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Chapter Text

The arcade was a flurry of color and sound, with buttons clicking in flurries, machines whirring, and neon lights blinking like little fireworks. It had a subtle scent of old wires and caramel popcorn. Woo-young’s hands were awkwardly hanging over the controllers as he stood close to the back, at the edge of the fighting game cabinet.

It wasn’t going so well so far. He already defeated. Twice.

Then—

"You're not very good at this, are you?"

Woo-young made a small turn.

Just to his left, Seong-je was standing and leaning against the machine's side. As usual, his shirt was half untucked, his jacket was unbuttoned, and a brand-new band-aid was applied to his knuckle. The corner of his mouth pulled up, but his face was unreadable.

He held two tokens in his fingers.

He didn’t mock. He didn’t laugh. He just tilted his head.

“…One more game. I’ll show you.” Woo-young’s voice was rougher than he intended, a residual edge from his past. He wasn't used to being bad at something, especially not in front of someone like Seong-je, whose reputation preceded him even across districts. He slid another token into the slot, the metallic thunk echoing the tension in his chest.

He stepped closer without waiting for an answer, sliding the coin in with a low click. The machine lit up again, round one, flashing across the screen. Woo-young hesitated, then took the second controller, thumb resting lightly on the button.

He wasn’t expecting Seong-je to reach over, to gently tap his fingers into the right position. “You’re pressing the wrong combo,” Seong-je said. Quiet. Patient. “Here. Hold it like this.”

His hand was warm. Rough, from fights, probably. But careful, as if Woo-young was something that needed soft hands.

“You always fight this gently?” Woo-young asked, trying to sound steady, but the surprise made his voice waver slightly. He pulled his hand away, a faint warmth lingering on his skin. He certainly hadn’t expected this kind of casual intimacy, let alone advice, from the infamous Geum Seong-je. He thought Seong-je would just take the tokens, beat him, and walk away. This was… different.

Seong-je gave him a small, wry smile. “Only when I’m teaching.” He straightened, posture relaxed but alert. “Now, try it again. Down, forward, punch. Not all at once, you’ll just make your character flail.”

Woo-young gritted his teeth, a flicker of irritation mixing with a strange fascination. He hated being taught, hated admitting he was unskilled, but there was something about Seong-je’s calm demeanor that disarmed him. It wasn’t condescending, just… factual. He focused on the screen, his character, a burly brawler with exaggerated muscles, squaring off against Seong-je’s sleek, agile ninja.

He tried the combo. Down, then forward, then punch. This time, his character executed a proper uppercut, knocking Seong-je’s ninja into the air. It wasn’t perfect, but it was better. A small, almost involuntary grunt of satisfaction escaped him.

Seong-je hummed, a low sound in his throat. “Better. But you left an opening.” His fingers flew across the buttons, a blur of practiced movement. The ninja dropped, caught Woo-young’s character in a dizzying aerial combo, and then slammed him back to the ground with a devastating finisher. K.O.

Woo-young stared at the screen, then at Seong-je. “How…?”

“Anticipation,” Seong-je said, shrugging. “You focus too much on your own moves. Watch your opponent. See what they’re trying to do, and then do the opposite.” His eyes were sharp, assessing, but still unreadable. “And you telegraph your attacks. Too slow.”

“Easy for you to say,” Woo-young muttered, feeling a familiar flush of annoyance creep up his neck. He was competitive to a fault, always had been. Losing, especially to someone who made it look so effortless, chafed.

“It is,” Seong-je replied, a ghost of a smirk touching his lips. “I’ve had a lot of practice.” He gestured to the tokens still in his hand. “Another round? Or do you want to quit while you’re only down by three?”

The challenge was clear, laid out like an open invitation. Woo-young’s competitive spirit flared, pushing aside the lingering irritation. There was no way he was backing down. “You wish. Put it in.”

Seong-je chuckled, a low, pleasant sound, and the token clinked into the slot. This time, he didn’t offer any more physical guidance, but his eyes were still on Woo-young, occasionally flicking to the screen. He was observing, learning. And Woo-young found himself doing the same.

He lost the next round, and the one after that. But each time, he noticed something new, made a small adjustment. He started blocking more effectively, timing his counter-attacks with more precision. He was still losing, but the gap was narrowing. The initial frustration began to morph into something else – a focused determination, a thrill of the chase.

“You’re getting better,” Seong-je commented after Woo-young managed to take a full life bar off his character, a feat he hadn’t come close to before.

“I told you I’d show you,” Woo-young retorted, a genuine smile finally breaking through his tense facade. It was a small victory, but it felt good. “You’re not so bad yourself.”

Seong-je simply raised an eyebrow, a silent challenge that made Woo-young grin. They continued for another twenty minutes, until Seong-je finally ran out of tokens. The low battery warning blinked on the screen, a subtle reminder that time was passing.

“Tired?” Woo-young asked, a hint of smugness in his voice.

“Bored,” Seong-je corrected, stretching his arms above his head, his jacket riding up to reveal a sliver of taut stomach. “This game’s getting repetitive. Want to try something else?” He glanced around the arcade, his gaze sweeping over the various machines. “Or are you sticking to what you know best?”

Woo-young hesitated. He usually stuck to fighting games or racing simulations. Something he could dominate. But Seong-je’s presence seemed to push him out of his comfort zone. “What do you have in mind?”

