𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐅𝐈𝐅𝐓𝐘-𝐅𝐎𝐔𝐑. what do i do

DEATH FOLLOWED JIUEN KANG LIKE AN unyielding shadow, an ever-present specter that had trailed her footsteps since before she even knew the art of karate. It was a presence so subtle yet persistent that it had woven itself into the tapestry of her life — a dark refrain echoing through every triumph and every loss.

Perhaps it had begun when her mother fell gravely ill, the slow, painful decline marking the beginning of a series of events that would leave scars deeper than any bruise. Maybe it had been when her father was murdered, his final anguished words echoing in the silence of a cold, unforgiving night, when she had vowed never to see him again. Or maybe it had been the near misses on the ground, the close calls, the moments where she felt its breath against the back of her neck, when a fight went too far, when her bones ached with exhaustion, when her knuckles split open from impact.

Or was it Kwon, with his fierce determination, lifeless on the mat at the Sekai Taikai — a demise that resonated as a grim omen, his chest rising for the last time before stillness claimed him. The grief sat heavy in her chest, but it was not unfamiliar.

But perhaps death was not merely a tally of literal losses and fallen fighters; it was a constant metaphor in her life, an ever-present reminder that for every victory, there was an equal measure of sacrifice. Was it the bitter fracture of her friendship with Sam, when their once unbreakable bond splintered beneath the weight of unspoken words? Or was it the haunting last words she had spat at her father before his murder, words laced with the raw, desperate desire to never see him again — a declaration that would, in time, twist back upon her like a curse?

Maybe it had been when Ben Sparrow became her unexpected mentor — a friend, a father — teaching her that sometimes the only way to surmount pain was to fight through it, to transform sorrow into strength. In that moment, when his hard-edged tutelage cut through her despair, she had believed that fighting for her pain was not only reasonable but necessary.

Yet now, back in the valley, as she imagined herself back in that arena, her bare feet planted firmly on the smooth, polished mat, Jieun could no longer deny that death had indeed been a constant companion ever since she learned karate.

Every drop of sweat, every bruise, every splinter of bone reminded her of that forbidden legacy, of the curse that her grandmother had warned her about with such eerie finality. "No child of this bloodline will learn the art of war," she had once declared, her voice a low, unyielding command, "because those who do will carry death in their hands. It will end in death, as it always does."

Now, in this final, soul-baring moment, as she inhaled deeply and exhaled slowly, Jieun felt that prophecy settle over her like a shroud. The cool air of her room that resembled the one in the arena, filtered through the high ceilings, flowed into her lungs with a precision that made her acutely aware of every molecule, every tiny particle that brushed against her skin.

The sensation was almost surgical — a clear, crisp intake of breath that expanded her ribcage, filling every cell with the sharp tang of oxygen. As she exhaled, the warm air escaped from her lips in a controlled cascade, carrying away some of the weight that had pressed so heavily on her heart. Each inhalation and exhalation became a meditation on her own mortality, a reminder that life, with all its fleeting beauty, was as fragile as a petal in a storm.

She remember standing there, eyes closed for a moment, and could feel every beat of her heart — a steady, relentless drum that had accompanied her through every trial, every loss, and every victory. Her mind wandered unbidden, drifting through a labyrinth of memories. She saw flashes of her mother's pale face, etched with worry; the dark silhouette of her father in the rain-soaked night, his eyes filled with silent, desperate anguish; and even the raw, wild energy of her first sparring match with Ben Sparrow, whose harsh lessons had taught her that pain was as much a part of her as the blood that coursed through her veins.

Death had followed her relentlessly, an invisible companion that had molded her, haunted her, and defined her in ways she could scarcely articulate. And now, she wondered if she was tired of it all. Tired of the relentless chase, the endless parade of loss and the ever-present specter of death that had marked every chapter of her life.

Jieun had thought it ridiculous once. A rule born from fear, from an unwillingness to see the world for what it was. But now, remembering all that she had lost, of all she had fought for and broken and buried — she was no longer so sure.

Because ever since she had learned, ever since she had thrown her first punch, ever since she had stepped onto the path she thought would make her stronger — death had been waiting for her.

Watching her.

A month had passed since the Sekai Taikai, yet its echo still resonated in the quiet spaces of Jieun's life. In the days after the tournament, as whispers spread through the dojos and the bitter taste of unresolved conflict lingered in the air, many had found a strange contentment in the fact that the tournament had never truly ended. There were no clear winners, no neat conclusions to be drawn — a chaotic, endless cycle of struggle and glory. For some, that ambiguity was a bitter pill, a daily reminder of what had been lost.

