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𝐖𝐡𝐚𝐭'𝐬 𝐘𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐍𝐚𝐦𝐞? 𝐂𝐫𝐞𝐞𝐝!

Pairing: boxer!hyunjin x afab(female)!reader, non idol au, established relationship

Synopsis: after working hard to earn his title back, hyunjin goes head to head against the person who took it away from him in the first place. But harsh words can stir up anger.

Warning: angst, violence, language, near death experiences, ft. Chan

A/n: inspired by his karma photoshoot. Also inspired by an episode of the TV show Leverage (specifically, szn 2 ep. 2, the fight scene). If you have extra eyes for errors no you don't.

“Don’t take the fight, Hyune.”

Chan’s voice cut through the low hum of the gym like a bell. He wasn’t the only one.

“You’ve got nothing to prove, man,” one of his sparring partners added, taping his own hands on the bench beside him.

You didn’t even look at Hyunjin when you spoke, afraid he’d see the fear you were choking on. “This isn’t just some match. This is you throwing yourself back into the fire for revenge that doesn’t matter anymore.”

Hyunjin sat there in silence, elbows on his knees, his crimson buzzcut catching the fluorescent light above like sparks. That jaw, sharp enough to cut glass, tightened, and the shadows under his cheekbones deepened as he lifted his head. The freckles dusting his temple and cheekbone were faint now, but you knew the sweat and blood later would make them stand out. His eyes, unblinking, locked on yours.

“It matters to me.”

Hyunjin hadn’t been born into boxing. He’d been born into noise, a cramped apartment above a convenience store, his mother working double shifts at a diner, his father drunk and dead. Nights were filled with sirens, shouting in the streets, and the sound of drunken fists against thin walls. He was twelve the first time he fought back in an alley when a boy twice his size cornered him for his lunch money. Hyunjin had no technique, just raw fury and desperation, but the feeling when his fist connected and when the bully stumbled it lit something inside him that never went out.

At fourteen, he found a local boxing gym run by a retired welterweight named Moon Jae-min. Jae-min didn’t want him at first — said he was “too pretty to be hit like that” — but after watching the boy’s stubbornness in sparring, he took him under his wing. Hyunjin spent years learning footwork, breathing, the way to roll a shoulder to take the sting out of a punch.

And somewhere in that timeline, he met you. You’d walked into the gym one summer afternoon looking for your cousin, and ended up watching Hyunjin train. He’d been all sweat and focused aggression, but when his eyes found you through the ropes, you saw the softness there. Over the years, you became the one constant, the voice he heard when he iced his ribs after a loss, the touch he craved before a big fight, the only place that felt like home. His first win was in a dingy underground venue, the crowd no bigger than a school assembly. But when the ref raised his hand, and he found your face in the stands, he grinned like he’d just won the world title. The wins piled up, bigger rings, brighter lights, but you were always there, whether he was celebrating or bleeding.

The locker room smelled of liniment oil and adrenaline. Hyunjin sat with his head bowed while his trainer wrapped his hands, the thick white tape binding knuckle to knuckle. His gloves were already laid out on the bench, black leather, worn but polished.

He shadowboxed in front of the mirror, the muscles in his shoulders rippling under the loose robe. He didn’t need the crowd to hype him up, the fire was already in his veins.

The robe was draped over him, hood up, “HWANG” stitched across the back in bold block letters. His team checked his gloves, tugged on the straps, slapped his shoulders. He rolled his neck, mouthpiece clamped between his teeth, eyes locked on the hallway ahead.

You stood there, leaning against the wall, arms crossed tight. You could hear the crowd beyond the double doors, their roar like a distant storm. Hyunjin spotted you instantly. He stopped, pulled his mouthpiece out with a gloved hand, and stepped in close, the smell of leather, sweat, and faint cologne wrapping around you. His lips brushed yours, but you turned your head halfway through the kiss.

“Don’t think that’s gonna make me any less mad at you,” you said, voice low and sharp.

Hyunjin’s smirk was small but sure. “I’ll make you proud, mama. I promise.”

“And if you fucking die?” Your throat was tight, and the fluorescent lights above made the red in his hair look like fire.

“I won’t,” he said simply, like it was fact. He slid the mouthpiece back in, gave you one last lingering look, and walked toward the entrance.

The music hit. The announcer’s voice boomed. And then Hyunjin disappeared into the light, robe swaying, the crowd’s scream swallowing him whole.

His name was Park Jae-woo, quick in the ring, dirty in the shadows, and just dangerous enough to make a name for himself off the misery of others.

Two years ago, Hyunjin had been at the peak of his rise, the undefeated darling of his weight class, a fighter with a style so sharp it felt choreographed, and a face so marketable sponsors fought for a logo spot on his robe. That’s when Jae-woo challenged him.

It was in the third round when it happened. Hyunjin had Jae-woo cornered, working his body with crisp hooks, his footwork cutting the ring into slivers. Then Jae-woo’s left came in but instead of a glove, Hyunjin caught a sharp, deliberate elbow right to his temple.

The sound was sickening. His vision exploded into white static. His legs almost gave out, but instinct kept him standing. The ref missed it called it a legal shot. By the time Hyunjin staggered back to his corner, blood was already trickling into his eye. He lost by technical knockout, the medics pulling him out for a concussion. But the real hit came after.

The morning after, sports headlines exploded: “Rising Star Hwang Hyunjin Under Investigation for Steroid Use.”

“Suspicious Lab Results Cast Shadow Over Boxing Prodigy.”

The claim was that Hyunjin had been taking performance-enhancing drugs specifically a cocktail of anabolic steroids and EPO, the kind that boosts endurance. Fake “test results” were plastered everywhere. Within 48 hours, the boxing commission had suspended him pending investigation. His sponsors pulled their ads. And then came the knock at the gym door.

Two uniformed officers walked straight past the reception desk. You were there that day, watching him wrap his hands for a light spar. “Mr. Hwang Hyunjin, you’re under arrest for violations of the Professional Sports Anti-Doping Act.”

In front of his team, his friends, you. They cuffed him, read him his rights, and walked him through the gym while reporters’ cameras flashed outside.

