The next Monday, Tae-Ho burst into the classroom like someone had just told him he'd won the lottery.
"Yah, Jae-Hyun! Jae-Suk!" he shouted, waving his arms so wildly that the students near the door flinched. "You will not believe what just happened!"
Jae-Suk didn't even look up from his tablet. "You finally convinced your dad to let you get a gaming console?"
"Ha, funny," Tae-Ho said, dropping into the seat beside him. "No — it's better. At dinner last night, my dad suddenly said I could join any club I wanted. No conditions, no lecture. Just—'Do whatever you want.'"
Jae-Suk blinked. "Didn't he say that was a waste of time last month?"
"Yeah," Tae-Ho said proudly. "But I showed him my pictures from the last school event, and guess what? He said I actually have 'an eye for composition.'"
Jae-Hyun closed his book and said in his usual calm tone, "He's not wrong. You're good."
Tae-Ho grinned. "See? Validation from Shinseong's top student-slash-athlete. I've peaked. Life complete."
"You said that last week when you scored a perfect on your math test," Jae-Suk said.
"That was academic glory," Tae-Ho replied, tossing his hair dramatically. "This is artistic glory."
Jae-Suk muttered, "The day you become humble, I'll buy everyone coffee."
Tae-Ho gasped. "Then never, my friend. Never."
Jae-Suk smirked. "So you're basically chasing fame now."
"That's not the point!" Tae-Ho said, waving him off. "The point is my dad said yes! You know what that means? I'm finally free!" He spread his arms dramatically.
"Free to do what?" Jae-Hyun asked dryly. "Quit after one week like you did last time?"
"Hey! That was different. That fencing club was toxic."
"You hit the instructor in the face," Jae-Suk said.
Tae-Ho gasped. "It was self-defense! He was swinging a sword at me!"
"That's literally what fencing is," Jae-Suk replied, deadpan.
Jae-Hyun's lips twitched—displaying a faint smile.
"See?" Tae-Ho pointed triumphantly. "Even Jae-Hyun finds it funny. That's character growth right there."
By lunch, the trio had settled back into their easy rhythm, chatting as they joined the cafeteria line.
Tae-Ho leaned closer. "Hey, have you guys noticed something weird?"
"Besides your hair?" Jae-Suk asked without looking up.
"I'm being serious," Tae-Ho said, ignoring him. "You heard about the transfer, right? The second-year guy—uh, what's his name—Jeong something?"
"Jeong Hye-Min," Jae-Suk said. "Yeah. Left in the middle of the semester. No warning."
"Exactly! Who transfers mid-term in a school like Shinseong?" Tae-Ho whispered. "You know how hard it is to get in here? It doesn't make sense."
Jae-Suk shrugged. "Maybe he couldn't handle the pressure."
Tae-Ho's eyes widened. "Pressure? Or something else?"
"Oh no," Jae-Suk muttered. "Here we go again."
"I'm just saying," Tae-Ho continued, "first that announcement about 'elevating student potential,' and now students are getting transferred out, scholarships are being revoked, and some students are suddenly 'on leave.' Doesn't that sound sketchy to you?"
Jae-Suk frowned. "You think it's connected?"
"Of course it's connected. When's the last time Shinseong ever did something out of kindness?" Tae-Ho said. "If they're not getting something out of it, there's definitely a catch."
Jae-Suk raised an eyebrow. "Maybe it's just coincidence."
"Right, and maybe I'll win the lottery tomorrow," Tae-Ho said dryly. "Something's up."
Jae-Hyun didn't say anything, just quietly took his tray as the line moved forward.
But Tae-Ho noticed the flicker in his eyes — like he was thinking the same thing but wouldn't say it out loud.
They found their usual table by the window. Tae-Ho leaned in, whispering conspiratorially,
"I'm bringing my camera to the next basketball practice."
Jae-Suk frowned. "You're not allowed to bring cameras to practice."
"That's why it's called sneaking," Tae-Ho said.
Jae-Hyun gave him a side look. "You'll get caught."
Tae-Ho shrugged. "Not if I'm careful. I want action shots — the kind with sweat flying and all that dramatic lighting. Might even sell them to the school paper."
Jae-Suk snorted. "You're unbelievable."
"I'm ambitious," Tae-Ho corrected. "You guys just lack artistic vision."