But for Jieun, it had become a kind of solace. She had finally reached a point where the endless fight no longer mattered, where closure was an illusion, and she could simply let go.

That transformation began the day she returned from Barcelona — a day that seemed to exist in its own timeless bubble. It was a day etched into her memory with painful clarity, as vivid as if it had happened only yesterday. The flight back had been long, the minutes stretched into an eternity, and by the time she stepped through the threshold of her home, the weight of all that had transpired in the arena and on the streets of Barcelona pressed down upon her like a heavy shroud.

In the living room, dim light spilled from a single lamp onto worn, patterned cushions on an old couch. The room smelled faintly of antiseptic and the familiar musk of aging furniture. There, as if waiting in silent vigil, her grandmother, Jimin, sat on the couch. The old woman's face was drawn and distant, her eyes, though clouded by the passing years, held a quiet intensity.

Jieun remembered how, in all the turmoil of her return, she hadn't expected to find any warmth there. In fact, for years, their relationship had been fractured — a brittle veneer of polite indifference covering decades of unspoken hurts and regrets. And yet, in that moment, as she stepped inside, something shifted in the quiet space.

Jieun's entrance was silent and heavy with exhaustion. She had come home carrying the residue of battle, both on the mat and in the corridors of her mind, her body still echoing with the adrenaline of the fight, her heart still pounding with the raw energy of competition. But as soon as her eyes met her grandmother's, the façade she'd built up over countless lonely nights began to crumble.

Jimin simply looked at her, an expression so profound and full of unspoken sorrow that it pierced through the defenses Jieun had so carefully erected. For the first time in many years, Jieun's composure broke. Tears welled in her eyes — tears that had been held back by sheer will, by stubborn pride — and she sank onto the couch, unable to hold herself together any longer.

The memories came flooding back in torrents — fragments of a life haunted by loss and the relentless pursuit of perfection in a world that had offered little in return. She remembered the day she had left, the anger she had felt toward her father, the promise she had made to herself that she would never let him see her cry. But now, the memory of that distant, haunted day seemed to collide with the present, a painful reminder of how much had changed and how little healing had truly taken place. In that vulnerable moment, the walls Jieun had built to protect her heart trembled and cracked, letting in the light of raw emotion.

As the tears flowed freely, Jimin rose slowly from the couch. There was a careful grace in the old woman's movements — a deliberate softness, as if each step was measured and weighed against the years of regret.

Without a word, she crossed the room and wrapped her arms around her granddaughter. The embrace was gentle and unexpected, a silent apology, a quiet confession of love that had been buried under layers of bitterness and loss. In that moment, as Jimin held her close, Jieun felt something she had long thought unreachable: the warmth of belonging, the reassurance that despite everything, there was one person there that understood her emotional state better than anyone else.

In the soft glow of that evening, with her grandmother's embrace still lingering around her, Jieun allowed herself to wonder what might come next. There was no certainty in the future, no promise of redemption or escape from the long shadow of death. But in that quiet, heartbreaking moment, she sensed that she was ready to try.

The pain was still there, as ever, but so was the determination to change it, to redefine it. In the sanctuary of that living room, amid the faded echoes of old battles and old curses, Jieun made a silent vow. She would no longer let the specter of death follow her every step, no longer let it dictate the terms of her existence. The tournament might have been endless, the victories and defeats meaningless in the end, but her life was hers to shape — and she would shape it with all the strength, all the fury, and all the tenderness she could muster.

For a long moment, the two of them remained locked in their shared silence, the only sound the soft rustle of fabric as Jimin's arms slowly relaxed around her. The living room seemed to hold them in a fragile bubble, a space where past and present intertwined, where every sorrow was acknowledged and every hope was nurtured in the quiet intimacy of a grandmother's love. Jieun's tears eventually subsided, replaced by a steady, determined calm that filled her from within.

In that moment, as she looked into the weathered eyes of her grandmother — into the reflection of her own pain and resilience — Jieun understood that life was not defined solely by the relentless march of death. It was defined, too, by the fleeting, fragile moments of connection, by the embrace of those who cared even when the world seemed to crumble around them, and by the quiet courage to rise, time and time again, from the ashes of grief.

