Chapter Text
The noise from outside, the money clutched in the gamblers’ hands, the referee waiting for the fighters to enter the ring, the weight of the gloves in his hands and the makeup on his face—his orange hair was tousled, and his heart was pounding with excitement as he waited to step into the ring to face his opponent. He took a deep breath through his nose and exhaled through his mouth, put on his mouthguard, stretched his muscles to loosen up, and did a few light jumps.
“And our star, our Gumiho!”—that was his cue. He smiled as he stepped into the ring, sending the crowd into a frenzy of excitement.
The orange-haired man felt good—free and powerful in a unique way. He waved to the crowd, never stopping his smile, and this seemed to delight the audience even more. He looked at his opponent, who was considerably more muscular than he was.
“Gumiho…” he greeted with a haughty smile.
The referee stepped between them.
“What’s up?” he said, returning the greeting as he took his position.
“Are you ready?” he asked, looking at both fighters.
“I am, but maybe Gorilla isn’t,” he declared, smiling at his opponent.
“I’m going to knock out those pretty teeth of yours,” growled the one nicknamed Gorilla.
Gumiho couldn’t help but laugh.
“Ready…? Touch gloves” the fighters did so and then stepped back “Fight!” The referee stepped back just as Gorilla threw his first punch, which Gumiho gracefully dodged.
He hopped lightly on the spot; Gorilla tried to hit him again, but Gumiho dodged it once more.
“Stop messing around, Gumiho!” he growled.
Gumiho smiled; as Gorilla closed in again, he landed a jab, followed by a cross. He dodged Gorilla’s jab by ducking and smiled when he saw an opening for an uppercut—which he wasted no time in delivering, causing Gorilla to let out a scream of pain and fall to the ground from the force of the blow.
“10 points for Gumiho!” the referee announced.
Gumiho smiled as he saw his opponent on the ground. His heart was racing with adrenaline.
The crowd cheered in celebration of Gumiho’s points; the fight had them on the edge of their seats. Gumiho dodged Gorila’s blows with an almost artistic grace—it was mesmerizing to watch—but he attacked whenever he saw the slightest opening or exposed spot on his opponent’s body.
“Gumiho”—as he had already been nicknamed—because of his fighting tactics, his cunning, and how seductive his movements were in the ring; yet despite this, the force of his punches was deadly, he was ruthless, and it was rare for him not to leave his opponent bleeding, even just a little. Gumiho had been in the world of street boxing for quite a while now, and at first, no one seemed to have even a shred of faith in him. A young man who looked to be in his early 20s, with vibrant orange hair, deep blue eyes, and a skinny build—no one would ever have thought that he would actually win every single fight since his debut. But it wasn’t just that which drew people to Gumiho; it was also the fact that no one knew who he really was—no one knew exactly how old he was, his real name, or what he did for a living. Although these were nearly illegal fights marketed as simple boxing matches or boxing classes, people usually signed up under their real names, and the public gave them nicknames, and while people knew who the others were, Gumiho remained a mystery even to the most devoted fans. No one could find him on social media or through Google, because his face was completely covered in makeup that made him completely unrecognizable. The fighter Gumiho was a mystery to everyone, even the promoter of the fights himself, which is why he attracted so many more fans.
Gumiho didn’t give interviews; no one knew what he did with the money he won from betting. After his fights ended, he would simply vanish into thin air—no one ever saw him come or go, except for the security guards, they think—and he would only appear when summoned for a fight.
But no one paid much mind because, in reality, what mattered most in that place was that the fighter put on a good show. Gumiho delivered, so they overlooked his anonymity.
“One, two, three! Gumiho wins the fight!” The referee held the orange-haired fighter’s arm aloft while the crowd chanted his name in euphoria.
“Gumiho! Gumiho!” The boy smiled at the outburst as he strolled around the ring with grace and nonchalance.
There, he was simply the best fighter in the ring; he didn’t need anyone to know who he really was.
Gumiho hoped with all his heart that things would stay that way.
⦮ ⦯
“God, this is so boring,” he muttered, adjusting his glasses (fake ones, by the way) as he moved his chair back and forth.
“Yoon!” His boss’s voice made the black-haired man look up from his computer screen. “Come to my office.”
