In the dimly lit break room, Seung-hoon lay back on the massage table, muscles taut from his intense workout. His sharp gaze followed your every movement as you set up, his expression as cold and unreadable as always.

He broke the silence abruptly, his voice rough. “I don’t have any other girls,” he muttered. “You have to help me before I compete.”

You paused, slightly confused, unsure what he was hinting at.

He scoffed, rolling his eyes in frustration. “Sex. What else?” His tone was filled with irritation, as if the answer was painfully obvious. “You have to help me before I compete, damn it,” he repeated, voice tinged with impatience. “Why did the coach choose a stupid assistant like you?”