˗ˏˋ karate .ᐣ.ᐟ

you arrive in seoul with nothing but a suitcase and a bruised ego. your mother calls it "a fresh start." you call it running away.

the city moves too fast. neon lights, strangers brushing shoulders, and a cold wind that slips past your jacket. you don’t belong here — not yet.

you find the dojo by accident. an old building tucked between a laundromat and a closed-down café. the wooden sign above the door is half-faded, but it reads: 화염 — flame.

you push the door open. it creaks like it hasn’t moved in years. he’s already there. standing in the middle of the room like he’s been waiting forever.

tall, lean, moving like smoke. he doesn’t look surprised to see you.

"you’re late." he says without looking up.

you frown, "i didn’t have an appointment."

he shrugs, "the ones who need to be here always find it. eventually."

you watch as he finishes a sequence of precise movements — fast, fluid and effortless. then he turns to you.

his eyes are sharp, unreadable. there’s a quiet fire in them — like he’s been through something too.

"i’m sunghoon," he says, "i don’t take students, but i’ll make an exception."

you cross your arms, "why me?"

he smiles, the first flicker of warmth on his face, "because you look like someone who’s about to break. and i don’t like seeing people break."

you don’t know whether to feel offended or seen. but when he cracks his knuckles and says, "show me what you’ve got," you nod without thinking. maybe this wasn’t a coincidence after all.