︶꒦꒷♡꒷꒦︶

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

Oh, I'll keep fighting
Oh, you can't stop me
1, 2, everyone come at me
K.O faster than anyone else
Look closely, at the speed of light, hey
Two fists above my head, hey
Smash it up, wait is that too harsh? BOXER

-Boxer - Straykids-

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

It's been a week since I first started taking the medication. Seven days of swallowing a pill every morning, almost like a ritual similar to brushing my teeth everyday.

At first, I wasn't sure what I was expecting. Maybe an instant shift, some miraculous change where the darkness inside me would clear like fog in the sunlight. But no. It's not like that.

The last few days, I can't lie — have felt a little less exhausting, like I'm not running on empty all the time. But there's this weird sense of waiting, too. Waiting for the other shoe to drop. Waiting for the real relief to come. And in the meantime, I'm just... existing. Floating in a limbo where everything is still hard, but it's just slightly less unbearable.

It's strange because it's hard to pinpoint exactly what has changed. I don't feel euphoric or like I'm "cured." I don't suddenly feel like I can take on the world. But there are moments—moments when I'm walking outside and I don't feel like the ground is going to swallow me whole.

Moments when I hear a joke and, for the first time in forever, I actually find it funny. It's not much, but it's something. I don't shut out Minho anymore, I actually put the effort to converse with him.

Still, my thoughts are quick to remind me:
"Don't get too comfortable. You've felt this way before. It's a trick."
I know that voice. The one that tells me I'm not really getting better, that this is just temporary. I've heard it too many times to ignore it, but these days, it's quieter.

My anxiety hasn't gripped me as tight. I don't wake up in a panic anymore. I mean, it still happens sometimes, that tightness in my chest, the churning in my stomach. But it's less often. Less intense.

And yet... there's this underlying fear that maybe, I'm only getting this "break" before the storm hits again. That maybe this is just the calm before things go sideways. It's hard not to feel skeptical after everything I've been through. 

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

I had just returned from university, and Minho wasn't home, but I wasn't surprised. His game was at 9:30 PM that night. It wasn't late, so I was just about to head out again. Today was a big day for him—he'd been preparing for this match for weeks.

I ring Seungmin to see if he's ready, because I had everyone's tickets.
"Hey are you guys done?"

"Me and Jeongin are, Felix is still with the trainees, but he said he'll be done in 10 minutes."

"Alright, no rush. It's only 8:10 PM, and the match is at 9:30. Just be ready by 9, okay? I checked the location, and it's closer to where you are, so we'll get there with some time to spare."

"Got it. We'll be ready," Seungmin replied.

I hung up, grabbing my jacket, face mask and hat and making sure I had everything I needed for the evening. Hanging out in public gatherings with friends who are public figures is hard, because they absolutely cannot avoid being tangled in a dating scandal when you're a girl yourself.

After a few minutes, I heard my phone buzz with a message from Seungmin.

"Felix is done. We're leaving with our manager, see you in 20!"

Perfect timing. I grabbed my bag, headed out, and locked the door behind me. The night air was cool, but not cold enough to be uncomfortable, and I found myself feeling more excited than usual. It wasn't just the game—I hadn't seen or spoken to the guys the whole week and spending time with them always seemed to lift my mood.

By the time I arrived at the location, I saw Seungmin, Jeongin, and Felix already waiting outside, chatting animatedly, completely covered in face masks and a hat.

"About time," Seungmin grinned as I approached, teasing me with a playful shrug. 

I smiled back, shrugging it off.
"The roads were jammed."

Felix gave me a quick wave. "All set? We should see him before the game."

"Oh yes, definitely. We should go see him, he said he informed his manager that we might come."

We walked toward the entrance of the venue, the lights outside reflecting off the glass, casting a soft glow on the bustling crowd.

 Felix led the way, his steps confident, though I doubt he knew where he was headed. Don't blame me for doubting him when we entered some other player's room. We turned the other corner and found ourselves at the entrance to his waiting room.

We stood in the hallway just outside Minho's waiting room, a soft buzz of the crowd just audible in the distance. From the crack in the door, we could hear Minho's voice, but there was no mistaking it—he sounded tense, his words sharp.

"No, what do you mean I have to fight a new opponent? One you know has a reputation for sabotaging, breaking the rules..." His voice grew slightly louder, the anger simmering beneath the surface. "And you're changing it last second? Don't act like this isn't suspicious."