During the first hearing, the prosecution came in swinging. They called him reckless. They pulled up his fight record, circling every KO as “evidence” of unnatural stamina. They even called in a so-called “former teammate” to testify he’d seen Hyunjin “shoot up” in a locker room, a lie so bold it almost made him laugh. The second hearing, his medical insurance sent notice that they’d cancel coverage if the allegations stood. No coverage meant no concussion rehab, no fight clearances, no career. The third, his own management held an internal vote to decide whether to terminate his contract. Chan spoke for him, called the whole thing a witch hunt, but the vote was razor-thin. One more “yes” and Hyunjin would’ve been on the street.

The fourth and final. You testified. You told them about his training, his clean diet, how he wouldn’t even take painkillers unless he absolutely had to. The court listened, but you looked exhausted, like you’d aged years in weeks. Hyunjin sat there feeling like he’d dragged you into the mud with him.

Weeks later, a journalist chasing a separate doping scandal stumbled on a money trail an “anonymous” bribe to a corrupt lab tech to fake test results. That trail? It led straight to Park Jae-woo’s manager.

The case was reopened. The charges dropped. But the damage was already tattooed into his life. Sponsors didn’t come back. Some friends stayed gone. Even you, though you stayed by his side, didn’t look at him quite the same for a while. Clearing his name publicly was hard. Clearing it with you? Harder. And Hyunjin swore, if he ever saw Jae-woo again, it wouldn’t be in a court. It would be somewhere he could make him bleed for every sleepless night, every headline, every time you cried over him.

It happened almost a year later. A rainy night. Hyunjin was in a tiny noodle shop, hood up, eating quietly in the corner. The broth was hot, steam curling in front of his face.

A shadow fell across the table.

“Hyunjin?”

He looked up. Jae-woo stood there, hands shoved in his pockets, cap shadowing his face, eyes glinting like this was some casual run-in between old friends. Hyunjin didn’t look well to notice him.

“Big fan,” Jae-woo said, smirk curling. “Always loved watching your fights. Shame about that court case. Must’ve been hell.”

Hyunjin kept eating. “Don’t worry about it.”

“I mean,” Jae-woo leaned in, “the person who did that to you… should feel guilty.” Hyunjin’s lips twitched into a humorless laugh. “It’s not always like that.”

“Yeah,” Jae-woo said, his voice low and mocking, “because I don’t.”

Hyunjin’s chopsticks stopped mid-air. He set them down slowly, eyes narrowing. “What did you just say?” Jae-woo looked up now, light steaking on his face. “You remember the night they cuffed you?” Jae-woo grinned wider. “I set that up. The fake tests, the leaks, all me. Your face when they dragged you out? Worth every won. I’m sure you know that though.”

The air went cold. Hyunjin’s chest rose and fell once. Twice. Then he sighed, a sound like a match being struck.

“You dick.” He shoved the table into Jae-woo’s chest — bowls clattering, broth spilling. Hyunjin was up in an instant, fists swinging. The first punch caught Jae-woo in the cheek, snapping his head to the side. The second had him stumbling into another table.

They went down hard, Hyunjin straddling him, fists raining down. “Fuck you!” he roared, voice raw. “You made my life a fucking mess!”

Shop staff rushed in, grabbing Hyunjin under the arms, dragging him back while his chest heaved. Jae-woo stood slowly, wiping blood from his mouth, smirking like he’d just been offered dessert.

“Name’s Park Jae-woo,” he said, as if Hyunjin didn’t already know. “Better we finish this conversation in the ring.”

And then he turned and walked out into the night, leaving Hyunjin breathing hard, the taste of iron still on his tongue.

---

The lights in the arena dropped, leaving the crowd buzzing in darkness. The announcer’s voice boomed through the speakers, smooth but charged with anticipation. “Ladies and gentlemen… in the blue corner… standing six feet one, weighing in at one-hundred eighty-two pounds… the undefeated king of the featherweight division… the Golden Fang… Hwang Hyuuuun—Jin!” The beat dropped. His walkout music hit like a war drum, bass shaking the canvas.

From the tunnel, Hyunjin emerged, hood up, robe draped over his shoulders, head tilted slightly down. His eyes, shadowed under the hood, were locked on the ring like it was prey.

He bounced lightly on his feet with every step, rolling his shoulders, loosening his neck. Each exhale misted in the cool air, his gloves rising occasionally for a few sharp shadowboxing combos just enough to flash the speed in his hands. The crowd roared his name, a tidal wave of sound, but his expression stayed carved in stone.

He climbed up the steps one at a time, slow, deliberate. When he stepped through the ropes, the smell of the mat hit him sweat, leather, the faint sting of disinfectant.

One of his guys, was already there. Without a word, they tugged the robe from his shoulders, folding it over his arm, then crouched to tug at the straps of Hyunjin’s gloves, checking the laces with quick, practiced motions.

Then Chan stepped in. “Hey. Hey—look at me.”

Hyunjin’s eyes flicked to him for half a second, then slid away, his jaw tight. “You’re here to fight,” Chan said, voice low but sharp. “Do you understand me? You trained for tonight.”

No answer.

“Don’t kill the guy.”

That got a reaction Hyunjin’s head turned, eyes cutting to Chan with a glare so sharp it could’ve drawn blood. “Yeah, I fucking said it,” Chan continued, not breaking eye contact. “Doesn’t matter how bad this guy hurt you—if you kill him, it’s on you. No one’s gonna bail you out. Not this time.”

Hyunjin’s nostrils flared. “Don’t let that shit get to your head. Do you understand me?”

Still nothing. Chan stepped closer, repeating, each word heavier. “Do. You. Understand. Me?”

Hyunjin’s answer came as a low grunt, deep in his throat.

Chan studied him for a beat, then gave his shoulder a firm tap before stepping back through the ropes.

The announcer’s voice boomed again: “And in the red corner… standing five feet ten, weighing in at one-hundred seventy-seven pounds… with a record of nineteen wins and two losses… Park… Jae—Wooo!”

The crowd erupted, but Hyunjin didn’t even glance at the tunnel. His focus unbroken, his chest rising and falling in that steady, dangerous rhythm of someone who’s already decided the ending.