And though the curse of her bloodline would always hover at the edges of her existence — a reminder of what had been, of what might yet come — Jieun knew that she could choose to carry it differently. She could let it be a part of her story without allowing it to dictate her destiny.

The sun hung low in the sky, stretching golden fingers across the soccer field, casting elongated shadows that flickered and danced over the grass like restless spirits. Jieun sat alone on the metal bleachers, the cool steel pressing against the back of her thighs, her hands limp in her lap. The scent of freshly cut grass mingled with the faint, lingering traces of sweat in the air, and for a moment, she let herself sink into the familiarity of it — the rhythmic pounding of cleats against the turf, the sharp whistle of the coach, the distant echoes of laughter and shouts of encouragement.

It should have been her down there.

She used to dominate this field, weaving between defenders, her footwork so precise and fluid it was like watching a dancer in motion. She had memorized the way the ball felt beneath her cleats, the way the earth seemed to shift and yield to her movements.

There had been a time when soccer had been her entire life, before karate had sunk its claws into her, before it had consumed her whole. Before it had led her down a path that ended in blood and broken promises.

Now, she was just another spectator.

Her fingers curled involuntarily, nails digging into the flesh of her palms. She could feel the phantom aches in her knuckles, the remnants of past fights, the ghosts of blows landed and received. She wasn't sure what she missed more — kicking the ball across the field or the feeling of her fist connecting with an opponent's jaw. Both had been extensions of herself, expressions of power, of control.

And now, she had neither.

The girls on the field spared glances in her direction, some subtle, others more blatant. Some of them had played alongside her, had been her teammates once, had celebrated victories and mourned defeats together. Others only knew of her in reputation, whispers passed from one student to another like folklore.

That's the Mighty Mouse. The soccer star who abandoned the game for karate. The girl who fought like her life depended on it. The girl who watched someone die.

She could almost hear them thinking it, the words pressing against the backs of their throats like something bitter and unspeakable. It wasn't their fault, she supposed. If the roles were reversed, she'd probably be curious too.

Jieun sighed and dropped her gaze to her hands. Hands that had once been meant for scoring goals, for shaking hands after a match well played. Now, they were hands that had learned to block, to strike, to bruise. Hands that had been used to defend, to survive. What were they supposed to do now?

College applications loomed on the horizon, a monstrous, looming shadow she had no idea how to face. What did she even have to offer? Schools wanted students with specialties, with consistency. They wanted athletes who had dedicated years to a sport, musicians who had practiced since childhood, scholars who had spent sleepless nights poring over textbooks.

What did she have? A girl who had switched passions midway, only to lose both? What did that look like on an application?

It looked like failure.

She exhaled sharply, rubbing her fingers over her temples. The last month had been a blur of exhaustion, of trying to pretend she was fine when she wasn't. She had wanted to believe she could just move on, that she could bury the past with the sweat and blood she had left behind in Barcelona. But the past clung to her like a second skin, seeping into every corner of her life, staining everything she touched.

The wind picked up slightly, rustling the branches of the trees that lined the field, sending a few stray leaves skittering across the bleachers. Jieun watched as a girl sprinted across the field, the ball tucked neatly between her feet. A pass. A turn. A goal.

The team erupted into cheers, the sound bright and full of life.

She should have been happy for them. But all she felt was the hollow ache of something lost.

Perhaps this was her punishment.

Perhaps this was what she deserved.

Jieun sighed abruptly, shoving her hands into the pockets of her jacket. She had spent too long lingering here, too long allowing herself to drown in thoughts that led nowhere. The past was the past. And the future?

She wasn't sure if she even had one.

The soccer field stretched before her, unchanged, a world she had once belonged to but could no longer touch. She couldn't help but wonder if she was meant to wander forever, never quite belonging anywhere again.

Then, without a word, someone sat beside her. She didn't need to look to know who it was. She knew the scent of his cologne, the warmth of his presence, the slight scrape of calloused hands as they extended three pamphlets toward her. Trade schools. She took them silently, flipping through each one with a slow, deliberate motion.

Robby sighed, leaning back against the row of bleachers behind him, his arms crossed over his chest. "They told me it'd be tight for me to graduate," he said finally. His voice was steady, but she could hear the frustration behind it, the unspoken weight pressing down on him.

Jieun studied him, her expression unreadable. She didn't say anything right away, and Robby wondered if she was searching for the right words, or if she already knew there weren't any that could change the reality of the situation.

"So, what does that mean?" she asked finally.