I exchanged a glance with Felix and then with Seungmin and Jeongin, four of us sensing the same unease. We stayed quiet, reluctant to intrude, but it was hard to ignore the strain in Minho's voice.

Minho's tone grew more agitated, the frustration creeping through his usually composed voice. "I don't care if they're a last-minute replacement. If they've got a history of doing whatever it takes to win, he cheats and  it's not fair to throw me in the ring with him. It's not that I can't handle him, his games are unethical! What if he injures me like Lee Ha-Joon last year, and that was also right before the IBA's?"
He paused, probably listening to whoever was on the other end of the call.

The silence was heavy as he spoke again, his voice now low, almost a growl.
"It's not just a game. If I win this, I can finally go international this season. You're messing with my career. This guy's been disqualified more times than I can count, and you're still letting him play? You're trying to set me up with him, and you're doing it at the last minute—how is that not sabotage? This isn't about sportsmanship. It's about you putting me at physical risk."

There was a long, tense silence, and we all stayed frozen, unsure whether to leave or keep listening. Minho's frustration was palpable, and it was clear this wasn't something he'd agreed to lightly. After a long breath, he let out a heavy sigh, his tone softening just slightly.
"I get it. I'll handle it.

His voice hardened again.
"But I'm not happy about this."

With that, the call ended with a sharp click.

Felix and I stood there for a moment, the air still thick with Minho's anger, both of us processing what we had just overheard. Something didn't feel right. Whatever had just gone down, it was bigger than we'd realized.

"Hana, I don't think we should go in, I've never seen him get so mad."
Jeongin said.
"He's in a really bad mood, he may need to think things over."

"I kinda agree, not gonna lie."
Felix added.

"What if he need-"
I pause to see my phone ring.

"Minho's calling."

"Pick up, why are you waiting?"
Seungmin whisper yelled.

"Hana where are you?"
He said.

"We're here, we met your manager, Felix got us lost."

"Please come in, I can literally hear you guys outside."
Minho said.

"Okay, okay."

"He wants to see us."
I said to the three once I hung up.
"I told you he'd want to see us before the game."

"Do you want to hear that you're right?"
Seungmin teased.

I scoffed.
"Shut up."
I walked to his door.

"Well, if you want to pretend you're not eavesdropping, you could at least be quieter,"
was the first thing he said to us when we stepped in.

"Sorry we didn't mean to, we were just gonna come in, but then we heard the call."

Minho turned to face us, his expression still tight, but there was something in his gaze that softened when he saw us. It was as if he didn't want to be vulnerable, but he couldn't quite mask it either. 

I never knew I'd ever see him like this.

"Can't you do anything about this? I mean surely if you're not comfortable with this-"
I started.

Minho let out a long breath, clearly worn out by the conversation.
"With only ten minutes left, I doubt there's anything that can be done now. But I know this is just part of something bigger. After this match, if I make it through, there's the semi-finals. Then I get a month to prepare for nationals. That's when I'm going public for all of this. Something tells me this won't be the last time this happens."

Jeongin stepped forward, his usual light-heartedness replaced with a rare seriousness.
"If they're trying to set you up, you don't have to take it. You can fight it, right?"

Minho shook his head, but this time, there was a flicker of resolve in his eyes.
"I can, but it's not just about fighting. It's bigger than that. If I handle it wrong, it could ruin my career. I need to keep my cool, no matter what happens."

"So, you're okay?"
I asked, feeling unsure whether to push him more.

"I'm fine," he said, but his tone betrayed him.
"Just... not happy with how things are going."

Seungmin raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced by the calm front Minho was trying to put up. "That didn't sound like a 'fine' conversation to me."

Minho looked at him for a long moment, his jaw tight, before letting out a small, frustrated sigh. "I'll be fine. Let's just... get this over with. I just need to win tonight."

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

"You're up in 5 minutes, all guests should leave now,"
Minho's manager said, stepping into the room.

He looked to us, his gaze lingering for just a moment before he nodded toward the door.
"Go take your seats, and enjoy it, okay? Don't worry about me." His tone was firm

I nodded, swallowing the lump in my throat as we moved toward the door. Minho's eyes flicked toward us, and for a split second, he looked like he wanted to say something, but he didn't.

Instead, he gave us a small nod, his jaw tight, and turned back to his manager.

The door closed behind us with a soft thud, and the muffled noise from the crowd outside seemed to grow louder. The energy in the arena was palpable—charged with excitement, nervousness, and the anticipation of the fight ahead.