Seong-je led him to a rhythm game, a brightly lit machine with flashing pads and a catchy beat. Woo-young had never played one before. He watched Seong-je warm up, his fingers and feet moving with surprising agility and precision, keeping perfect time with the music. It was a stark contrast to his brutal fighting style.

“Think you can keep up?” Seong-je challenged, already halfway through a song, his face focused, a slight sheen of sweat on his forehead.

Woo-young scoffed, but a spark of genuine curiosity ignited within him. He mirrored Seong-je’s stance, clumsily pressing the buttons, missing most of the cues. Seong-je, without missing a beat, adjusted his own rhythm to demonstrate a particular sequence, briefly looking at Woo-young to make sure he was watching.

“It’s about pattern recognition,” Seong-je explained, his voice slightly breathless from the exertion. “And muscle memory. Like a fight. You learn the opponent’s rhythm, then break it.”

Woo-young found himself surprisingly engaged. He still wasn't good, but the repetitive movements were almost meditative, and the challenge was compelling. He even found himself laughing once when he completely messed up a difficult sequence, resulting in a comical 'FAIL' flashing across the screen. Seong-je, to his surprise, just smiled. Not a smirk, not a wry twist, but a genuine, albeit small, smile.

A few more rounds of the rhythm game, then a quick, intensely competitive session of air hockey that ended with Woo-young narrowly winning by a single point, both of them breathing heavily, adrenaline coursing through their veins.

“Rematch,” Seong-je said, wiping his brow with the back of his hand. His usual composure was ruffled, and something about seeing him like that, genuinely engrossed in a game, made Woo-young feel… lighter.

“No way,” Woo-young grinned, shaking his head. “I’m on a winning streak. Gotta quit while I’m ahead.” He glanced at the entrance, noticing the sky outside had darkened considerably. “It’s getting late.”

Seong-je followed his gaze. “True. I’m hungry. You?”

Woo-young’s stomach rumbled in agreement. “Yeah. Where do you usually go?”

“There’s a convenience store not too far from here,” Seong-je said, already heading towards the exit. “My usual spot. They know me there.”

Not quite a date, Woo-young thought, but close enough for two guys who were supposed to be rivals or at the very least, strangers. He followed Seong-je out of the arcade, the cacophony of games fading behind them as they stepped into the cooler evening air.

______________________________________

The convenience store was brightly lit, a beacon in the darkening street. Seong-je walked in like he owned the place, heading straight for the ramen aisle. Woo-young followed, observing his easy familiarity with the layout. As Seong-je had said, the guy behind the counter, a tired-looking student with thick glasses, gave him a small nod of recognition. It was Seo Jun-tae, who often works part-time. He barely glanced at Woo-young, seemingly used to Seong-je bringing random people in.

“Hey, Jun-tae,” Seong-je said, picking out a cup of spicy Shin Ramyun. “Rough shift?”

Jun-tae grunted. “Always is. You collecting tonight?”

Seong-je just shrugged, a non-committal gesture. “Maybe. Depends on my mood.” He turned to Woo-young. “Get whatever you want. It’s on me.”

Woo-young blinked, surprised. “What? You don’t have to.”

“Consider it a consolation prize for losing so badly at the fighting game,” Seong-je said with that familiar wry twist of his lips. “Or a reward for not giving up. Your call.”

Woo-young felt a strange warmth spread through him. It wasn’t just about the food; it was the gesture. He settled on a simple cup of Buldak and a small triangular kimbap. He also grabbed a green tea, while Seong-je picked up a can of iced coffee.

They paid, and Jun-tae watched them with mild curiosity, his gaze lingering on Woo-young for a moment before he went back to restocking shelves. As they settled down at a small plastic table by the window, pouring hot water into their ramen, Woo-young found himself wondering about Seong-je’s life. The “collecting” comment, the casual familiarity with a known member of Baek-jin’s crew. It hinted at a darker reality that Seong-je carried with him, a sharp contrast to the patient, almost playful person he’d been in the arcade.

“So, Jisung High, right?” Seong-je asked, stirring his noodles with a pair of chopsticks. His tone was casual, but Woo-young knew it wasn’t a random question. Seong-je knew his reputation.

Woo-young nodded, taking a bite of his kimbap. “Yeah. And you’re from Ganghak.”

Seong-je hummed. “For now. Doesn’t matter much where I go, honestly. School’s just a place to kill time.” He looked out the window at the passing cars, a distant look in his eyes. “Doesn’t feel like I’m learning anything useful there.”

“What about… Baek-jin?” Woo-young asked, the name feeling heavy in the air. He’d heard enough about Na Baek-jin to know he was dangerous, and Seong-je was clearly one of his top enforcers. It made their current easy camaraderie feel precarious.

Seong-je’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. “He’s… a phase.” He took a long sip of his coffee. “Everyone goes through phases. Some just last longer than others.” He shrugged, dismissing the topic, but Woo-young could sense the underlying tension. It wasn’t a phase he particularly enjoyed.

“You don’t seem like the kind of guy who just ‘kills time’,” Woo-young commented, remembering Seong-je’s focused intensity in the arcade. “You’re good at what you do. Whatever it is.”

