapped between pride and hurt, swelling thick behind your ribs, because his absence is louder than every hand clapping for you, louder than the thunder of the crowd, louder than everything.

The adults come next, voices circling you like a current, drawing you into the storm. Irene’s tears shine bright, clinging to her lashes, her hand tight in yours like a mother proud of her own blood. Seulgi’s smile spreads wide and warm, Doyoung’s nod cutting sharp as if he has waited years to give it to you. They say things, all of them, things you only half-hear as your mind strains elsewhere. Taeyong’s voice slides past you, low and polished, tangled in quiet conversation with Nahyun’s father, power curling through their words, slick with deals yet to be made, promises inked in shadows beneath the shine of your success. Their intentions slither beneath the celebration, threading like smoke, barely visible but thick enough you taste it on your tongue.

But even as glasses lift and eyes turn to you, even as they raise their invisible toast to your victory, you feel it. God, you feel it. The weight of the only person you want to see you, really see you, standing at the edge, untouched by it all, his silence heavy in the hollow of your chest. Nothing drowns it out. Not this crowd, not the claps, not the celebration you fought your whole life for. It stays tight and painful, a missing heartbeat between your ribs.

Then a hand. Firm, steady at your back, anchoring you like you might drift away if no one holds you still. You turn, breath catching. His eyes, warmer than you have ever seen them, crinkle at the corners with quiet pride. He doesn’t speak at first, just tips his chin, a small nod that tells you what you already know. Come here. Follow me. He leads you out of the storm of voices, down a quieter hallway, the noise falling away behind closed doors until all you can hear is your own breath, still sharp in your chest. The room he brings you to feels different from the others, private, heavier, like it was built for conversations that matter. And when you step inside, he exhales slow, something softening in his posture, something that feels like relief, like hope folded under the weight of everything you have just done.

“You’ve done well,” Coach Suh says, his voice low but steady, warmth threading through the usual gruffness like he cannot quite hide it anymore. “Better than well. The exposé, the exhibition — everything’s been a success so far.” He pauses, breath folding thick between his words, and his eyes lock on yours, sharp but bright, full of something real. “The articles are already rolling in. And I’ve been hearing from insiders too,” he adds, lowering his voice like he’s letting you in on something no one else knows. “There’s been this anonymous source. Someone compiled files, reports, breakdowns, all of it — to show exactly why Jeno belongs in the NBA. It’s working. It’s really working. The panel’s paying attention in ways I’ve never seen. They see it now, they see him and I’ll tell you something, Y/N — I see it too. He’s got a place waiting for him.”

“I need to tell you something.”

His eyes sharpen, not in suspicion, but attention. “Go on.”

You pull a breath deep into your chest, deeper than you have all night, because you know what this moment is, you know exactly what you are about to do. “I was the one who sent the files to the NBA executives,” you say, your words clean and sure. No hesitation. No falter. “The ones you’re talking about. That anonymous submission.” Your gaze does not break from his. “It was me.”

Coach Suh’s brow lifted, his mouth a firm line. “You impressive girl.”

“It was always going to be me,” you answer, and your throat squeezes tight, but you don’t let it show. You breathe through it, steady, controlled. “From the moment I saw him play, from the moment I studied every inch of him on and off that court. I knew. You can’t tell him it was me, he can never know. He needs to believe he got here on his own,” you say, and it tastes raw, honest in your mouth. “Because if he thinks I paved the way for him, he’ll carry that weight like a burden instead of a victory. You know how stubborn Jeno is — even though all I did was highlight the brilliance that was already there, he’ll convince himself I acted out of pity rather than love. He’ll think I doubted him. That I thought he couldn’t do it without me. And Jeno deserves better than pity. He deserves to stand on the highest stage with no shadows pulling at his heels, no whispers of rescue hanging off his name.”

You step closer, voice thick but clear, meaning every word as you let them fall from your lips. “He’s been doubted enough in his life. By everyone. His father. His coaches. Himself. If he thinks this happened because of me, he’ll never see himself as the man who earned it. He’ll see himself as someone who needed to be saved. I do not want him to carry that. Not when he’s carried everything else. He deserves to walk into that future feeling like he built it with his own hands. Not like I handed it to him behind the scenes. Not like I doubted his brilliance for even a second.”

Your throat aches, the words rough in your mouth, but you do not stop. “I’m not thinking about me. I’m thinking about him. About what will lift him higher, about what will make him believe, truly believe, that he was always meant to be there. If this helps him see himself the way I see him, if this clears the path so he runs without looking back, then I will do it a thousand times over.”

Coach Suh’s expression softens, the hard lines of his face giving way to something deeper, something almost reverent. He watches you, long and quiet, like he is seeing something that stirs respect even in a man like him. You continue, your voice lower now, a near-whisper. “And because…” your throat works around the ache rising fast in your chest, “because I love him too much to ever make him feel small. I would rather he never knows. I would rather this stays between us, forever, because what matters is that he goes. What matters is that he flies.”

Coach Suh holds your gaze a beat longer, then nods, once, firm and final. “Very well,” he says. His voice is low but full of quiet conviction. “I am not one to doubt any decision you make.”

