Fifteen years ago.

　　Song Iho, then a high school sophomore, left school early after wrapping up his midterm exams.

　　It only took a couple of snacks in a corner booth at the toast shop for him to check his scores and review his mistakes. Thankfully, his scores hadn’t dropped, even on the final day.

　　Iho folded his exam sheets, slipping them into his bag as he stepped outside. After crossing a few intersections, he arrived at a neighborhood where old, weathered buildings and newly constructed commercial complexes were jumbled together. Adults divided the area by the department store built a few years prior, calling one side old and the other one new. Although Iho lived in the old side of town as a lifelong resident, his high school and cram school were located in the new one, so he’d cross the boundary every day.

　　Power lines hung across the sky in a chaotic web along the streets. Iho walked up to the second floor of a commercial building. At the top of the stairs stood a sign reading, A Me Who Is No Longer Intimidated: Punch Boxing Gym. On the back was a printed photo of an unidentified, muscular foreign athlete wearing a championship belt and clenching both fists.

　　Acting on advice that sticking to a sport would help him endure the grueling marathon to his university admissions, Iho had joined a gym where the owner was acquainted with his parents. After taking a week off to prep for midterms, he felt stiff and sluggish. Yet despite walking up the stairs determined to throw himself into an intense two-hour workout, he hesitated right at the glass door.

　　Inside, he heard the voices of at least a dozen kids, a sound best described as a chaotic chorus of chatter. Peering through the glass, he saw the gym packed with elementary school students. He flipped open his phone to check the time, confirming it was the slot for the adult class.

　　“Iho? Eh. Guess you missed the notice, too, huh.”

　　The owner of the gym approached Iho, who was standing awkwardly outside the door.

　　“What notice?”

　　Only then did he spot the A4 sheet taped to the glass. It announced that adult classes were suspended for two days to prepare for an elementary school tournament. He had missed it because the notice went up while he was away taking exams. Though the coach’s own lack of foresight in waiting until the week of the event to post it certainly didn’t help.

　　“I’ll just come back next week, then.”

　　“Oh, no need for that. Might as well let you train in the back since you’re here. Just go a few rounds with the kids later. It’ll be good practice for them in case they face bigger opponents in the tournament. The guy over there showed up without checking the schedule, just like you, but he offered to help out.”

　　The coach pointed to a boy roughly Iho’s age standing in front of a heavy punching bag.

　　Noticing he was being pointed at, the boy glanced over in Iho’s direction. Iho had never seen him before. His neat hair and clear complexion, far tidier than the boys at school, stood out. As did the fact that he wore his own sportswear instead of the gym’s standard-issue shirt and shorts. He soon went back to striking the bag with his gloves. Iho lost interest as well, grabbing a uniform bearing the gym’s logo as he headed for the changing room.

　　A short while later, a slender forearm, scarcely thicker than a pencil case, flew forward with all its might.

　　“Hiyah!”

　　“…”

　　“Hrrngh… Hiyah!”

　　“…”

　　So much for a workout.

　　He could barely feel the kid’s punches against his stomach. Iho gave the headgear a quick tap with his glove. The elementary schooler had asked to spar, but with the kid’s tournament coming up this weekend, Iho couldn’t risk actually landing a blow and causing an injury.

　　He had been at the gym for thirty minutes now, and he hadn’t even worked up a sweat. The same went for the boy he’d seen earlier.

　　Though, the guy wasn’t even practicing. He was just standing around cracking jokes with the kids. Finding it too much trouble to deal with them one-on-one, he let a group gang up on him, occasionally making half-hearted, lumbering attempts to chase them like he was playing tag. He looked more like a daycare teacher than a boxer.

　　“Hee-ha-ha-ha!”

　　“Waaah!”

　　The kids squealed with delight as they chased him around. The child sparring with Iho glanced over at the commotion before quietly slipping away.

　　“Whew.”

　　After humoring the children for a while, the taller boy let out a short sigh and raised his head. For a fleeting moment, Iho saw his eyes turn cold and dark as he looked toward the gym coach. But the expression vanished completely the instant he turned back to the clamoring children.