Jae-Hyun shook his head faintly, a hint of amusement ghosting across his expression. "You'll last five minutes before Coach confiscates it."
"Then I'll take pictures in those five minutes worth an award," Tae-Ho said confidently. "Greatness requires risk."
Jae-Suk muttered, "You'll be writing apology letters by tomorrow."
Just then a tray suddenly clacked down onto their table.
All three turned.
A tall boy with slightly messy hair and a bright, easy grin stood there. "Hey, guys."
Then, without hesitation, he reached over and took a piece of grilled beef from Jae-Hyun's plate.
Tae-Ho froze mid-chew. Jae-Suk's fork hovered in the air.
Jae-Hyun didn't even flinch. He just kept eating.
The boy sat down casually beside him as if this was the most natural thing in the world.
Jae-Hyun calmly turned to Jae-Suk. "So, about Friday. Did the student council meeting go well? Are you officially a member now?"
Jae-Suk blinked, still staring at the boy. "Wait—what? Are you just going to pretend like nothing just happened?"
"Yeah," Tae-Ho said, pointing at the boy. "Who even is this guy?"
The boy swallowed the bite, smiled, and leaned back. "Oh right, I didn't introduce myself. I'm Raon — from the basketball team, and his best friend." He nodded toward Jae-Hyun. "Also a first-year, class 1-C."
"Best what?" Tae-Ho and Jae-Suk chorused.
"Best friend," Raon repeated, all confidence and no hesitation.
Jae-Hyun sighed. "Ignore him."
"No we won't!" Tae-Ho snapped. "Did you replace us? You made a new best friend after ditching us for basketball?"
"He's not," Jae-Hyun said flatly. "He just calls himself that."
Raon laughed. "You say that, but we hang out all the time. We even eat together after practice."
"That's called training," Jae-Hyun corrected, still focused on his food.
Raon leaned forward, unbothered. "Yeah, but you said I was fun."
"Fun to play against," Jae-Hyun said. "You're loud, and you talk too much."
Raon grinned. "And yet, you never tell me to leave. Actions speak louder, captain."
Tae-Ho's eyes narrowed. "Captain? He calls you captain? Oh no, this is serious."
Jae-Suk nodded, pretending to look grave. "We've been replaced."
"Replaced?" Raon laughed. "Come on, I'm just joining the table. Don't be so dramatic."
"Dramatic?" Tae-Ho scoffed. "You walked in, stole food, and declared yourself best friends. That's not joining, that's an invasion."
"An invasion with charm," Raon said with a grin.
Jae-Suk looked between them, exasperated. "Okay, timeout. Since when do you hang out with basketball boy here?"
"Training," Jae-Hyun said simply.
"Training?" Tae-Ho repeated, scandalized. "You mean all those evenings you said you were busy—"
"Were actually busy," Jae-Hyun finished.
Raon grinned. "Busy with me."
"Stop talking," Jae-Hyun said, voice calm but his jaw tightening just slightly.
Raon laughed, unbothered, and stole another piece of meat.
Jae-Suk muttered, "This is going to be a long semester."
By the time lunch ended, Tae-Ho was half sulking, Raon was humming cheerfully, and Jae-Suk looked like he was seriously reconsidering his life choices.
As they headed out of the cafeteria, Tae-Ho leaned closer to Jae-Hyun. "You sure he's not staying permanently?"
Jae-Hyun paused, glancing briefly over his shoulder at Raon — who was still cheerfully humming.
"No," he said finally. "He's staying."
Tae-Ho blinked. "Seriously?"
"Unfortunately."
"I heard that!" Raon called.
Jae-Hyun smirked. "Good."
"You two are unbelievable," Tae-Ho said.
"Correction," Raon piped up, "I'm charming."
Jae-Hyun didn't deny it — which was probably the most shocking part.
After the last bell rang, signaling the end of classes, each student drifted toward their respective clubs. The hallways buzzed with chatter, lockers clanging, and students whispering excitedly among themselves.
At the basketball gym, the team had already gathered, forming a tight circle of focused energy.
At the center stood Jae-Hyun, clipboard in one hand, his other hand loosely gripping a whistle. His expression was calm — too calm — which usually meant danger.
"Saturday's match," he began, tone light but cutting, "was… what's the word? Predictable."
A few players exchanged uneasy glances.
