The yelling didn't last much longer.
Only his mother's voice remained — low, broken.
"I'm sorry..."
"I'm sorry, Min..."
"I'm sorry..."
She kept repeating it like a prayer no one would answer.
Min Son sat still for a while, knees to his chest, forehead resting on his arms. But the ache in his bones wouldn't let him stay there forever.
He stood up.
Quietly unlocked the door.
And made his way to the bathroom.
---
🚿 Scars and Silence
The fluorescent light flickered above the mirror. The sink had a permanent rust stain, and the tap squeaked whenever it turned.
Min Son peeled off his training shirt slowly.
Underneath — bruises.
Faint yellowing marks near his ribs.
Thin, healed-over scars on his back.
Fresh red lines where he'd been grabbed too hard.
Some from today.
Some older.
He didn't stop to count them.
He stepped into the shower and let the water run, even though it never really got warm this late. The cold hit his skin and made him flinch at first — then go numb.
His thoughts drifted like the steam that didn't quite form.
---
After drying off, he slipped into his oversized sleep shirt and tiptoed back into his room.
He didn't bother turning on the light. Just grabbed his phone, plugged in his one working earbud, and tapped into the same YouTube video he'd been studying for weeks.
---
🎥 Study Session
A slow-motion clip played across the cracked screen.
A professional player — one of his idols — wound up from way outside the box, slicing the ball cleanly with the outside of his boot. The ball curled like it had a mind of its own — sharp, fast, diagonal.
The Blitz Curler.
Min Son watched the same moment over and over, squinting to memorize the angle of the foot, the lean of the body, the drop of the shoulder.
He mumbled to himself:
> "Scoring a curler inside the box…
That's easy.
A little outside? I can do that too.
But this… from this far out... it's different."
The technique looked simple when the pros did it.
He remembered watching Son Heung-min, Korea's golden legend, score them like it was second nature — with both feet, from anywhere on the pitch.
> "How do they make it look so light?"
He paused the video, staring at the frozen frame. The ball mid-air. The keeper already too late.
A small pang hit his stomach. Hunger. Again.
He knew what that meant.
> "No dinner tonight…"
He glanced at the empty shelf in the corner where his mother usually left rice or leftover soup if she had any. It was bare.
He didn't blame her.
She didn't have much to give.
He just hoped breakfast would come early.
---
😴 Sleep
Min Son lay back against the stiff pillow, his earbud still in.
The video kept playing.
More curlers. More goals.
His eyes blinked slower.
His body ached. His mind didn't stop spinning.
Somewhere between frame 237 and frame 238 of the tutorial, he drifted off, stomach empty, heart heavy, and head filled with one thing:
A ball,
bent mid-air,
curling past everyone —
the way he would do it one day.
The morning light crept through the cracked curtain, landing softly on the boy who was already awake.
6:03 AM.
Min Son rose from his bed without a sound. He didn't stretch or yawn, just moved.
He bathed quickly in cold water. Brushed his teeth with half-used paste. Changed into his training clothes, the same ones from yesterday, folded neatly at the edge of his mattress.
Then he sat by the bedroom door. Waiting.
Listening.
---
The house was still. Too still.
He waited until 7:00.
Then 7:30.
Still no movement from the kitchen.
By 8:00, his stomach curled into itself, and he finally stood. His mother hadn't woken up. She might have been too tired. Or maybe just pretending to sleep to avoid another morning storm.
Min Son didn't want to find out.
He glanced at his father's door. Still closed. Still silent.
A muffled sound came from within.
—A low groan.
Then a bottle clinked across the wooden floor.
That silence could change any second.
He couldn't risk being the reason it did.
---
🏃♂️ Out the Door
He grabbed his patched-up bag, slung it over his shoulder, and slipped out as quietly as possible.
No breakfast.
Not even water.
The hallway light flickered like always. The stairs creaked like always.
He didn't slow down.
---
🧓 The Field
The stadium gates stood quiet and tall as he approached. The same place that felt bigger than life during matches now looked like a sleeping beast.
The gatekeeper was already seated near the entrance, half-reading a newspaper with a cracked plastic chair under him.
"Min Son," he greeted with a soft grunt, not surprised.
"Morning, ahjussi," Min Son replied, bowing lightly.
"You never rest, huh?"
"No time," the boy said simply, walking past.
The gatekeeper stared at him a moment longer. Then reached into a small plastic bag beside his foot.
"…Here."
He tossed something underhand.
A shin gurd.
Min Son bowed again, deeper this time. "Thank you."
The gatekeeper waved it off. "Don't die before you get famous."
---
🏟 The Hunger and the Ball
The field was empty. Not a single cone set up yet. Just open turf and silence.
Min Son dropped his bag by the side and sat beside the ball.
His stomach grumbled. Sharp now.
He bent forward, wrapping his arms around his knees.
The hunger had weight to it — not just inside his belly, but on his arms, his shoulders, behind his eyes.
His fingers trembled slightly as he touched the ball. His hands always shook like that when he went too long without food.
But hunger wasn't new.
What was new…
was how close he was.
To something.
To change.
---
He looked up, exhaled slowly, and stood.
The ball rested still. Worn smooth in places, a gift from his mother last year. She bought it with leftover change, told him it would "go farther than you think."
