They say high school is supposed to be the best years of your life. Whoever said that never limped off a soccer field at fifteen, clutching their knee like their whole future had just slipped out of place.
My name's Nam Seop. I used to be a prodigy. Yeah, laugh all you want—prodigy. I know how it sounds, like I'm some washed-up old man reliving glory days. But it's true. Back then, I lived and breathed soccer. The ball at my feet, the crowd screaming my name, coaches whispering about scouts. I had that spark everyone else wanted. Fast, sharp, untouchable.
And then it was gone.
One bad tackle. One twist of my knee. My MCL shredded, and with it, everything I thought I was.
People tell you injuries heal. They don't tell you about the empty space it leaves inside you—the part of your soul that aches louder than your body ever could.
That's when I stopped being special.
Now, I'm just another second-year kid at Hanwool High in Seoul, blending into the crowd like dust in the air. I keep my head down, sit in the back row, laugh when my friends crack stupid jokes. Nothing more, nothing less.
This summer, my friends dared me to bleach my hair. So now I'm blonde. Not the cool, anime-protagonist kind of blonde either. More like the "we did this in someone's bathroom with cheap dye" kind of blonde. It actually fits, though—feels like a disguise. People see the hair first, not the guy who used to dominate the field.
But even if I look different, I'm still me. Still the kid who lost everything the moment my knee gave out.
I guess that's why I picked up boxing. At first it was just rehab, strengthening the leg, keeping the blood moving. But somewhere along the way, the rhythm of the heavy bag started to mean more to me than the sound of cleats on turf ever did. One-two, one-two. Every punch like carving out a new identity. A second chance.
I'm not great yet. Amateur, still rough around the edges. But when I'm in the gym, sweating until my shirt sticks to my back, I feel alive in a way school never could.
School… yeah. That's where the cracks started to show again.
Hanwool High's nothing special. Beige walls, flickering lights, classrooms filled with kids already tired of life at sixteen. The teachers pretend to care, but everyone knows they're counting down the hours until payday.
I keep a few friends close—Jihoon, who can make a joke out of anything, and Minjae, who somehow knows every rumor before it spreads. They're good guys, keep me from drowning in my own head. With them, I can laugh, I can act normal.
But normal doesn't last forever.
It started on a Wednesday, the kind of day that feels like it'll never end. I was sitting in the cafeteria with Jihoon and Minjae, pretending the soggy kimbap was edible, when I heard a voice I hadn't heard in years.
"Yo, isn't that Nam Seop?"
The voice cut through the chatter like glass shattering. I froze. My hands tightened around my tray before I even turned my head.
And there he was. Park Jiwon.
We used to be teammates. Striker and midfielder. He was good, don't get me wrong, but he always lived in my shadow. I made the plays, I scored the goals, I got the cheers. He was the guy standing next to me when the crowd screamed my name.
Now he was standing over me with that smirk—the kind that digs under your skin, sharp and mocking.
"Didn't even recognize you with the clown hair," Jiwon said loud enough for the whole cafeteria to hear. "What happened to you, huh? You used to be the golden boy. Now you're just… this." He gestured at me like I was dirt on his shoe.
Jihoon shifted, ready to fire back, but I held up my hand. I didn't need anyone fighting for me. Not here.
My knee throbbed, phantom pain flaring just from the memory. He knew exactly where to cut.
And in that moment, I realized something. I wasn't angry because he was insulting me. I was angry because he was right.
I could feel every eye in the cafeteria on me, some curious, some waiting for a show. The hum of conversation didn't block out Jiwon's voice, that sharp-edge tone slicing through the air like a knife.
"You really think bleaching your hair makes you interesting?" he sneered. "Or are you just trying to cover up the fact that you can't run without crying now?"
The words should've stung, but something inside me clicked. Maybe it was the endless months of feeling like a shadow in my own life, the stupid advice from therapists, the drills, the rehab, the hollow victories I pretended to care about. Maybe it was just too much caffeine and too much anger, but my chest tightened and my fists itched like they had a mind of their own.