But you do not let it end there. Your voice softens further, almost tender, but edged with steel. “And if he ever wonders,” you say carefully, “if he ever digs, ever finds the files I sent, you’ll tell him it was you. You had access to everything I did. You supervised the project. It will make sense.”

Coach Suh exhales, slowly, weighing the lie in his hands. He looks at you, then nods once, begrudging but loyal. “So be it.” Your chest expands with the smallest breath of relief, but you don’t loosen your hold on this moment. You seal it between you like a pact carved in stone, a secret folded into the marrow of your story.

Your steps are quick, almost feverish, heels skimming the marble as you slip from the echo of your conversation with Coach Suh. Before the crowd swallows you again, Joy catches you, bright as always, her voice animated, words tumbling out in that signature effervescent cadence of hers. She is congratulating you, but even as she does, others are vying for your attention. You catch flashes of eager faces — reps from prestigious firms, a sleek woman from Deloitte with a polished smile, a director from the APEX global division, their voices layering over one another like the rising hum of a tide. They circle you like you are the sun at the centre of their orbit, every conversation pulling you tighter into the gravitational swell of your success.

But none of them matter, not the cameras flashing nor the executives calling your name, because across the room, you see him. Jeno. Leaning against the frame of the arcade installation, his jaw tight, eyes dark and fixed on you with a heat that steals the breath from your lungs. His lips curve, a slow, deliberate smirk, and he mouths it, “Come here.” The way he says it, even without sound, feels like it strikes right beneath your skin, a command laced with want, sharp and simple, and it unravels you instantly. There’s nothing else in the world, no noise, no crowd, no future or past — only him, and the way your pulse jumps to obey.

You don’t hesitate. Your body obeys instinct before your mind can catch up, your breath stalling in your chest as you move faster than your own shadow, faster than the pulse drumming wild at your throat. Every step sheds the weight of the conversations clawing for your time. Every heartbeat drums one truth: him, him, him. You break free of the crowd like you were never truly part of it, slipping into the private space he disappears into, and it steals the air from your lungs the moment you cross the threshold.

Jeno doesn’t wait a second. The moment you reach him, his hand finds yours, strong and warm, his fingers lacing through like he has been waiting his whole life to hold you right now, here, in this perfect stolen space. His other hand reaches behind him, eyes never leaving yours as he pushes the door shut with a quiet click, locking the world out. Then, soft as breath, his lips press to your forehead, lingering like he wants to pour every unspoken thing he feels into your skin. The kiss is tender, reverent, his mouth brushing your hairline like he is sealing something sacred between you. “Finally,” he murmurs, low and rough at the edges, as if pulling you into this moment steadies the fire burning wild beneath his chest. The space around you hums, intimate and waiting, and you let your gaze drift past him, past his beauty, past the shadows of your shared history, to take it in. It’s beautiful here, almost too beautiful. A quiet remake of the arcade hoop from your first date, washed in the soft retro blush of neon lights. The hoops glimmer like haloed promises, old scores flickering on cracked screens, memories suspended in time. The smell of old vinyl and dust clings sweetly in the air, nostalgia and electricity coiled together, waiting to spark. But more than all of that, it is him — Jeno, in front of you, holding you like you belong here more than anything else in the world.

Jeno catches your mouth in a kiss so rough it steals every last breath from your lungs, so desperate and deep it feels like he’s been starving for you, like nothing else in this whole night, such as the beautiful display of your victories, tastes as good as you do. His hand comes up fast, sliding behind your neck to anchor you to him, his palm hot and heavy, his fingers threading into your hair like he needs to feel every part of you, like he can’t stand a single inch of space between your bodies. His lips crash against yours, open-mouthed and hungry, kissing you with everything he has, kissing you like this is the only way to speak, like language fails him and only this will do. He kisses you until your knees weaken, until your breath stumbles between your teeth, until you are clutching his shirt tight to keep yourself upright, and even then he doesn’t pull back, not until he has kissed you dizzy, not until you are trembling in his hands. When he finally breaks, it’s only just barely, his breath warm and ragged against your lips as he smirks, wicked and boyish all at once, a grin so infuriatingly beautiful you could scream. “You wanna play again?” Jeno teases, his voice low and curling between you like smoke, like heat. “Remember last time, you acted so confident, told me you could beat me because you, and I quote, ‘have seen Mark play a hundred times —’”

Your hands cradling his jaw as your mouth claims his once again. "Just wanna kiss you," you whisper against his lips, your breath a trembling hush. "Stop talking so much." So he does. He kisses you like he has waited a lifetime for this very breath, like he is drinking every second that has ever led to this moment. His mouth is warm, hungry, the kind of kiss that steals your thoughts right from your head, leaves you breathless and craving more. He kisses you until you have to pull away, barely, just enough to catch air, but he chases you, lips brushing yours again, greedy and tender all at once.

“I thought you were gonna be mad at me,” you breathe against his mouth, though you are already leaning in again, already kissing him soft and slow because you can’t help yourself.

