The neighborhood was dead quiet. Not a single car. The only sound was the high-tech, electronic whirr of the security cameras panning on their mounts. The air was cool and smelled like damp grass and expensive landscaping.
The park was just a two-minute walk away. It was, like everything else, perfect. The cheyug gigu (workout equipment) wasn't just functional; it was designer. The horizontal bars weren't rusty yellow pipes; they were matte-black, powder-coated steel with perfect, ergonomic grips.
This was a bar built by a chaebol.
I tossed my new phone onto a bench, popped in my old headphones, and put on some heavy rock.
I grabbed the bar.
The grip was perfect.
I pulled myself up.
One. Two. Three.
My muscles, tight from the flight and the stress, finally uncoiled.
This, I understood. This was my language. I moved from pull-ups to a muscle-up, then into a few basic spins, my body moving with a familiar, comforting burn. Stress melted away.
I wasn't "San, the exchange student." I was just Motuz, on the bars.
I finished a set, my breath clouding in the cool air, and I was hanging by my hands, my head tilted back, staring at the Seoul moon.
"Nice form, 'Mountain.' You look less ugly when you are exercising."
I yelped, a totally undignified sound, and dropped to the ground, spinning around, my heart trying to escape my chest. He was leaning against a leg-press machine, twenty feet away, almost invisible in the shadows. Lee Myung-Dae. He had his hands shoved deep in his pockets, and the black beanie was pulled low, just like in the hall. In the dim park light, the white plaster on his nose looked stark, almost glowing.
He hadn't made a sound.
"What... what are you doing here?" I stammered, my heart thudding. Myung-Dae just smirked, a lazy, one-sided smile.
"It's a park. And this is my neighborhood, waegukin." He sauntered closer, his movements fluid and bored . He looked me up and down. "Big day for you," he drawled. "New school rep. Star of the gossip feed. You pick a fight with Chae-rin, you pick a fight with me. You're busy."
"I didn't pick a fight with... I just bumped..."
"Sure," he said, cutting me off. He was right in front of me now. He was a little shorter than me, but he felt... sharper. Denser. He glanced back in the direction of the house I'd just left. "So," he said, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial, mocking tone. "Does Eomeonim Lee know her new puppy is out past his bedtime?"
My blood ran cold. He knew.
He'd used the formal "Eomeonim".
He knew exactly who I was living with, confirming Ha-neul's "golden triangle" speech .
"How did you...?"
"I told you. I live here," he said, tapping the side of his head. "Couldn't sleep. Looks like you couldn't either."
"I... I didn't want to sleep, it's just my routine," I corrected, feeling stupid trying to play it cool. Myung-Dae just shrugged, as if the distinction was boring. He glanced at my gloves. "You actually know how to use those, huh? Not just for show."
He turned his head, his sharp, cat-like eyes drifting past me to the empty, beautifully-lit basketball court next to the workout station. "You're full of surprises, Mountain," he said.
He glanced at my workout gloves, then at the empty, beautifully-lit basketball court next to us.
"Heard you can play," he said. It wasn't a question. The gossip feed here was clearly supernatural. "I'm bored." He nodded at the court. "1-on-1. Ten points."
A minute later, we were on the court. He was right. A perfect, fully-inflated ball was just sitting in an unlocked shed. This neighborhood was bizarre. "Ball's in," Myung-Dae said. He checked it to me. I checked it back. He started dribbling, a lazy, streetball rhythm. He was wearing beat-up sneakers, his uniform trousers, and a hoodie. His movements were fluid, almost sleepy . Then, in a blur, he crossed over, so fast I barely saw it, and laid the ball in. 1-0. "Your turn," he said, tossing me the ball. My blood was up. That old, familiar Kuroko feeling was back . I wasn't just going to let him win. I dribbled, faked right, and did the fast, low crossover I'd copied from Aomine. Myung-Dae didn't stumble. He read it. His hand shot out, almost stealing the ball, but I managed to recover, pivoting away and hitting a short jump shot. Swish. 1-1.
Myung-Dae's lazy smirk vanished. He was looking at me now. Really looking at me. "Huh," he said. The game was on. It wasn't a friendly match. It was aggressive. I used my height and my "school captain" fundamentals; he used his speed and a library of unpredictable, self-taught street moves. We traded baskets. Elbows flew. We both hit the pavement once. It was a conversation held in squeaking sneakers and harsh breathing.
It was 9-9. Game point. Myung-Dae had the ball. He dribbled, his eyes locked on mine. He drove left. I cut him off. He spun. I was still there. He stepped back, faking a shot. I went for it. I jumped, my hand outstretched, ready for the block, just like in the gym. It's what he was waiting for. I was in the air as he palmed the ball, ducked under my arm, and laid it softly against the glass. Swish. 10-9. Game.
I landed, my chest heaving, sweat dripping into my eyes. I was completely gassed. Myung-Dae didn't cheer. He just stood under the hoop, spinning the ball on one finger, that lazy smirk returning. The plaster on his nose was slightly askew. "You're not terrible, Mountain," he panted, his voice still bored. "For a 'puppy.'" He threw the ball, hard, back toward the shed.
What does 'puppy' mean, is it some slang? Why does he call me like that? I need to study more
"See you tomorrow, neighbor." He shoved his hands back in his pockets and just... walked away, disappearing into the dark, leaving me alone on the court, more confused, and more energized, than I had been all day.