Seong-je finally looked at him, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. “And you? What are you good at, besides losing at fighting games?” There was no malice in the words, just raw curiosity.

Woo-young hesitated. His past at Jisung was complicated. He’d been a bully, a fighter, someone who used his strength to get what he wanted. Then Si-eun had come along and shattered that world, along with his ankle. “I… used to be good at fighting,” he admitted, his voice quiet. He instinctively rubbed his left ankle using his other feet, where the memory of the pain still lingered. “Got into a bad fight last year. My leg hasn’t been the same since.”

Seong-je’s gaze sharpened, falling to Woo-young’s left leg. “I heard about that. Yeon Si-eun. He’s… something else.” A hint of grudging respect laced his tone. “Took down a lot of people. Including you, apparently.”

Woo-young flinched. The memory was still raw, the humiliation a bitter taste. “Yeah. He did.” He stabbed his chopsticks into his ramen, swirling the noodles. “He’s smart. And ruthless. He doesn’t fight fair. He fights to win, no matter what.”

“That’s what makes him dangerous,” Seong-je mused, taking another long drink. “And effective. Most people just brawl. He thinks.” He paused, then added, almost as an afterthought, “He broke your ankle, didn’t he? Heard it was pretty nasty.”

Woo-young nodded, surprised by Seong-je’s detailed knowledge. “Fractured. Took months to heal. Even now, it’s… not as strong.” A phantom ache spread through his ankle, a silent reminder of Si-eun’s brutality and effectiveness. “It changed things. A lot.”

“Like what?” Seong-je asked, leaning back in his chair, suddenly looking genuinely interested.

“Like… everything,” Woo-young sighed, looking down at his food. “I used to think I was on top. That I could do whatever I wanted. After that… it made me realize how fragile things are. How quickly it can all be taken away.” He stirred his noodles again, a bit aimlessly. “My friends… they all scattered. Some got scared. Some went to other schools. It really only left me with Su-ho, but then he got… injured too.” His voice dropped to a whisper, a wave of melancholy and slight guilt washing over him. “He’s still in a coma.”

Seong-je’s expression softened, just slightly, the hard edges around his eyes easing. “Ahn Su-ho. Yeah, I heard about that too. That was… unnecessary.” His tone was devoid of his usual detached cynicism, replaced by a rare flicker of genuine sympathy. “Sounds like you’ve been through a lot.”

Woo-young nodded, feeling a strange sense of relief at sharing this. He hadn’t articulated it to anyone else, not really. “What about you?” he asked, looking up. “What got you into… this? Baek-jin, the Union, all of it?”

Seong-je considered the question, taking his time. “Boredom, mostly,” he finally said, but there was a deeper current beneath the flippant answer. “Nothing else to do. Nowhere else to go, really. Baek-jin offers… a purpose, I guess. Money. Control.” He stared into his ramen bowl. “But it’s getting old. Too much noise, too many idiots.” He looked up, meeting Woo-young’s gaze. “That kind of thing… it just leaves a bad taste.”

A momentary silence fell between them, filled only by the sounds of the convenience store. Footsteps outside, the hum of the refrigerators. It was an unexpected moment of shared vulnerability, two fighters from different sides of the tracks finding common ground in their discontents.

“So you’re just… looking for something else?” Woo-young asked, finally.

Seong-je shrugged. “Maybe. Or maybe I’m just looking for a better game.” He gave a small grin, a return to his usual self, but Woo-young felt like he’d glimpsed something deeper, something melancholic, beneath the surface. “You said you used to be good at fighting. What changed?”

Woo-young sighed. “The injury, yeah. But… after everything, I just don’t have the same drive. The same… anger. It felt pointless, fighting for nothing. But sometimes…” He trailed off, looking at his hands. “Sometimes I still want to hit something. Or someone.”

“That’s why you’re good at the arcade,” Seong-je offered, thoughtfully. “A place to channel it. A low-stakes fight.”

“Yeah,” Woo-young agreed, a small smile playing on his lips. “Guess so.” He finished his ramen, feeling surprisingly refreshed. “Thanks for the food, Seong-je.”

“Don’t mention it,” Seong-je replied, pushing his empty cup aside. “You know, for a
Jisung guy, you’re not as annoying as I thought you’d be.”

Woo-young scoffed, but couldn't help but feel a flicker of amusement. “And for a Ganghak guy, you’re not as much of an asshole as your reputation suggests.”

Seong-je let out a soft laugh, a rare sound, but one that made the air feel lighter. He stood up, stretching again. “Come on. I’ll walk you halfway back to your bus stop.”

______________________________________

The night air was cool and crisp, a welcome relief after the stuffy convenience store. They walked in comfortable silence for a while, the sounds of the city providing a low hum. It felt surprisingly natural, walking beside someone he’d just met, someone who was technically on an opposing faction. The initial rivalry had softened, replaced by a quiet, undefined understanding.

“So, what now?” Woo-young asked, breaking the silence. “Are we… rivals, or something?”

Seong-je glanced at him. “We just ate ramen together. And you only lost by one point at air hockey. I think ‘rival’ might be too strong a word. Maybe… ‘acquaintances with mutual interests in punching things, both real and virtual.’”

Woo-young laughed. “That’s a mouthful.”

“Or,” Seong-je continued, a hint of genuine mischief in his eyes, “we could just say we’re waiting for the next round.”