I didn't even answer at first. I just stared. Blonde hair, cheap dye, ruined pride—everything I'd been hiding from the world seemed to converge in that moment. My leg throbbed from the phantom pain of my old injury, reminding me I wasn't untouchable anymore, but I didn't care.
"Answer me, Seop. What happened to you?" Jiwon pressed, leaning closer, smirking, turning into something more like a predator's grin.
I swallowed, tasting metal—adrenaline, maybe fear, maybe something else. I could feel the blood in my ears, the heat crawling up my neck. I didn't even think, I just moved.
"You don't know anything about me," I said, low, venomous, and it surprised me that my own voice sounded like I meant it. "You never did."
Laughter rippled around the cafeteria. Some kids snickered, others leaned in, phones out, already filming. Great. The internet loves this kind of drama.
"Don't tell me you've grown a spine," Jiwon said. "Golden boy crying over a knee injury. Pathetic."
That was it.
I shoved my tray across the table. The clang of metal on wood echoed through the room, and suddenly the hum of chatter felt like static. My eyes locked on his. Everything else—the other students, the walls, the smell of fried rice and burnt kimchi—faded out.
I could see him flinch. Not much, but enough.
"You think I'm pathetic?" I said, voice rising. "You don't get to talk about me. You don't get to stand there and make me feel small. Not you. Not anymore."
He laughed, that same sharp, infuriating laugh. "Oh, we're fighting now? Look at you. Blonde hair, skinny arms, can't even move without looking like you're gonna snap. This is gonna be fun."
I felt my knees shift instinctively. The old habits—the drills, the balance exercises, the boxing stances—I hadn't realized how much they'd sunk into muscle memory. My leg trembled a bit, pain blooming in the old injury, but I ignored it. I could work around that.
I didn't think about the consequences. I didn't think about rules. The cafeteria was a ring now, and everyone else were spectators waiting for the first bell.
"Come on," I said, stepping forward. My heart was hammering, every beat synchronized with the rhythm I'd practiced in the gym. One-two, one-two. Punch. Punch. Not thinking. Not planning. Just reacting.
Jiwon's smirk faltered. Not much, but it was there. Maybe he knew he'd underestimated me. Maybe he didn't. It didn't matter.
Before anyone could stop us, the first push came. Just a shove, really, but it sparked something. My hands shot up instinctively. I felt the heat surge through my body. My training, my past, my anger—they all merged into one fluid motion. I hit him in the chest, not hard enough to knock him over, but enough to make him stumble back a step.
Gasps echoed. Phones clicked. Some idiot shouted, "Fight! Fight!"
Jiwon recovered quickly. Quick for someone who'd always been a step behind me. He swung at me, sloppy, but fast. I dodged. Reflexes. Years of soccer, agility drills, boxing practice. Everything I thought I'd lost returned, just for a moment, like electricity sparking along my nerves.
And then we were circling each other, fists raised, eyes locked. Sweat dripped down my face, sticky, cold. My leg throbbed like hell, but I planted it, adjusted stance, ready to move.
"You think you're tough now?" Jiwon taunted, circling. "Blonde hair and anger don't make a fighter, Seop."
"Maybe not," I said, keeping my voice steady even though it shook inside. "But I've got something you'll never understand."
"What's that?"
"Everything you made me feel."
I lunged, jab. He blocked. Hook. He slipped. Uppercut. He caught it, winced. I saw it—just a flicker, but it was there. Pain. Fear. That smug armor cracking.
I realized then something I hadn't admitted even to myself. This wasn't about proving anyone wrong. Not the teachers. Not my friends. Not even Jiwon. This was about proving to myself that I still existed. That I still mattered. That I could still fight.
And as I moved, danced around him, blocking, striking, dodging, weaving, I felt alive in a way I hadn't felt in months. Not like the soccer field, not like the gym. This was raw, messy, real.
The cafeteria blurred around me. Phones flashing, kids shouting, the smell of lunch, the echo of metal trays. None of it mattered. There was only him, only me, only the beat of my heart syncing with the rhythm of my fists.
And I realized something else. This fight—it wasn't the end of anything. It was the start of everything.while
AND THEN I WOKE UP.