'I don't wanna look at anything else now that I saw you.'
Coming from a wealthy family was never the major flex in her life. To others, she might come off as a rich spoilt brat but the reality was far from what they perceived her to be.
In a world...
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The morning air hung heavy with anticipation. It was the day that would define all their sleepless nights, their aching muscles, their sacrifices. The final match.
For once, the silence inside the university’s women's changing room wasn't filled with chatter or giggles—it was weighted, tense, vibrating with a nervous energy that no one dared to acknowledge aloud.
It was the day of their finals. The match they worked so hard for.
Miyeon sat at the far end of the bench, her posture composed, back straight, hands resting calmly on her knees. She looked calm on the outside, but inside, the nerves twisted like tightly knotted threads. She didn’t show it though—not when her team needed her strength to hold them steady.
Around her sat Yejin, Hara, Yewon, and Sohee, each lost in their own loop of tension. Sohee was tapping her heel rhythmically, a habit she fell into when anxiety crept in. Yewon sat hunched slightly forward, fingers fidgeting with the hem of her sleeve. Hara’s eyes kept flitting toward the door, and Yejin was visibly mouthing a prayer under her breath.
After the unsettling episode with Yejin, Miyeon had begun to see the bigger picture with painful clarity. It wasn’t just about a teammate’s betrayal—it was manipulation. Yejin, as naïve as she may have seemed, was merely a pawn in a far more twisted game orchestrated by Jiyang.
The sudden act of trust, the carefully timed breakdown—it had all been a ploy, designed for one thing: access. Access into their safe space. The changing room.
And Jiyang had used Yejin to get there in name of friendship.
But with no tangible proof to pin Jiyang’s calculated move, Miyeon and the others were forced to let the matter go—for now. No confrontations, no accusations. Just silence.
Controlled silence.
Still, Miyeon wasn’t someone who believed in the idea of forgetting and forgiving when the wound was still fresh and deliberate. She had learned long ago that sometimes the only way to fight back was to wait for the right moment.
And today—on the court, under the glare of the stadium lights—was her moment.
If Jiyang thought she could play games, then Miyeon would show her that she’d been playing them in the wrong arena.
Because two can play that game.
And Miyeon never stepped onto a court without knowing how to win.
She looked at each one of them with quiet pride. They had all come so far—not just as players, but as people. Stronger, braver, more resilient.
The door creaked open, and every head snapped toward it.
Hana stepped in, her limp evident but her smile steady and bright. The former captain still carried the glow of leadership, even in sweats and with her leg still wrapped tightly in support. She took her time crossing the room, and no one spoke until she did.