"It means college isn't in the cards for me." He forced a smile, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. "Not that I was ever really thinking about it, but hearing someone tell you that it's not even an option kind of sucks."

Jieun's grip tightened on the pamphlets, her knuckles going white. "That's bullshit."

Robby let out another small laugh, shaking his head. "Yeah. It is."

The wind picked up slightly, rustling the pages of the pamphlets in her lap. She looked down at them, running a finger along the edges, tracing the words without really reading them.

"I used to think that if I changed — if I did everything right this time — things would get easier," Robby continued, his voice quiet. "But that's not how it works. My past keeps catching up to me. Doesn't matter how hard I try, it's always there, waiting."

Jieun turned fully towards him then, her dark eyes sharp with something that almost looked like admiration. "You did change," she said. "You're not the same person you were."

Robby looked at her, really looked at her, and something in his chest tightened. Jieun had seen him at his worst, had known him when he was still stumbling through the wreckage of his own life, trying to figure out who he was supposed to be. And despite everything, despite the fact that the world kept throwing obstacles in his way, she still saw something in him worth believing in.

He swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. It took everything in him not to close the small distance between them, not to lean in and kiss her right then and there. But he didn't. Instead, he just nodded, a small, almost imperceptible movement.

"Yeah," he said, his voice softer now.

She turned to look at him, her gaze soft despite the tight pull in her chest. Robby had come a long way. When she first met him, he had been little more than a troubled delinquent, a boy lost in the mess of his own making, drifting between poor choices and worse consequences. But he had clawed his way out, fought tooth and nail to change. And yet, no matter how hard he worked, his past clung to him like a shadow, dark and unyielding.

Jieun watched him, taking in the sharp angles of his profile, the way his fingers tapped restlessly against his knee. She had seen him at his worst, had seen the anger that once ruled him, had watched as he lashed out at the world before finally deciding to fight for something better. And yet, even now, even with all the change, the world still found a way to remind him of who he used to be.

She looked down at the pamphlets in her lap, her fingers tightening around the edges. "You know," she murmured, "this isn't a bad thing."

Robby scoffed. "Yeah? Tell that to everyone who thinks a trade school is just some consolation prize for screw-ups."

She turned fully to him then, her expression unwavering. "You're not a screw-up."

He glanced at her, something flickering behind his eyes. A part of him wanted to believe her. Another part had been conditioned not to.

His lips parted slightly, as if caught off guard by her words, and for a moment, neither of them spoke. The sounds of the soccer field faded into a distant hum, the world around them narrowing until it was just the two of them sitting side by side on an old set of bleachers, staring at the horizon like they were waiting for something — anything — to make sense.

Robby let out a slow breath, his shoulders relaxing just a little, as if the weight of the world pressing down on him could be momentarily lifted in Jieun's presence. His eyes traced the contours of her face, studying the quiet intensity behind them, the same fire that had burned through every moment he had known her. She was beautiful, no doubt, in that effortless way that made it impossible not to look at her, and it had actually taken everything in him to not kiss her right there. The thought lingered for a moment, curling at the edges of his mind before dissolving, because beyond her beauty was something else. Longing.

She hadn't noticed him staring, or if she had, she hadn't acknowledged it. Her gaze was elsewhere, fixed on the soccer field below, the place where she used to belong, where she used to command attention not because she demanded it but because she had earned it. And Robby saw it then — the reason she had been there in the first place. Not just to watch, not just to reminisce, but to feel that connection again.

To feel what it was like to be part of something before everything in her life had unraveled.

Miguel had told him once how Jieun had been one of the coolest girls in school. How she'd walk in the hallways, and people would part like the Red Sea when they saw her coming. How she had been someone who didn't just exist in high school but owned every moment of it, before karate had wrapped its hands around her life and squeezed until she had nothing left but bruises and broken dreams.

Because despite everything, despite all the fights, the victories, the losses, despite her skill and determination — Jieun wasn't born for karate.

It was in her blood, yes. She was fantastic at it, yes. But she had never wanted it. Not really. It had been a necessity, a reaction to the forces in her life pushing her towards it, rather than a choice she had made for herself.

She had wanted to play soccer.

That was all she had ever wanted. And the cruel, unrelenting events of her life had forced her down a different path, one where fists and kicks replaced the effortless dribble of a ball at her feet, where fights in tournaments and street brawls overshadowed the simple joy of scoring a goal.

