Until the final whistle

First Night

Ha-Jun didn’t sleep well.

The bed was too soft. The room was too quiet. Every small sound in the house felt amplified — the distant hum of the refrigerator, the soft creak of wood as the temperature dropped, once the faint sound of footsteps downstairs that stopped outside his door for a few seconds before moving away again.

He lay on his back staring at the ceiling, one arm under his head, the ice pack long since melted into a useless wet towel on the nightstand.

He’s probably asleep already. Perfect posture even in bed. Hands folded on his chest like a f*****g vampire.

The bruise on his cheek pulsed. His lip had cracked open again at some point and left a faint metallic taste in his mouth. He licked it irritably and turned onto his side, dragging the stupidly expensive duvet over his shoulder.

Sleep, when it finally came, was thin and full of half-formed images — locker rooms, blood on the floor, cold blue eyes looking straight through him.

---

The alarm on his phone went off at 5:40 a.m.

Ha-Jun silenced it with a groan, sat up, and immediately regretted existing. His body ached from the fight and the unfamiliar mattress. He dragged himself into the connected bathroom, winced at his reflection (the bruise had darkened into a nasty purple-black), and took a quick, scalding shower just to feel something other than irritation.

When he came out with a towel around his waist, the smell of coffee was already drifting up the stairs.

Of course he’s up. Probably been awake since four doing meditation and calculating how to be better than everyone else.

Ha-Jun pulled on black training pants and a dark hoodie, shoved his feet into sneakers, and went downstairs ready to leave for the bus.

Arnold was in the kitchen.

He stood at the counter in a clean white compression shirt and black athletic pants, hair still damp, pouring coffee into a matte black mug. The white fabric clung to his shoulders and the long line of his back. He looked disgustingly put-together for the hour.

Ha-Jun stopped at the bottom of the stairs.

Arnold glanced over, eyes flicking once across Ha-Jun’s bruised face and damp hair, then turned back to the coffee machine.

“There’s extra,” he said. “If you want any.”

“I’m fine.”

“The bus takes thirty-five minutes with morning traffic. The car takes eighteen. Your choice.”

Ha-Jun’s jaw tightened.

Don’t take the bait. Just walk out the door.

His stomach chose that moment to growl loud enough to be heard across the kitchen.

Arnold’s mouth twitched — not quite a smile, but close enough to be infuriating. He pulled a second mug from the cabinet, poured coffee into it, and set it on the island without looking at Ha-Jun again.

“Black. No sugar. You look like the type.”

Ha-Jun stared at the mug.

Asshole.

He walked over, grabbed it, and took a sip just to have something to do with his hands. The coffee was disgustingly good.

Arnold leaned against the opposite counter, drinking his own, watching him over the rim of the mug with those unreadable blue eyes.

“The swelling’s worse,” he said.

“Thanks for the update.”

“There’s anti-inflammatory gel in the downstairs bathroom. Second drawer.”

Ha-Jun set the mug down harder than necessary.

“Why do you care?”

Arnold’s gaze stayed steady.

“I don’t particularly. But if you show up to practice looking like you lost a street fight, the coaches will ask questions. I’d rather not spend the morning explaining my temporary roommate’s face.”

The words were calm. Reasonable. And they pissed Ha-Jun off more than an outright insult would have.

He picked the mug up again, drained half of it, and headed for the door.

“I’ll take the bus.”

Arnold’s voice followed him, cool and even.

“Suit yourself. Keys are there if you change your mind tomorrow.”

Ha-Jun yanked the front door open and stepped out into the early morning chill without answering.

Behind him, he thought he heard the soft sound of a mug being set down on the counter, but he didn’t look back.

The gate slid open automatically as he approached. He walked through it with his hands shoved in his pockets, breath visible in the cold air, the taste of expensive coffee still on his tongue.

One night down.

Only God knows how many left.

And the most irritating part — the part that made him want to turn around and put his fist through one of those perfect glass windows — was that a small piece of him already knew he would be in that black car tomorrow morning.

Because the bus was cold.

And the coffee had been really, really good.