“Yes, sir,” he replied as he stood up and walked to the office.
Yoon closed the door behind him, and his boss looked at him over his glasses; the man, who was about fifty, put down the newspaper he was holding.
“I need you to write an article about this and go take the corresponding photos,” he said, handing Yoon some papers, which Yoon took and examined.
“The Best Soaps for People with Allergies”
“Are you serious?” he asked, looking at his boss with pursed lips. “I’ve been working at this newspaper for two years, and this is the only kind of article you give me?”
Yoon really wanted to shut his mouth, but he was pretty tired of the same boring routine.
“Yoon Keeho…”
Shit, he was going to get fired.
“Sir, I’m sorry, I’m just… a little frustrated… I appreciate that you give me articles to write. I know I’m good at them, but I really need something bigger… let me show you that I can find something much bigger than a ‘top soaps for people with allergies’ list,” he replied.
The boss stared at him as Keeho spoke; he didn’t seem offended, but he didn’t look happy either.
In any case, he had every reason to speak with such indignation. He didn’t spend four years studying at the best university in Canada just so that, when he moved to Korea for family reasons, they’d have him writing boring articles about the fucking best soaps for people with allergies.
He deserved better, but that stupid company was prestigious and had a good reputation within the country, so he’d stuck it out there for two years, hoping that someday someone would notice him.
Keeho was sure that, in part, it was envy, maybe not from his boss per se, but from the other journalists, they’d never stand for a Canadian being the best at that shitty company.
Keeho was good at what he did—he knew it—but no one let him prove it.
Yoon Stephen Keeho was a Canadian born to Korean parents who moved to Canada to escape the harsh conditions in South Korea. He was born in Canada, grew up there, and shared unforgettable moments there, but during his senior year of college, his parents, along with his two other siblings, had to move back to Korea. Keeho, however, refused to leave without finishing his degree in his home country, so he completed it at age 21 and graduated with honors. He worked for a while to gain experience, but then his siblings called and told him they needed him in Korea because his father had fallen ill.
Keeho arrived in Korea at age 23 and found a job at that company through a referral. Now, at 25, he was trying to help his family with his father’s situation and make ends meet in Korea.
“Please give me nine months to find and develop a story that will take the company to the top.”
The man stared at him intently; Keeho could have sworn the temperature in the room dropped considerably, but he didn’t feel intimidated. He held his gaze, pleading for the man to accept him and not fire him without a penny to his name.
“Two months.”
“Seven…”
“Six months,” the man declared, giving him no chance to object.
“All right, in six months, I’ll find you the best story ever. Thank you so much… I won’t let you down, sir,” he said, bowing several times to the man.
“You’d better surprise me, or else… we’ll see if you’re still working for us,” the man said. “Don’t waste my time, Keeho.”
“I won’t, sir. Thank you very much. Excuse me,” he said, bowing one last time before leaving.
“Fuck, yes,” he blurted out in English.
His coworkers looked at him suspiciously, but they didn’t say anything about it—of course they wouldn’t… they’d rather talk trash about him behind his back.
Idiots, he thought as he sat back down in his seat. He was going to show every single one of them who Yoon Stephen Keeho really was.
“Are you an idiot?” his friend’s voice almost echoed through the bar if it weren’t for the music.
Keeho pressed his lips together as he set his beer glass down on the table.
“It’s not that hard, I’ll come up with a good story.”
“6 months, it's more than hard, you’re definitely an idiot.”
“Taeyang…”
“No, listen to me!” he said, glaring at him with narrowed eyes. “It’s suicide, they’re going to fire you for being an idiot.”
“You have so much faith in me,” Keeho snorted, taking another sip of his drink.
“I do trust that you’ll be able to find a story they’ll like and leave your idiot coworkers speechless,” said his other friend this time, his eyes bright and wide, with a smile full of confidence.
“Thanks, Intakki, that’s why I love you so much,” he hugged the tall guy tightly, “unlike others.” He gave him the middle finger, and Taeyang did the same with a smirk.
“I don’t doubt your abilities, but you yourself told us what the boss is like, you said he fired one of your coworkers for something like that. And that story was a good one,” Taeyang sighed and stared intently at Keeho.
