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The smell of expensive cologne and hairspray always felt like a suffocating blanket to Heesung. Under the blinding spotlights of the Grand Gold Acting Award, every inch of him was curated: the luxury suit, the meticulously styled pink-blonde hair, the "actor’s smile" that didn’t quite reach his eyes.
On his lap, hidden beneath the velvet program, his phone buzzed. A notification from a sports live-blog: “Rookie Lightweight Finals: Yoongu vs. Min-jun. Undercard starting now.”
Heesung’s heart did a slow, painful roll in his chest. Across the city, in a gym that smelled of sweat and liniment, Yoongu was stepping onto a canvas that would likely be stained with his own blood by the end of the night.
"You're on in twenty minutes," his manager whispered, leaning in. "Keep that phone away. People are watching."
I'm just checking the time," Heesung lied, his thumb hovering over the screen. He had promised. Whatever happens, I’ll be there.
In the tunnels of the arena, the air was cold. Yoongu bounced on the balls of his feet, his hand-wraps feeling tight and reassuring.
"Breathe, Yoongu-ya," Doc Dan said, his voice a calm anchor in the storm of the crowd's roar. He pressed a cold compress to the back of Yoongu’s neck. "You’ve done the work. Your cardio is better than his. Just stay technical."
"I'm ready," Yoongu grunted, though his stomach was a knot of nerves.
"You better be," a deep, terrifyingly familiar voice rumbled. Jaekyung stood in the corner, arms crossed over his massive chest, looking as unimpressed as ever. "If you lose to a bottom-tier rookie like Min-jun, don't bother showing up to the gym tomorrow.” Jaekyung's way of showing support.
Coach Namwook nudged Yoongu with a grin. "Ignore him. He’s just here because Dan made him come. Go out there and show them what Team Black is made of."
Yoongu nodded, but his eyes flickered toward the VIP entrance. Empty. No pink hair. No stylish suit. He felt a pang of doubt—Heesung was a star, and stars belonged in stages, not in the gritty front row of a blood sport. If I win, Yoongu thought, maybe I’ll finally be someone who deserves to stand by his side.
"And the winner for Best New Actor is... Heesung!"
The applause was thunderous. Heesung stood up. He walked to the stage, the heavy gold trophy pressed into his palm. He looked at the camera, giving the fans the exact tilt of the head they wanted.
"Thank you," he said into the mic, his voice steady despite the adrenaline. "To the director, the crew, and the fans... Thank you for believing in me."
He didn't mention that he was counting the seconds. He didn't mention that his soul was currently three miles away. As soon as he stepped off-stage, he didn't head to the press room. He headed for the fire exit.
"Heesung! Where are you going? The after-party—"
"Cancel it," Heesung snapped at his manager, throwing on a black bucket hat and a mask he’d stashed in his pocket. "I have a promise to keep."
The world was a blur of gray and red. Yoongu’s vision was narrowing.
By the twelfth round, the "realistic" beauty of the sport had vanished, replaced by the ugly reality of attrition. Yoongu’s left eye was swollen shut, a purple welt that throbbed with every heartbeat. His ribs screamed every time he took a breath. Min-jun, his opponent, wasn't doing much better—his nose was skewed, and he was huffing like a broken engine.
Clack! Clack! The sticks signaled the final ten seconds of the match.
The crowd was a deafening wall of sound, but then, through the sweat stinging his eyes, Yoongu saw a flash of color near the entrance. A man in a high-end suit, ruined by a hasty jacket thrown over it, wearing a bucket hat pulled low.
Heesung was there. He had made it.
Adrenaline, sharp and electric, surged through Yoongu’s veins. He stopped retreating. He planted his back foot, ignoring the agonizing protest of his shin.
Min-jun swung—a desperate, wide overhand right. It was sloppy.
Yoongu slipped the punch, the air of the glove whistling past his ear. He countered with everything he had left—a textbook lead hook followed by a devastating straight right cross.
Crack.
The sound of knuckle meeting jaw echoed over the cheering. Min-jun eyes rolled back; his legs turned to jelly as he collapsed forward. But the momentum carried both of them. Yoongu’s own body, pushed far past the point of exhaustion, finally gave out.
The venue didn't explode with a cheer; it shattered with a sickening silence.
As Min-jun hit the canvas like a felled tree, Yoongu followed with a heartbeat later. He didn't fall gracefully. His knees buckled, and his body crumpled, his head bouncing off the padded floor with a dull thud that seemed to vibrate through the floorboards and into Heesung’s very bones.
For three seconds, the arena held its breath. The referee, mid-count for Min-jun, realized the victor wasn't standing either. He waved his arms frantically, signaling the end of the match—not with a triumphant shout, but with a call for the medics.
"Medical! Get the board in here now!" the announcer’s voice cracked over the PA system.
The chaos that followed was a blur of high-vis jackets and white coats. Emergency staff swarmed the ring, their heavy boots thumping on the canvas. The bright, cinematic lighting of the arena suddenly felt clinical and cruel, illuminating the dark pool of blood spreading beneath Yoongu’s head.
In the corner of the screen on the jumbotron, the "LIVE" icon flickered and died. The broadcast went black, replaced by a static logo of the MMA federation—a grim sign of respect and protocol reserved only for the most dire injuries. The silence in the room was now heavy, punctuated only by Coach Namwook’s frantic, raw shouts tore across the arena, underscored by the rhythmic snapping of medical kits and the low, urgent murmurs of the responding trauma team.
Heesung felt his heart drop, not just into his stomach, but through the floor. He stared at the ring, his breath hitching in his throat. The mask over his face felt like it was suffocating him.
"Yoongu," he whispered, the sound lost in the panicked murmur of the crowd.