“The next round of what?”

Seong-je just shrugged, a small smile playing on his lips. “Life, I guess.”

They rounded a corner into a quieter street, less populated and dimly lit by a single flickering streetlamp. The air here was stiller, heavier. Woo-young felt a prickle of unease, a familiar instinct. This wasn't the kind of place you wanted to linger after dark.

“This is probably far enough,” Woo-young began, about to say his goodbyes, when a sudden sound made them both freeze.

A muffled clatter, then a low voice, followed by a louder, aggressive shout. It came from the mouth of a narrow alleyway just ahead.

Seong-je’s casual demeanor evaporated instantly. His posture stiffened, his eyes narrowing, scanning the shadows. He didn't even have to look at Woo-young to know he was on alert too. The air shifted, becoming charged with unspoken tension.

“Sounds like someone’s having a bad night,” Seong-je murmured, but there was a dangerous edge to his voice now. The boredom was gone, replaced by something predatory. “Or making someone else have one.”

Woo-young clenched his fists. The old instincts, the ones he thought he’d buried, surged to the surface. The thought of just walking away felt wrong, especially with Seong-je beside him. After the unexpected evening they’d shared, it felt like they were in this together, whatever ‘this’ was.

Before Woo-young could speak, a figure stumbled out of the alley, clutching his stomach, his face pale with fear. Behind him, three larger, bulkier guys emerged, their expressions grim and menacing. They immediately spotted Seong-je and Woo-young.

“Well, well, what do we have here?” one of them sneered, a beefy guy with a shaved head and a prominent scar over his eyebrow. “Looks like we got some fresh meat. Or maybe you two are just lost.”

Seong-je took a step forward, subtly positioning himself slightly in front of Woo-young. “Just passing through. Got a problem?” His voice was calm, almost bored, but his eyes were darting between the three thugs, assessing their numbers, their stances.

“Yeah, we got a problem,” the scar-faced guy growled, taking another step closer. “You’re in our territory, smartass. And you look like you got expensive tastes.” His eyes raked over Seong-je’s jacket, then Woo-young’s. “Hand over whatever you got, and maybe we’ll let you walk away with all your teeth.”

Woo-young felt the familiar surge of adrenaline. He looked at Seong-je, who gave him a quick, almost imperceptible nod. It was a silent agreement. They weren't backing down.

“Sorry,” Seong-je said, a slow, dangerous smile spreading across his face. “But we just finished a really good game. Not in the mood to lose this one.”

The scar-faced guy scowled. “You wanna play rough? Fine by me.” He lunged first, aiming a wild punch at Seong-je’s head.

Seong-je moved with blinding speed, ducking under the punch and slamming his elbow into the man’s ribs with a sickening thud. The thug grunted, staggering back. Seong-je didn’t let up, following with a swift kick to the knee that sent the man crumpling.

Woo-young, meanwhile, engaged the second thug, a lanky guy with surprisingly quick fists. Woo-young blocked a jab, then countered with a forceful punch to the gut, making the man double over. He followed up with a knee to the face, sending the thug sprawling.

They moved in unison, a surprisingly effective pair despite their lack of practice. Seong-je was a whirlwind of calculated brutality, using his opponent’s momentum against them, striking vital points with precision. Woo-young was more direct, relying on raw power and quick, decisive strikes. The fight, for a moment, felt like another one of their arcade games, a dance of offense and defense.

But there were three of them, and the third thug, a burly, silent brute, had been watching, waiting for an opening. As Woo-young delivered a final, concussive kick to the second thug, sending him skidding into the alley wall, the third man moved.

He came at Woo-young from the side, a heavy lead pipe swinging in a wide arc. Woo-young’s reflexes, still a fraction slower than they once were, weren’t quite fast enough. He tried to block with his left leg, the one Si-eun had injured.

The pipe connected with a sickening crack, not directly on the bone, but just above his ankle, sending a bolt of excruciating pain shooting through his entire leg and ankle. A choked cry escaped his lips, and he staggered back, his left leg going limp, numb and burning all at once. The old injury flared, a white-hot agony that made his vision swim. He collapsed against the grimy alley wall, gasping for breath, the world tilting precariously.

Seong-je didn’t shout for him. Normally, he wouldn’t give two shits if one of his comrades was down. He had just finished knocking out the scar-faced leader, but now his attention was fully on Woo-young. He saw the way Woo-young clutched his ankle, the sudden agony on his face, and a cold, unfamiliar fury settled over Seong-je.

The burly thug, seeing his chance, grinned savagely and raised the pipe again, this time aiming for Woo-young’s head.

Seong-je moved without thinking, a furious blur of motion. But he was too far. He lunged, his eyes fixed on the gleaming pipe, on Woo-young, still slumped against the wall, defenseless. The other two thugs, though dazed, were starting to stir.

The pipe arced downward.

Chapter Text

Pain.

It was the first sensation that registered, a dull, throbbing ache that pulsed rhythmically through his left leg, anchoring him to reality. Woo-young’s eyelids fluttered open, heavy and reluctant, each blink a monumental effort. The world swam into focus slowly, a hazy kaleidoscope of muted whites and pale blues. The sterile scent of antiseptic pricked his nose, instantly identifying his location.

A hospital.