“That old man isn’t going to beat me. I’ll find that story that’ll leave them all speechless, you’ll see. I’ll be on the front page of every damn newspaper and news channel,” he took a final sip of his drink, his brow furrowed and his bright eyes full of determination.
Taeyang sighed as he took a sip of his own wine, and Intak smiled as he nodded fervently.
Keeho had one goal: to find a good story that would finally get him promoted on his own merit.
⦮ ⦯
A few weeks later…
Keeho rubbed his eyes in frustration; he’d searched high and low for a juicy story, but nothing had really caught his attention or been truly impressive. Keeho hadn’t just searched the internet and social media—for heaven’s sake, he’d even looked on TikTok—and walked the streets of Seoul, but to no avail.
“Damn it,” he muttered, getting up from his chair and pacing around his apartment to clear his head; the first month was already coming to an end.
Keeho let out a cry of frustration and flopped back onto his couch. He closed his eyes and thought about where he could continue his search.
His phone vibrated on the small table, and without opening his eyes, he felt around until he found it. He held it to his ear without looking to see who was calling.
—You idiot, how’s the search going?
“ “Hi, Keeho. How are you, Keeho?” I’m at my wits’ end, thanks for asking, my beloved Taeyang.”
—That answers my question,” he replied from the other end, ignoring the irony in his friend’s words. Keeho rolled his eyes.
“Did you call just to mock my misery or to tell me ‘I told you’?”
—A little,” Keeho clicked his tongue upon hearing Taeyang’s laughter, “but as much as I love saying ‘I told you’ I actually have something that might interest you… and it might be a big one.”
Keeho finally opened his eyes and sat up, intrigued.
“And?...”
—Do you know Gumiho?” Keeho blinked, confused.
“The Korean nine-tailed fox? Come on, Tae, don’t mess w-...”
—I’m not talking about the mythological creature, for God’s sake,” his friend snorted over the phone. “I can tell you don’t know who it is, look it up online. Hurry up.”
Keeho jumped to his feet and sat back down in front of his computer. He put the phone on speaker and quickly typed in the name.
“You have to be more specific,” Keeho said, watching as the search results all pointed to the mythological creature.
—Boxing,” Taeyang told him.
Keeho nodded and added that word.
Now the search results were more specific; several boxing sites popped up, but they all had almost the same content.
“Gumiho Wins His 20th Consecutive Fight”
“Korea’s New Top Boxer, Gumiho”
These weren’t official news sites but rather fan-run sites for fans of the sport. However, when he tried to click on one of them, the page wouldn’t let him explore further because they seemed restricted—only members of the blog could read them. He clicked on “Images,” and contrary to what he expected, only a few photos appeared. It didn’t make sense.
In a world as connected as it is today, it didn’t make a shred of sense that the only photo that showed up was low-quality, but you could still make out a skinny guy with striking, vibrant orange hair.
—Did you find him?” Taeyang’s voice snapped him out of his analysis of the low-quality photo.
“Yeah, he’s a boxer…”
—He’s not just a boxer, he’s the fucking king of the ring. He hasn’t lost a single fight since he made his debut.”
Keeho nodded, blinking; he could see that much.
“But what’s so exciting about that? He’s just a good fighter.”
—Yeah, a fighter whose identity nobody knows, nobody knows who’s behind the makeup. He doesn’t let anyone take his picture, he doesn’t give interviews, he doesn’t let anyone film him, and nobody knows where he goes after a fight.
Keeho sat up straight…
—Now you’re interested, aren’t you?”
“No one knows his identity?”
—Nope, no one. Lots of people have tried to follow him, but it’s like he vanishes into thin air… like a damn gumiho.”
Keeho licked his lips.
—There are definitely rumors about his identity, but they’re all false.”
“What if he’s just an ordinary guy who doesn’t want to reveal his identity so people won’t come looking for him later?”…
—Tell me, what your inner journalist is telling you, Keeho.”
Keeho thought about it, skimming through the websites and the few photos floating around—all of them in terrible quality.
“That it’s totally worth investigating.”
Keeho could sense Taeyang smiling.
—You’re welcome…
“Hey, by the way, how did you get this information?” he asked.
—Oh, I didn’t, it was Tak. You know, he’s a secret boxing fan, and Gumiho caught his eye. He went to one of those fights one night when he had time off.”