His grin flashes, bright and reckless, so beautiful it knocks the air from your chest and makes you laugh under your breath. “I’m too happy to be angry,” he says, his forehead resting against yours, his breath warm between your lips. His eyes shine with joy so raw it feels like it cracks your heart wide open, like you’re seeing him lit from the inside out. “I was pissed when you went with him,” he adds, honest but light, like he’s already let it go, “but I know you had your reasons, and your reasons are always good.” His smile tilts, softer now, full of quiet trust. “Plus, you promised me nothing would ever gonna happen between you and Yangyang, so I believe you.”

You nod, smiling so wide it hurts, like your heart’s swelling too fast for your chest to hold, like it’s gonna split you open from the inside out, and still, you don’t care — you want it to if it means you can still be with Jeno. “I’m happy we trust each other,” you whisper, and the words feel like they carry weight heavier than steel chains, like you’re stepping barefoot across a tightrope strung over a storm, knowing you could fall but choosing not to look down. It feels like crossing a bridge that never wanted to let you pass, one built from the wreckage of every past doubt and set on fire behind you, so there’s no way back, only forward, only into him.

You open your mouth to speak again, but before the words can even form, he’s already silencing you, his fingertip brushing against your lips with a tenderness so deliberate it sends a shiver spiralling down your spine. His eyes soften as he watches you, his chest rising and falling unevenly, like he’s wrestling to hold something inside that’s begging to be let free, and then his grin flickers through, not cocky but almost boyish in how fragile it is, trembling at the edges as though he knows the moment he opens his mouth, everything will change forever. He leans in, barely brushing his lips over the pout he just smoothed away with his finger, a kiss too soft to satisfy anything in you but so full of meaning it almost breaks you in half. “I need to tell you something, baby,” he whispers, his voice thick and hoarse, carrying the weight of a thousand nights he never thought he would survive, trembling as though he’s scared that if he breathes wrong the moment will vanish like smoke between his fingers.

You already feel it unfurling inside your chest, blooming before he even says the words, like dawn swelling against the horizon, golden and too bright to look at directly — you know. You know because memorised the shape of his triumph before it ever arrived. His eyes flicker over you, almost like he senses your knowing, but he still breathes it out, ragged and beautiful, like it is the first and only truth in the world. “I got in,” he says, and his voice fractures mid-syllable, cracking under the weight of disbelief that wraps tight around his ribs. “I got into the NBA.” He looks at you like he can’t believe his own words, like he needs you to catch them and hold them safe in your chest so they do not slip away.

Time caves in around you. It folds and splinters, compresses and expands, until there is nothing left of the world except the air vibrating between your bodies and the frantic beat of your hearts syncing like two wild creatures in the dark. His eyes shine, glassy with wonder and something almost too raw to name, and he exhales a sound that lives somewhere between a laugh and a cry, somewhere between relief and disbelief, like he has waited his entire life for this and still can’t trust that it’s eal. “A few minutes ago,” he rushes, the words tumbling from his lips, messy and breathless, like they’ve been locked inside him too long. “I found out just a few minutes ago. You’re the first person I told. I had to tell you first. I couldn’t wait, I couldn’t—” He cuts himself off, chest rising sharp like he’s struggling to fill his lungs, like the dream has stolen his breath clean away. “I feel like I can’t breathe, like I’m dreaming and awake at the same time, like the whole world’s been set on fire and I’m burning alive in the best way.”

You don’t realise you are crying until the salt streaks your lips, until your vision smears with the heat of your own tears, until you feel your chest aching so wide open it almost hurts. “I’m so proud of you,” you manage to say, but the words scrape up your throat like they’re too big to fit, like they carry the weight of everything you’ve wanted for him, everything you’ve seen in him when the rest of the world refused to look. “I’m so, so proud of you.” It feels like setting your own soul alight just to speak it aloud, like breathing fire straight from your ribs, but it’s the truth and you will never stop saying it.

Before you can even draw another breath, he sweeps you up into his arms, pulling you so tightly against him it feels like you might never be separate again. Your legs wrap around his waist without a second thought, instinctive, like your bodies were made for this moment, like they’ve always known how to fit together in triumph as well as in pain. His mouth finds yours, hot and wild, a kiss that is all hunger and devotion and unspooled joy, and you pour everything into him — every ounce of pride, every fragment of love, every heartbeat you have ever held back until now. He kisses you like the future is already here, like the sky has broken open just for the two of you, like the impossible has unfolded between your lips and he is desperate to taste every second of it.

His mouth doesn’t leave yours for long but when it does, it hovers, his breath warm and frantic against your lips like he can’t bear the distance between you for even a second. His eyes stay fixed on yours, dark and wild, but gleaming with something too big to name, something that fills the entire space between his ribs until it bursts out in a rasped confession. “I love you,” he says, not like it’s the first time but like it’s the only time, like he has to say it now or he might shatter from the weight of it.

The words crash against you, heavy and consuming, and your chest twists so tight it aches as you breathe in the sound of him. “Jeno—” you try to answer, but your voice breaks on his name, raw and cracked and trembling. His forehead leans to yours, grounding you in the storm he has set loose, and he chases your breath, catching your lips again, desperate to taste you between every word he pours out.