　　Iho wasn’t surprised. The guy had come to train, only to have his time and energy drained. He couldn’t possibly be happy about it.

　　He looks like a new member, but after today? I doubt he’ll come back…

　　Fortunately, the tedious wait came to an end soon enough. Elementary school sessions were shorter than the rest.

　　“Mingyu, Iho! Grab a drink on your way out!”

　　The coach called out to the boys as he ushered the children toward the shuttle bus. Trays of café drinks he had ordered were piled on the front desk. The problem was that after the initial rush, only two drinks remained, a strawberry latte and an iced Americano.

　　Faced with such a narrow range of choices, anyone decent would naturally hesitate, mindful of the other person. Iho had barely stood there a moment when he felt a gentle tap on his shoulder.

　　“Want to settle it with a sparring match?”

　　Heard up close for the first time, the boy’s voice was deep, like a grown man’s. When Iho turned around, he found himself face to face with the guy he’d been watching from afar. He was slightly taller than Iho, and a confident, easygoing smile played across his sharp jawline as he pointed a thumb toward the ring.

　　“You didn’t get a proper workout either, right?”

　　The guy had a bit of an unusual accent. But his proposal sounded incredibly appealing to Iho, whose body somehow felt stiffer than when he got here.

　　“…Alright.”

　　Deciding on a drink was just their excuse. Iho tossed his backpack onto the desk and unbuttoned his uniform as his opponent strode confidently into the ring.

　　“Headgear’s a pain, right?”

　　“Yeah.”

　　As soon as Iho firmly tightened the Velcro straps of his gloves around his wrists, his opponent held out his fists. A pair of gloves gathered together, smooth and shiny like fresh steamed buns, came to a stop right in front of Iho’s chest.

　　“What’s this?”

　　“A fist bump. You guys don’t do this?”

　　“Oh…”

　　He knew what it was, of course, but the thought of doing something so dramatic, and with another boy, no less, was embarrassing. Still, Iho bumped his own gloves against the ones held out to him. A dry thud echoed in the air.

　　The two took their stances, facing each other in the center of the ring. Without a word to mark the start, the other boy stepped in first and threw a jab.

　　The punch against his arm was lighter than expected.

　　Whack!

　　But when the follow-up blow slammed into the glove guarding his face, Iho realized the first hit was just a test. His opponent had been holding back.

　　Every attack was fast and precise. After blocking the next strike, Iho pivoted his waist to throw a hook, only for his opponent to block it with his arm and fire back. Trading blows in close range with a series of thwacks, they soon opened up the distance again.

　　Whack! Whack!

　　“Ugh…!”

　　“Hoo… Ngh!”

　　The lingering stress from studying exploded with every punch. Even the throbbing ache in his limbs felt strangely satisfying.

　　What was meant to be a light round quickly turned into an all-out sparring match? The coach piped up with commentary upon his return, shouting, “Hey, Iho, pull back! Yeah, just like that! Mingyu, step in deeper!” The two continued until their hair was soaked with sweat, only stopping when the coach finally yelled, “Alright, that’s enough, you two! You won’t be able to drag yourselves to school tomorrow at this rate!”

　　Panting heavily, the boy grinned with satisfaction and held out both fists again.

　　“Gotta do a fist bump after a match.”

　　“…”

　　Tap.

　　“Looks like it’s a draw.”

　　Despite what the guy said, Iho knew better. It was clearly his opponent’s win. Still, he didn’t reject the thoughtful gesture and responded with a polite nod.

　　Iho was more than satisfied. His goal had been to exercise, anyway. Not win. It brought a quiet sense of pride to see the other guy’s mouth still curved in a smile fueled by lingering adrenaline as he dried his hair with a towel.

　　“Song Iho, right?”

　　Iho heard the other boy calling him just as he was grabbing his backpack. His opponent grabbed the iced Americano, leaving the other cup behind.

　　“You take the sweet one.”