And maybe, in a different world, one where her father hadn't died, one where she hadn't been forced to fight for survival, one where she hadn't been drawn into the chaos of dojos and rivalries and betrayals — maybe in that world, she would still be on that field right now, wearing that jersey, leading her team with the same quiet confidence that had once made her unstoppable.

Robby exhaled, running a hand through his hair. He had no right to tell her what to do, no right to push her in any direction, but he had been in that place before, where regret and longing settled like stones in the stomach, weighing down every thought. And he knew what it felt like to believe that the past had stolen the future.

"You still love it," he murmured, not really expecting an answer.

Jieun blinked, finally tearing her gaze from the field and looking at him. "It doesn't matter."

Robby frowned. "It does."

She shook her head, her fingers tightening around the pamphlets in her hands. "I can't just walk back onto that field and pretend like nothing happened. Like my entire life didn't just..." She exhaled sharply, shaking her head. "Like I didn't destroy everything."

"You didn't destroy anything."

She scoffed. "Tell that to my college applications."

Robby tilted his head. "You think colleges care that you stopped playing soccer?"

"They care that I quit something. They care that I started karate and quit that too. They care that I don't have any sense of direction."

"You could try again," Robby said eventually. "Soccer, I mean."

Jieun scoffed. "Yeah, because it's that easy."

"I'm serious," he said, shifting to face her more fully. "Who says you can't? We're not in Miyagi-Do anymore. You could go back."

She looked at him then, really looked at him, and for a moment, she almost let herself believe it. Almost let herself imagine what it would be like to lace up her cleats again, to step back onto the field and feel like she belonged there. But reality was heavier than daydreams, and she wasn't sure she could carry both.

"It's not that simple," she murmured.

"Maybe it is," Robby countered. "Maybe you're just scared to try."

Jieun barely had time to react before Robby took off, his movement so sudden, so fluid, that her fingers only just brushed the fabric of his hoodie before slipping away entirely. She reached for him on instinct, but it was too late. He was already running down the bleachers, his sneakers hitting the metal with a rhythmic clang that echoed in her ears.

"Robby!" she hissed, her voice barely carrying over the field. She could feel the heat rush to her face, panic creeping up her spine as she watched him approach the coach.

She wanted to disappear.

The moment was slow and torturous, like a bad dream where she couldn't move fast enough to stop whatever catastrophe was unfolding before her. Her hands shot up, pressing against her face, fingers spreading just enough so she could peer through the gaps like a horrified spectator watching a car crash in slow motion.

The girls on the field had paused, their attention pulled away from drills to the boy who had just jogged up to the coach, his hands shoved in his pockets, casual as ever. Some of them whispered to each other, their heads tilting in curiosity, and Jieun knew exactly what they were thinking.

What was Robby Keene doing here?

He was completely unbothered by the attention, by the way the coach raised a brow at him before nodding in acknowledgment. The coach was familiar, a presence that had once been a significant part of Jieun's life. There had been a time when she would have sprinted onto the field, no hesitation, no fear. This was her home once.

But not anymore.

From behind her hands, she watched as Robby gestured towards her, and her stomach twisted into a tight, painful knot. He was talking. Talking about her. Pointing. Laughing even. And worst of all — the coach's expression wasn't indifferent. No, her face lit up, eyes crinkling in recognition, mouth stretching into something resembling excitement.

No. No, no, no, no.

Jieun sank lower onto the bleachers, as if that would make her invisible, her palms now covering her entire face. If she could curl into herself and simply vanish, she would.

Meanwhile, Robby turned back to glance at her, and when he saw her reaction, his laughter only grew. He was enjoying this. He found this funny. That infuriating, charming, impossible boy.

The coach clapped a hand on Robby's shoulder, nodding enthusiastically before shouting something across the field that made a few of the girls turn toward the bleachers, toward her. Jieun knew exactly what that meant, and her stomach dropped.

This was happening.

And there was nothing she could do to stop it.

"Gods, please strike me down," she muttered, barely audible.

Robby turned around at that exact moment, grinning like he had just won the lottery, and gave her a thumbs-up. She wanted to throw a shoe at him.

The girls on the field had noticed too. She saw the way they exchanged looks, whispering among themselves, some with curiosity, others with a spark of excitement. A few of them had played alongside Jieun before, had been part of her victories, her battles, her triumphs. And now here she was, an outsider sitting on the cold metal bleachers, a spectator instead of a player.

Robby jogged back toward her, his face alight with mischief. "Guess what?"