“Aren’t they illegal?”
—Of course they are, but the police aren’t going to bother shutting it down unless someone dies or minors are involved, which isn’t the case.”
“I see… but aren’t these fights supposed to be off-limits to the internet?”
—Read the blogs—there’s very little information out there, and if you look at the few photos of Gumiho, he looks like a model… nothing out of the ordinary,” Taeyang said.
“Actually, it won’t let me access the blogs…”
—Oh, right. They only give you access if you sign up directly at the venue where the fights take place; otherwise, there’s no way to get in.”
“I see…”
—Yeah, it’s ridiculous, but it makes sense. Plus, they’re way too secretive—they never give the exact location of the fights… I don’t even know where they are.
“Tak knows…”
—Well, yeah… but he says they change locations all the time, and the police have bigger problems to deal with than illegal boxing matches.
“Right…”
What used to worry the police was the high rate of juvenile crime; the fact that some adults would get into a ring to beat each other up for money and bets wasn’t what concerned them.
—Anyway, keep us updated… oh, and if you can interview him… tell him that Tak is his biggest fan.”
Keeho laughed.
“Sure.”
—Good luck, idiot. I love you. Bye bye.” Without waiting for a reply, Taeyang hung up.
Keeho fell silent as the screen continued to show Gumiho.
“The revelation of the identity of one of the best boxers to ever step into a ring, nicknamed Gumiho”—he savored the words and smiled.
It sounded good.
“I hope you’re someone interesting,” he murmured.
It already had a story, and a little music wouldn't hurt.
The next day, Keeho pitched the idea to the boss. At first, he didn't seem very interested, but Keeho was a smooth talker, so when he laid out the whole picture, the man leaned forward in his chair and rested his arms on the desk. Keeho smiled as he left the office with the man's approval.
⦮ ⦯
His knuckles ached, his body felt sticky with sweat, and his black hair was dripping, but he felt calm and at peace, as if a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders.
“You’re going to give me gray hair soon,” was the first thing he heard when he closed the car door.
A young-looking blond man, dressed in formal clothes and with a handsome face, looked at him with a serious and utterly exhausted expression.
“You’re blond, no one would notice anyway,” he said, only to have a towel thrown in his face. “Thanks.”
“Start the car,” the blond man said to the driver, who immediately obeyed the order.
The blond man glanced sideways at the dark-haired man beside him.
“Shota’s worried about you, Jiung.”
The black-haired boy glanced back at him out of the corner of his eye as he wiped the sweat from his face with a towel.
“I’m fine, Jongseob,” he said flatly, looking out the window.
Sure, Jongseob thought sarcastically, looking the black-haired boy up and down.
“That’s why you’re going out there to beat the crap out of some idiots.” Jiung laughed softly as he shook his head. “Shota loves you and would never forgive himself if anything happened to you.”
“Nothing’s going to happen to me.”
Jiung wasn’t stupid. The owners of all the facilities that served as venues for illegal fights maintained a perfect facade—they were training centers for people who practiced the sport and were quite common among Seoul’s boxing clubs. In reality, few people knew that late at night they operated outside the legal framework established by law.
“What if someone somehow finds out who you really are behind that makeup, that wig, and those contact lenses?” Jongseob said, pressing his lips together. “Choi Jiung, you can’t be Gumiho forever.”
Now it was Jiung who pressed his lips together and looked at the wig in his hands.
“The media would love to know that one of the best fighters in underground boxing is actually Choi Jiung, CEO of the South Korean Central Bank.”
“Jongseob… I’m careful; I cover up my tattoos with makeup when I’m out of the ring. There’s no way anyone would recognize me. My demeanor is completely different…”
Jongseob stared at him, then clicked his tongue before turning his gaze to the window.
“Do whatever you want,” he snorted, ending the conversation.
Jiung pursed his lips and rested his head on the seat, trying to calm down and not think about it; he didn’t want to give up fighting, it was the only thing, along with his brother, that kept him alive.
Yes, Choi Jiung was the CEO of the Central Bank—not because he really wanted to, but because ever since he was born, his father’s expectations had weighed on his shoulders; he had always been nothing more than a damn puppet for his wealthy family. His father pushed and forced him to be something Jiung never wanted to be. A man behind a desk making sure the operations of a boring bank ran smoothly, checking that no one got too clever, and working every day without rest or a moment’s respite.