As we settled into our seats, I glanced up at the ring. Minho would be there soon. The fight would start, and whatever had been building up inside him would play out in front of everyone. I just hoped it went the way he needed it to.

The lights dimmed, and the announcer's voice echoed through the speakers. The fight was about to begin.

The lights in the arena dimmed, the hum of anticipation buzzing through the crowd. Minho stood backstage, his gloves laced tight, eyes locked onto his reflection in the mirror. He was ready for this. Not just for the win against the deliberate 'mistake', but for the thrill of it all—the rush of the fight, the crowd's energy, the sweat and adrenaline. This was where he belonged.

His coach gave him a reassuring nod, slapping him on the back.
"You're gonna do great. Just have fun out there like you always do."

Minho grinned and pulled the mouthguard into place, biting down with a satisfying snap.
"Fun's the only reason I'm here."

The announcer's voice boomed through the speakers, and the crowd erupted into cheers. It was time.

Minho's music hit, and the roar of the crowd grew louder. He stepped into the ring, a confident smirk on his face as he jogged down the aisle. The arena lights flashed, casting wild patterns on the mat. The audience was on their feet, screaming his name. Minho soaked it all in, hands raised in a mock victory salute, enjoying the moment. Adrenaline was already in his blood.

He stepped into the ring, the ropes vibrating as his gloves brushed them. The ref gave him a quick once-over—mouthpiece in, gloves tight, trunks in place—and gave him a nod. Minho bounced on his toes, eager for the bell to ring.

His opponent's music blared next. The man entered with a swagger, jaw clenched and eyes hard. He didn't bother with the fanfare—he walked straight to the ring like he owned it. He was built like a tank, all muscle, but there was something about the way he carried himself that rubbed Minho the wrong way. A little too cocky, a little too rough around the edges.

Minho didn't let it phase him. He was ready to have fun with this.

"On the Red, we have Son Myeong-oh, followed by Lee Minho on the Blue."

The bell rang, and the crowd settled into a low hum as the two fighters squared off.

Minho raised his fists, bouncing lightly on his feet. His opponent immediately lunged forward with a wild right hook, no finesse, just power. Minho ducked under it with ease, then popped back up with a jab to the ribs. His opponent grunted but quickly stepped back, eyes narrowing.

"Not bad, huh?" Minho mumbled to himself, grinning.

The opponent growled, clearly not here for games. He charged again, but this time he tried something sneaky. As Minho dodged a wide left hook, the guy grabbed Minho's wrist and twisted it in an attempt to get him off balance. The crowd groaned at the dirty tactic. The ref saw it and Minho felt it—the twist of his arm was no accident.
"Warning 1, If you keep this up you'll be given the yellow card."

"Cheap shot,"
 Minho muttered under his breath, pulling his arm free with a swift jerk. He wasn't about to let that slow him down.

Minho moved with ease, weaving in and out of his opponent's swings. He'd been through this before—intimidating opponents, dirty tricks. The key was to stay cool. Let the guy make his mistakes.

Then, just as Minho sidestepped a wild right hook, the opponent threw his elbow out, catching Minho square on the jaw. The crack was sharp, rattling his teeth. The pain exploded through Minho's skull, and for a second, everything spun.

Minho staggered for a moment, blinking hard to clear the fog. His vision swam. That one hurt. But he wiped the blood from his lip and, with a smirk, spat onto the canvas.

"That all you got?" he taunted, his voice surprisingly light despite the hit.

The crowd was on edge now, sensing the intensity. The opponent glared at him, clearly thinking he'd rattled Minho. But Minho wasn't backing down. Not now. Not ever.

Minho's opponent tried to press his advantage, throwing a wild right hook that barely missed. Minho ducked and countered with a quick jab to the ribs, but as he pulled back, the man grabbed the ropes for leverage and—bam—delivered a low blow right to Minho's abdomen. The pain hit him hard, and Minho's breath whooshed out of him.

"Ugh!" Minho stumbled back against the ropes, clutching his gut. The crowd's boos echoed around him, and the foul didn't seem to go unnoticed by the the ref.

"Seriously?" Minho groaned, shaking his head. "That's how you wanna play?"

"Warning 2, one more and you'll be disqualified."
The ref warned.

He didn't give the guy the satisfaction of a reaction. Instead, he pushed off the ropes, grinning through the pain. "Alright, I'm done playing."