His head felt heavy, cotton-filled, and a low groan escaped his lips. He tried to shift, but a sharp, fiery protest from his leg made him grit his teeth, the pain momentarily stealing his breath. He was lying on a crisp, unfamiliar bed, a thin blanket pulled up to his waist. His left ankle was heavily bandaged, a bulky white cast clearly visible beneath the sheet. It wasn't just bandaged; it was elevated, resting on a pillow, a silent reminder to the severity of the injury.

He squeezed his eyes shut again, trying to recall. The alley, the thugs, the blinding pain as the lead pipe connected… and then, a blur. He remembered Seong-je’s lunge, a desperate, impossible reach, but after that, nothing but a swirling black void.

A soft snore broke the oppressive silence of the room.

Woo-young’s eyes flew open, darting to the side. There, slumped awkwardly in the hard plastic chair beside his bed, was Geum Seong-je. His head was resting uncomfortably on the pristine white bedsheet, dark hair falling across his forehead, obscuring his eyes. One arm was dangling loosely, the other tucked beneath his head, seemingly trying to cushion the unforgiving hospital bedframe. He looked utterly out of place, yet undeniably present. His usually sharp, alert features were softened by sleep, making him seem almost vulnerable.

Woo-young stared, a knot of confusion and a strange warmth unfurling in his chest. Seong-je. Here? Sleeping by his bedside? It was an image so incongruous with the Seong-je he knew – the aloof, dangerous, almost predatory individual – that Woo-young wondered if he was still dreaming.

He tried to shift again, carefully this time, just enough to get a better look. The slight movement caused the bed to creak, a sound that, in the stillness of the room, seemed to echo.

Seong-je stirred. His eyes, dark and usually unreadable, slowly blinked open, adjusting to the dim light of the room. They met Woo-young’s, and for a split second, there was a flash of something unmasked – relief? Concern? – before his customary impassivity settled back into place.

“Oh,” Seong-je mumbled, his voice rough with sleep, and pushed himself upright, rubbing the back of his neck. “You’re awake.”

Woo-young just stared, his mind racing. He needed answers. What happened after the pipe came down? How did he end up here? And why, out of all people, was Seong-je the one sitting vigil?

“What… what happened?” Woo-young finally croaked, his throat dry.

Seong-je stretched, a faint crack from his spine audible. He looked a little disheveled, his jacket wrinkled, his hair messy. “You got hit. Hard. Ambulance came. They took you here. I came with you.” He stated it all matter-of-factly, as if it were the most natural thing in the world for two rivals-turned-acquaintances to end up in a hospital together, one nursing the other.

“The pipe…” Woo-young pressed, his memory stubbornly fragmented. He remembered the arc, the sickening crack, his leg giving out. He remembered Seong-je’s furious expression, his desperate lunge. But what followed?

Seong-je’s gaze flickered, a subtle tension in his jaw. “The idiot swung it like a baseball bat. Lucky for you, he telegraphs his moves.” He paused, then added, almost as an afterthought, “And I caught it.”

Catching a lead pipe mid-swing. The sheer audacity, the recklessness, the calculated risk. It sounded exactly like Seong-je.

A half-forgotten memory, sharp and startling, pierced through the fog.

______________________________________

The lead pipe descended, a gleaming arc of metal aimed squarely at Woo-young’s head. His vision swam, his leg screamed in agony, and he was helpless, slumped against the grimy brick wall. A strangled sound tore from his throat.

Seong-je was too far, but in that split second, distance ceased to matter. The world seemed to slow down, every detail sharpened to excruciating clarity. The savage grin on the burly thug’s face, the glint of the pipe, the helplessness in Woo-young’s eyes.

Adrenaline, cold and pure, surged through Seong-je’s veins. He wasn't thinking about strategy, about points, about rivals. He was thinking; stop.

He launched himself forward, closing the distance in a series of impossible, blurring steps. The pipe was a hair’s breadth from connecting.

With a final, desperate burst, Seong-je didn't try to block. He couldn’t. Instead, he twisted his body, throwing his left shoulder and arm up, not to absorb the blow, but to deflect it. His aim was not the pipe itself, but the thug’s wrist, the point of impact that held the weapon.

CRACK!

The sound was shockingly loud, a sickening thud of metal against bone, not Woo-young’s skull, but Seong-je’s arm, just above the elbow. He gritted his teeth, a gasp escaping him, the pain a white-hot spear. But he didn’t falter. The impact jarred the pipe loose from the thug’s grip, sending it clattering to the ground.

At the same instant, fueled by the agonizing impact and blinding fury, Seong-je’s right hand shot out, not in a punch, but a brutal, open-handed strike to the thug’s temple. It was a pressure point he knew well, a precise, devastating blow designed to stun, disorient, and incapacitate instantly. The thug’s eyes rolled back, and he crumpled like a puppet whose strings had been cut, falling unconscious before he even hit the ground.

Seong-je didn’t waste a second. He ignored the searing pain in his arm, the tremor running through his body. He spun, surveying the scene. The scar-faced leader was still out cold. The second thug, whom Woo-young had dispatched, was groaning, pushing himself up, dazed but clearly not out.

"Stay down!" Seong-je snarled, his voice raw, and before the thug could fully rise, he delivered a swift, brutal kick to the side of his head, sending him sprawling back into unconsciousness.

