After making a full recovery, Hyunjin returned to Seiren's court like he had never left it. Stronger. Sharper. And colder.
But so was the tension with Seojun—colder than ever. Whatever unspoken truce they'd once silently agreed to had shattered somewhere along the way. Maybe in the hospital. Maybe the day I left.
Hyunjin and Minho's debut game after going pro was everything the public had waited for—Seiren back, rebranded, and more dangerous than ever.
Despite the thick air between Hyunjin and Seojun, they remained professional.
Focused. Deadly. Like storm and sea—wildly different, but devastating when they moved together. Hyunjin's explosive agility and Seojun's cool precision created plays that felt choreographed by instinct. You could feel the crowd holding their breath every time they passed the ball between them—like watching lightning strike just before thunder boomed.
Seiren dominated the court.
Every dribble, every dunk, every pivot was poetry in motion. Minho had the crowd roaring with his no-look passes and signature spin shots. Hyunjin's fast break was electric—he soared through the air like gravity didn't apply to him, slamming the ball into the hoop as the buzzer rang.
The arena erupted.
It was their first pro win. And it was unforgettable.
I spotted Seoyeon in the VIP section, right where I expected her to be—dressed in Seiren blue, clapping with perfect elegance. Of course she was there. She always would be.
But even with the crowd screaming his name, Hyunjin didn't smile. Not once.
His teammates lifted him on their shoulders. Reporters swarmed. Cameras flashed. And still—his eyes were distant, searching the crowd for faces that never came.
His parents weren't there.
They never would be. Not when they'd already decided his future was in boardrooms, not locker rooms.
As much as I wanted to congratulate him, I couldn't.
I didn't even know what we were anymore.
A ghost of a love? A wound that never healed?
He wouldn't want to hear from me. Not after everything.
So, instead, I texted Minho:
"Congratulations on the win. You guys were amazing out there. I can't stay to congratulate you in person because something came up, but I'll make it up to you through dinner. Also... can you congratulate him for me?"
Minho understood. Of course he did.
In the locker room, while everyone was celebrating and tossing water bottles like champagne, he left his phone deliberately on the bench near Hyunjin. The message still glowing on the screen. Then, with practiced nonchalance, he called out:
"Hyunjin! Toss me my phone, would you?"
Hyunjin reached over, casually grabbed it... then paused.
His eyes caught the message.
My name on the screen. My words.
He read it. Minho knew he did. Because when he returned and took the phone from his hand, Hyunjin didn't speak.
But his fingers clenched the towel in his lap just a little too tightly.
After that game, everything changed.
Hyunjin and Minho were everywhere—magazine covers, brand campaigns, social media exploding with edits, fancams, hashtags.
The world had decided—they were the new golden boys of Korean basketball.
And Jessie? She was not amused.
I'd never seen her jealous before, but apparently watching her boyfriend get called a "walking thirst trap" by thousands of fan girls hit a nerve.