This time, Minho took control. His opponent, tiring and desperate, lunged forward again. Minho slipped past the wild punch and immediately landed a sharp jab to his opponent's face. The guy staggered back, but Minho wasn't finished. He moved in fast, a flurry of punches—left jab, right hook, body shot. He danced around the man, effortlessly landing clean punches.

The opponent tried to swing back, but he was slow now, his moves sloppy. Minho could see the cracks in his defense. It wasn't even a fight anymore—it was just Minho having fun.

With a final, powerful uppercut, Minho sent his opponent's head snapping back. The crowd went wild, and the guy stumbled, disoriented. Minho smirked, seeing the finish line. The opponent was done.

As the opponent tried to recover, Minho darted in, throwing one last devastating right hook. The punch landed with perfect precision, and the opponent hit the canvas with a loud thud. The crowd went absolutely crazy.

Minho stood there for a second, chest heaving, catching his breath. He wiped the sweat from his brow and cracked a grin. His jaw ached, his stomach burned, and there was a dull throb in his abdomen from that damn elbow—but it didn't matter. He'd won, and he'd had fun doing it.

The ref counted. His opponent didn't move.
"1.... 2.... 3..... 4..... 5"

"LEE MINHO IS THE WINNER."

Minho turned to his corner, giving a quick nod to his coach. "Told you I'd handle it."

The crowd erupted in a deafening roar, the sound of their cheers vibrating through the arena like a wave of pure energy. Minho stood over his fallen opponent, his chest heaving, his gloves still raised in the air. He had done it. He hadn't just won the fight—he'd dominated it.

As the bell rang and the ref waved his hand, signaling the official end, Minho felt a surge of pride. Sweat dripped from his brow, mixing with the blood from his earlier cut, but none of it mattered. This was his moment.

The crowd chanted his name, the sound echoing through the arena. "MINHO! MINHO! MINHO!" It felt like electricity coursing through his veins. The rush of victory hit him like a flood of adrenaline, and Minho couldn't help but grin ear to ear.

His coach, beaming with pride, jumped up from the corner, his fist pumping in the air.
"That's my fighter!" he shouted, clapping his hands.

Minho jogged back to his corner, pulling out his mouthpiece and spitting it into a towel. His coach handed him a water bottle, and Minho took a long gulp, feeling the cool water splash against his parched throat. His muscles were sore, but he was still riding the adrenaline high of the fight.

The crowd's roars were deafening, the energy vibrating through the arena like a pulse. Minho's gloves were still raised high in triumph, his body buzzing with the adrenaline of the win. His coach clapped him on the back, his teammates shouted praises from the sidelines, but amidst all the chaos, Minho's eyes were searching for one person.

He could see his three best friends, standing just behind the barricades, practically bouncing off the walls with excitement. They were shouting his name, waving their arms like madmen. Minho gave them a quick salute, his smile widening as he caught their energy.

"Where's Hana?"
He kneeled and yelled over the deafening noise.

"Hana?"
Seungmin repeated.

"She's okay, just go get cleaned up."
Jeongin stopped Seungmin.

"She'll be here for the medal distribution."
Felix assured him.

He nodded as he went back to his locker room surrounded by his guards coach and a bunch of paparazzi.

"I feel terrible about Hana."
Jeongin pouted.

"Why did she have a panic attack?"
Felix asked, genuinely worried.

"She's a lot like Jisung," Seungmin said softly.

"She panicked from the crowd. And with Minho hyung fighting... that definitely didn't help."
Jeongin added.

Felix frowned, clearly trying to piece it all together.
"But she still cared enough to stay until the end."

"Let's go check on her."
Jeongin suggested.

Felix shot him a look. "Oh yeah, sure. She's in the washroom. You really want to pull off that classic 'guy enters the women's restroom and gets kicked out' scene?"

"Or maybe we could just walk over."
Seungmin pointed over to where he could see Hana searching for them.

But Hana seemed to have different plans. She seemed to have caught Minho on her way. She looked like she could straight up walk to him and hug him because he won. But she didn't because the paparazzi were still there.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

As Minho exited the, the flashing lights hit him like a barrage of thunder. The paparazzi had been waiting for this moment—had been waiting for the second he stepped into view, cameras ready to capture his every move.

"Minho! Over here! Can we get a shot of your victory?" A reporter shouted, her voice sharp above the crowd of photographers, each one jostling to get the best angle.