"No." She shook her head, already knowing she wouldn't like whatever he was about to say.

"Coach says you should get down there and try."

"Nope."

He leaned down, close enough that she could smell his cologne, could see the flecks of gold in his green eyes. "Jieun." His voice was softer now, coaxing. "Come on. Just one run."

She exhaled sharply. "I haven't played in years, Robert."

"Doesn't mean you forgot how to."

Jieun bit her lip, staring at the field, watching the way the grass swayed slightly under the evening breeze. The setting sun bathed everything in a golden hue, making the whole scene feel surreal, like a memory she had once lived and was now seeing through a hazy dream.

The field had been her home once. Before karate. Before tournaments. Before Sekai Taikai. Before everything in her life had spiraled into chaos.

Could she really go back?

Robby nudged her shoulder. "You're thinking too much."

She shot him a glare. "I do that sometimes, you know."

He smirked. "Yeah, and that's why I'm here. To get you out of your head."

With that, he reached down, grabbed her wrist, and pulled.

Jieun barely had time to react before she was being yanked up, stumbling slightly as she tried to resist. "Robby —"

But he was already dragging her toward the field.

The other girls turned as she neared, some smiling, some looking amused. One of them, a girl she used to practice with, clapped her hands together. "Took you long enough."

Jieun flushed. "I — I'm just —"

Coach clapped her hands. "Alright, Mighty Mouse, let's see what you got."

She looked at Robby, who simply gave her an encouraging nod. Then she looked at the field, at the ball resting in the grass, at the goal that once felt like her kingdom.

The moment the ball was set in motion, Jieun's body snapped into action, instincts taking over like she had never left the field. The air around her vibrated with the sheer intensity of movement — cleats digging into the grass, the weight of expectant gazes pressing down on her shoulders. It was her against all of them, a challenge that once would have made her smirk. But now, it felt like a reckoning.

She surged forward, muscles tightening as she angled her body, eyes locked on the ball like it was the only thing tethering her to the present. The first opponent came fast — feet quick, stance aggressive. But Jieun was quicker. She feinted left, just enough to make them shift, before cutting hard to the right. The grass tore under her cleats as she propelled herself past them, the ball obediently following the rhythm of her feet.

Then came the next challenger, a girl who had once played alongside her — someone whose movements Jieun could read like a book. She anticipated the block, the shift in weight, the inevitable lunge. Jieun didn't hesitate. A quick flick of her foot sent the ball skimming through the girl's legs, and she was gone before her opponent could recover. A sharp intake of breath from the sidelines.

The field had transformed into a battlefield, the once-familiar setting now hostile territory. Another opponent closed in from her left, eyes locked onto her, intent written in their stance. Jieun reacted on instinct, pivoting so sharply she felt her knee strain. But it didn't matter. The ball stayed with her, an extension of herself, moving effortlessly through the chaos.

Shouts filled the air — teammates calling, opponents strategizing, the coach's sharp whistle cutting through the tension. But Jieun didn't stop. The wind burned against her skin, sweat beading at her brow as she pushed forward, every fiber of her being tuned into the singular goal ahead. The goalpost loomed in the distance, but between her and it stood more players, more obstacles.

One by one, they came. One by one, she evaded. She ducked under an outstretched arm, spun out of reach of a defender who nearly clipped her ankle, pressed forward as the distance to the goal shrank. But they were adapting. Closing in. The gaps she had exploited were sealing shut, bodies pressing in from all sides.

A shadow fell across her path. One of the tallest, strongest players braced themselves for impact, arms spread wide. Jieun didn't slow. She leaned forward, shifting her weight at the last second, letting momentum carry her past. A quick hook of her foot sent the ball beyond their reach, and she followed, heart hammering in her chest.

A final push. The keeper stood firm, reading her movements. Jieun inhaled sharply, then exhaled, everything narrowing into this one moment. She pulled back her leg, muscles coiling, and struck. The ball rocketed forward, slicing through the air, a blur of motion.

Contact. The keeper lunged, fingertips grazing the surface—but it wasn't enough. The ball found the net, the net snapped taut, and for a moment, everything stood still.

Jieun remained frozen, chest heaving, the echoes of her heartbeat pounding in her ears. The weight of everything — the past, the uncertainty, the exhaustion — threatened to crush her. But in this singular moment, she felt alive.

Then, the world rushed back in. Shouts, exclamations, stunned silence from those who hadn't expected her to still have it in her. She finally let herself breathe. But only for a second.