The air was thick with anticipation as Jaewoo’s corner moved like clockwork, peeling the silk robe off his shoulders in one swift motion. His muscles glistened under the harsh white lights, flexing and tightening as his coach checked his gloves, tugging at the laces with a firm pull before patting him on the chest. His cutman leaned in, murmuring something low and urgent in his ear—nothing the crowd could hear, but you could see Jaewoo’s jaw clench as he nodded once. The Vaseline sheen across his cheekbones caught the light, a protective layer against the inevitable punishment.

The referee called both fighters to the center of the ring, his black shirt dark against the ropes as he held out his hands, instructing them in that calm, clipped voice that only carried for the fighters to hear.

"Protect yourself at all times, obey my commands, and keep it clean."

Both men locked eyes—no smiles, no gestures—just the taut wire of tension stretching between them. Hyunjin’s expression didn’t waver; Jaewoo’s was a hard mask of focus. They bumped gloves, quick and sharp, before stepping back into their respective corners.

You made your way to your seat in the stands, heart thudding almost as loud as the crowd’s noise. From here, the lights felt hotter, the ring brighter, the sound of the announcer echoing through the space still ringing in your ears. People around you murmured, shouted, and waved signs, but your eyes were locked on the man in the black trunks with gold trim. Hyunjin.

The referee glanced toward the timekeeper.

A short, piercing whistle cut through the air. The bell rang.

Hyunjin stepped out from his corner with that lethal calm, gloves up high, shoulders loose, feet light. Jaewoo mirrored him, circling left, both men reading each other like predators feeling for the right angle. The crowd’s roar dimmed into a low, steady hum in your ears. Hyunjin flicked a testing jab, Jaewoo blocked. Jaewoo fired back a quick one-two, but Hyunjin’s guard absorbed it, his forearms snapping tight. They traded a few light blows, nothing full-force yet, just feeling for openings, measuring speed, timing, the weight behind each shot.

Hyunjin feinted low, Jaewoo stepped back, his eyes narrowing, and countered with a right to the ribs that Hyunjin took on his elbow. Both of them stayed on the balls of their feet, circling, hands twitching with the threat of violence that hadn’t yet broken loose.

---

The third round break was shorter than it felt.

Hyunjin sat on the corner stool, chest rising and falling in deep, steady drags of air. Sweat gleamed down the column of his throat, his gloves resting on his thighs while one of his guys held a bottle to his mouth. Chan leaned in from outside the ropes, forearms braced on the apron, voice low but sharp enough to slice through the noise.

“It’s time to bring out the bad boy, alright?”

Hyunjin’s head tilted slightly, a faint hum vibrating in his chest, not quite a yes, but not a no either. Chan smirked faintly, the kind of grin that said that’s all I need to hear. The stool scraped as Hyunjin stood, rolling his shoulders back, twisting his neck until it popped. The bell rang with a metallic crack, and he stepped forward without hesitation.

Jaewoo met him center-ring, their gloves touching for the briefest second before the fight erupted again, no more testing, no more patience. Hyunjin ducked under a hook and answered with a sharp body shot that made Jaewoo grunt. Jaewoo recovered quick, shoving him back with a forearm, swinging for his head. Hyunjin weaved, footwork tight, every movement laced with precision.

The air in the venue changed—thicker, heavier—as the exchange sped up. This wasn’t clean, tidy boxing anymore; it was personal. The crowd leaned forward, roars turning into a low, rolling thunder as the two men traded blows, blocked with elbows, sidestepped just in time. Every hit landed like a drumbeat, gloves snapping against skin, the canvas creaking under their boots.

From your seat, you could feel your pulse syncing to their movements. You hated that he was here. You hated that he’d taken this match, knowing the risk. But your hands were clasped so tight your knuckles ached, and your lips moved in silent prayers you weren’t even fully aware of.

Just win. Don’t let him break you.

Hyunjin took a hit to the ribs, absorbed it, then came back with a brutal one-two that sent Jaewoo staggering toward the ropes. The crowd surged to their feet. You barely noticed—you were already on the edge of yours. The round pushed both fighters into that dangerous space between exhaustion and fury.

Jaewoo came in fast. The crowd leaned forward instantly, shouts blending into a wall of noise. Hyunjin dodged the first strike, countered with a hook, but Jaewoo absorbed it and moved in closer, driving him backward.

Then Jaewoo feinted high, dipped low, and slammed into Hyunjin’s midsection. The breath rushed out of him in a grunt as his back hit the mat. Before he could plant his legs, Jaewoo was on him, snaking an arm around his throat and locking in a chokehold.

Hyunjin twisted, fingers clawing at the forearm crushing his windpipe, his heels scraping against the mat for leverage. That’s when he felt it, Jaewoo’s mouth against his ear, hot breath cutting through the chaos.

“You know what I’m gonna do after this match?”

Hyunjin froze for half a second. And in that heartbeat, he realized, Jaewoo had taken out his mouthpiece.

“I’m gonna take your girl.”

That sentence alone made Hyunjin’s pulse spike, but before he could react, Jaewoo tightened his grip, keeping him pinned.

“Yeah… that upset you?” A laugh, low and taunting. “But I didn’t finish… When we’re done here, I’m gonna take your girl, and I’m gonna fuck her real good for you.”

Hyunjin’s body tensed like a live wire. And then Jaewoo twisted his head, forcing him to look in your direction. From your seat, your hands flew to your mouth. Your heart lurched at the sight of him pinned like that, but it was the sharp change in his expression, shock bleeding into white-hot anger, that made you lean forward, eyes locking on his.

“No, no— what did he say to you, Hyune…?” you whispered, panic flaring.

“Don’t let it get in your head, baby, please—”

But in the ring, Hyunjin didn’t hear you. His body moved before thought. He twisted hard, freed enough space, and drove his fist into Jaewoo’s chest with a force that made the other man grunt and loosen his grip.

And that’s when Hyunjin’s anger took over.

The precision was gone. The bell’s echo was still fading when Hyunjin shoved himself off the mat, wiping his forearm across his jaw as the taste of iron coated his tongue. That punch to Jaewoo’s gut had landed like a thunderclap, folding the other man over. And when Jaewoo staggered to one knee, Hyunjin didn’t give him the grace of time he stepped forward and delivered a sharp kick to his ribs.