Minho, as always, gave a tight smile, his eyes scanning the crowd briefly. The flashing cameras were like a blur in his peripheral vision, their bright lights reflecting off the glass walls of the venue. He nodded once, acknowledging their presence, but didn't stop walking. He knew the drill. Keep moving, keep the image steady.

Another paparazzi member shouted,
"You weren't supposed to fight Son Myeong-oh today, did you agree for the last minute changes?"

"Did you do this for own benefit?"
Another one shoved a camera in his face.

Minho's pace faltered for a split second, the question hitting him harder than he'd expected. He could feel his jaw tighten. He had been trying to avoid this conversation for the sake of his image, for his own mental peace.

His manager, walking a few steps behind him, noticed the change in his demeanor and stepped up quickly. "Minho, please keep walking. We'll talk later," he said firmly, his tone cutting through the noise.

Minho glanced at him briefly, nodding in agreement, and then turned back toward the paparazzi, trying to maintain the calm facade he'd learned to wear. But the flashes didn't stop. They were relentless, each click of the camera a reminder of the world watching him, waiting for a slip-up.

"What about your next match?" Another voice called out. "Do you think you can handle the pressure? After tonight's unexpected changes to your opponent?"

Minho's smile remained, but it was more forced now. His manager stepped in front of him, blocking the cameras, creating a shield between Minho and the journalists. "No more questions for now. Thank you," he said, his voice cold and firm.

For a moment, Minho felt a fleeting sense of relief, but it quickly evaporated. As they moved through the crowd of reporters, his manager spoke under his breath, "They'll keep hounding you. It's only going to get worse if you don't address this soon."

Minho didn't respond, his thoughts returning to the chaos of the fight, the unfairness of it all, and the career that was hanging by a thread.

Once they entered the changing room, the buzz of the crowd outside seemed to fade into a dull hum. The staff immediately moved to tend to Minho's injuries, wiping the sweat and blood from his face, applying quick fixes to the cuts on his knuckles, and checking his body for any other signs of damage. But there was no denying it—the physical pain was nothing compared to the pressure building up in his chest.

His coach, who had been walking a few steps behind him, was the first to speak after the door closed behind them. There was a heavy, concerned edge to his voice as he looked at Minho. "What are you going to do about this? You have to fix this, Minho. It's not going to just go away."

Minho sat on the bench, breathing heavily from the exertion of the fight. He didn't immediately meet his coach's gaze, his fingers running absentmindedly along the edge of the water bottle in front of him. His mind was still swirling with everything that had happened before the match—the phone call, the threats to his career, the shadow of doubt cast over his every move.

"Why are you putting this as if it's my fault? They're literally making baseless speculations that I did this for own benefit, accusing me of this entire mess, just because they're desperate to find a story and because they realized that their bulk jerk is all bark, no bite."

His coach shook his head, stepping closer. "I'm not saying it's your fault. But if you don't do something about it now, if you don't address these rumors, people are going to start believing them. It'll stick. And once that happens—"

"Yeah, I know," Minho interrupted, cutting him off. His eyes were dark, his voice tense. "I know what'll happen. It'll be everywhere—on every headline, every news outlet. And all they'll care about is drama, not the truth."

There was a brief silence between them as the staff finished wrapping up Minho's hands and treating the smaller cuts. Minho's thoughts raced. He had been so focused on the fight—on winning and proving himself—that he hadn't anticipated this aftermath. 

After a moment, Minho took a deep breath and stood up. He ran a hand through his disheveled hair, trying to calm the storm of emotions inside him. He needed to take control. He needed to clear his name, make sure people knew the truth, no matter how hard it was going to be.

"Okay," he said, his voice firm, as he turned to his coach. "After the medal ceremony, I'll hold a press conference. I'll address everything. I'll tell them what really happened, and what I think about all this."

His coach's eyebrows furrowed, clearly concerned.
"Minho, it's a little too soon to be doing that—"

"I don't care,"
Minho snapped, cutting him off again. He met his coach's gaze with a determined look. 

"They want answers, hyung. They'll get them. I couldn't care less about what the media thinks of me anymore. But they need to hear the truth from my mouth."
 His eyes flickered with a mixture of exhaustion and defiance. "Don't worry, I'll handle this.

His coach seemed to weigh the situation for a moment before giving a reluctant nod.
"Alright."

"Manager Park please arrange and notify every sports news outlet about the press conference."

"Already on it."
he said.

Suddenly there was a knock on the door.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

︶꒦꒷♡꒷꒦︶