No, no one was going to recognize him, it was impossible; he was too careful for that to happen.
When he arrived at his apartment, Jongseob didn’t even say goodbye to him. Jiung understood that he was upset with him, just as he knew that he was only worried about him.
His apartment was completely silent, though as he took off his slippers, he heard hurried footsteps down the hallway.
“Jiung!”
A few seconds later, arms wrapped around his waist and lifted him off the ground, spinning him around forcefully.
“Are you okay…? I was really worried,” Jiung said as his feet touched the ground again, looking into his younger brother’s worried eyes.
“You’re always so worried, Sho,” Jiung remarked. “You’re going to die young if you keep this up.”
Shota looked at him with sparkling eyes and a slight pout on his lips. Jiung sighed.
“Sorry, I’m fine,” he smiled gently at him and ruffled his brown hair; Shota nodded slowly and walked away.
Hakū Shota is Jiung’s younger brother—adopted—and he’s the only thing Jiung could salvage from his parents’ decisions. They adopted him in Japan when Jiung was four years old, and from the very day he saw the little baby in his mother’s arms, he knew he would protect him with his life if necessary.
“Can I treat your wounds?”
“Shota… you have class tomorrow; you should be sleeping.”
“But… I don’t like it when you treat your own wounds…”
Jiung hated the fact that he could never say no to his younger brother.
“Okay, but after that you’ll go to sleep.”
“Yes, Mom,” he replied, running to the first-aid kit.
Jiung shook his head, but while Shota was getting things ready, Jiung went to take a shower.
He washed away his opponent’s dried blood and the sweat that had already dried; the water washed away all the adrenaline and gave way to a deep sleep. He looked at his tattoos in the mirror and sighed; he had no wounds, just his knuckles, so Shota wouldn’t take too long, and Jiung wouldn’t give him any more trouble.
He stepped out of the bathroom, and Shota was sitting on the edge of the bed with the first-aid kit on his lap.
He sat down next to him, and Shota immediately began carefully disinfecting his older brother’s knuckles.
“I’m going to the shelter tomorrow,” he began, “after work… you can come with me if you want.”
Shota paused; Jiung stared at him intently.
“Can I go?”
“You know I will…”
After a moment of silence Shota spoke again.
“Did you make a lot of money?”
Jiung knew he was referring to the fights.
“Yes, Shota.”
Shota nodded, pressing his lips together; he wasn’t happy with anything that had been mentioned. Shota deeply regretted taking Jiung to see those fights—a college friend had given him free tickets to the event.
“Can you come with me, please? It’s been a long time since we’ve spent time together,” he asked.
Jiung looked at him through the frames of his thick glasses and from beneath the papers on the table.
“Shota, I’m really busy.”
“Ung hyung, please, it’s at night, really late at night.”
Jiung stared at him intently.
“What day?”
“Friday.”
Jiung nodded slowly.
“All right.”
Shota’s eyes lit up.
How foolish he’d been, after all, Jongseob always told him there was no way he could have known. Shota would never have expected his older brother to be so drawn to that kind of sport or to street fights.
But at one point in the middle of the fight, Shota turned to look at his brother and tensed up.
His brother’s dark eyes were fixed on what he was seeing in front of him, even behind the makeup, contact lenses, and mask along with the hood. His eyes were everything, and Shota’s smile faded.
“I don’t like it when you keep fighting, hyung.”
“Sho…”
“Please.”
“Shota, being a Gumiho is my only escape from not being Choi Jiung.”
Shota looked at him with a pout on his lips. Jiung had to look away.
“Don’t look at me like that.”
Shota let out a long sigh and shook his head as he finished rubbing cream into his knuckles.
“All done…”
“Thanks, Sho.”
“Mhm…”
Jiung pursed his lips.
“It’s not your fault, Sho. You know that, right?”
His younger brother tensed up but nodded.
“Yeah…”
Jongseob always told him it wasn’t his fault that Jiung had gotten mixed up in illegal fights, but as he’d said before, it was Shota who’d led him into them.
“Good night.”
“Good night, Sho.”
Shota nodded, took the first-aid kit, and closed the door to Jiung’s room.
