Joon‑ho didn't usually cross facilities.
Volleyball kept him busy enough—matches, recovery, endless bodies pushed to their limits—but that morning his name was called through the internal system with a request that was specific, polite, and difficult to refuse. A temporary reassignment. Another discipline. A gymnast.
He checked the file as he walked.
Han Seo‑rin.
Even he knew the name. She wasn't just an athlete; she was an image—elegant lines, sculpted strength, a face that brands loved. Beauty ads. Luxury campaigns. A solo ace whose routines were replayed endlessly in slow motion. He'd seen her once on a billboard near the village, frozen mid‑leap, flawless and untouchable.
The gymnastics facility felt different from volleyball the moment he stepped inside. Quieter. More controlled. The air carried a faint scent of chalk and resin, and every movement echoed with discipline. Bodies here were lighter, tighter, trained to obey gravity rather than fight it.