A sudden force struck her shoulder — a body colliding with hers. Someone had caught up. Before she could react, another player flanked her, cutting off her exit. A trap. Jieun's breath hitched, her body twisting instinctively, but the ball was stolen before she could regain control. A sharp gasp from the sidelines. The momentum shifted. Now they were coming for her.

The moment of triumph vanished, replaced by the familiar surge of adrenaline. They were testing her, pushing her. Jieun clenched her teeth and bolted after the stolen ball, weaving through the chaos of bodies. The player ahead moved fast, but their pass — too slow, too hesitant — gave Jieun her opening.

She lunged. Not just stealing the ball — taking it. Her foot intercepted mid-pass, cutting off its trajectory. She pivoted, low and controlled, defenders swarming her. The challenge had escalated, but Jieun didn't flinch.

She cut through them with sharp turns, rapid movements forcing constant adjustments. The rhythm of the game was hers to dictate, the tempo hers to control. The goal loomed again, pressure mounting. Another defender lunged — Jieun flicked the ball up just enough to clear their outstretched leg. The second it hit the ground, she was on it, breaking away.

This time, she didn't hesitate. The keeper was ready, but so was she. A feint to the left. A pause—just a breath. The keeper shifted, just slightly.

She struck. The ball curved mid-air, a shot too precise to stop.

The net rippled violently. Silence followed, thick and heavy.

She stood, panting, sweat dripping into her eyes. Then, finally, she let her body relax. The game had been theirs, but this — this was hers.

Jieun steadied herself, rolling her shoulders, her lips twitching into something almost like a grin.

She stood there, her chest rising and falling with each heavy breath, the world around her slowing to a crawl. The sharp scent of freshly churned grass filled her nostrils, the dampness of sweat clung to her skin, and the sting of exertion burned in her muscles. And yet — she felt weightless.

Then, a sound. At first, just one voice. Then another. Then many.

The girls who had once been her teammates, the ones she had played alongside in what felt like another life, erupted into cheers. They clapped, whistled, and shouted her name, their voices rising above the pounding in her ears. The sound rushed over her like a tide, crashing into her, filling the hollow spaces inside her chest that had felt so empty for so long. It was different from the applause she'd heard in the dojo, different from the nods of approval after a well-executed strike or a perfectly timed counterattack. This wasn't discipline. This wasn't precision. This was joy.

A grin spread across her face before she could stop it, so wide it almost hurt.

Without thinking, without hesitation, she turned her head, searching.

There he stood on the sidelines, his arms crossed, his weight shifted onto one leg, watching her. And he was clapping. Slow at first, then more steady, a proud smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. His eyes were locked onto hers.

Her feet barely touched the ground, her momentum carrying her straight to him. He barely had time to brace himself before she crashed into him, her arms wrapping tightly around his neck. He laughed — full, unguarded — and without missing a beat, his hands found her waist. In one swift motion, he lifted her off the ground, spinning her, the world around them turning into a blur of green and blue and golden sunlight.

Jieun let out a breathless laugh, her hands tangling into the soft strands of his hair as she buried her face into his shoulder. The scent of his cologne, fresh and familiar, grounding her, anchoring her to this moment.

When he finally slowed, still holding her off the ground, she pulled back just enough to look at him. His face was so close, his forehead nearly touching hers, his breath warm against her lips. His eyes, bright and full of something fierce and unspoken, flickered down for just a second.

And then, he kissed her.

It wasn't hesitant. It wasn't careful. It was everything at once — heat and softness, urgency and something so achingly tender it made her chest tighten. His hands curled around her waist, his fingers pressing against the fabric of her shirt as if he never wanted to let go. Jieun melted into him, her arms tightening around his neck, her body molding to his as the world around them disappeared.

Somewhere in the distance, there were more cheers, more shouts, but they barely registered. It was just them, caught in the golden light of the afternoon, their hearts pounding in sync.

When they finally broke apart, breathless and flushed, Jieun couldn't stop the giddy laugh that bubbled up in her throat. Robby grinned at her, his eyes shining.

Jieun barely had time to catch her breath, to let the warmth of Robby's touch linger, before a shadow fell over them.

The energy around them shifted, the air thickening with the presence of someone who commanded attention without saying a single word. Jieun stiffened, the muscles in her back going rigid even before she turned to face her.

Coach stood a few feet away, arms crossed, her face unreadable.