The crowd gasped, some roared, some jeered, but Hyunjin just stood over him and flicked his fingers in a taunting “get up.”

Jaewoo did. But as soon as he charged, the difference was clear. Hyunjin’s fists were coming in harder now, faster, every hit laced with venom. Hooks to the ribs, jabs to the jaw, uppercuts that snapped Jaewoo’s head back like a whip. Jaewoo tried to circle away, his footwork shaky, retreating toward his corner. That’s when Hyunjin noticed the smallest window and instead of waiting for the ref to reset them, he made a choice. He stepped back, ripped at the velcro on his gloves, and yanked them off, leaving only his taped hands.

From outside the ropes, Chan’s voice cut through the chaos.

“Hyunjin, what the fuck are you doing?! Put those back on!”

Hyunjin’s eyes flicked to him—calm, cold, unreadable—and then he kicked the gloves clean out of the ring. “Hyunjin!” Chan’s shout was more a warning than a plea now. But the second Hyunjin turned back, Jaewoo was squared up again, mouth twisted into a grin that was begging to be broken.

The MC’s voice boomed over the mic, half-thrilled, half-panicked, “Ladies and gentlemen, this is no longer just a fight—this is personal!”

Hyunjin closed the gap with a predator’s pace. His bare fists thudded into Jaewoo’s guard, forcing it down, splitting through like steel on wet paper. Each shot stole Jaewoo’s air, gave him no room to recover. And when Jaewoo did manage to clip Hyunjin with a wild right hook, it only spurred him on.

Jaewoo spat blood and sneered, breathless.

“Oh, now you’re angry? ’Cause I mentioned your bitch?”

Hyunjin didn’t answer with words. He stepped in and drove a straight punch into Jaewoo’s cheek so hard the man’s mouth snapped shut with a click. Then, in one fluid motion, Hyunjin surged forward, planted his foot against the edge of the ring ropes for leverage, and vaulted, locking his legs around Jaewoo’s upper chest and shoulders. His arms snapped around Jaewoo’s head, yanking him down as he hammered his elbow into the crown of his skull again and again.

The arena erupted. Half the crowd was screaming in exhilaration, the other half in horror.

Outside the ring, Jaewoo’s coach was already charging toward Chan.

“What the fuck is your guy doing?! He’s going to kill him!”

Chan didn’t even look away from the ring when he replied, “Yeah, well, next time don’t frame a guy you know can’t be bought into your little picture.”

He sighed, hands braced on the apron, before bellowing, “Hyunjin! Get off him!”

But Hyunjin didn’t hear, couldn’t hear. The sound in his ears was pure blood rush, every nerve locked on finishing this. With a sudden jerk, he let himself fall backward, dragging Jaewoo with him so they slammed into the mat together. Before Jaewoo could even groan, Hyunjin had shifted—his legs snapping up and around Jaewoo’s neck, ankles locking tight.

The chokehold was merciless. The crowd was on their feet now, a storm of noise, some chanting his name, others screaming for him to stop. Jaewoo’s hands clawed at Hyunjin’s calves, tapping frantically against his thigh, but Hyunjin’s grip only tightened.

The MC’s voice was ragged, almost breathless, “Jaewoo’s tapping! He’s tapping but Hyunjin’s not letting go, this is beyond the rulebook now, folks!”

The referee dove in, shouting over the chaos, trying to wedge his arms between them. Hyunjin’s jaw was locked, every muscle taut, the veins in his neck standing out. It wasn’t until two more officials clambered into the ring and pried at his legs that they finally broke the hold, dragging him back. Hyunjin stumbled to his feet, chest heaving, sweat dripping from his chin, eyes locked on Jaewoo’s gasping form.

Medics swarmed Jaewoo instantly, one of them pressing an oxygen mask to his face, another checking his neck and jaw. Hyunjin’s wrapped hands twitched at his sides, his knuckles trembling, from the lingering urge to go again.

The MC’s voice cracked as he tried to rein in the room:

“Ladies and gentlemen… I don’t know what we just witnessed… but that was no ordinary fight.”

---

The bell had only just rung for the end of the match, but the air in the arena was still sharp with adrenaline and tension. Sweat, blood, and the muffled roar of the crowd were the backdrop when Chan ducked under the ropes, jaw tight and eyes locked on Hyunjin like a laser.

He didn’t slow down. The moment his feet hit the canvas, his hand came down hard against Hyunjin’s cheek with a sharp slap.

“What the fuck was that?!” Chan’s voice cut through the noise, rough and scathing. “Did it blow over your head when I said don’t kill him?!”

Hyunjin stood there, chest heaving, shoulders rising and falling with each deep breath. Blood streaked down from a split just under his eyebrow, his mouth still clamped around the mouthpiece. He didn’t answer he just kept staring somewhere past Chan, his jaw ticking, nostrils flaring.

“Answer me!” Chan barked, stepping into his space, the older man’s anger not just frustration but something close to fear.

Finally, Hyunjin spat the mouthpiece into his hand, tilting his head so the sweat falling from his hair shifted from his eyes. His voice came out low, hoarse.

“You know what he did.”

Chan’s expression shifted for a beat, something flickered there. Recognition. Disgust.

“Of course I know,” he snapped, “but that doesn’t give you the right to kill him. Literally!” Hyunjin sighed, long and heavy, and rolled his eyes like the conversation was pointless. He turned away, letting the medic who had been hovering finally step in to check his face and pulse.

Chan, however, didn’t let it drop. He moved across the ring to where Jaewoo was slumped in the corner, surrounded by his team and medics. The younger fighter was still out cold, his head tilted awkwardly against the stool.

“Is he okay?” Chan demanded, crouching down.

One of the medics glanced up, their gloves smeared with gauze and antiseptic. “Unconscious for now,” they replied quickly, “but a few seconds longer, and he would’ve been dead.”

Chan’s head dropped for half a second, muttering under his breath.