It was over. Three thugs, all down. And Woo-young, slumped against the wall, clutching his leg, eyes wide with shock and pain, staring blankly at Seong-je’s arm, which he now realized was hanging a little awkwardly.

Seong-je took a shaky breath, his own adrenaline starting to recede, leaving behind a cold, clammy exhaustion. He stumbled over to Woo-young, dropping to one knee beside him. "You alright?" he demanded, his voice gruff, betraying the underlying panic that had gripped him just moments before.

Woo-young could only manage a choked sound, his face pale, sweat beading on his forehead. "My leg… it’s… the old one."

Seong-je swore under his breath, his gaze sweeping over Woo-young’s obviously injured limb. He saw the way it bent, the unnatural swelling already beginning. This wasn't just a bruise. This was serious. He then looked at his own left arm, which was now throbbing monstrously. A dark bruise was already blossoming on his bicep, and the bone felt like it was singing with pain. He tried to move it, wincing. Probably not broken, but damn close.

"Damn it," Seong-je muttered, more to himself than to Woo-young. He pulled out his phone, his fingers fumbling slightly from the lingering shock and pain. "Stay still. I’m calling an ambulance."

Woo-young watched him, a strange mix of emotions swirling inside him. Gratitude, confusion, a faint, disbelieving awe. Seong-je, who seemed to care about nothing beyond himself and his own objectives, had deliberately put himself in harm’s way to protect him. It didn’t make sense, not rationally, not when they were supposed to be rivals, on opposing sides of a silent war. Yet, here he was, injured, calling for help, his face etched with something akin to… concern.

The ambulance arrived swiftly, sirens wailing in the distance before approaching. Paramedics rushed in, efficient and professional. They stabilized Woo-young’s leg, carefully loaded him onto a stretcher, and then turned their attention to Seong-je.

"Sir, you have a nasty contusion here, and possibly a hairline fracture. We should take you in too."

Seong-je waved them off, his usual dismissive air returning, though a little less convincing this time. "It’s fine. Just a bump. I’ll go with him." He gestured towards Woo-young’s stretcher. He wasn’t leaving. Not yet.

He sat in the ambulance beside Woo-young, silently watching as the paramedics worked. Woo-young was fading in and out of consciousness, his face pale and drawn. Seong-je’s arm throbbed, a constant reminder of the metallic thud and the sharp, visceral pain. But the image of that pipe, arcing towards Woo-young’s head, was a far more potent sting than any physical injury. His mind replayed the moment, the desperate lunge, the precise deflection, the brutal counter. He had saved him. Out of instinct, out of a sudden, inexplicable surge of protectiveness.

Why? He didn't know. He wasn't supposed to care.

______________________________________

Woo-young stared at Seong-je, who was now leaning back in the chair, eyes half-closed, a faint bruise visible on his left arm, just as he remembered. "You… you caught it? The pipe?"

Seong-je opened his eyes fully, meeting Woo-young's gaze. A flicker of something unreadable passed through them. "More like deflected it. Idiot swung for your head. Didn't want to deal with a corpse.” He said it with his usual dry sarcasm, but there was a subtle tension around his lips, a forced casualness. “You’re heavy to carry, too.”

Woo-young felt a blush creep up his neck, a mix of embarrassment and profound gratitude. Seong-je was trying to brush it off, to make it sound like a mundane inconvenience, but Woo-young knew better. That kind of move, that kind of risk, wasn’t something you did for a mere acquaintance, let alone a rival. It felt like Seong-je was pulling them back into their established roles, perhaps uncomfortable with the depth of the moment.

“My leg,” Woo-young said, trying to change the subject, the pain a constant reminder. “Is it… badly broken?”

Seong-je glanced at the cast. “Doctor said a fracture. Medial malleolus, if I remember correctly. The old injury made it worse. They had to operate. Pin it back together or something. You’re lucky. Could have been a lot worse.”

A fracture. Operation. The words hit Woo-young with the force of a physical blow. He remembered the first time, when Si-eun had injured him, the crushing disappointment, the end of a promising future. Now, it was back, a ghost from his past, haunting him. “How long…?”

“Weeks. Maybe months before you’re walking properly again. Physical therapy will be a nightmare,” Seong-je supplied, unhelpfully practical. “You’ll be out of school for a while.”

Woo-young closed his eyes, a wave of despair washing over him. This would put him behind, again. He’d just started to get back on track.

Seong-je, noticing Woo-young’s sudden slump, shifted in his chair. “Look, it’s not the end of the world. You’ll heal. You’re young. Just… don’t go jumping into fights like that. I could’ve finished it on my own.”

The attempt at humor was clumsy, but the underlying sentiment was clear. Seong-je was trying to comfort him. It was jarring, coming from someone who usually spoke in veiled threats and cutting remarks.

“Why did you stay?” Woo-young mumbled, his voice hoarse. He had to ask.

Seong-je shrugged, avoiding Woo-young’s gaze, looking at the sterile white wall instead. “Someone had to deal with the cops and the paramedics. And you were incoherent. Besides, you owe me ramyun.” His tone was light, dismissive, but Woo-young saw the way his jaw tightened, the subtle flex of his injured arm.

“You didn’t have to.”