“I love you so fucking much,” he swears, his voice frayed and burning at the edges, the fire of it curling through your veins until you feel like you’re oing to combust. “You’re my dream. You’re in every one of them. I’ve never felt so happy, so at peace, like everything is finally right. Like everything is finally ours.”

You feel your heart seize and splinter under the force of his confession, like it has been gripped tight in his hands and filled so full it can no longer hold itself together. He kisses you again, deeper, rougher this time, and it steals the air from your lungs as you cling to him, your fingers tangled in his shirt like you are afraid he might disappear if you let go. His lips are relentless, hungry, like they are trying to imprint his soul against yours, and when he pulls back, it is only just enough to search your face with a gaze that makes your knees weak beneath you. “And I am so fucking proud of you,” he breathes, reverent, like you are a miracle he never thought he would be allowed to witness up close. “For this. For all of this. For every inch of this exhibition you built with your bare hands, for every breath you fought to take when the world tried to crush you. You don’t know how incredible you are, how much fire you poured into this, how you make everything you touch glow so bright it could burn the whole sky clean open.” His voice wavers, thick and choked, but he doesn’t stop, he won’t ever stop.

Your pulse races so hard you swear he can feel it beneath your palms where they cradle his face, your thumbs brush over the damp trail of tears you didn't even notice were falling from his eyes. He isn’t finished, not even close, and his hands tighten around your waist like he is afraid you might drift away before he can empty his whole heart into the space between you. “Your heart’s the softest thing I’ve ever known, like you’ve got enough love in you to heal the whole world and still have more to give and you use it for good, for change, for all of us. You carry the weight of the world and you never complain, you never fold. You’re the strongest person I know. I will treasure you forever, Y/N. I’m so fucking lucky that you’re mine.” His eyes burn as he says it, shining with pride and awe like he can’t believe his own fortune. “You’ll always be mine.”

Your breath stutters as your lips part in a shaky smile, tears spilling faster now, too thick to hold back. “Mark told me that too, that I have a good heart.” You whisper, and it feels like a ribbon tying you to the earth, a reminder of every piece of love you have been surrounded by, every corner of light that led you here.

He laughs softly at that, not in mockery but in pure affection, the sound cradling you as his forehead rests against yours again, a perfect match. “It is because of you I have a brother,” he says, rough and true, like the words have been waiting inside him for a lifetime. “Because of you, I found him.”

You shake your head, humble and breathless, your fingers curling tighter in his hair as you search his face with eyes full of love so vast it threatens to swallow you whole. “No,” you say, your voice thick but certain, “it’s not because of me. You both put in the effort. You both set aside pride.”

His hold on you tightens, arms locking you closer like he wants to fuse your bodies together, and he whispers, low and fierce, “I did it for you at first. Do you not remember the deal?” His words stroke over your skin like velvet and fire all at once, a secret reborn between you, alive and burning.

Your smile splits wider, unstoppable, your tears and laughter tangled together as you pull him closer, cupping his cheeks in your trembling hands, your heart thundering like a wild thing beneath your ribs. “Yeah,” you breathe, the memory blooming between you like a wildflower pushing through cracked concrete, “I do.” And then you kiss him, you kiss him like you are sealing a vow written in your blood, like you are promising him the whole world all over again, like there is nothing left but the two of you and the fire you carry between your lips. You kiss him like the whole world is burning down, and you are alive, alive, alive in the ashes of it all.

Your breath is still shaking when you roll your hips down on him, slow at first, just to feel the way he stretches you open, the way he fills every aching inch. Jeno's hands are already on your waist, large and warm, thumbs stroking over your skin like he's memorising every detail, like he's trying to etch the shape of you into his palms so he can carry it with him, no matter how far he has to go. His eyes never leave yours. They’re dark, glossy with love and awe, and something heavier lingering beneath, something that makes your chest pull tight.

You can't help the giggle that slips past your lips, breathless and high from the way he looks at you, like you're the only thing in his universe. "You're staring," you whisper, even though you don't want him to stop. You want him to keep looking at you like this forever. He smiles, slow and soft, and leans up to kiss the sound right off your lips. His mouth is tender, open, tasting you like you are the sweetest thing he has ever known.

"Of course I'm staring," he breathes against your lips, his voice rough around the edges but soaked in warmth. "You're my whole fucking world." You rock your hips a little faster, just to chase the heat curling deep inside you, but his grip tightens, holding you still. "Not too fast, baby," he murmurs, kissing down your throat, over your collarbones, his lips brushing every inch of your skin like he's blessing it. "We have a whole lifetime for this. I want to feel every second."

You nod, heart catching in your throat, and slow your movements, grinding down on him with aching, deliberate rolls. He groans, low and guttural, as his head falls back for a moment, eyes fluttering shut like he's overwhelmed by the feeling of you wrapped around him. Then he's looking at you again, like he can't bear to miss a single second, and you swear his gaze alone could pull you apart and put you back together. His hands trace up your sides, over your ribs, until he's cradling your face with such care it makes tears prick the corners of your eyes. He kisses you again, softer than before, slower, his lips moving with a reverence that speaks of forever. And when he pulls back, he looks at you like he's already memorising this moment for the days when he won't be able to hold you like this.