Jiung heard his brother’s footsteps fade away and sighed heavily once more.
Damn it, he was causing a lot of trouble for people, but he couldn’t quit—it was like a drug.
⦮ ⦯
Keeho sighed in frustration; he hadn’t been able to get into that blog for fans of near-fatal fights. He’d tried various ways, but everything seemed to involve strange riddles and things that Keeho could never figure out, even though he was an excellent investigator.
So the only option he had was…
“Intak of my soul, my heart, my little friend…”
“You need to get into the venue where the next fight will take place to see Gumiho,” the younger boy declared, nodding repeatedly as he spoke.
Keeho’s mouth fell open in surprise, and his friend swiveled in his chair as if nothing were wrong.
“How—”
“You don’t have to be a genius to realize that the only reason you’re in our apartment at this hour is because you couldn’t figure out how to access the blog.”
“Shit.”
Intak looked at him with a smile.
“Lucky for you, I am on the blog, and I know exactly where Gumiho will be for his next fight.”
He turned again, but this time he faced his computer as he typed rapidly.
Keeho pressed his lips together, but wrapped his arms around his friend’s shoulders as he watched him log into the blog.
“Here it is,” he said, clicking on a promotional image for a big fight between Gumiho and a man nicknamed “Fox.”
“And to top off your luck, I have a ticket, in addition to my own, to get in.”
“Oh, Intak, you really are the best,” he said, kissing him on the cheek.
“The downside is that… you can’t take a single photo; phones have to be turned off, and if they catch you using one, they’ll kick you out. There are cameras everywhere in that place, and security has been getting tighter.”
Keeho nodded slowly.
“Anyway, I didn’t want to take any photos, at least not yet. I want to see what this Gumiho is like, to analyze him with my own eyes.”
Intak nodded with a smile.
“Great, then it’s settled, we’ll go together to see Gumiho live and in person.”
“By the way, how likely is it that they’ll let me sneak into the dressing rooms?”
“Zero chance,” Intak said.
Keeho clicked his tongue.
“They’re not going to beat me. I’ll find a way.”
Intak stared at him and then rolled his eyes.
“If they catch you and kick you out, I’ll pretend I don’t know you.”
“Fair enough,” Keeho agreed, walking away from his friend.
Three days later, Keeho was getting ready to go see his first illegal fight so he could somehow make contact with the mysterious fighter nicknamed Gumiho.
Keeho looked at himself in the mirror; his black hair was damp from his shower, but he looked good. He dressed in black and threw on a leather jacket.
“I look sexy,” he murmured, nodding, and then laughed as he shook his head at how silly that had sounded.
Intak told him he was already downstairs, so Keeho grabbed his things and went to meet up with his friend.
“Tae sent his regards and said that if you did anything crazy, he wouldn’t help you.”
“Typical of Taeyang.”
Intak nodded in agreement, and the two got into the older man’s car to head toward the venue where the fight would take place.
Keeho parked where Intak told him to, and when he got out, the journalist was surprised by the number of people in line.
“What’s going on?” he asked, looking at his friend with raised eyebrows.
“Yeah, Gumiho’s audience and fan base have been growing at an astonishing rate,” Intak said, nodding, and he lined up behind the last person in line. In just a few minutes, the line behind them grew much longer.
Keeho sized up the other people, and they were actually pretty scary, they were burly, tall, and had anything but friendly looks on their faces. He glanced at his friend, but he didn’t seem genuinely worried about any of this, which surprised Keeho just the same.
“How long have you been coming to these fights?” he asked once they were inside the venue, where the atmosphere felt even more different than it had outside.
The men were betting on who they thought would win, because even though Gumiho hadn’t lost a single fight, there were people who still believed his luck wouldn’t last forever, considering who his opponent was.
“Well, for about two years now,” Intak replied, taking his seat.
Keeho nodded, unable to believe that his sweet Intak liked such bloody things.
“I see,” he murmured, looking around the place; from where he stood, the ring was visible in all its splendor.
There were two people making sure everything was in order, but Keeho’s eyes were searching for something else; not finding it, he leaned toward his friend.
“Where do the fighters come from?” he whispered to Intak, who almost didn’t hear him.
