“No, they aren’t. This is just a test batch, and if a massive bust happens—”

　　“You’re spouting absolute bullshit with that slick tongue of yours. Whose throat are you trying to slit…!”

　　Haeumi yelled, spitting as he spoke, but Haegyeon retorted with an icy expression.

　　“If this becomes a problem, my throat is the first one getting slit.”

　　He was implying that, at the very least, this wasn’t a sting operation. Haegyeon continued.

　　“Items used in crimes are confiscated and revert to the state treasury. But there’s exactly one thing… one confiscated item that gets destroyed one hundred percent of the time.”

　　“…Hah.”

　　No matter how lucrative drugs were, they couldn’t be turned into state profit. Because they were illegal substances, the government couldn’t trade them.

　　“The drugs meant to be burned and buried in the ground—I’ll supply them to you endlessly. For free.”

　　Haegyeon whispered softly, his words slithering like a snake.

　　“…Umi, do you believe him?”

　　“No.”

　　Haegyeon sat with his legs stretched out, leaning his back against the wall. With a blue bruise beginning to form on his jaw, he quietly closed and opened his eyes.

　　“You guys don’t know how the world works. Especially you, hyung.”

　　They weren’t close enough to give each other life advice, and the image of a cop advising gangsters was quite comical.

　　“Don’t you get it? Now is our chance. We make money and…”

　　They had just been listening to see what he would say, but then a dangerous proposition tumbled out of Haegyeon’s mouth.

　　“Let’s swallow Hwando.”

　　“You crazy motherfucker…”

　　“Will you shut the fuck up?”

　　Curses erupted from both older brothers simultaneously, though they kept their voices to a harsh whisper. They instinctively formed a wall with their bodies, blocking Haegyeon from view.

　　“Hey, do you know where we are right now…? Have you lost your fucking mind?”

　　Growling, Haesin craned his neck to check the scene outside the mourning room. The chairman of Hwando might even be at this funeral.

　　If they hadn’t already cleared the people out of the room, some rat who spread rumors like a disease might have heard them. It was a dizzying thought.

　　Whether his older brothers were tense or not, Haegyeon dropped the bomb and then said something entirely carefree.

　　“Ah, I’m sleepy… Can I crash here for a bit before I go? The floor is nice and warm.”

　　Using his two older brothers’ massive bodies as a shield, Haegyeon lay down far too comfortably. He let his head drop, as if his battery had completely run out.

　　“This crazy, psychotic bastard… Are you actually sleeping?”

　　“Hah…”

* * *

　　CHIRRR— CHIRRR—

　　It was already September, but the heat hadn’t faded, and the noise of the cicadas remained as loud as ever. Still, it was no longer nauseatingly hot.

　　Midsummer is short and brutal, leaving its intensity behind as a memory. It was the law of nature that whatever reached its peak would eventually fade, just as a full moon wanes.

　　Guk Jiho’s athletic career might also be staring at its end. Inherently, intense things never last long.

　　Tossing and turning with a heavy, feverish body, Jiho suddenly had a thought.

　　Am I a masochist if I don’t hate being sick?

　　He liked lying still in bed and groaning in pain. No, he used to like it.

　　Lying sprawled out on a bed bathed in warm daytime sunlight, covered in a soft, clean blanket, made him feel like he was living in luxury—even if he was a little sick.

　　When he dozed off alone in the school infirmary, a gentle breeze would drift in through the window, and the sound of kids playing soccer during P.E. would echo in his ears.

　　In the sports club, major and minor injuries were a daily occurrence. Six months ago, Jiho had been injured during a match and carried out on a stretcher. Because he had a young, healthy body, he recovered quickly, and his skills smoothly returned to normal.

　　However, after tearing his knee ligament during a recent judo practice match at school, the situation took an unusual turn.

　　The head coach and assistant coaches personally visited his university hospital room. They didn’t say a single word about his post-recovery training program.

　　The doctor had explained his condition very clearly. He remembered the doctor’s voice in fragmented, fading echoes—sympathetic, yet coldly pointing out the reality.

　　“I’m sorry to say this, son, but you’ll have to do judo as a hobby from now on. You need to take it easy, and athletes can’t exactly do that.”

　　“…How do you take a martial art easy?”

　　The shape of his knee joint was inherently poor. If he competed without sufficient rehabilitation, he could end up disabled. Even with rehab, the recurrence rate was a whopping ninety-five percent. He might last three years at most, and after pushing through that, his knee would be completely destroyed, making even daily life difficult.

　　That was the gist of it.

　　But world-famous athletes always seemed to recover, even after severe injuries. Did a miracle happen because they ignorantly ground their bodies to the bone, or did they meet a legendary doctor like Hua Tuo and receive systematic care?

　　Jiho let out a pained groan.

　　“Guk Jiho! You’ve hung the Olympic gold medal around your neck. How do you feel?”

　　Am I dreaming?

　　The profusely sweating boy answered the reporter who had come for the interview. It was his lean, 160-pound weight-class self.

　　“It feels better than I thought. Working my ass off wasn’t a waste.”

　　The Jiho in the dream grinned. Following the boy’s lead, the real Jiho also let out a faint smile.

　　If it were a real situation, he wouldn’t have just blurted out whatever he wanted to say like that. He probably would have given a canned response along the lines of, “I trained to death for today.”