"I need to tell you something," you breathe, your voice barely holding steady. He hums, his nose brushing yours, urging you to go on. "I'm taking the APEX role," you say, and his eyes darken with something complicated, something that twists deep in your chest.

"You'll stay in Seoul after all," he murmurs, almost to himself, as if he's tasting the words, trying to believe them. "You'll be here."

You nod, but the weight of what you’re not saying hangs heavy between you. He shifts, turning you gently until your back meets the soft sheets, and he settles over you, pressing kisses along your throat, your chest, your ribs, every place he can reach. "Good," he whispers, like a vow. "That's good.”

But you feel it, the shift in the air, the tension pulling tight beneath the sweetness. You feel it when his lips pause against your skin, when his breath catches just slightly. You feel it when he lifts his head, eyes meeting yours, and says, "They told me... being in the NBA means I'll be abroad most of the year. Training camps, games, tours. I'll only be home maybe twenty percent of the time, possibly less in the first few years."

Your breath stumbles, your heart faltering mid-beat. "Oh," you say, so small it barely escapes your lips.

He catches the flicker of fear in your eyes, the way your body stiffens beneath him, and his gaze hardens with something fierce, something desperate. He moves deeper inside you, grounding you to him, keeping you where he needs you most. "Don't slip away from me," he rasps, his hips rocking into yours slow but firm, his hands holding your face like you're the only truth in his world. "Stay right here with me. Don't give up on us before we even begin. We can make this work, baby. We have to." His words knot in your chest, pull tears to your lashes even as you nod, even as you cling to him tighter. He kisses you like a man starved, like he's trying to anchor you to this moment, to this love that feels too big for your ribs to contain. His lips brush away your tears, his hands smooth over your skin as if to memorise every inch, as if he can brand the shape of you into his bones.

"You're crying," he whispers, his voice breaking with concern. "Is it too much? Should I stop?"

You shake your head, a sob caught in your throat. "No," you manage, your voice raw, trembling. "Don't stop. Never stop." But your tears keep falling, streaking down your cheeks as he moves inside you, as he makes love to you with a tenderness so deep it cuts you open. He thinks it's from the overwhelming pleasure, from the intensity of the moment, but you know the truth. You know it's because this is the last time, the last time for a long, long while. And you want to burn this moment into your memory, want to feel him in your body and your heart and your soul for every lonely night that is to come.

You arch beneath him, your body trembling as his mouth trails over every inch of you, like he’s memorising you in the dark, kissing his way through every chapter of your story — your lips, your cheeks, the bridge of your nose, the curve of your jaw, his breath catching as he kisses under your chin, along your throat, between your breasts with such aching tenderness it leaves you gasping. His lips linger there, warm and open, whispering soft broken things into your skin, like you’re something holy, something he can worship only with the gentlest of prayers. “You’re so beautiful,” he breathes, brushing kisses down your sternum, across your ribs, his hands cradling your waist as if you’re something precious, fragile, a keepsake he’s afraid of losing. He kisses the swell of your stomach, his lips brushing your skin like silk, slow and reverent, then lower still, down the inside of your thighs, his mouth open against your skin, tasting you, breathing you in like he can’t get enough of you, like he wants to drink you into his bloodstream. He keeps whispering between kisses, sweet and rough at the same time, “I love you, I love you,” over and over until the words feel carved into your skin, until your whole body aches with how much you love him back. His eyes never leave yours as he moves, dark and full of something deeper than desire, something infinite, something that tells you this moment is going to have to last for all the nights you won’t have him next to you.

And you give it to him. You give him every single piece of yourself, your hands tangled in his hair as you pull him back to you, your mouth claiming his in a kiss that tastes like tears and salt and forever. You hold him like you never want to let him go, like you already feel him slipping away into time, and you pour yourself into him, pour every heartbeat, every breath, every ounce of love you have stored up for him, because you know, somewhere buried deep in your chest, that this will have to last you through the months, the years, the miles of absence that are coming for you both. When your body breaks apart beneath him, when your release crashes through you sharp and devastating, your cries caught between his lips and your fingers clutching him closer, it’s not only the pleasure that rips through you, it’s the heartbreak too — it’s the unbearable knowing that you won’t have this again for far too long, that this goodbye is written into your bones even as you hold him tighter, even as he whispers, “You’re mine. You’ll always be mine.” You will never let him see the sorrow curled under your pleasure, but he feels it in the way you cling to him like the tide pulling away from the shore, and he loves you even more for it, even if he doesn’t yet understand why.