“Fuck me…” When he looked up again, his gaze darted back to Hyunjin. The kid was still being checked over, his head tilted slightly for the medic’s flashlight to scan his pupils, the smear of blood on his cheek only making him look more defiant. Chan’s shoulders tightened. This wasn’t just about winning anymore. This was about keeping him from burning the whole damn place down.

The referee’s voice cut through the post-fight chaos, waving for everyone except the medics to clear the ring. Chan shot Hyunjin one last glare before stepping back, his jaw tight with frustration. The crowd’s energy was still buzzing—loud, confused, and restless— but it dulled when the ref leaned in to speak with the MC. You could see their hushed exchange from your seat, the way the MC nodded, glanced at Hyunjin, then at Jaewoo being tended to on the floor.

Finally, the decision came.

“Ladies and gentlemen…” the MC’s voice boomed over the speakers, “…by technical submission… your winner, Hwang Hyunjin!”

The bell rang once more, the sound sharp and final. The referee strode to the center of the ring, the championship belt in his hands. He handed it to Hyunjin, gripping his wrist and raising his arm high in victory. The crowd erupted into cheers, boos, and shocked murmurs mixing into one deafening wave.

Hyunjin’s walkout music thumped through the speakers again, bass heavy and triumphant, but his face was a storm of pain and stubborn pride. Blood streaked down from his lip, and one of his eyes was mildly swelling, yet his smile was there, thin but defiant.

As the medics lifted Jaewoo onto a stretcher, Hyunjin’s gaze followed him. His jaw flexed, nostrils flaring, and only once Jaewoo’s limp form passed, he spit blood to the side, and muttered, almost to himself but with enough venom to cut through air, “Fuck you.”

---

In the locker room, Chan was leaned against a wall, phone pressed to his ear, his tone clipped and sharp as he spoke to someone. “Yeah. It’s done. No—he’s breathing, he’s fine… for now.” Across the room, Hyunjin sat on a bench, shirtless, with a medic kneeling in front of him, dabbing at the split on his lip and cleaning the scrape across his cheekbone. His breathing was still heavy, shoulders rising and falling, knuckles raw.

The door creaked open, and you stepped in. You weren’t smiling. Your eyes scanned him from head to toe, lingering on the bruises already blooming across his ribs, the blood, but it wasn’t sympathy on your face. It was worry mixed with disbelief. “What the fuck happened out there?” you asked, voice low but sharp. “You almost killed somebody, Hyunjin.”

He lifted his eyes to you, unfazed, and shrugged. “He said shit about you.”

You scoffed, taking a step closer. “So you had to kill him?” Hyunjin’s jaw tightened. “Not even a thank you…”

You let out a humorless laugh, shaking your head. “I can’t say thank you to someone who could’ve been a murderer.”

Chan ended his call and gave you a nod. “Hey, Y/N.”

“Hey, Chan,” you replied briefly, before your eyes slid back to Hyunjin. He was still watching you, lips pressed in a line, and for a second neither of you blinked.

Finally, you broke the silence.

“See you tonight… and congrats… I guess.”

You didn’t wait for him to answer before turning and walking out, leaving the smell of antiseptic, sweat, and tension behind you.

The medic had finished taping Hyunjin’s ribs and left, leaving only the hum of the fluorescent lights and the faint thud of music from the arena outside. Hyunjin sat hunched on the bench, the belt on the floor at his feet like it didn’t matter. His shoulders were tense, head tilted down, blood still drying at the corner of his mouth.

Chan, still leaning against the wall with his arms folded, finally broke the silence. “What the hell were you trying to prove, huh?” His voice was sharp, but there was weariness underneath.

“Your girlfriend doesn’t even like the fact that you almost killed someone.”

Hyunjin didn’t answer. His jaw flexed, his eyes fixed on the ground like it was safer to look there.

Chan sighed, walked over, and sat beside him, the bench creaking under their combined weight. He glanced at his brother’s bloody knuckles, then back at his face. “Listen,” Chan began, his voice softer now. “I get it. I know what it’s like—carrying everything on your shoulders, feeling like you gotta protect what’s yours. I’ve been there, Hyune. The rage, the pressure, the—”

“You don’t understand shit!” Hyunjin’s voice cracked like a whip, cutting him off. He shot to his feet, his chest heaving, his glare hot enough to burn through steel.

Chan froze, his words caught in his throat, as Hyunjin paced a few steps away and exploded.

“You don’t know what it feels like!” Hyunjin’s voice boomed, raw and unrestrained. He jabbed a finger toward his own chest. “To hear someone talk about her like that, like she’s just some…” His voice shook with fury, his fists trembling.

“Hyune—” Chan tried, but Hyunjin’s shout drowned him out.

“You don’t know how it feels— did you think I wanted to do that? To see red so fast, to not even think, just snap! To feel like you’re not even in your own body anymore!” His breathing grew uneven, his voice louder, but frayed around the edges. “You don’t know what it’s like to lose yourself—”

His words stumbled then, his voice suddenly cracking mid-sentence. The room seemed to still as tears welled in his eyes, blurring the fury into something messier, heavier. He turned away from Chan quickly, his shoulders stiff as he lifted his hand to swipe at his face.

“Hyune…” Chan’s voice was quiet now, aching.

“Just—fuck off.” Hyunjin’s voice was hoarse. His back stayed turned, his hand dragging roughly across his eyes, like he could erase the weakness before it showed. Chan stood, hesitating only a moment before stepping forward.

“Fuck off, I said!” Hyunjin barked again when he heard footsteps behind him. His voice was sharp, desperate. But Chan ignored him. He moved closer, then gently—without asking—slid his arms around Hyunjin’s shoulders from behind.

Hyunjin stiffened, twisting. “What the fuck are you doing?! Piss off!” He shoved Chan’s arms off violently, spinning to glare at him with wet eyes and a trembling lip. Chan didn’t argue. He didn’t scold. He just stepped in again, slower this time, pulling him into his chest. This time, Hyunjin didn’t fight. He stood rigid, his arms limp at his sides, eyes burning, his whole body trembling under the weight of emotions clawing their way out.

“I don’t need a fucking—” His words trailed, breaking, his voice hollow as tears slipped free again. His chest hitched, and he shook his head like he wanted to deny everything spilling out of him.

