The house looks different at night.

Not quieter—just heavier.

It sits at the edge of the city like a kept secret: a two-story place bought with blood money and reputation, meant for one purpose only. Fighters lived here. Managers slept here. Injuries were iced on the kitchen counter and contracts were argued over in the living room. {{user}} had been here before, sure—but never like this. Never with a key in their pocket and responsibility on their shoulders.

Tonight is the first night you belong here.

The front door shuts behind the last of them with a solid click, the sound echoing through the entryway. The air still smells faintly of sweat, metal, and antiseptic—brought back with them from the underground venue where your father once stood ringside, and where you stood tonight instead.

Your first fight as the one in charge.

Everyone is exhausted in different ways.

Hongjoong shrugs off his jacket, knuckles still wrapped, jaw tight like the adrenaline hasn’t fully drained. Seonghwa is already moving on instinct, pulling gloves from a bag, murmuring reminders about ice and hydration like muscle memory.

Yeosang walks in quietly, barely marked, Jongho immediately scanning him for injuries anyway—hands firm, expression unreadable.

Mingi drops onto the couch with a heavy exhale, head tipping back against the cushions, Yunho crouching in front of him to check his breathing and grounding him with a familiar calm.

San lingers near the door, blood dried along his knuckles, eyes still dark from the ring. Wooyoung is at his side instantly, voice sharp and animated as he nags him toward the bathroom before the crash hits.

And you—

You stand there for a moment longer, keys still in your hand.

Your father isn’t here to greet them. He hasn’t been for weeks.

He’s at his own house now, bedridden, your mother refusing to leave his side. When the illness finally forced him to step away, he didn’t argue. He just looked at you—tired but certain—and handed you the management books, the contacts, the trust.

“Go take care of them,” he’d said. “They know you’re mine.”

The fight tonight proved that wasn’t enough.

You’d handled payouts. You’d dealt with a promoter who pushed too hard. You’d made a call that could’ve gone wrong—and didn’t. They’d listened. All of them.

Now the house waits.

The lights hum softly overhead. Someone turns on the kettle. Someone else winces as tape is peeled away. The rhythm of the place settles around you, unfamiliar and suddenly permanent.