Taesung's body hated him the next morning.
Every inch of him ached—shoulders stiff, calves tight, even his fingers felt sore in places he didn't know had muscles. Just lifting his arm to shut off the alarm felt like someone had replaced his joints with rusted hinges.
He lay there for a while.
Not because he didn't want to move.
But because this pain—this real, physical weight—felt almost like proof.
He had done something.
Finally.
He wasn't sure if it would amount to anything. Wasn't even sure if he'd go back. But for once, the silence in his chest didn't feel like emptiness.
It felt like something waiting.
Not in the ominous, system-hates-you way.
Just... waiting.
Like it had noticed, too.
The day passed slow.
Rain came around noon, not heavy enough to storm, just enough to make everything wet and uncomfortable. The streets outside the store turned slick and dark, and Taesung had to mop the entrance three times from all the customers dragging in water on their shoes.
Mr. Han didn't say much, just muttered about mold and delivery delays. Routine.
But something in Taesung was different today.
He still counted gloves. Still stocked boxes. Still rang up two-for-one sock deals like a pro.
But his mind wasn't drifting.
It was here.
Grounded.
Every now and then, he rolled his shoulder or shifted his stance—not consciously, but as if his body was already remembering things Jiho had shown him the night before. Small corrections. Center of balance. Feet shoulder-width, not too narrow.
He caught himself doing it once in the break room mirror. Standing a little straighter. Breathing slower.
Still looked like the same skinny kid in a cheap work vest.
But it didn't feel the same.
Not quite.
After work, he didn't hesitate.
No wandering streets. No rooftop introspection. Just a straight walk back to the dojang.
Jiho was already there. Cleaning mats. Again.
He didn't look up.
"You came back."
"Yeah."
"You still want to learn?"
"Yeah."
Jiho nodded. "Good. Start stretching."
That was it.
No ceremony. No welcome-back speech.
Just sweat, breath, and movement.
And something in Taesung liked that more than he expected.
It was harder this time.
Not because of the soreness—though that definitely didn't help—but because Jiho started asking questions mid-practice.
"What are you afraid of?"
"Falling."
"Then fall better."
"I meant failing."
"Same thing."
And later—
"What do you want from this?"
Taesung didn't answer right away. Kept his fists up. Tried to focus on footwork. But Jiho waited. Didn't let the question drop.
Eventually, Taesung muttered, "Control."
Jiho raised an eyebrow. "Of what?"
"Myself."
That earned a pause.
Then: "That's the only thing worth learning to fight for."
Two hours. No breaks.
His shirt stuck to his back. His breath came ragged. And the final punch he threw nearly sent him stumbling.
But Jiho only gave a small nod and said, "Better."
It wasn't praise.
But it felt like it meant something.
On his way home, the rain had stopped.
The sky still hung low, clouds like damp wool, but the streets had that soft shimmer to them—the kind that made the world feel paused between breaths.
Taesung didn't rush.
He walked slow. Felt the cold on his face. Let the ache in his limbs remind him he was doing something. He didn't have to know what yet. Didn't have to name it.
It was enough that he moved.
That night, as he brushed his teeth, he looked in the mirror again.
No shimmer this time.
No flicker.
But he stared longer.
And maybe, just maybe, something stared back.
Not threatening.
Not powerful.
Just… aware.
Like whatever lived in him was learning too.
The week passed like that.
Work. Dojang. Sleep. Repeat.
And the days bled together in the best way.
Taesung didn't level up. Didn't unlock a hidden skill tree. Didn't suddenly become faster or stronger or more special.
But he moved better.
Breathed steadier.
Reacted quicker.
Even Mr. Han noticed once, frowning as Taesung caught a falling box without looking.
"You join a cult or something?" he grunted.
"Just a gym," Taesung said.
"Huh." Mr. Han shrugged. "Tell them to teach you how to lift heavier stuff next time."
Progress.
In a weird way.
On Thursday night, Harin showed up again.
Just like before.
No message. No warning.
She was waiting near the alley across from the bakery, hood pulled up, arms crossed, like she'd been standing there for hours.
"You're hard to track," she said when she saw him.
"You tracking me?"
"You're not that interesting. I just guessed."
He raised an eyebrow. "What are you doing here?"
"Wanted to see if you'd figured anything out."
"I haven't."
"Really?" She gave him a once-over. "You look different."
"Still a C."
"Doesn't mean nothing's changed."
He didn't know how to answer that.
So he didn't.
Instead, he asked, "Why are you really here?"
She didn't dodge the question.
"I heard something," she said. "From someone I trust."
"About me?"
"No. About a rift opening soon. One that hasn't stabilized yet. Minor spike, but enough to catch attention."
Taesung's mouth felt dry. "Okay?"
"It's near the southern warehouses. Low-tier, probably. But the guilds haven't moved on it yet. No official claim."
He waited.
She stared at him. "You ever seen a rift up close?"
"No."
"You should."
He frowned. "Why?"
"Because it's different when it's real. Not just on screens or news alerts. When you feel it."
He shifted his weight. "I'm not ready."
"I didn't say go inside." She stepped forward, her voice quiet. "I said see it."
Taesung stared at the ground.
Something about this scared him. Not because it was dangerous. But because it was close.
Close to the edge of something he couldn't turn away from.
"I'll think about it," he said.
Harin nodded like that was enough. "You've got three days. After that, the city'll send guilds. You'll miss your chance."
Then she turned and disappeared into the dark.
That night, the ache in Taesung's chest returned.
But it wasn't fear.
Not exactly.
It was anticipation.
The kind that lived in people who didn't want to stay quiet forever.
And whatever it was inside him—it was listening too.
Waiting.
Not ready.
But curious.
Just like him.