Somewhere in the hollow between your ribs, as your breath shudders and your bodies remain tangled like you can bind your fates by touch alone, he finds your eyes, chest rising ragged, voice raw with ruin and hope all at once. “I’ll stay,” you breathe, like a promise carved from ash, already crumbling at the edges. He catches it in the space between your mouths, swallows it like it’s something he can hold on to, something he can keep safe, and he answers, quieter but heavier, like he’s forcing the words through smoke and bone. “And I’ll go.” His hands tremble where they hold you, tight, like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he lets you go, like he’s already feeling the shape of absence take root in his chest. And you feel it too, this moment folding in on itself, the crack beneath your feet widening, but still you hold his gaze, still you keep your voice steady as you let the last line fall, soft and shattering. “And we’ll be okay.” But it isn’t a promise. It’s a farewell in disguise, a requiem dressed as hope, a final prayer to the ruins blooming beneath your skin — and even as you say it, even as you taste the lie on your tongue, you both know the truth: you won’t be.

𝐓𝐇𝐑𝐄𝐄 𝐌𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐇𝐒 𝐋𝐀𝐓𝐄𝐑

The distance is not what kills you. It never was. It never could be. It isn’t the miles stretching between Seoul and New York, not the brutal way dawn pries open your curtains just as night swallows his hotel rooms whole on the other side of the world. It isn’t the time zones, the flights, the oceans. No — it's the silence. The cold, cavernous silence where his voice used to live, where once there was laughter soft and warm as dusk, now there is nothing but stillness. It’s the way your body wakes before your mind can catch up, your hand reaching blind for your phone like muscle memory, like prayer, like hope, only to meet a blank screen, black and dead and empty. It’s the way his name slips lower and lower in your notifications, from burning bright at the top of your world to buried beneath piles of deadlines and detritus, like you are scrolling back in time just to hear the echo of him. The bracelet on your wrist has dulled to something lifeless, tarnished with the weeks — months — that have hardened between you, but you wear it still, like it's soldered to your skin, like it’s a shackle you chained yourself to willingly. You stopped tracing it in meetings. You stopped looking at it when your heart caught fire between breaths. Now, it hangs from you like a ghost, like the soft shadow of a promise that has long since decayed into dust.

Jeno exists only in headlines now. He flashes across your feed in fractured glimpses: courtside interviews under blinding lights, charity galas with his polished smile stretched tight across his face, a thousand cameras eating him alive. But every image feels like a spear driven straight through your ribs, every rumour of him tangled with a model or an artist or some glittering New York it-girl tears another strip from your heart and leaves it bleeding. You bury yourself in your work, not out of ambition, no — ambition died a long time ago. You bury yourself because it’s the only thing left that doesn’t feel like him. Your apartment has turned into a tomb, a shrine of unanswered calls and half-written texts, your heart a casualty you never planned for. His messages, when they come, are brittle and hollow. Lifeless bones of a boy you used to know. "Busy today. Will call later." But later never comes. And when it does, it's too late, it's always too late, it arrives in the dead of night when your exhaustion has already smothered the hope from your lungs. And slowly, almost mercifully, you stop replying too. Until eventually, there is nothing left at all. Until eventually, you both stop. Altogether.

But, no — no. You know the truth. You have to admit it, even if it rips you apart. It wasn’t just him. You could lie, could blame the distance, the time difference, the hurricane of his rising fame, but you know better. Beneath the bravado, beneath the armour you built from excuses, you know. You let go too. You let the rot creep in. You didn’t fight as hard as you swore you would. You didn’t pick up the phone when it mattered most. You let the unanswered texts pile up like dead leaves until they no longer felt like failures but inevitabilities. You chose the numbing comfort of overworking yourself, drowning in deadlines and late nights and loneliness, because it was easier than facing the empty ache of missing him. You buried your feelings under piles of obligations, convincing yourself that if you stayed busy enough, you wouldn’t have to notice how hollow you’d become. You let the silence bloom between you like ivy climbing the walls of a dying house, suffocating everything you once believed in. He didn’t try, and neither did you. And that is the ugliest truth of all — that love does not always die by betrayal or tragedy, but by quiet, by indifference, by two people too scared to bleed for each other. You were both architects of this ruin. You both locked the door from the inside and swallowed the key. And now you carry that weight like an anchor bolted to your chest, knowing, knowing, you helped sink this ship to the bottom of the ocean.

The day he comes back, it rains like the sky itself is breaking open at the seams. Of course it does. It pours like the world is grieving with you, the clouds split raw, bleeding water over Seoul until the streets are rivers and the horizon is washed away. He stands in your doorway, drenched, breathless, but you don’t move. You don’t run into his arms. He doesn’t reach for you. You both just stand there, suspended in a terrible stillness, as if you’ve become two strangers who used to know how to love each other but have forgotten the shape of it. His eyes, those eyes you used to map like constellations, rake over you like they’re hunting for a home already lost.

"You stopped calling," he says first, voice hoarse, cracked around the edges, like he has been carrying this accusation in his throat for weeks.

Your breath catches, sharp as a blade. "So did you.”

His shoulders stiffen, raindrops carving paths down his face like tears he refuses to let fall. "I thought you were too busy," he snaps, a flash of frustration darkening his gaze. "Every time I called, you were in meetings. Or asleep. Or flying across continents chasing your next win. Every achievement clearly means more to you than I do.”

"And you," you choke out, voice slicing through the air like broken glass, "every time I called, you were on some court or in someone else’s lens. You think I didn’t see it? The photos, Jeno. The whispers. The way they looked at you like you were already theirs. You never once gave me a reason to believe otherwise."