Chan stayed silent, one hand pressed firm against Hyunjin’s back, the other rubbing slow, steady circles between his shoulder blades. And then it broke. Hyunjin’s breath hitched harder, a sob tearing through his chest as his body gave way. He crumbled against Chan, shaking, tears streaming unchecked down his face.

“I didn’t want to kill him,” he choked out between gasps, his fists curling weakly at his sides. “I was just—angry. It wasn’t me, hyung—it wasn’t me! I didn’t mean to—” His words tangled with sobs, guttural and heavy. “I don’t want to be that person—fuck, I don’t…”

Chan’s chest ached hearing it, but he didn’t say anything. He didn’t tell him it was fine, didn’t try to justify it. He just held him tighter, his chin resting against the top of Hyunjin’s head, patting his back in slow, steady rhythm.

“Let it out, Hyune,” Chan murmured softly, almost drowned by Hyunjin’s sobs. “Just let it out.”

And Hyunjin did. His body shook with the force of it, soaking Chan’s shirt as the walls he’d held up for so long finally cracked. Chan stayed silent through it, his embrace unyielding, grounding him as his little brother fell apart in his arms.

Hyunjin sat slumped on the bench, head bowed, shoulders shaking in the aftermath of his breakdown. Chan kept a steady hand on his back, the weight of it grounding. After a long silence, he gave a soft pat, voice low and steady.

“Alright… enough now, yeah?” Chan said gently, his tone still firm. “Man up, Hyune. You hear me?”

Hyunjin nodded quickly, sniffling, dragging the heel of his hand over his face. He took a shaky breath, forcing himself upright. “Yeah,” he muttered, voice hoarse. “Yeah, I’m good.”

Chan studied him for a moment the rawness in his eyes, the mess of blood and sweat streaking his jaw. Then he sighed, rubbing his temple.

“I’ll talk to the agency,” he said finally. “Try to do some damage control before they blow this whole thing up. Press already got wind of what happened tonight, and Jaewoo’s camp is pissed. If the footage goes viral before I reach them, it’s gonna look like a goddamn murder scene in there.”

Hyunjin looked up at him, guilt flashing across his face. Chan continued, his tone softening.

“I’ll tell them you lost control in the heat of the match. That you were provoked. You’ll probably face a suspension—maybe a fine—but I’ll make sure they don’t take your license, okay?”

Hyunjin nodded slowly, the words sinking in like dull needles. “Thanks, hyung…”

Chan patted his back again, this time more like a brother than a coach. “Just get home safe, yeah? Take a cold shower, ice those hands, and—” he hesitated, meeting his eyes, “apologize to Y/N. She didn’t deserve to see you like that.”

Hyunjin’s throat tightened. He nodded again, quieter. “…Yeah.”

Chan stood, brushing his palms against his jeans, and gave one last look around the locker room, stained towels, the faint smell of sweat and iron, the echo of chaos that had filled the arena minutes ago. He sighed. “Christ, what a night.”

Hyunjin pushed himself up, body heavy and sore. He walked toward his locker, fingers fumbling slightly as he undid the lock. Inside was his black hoodie, folded neatly beside a small duffel bag. He peeled off his fight shorts, grimacing at the ache in his ribs, and slipped on the sweatshirt. The fabric clung slightly to his damp skin, the collar brushing against the cut on his cheek.

He zipped his bag and slung it over his shoulder, glancing briefly toward Chan who stood by the door, phone to his ear, muttering something to someone about “damage control” and “public statements.”

When their eyes met again, Chan just nodded toward the exit.

“Let’s get out of here.”

They stepped out into the cold night air of the underground garage, the echo of their footsteps bouncing off the concrete walls. The world outside the ring felt eerily quiet now, no cheers, no chaos. Just the hum of distant traffic and the buzz of fluorescent lights overhead.

Chan stopped beside his black SUV, turning to face Hyunjin. “I’ll call you in the morning,” he said, tone softening again. Then he reached out, giving Hyunjin’s shoulder a solid pat the kind of touch that said I’m still here, even if you fucked up."

“Get your head straight, okay?”

Hyunjin nodded faintly. “Yeah, hyung. Thanks.”

Chan offered a tight smile and unlocked his car. The engine rumbled to life, headlights flaring across the garage walls. As he pulled out, he leaned out the window for a brief second.

“Hey, Hyune.”

Hyunjin looked up.

“Don’t let this be what defines you.”

Then Chan was gone, the sound of his tires fading into the night. Hyunjin stood there for a moment, staring at the empty space where the car had been. The garage was silent again, save for the faint hum of the air vents and the metallic echo of his breath.

He walked over to his own car. He opened the passenger door first, dropping his duffel bag onto the seat with a dull thud. The sound echoed like punctuation at the end of a brutal chapter. Then he moved around to the driver’s side, every step weighted. When he sat, the leather was cool against his back, the faint scent of her perfume still lingering from when she’d been in the car earlier that evening.

He shut the door slowly. The click of it closing sealed the silence around him.

For a moment, he just sat there, staring through the windshield, his reflection faint against the glass. His hands rested on the steering wheel, the veins still swollen beneath the bruised skin. He let out a long, unsteady breath, then exhaled through his nose, his lips parting in a sigh that felt more like surrender than relief.

“…Fuck.”

His voice was barely above a whisper, but it carried the exhaustion of the entire night. He reached for the keys, slid them into the ignition, and turned. The engine hummed to life. He rested his forehead against the steering wheel for a second, then lifted his head, eyes glassy but focused. The glow from the dashboard cast faint blue light across his face as he whispered to himself, half a promise, half a plea.

“Get it together, Hyune.”

Then he shifted into gear and drove off into the quiet city night.

---

The drive home was a blur, headlights streaking across the windshield like ghosts, the low hum of the car’s engine filling the silence that pressed against Hyunjin’s skull. His hands were tight around the steering wheel, knuckles pale beneath bruised skin. Every once in a while, his jaw flexed, teeth grinding softly as his mind replayed the fight… and Y/N’s face in the crowd.