Raon raised a hand. "Predictable like… we're too good and they guessed we'd win?"
A muscle in Jae-Hyun's jaw ticked. "Predictable like you telegraphed every pass, every fake, every move before you made it."
The laughter that followed was nervous.
"You won but you lost, and you didn't lose because you were weaker," Jae-Hyun continued. "You lost because the other team knew what you'd do before you did it. You looked one way and went the same way. You dribbled with rhythm — the same rhythm every single time. Even their bench could read you."
The team groaned.
"I told you to mix it up," muttered Ji-Woon.
"You told them," Jae-Hyun replied, turning toward him. "But you didn't show them. You're our point guard. If you can't disguise your tempo, the rest follow your rhythm — straight into a trap."
Raon lifted his hand again, hesitant. "So… what you're saying is… we're obvious?"
"You," Jae-Hyun said, pointing the marker at him, "are the most obvious. You smile before you shoot."
Raon blinked. "That's called confidence."
"It's called a warning sign."
The rest of the team snickered. Raon sighed dramatically. "So I'm not allowed to be charming anymore. Got it."
"Good," Jae-Hyun said flatly, then clapped once. "Alright. Today, you're going to learn something that'll make you hate me: body language."
The word spread like a ripple through the group — curiosity, confusion, a little dread.
He tossed the clipboard onto a bench and started pacing. "The easiest way to read your opponent is through their body. Where they look determines their next move. The way they plant their feet tells you whether they'll drive or pass. The angle of their shoulders shows where their balance lies. And the ball—" he stopped and tapped his palm "—isn't just something they hold. It's something they speak with. Watch how it shifts, and you'll know what comes next."
A few of the players nodded, their eyes narrowing with new understanding.
Raon, of course, raised his hand again. "So… we're basically psychic now?"
"No," Jae-Hyun said, expression unreadable. "You're observant. Psychic would require talent."
Raon groaned. "You enjoy hurting me."
Jae-Hyun ignored him. "Once you learn to read your opponent, the next step is to fool them. On the court, dominance isn't just about scoring — it's about control. You control the game by making them think they understand you."
He turned to the lineup, eyes sweeping across them like a storm front. "Make them believe they know your rhythm, your step, your pass — then break it. Shift your weight a second earlier. Look left, pass right. Act like you're about to drive, then pull back. And sometimes—" his gaze sharpened, "—to fool your opponent, you'll need to fool your teammates first."
The room went still.
Raon blinked. "And ourselves too?"
Jae-Hyun's lips twitched, just barely. "Exactly."
Silence. Then Min-Seok muttered, "That's terrifying."
Jae-Hyun glanced toward the second lineup, who'd been standing a little too relaxed at the back. "And as for our second lineup — and bench lineup—" his tone dropped to a slow drawl, "I'm coming for you. Soon we'll have our own focused drills. No one, not even a substitute, is allowed to be weak on this team."
A collective gulp echoed through the gym.
Raon leaned toward the guy next to him. "I think he just declared war."
"On everyone," the guy whispered back.
Jae-Hyun raised a brow. "Something to share, Raon?"
Raon straightened immediately. "Just… admiration."
"Good. Save it for when you survive practice."
That set off a round of laughter, but the tension stayed — a live wire humming beneath the sound.
Jae-Hyun's voice stayed low and steady, the kind that made every word land like a final command. "We've got practice matches scheduled every day this week, starting tomorrow. Lose even once, and I'll double your drills, tighten rotations, and start cutting minutes until only the toughest stay on this roster. Consider this probation: every match counts."
A stunned hush fell over the circle, then a rush of groans, nervous laughs, and sharp, determined nods — the team trading worry for a hard, hungry focus.
For the rest of practice, the gym was alive with movement and noise: shoes squeaking, balls thudding against the court, Jae-Hyun's voice cutting through the air with precise corrections. Players stumbled, adjusted, cursed, tried again. Raon, usually the loudest, grew quiet — focused.
Apparently, body language practice was far harder than it sounded — even tougher than a full scrimmage. And just as Jae-Hyun had warned, it was the kind of drill that made them start to hate him — well, not exactly hate him, but definitely hate his merciless, mind-bending practice style.
And when Jae-Hyun finally called it, sweat drenched every shirt, but there was a gleam in their eyes that hadn't been there before.
They were starting to see the game the way he did — like a language only he could speak.