He shakes his head, rainwater falling like tears from his lashes. "There was nothing to explain. It was all noise. Noise, baby, that’s all it was. I thought we were stronger than that."

"But we aren’t," you snap, your voice thick with the ache of unshed tears. "We let it all get between us. We let the noise become our silence."

"You think I didn’t want to try?" he bursts, stepping closer, his hands clenching at his sides. "You think I didn’t lie awake every single night wanting to hear your voice? You think I didn’t miss you until it felt like I was bleeding from the inside out? I did. I did. But I didn’t know how to keep you when I was barely keeping myself."

Your breath shudders from your chest, the weight of his confession settling heavy in your bones. "I missed you too," you admit, raw and broken. "So much it hurt but I didn’t know if you cared anymore. I didn’t know if you even saw me anymore."

"I always saw you," he says, voice cracking, thick with something perilously close to regret. "Even when I was drowning in everything else, I saw you. You’re the only thing I ever wanted to see."

Tears slip free, streaking hot down your cheeks as you step closer, as your trembling fingers reach for his face. "Then why didn’t you fight for me? Why didn’t we fight for each other? We let it go. We let ourselves go."

"Because," he whispers, catching your hand and pressing it to his lips, his eyes closing like the feel of you is too much to bear, "because I thought we had more time. I thought we had forever."

The silence between you is a living thing, breathing heavy and slow as your heart shatters quietly in your chest. You lean in, pressing your forehead to his, your tears mingling with the rain on his skin. "We never had forever," you breathe, the words tasting like grief. "We barely have now."

You kiss him, then, because it’s all you have left, because it feels like if you don’t, you might never breathe again. You kiss him like he’s the air you’ve been starving for, like you’re gasping him into your lungs to survive the emptiness that’s waiting to swallow you whole. You kiss him like you’re tracing every line of his lips, every shape of his sorrow, trying to memorise him so well that not even time can strip him from you. His lips crash to yours, desperate, broken, tasting of regret and rain and everything you were both too afraid to say when it mattered most. He kisses you like he’s drowning, like you’re the only rope left between him and the abyss, like if he holds on tight enough, maybe you’ll pull him back from the edge. But it’s too late. It’s already too late.

When he pulls you closer, his hands frantic as they clutch your waist, his mouth trying to deepen the kiss, to weld you together with sheer force, like he can force you not to leave him, not to slip away, you feel the heartbreak rip through you so sharp you almost choke on it. He kisses you like he can glue together the wreckage of who you used to be, but your sobs breaks free, raw and ragged, splitting you open from the inside out. Your voice punches against the walls of your grief, heavy and hollow and shaking with despair. "Promise me," you beg, your hands cradling his face like you are trying to hold on to the last piece of him that hasn’t already drifted beyond your reach, your thumbs desperate as they swipe at the rain, the tears, the ruin streaming down his cheeks, as if you can erase this ending if you wipe fast enough, "promise me you’ll stay in contact with me. Promise me I’ll still hear from you. Please. Please." Your voice cracks, splinters, like you’re begging the universe itself to spare you from what you already know is inevitable.

"I promise," he swears, his voice hollow and wrecked, the words falling from his lips like they are already dust.

But you both know it’s a lie. Eternity passes, and he never keeps it.

The days bleed out like open wounds, and the nights are worse — you wait in the quiet, wait until your chest caves in, wait until your eyes burn from staring at a phone that never lights up. Wait, until waiting becomes a way of life, until it becomes your religion, until it becomes the thing that kills you softly, cell by cell. His promise decays in the silence, dissolves like sugar in water, until there’s nothing left but the bitter aftertaste of what he never said, what he never sent. His voice doesn’t come back to you, not once, not even in echoes. Only the headlines do. Only the grainy photographs of him, thousands of miles away, drenched in success and distance, so far from the boy who once kissed your trembling mouth and swore forever. So far from you. You watch the seasons change, helpless, as they drag him further into a future where you no longer exist. The world spins forward, merciless and unstoppable, and he lets it pull him under. Lets it carry him away from you, until you can no longer see the shape of him on any horizon. Until you forget the sound of his voice in the dark. Until you forget how it felt when he said your name like a vow.

Lee Jeno was a lie you let yourself believe.

𝐅𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐘𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐒 𝐋𝐀𝐓𝐄𝐑

The arena is packed to the rafters, a cathedral of roaring thunder and blistering lights, floodlamps so merciless they erase every shadow, burn every ghost clean out of the corners. You stand just off-court at Madison Square Garden, the boards beneath your heels still trembling from the aftershocks of history, the crowd’s roar curling to a distant hush like waves dragged back from the shore. It’s a night carved for legends — headlines waiting to be printed, records waiting to be shattered. The youngest player in NBA history to reach ten thousand points. His name will live in lights long after tonight ends, but you’re not here for the glory. You’re here for the final cut, the severing of the last vein that still connects you. Normally, you’d build the bridge before a broadcast like this. You’d lay it stone by stone, soften your tone, coax ease into the athlete’s posture, let him feel seen, let him feel safe. But not tonight. Tonight, you let the silence curl beneath your sternum like a blade in its sheath, sharp, cold, aching to be drawn. You don’t meet his eyes before the cameras turn. You don’t let his name breathe life between your lips. You save it all for the kill shot.