Jieun knew that look. She had seen it before, back when she was just a wide-eyed freshman desperate to prove herself, when the coach had stood on the sidelines, scrutinizing her every move, testing her, waiting to see if she would crumble under pressure.

Robby must have felt it too, because his hands dropped from her waist in an instant, his warmth vanishing as they stepped apart, almost like instinct. Jieun swallowed hard, the adrenaline from the scrimmage still pulsing through her veins, but now there was something else. A nervous energy that curled around her ribs and tightened, waiting for the verdict.

Would Coach be mad? Disappointed? Amused?

She had no idea.

The silence stretched, the weight of it pressing down on her shoulders. The other girls were still lingering nearby, their post-game chatter quieting as they sensed the tension. The whole field seemed to hold its breath.

Then, slowly — like the unraveling of a tightly wound thread — a grin broke across Coach's face.

Not just any grin. A wide, knowing, almost smug grin that sent a wave of relief crashing through Jieun so fast it nearly knocked the wind out of her.

"Took you long enough." Coach Song said, shaking her head in disbelief.

Jieun blinked. "What?"

Coach uncrossed her arms and let out a low chuckle. "I've been waiting," she said simply. "For the day you'd be ready to come back."

The words hit Jieun like a gust of wind, like the rush of an unexpected wave, knocking her slightly off balance. Ready to come back. Like Coach had always known she would. Like she had never really been gone at all.

"Wha —" Jieun started, but her voice faltered. She didn't know what to say, what to feel. Soccer had been her whole world once, and then it wasn't. It had been ripped away from her, or maybe she had let it go. Maybe both. Either way, it had felt like a chapter of her life that had been sealed shut.

But now, standing here, sweat still clinging to her skin, her heart still pounding from the game, she wasn't so sure anymore.

Coach took a step closer, and before Jieun could fully process what was happening, she pulled something from behind her.

A jersey.

The fabric was familiar, slightly worn from use but still crisp, the school's emblem stitched neatly on the front. And on the back — Eleven.

Jieun's number. The number she had worn since the beginning of her high school career.

Her breath caught in her throat.

"I reserved it," Coach said, her voice quieter now, more serious. "Figured you'd want it back when the time was right." She extended the jersey toward Jieun, her expression softening just enough to let something unspoken pass between them.

Jieun stared at it, her fingers twitching at her sides. She could feel the weight of Robby's gaze on her, could hear the rustling of her teammates shifting around them, waiting, watching.

She reached out, hesitantly at first, then with more certainty. Her fingers brushed against the fabric, cool and smooth beneath her touch, and the moment she curled her hands around it, something inside her clicked into place.

It felt right.

Like it had always been waiting for her.

She swallowed hard, looking up at Coach, searching for any sign that this was some kind of test, some kind of trick. But all she saw was quiet expectation, the kind of patience that had always made Coach who she was.

Jieun exhaled. And then, slowly, she smiled.

It started small, barely there, just a flicker of something warm spreading through her chest. But then it grew, stretching wide across her face, unstoppable.

Karate had been her everything once. And yet, it was gone now, a chapter closed, a door she wasn't sure would ever open again. But as she stood there, her jersey clutched to her chest, the echoes of her teammates' cheers ringing in her ears, Robby's warmth still lingering on her skin, she realized something else — she still had this. The field beneath her feet, the night air thick with the scent of grass and sweat and possibility, the weight of belonging settling deep into her ribs.

Maybe karate had left her. But here, with the people who had never stopped waiting for her, she wasn't so lost.

AUTHOR'S NOTE

i still know nothing about soccer btw

also can't remember for the life of me the coach's name (if i gave her one) or jieun's actual jersey number so lets pretend it was 11 (or was it 4.. i fr can't remember.. or maybe i didn't give her one LMFAOO)

anyways i can't believe im about to finish this fic in a few days/ week. like this is so surreal to me ive never finished a book before

also that first ep was boring as hell like i really don't give a fuck about kreese im sorry he was on this show for way too long ahahaha

so, this is a very boring ch but i promise its gonna get intense soon!!! i have many many notes

ps. xolo mariduena fic to be published after i finish this book bc i just can't let go of this cast they mean so so so so so so much to me. and i can't let go of jieun either so ofc i made it correlate to this fic with having jieun's faceclaim be an actress!

don't expect a new update until like monday because i unfortunately have 12 hr shifts this fri-sun and i legit wanna run into traffic but this bread is too good

much love,