The game was over.
Some of the kids were still grinning. Others whispered, reliving moments. A few tossed their shin guards into their bags with exhausted sighs. Water bottles hissed open. Boots came off. The field slowly started to return to silence.
But Lee Min Son sat alone.
Still in his kit. Still with his boots on. Still staring, but not at the pitch.
His eyes were open, but his mind was far away — somewhere colder.
---
🏠 That Morning
He could still hear the shouting.
The voice of his father — loud, sharp, violent — bouncing off the thin apartment walls like an alarm that wouldn't stop.
His mother had tried to speak back, but her voice was tired. It always sounded tired these days.
Then came the crash. Something breaking — maybe a cup, maybe her phone. Min Son didn't turn to look.
He just tied his laces tighter.
Grabbed his bag.
And walked out the door.
He didn't say goodbye.
---
"Min Son."
A voice broke through the fog.
He blinked. Turned.
Junho, the team's defensive midfielder — and key player— stood beside him, hands on his hips.
"The coach is calling us."
Min Son nodded once. "Okay."
He stood up quietly and followed.
---
🧍 Team Briefing
The players formed a half-circle around Coach Park. Some stood straight with their hands behind their backs, others still panting from the match. The sun was sinking low now, casting long shadows across the worn turf.
Coach Park looked them over with a measured eye.
"Good job today, boys," he said. "Solid game. Some of you still need to think faster. Move cleaner. But for a friendly match? Not bad at all."
Some kids smiled. Others nodded.
"Now," the coach continued, "you've got a break. Rest if you need to. Practice if you want to. But listen carefully—"
His voice dropped slightly, tone sharpening.
"Next week… that's the real deal."
Eyes widened. Postures straightened.
"There'll be scouts coming. From real clubs. From real academies. If you want a shot, next week is your moment. You all understand?"
Most of the boys nodded. A few exchanged glances, whispering excitedly. Others clenched their fists.
Min Son didn't move.
But something inside him tensed.
---
🔁 His Thoughts
He stared at the ground.
This is it.
He didn't need Park to explain the stakes. He already knew.
That competition — next week — wasn't just about football.
It was his way out.
Out of that apartment.
Out of that man's reach.
Out of a world where his mother cried behind doors she thought were closed.
He gripped the hem of his jersey.
I must not miss this.
---
The group began to scatter. Some boys grabbed their bags and jogged toward the exit. A few waved goodbye.
Others passed by Min Son, their eyes cold. Not a word spoken.
He didn't need to guess what they were thinking.
He thinks he's special.
He barely talks to anyone.
He plays like he's better than us.
He didn't answer those stares.
One boy gave him a small nod and smiled — Junho. Then he left too.
Soon, the field was quiet again.
And Min Son was alone.
---
🎯 Blitz Curler Practice
He walked back toward the ball, resting near the sideline.
He'd been trying to learn a new technique.
Not the usual bend.
Not the basic inside-foot curl.
Blitz Curling - A type of finesse shot that involves a sharp, dipping curve, making it a powerful and accurate way to score goals, especially from outside the penalty area. Extremely difficult to master, Almost impossible to stop. The goal keeper might see it coming, But by the time he moves, the ball is already curling away.
He'd seen pros do it on YouTube. He'd watched the same clip over and over, slowing it down frame by frame.
He'd gotten close. But never quite right.
He placed the ball carefully. Took a few steps back.
Strike.
It bent — but not enough. It rose too high. He sighed and jogged after it, chasing it down himself.
There was no one left to fetch it for him. No coach watching. No cones laid out. Just Min Son, a ball, and stubborn silence.
He placed it again.
Strike.
Too flat this time.
He went again. And again.
Sweat rolled down his back. His socks itched. The sky dimmed from orange to purple.
Still he struck.
The laces of his boot were muddy. His toe stung from one awkward kick.
Strike.
Closer.
Strike.
Better.
Strike.
Poor.
Strike.
Fair.
Strike.
Almost.
By the time he finally stopped, the field lights had flickered on, humming faintly in the growing darkness.
His phone buzzed once — a missed call from home.
He ignored it.
The time read 8:31 PM.
Min Son wiped his face with his sleeve, picked up the ball one last time, and began the long walk back.
The final shot spun wide.
Still not perfect.
Min Son sighed, picked up the ball one last time, and dropped it gently into his worn-out bag — the same faded backpack he'd been using since second grade. One of the straps was stitched up with mismatched thread, and the zipper was bent slightly at the edge. His cleats, patched and cracked, went in next.
He zipped it shut. Tugged the chain tight. Slung it over his shoulder like he was used to the weight.
Because he was.
---
The security light near the gate flickered lazily as he walked toward the exit. The gatekeeper, an old man with a tired radio and a folded newspaper in his lap, looked up and gave a familiar grunt.
"Last again?"
Min Son nodded. "Good night, ahjussi."
The man shook his head with a faint smile. "You train like the pros already. Go home before the dark swallows you."
"I will."
He left through the rusted metal gate, the sound of it dragging shut behind him like a sigh.
---
🏚 The Apartment
By the time he reached the small building, the sky was deep blue — the color right before black — and the hallway lights blinked on and off, fighting for power.
The shouting started before he even touched the door.
"—so you're telling me you have nothing to do with him?!"
His mother's voice followed, weak but sharp. "I told you already! My hands are clean—"
"Don't lie to me!"
It was the same script, different night.
He slipped the key in and quietly turned the knob, trying to glide past the kitchen without being noticed. He'd almost made it to the bedroom door—
"Yah!"
A hand yanked his arm backward, rough and angry.
His father.
Big. Broad. Breath reeking of soju and bitterness.
"Why haven't you been picking my calls?!"
"I was training," Min Son said, eyes low. "Coach said—"
The sentence never finished.
SLAP.
It came from nowhere — sudden, sharp, unprovoked.
Min Son's head turned slightly from the impact, but his body didn't flinch. He just blinked. Once.
His mother rushed forward from the kitchen. "Stop! He's just a child!"
His father ignored her. "You think football will save you, huh? You think that field's gonna feed you?!"
Min Son stayed silent. Not from fear — but from experience.
He knew words didn't matter here.
His mother pulled at his father's arm, whispering something he couldn't make out. The room felt hot. Tense. A crackling pressure that never seemed to go away.
Min Son slowly stepped back, bowing his head slightly.
"I'm going to sleep."
Without waiting for permission, he slipped into the tiny bedroom he shared with a pile of football magazines and two deflated balls. He locked the door quietly behind him.
---
🌒 Silence
He didn't cry.
He didn't pace.
He just sat on the floor with his knees tucked to his chest, staring at the wall — where a single printout hung crookedly. A photo of a player in mid-air, scoring a goal with both feet off the ground.
"Be precise. Be silent. Be unstoppable."
That was the quote at the bottom.
He looked at it like it was a promise.
Then whispered under his breath:
"Next week. No mistakes".