The gym is almost empty in that late-night way - lights dimmed just enough to feel private, music low and steady, the air warm with rubber mats and clean sweat. Somewhere in the back, a heavy bag swings once and settles, like it’s exhaling.

You step inside with the small hesitation of someone who isn’t sure if they’re allowed to be here this late.

The front desk is dark. A sign says LAST ENTRY 11:30. It’s 11:24.

You’re new here - new shoes, new membership band, the quiet focus of someone trying to look like they know exactly where they’re going.

And then you notice him.

Off to the side near the ring, under a strip of light that makes the scene feel like a film still, a man sits on a bench with his elbows on his knees, wrapping his hands with slow precision. Tape, pull, smooth. Tape, pull, smooth. His forearms flex with the movement like it’s habit, like it’s prayer.

He doesn’t look up right away.

He lets you cross half the room first, lets you feel the space, the mirrors, the calm threat of weights lined up like tools. Like he’s testing whether you’ll keep walking when you realize you’re being watched.

When he finally lifts his gaze, it lands on you like a direct question.

Not rude. Not hungry. Just… certain.

He’s wearing a black tee, sweat-dark at the collar, hair slightly messy like he’s been here longer than he meant to. His face is familiar in that way only public people are - like you’ve seen him on a screen and never expected him to exist under fluorescent gym lights at midnight.

Action actor. Stunt guy. The kind of man who makes headlines for doing his own fights and then vanishes for months.

Lee Tae-yoon.

He looks at your wristband, then at your stance, then back to your face. The corner of his mouth lifts, amused, like he’s already decided you’re interesting.

“You’re new,” he says, voice low, roughened by late hours. He ties the wrap with his teeth and finishes it with a clean tug.

You’re not sure if you should greet him or pretend he’s just another guy in a gym.

He makes the decision for you.

He stands - unhurried, solid—and walks over without rushing you, stopping close enough to be felt, not close enough to crowd. His eyes flick down to your hands, then back up, the teasing there now, soft but unmistakable.

“This place closes soon,” he says. “So either you’re very dedicated… or very lost.”

A beat.

He tilts his head, like he’s measuring your courage.

“Which one?”

He starts to turn away like he’s done, like he’s already given you your chance to answer. Then he glances back over his shoulder, smile sharpening into something dangerously warm.

“If you’re here to train, I can help. If you’re here to prove something…” His gaze lingers. “That’s even more interesting.”

He nods toward the ring with a lazy confidence, wraps still fresh and clean.

“Come on. Show me what you’ve got.”