“Yeah, well,” Seong-je finally met his gaze, a hint of exasperation in his eyes, “I did. Can’t have our… our mutual interest in punching things… dying in a dark alley. Who would I play against next?” He finished with a small, almost imperceptible smirk, trying to lighten the mood.

Woo-young managed a weak smile in return. The absurdity of it all, the sheer unlikeliness of their situation, was almost comical. “I guess I owe you more than just ramen now.”

Seong-je snorted. “Definitely. A lot more. You can start by not bleeding all over the hospital bed. It’s bad for the aesthetic.”

______________________________________

The first few days in the hospital were a blur of pain medication, doctor’s visits, and restless sleep. Woo-young’s leg throbbed relentlessly, a constant reminder of the alley, the pipe, and Seong-je’s unexpected help. But perhaps even more surprising than Seong-je’s actions was his continued presence.

He visited every day. At first, Woo-young expected it to be a fleeting gesture, a quick check-in before disappearing. But Seong-je kept coming back. He'd arrive in the late afternoon, often with a bag of convenience store snacks that Woo-young wasn't supposed to eat but devoured anyway. He wouldn't stay long, usually an hour or so, just sitting there in the uncomfortable chair, sometimes sleeping, sometimes checking his phone, sometimes just observing Woo-young with that unnervingly calm gaze of his.

Their conversations were sparse at first, mostly practical questions about his recovery or Seong-je's usual dry commentary on the world.

"How's your arm?" Woo-young asked one afternoon, watching Seong-je carefully adjust a sleeve.

Seong-je shrugged. "Bruised. Sprained. Nothing a few days can't fix. You got the worse end of it." He didn't elaborate, clearly wanting to downplay his own injury.

Woo-young, however, couldn't let it go. "You didn't have to do that, you know. Take the hit."

Seong-je sighed, looking up from the medical textbook he was inexplicably reading. "Someone had to. You were out of commission. Besides, you looked pathetic. Thought I'd spare you the indignity of a concussion too."

Woo-young narrowed his eyes. "You're a terrible liar."

Seong-je just gave him a faint, almost imperceptible smirk, a ghost of a smile. "Maybe. Or maybe you're just not as good at reading people as you think, Kang Woo-young."

Despite the barbed remarks, a new kind of intimacy began to form between them. It wasn't the easy camaraderie of friends, but a deeper, more profound connection forged in shared danger and unexpected vulnerability. They were two people from different worlds, on different sides, yet they'd faced something together, and one had saved the other. That kind of bond was difficult to ignore.

Sometimes, Seong-je would tell him snippets of his day – a particularly boring lecture, a frustrating encounter with one of Baek-jin’s more idiotic subordinates, a new fighting game he'd discovered. Woo-young, in turn, would share his own anxieties about school, about his leg, about the slow, agonizing pace of recovery. Right now, he was talking about his friends and how they would run into stupid problems, at least, Seong-je considered to be stupid. The concept of a “friend”, it was still foreign to him.

"They're a handful," Seong-je commented, without looking up.

Woo-young chuckled. "They're my friends. You wouldn't understand."

Seong-je finally looked at him, a quizzical expression on his face. "Why? Because I don't have a pack of overgrown puppies following me around?"

"No," Woo-young said, a pang of something akin to disappointment in his chest. "Because you don't let anyone get close enough."

Seong-je didn't respond immediately. He just stared at the phone, then slowly puts it in his pocket. "Is that what you think?"

"It's what I observe," Woo-young said, meeting his gaze directly. "You keep everyone at arm’s length. Even Baek-jin."

A short, dry laugh escaped Seong-je. "Baek-jin? Look, I tried to get close, but that annoying Park Hu-min always gets in the way. Besides, it’s not good to stay close all the time. You keep a healthy distance and anticipate its next move."

Woo-young considered this. "Is that what you do with everyone? Anticipate their moves?"

"It saves a lot of trouble," Seong-je said, his voice flat. He paused, then added, surprisingly, "Except maybe when it came to you, apparently. Didn’t anticipate you being so suicidal."

"Hey!" Woo-young protested, offended.

"Just stating facts," Seong-je said, a corner of his mouth twitching upwards. It was as close to a genuine smile as Woo-young had ever seen from him.

As the days turned into a week, Woo-young started to feel a flicker of his old self returning. The cast was heavy, cumbersome, but the initial excruciating pain had dulled to a manageable ache. His reliance on Seong-je, though often silent and unspoken, had grown. Seong-je would help him adjust his pillows, reach for things on the bedside table, even carefully peel an orange for him when his hands were too shaky from the medication. Each small gesture, devoid of fanfare, spoke volumes.

“You know,” Woo-young said one evening, as Seong-je was about to leave, “I thought we were rivals. But… you just suddenly barged into my life, when I had no one else. And now… you saved me.”

Seong-je stopped at the door, his back to Woo-young. “Life’s too boring if you only stick to the script, Kang Woo-young.” He turned, and there was a glint in his eyes that Woo-young couldn't quite decipher. “Besides, rivalry is more fun when the opponent is at their full strength. What kind of game would it be if I let you get taken out by some low-level thugs?”

It was a typical Seong-je answer – pragmatic, competitive, and designed to deflect any overt emotional sentiment. But Woo-young knew it was more than that. It was an acknowledgment, in Seong-je’s own twisted way, of their growing connection.