The cue flashes from the floor manager, two fingers raised in the air. The camera blinks red. You step into frame, poise perfected, your black dress cutting a clean line against the brightness of the court. There is no tremble in your voice when you begin. Your eyes, clear and unflinching, take him in as though he’s any other player in the league. But he isn't, you both know it. His face has matured, harder angles now carved into his jaw, cheekbones sharper beneath the flush of exertion. There’s a sheen of sweat at his temples, glinting like silver under the stadium lights. His lips, once so familiar, press into a line that is almost too tight, like they hold back things neither of you will say here.

As you raise the microphone, the lights catch on your wrist. It’s brief, but his eyes fall to it anyway—to the charm bracelet that still clings to your skin, weathered but unbroken, a relic from another lifetime. His gaze darkens almost imperceptibly, and then, just as quickly, he drags his eyes away, up to your face. “Lee Jeno,” you say, your voice smooth as glass, the picture of professionalism. “Congratulations on your record-breaking season. Fastest player to reach 10,000 career points.”

He nods, his expression carved from stone, but there’s a flicker in his throat, the pulse jumping beneath his skin. “Thank you,” he answers, tight and clipped, the vowels sanded down to nothing.

Your breath catches at the edge of your throat, tight as wire, suspended in the space between what you see and what you let yourself feel. For a heartbeat too long, you hold it there, chest burning, like the silence itself is a noose you’ve been waiting to slip into. Then slowly, deliberately, you let the air escape, soft but sharp, your lungs aching as your gaze sinks to his hand. The gold band gleams under the harsh white of the arena lights, a quiet gleam that feels deafening, like a spotlight trained on your ribs, like it could burn right through the hollow of your chest. The bitter taste floods your mouth before you can swallow it down, metallic and rising like smoke from the ruin smouldering inside you. But you let the words spill free anyway, steady and precise, like pulling the trigger on a shot you’ve been aiming for years. “And congratulations on your engagement.”

His jaw tightens, a muscle feathering at the edge. He doesn’t meet your gaze. He doesn’t look at you at all. “Thank you,” he replies, again, just as sharp, just as hollow. His voice is a cage of iron around his ribs, and you wonder, just for a heartbeat, if it aches as much as yours does.

The camera pans away, slow and deliberate, pulling the moment out of frame like it never mattered. But before the silence can settle, you hear it — your name, raw and breaking on his tongue, thrown across the breathless space between you like a last attempt at tethering you to him. “Shut the fuck up,” you say, too sharp, too fast, your voice cutting clean through the tension as you keep your eyes fixed ahead, refusing to give him the mercy of your gaze. The quiet that follows is not relief, not closure, but a sharp absence, a vacuum between two people who once held galaxies in their hands and let them slip like water. He doesn’t call again. He stands there, frozen, watching you as if the distance closing between your back and the tunnel is the slowest death he’s ever known. But you don’t turn, you don’t break. You let the moment calcify, hard and cold, until it’s no longer a wound but a monument — something unspoken, something eternal. And though you leave without looking, you feel it hang in the air between you like breath suspended in winter, like a loop that never ends. As if every road he will ever walk is already written with your name, as if no matter how far he runs, how many years pass, how many cities swallow him whole, every path still circles back to you, as if destiny itself drags him back to you.

𝐅𝐈𝐍

(… read the authors note below lol cus i’m a liar we’re not finished yet)

authors note — …please don’t kill me. back to you is not ending here. i know i said this was the final chapter, but i lied. i had to make you believe it until you got to this note. there are at least three more chapters coming, time jump version. you’ll meet jaemin’s baby girl (yes ik that’s what will excite a lot of you) the real story is about to start now. love you all, and prepare yourselves properly because it’s going to get even worse. 🖤. i had to kinda lie (sorry) and say this was the final chapter as i realised that if you guys knew there’d be a time jump that would kinda spoil that jeno and y/n don’t end up together. i made the mistake of saying there’d be a time jump once, so yeah, i tried to conceal it :))

taglist — @clblnz @flaminghotyourmom @haesluvr @revlada @kukkurookkoo @euphormiia @cookydream @hyuckshinee @hyuckieismine @fancypeacepersona @minkyuncutie @kiwiiess @outoforbit @lovetaroandtaemin @ungodlyjnz @remgeolli @sof1asdream7 @xuyiyang @tunafishyfishylike @lavnderluv @cheot-salang @second-floors @hyuckkklee @rbf-aceu @pradajaehyun

authors note —

if you've made it this far, thank you so much for reading! it truly means the world to me. i poured so much effort into this, so if you could take just a moment to send an ask or leave a message sharing your thoughts, it would mean everything. your interactions-whether it's sending an ask, your feedback, a comment, or just saying hi gives me so much motivation to keep writing. i'm always so happy to respond to messages, asks and comments so don't be shy! thank you from the bottom of my heart! <3

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