He hadn't moved when Jiyoung fell. He hadn't spoken. He simply shifted, subtly into a stance.
His knees bent slightly, weight distributed evenly across the balls of his feet. One foot edged forward, heel lifted, while the other anchored behind him in perfect balance.
His left hand was raised just beneath his cheek, knuckles turned inward, the other hand hovering lower, protecting his ribs.
It wasn't wild. It wasn't flashy. It wasn't the desperate flailing of someone fighting for survival.
It was controlled and precise. A textbook boxer's stance.
His shoulders tucked inward, chin slightly down, eyes locked straight ahead with a strange, piercing clarity. His body no longer looked detached or passive—it radiated intent.
The air in the carriage changed. People who moments ago had seen a hollow young man suddenly felt a cold prickle crawl across their skin. That stance carried weight. It told a story without words.
Jiyoung, dazed on the ground, tried to push himself up, but his body trembled, refusing to obey. His jaw hung slack, his eyes wide, pupils flickering with disbelief. He had felt it—the punch. Clean, sharp, and unseen.
But no one had seen Baeksan move.
Only the stance remained. Silently.
And in that moment, as the murmurs spread through the crowd like wildfire, Baeksan's hollow eyes looked down at Jiyoung—not with pride, not with pity, not even with fear.
Just emptiness. The kind of emptiness that terrified men far stronger than him.
Jiyoung lay sprawled across the floor for several long, dragging seconds. His breath rasped as though his own lungs betrayed him, air scraping through clenched teeth.
The chatter of the crowd swirled above him—whispers, gasps, mutters of disbelief—but he heard none of it. What echoed in his skull was that sudden crack, that invisible strike that had sent lightning down his spine and dropped him where he stood.
He pushed against the metal floor with trembling hands, forcing his weight up inch by inch. His head swayed, jaw tight, drool mixed with blood stringing from his lip.
His eyes darted—not at the passengers, not at the girl who had shrunk back against her seat, but at the figure standing silently before him.
Baeksan.
No longer slouched. No longer blank.
He stood rooted in that stance, quiet but unwavering, his body language so clean it looked unnatural for someone his age.
His fists weren't clenched in rage; they were relaxed, loose, disciplined. The kind of hands that didn't seek to lash out, but to strike only when necessary.
Jiyoung spat on the floor, his spit tinged red. He laughed—short, bitter, like a man laughing at his own shame. Then his laughter hardened into a growl.
"You…" His voice cracked, but he forced it steady, louder. "You think that was pure strength?" He pointed a trembling finger, his lips curling into a snarl. "That—whatever the hell just happened—that was a fluke. A blind swing. You got lucky, you empty-eyed bastard."
Baeksan didn't move. His gaze didn't even sharpen; it remained fixed, steady, cold. The silence pressed harder than any retort.
Jiyoung's hands balled into fists again, his frame trembling with a mixture of fury and humiliation. He staggered to his feet, towering over Baeksan once more, shadow stretching over him. His teeth bared as he leaned down, face to face, hot breath spilling against the younger man's expressionless stare.
"You're nothing," he hissed, voice cracking under the strain. "Do you hear me? Nothing. A ghost in a seat. A husk playing tough. You think standing like some washed-up boxer makes you a man?" His grin warped, almost unhinged. "I'll crush you. I'll crush that stupid empty stare right out of your skull."
Still, Baeksan said nothing. His stance did not break. His eyes did not flinch.
That silence—it wasn't resistance. It wasn't defiance. It was worse. It was as though Baeksan wasn't even acknowledging him, as though Jiyoung's words evaporated before reaching his ears.
And that stung more deeply than the unseen punch.
Jiyoung raised his fist again, higher this time, ready to swing down with the weight of his whole body. His muscles coiled like steel cables pulled to their limit. "This time," he spat, voice low and venomous, "you're not getting away."
But as his knuckles reached their peak, his arm suddenly faltered.
A chill ripped through him, cutting deeper than fear. His skin prickled, his spine stiffened, and sweat began to bead at his temple. It wasn't Baeksan's fists, nor the eyes of the passengers that froze him—it was something else.
Something behind his own rage. He grabbed the old man by the collar once more and raised him.
Since he couldn't explain it, but he felt it—like a pair of invisible hands pressing down on his shoulders, pinning him in place. His chest locked up, air tightening in his lungs. The heat of fury evaporated, replaced with a creeping cold that spread from the back of his neck down his entire body.
His grip loosened. His raised fist trembled.
And then, against his own will, he let go.
The collar he had been clutching slipped from his grasp. The old man dropped back, stumbling but still upright, his eyes unreadable.
Jiyoung turned his head slowly, sweat dripping down his cheek, gaze dragging back to Baeksan.
There was no movement. No words. Just those hollow eyes, fixed on him with a stare so void of reaction it almost felt inhuman.
For the first time, Jiyoung felt his breath hitch—not from pain, not from anger, but from something far more dangerous.
Fear of losing towards him. A loser in his eyes.
Doubt.