[+..••³]

[+..••] 𝖁ᥱᥣ᥎ᥱ𝗍 𝕮һᥲіᥒs

The apartment wasn't big.It wasn't gilded in luxury or lined with butlers like people at Seoul High probably imagined.It was simple. Clean. Sharp edges and cold colors.

Just like her.

Baek Iseul unlocked the door with one hand, the other holding her phone-barely glanced at the texts coming in.

kyung-jun [ 5:03 PM ]u good?that guy from earlier needs to grow a new set of eyes

seungtae [ 5:05 PM ]text me when ur home.just in case.

ki-tae [ 5:06 PM ]eat.i will call your aunt.don't test me, punk.

She didn't reply to any of them. Not yet.

She dropped her bag by the door, kicked off her boots, and let her blazer slide off onto the back of a chair.

In here, she didn't have to walk like her heels were weapons.

Didn't have to speak like her voice could kill.

In here, she was just Iseul. Still sharp. Still cold. But tired.

She wandered into the bathroom, looked at herself in the mirror.

Smudged eyeliner. Lip gloss faded.The steel in her eyes still there, but just a little dulled.

She washed her hands. Then her face. Then stood there with water dripping off her jaw and stared like maybe this version of herself was unfamiliar.

Maybe it was.

She walked to her room, peeling out of her uniform, trading it for a black tank top and loose sweats. Hair tossed into a bun. The kind of outfit she'd never let the school see her in.

She opened the window.

Seoul buzzed below-loud, chaotic, beautiful.Somewhere down there, people were prepping for the next underground fight night.Somewhere, her name was being whispered like a dare.

She picked up her phone again.

No new texts.

Still, she clicked on Kyung-jun's name first. Started typing. Stopped.

Clicked Seungtae's next. Typed. Deleted.

Then finally clicked Ki-tae.

iseul [ 5:32 PM ]when's the next fight?

The response was instant.

ki-tae [ 5:32 PM ]friday. i'll send the drop code tmrwwant someone to fight for you?

She stared at the question.

Then typed back:

iseul [ 5:33 PM ]no.this time i want to fight.

⸻

The phone buzzed again, just as she tossed it onto her bed.

Unknown Number.

Her fingers hovered over Decline.But something-curiosity, instinct, maybe cruelty-made her swipe instead.

She didn't say hello.

She just waited.

Silence for two seconds. Then a voice, soft and careful, like glass balancing on the edge of a counter.

"...Iseul?"

Her spine straightened.

That voice.That name, said like it still meant something. Like she hadn't dropped it two years ago without warning.

"Mom."

It came out flat.

Not angry. Not sad. Just... empty.

"I didn't think you'd pick up," her mother said, breath hitching at the end like she expected warmth. Or maybe forgiveness.

Iseul stared at the darkened window. "I usually don't."

"I know." A pause. "You sound... older."

"I am."

Another pause.

"I heard you moved out of your aunt's place."

"You heard wrong," Iseul lied easily. "I just don't go home much."

Silence again.

She could hear her mother breathing-slow and steady, like if she inhaled too hard the connection would snap.

"Iseul... I didn't call to fight."

"You never did. You just left."

That one landed. She heard it in the way her mom exhaled, shaky and soft.

"I made mistakes."

"You disappeared."

"I wanted you to have a better life."

Iseul laughed once. It was cold.

"You think disappearing gave me that?"

"I was scared," her mother admitted. "I didn't know how to raise someone like you."

Iseul blinked slowly. "Someone like me?"

"You were always... strong. Hard. Like nothing touched you. You didn't need me."

Wrong.

She needed her.

She just never said it.

Iseul leaned against the wall and closed her eyes. The silence stretched long this time.

"You still fighting?" her mother asked quietly.

"I stopped caring what you think about that years ago."

"I'm not judging. Just..." She hesitated. "Be careful. You were always drawn to danger."

"No," Iseul said. "Danger was drawn to me."

A breath. Her mom didn't know what to say to that.

"Do you want me to hang up?" she finally asked, small.

Iseul didn't answer.

Not right away.

But then-

"I don't know."

And that? That was the closest to a confession she'd ever give.

Another few seconds passed.

"I'll go," her mom whispered. "Just... I'm glad you're still picking up sometimes."

The call ended before Iseul could reply.

She stood there, phone still in her hand, chest tight in a way she couldn't name.

