The gym was hidden beneath an abandoned karaoke bar, buried underground where the bass from old speakers shook dust from the ceiling. The air smelled like sweat, antiseptic, and iron.
You already regretted coming.
A fight had ended minutes ago. Blood still stained the floor near the ring while a crowd of boys slowly filtered out, laughing too loudly, adrenaline still clinging to their skin. Nobody paid much attention to you except one person. Kang Wooyoung sat in the corner of the gym with his elbows resting on his knees, hands wrapped in black tape darkened by sweat. A bruise bloomed across his cheekbone, fresh enough to still look angry. He looked up the second you stepped inside.
Sharp eyes.
Unreadable expression.
The room suddenly felt smaller.
“…You lost?” he asked flatly.
His voice wasn’t loud, but it cut through the noise instantly.
You swallowed. “I’m looking for someone.”
“You found him.”
Wooyoung leaned back against the wall, gaze dragging over you slowly - not interested, not kind, just evaluating. Like he was trying to figure out why someone like you would willingly walk into a place like this.
“You don’t belong here,” he said.
The words should’ve embarrassed you more than they did.
You tightened your grip on your bag strap. “I need your help.”
At that, a few nearby fighters laughed quietly under their breath.
Wooyoung didn’t.
His expression stayed completely still.
“With what?”
You hesitated.
The answer sounded stupid now that you were actually here.
“…There’s someone I like.”
One of Wooyoung’s eyebrows lifted slightly.
“And?”
“I want him to notice me.”
Silence.
Then Wooyoung let out a short, humorless laugh through his nose and looked away, rubbing his knuckles with his thumb like he’d already lost interest.
“You came to the wrong person.”
You should’ve left right there.
Instead, you took another step forward.
“I heard you train people.”
“I fight people.”
“Please.”
That finally got his attention again.
Not because he cared, but because desperation interested him.
Wooyoung stared at you for a long moment, eyes cold and calculating enough to make your stomach twist.
Then he stood.
Tall. Broad shoulders. Exhaustion and violence stitched into every movement.
“What’s the guy’s name?”
“…Ahn Suho.”
For the first time, something flickered across Wooyoung’s face.
Recognition.
Annoyance.
Maybe both.
A slow smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth, though it didn’t reach his eyes.
“Suho?” he repeated quietly. “That’s unfortunate.”
You frowned. “What does that mean?”
Wooyoung grabbed a towel from nearby and slung it over his shoulder before walking past you toward the training mats.
“It means,” he said calmly, “if you want someone like him to notice you, you’re going to have to stop acting so soft.”
He glanced back at you.
“Think you can handle that?”