By the time he pulled into the driveway, it was past midnight. The house was dark except for the faint amber glow from the upstairs hallway light. He sat in the car for a few seconds, engine still running, eyes fixed on the front door like it might open itself if he stared long enough.

Finally, he turned off the ignition. The car stilled. He grabbed his duffel bag from the passenger seat and stepped out. The night air hit him, almost too still compared to the chaos of the arena. The weight of the day seemed to sink into his shoulders all at once.

He walked to the front porch, each step heavy and slow, and pressed the doorbell. The sound echoed softly through the house. For a long moment, nothing.

The door opened.

You stood there in an oversized tee, hair a little messy, eyes half-shadowed with exhaustion and disappointment. The porch light cast a warm hue across your face, but your expression was cold, not angry, just… tired.

Hyunjin’s throat tightened. He opened his mouth, voice rough, “…Hey—”

But you cut him off before he could finish.

“Save it, Hyunjin.”

Your tone wasn’t sharp, but the finality in it hit harder than any punch he’d taken that night. You leaned against the doorframe, arms folded loosely. “I’m not ready to hear what you have to say.”

He swallowed hard, his chest tightening. For a moment, he thought about stepping back maybe turning around and sleeping in the car. But instead, he nodded faintly, eyes downcast. You sighed softly, pushed the door open wider, and turned to walk inside. “There’s food in the microwave,” you said over your shoulder, your voice quieter now, almost resigned. “I heated it up for you before you got home. Help yourself.”

Then you started up the stairs, bare feet padding softly against the wooden steps.

Hyunjin lingered in the entryway for a second, watching you go. The sight of you shoulders slightly slumped, the faint shake in your exhale made something inside him ache.

“Baby,” he called softly.

You stopped halfway up, hand resting on the railing, and turned your head just enough for him to see your profile. His voice cracked, almost boyish in its vulnerability. “I really am sorry.”

For a beat, silence. Then you exhaled through your nose, eyes softening just a fraction. “I know,” you said quietly in just acknowledgment and turned away, disappearing into the bedroom.

The sound of the door clicking shut echoed faintly through the quiet house. Hyunjin stood there for a few seconds more before his shoulders dropped. He let out a breath that trembled at the edges, then toed off his shoes and set his duffel bag by the couch. His hands were still wrapped in the white cloth, now stained pink and brown from blood and sweat. He walked to the sink, turned on the tap, and began unwrapping them slowly. The fabric clung to the cuts on his knuckles; when he peeled it off, he winced, jaw tightening.

The water ran red at first. Then clear.

When the last bit of wrap was gone, he rinsed his hands again, shaking them out with a hiss between his teeth. His reflection in the kitchen window stared back at him — tired eyes, bruised cheek, blood crusted at the corner of his lip.

He sighed and muttered under his breath, “You really fucked up tonight, Hyune…”

Then he turned to the microwave. The digital clock read 12:47 AM. Inside, a bowl of rice and stew waited, still warm under the light. He opened it, grabbed a spoon from the drawer, and sat down by the counter.

For the first time all night, the quiet felt deafening. The ticking of the kitchen clock. The hum of the refrigerator. The faint creak of floorboards above where you were pacing softly before bed. He took a bite. The food was still hot, just enough to sting the cut inside his lip, but he didn’t care. He ate in silence, eyes fixed on nothing, lost somewhere between guilt and exhaustion.

When he finally looked up, his gaze drifted toward the staircase, where a sliver of light peeked out from under the bedroom door. His expression softened, regret swimming in his eyes. He whispered, barely audible, “I’ll fix it. I promise.”

Then he went back to eating, slow, quiet, and alone.

The kitchen was spotless by the time Hyunjin was done.

He washed every dish he’d used, wiped the counters until the marble gleamed, even tossed his bloodied wraps in a sealed plastic bag to keep from staining anything else. When he finally switched off the lights and made his way upstairs, his body felt heavy, with exhaustion, with the weight of everything that had happened. Each step up the stairs creaked softly beneath his feet, the dim light from the hallway guiding him toward the bedroom door.

He paused for a second before opening it. The handle was cool in his hand. Inside, the room was dark, save for the faint silver glow of the moonlight filtering through the curtains. The air was warm, that familiar warmth that always made him feel like he was home. You were there, lying on your side of the bed, back turned to him, the blanket pulled up to your shoulders. Your breathing was slow, even. Peaceful.

For a moment, he just stood there in the doorway, watching you, the soft rise and fall of your back, the way a loose strand of hair curled along your neck. Something in him ached; you looked so calm, so far away from the chaos that still thundered in his chest.

He headed quietly to the bathroom, closing the door halfway to muffle the sound of the shower turning on.

The water came out hot steam filling the small space almost instantly. He stepped under it, hissing softly as it hit the bruises along his ribs. But then he tilted his head back, letting it wash over him completely. The warmth rolled down his face, neck, shoulders, tracing the sharp lines of muscle that had been tense all night. He closed his eyes and breathed out slowly, the sound of the water drowning out the noise in his head.

For a while, he just stood there, hands pressed against the cool tiles, head bowed under the stream. The images replayed over and over — Jaewoo’s face turning red, the sound of Chan’s voice shouting, your expression when you opened the door. It was all tangled up in one relentless loop.

“Fuck…” he muttered under his breath, dragging his hands down his face.

When he finally stepped out, the mirror was fogged over, his reflection blurry. He dried himself with the towel, muscles twitching from the ache that still lingered, then pulled on a loose sweatshirt and shorts. His movements were slow, deliberate like someone afraid to break the silence.

He turned off the bathroom light and padded softly back into the room.

You hadn’t moved. Still curled up, your breathing steady. He stood by the side of the bed for a moment, watching you again, that same quiet guilt tightening his chest. Then, as carefully as he could, he lifted the blanket and slid into his side of the bed.

The mattress dipped beneath his weight.

He turned toward you — your back still facing him — and hesitated for a second before leaning closer. His hand hovered near your shoulder, then gently brushed away a strand of hair from your face. He pressed a soft kiss to your forehead. His lips lingered there for a heartbeat before he whispered, voice low and rough with exhaustion,

“I’m sorry.”