______________________________________

The day for his discharge finally arrived. Woo-young felt a mix of relief and trepidation. Relief to escape the sterile confines of the hospital, trepidation about navigating the world with a heavy cast and crutches, and a leg that felt like a foreign object.

Seong-je was there, as expected. He was leaning against the wall outside his room, phone in hand, looking like he was just passing by, completely by chance.

"Ready to escape?" Seong-je asked, pushing off the wall.

"As I'll ever be," Woo-young grumbled, awkwardly trying to get his crutches adjusted. He fumbled, almost losing his balance, and Seong-je was there instantly, a steady hand on his elbow, keeping him upright.

"Careful," Seong-je said, his touch surprisingly gentle. "Don't want to end up back here on your first day out."

They made their way slowly through the hospital corridors, Woo-young hobbling on his crutches, Seong-je walking patiently beside him, occasionally offering a supportive hand or a steadying presence. It was laborious, frustrating, and Woo-young felt a surge of self-pity and anger at his own weakness.

"This sucks," he muttered, wiping sweat from his forehead.

"It does," Seong-je agreed simply. "But it won't last forever."

He didn't offer empty platitudes or forced encouragement. Just raw, honest assessment, combined with a quiet, unwavering support. And somehow, that was exactly what Woo-young needed.

Outside, the late afternoon sun was bright and warm, a stark contrast to the filtered light of the hospital. The city sounds, once a distant hum, now assaulted his ears with their raw energy. He felt overwhelmed, disoriented.

"Where do you live?" Seong-je asked.

Woo-young told him his address. Seong-je pulled out his phone. "I'll call a taxi."

"You don't have to take me all the way home," Woo-young protested. "You've done enough."

Seong-je paused, looking at him with that inscrutable gaze. "You’re going to manage crutches and a cast on public transport? In your condition? Don’t be an idiot."

He didn't wait for a response, already dialing. Within minutes, a taxi pulled up. Seong-je opened the door for him, then helped him carefully slide into the back seat, placing his crutches beside him. He then got in the front passenger seat.

The ride was mostly silent, broken only by the hum of the engine and the occasional instruction to the driver. Woo-young watched the city lights begin to flicker on, the familiar streets passing by. He was going home. And Seong-je was still there.

When they arrived at Woo-young's apartment building, Seong-je paid the driver, then helped him out. The walk up to his apartment on the third floor felt like climbing a mountain. Woo-young gritted his teeth, determined not to complain, but his shoulders burned, and his injured leg throbbed.

Seong-je remained a few steps ahead, waiting patiently at each landing. When they finally reached his door, Woo-young leaned heavily against the frame, fumbling with his keys.

"Here," Seong-je said, taking the keys from his trembling fingers. He unlocked the door, pushed it open, and then handed the keys back.

Woo-young stepped inside, his apartment feeling both familiar and alien after his absence. It was quiet, dusty. He turned to Seong-je, who was still standing in the doorway.

"Thanks, Seong-je," Woo-young said, the words feeling utterly inadequate for everything he'd done. "Really. For everything."

Seong-je just nodded, his expression softening almost imperceptibly. "Try not to get into any more trouble, Kang Woo-young. Or at least wait until you’re healed. I’m tired of playing medic."

"I’ll try," Woo-young promised, a small smile playing on his lips. "But no promises."

Seong-je chuckled, a low, dry sound that was rare and almost startling. "Wouldn’t expect anything less from you. Get some rest. And don’t forget that physical therapy.” He paused, then added, “I’ll… check on you tomorrow. See if you managed to survive being alone.”

Woo-young’s smile widened. “You don’t have to.”

“Consider it collateral for the ramyun you still owe me,” Seong-je replied, a hint of his usual mischief returning. “Don’t think I’ve forgotten.”

And with that, he turned and walked away, his presence lingering in the doorway long after he had disappeared down the stairwell.

Woo-young closed the door, leaning his head against it. He was alone now, the silence of his apartment enveloping him. But it didn't feel as empty as it should have. He thought of Seong-je, the difficult, dangerous, enigmatic boy who had unexpectedly become his guardian angel.

The rivalry wasn't gone – it was just… different now. It was layered with something else, a mutual respect, an unspoken understanding. He still didn’t quite understand Seong-je, but he trusted him. And that, in their world, was a rarer, more precious thing than any victory.

He hobbled over to his couch, collapsing onto it with a sigh. His phone vibrated in his pocket. It was a message from Seong-je. They only exchanged contacts briefly, so Woo-young didn’t expect him to remember, much less text him first.

‘Need anything? Don’t burn down your apartment.’

Woo-young laughed softly, a genuine, unburdened sound. He typed a quick reply.

‘Just fried chicken. And maybe a ride to physical therapy next week? I hear it’s a nightmare.’

He hit send. The reply was almost immediate.

‘We’ll see. Don’t expect special treatment. But yeah, fried chicken is non-negotiable.’

Woo-young smiled, scrolling back through their brief exchange. The next round, as Seong-je had said. It wasn’t a game of fists anymore. It was a game of rebuilding, of navigating a new, unexpected path. And for the first time in a long time, Woo-young didn’t feel like he had to walk it alone. The silent rivalry had transformed into something else entirely, a quiet companionship that promised more than just another fight.

It promised a future.