The beep of the IV pump was the soundtrack to Osa's life now. A steady, monotonous rhythm that measured out the seconds in this too-white, too-clean room. At sixteen, Osa felt like he'd already aged a hundred years.
But on the screen mounted to his wall, a different world was on fire. The Seoul International Taekwondo Open. And in the center of the HD screen, moving like a force of nature, was Kwon Joon-ho.
"Look at his footwork, son. See how he's always grounded?"
His dad, Mark, said from the chair beside the bed. He was a large, comforting presence, his voice a low rumble that always used to calm Osa pre-tournament nerves. Now, it just made the contrast more painful.
"I see it, Dad,"
Osa whispered, his voice rough. His fingers, pale, devoid of energy and thin, traced the worn grooves on his personal chest protector, his hogu, which lay across his lap like a shield from a war he'd been discharged from.
He was supposed to be there. Not in this bed, but on that mat. At sixteen, he should have been competing in the junior divisions, his own name scrolling at the bottom of the screen. Instead, he was a spectator to his own dream.
Joon-ho was artistry in motion. His opponent, a massive powerhouse from Germany, threw a thunderous roundhouse kick. Joon-ho didn't retreat. He slid forward, inside the arc of the kick, his own body a blur of deflection and control.
Never duck a fade, the thought surfaced in Osa's mind, a phrase he'd picked up from gaming. It meant never backing down from a challenge. Joon-ho embodied it. He didn't avoid the fight....he mastered it.
A memory flashed, vivid and aching. Himself, two years ago, at the state finals. He'd taken a hard kick to the ribs that stole his breath. His coach yelled for him to play it safe. But Osa saw an opening. He pushed through the pain, launched himself into a spinning hook kick, and landed it clean. The sound of the impact, the roar of the crowd… it was the best feeling in the world. His dad had hugged him afterwards, saying, "You've got a lion's heart, Osa."
Now, that heart felt weak and unsteady in his chest.
His eyes drifted from the screen to the gallery on his wall. A poster of Goku from Dragon Ball Z, a framed print of a sleek Gundam, and right beside his bed, a massive action shot of Kwon Joon-ho suspended in mid-air, a flying kick aimed at some phantom opponent. Beneath it, on his nightstand, was a small, framed photo. In it, a healthy, smiling Osa stood on a first-place podium, a gold medal around his neck, his arms raised in triumph. His skin glowed with sweat and vitality, his body taut with muscle.
He looked from that photo to his reflection in the dark screen of his switched-off tablet. His face was gaunt, his complexion ashen. The lively eyes in the photo were now shadowed by deep, tired circles. He was a ghost of that boy.
On screen, the German, frustrated, charged. Joon-ho stood his ground. He took a solid kick to the thigh that made Osa flinch. But Joon-ho absorbed it. He didn't buckle. He used the momentum, pivoting and unleashing a devastating combination that sent his opponent to the mat.
Always stand on business, Osa thought. It was about commitment. Integrity. You say you're going to do a thing, you see it through, no matter what. Joon-ho took a hit, but he didn't break his promise to himself to win. He stood on his business.
The final round was a victory lap, but Joon-ho didn't coast. He elevated. His kicks became higher, more fluid, impossibly graceful. He wasn't just scoring points; he was making a statement. He moved with a serene, terrifying cool, commanding the entire arena. He was, as the livestream chat loved to spam, aura farming. He was making sure everyone remembered why he was the king.
The bell rang. Joon-ho won. As the gold medal was placed around his neck, he looked directly into the camera, his gaze intense and focused. For a heart-stopping second, Osa felt like the man was looking right at him.
And that's when it hit him. The crushing, suffocating distance between that world and this one.
The vibrant energy of the tournament faded, replaced once more by the relentless beep… beep… beep… of the pump. A deep, wracking cough seized Osa, tearing through his frail body. It left him gasping and drained, tears of pure frustration welling in his eyes. His mom, Sarah, was there in an instant, her hand on his back, her touch both a comfort and a reminder of his helplessness.
When he could breathe again, he was exhausted. He looked from the photo of his past self to the poster of Joon-ho. The man was everything he loved, everything he strived for, and everything he was losing.
The irony was a bitter pill. He was a taekwondo kid who couldn't stand, a fighter whose only opponent was his own failing body.
His mom gently took the hogu from his lap.
"Try to get some rest, baby."
She whispered, her voice thick with unshed tears.
Osa just nodded, too tired to speak. The fatigue that washed over him felt different this time. Heavier. Final. He closed his eyes, the image of Joon-ho's victory burned into the back of his eyelids.
As sleep pulled him under, three feelings swirled in the darkness—a defiant refusal to back down, an unwavering commitment to see things through, and the powerful desire to face the end with some semblance of strength, to look cool in the face of the uncoolest thing imaginable.
' Damn bruhh....'
They were his final thoughts. A seed planted in the dark.