Hae-Min didn't tell anyone he was going to the hospital.
Not Ha-Yoon.
Not his manager.
Not even himself, really.
He booked the appointment under the excuse of "routine checks," the kind athletes did all the time. He wore a cap pulled low, hands shoved into his jacket pockets as he walked through the automatic doors. The hospital smelled like disinfectant and quiet, like things that were meant to be clean but never comforting.
He sat in the waiting room longer than expected.
A television murmured softly in the corner, the sound turned low. A woman across from him held an old man's hand. Somewhere down the hall, a baby cried and was quickly soothed. Life continuing, indifferent to the fear threading its way through his chest.
When the nurse called his name, he stood too quickly and had to steady himself.
"Take your time," she said gently.
He nodded, smiling out of habit.
The examinations took hours.
Strength tests. Reflexes. Scans. Questions that seemed harmless until they weren't.
"When did you first notice the weakness?"
"Any numbness?"
"Any family history?"
Hae-Min answered calmly, carefully. He joked once, lightly, and the doctor smiled back, but the smile didn't stay.
Eventually, he sat alone in a small office, hands resting on his knees, while the doctor reviewed his file one last time. The hum of fluorescent lights felt unbearably loud.
The doctor finally looked up.
"Hae-Min," he said, voice steady but unsoftened, "the results suggest early-stage paralysis."
The words didn't land all at once.
They came slowly, like snow settling on something already fragile.
Paralysis.
Hae-Min blinked once. Twice.
"I… still walk," he said, almost confused. "I still train."
"Yes," the doctor replied. "That's why we call it early-stage. It's progressing, but slowly. That doesn't mean it isn't serious."
"How long?" Hae-Min asked quietly.
The doctor hesitated, just a fraction too long.
"It varies," he said. "Months. Years. It depends on how your body responds."
Silence filled the room.
Hae-Min nodded, absorbing it the way he absorbed pain on the field, with stillness, with discipline. He didn't ask about cures. He didn't ask why. He already knew the answers wouldn't change anything.
"Can I keep playing?" he asked.
The doctor met his eyes this time.
"For now," he said carefully. "But there will come a point where it won't be safe."
Hae-Min smiled faintly.
"For now is enough," he said.
When he left the hospital, the sky looked exactly the same as it had that morning. Cars passed. People laughed. Someone argued on the phone. The world did not pause to acknowledge what had just been taken from him.
He stood on the sidewalk for a long time before moving.
_________________
That evening, the apartment felt warmer than usual.
Ye-Joon was sprawled on the floor with his toys, narrating a story only he understood. Ha-Yoon moved around the kitchen, humming softly as she cooked, the sound familiar enough to feel like home.
Hae-Min sat on the couch, hands clasped together, watching them both.
When Ha-Yoon noticed his silence, she glanced over. "Long day?"
"Yeah," he said. "Just tired."
She studied him for a moment longer than usual, then nodded.
Dinner passed quietly, comfortably. Ye-Joon chattered about kindergarten, about a drawing he made, about how he wanted to be "fast like Dad" when he grew up.
Hae-Min smiled and ruffled his hair.
Afterward, the television flickered to life.
A familiar face appeared on the screen.
Seon-Woo.
Ha-Yoon froze.
The announcer's voice filled the room, clear and bright. "An international jewellery design competition, receiving top honors for his innovative work....."
The camera cut to Seon-Woo standing under bright lights, hair neatly styled, expression stunned but composed. His hands trembled slightly as he accepted the award, fingers brushing the edge of the trophy like he wasn't sure it was real.
Ha-Yoon sat down slowly.
Ye-Joon climbed onto her lap, sensing the shift. "Mom?"
She didn't answer right away.
On the screen, Seon-Woo spoke.
"This isn't about success," he said, voice steady despite everything. "It's about choosing to make something that lasts. Something honest."
Hae-Min watched closely.
He saw the man Seon-Woo had become, not bitter, not broken, but grounded. He saw the confidence that came not from winning, but from surviving long enough to try again.
Ha-Yoon's eyes filled quietly.
She didn't cry. She just breathed, one hand resting protectively on Ye-Joon's back.
"He looks happy," Ye-Joon said innocently.
"Yes," Ha-Yoon whispered. "He does."
Hae-Min felt something strange unfold in his chest, not jealousy, not regret.
Acceptance.
He reached out and covered Ha-Yoon's hand with his own.
She looked at him, surprised.
He smiled, gentle and real. "I'm proud of him," he said.
She searched his face, trying to read what he wasn't saying.
"Me too," she replied softly.
The television continued, showing Seon-Woo's designs, delicate, deliberate, full of intention. Pieces made to endure.
Hae-Min watched until the segment ended.
Later that night, after Ye-Joon was asleep and the apartment had settled into its familiar quiet, Hae-Min stood by the window alone.
His reflection stared back at him, still strong, still standing.
But now he knew.
And knowing changed everything.
He pressed his hand against the glass and whispered, barely audible, "Not yet."
Because there was still time.
And he intended to use every second of it.