Yoon Taesung didn't dream.
Or maybe he did, but whatever flickered behind his eyes while he slept never followed him into the morning.
He woke before his alarm. Again. The light through the window was dim, orange with a hint of frost. Seoul's skyline was wrapped in cold haze, the kind that made the world feel paused. Like the day hadn't fully decided whether to start.
He sat up, pulled his blanket around his shoulders, and stared at the floor.
Still no sound. No voice in his head. No magical whispers. No sudden transformation.
He was still here.
And whatever had stirred in him that night—whatever that flicker had been—was quiet again.
But it hadn't been nothing.
He remembered the way the mirror shimmered. The way his thoughts hadn't felt like his alone for half a second. The stillness in his chest that somehow beat louder than fear.
It was like walking past a locked door that shouldn't be there.
And hearing something knock once from the other side.
He didn't tell anyone. Not Harin. Not himself, not out loud. It didn't feel like something that should be shared.
Not yet.
And definitely not when he still didn't know what it meant.
The gloves had sold out.
Apparently the discount worked, even if it was by mistake.
Mr. Han didn't comment on it. Just grunted and handed Taesung another box to restock.
"You're early again," he said, not looking up from his screen.
"Woke up early."
"Huh. Maybe this job's finally gotten to you."
Taesung didn't answer. He unpacked boxes. Labeled shelves. Breathed the scent of too much plastic and faint pine cleaner. The lights above him buzzed, one of them flickering near the back.
He glanced up at it.
Still just a light. Still just a store.
Still just a C-rank kid with a job and a secret he didn't understand.
Lunch was a triangle kimbap from the corner mart and a can of warm coffee from a vending machine that hadn't been restocked in two weeks.
He ate it on the back steps. Quiet. Alone.
But not alone in the way he used to feel. Something was different now. Not better. Just… looser. Like there was air where the weight used to be.
He checked his phone.
No messages from Harin.
He hadn't expected one. It had only been a couple days since the rooftop. People like her probably had better things to do than babysit someone barely ranked.
Still, part of him wondered if she'd show up again.
Maybe not today.
Maybe not at all.
By the time evening came, the cold had settled like dust—thin, sharp, impossible to shake. The streets glowed orange under old streetlamps, and people moved faster, shoulders hunched, collars up. Winter in Seoul wasn't always snow, but it always found a way to bite.
Taesung walked slower than usual.
He wasn't avoiding home, exactly. But he wasn't rushing toward it either.
His feet took him east, past old apartment buildings, a rundown PC bang, a bakery with its lights still on even though the chairs were already stacked.
And then—
He saw it.
The sign was faded. A door wedged between two others. No windows. Just a name stenciled in cracked paint:
Jiho's Dojang.
He stopped.
He didn't remember it being here before.
But maybe it had always been here. Seoul was like that. A place could exist for decades and vanish in a week, and no one would ever notice.
His hand hovered near the door.
Then dropped.
He wasn't here for that.
Whatever that even was.
But something in his legs kept him standing there longer than he should've.
It wasn't about becoming stronger.
It wasn't even about rank.
It was just about moving—somewhere, somehow.
And maybe learning to carry this strange, quiet thing inside him.
He turned the knob.
The place smelled like dust and old sweat.
The mats were clean but worn. The walls were lined with wooden poles, faded posters, and a few padded targets that had definitely seen better days. In the corner, a single space heater buzzed next to a metal chair.
There was only one person inside.
A man in his late thirties, maybe early forties. Buzzcut. Plain t-shirt. Calloused hands. He was cleaning the floor with a rag, back bent like he didn't care who walked in.
He looked up once. Just once.
Taesung froze.
The man said nothing. Just nodded once and went back to cleaning.
Taesung didn't move.
After a minute, the man spoke. Voice low. Unbothered.
"You here to learn how to punch?"
Taesung blinked. "...Maybe."
"That a yes or a no?"
He hesitated. "Yes."
The man stood slowly, cracking his back as he rose.
"No offense," he said, eyeing him. "You look like you've never punched anything in your life."
"That's true."
"And yet you're here."
"Guess so."
The man tilted his head. "Why?"
That question again.
Why.
Why had he come inside? Why had he stopped at all?
Why hadn't he just gone home like usual?
He didn't know the answer. Not really.
So he told the truth.
"I want to learn how to fight."
The man stared at him.
Then, finally, nodded. "You don't learn to fight in a week."
"I know."
"And this place doesn't do flashy."
"I'm not looking for flashy."
The man grunted. "Good. Then put your bag down. First class is free."
The pain came quickly.
Not in the form of injury but humiliation.
Balance. Breathing. Posture. Things Taesung thought he understood, if only in theory, broke down the second he tried to move. His arms flailed too wide. His feet didn't stay grounded. His punches lacked weight. Coordination was a myth.
Jiho—because that was apparently the man's name—didn't scold him.
Didn't compliment him either.
Just corrected.
Again. And again. And again.
"Center. Not shoulder. You're flinching."
"Don't aim where they are. Aim where they don't want you to be."
"You think too loud. Quiet your mind. Then hit."
An hour passed like a blur of red skin and clumsy rhythm.
But something happened.
Not power.
Not clarity.
Just focus.
For the first time in days, Taesung wasn't thinking about Rank. Or Harin. Or the mirror. Or the system.
Just movement.
Just now.
And for a few seconds, the quiet inside him wasn't heavy.
It was his.
He left the dojang with a limp in his left foot and a burning ache in his shoulders.
But he also left with something else.
Not pride.
Not confidence.
Just momentum.
It wasn't much.
But it was more than he'd had.
That night, he slept deeply.
No flickers. No distortions.
Just sleep.
Real and still.
And somewhere, in a corner of the system that monitored spikes and skill trends across the city, another unreadable anomaly logged itself again.
Just once.
And then vanished.