Then she threw the phone onto the bed and went to the window again.

Below, the city lights blinked like tiny screams.

Up here, she was quiet.

But her fists?

They were clenched.

⸻

The gates of Seoul High opened like a drawbridge, and Baek Iseul walked in like usual-eyes forward, steps sharp, uniform altered to perfection.

But something was different.

It wasn't in her hair or her walk. It was underneath.

Like she didn't sleep. Like something had clawed at her ribs overnight and left no blood, just weight.

She passed through the halls with her usual quiet force, students parting around her like she carried knives in her smile.

But Kyung-jun saw it first.

She didn't glance at the mirror by the lockers. She always glanced at the mirror.

He fell into step beside her, close but not touching.

"Hey, Queen B."

She didn't roll her eyes like she usually would. Just said, "Hey," and kept walking.

Not right.

Seungtae noticed too. From across the courtyard. His eyes locked on her like she was a threat he didn't understand yet.

He joined them without a word.

Kyung-jun leaned closer. "Rough night?"

"I'm fine."

"No, you're pretty," he said. "But that's not the same thing."

She glanced at him. That old fire almost flickered. Almost.

Ki-tae showed up behind them like a ghost-coffee in one hand, a scarf wrapped half-on like he got dressed during a car crash.

He looked at her once. Tilted his head. Said nothing.

Then:

"She's fighting Friday."

Kyung-jun stopped walking.

Seungtae did too.

"What?" they said, almost in unison.

Iseul kept walking.

"I said," Ki-tae repeated, voice a little too amused, "Iseul's fighting. Not watching. Not betting. Fighting."

Kyung-jun blinked. "You serious?"

She didn't look back. "Dead serious."

Seungtae stepped in front of her, making her stop. His jaw was tight. "Why?"

"Because I want to," she said simply. "And because I can."

Kyung-jun ran a hand through his hair, almost laughing. "You know half the roster's gonna back out when they hear it's you, right?"

"Then maybe they shouldn't sign up."

"This isn't high school shit," Seungtae muttered. "This is blood."

"I'm not new to blood," she snapped, eyes sharp now. "Or are you forgetting who taught you how to throw your first punch?"

Kyung-jun went quiet. So did Seungtae.

Ki-tae sipped his drink. "Told you she was serious."

"You can't fight alone," Seungtae said eventually.

"I'm not," Iseul replied, brushing past them.

Behind her, the boys watched.

She was walking away. But this time, she was dragging war behind her.

And both of them knew:

They weren't gonna let her fight without them.

⸻

The cigarette burned quietly between her fingers, the rooftop wind licking the smoke off her lips before it could settle.

Baek Iseul leaned against the railing, one heel kicked off, the other tapping softly against the concrete ledge. Her blazer was gone. Her tie hung loose around her neck. Her phone buzzed once on the bench behind her-she ignored it.

She didn't come up here to talk.

She came up here to remember.

Her words to Seungtae still hung in her chest like a bruise.

"Or are you forgetting who taught you how to throw your first punch?"

God, that day.

That stupid day.

⸻

They were seven years old, dressed in designer uniforms and dropped off in black cars with parents who smiled wide for cameras and gritted teeth at each other behind closed doors.

Baek Iseul, Go Kyung-jun, Park Seungtae, and Kwak Ki-tae.

The Royal brats. The children of Seoul's most powerful families. Spoiled, sharp, and way too smart for their age.

They weren't close. Not really. They were grouped by convenience-playdates arranged like business meetings. Iseul's mother pretended to love Ki-tae's mom. Kyung-jun's father faked respect for Seungtae's family.

But the kids?

They saw through it all.

They sat in silence in polished playrooms, trading snacks under the table while their parents lied upstairs. Quiet bonds formed in side-eyes and bored whispers. Kyung-jun was always the loudest. Seungtae always the quietest. Ki-tae was the one who asked questions no one wanted to answer. And Iseul?

She just watched.

Until third grade.

Until that day.

⸻

They were nine years old, dressed in perfect little blazers, shoes shined by someone paid too well to care, hair combed like porcelain dolls for press photos.

But this was real school now.

Real hallways.

Real fists.

And real consequences.

The boy who shoved her was bigger, older, arrogant in that way only sons of chaebol families could be. He'd cornered Iseul behind the music building, thinking her silence meant submission.

"Say sorry," he barked. "And bow."

Iseul just looked up at him. Unblinking.

