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KWON STARED AT THE SOFT GOLDEN HUE OF THE APPLE JUICE, swirling it in the champagne glass as the aircraft gently hummed around him. First-class offered every comfort imaginable: reclining seats, gourmet meals, and noise-canceling serenity. Yet, none of it helped. His phone and headphones were both charging in the overhead outlet, leaving him to marinate in the thick, inescapable silence. Everyone else on the flight was fast asleep. The glow of the cabin lights cast shadows that only seemed to deepen his thoughts.
Twelve hours had passed since they'd left Seoul. Two more to go before they landed in Barcelona for the Sekai Taikai. Two more hours before he'd be forced to pull himself together, fake a smile, and step into the role of the indomitable fighter everyone expected him to be. Yet here he was, swirling juice in a glass meant for champagne, letting his thoughts unspool like a fraying thread.
The night kept creeping back in. It wasn't the night of the fight with y/n or even the ones spent arguing with Tory. It was that night—the one he never spoke of. The one that had ruined everything.
Three details ran on repeat in his head, like a cruel, endless loop:
His grandmother's laryngectomy.
Yoo-mi's family.
Sensei Kreese.
He shut his eyes, leaning back into the plush leather seat, willing himself to stop the memories, but they came anyway.
***
It had been raining that night, the kind of rain that washed Seoul clean but left the air smelling like asphalt and regret. He'd been at the hospital all day, pacing the corridors outside the operation theater. His grandmother's frail voice had been taken away by cancer, and now the doctors were taking the rest—her entire larynx. He couldn't bear it. The sight of his sweet halmoni strapped to machines, her life dependent on the constant hum and beeps of monitors, was too much.
He remembered how he'd fidgeted, his fists clenching and unclenching as he stood by the vending machine in the hospital lobby. He couldn't sit still. He couldn't wait. His chest had been a swirling storm of helplessness and guilt. He should've been in that room, holding her hand before they wheeled her into surgery. But instead, he'd bolted.
He hated himself for it.
For the first time, Kwon tried something he always despised. He went home.
When he opened the door, the sharp stench of alcohol hit him like a slap. His father was passed out on the couch again, a half-empty bottle of rum still clutched in his hand. Kwon stopped in his tracks, his fists trembling at the sight. It was always like this. Always. He stood there for a long moment, staring at the man he always despised. The one who drove his mother to insanity. The one who gambled what little he earned... Now, he was still his insufferable self, drowning in a bottle while the boy carried the weight of their broken family on his shoulders.
