POV: Kevin
There's a difference between effort and obsession.
At first, Kevin convinced himself he was just being diligent. Focused. Maybe even inspired.
But by the third hour of training, his lungs burning and every nerve screaming, he realized:
He was chasing Zion's shadow again.
Elite Academy Taekwondo Hall
Three Weeks After the Results Ceremony
The air was thick with sweat, mats slapping against the weight of bodies landing hard, the sharp snap of kicks echoing like applause. Kevin moved through each drill with intensity—precision in every motion.
Coach Harada had praised him more in two sessions than the other students heard in weeks.
"You're a fast learner," she'd said.
No. He was just starving.
Starving to be seen. To be better. To be first again.
And it was working.
Whispers followed him now:
"Langston's got real form."
"He could be captain material."
"He's not just brains and looks."
Kevin soaked it all in — the stares, the nods, the glances from the girls seated at the edge of the gym, legs crossed, voices hushed.
But then—
He saw her.
Mabelle.
Leaning against the auditorium wall like royalty—poised, untouched, watching.
His heartbeat ticked like a countdown. Every movement from him became crisper. Sharper. More deliberate.
She noticed. She had to notice.
He stepped into the next set with fire behind his strikes. Landed a clean spinning kick that had the class gasp. Harada clapped.
And then—
Kevin's chest swelled.
This is it.
This is when she finally sees him.
But her eyes weren't on him.
They were behind him.
Enter: Zion.
Clad in a sharp black-and-white dobok, sleeves rolled slightly, mouthguard lazily tucked into his hand. No sweat. No warm-up. No urgency.
But the moment he stepped onto the mat — the atmosphere shifted.
"Who's that guy?" one of the students whispered.
Kevin didn't turn around. He already knew.
The coaches welcomed Zion like an old favorite returning home.
A few matches later, he was in the ring — and what followed was not a fight.
It was a massacre.
Fluid. Precise. Unbothered.
Spinning heel kicks. Elbow blocks. Sweeps. Takedowns.
Each opponent dropped faster than the last, like dominoes stacked too close.
And Mabelle?
Still watching.
Still smiling.
Still looking at him.
Kevin's jaw clenched so hard he felt his teeth ache.
Then, his phone buzzed.
Unknown Number
"Told you he'd show up. Now, what are you going to do?"
Kevin didn't hesitate.
He stood, wiped the sweat from his forehead, and walked toward the center mat.
Harada noticed. "Langston? You've already sparred—"
"I want to challenge him," Kevin said, voice sharp but steady.
Zion had just pulled off his mouthguard, barely winded, expression unreadable.
He turned toward Kevin slowly, eyes narrowing just a fraction.
Kevin continued, "You and me. Friendly match. Unless you're too tired."
Zion said nothing.
He handed his mouthguard to the assistant, stepped forward, and adjusted his belt.
"Not tired," he said.
And that was that.
The room held its breath.