“It’s right next to us,” Intak murmured, glancing sideways at a certain spot. Keeho sat up a little, and sure enough, he could see part of the door.
Keeho nodded.
“And they come in that way, too,” he said, pointing to the parallel side where the door was fully visible; the dark-haired man nodded again.
The murmur of the crowd was still audible. Keeho looked around, hoping time would pass more quickly.
Until the lights went out and the murmur of the crowd died down like a flame.
Two large spotlights illuminated both exits, and people began to scream the moment the lights started moving.
Keeho’s eyes immediately recognized who Gumiho was.
His wavy, tousled hair, full of curls, was just as striking as the blurry image online, but seeing him in person was very different. His blue boxing gloves and white robe with blue accents were also eye-catching; his confident stride and his bright smile—which couldn’t be fully appreciated because of his mouthguard—sent the audience into a frenzy.
Keeho couldn’t take his eyes off him.
The two fighters stepped into the ring and both took off their robes. Keeho’s eyes drifted down to Gumiho’s back and then to his torso.
What they’d said was true, he was thin, didn’t look particularly strong, and Keeho could have sworn he had far fewer muscles than he did.
“Don’t think I’ll go down as easily as Gorilla, Gumiho,” said Fox, whose body, unlike Gorilla’s, was a little slimmer than that of the gigantic man, but still had more muscle mass than Gumiho.
“You’re drooling, hyung,” Intak’s whisper snapped him out of his thoughts of Gumiho.
“I’m not drooling,” he snorted indignantly. Intak laughed, but turned his gaze back to the front.
Gumiho took off his protective gear, and his eyes quickly scanned the man nicknamed Fox.
“We’ll see about that, Fox. Maybe. I’ll give you a few more minutes.”
Fox smiled, but the smile didn’t reach his eyes. The fighters put their mouthguard back on and switched to fight mode. The referee stepped in between them, and Keeho almost stopped breathing when they began to move.
It was captivating, and he wasn’t the only one who felt that way—everyone in the arena did. Gumiho moved with cunning and almost superhuman agility; his reflexes were lightning-fast. Keeho knew nothing about the sport; it had never caught his attention, but the way Gumiho moved was like that of a dancer.
He was the fucking king of the ring, just as Taeyang had told him.
When Fox hit the floor with a thud, the crowd nearly deafened Keeho; next to him, his friend was screaming just as loudly while clapping euphorically.
The referee raised Gumiho’s arm to signal his victory and turned toward the crowd.
Okay, maybe Keeho was drooling after all.
No, shit. He shook his head and focused on what mattered. He understood why no one could tell who he was—his features were hidden by all the smokey-eye makeup that smudged across his cheeks as if it had run, plus details l just like the ones you see on the Japanese masks.
“I need to slip into the dressing rooms.”
Gumiho smiled at the crowd’s cheers, and Keeho really wanted to pull out his phone to take a picture.
“Don’t you think you’ve seen enough of him already?”
Keeho looked at his friend and then rolled his eyes.
“Intak.”
“Okay, sorry.”
Keeho rolled his eyes but smiled.
“I need you to cover for me.”
Gumiho stepped down from the ring, accompanied by one of the guards.
Intak pouted but nodded; the two of them walked down the bleachers. Keeho hid behind a pillar and waited for Intak to make his move.
“Sir, do you know where the restroom is?” Intak’s puppy-dog eyes made the man look over his shoulder and sigh; he stepped back a little to point him in the right direction, and that was the moment Keeho took advantage of to slip away without the guard seeing him.
“Thank you very much, sir,” Intak smiled after seeing that Keeho had disappeared behind the door.
Keeho clutched his chest, his heart pounding with adrenaline.
The hallway was wide but not long. He scanned the area for where Gumiho should be, and when he found him, he froze completely.
Gumiho was taking his things out of his locker; his tank top hugged his slender figure, his makeup was still flawless, and a towel was draped over his shoulders. Keeho swallowed hard.
Gumiho seemed to notice his presence as he looked up and appeared surprised to see someone else there. The blue eyes—possibly contact lenses—made Keeho tense up, and he was surprised to find himself intimidated by their piercing gaze.
“Who are you, and what are you doing here?” His voice was deeper than Keeho had imagined; Gumiho’s brow furrowed as he eyed him suspiciously.