　　He was supposed to have plenty of interview days ahead of him, and it wasn’t just once or twice that his coach had smacked him for not keeping his filthy mouth shut.

　　Vivid hope—what could have been his future—was now slipping far away. In his dream, the 160-pound Olympic judo athlete lost consciousness and collapsed.

* * *

　　Every time he curled up from the pain in his thigh, sweat ran down his back. The summer blanket rustled, wrapping around his twitching body. It was his body screaming that it was dying in the process of recovery.

　　It’s okay. It’ll get better after it hurts like this.

　　Even those spell-like words he repeated to himself had no effect anymore.

　　In the four-person hospital room where everyone acted as if the others weren’t even there, the TV flashed in full color, filling the silence of the room.

　　“It has been revealed that a superintendent-level police officer swapped out narcotics held in a frontline police station’s evidence room with chemicals, smuggling them out over the course of six months. Investigations show the officer exploited the lax management system during the process, where evidence from drug-related cases, closed early without being forwarded to the prosecution, was handed over to local municipalities for disposal.”

　　With the sound of the news ringing so clearly in his ears, he didn’t know why he had to have a vain dream that left him feeling so bitter.

　　“If you keep acting up like that, you’re going to deeply regret it one day.”

　　He had heard those words countless times growing up. Whenever someone called him out, stalled, and set a serious mood, it always ended up being that kind of crap.

　　He never felt particularly moved by it; he was just sick of it.

　　Even with his foul temper, he hadn’t done anything he’d truly regret. He just spoke a little rudely and ruined the mood a bit. He figured they only said that because they hated seeing him step out of line.

　　“Regret what? Fuck, just because you’re a senior, you think you can curse a junior’s future?”

　　He remembered openly scoffing at it. He hadn’t expected that ‘deep regret’ to manifest physically in his own body.

　　Did that curse actually work?

　　The senior who had said those words was Choi Gyeongsu, his opponent in the last practice match. While Guk Jiho was executing a technique, Choi had abruptly kicked Jiho’s supporting leg, bringing him down. As a result, Choi Gyeongsu lost by penalty, and Jiho sustained an injury.

　　It was incredibly unfair. His whole life had been turned upside down, yet his opponent only suffered a penalty loss in a mere practice match.

　　Now, he couldn’t be an athlete. He couldn’t be an Olympic medalist, either. There would be no miraculous stroke of luck where his injury completely healed.

　　Life… is there really that much to it? I can just do something else. I’m only eighteen. I’m good-looking, so I’ll probably do well even if I just make a living off my face.

　　Guk Jiho let his hand drop heavily onto the blanket. The sharp inner corners of his eyes narrowed even further. Lying perfectly straight and staring up at the blank ceiling, the boy bit his lip.

　　He was sick of being worked harder than a slave with zero human rights, anyway. It was agonizing having to drop over 22 pounds for every weigh-in without being allowed a single sip of water, and even when it wasn’t weigh-in time, he was sick and tired of starving just because the coach said a word.

　　Getting called in constantly to be punished or beaten under the guise of ‘mental reconditioning’… Because of all that absurdity, there had been more than one or two times when he wanted to smash everything to pieces.

　　“Ring! The Olympic gold medalist, national judo representative Guk Jiho, is getting a phone call!”

　　The ringtone, recorded in his own voice, rang out. He listened to it to the end, resolving that he would have to change it to the default ringtone now.

　　Keeping his eyes closed, Guk Jiho just reached out and answered the phone.

　　“Yeah…”

　　“Jiho! I’m back in Korea. I’m at the airport right now.”

　　“You didn’t have to come. Why did you?”

　　“I had to see my professor, too. Are you… okay? Why did you get hurt again? You must be feeling awful, right? Still, try rehab and if, by a one-in-a-million chance, it’s not good…”

　　“It’s a ninety-five percent chance.”

　　“Is that what they said?”

　　“Yeah.”

　　“Hey, there are plenty of paths in the world. You can just do something else. You’re not seriously worrying about your future at the bright, young age of eighteen, are you?”

　　His sister, Guk Seyeong, quickly changed her tune. She was a more realistic person than anyone.

　　“Yeah.”

　　“No matter how much you’ve only focused on sports, you share my genes, so you’ll have the brains for studying.”

　　Guk Seyeong wasn’t the type to hold onto the phone and chat for long. One minute, or three minutes at most. That was usually how long their calls lasted.

　　He just needed to give a few more short answers and he would be able to hang up. But, with terrible timing, something surged up from deep inside him.

　　“…Hng.”

　　“Jiho?”

　　He didn’t answer.

　　“Are you… crying?”

　　“…Yeah.”

　　“Only cry for five minutes. If you cry any longer, it’ll just make you weak, okay?”

　　“Yeah, hic…”

　　“You stay right there. I’m coming.”

　　“Sis.”

　　“Yeah.”

　　“Bring some cigarettes when you come. Marlboro.”

　　“You’re a damn athlete… Are you kidding me?”

　　The call abruptly cut off.

　　“Damn it…”

　　Guk Jiho covered his eyes with the back of his hand and cried. For over five minutes. For well over ten minutes. The harsh, bursting breaths made his throat sting as if it were being scraped by sandpaper. The blood vessels in his head throbbed wildly, bringing a pounding ache to his temples. A briny taste lingered on his tear-soaked lips.