"You don't scare me," she said.

He shoved her again. Hard. Enough that her shoulder cracked against the wall.

That's when the boys showed up.

Kyung-jun was all rage. "What the hell do you think you're doing?!"

He swung first, wild and fast, a sloppy punch that barely connected with the other boy's jaw.

Seungtae followed-more grounded, aiming low, taking the other kid's balance out with a hard shove to the chest.

And Ki-tae?He leaned against the wall and locked the gate behind them with a stolen janitor's keycard, sipping juice from a box like they had all the time in the world.

The fight was messy.

Blood. Grunting. Dirt kicked up from expensive shoes. Kyung-jun caught a hit to the face, Seungtae slipped in the gravel. The older kid was bleeding too, but not enough.

Finally, when it ended-when the boy ran off, limping, crying, swearing his family would ruin them-Iseul just stood there.

Silent.

Watching.

Then finally, she walked up to Kyung-jun, who was holding his side like something cracked.

"You hit like a rich kid," she said.

He blinked at her. "What?"

"That punch was bad," she said coolly. "Let me show you how to do it right."

And without waiting for permission, she stepped behind him, reached for his wrist, and adjusted his stance.

"Tuck your elbow. Don't swing from your shoulder-drive it from your hip. Like this."

Seungtae was still catching his breath, knuckles split open.

"You're scary," he muttered.

"No," Ki-tae said from the side, pushing his hair out of his eyes with an amused smirk. "She's something worse. She's smart."

That day, she didn't thank them.

Didn't need to.

They walked home together, bruised and limping, not saying a word to their parents.

Because for the first time in their golden-spoon lives,they chose each other.

And that meant everything.

⸻

Back on the rooftop, Iseul exhaled a long breath and flicked the cigarette stub into the wind.

"Tch. Still can't throw a clean punch," she muttered to herself, smiling a little at the memory.

Right on cue, the rooftop door creaked open.

"Were you talking about me?" came Kyung-jun's voice, casual, teasing, and just slightly worried underneath.

She didn't turn around.

"Always."

He grinned before she even looked at him.

"So what's my favorite girl doing up here all alone?"He walked over, the rooftop gravel crunching under his shoes, hands in his pockets like he owned the sky.

She gave him a look, one brow raised, smoke curling lazily around her face.

"I don't remember applying for the role of 'your favorite,'" she said, voice flat but not cold.

"You didn't," Kyung-jun said, stepping beside her at the railing. "You were just born for it."

That earned the tiniest twitch at the corner of her mouth.

A near-smile.

Dangerous.

Deadly.

She flicked her cigarette off the edge. Watched it fall.

"I could've handled that guy back then," she murmured.

Kyung-jun leaned forward on his elbows, glancing sideways at her. "Back then? Like... third grade?"

She nodded.

"I let you throw the first punch," she said. "But you didn't do it right."

He laughed softly, shaking his head. "You were terrifying even as a kid."

"Still am."

"That's kinda the point."

She gave him a side-eye. "You like terrifying?"

"I like you."He said it without hesitation. No smirk. Just fact.

And for a second, the rooftop felt too quiet.

Wind blowing her hair gently over her eyes.The sky a faded gray-blue canvas.And Kyung-jun, right next to her, so close their arms almost touched.

She looked away first.

"You gonna try to stop me from fighting?" she asked.

"No."

His voice was lower now. Serious.

"But I'm gonna be there. Right behind the ropes. Just in case."

She glanced at him again.

He was still smiling-but softer now. Like he wasn't just flirting. Like he meant it.

"That punch of yours still sucks," she muttered.

Kyung-jun grinned. "Then teach me again. One-on-one."

"Maybe."

They stood like that for a moment-two kids raised in a world of glass and diamonds, finding comfort in a cracked concrete rooftop.

Then the door creaked again.

Seungtae stepped through, his expression unreadable as always.

"Figures," he said, eyeing them. "Knew he'd follow you up here like a lost puppy."

Kyung-jun smirked. "And you're the jealous ex-wife?"

Seungtae ignored him, walking to Iseul. He didn't say anything for a while-just looked at her.

"You okay?" he asked, voice low.

She nodded.

He studied her face a second longer. "You don't have to prove anything, you know."

"I'm not proving anything," she replied. "I'm reminding them."

Then she turned, started walking toward the stairs.

The boys followed, of course.

Just like they always had.