He stepped back a few paces. Lined up. Took a breath.
His side still ached faintly — the bruise from three nights ago hadn't faded. He ignored it.
Strike.
The ball curled. Sharper than yesterday.
Still not perfect — but closer.
He jogged to collect it.
Strike.
Again — sharper.
More whip. More bend.
His foot was hitting the right angle now. His balance adjusting. His hips sinking just enough.
His ribs pulled tight when he breathed too deep, but he didn't flinch.
He retrieved the ball himself every time, still alone on the pitch, still sweating with no one to witness it.
But he didn't care.
---
⚡ A Glimpse of Magic
The trembling in his legs told him to stop.
But he didn't.
One more.
He placed the ball further back this time — well outside the box. He stared at the open net. Took three steps back.
Strike.
The ball lifted hard and fast, sailing left — too far left, it seemed.
Until it cut back midair, curling like a blade.
It kissed the inside of the post and slammed into the net.
Min Son stood frozen.
Then—
> "That was it."
He whispered to himself.
> "That was a real Blitz Curler."
A small smile crept up his face.
A real one — from far out. Just like he'd seen on TV. Just like the pros.
---
There was no training today.
No drills. No whistles. No cones.
Just an open pitch, and a few boys trickling in with nothing else to do on a quiet morning.
Min Son had been practicing for nearly an hour when the first voice called out.
"Yo, Min!"
He turned and saw Junho, tall as always, already peeling a banana as he strolled in with his gym bag swinging over one shoulder. The boy had a soft face but a strong build, the kind that looked like he could play two matches back-to-back and still jog home.
"You're insane, you know that?" Junho grinned. "No training today, but here you are, sweating like a pro."
Min Son gave a tired smile and jogged over, eyes subtly locking onto the silver thermos and the stacked lunchbox poking out of Junho's side pouch.
Junho noticed.
He always noticed.
"You didn't eat again, huh?" he asked, already opening the bag.
Min Son lowered his voice. "Can I…?"
"Duh," Junho said, already unpacking. "You don't even have to ask."
---
They sat near the benches, splitting a bento box neatly in two. Rice with egg, stir-fried vegetables, bulgogi, even kimchi on the side, home food, real food.
Junho's parents cooked every morning. Packed his lunch like he was going to war. Wrote little notes sometimes, too.
Min Son didn't ask for any of that. He was just grateful for the taste.
> "It's so good," he murmured.
Junho grinned, chomping into his egg roll. "I know. My mom says food tastes better when you share it."
Min Son looked down at his rice, then up at the field.
> "Junho… do you think I'll ever get to play against Ji-ho?"
---
Junho chewed slowly, then looked at him sideways. "Ji-ho? From Seoul FC?"
"Yeah. The prodigy."
The one the news was always talking about. The one with sponsors already watching. The one some said could win Korea a World Cup.
"I just want to face him. Even just once," Min Son said, half to himself. "Just to see where I stand."
Junho smiled like he'd been waiting for the question.
> "It probably won't be as far off as you think."
Min Son looked up.
"This year's Golden Cup, remember?" Junho continued. "All the top junior academies in Korea will be there. Seoul FC too. If we qualify… we'll meet him."
Min Son's heart gave a quiet thump.
That tournament was legendary. Scouts from Europe came. Korean national team coaches came. That was the battlefield.
He didn't say anything — but he didn't need to.
Junho handed him the last piece of meat. "Eat that. You'll need strength if you're gonna nutmeg Ji-ho someday."
Min Son laughed softly. "like he's a defender."
"No. I mean it," Junho said. "You see passes that remind me of stuff I saw this morning."
He pulled out his phone.
"Look."
---
📱The Legend Who Passed Like Magic
They watched a highlight reel on Junho's phone, sitting shoulder to shoulder, chewing slowly.
Kevin De Bruyne. Belgium's greatest passer. Recently retired. The clip showed assist after assist — impossible angles, laser lines, outside-of-the-foot slices that curved between five defenders.
Junho kept gasping. "How the hell did he see that?"
"That touch," Min Son whispered. "It's all in the timing…"
"You play like this sometimes," Junho muttered. "I swear. Especially those chipped passes you made in last month's scrim…"
Min Son just smiled.
A small, proud, humble smile.
---
👟 The Others Arrive
By the time the food was gone and the highlight ended, more kids had arrived — some dribbling on their own, others laughing loudly and pretending not to notice Min Son.
A tall boy with wide shoulders and a smirk walked past — Jin-Woo, their star striker. Built like Junho, but colder in the eyes. Strong. Fast. Sharp.
He always made sure to speak just loud enough.
> "Freak eats alone again," he muttered to another kid.
The others chuckled. No one stopped him.
Even though most of Jin-Woo's goals came from Min Son's assists, he still treated him like dirt.
Junho turned slightly, but Min Son didn't flinch. Didn't even blink.
He just stood up, dusted off his shorts, and picked up the ball again.
Junho stood too. "So? Blitz Curler again?"
"Yeah," Min Son nodded. "It's bending more now."
"Good. One day, Ji-ho's gonna watch the ball bend right past him."
They laughed together — and went back to the pitch.