Keeho was frozen in place. In the ring, Gumiho looked intimidating, but up close, it felt even more real.
“Let me interview you,” he blurted out quickly.
Shit, that’s not how it was supposed to go.
Gumiho raised his eyebrows and laughed sarcastically.
“I see… you’re new,” Jiung muttered, pulling on a black sweatshirt. “Didn’t they tell you? I don’t give interviews.”
Keeho couldn’t think straight; he didn’t know what the hell was wrong with him. The orange-haired guy shook his head, walked past Keeho, who couldn’t help but grab the wrestler’s wrist to stop him from walking away, but he didn’t expect the wrestler to react so quickly—bending the reporter’s arm behind his back and shoving his body against one of the lockers. Keeho let out a groan.
“Don’t ever try that again, big guy,” he said in a cold voice that sent a shiver down Keeho’s spine.
Gumiho let go of him, adjusted his bag on his shoulder, pulled up his hood, and hurried out of there so quickly that Keeho thought he was actually a ghost.
Keeho tried to follow him, but the moment he exited through the back of the building, the man—just as Intak had said—vanished into thin air. Keeho ran several blocks in the hope of finding any trace of him, but to no avail.
“Shit,” he growled, returning to where he’d left his car.
“Judging by your face, you didn’t have much success.”
“I want to die, Tak. I had him right in front of me, and I acted like I hadn’t studied journalism for five years,” he said, covering his face in utter embarrassment. Intak laughed softly.
“He was cute up close, wasn’t he?”
Keeho took his hands off his face and looked at his friend with a raised eyebrow.
“What’s it to you?” he warned as he walked over to the driver’s side door to open the car.
“Come on, was he?” he asked once they got in and Keeho started driving.
“I’m going to tell Taeyang.”
“I’m sure Tae’s curious, too.”
Keeho rolled his eyes as he shook his head.
“Yeah, he was cute.”
“I knew it!” he clapped his hands and laughed.
Keeho shook his head again.
God… he was still embarrassed anyway; having that man right in front of him was very different from seeing him from a distance—it was intimidating—but he wasn’t going to give up that easily, so after the fight—he already had access to the blog—he began gathering all the information he could from the blog’s other posts, and on the large whiteboard pinned to the wall of his office inside his apartment, he started pasting the terrible-quality images and other things that would help him connect the dots.
His height was unknown, his age was unknown—shit, he was a fucking enigma—but Keeho wasn’t going to give up.
So he started attending the fights where Gumiho showed up. Watching him fight, observing the few clues he let slip.
“If he were a normal person, he definitely wouldn’t be so careful not to be recognized,” Keeho muttered, looking at the whiteboard covered in notes.
He thought back to the moment he’d stood face-to-face with him at the gym; he figured it might be easy to at least get a rough estimate of his height by comparing it to his own.
“You’re a genius,” he said to himself as he walked back to his apartment.
After conducting a thorough analysis—not only of his own height but also by comparing it to other wrestlers Gumiho had faced—he estimated that the orange-haired guy was about the same height as him, maybe two or three centimeters shorter, but he’d round it up to the same height: 1.77 c.m. After watching several live fights, he also concluded that the fighter was wearing a very realistic wig and contact lenses; he smiled.
He was jotting down everything he’d discovered over the past few days when a phone call snapped him out of his thoughts.
“Yoon, I need you to come to my office today. I have a job for you.”
“But, sir.”
“Don’t think you’ll be doing nothing during these months while I let you work on your big report.”
Keeho pursed his lips.
“I’ll be there.”
The journalist gathered his things and left.
In the office, the man handed him some papers and a camera.
“Tomorrow there’s going to be an inauguration ceremony for a new national bank, followed by a dinner attended by important people. They need a photographer for the national networks.”
Keeho looked at the man, then at the papers and the camera.
“We were happy to have you come in to take the photos. What do you think, Yoon? I can see you’re really enthusiastic about your research, and I admire that. That’s why I want to give you this assignment, which is bigger than anything you’ve done here at the company so far.”
“I’ll do it.”
The man nodded in agreement.
“Then take some beautiful photos for the postcards.”
Keeho nodded firmly. For now, he’d stop thinking about who Gumiho was. Well, he had another fight today, so after that, he’d put it aside.