Jiyoung's breath shook as he glared at Baeksan, but the longer he held that stare, the more something twisted in his chest. That face. That stance. The way his weight settled on the balls of his feet, shoulders slightly dropped, hands loose but ready, gaze empty yet unwavering—he had seen this before.
He blinked once. Twice. And then it hit him.
Not here. Not now. But back then.
The smell of sweat and chalk dust. The echo of sneakers squeaking on worn tile. The blinding white of fluorescent lights that buzzed above crowded hallways. Seventeen years old, when life was nothing but restless energy and unspoken hierarchies.
A Korean high school in full swing—students in pressed navy uniforms, white shirts, striped ties hanging loose around their collars. Laughter too loud in the corridors, whispers in every corner, desks carved with names and curses, cigarette smoke wafting from behind the gym where the teachers pretended not to see.
And in that chaos, power meant everything. Who you ate lunch with. Who walked through the hall without stepping aside. Who people dared not to look at directly.
Jiyoung had ruled pieces of it. Fists, intimidation, his voice carried weight. But there had been one day—just one—that shattered the balance of the entire school.
A transfer.
A quiet boy, unimpressive at first glance, hair always slightly messy, uniform worn but neat. No swagger. No noise. Just him and his silence.
Until the first fight.
Jiyoung remembered it with sickening clarity: the gym, after school, the crowd circling like vultures hungry for spectacle. Some idiot upperclassman had tried to test the newcomer. One punch later, the idiot lay gasping on the ground.
And then another.
And another.
It wasn't wild swinging. It wasn't street brawling. It was a style—refined, honed, terrifying in its simplicity. Every jab straight, every guard tight, every step measured like he'd been doing it his whole life. A boxing stance no one in that school had ever seen before.
By the time the sun set, the so-called leaders of each grade lay crumpled across the floor, clutching their ribs, bloodied lips split wide, groaning. All of them—seniors, bullies, gang kids who thought they owned the place. Every one of them fell.
And the boy never said a word.
Just stood there, fists lowered, chest rising and falling, gaze empty as if none of it mattered.
It spread through the school like wildfire the next morning. Whispers, gasps, stares. A new name carried from mouth to mouth, both in awe and fear.
The King of Rookie.
A legend made in one day.
And now, as Jiyoung's eyes locked on Baeksan's face—the same hollow stare, the same boxing stance—it all snapped into place.
The ghost in front of him wasn't some no-name.
It was him.
The one who had turned seventeen-year-old halls upside down with nothing but his fists. The boy who had made grown seniors whimper in front of a crowd. The one Jiyoung had sworn, in the dark corners of his pride, he would one day surpass.
And now, here he was again. Silently staring at him, full of sorrow.
Jiyoung's lips parted, but no words came. For the first time in years, he felt his throat dry with something that tasted dangerously like fear.
Jiyoung's fists hung at his sides, trembling with a rage he couldn't quite explain. His eyes drilled into Baeksan, unblinking, as if he were trying to peel away the years with sheer force. The silence between them stretched thin, heavier than the rattling of the train around them.
Something gnawed at him. The stillness in Baeksan's stance, the exact angle of his shoulders, the cold weight in those blank eyes.
It wasn't the stance of a coward, nor the fluke survival of someone lucky enough to dodge a punch. This was… rehearsed. He didnt just know, he knew, he saw what's coming. Wven from back then. Burned into muscle and bone.
I've seen this before…
When he's seventeen at the high school. The cracked tiles of the old gym floor, the smell of stale sweat hanging in the corridors. He remembered it too vividly—that day when a quiet transfer student had walked into the building, wearing a wrinkled uniform and eyes that looked half-dead. Nobody thought anything of him. Just another face, another kid.
And then, within a single afternoon, that same kid had put the whole school on its knees. Fists flying, unshaken. No wasted movement. Not once did he raise his voice. He just fought, one after another, until even the seniors—boys who thought they owned the place—lay broken on the floor, coughing blood, unable to stand.
They had called him the King of Rookies.
The boy who ruled without even asking for a throne.
And now, standing in front of him, Jiyoung felt the same weight crawling up his spine. The same quiet terror. The same unshakable presence.
His lips parted before he could stop himself.
"…No way. You—"
He bit his tongue, shut it quickly. But pride twisted him, wouldn't let him stay silent. He stepped closer, voice low but shaking with both fury and something he refused to admit as fear.
"You think I don't recognize that face? That stance? Don't play dumb with me. I know you. I know exactly who you are."
His words sharpened, spitting through clenched teeth.
"Seventeen years old, transfer kid, the one who walked into school and broke every single one of us like we were nothing. You didn't just win fights—you erased people. My people! Do you remember how fast it was? One day. Just one damned day, and the entire school whispered your name like it was a curse."
Jiyoung's laugh cracked, dry and bitter. He tried to smile, but it twisted into something uglier.
"They called you the King of Rookies. The untouchable. The one who climbed to the top without even trying. And now—" he jabbed a finger toward Baeksan's chest, his voice rising, "—now you stand there with those dead eyes, like none of it ever mattered? Like I'm not worth even a flicker of recognition? But one thing that makes you unique... your damned eyes, still the same as before."
His breath came heavy, almost a growl.
"Don't you dare act like you don't remember me."