　　Before Iho could reply, the boy strode out through the glass door. All Iho could do was watch as his opponent bounded down the stairs of the old commercial building. The coach handed over the remaining strawberry latte with a grin.

　　“Looks like Mingyu’s more than just good-looking. Talk about a nice guy.”

　　“…I guess.”

　　It was an assessment impossible to deny. Even the name Mingyu, sharp and refined, suited him perfectly. Iho took the strawberry latte and walked through the city, heading deep into the old downtown district.

　　As he walked along the streets, the buildings grew shorter and older. Past a brick commercial building plastered with remnants of old flyers, a two-story structure topped with blue corrugated metal roofing came into view. A large sign, left illuminated at night and drawing swarms of insects, read Mokdong Rice Cake Shop. Iho stepped inside the long-standing shop, a business that had dominated the local market for twenty years.

　　“I’m home.”

　　“Just back from the academy?”

　　His parents, sitting together packaging rice cakes, raised their plastic-gloved hands in greeting. Iho shifted his backpack onto one shoulder.

　　“No, I finished my exams today, so I figured I’d go for my first workout in a while. Did you get orders for thank-you cakes? Anything I can help with?”

　　“Oh, don’t worry about it. You don’t need to do this kind of work, Iho. Go upstairs, wash up, and get some rest. Studying hard is the best way you can help us.”

　　“Uh… Yeah. Your mom’s right. Head on up.”

　　It seemed his father had intended to make room for him to join, remembering how the three of them used to sit together before high school started, but he quickly changed his mind to agree with his wife.

　　“By the way, Iho. The other day, Giseok’s mom came by making a huge fuss about how some transfer student in the liberal arts track swept up first place in all of the performance assessments.”

　　“Oh, really?”

　　“Mmhmm. She’s always going on about how the principal’s recommendation should go to her son instead of you. I have to admit, it was nice seeing her get humiliated.”

　　His mother let out a quiet groan as she straightened her back, which was hunched from all the rice cake packing.

　　“Anyway, I know your dad and I don’t really know how these things work, and you’re already doing so well on your own, but. Just focus on your studies and don’t worry about a thing, okay?”

　　“…Just let me help if your hands are full. I have enough time to spare.”

　　“I said it’s fine. I might not be able to do much else for you, but I’m certainly not going to make the top student at school pack rice cakes.”

　　“…”

　　“Go on, now.”

　　In the end, he had no choice but to head upstairs, practically ushered along. Beside the kitchen lined with heavy rice cake machinery was a flight of stairs that led up to their home. Iho went straight to the sink and poured out the strawberry latte he’d been holding, then opened the refrigerator.

　　Half of the refrigerator shelf was filled with plastic bottles of sikhye. Growing up as the son of a rice cake shop owner, Song Iho was thoroughly sick of sweets, whether it be food or drinks. He pulled out a bottle of barley tea sitting forgotten at the back and gulped it down.

　　He had intended to go to bed early, exhausted from his first intense workout in a long while, but it looked like he’d have to study a bit more before calling it a night.

　　During his first year of high school, Song Iho ranked within the top ten students across the entire grade. But once the students split into liberal arts and STEM tracks in their second year, he locked down the number one spot in the STEM track. Courtesy of his overwhelming skills when it came to math and physics, the crown jewels of the science track, where a score of 70 was considered enough for the top grade bracket. Iho was a STEM guy, through and through.

　　And after receiving a call from his homeroom teacher following the March practice exam, his parents began pinning their hopes on him. And now that they knew their kid wasn’t just smart, but rather the smartest kid in school, Iho was starting to feel the pressure when it came to his studies. But unable to confide in anyone about such privileged complaints, all he could do was open his workbook again.

　　At Iho’s high school, there was something known as the Hanguk University Class, distinct from regular lessons. Despite its grandiose name, it was essentially just a designated study room for the top dozen or so students. Naturally, Iho had been granted a seat.

　　“Dude. Don’t you think it’s weird? Who the hell transfers in their second year? And from what I hear, his parents are still down in the countryside or something. He’s living up here all by himself. It’s grade theft, man. What about the kids who were already going to school here?”