He stayed like that for a moment, then exhaled quietly and shifted closer, letting his arm drape lightly across your waist. Just enough to feel you there.

You didn’t stir. Didn’t move away either. You just let him be near you.

That small mercy—your quiet acceptance, even in sleep—made something in him unclench. He closed his eyes, his breath syncing with yours, the warmth of your body pulling him back from the chaos that had consumed him all night.

---

The morning light filtered gently through the blinds, painting the room in gold and soft gray. Hyunjin blinked awake, the quiet hum of dawn wrapping around him like a half-forgotten song. For a long moment, he just lay there the events of last night replaying in slow motion behind his tired eyes. The roar of the crowd. The way Jaewoo’s head snapped back. Chan’s furious voice. The sound of his own heartbeat pounding so violently it felt like it was trying to escape his chest.

He exhaled heavily, chest rising and falling as if each breath carried regret. Then he turned his head slightly and there you were.

Still asleep.

Your face softened in the morning hush, lashes dusting your cheeks, lips parted slightly as you breathed. The tension that had hung between you last night wasn’t gone, but in that moment, it felt quieter. Bearable.

Hyunjin’s throat tightened. He reached out slowly, fingertips brushing a stray strand of your hair from your face, his thumb lingering at your temple. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, voice low and raw. “I really am, baby.”

His hand moved gently, tracing through your hair as he spoke like he was confessing to the silence.

“I didn’t mean to go that far with Jaewoo. I swear I didn’t. But when he said what he said—” he paused, jaw clenching as his chest tightened again. “It was like something just… snapped. I saw red, and I couldn’t stop. I didn’t want to stop.”

He let out a shaky breath. “He said things about you too. About us. About how he’d...’” A humorless chuckle escaped his lips. “Maybe he’s right. You deserve someone better than me to take care of you.”

As he spoke, your lashes fluttered, eyes slowly opening. You blinked at him, still groggy, your voice faint but firm.

“You knew you took it too far, right?”

Hyunjin froze, eyes widening for a second before softening. “You’re awake…” he murmured sheepishly.

You gave a small sigh, shifting slightly closer, your tone calm but disappointed in that way that always got to him. “I know he hurt you,” you said quietly, “but—”

“He hurt you too,” Hyunjin interrupted softly, his eyes dark and intense now. “With words. I heard him.”

You paused, your gaze meeting his. There was a small, sad smile on your lips. “That too,” you admitted. “But that doesn’t mean you can risk yourself like that, Hyun. You could’ve killed him, baby. And then what? What would’ve happened to you? To us?”

The words landed heavy between you. Hyunjin swallowed hard, his expression crumbling. “I know,” he whispered. “I know, my love. I lost control. I’m sorry. I just… I couldn’t stand hearing him say those things. About you. About me. I wanted him to shut up. I didn’t think—”

You pressed a finger to his lips. “You didn’t think,” you echoed softly. “And that’s the problem.”

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The world was quiet, save for the ticking clock and the distant chirp of birds outside. Then, gently, you leaned forward and kissed him. It wasn’t fiery it was slow, tender, full of everything words couldn’t fix. Forgiveness. Love. The ache of understanding.

When you pulled back, your forehead rested against his. “I forgive you, baby,” you whispered.

Hyunjin closed his eyes, a single tear sliding down his temple as he exhaled in relief. “Thank you,” he breathed, his voice cracking slightly.

You smiled faintly, brushing your thumb across his jaw. “I love you,” you said softly.

He opened his eyes then and the look in them was unguarded, unfiltered. Raw. “I love you too,” he whispered back. “More than I can handle sometimes.”

You giggled softly at that, tracing the line of his collarbone as he leaned in again, capturing your lips in a second kiss deeper this time, but still slow. The kind of kiss that said we’ll be okay.

When he pulled back, he tucked you against his chest, your head resting over his heartbeat. It was steady.

For a long moment, neither of you said anything. You just watched him, the faint bruises still visible along his jaw, and that boyish pout that always made your heart soften no matter how angry you’d been.

Then, with a small, mischievous smirk tugging at your lips, you said, “You know…”

Hyunjin glanced down at you, one brow arching. “What?”

“You looked really attractive, though,” you murmured, eyes gleaming with teasing amusement. “When you had him in that headlock… with your legs.”

He blinked, taken off guard, before letting out a startled laugh, the kind that came from deep in his chest. “Attractive?” he repeated, laughing harder now. “Baby, I almost killed a man and that’s what you noticed?” You shrugged innocently, your grin widening. “What can I say? You were angry, focused, and all… dangerous. It was kinda hot.”

Hyunjin groaned, dropping his face into the pillow beside you as a low chuckle vibrated through his chest. “You’re insane,” he muttered, voice muffled. “Absolutely insane.” You leaned in, pressing a kiss to his shoulder. “Yeah, but you love me for it,” you teased softly.

He turned his head, smiling faintly. “I do,” he admitted, his hand coming up to cup your cheek. “God help me, I do.” You giggled, leaning into his palm for a second before your tone shifted, gentler, more thoughtful. “What do you think Chan’s gonna tell the agency?” you asked quietly.

Hyunjin’s smile faded into a sigh. He rolled onto his back, staring up at the ceiling for a moment before speaking. “I don’t know,” he said honestly. “But… I know he’s gonna go all out for me. That’s just who he is.”

There was a touch of awe in his voice when he said it the kind that came from deep respect and years of brotherhood. “Chan’s always had my back. Even when I don’t deserve it.”

You propped your chin on his chest, looking at him with a soft smirk. “You don’t deserve Chan, you know.” Hyunjin chuckled lowly, the corner of his mouth quirking up. “Yeah,” he said, his tone half-playful, half-resigned. “I know.”

He turned his head to look at you, eyes glinting with that familiar warmth. “But I’m lucky he doesn’t see it that way.” You smiled, pressing your hand flat against his chest where his heart beat slow and steady beneath your palm. “You’re lucky a lot of people don’t see it that way,” you said, voice teasing but affectionate.

Hyunjin laughed, leaning over to kiss you again slower this time, his thumb brushing the side of your neck. “Including you?” he murmured against your lips.

You smiled into the kiss, whispering back, “Especially me.”

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