Chapter Text
Jiwoo’s limbs gave out beneath him the second his feet cleared the threshold, and he faceplanted, cheek pressed against the hardwood. The coolness of the floor was such a relief he barely noticed the tiny twinge in his shoulder, or the twitching in his hamstring, and just breathed. The world narrowed to the sharp, cold tang of sweat evaporating from his skin and the thump-thump of his heart, which was still going like a jackhammer. The house was always a couple degrees colder, but right now Jiwoo couldn’t have been happier to marinate in it. His T-shirt clung to him like the aftermath of a rainstorm, every inch of him damp with the evidence of Kayden’s “gentle warm-up.”
The moment-to-moment pain was pretty bad—more of a dull, spreading warmth, like uncoiling wires all through his muscles—but it was bearable. The real exhaustion was deeper, so total he felt hollowed out, almost floaty, like his body was a balloon someone forgot to tie down. He flopped one arm out for dramatic effect, then the other, starfishing himself on the living room rug, too spent to care about anything as trivial as dignity. “Ah… it feels so good… to lie down,” he mumbled, voice muffled by the floorboards and too faint for anyone but himself to hear.
Kayden was already there, of course, curled on the ottoman above Jiwoo’s head, overseeing his pupil’s demise with a cool indifference. His tail flicked with practiced annoyance, even as he let out a low, contented rumble. “You’ve still got some rough edges to polish,” Kayden said, and though he tried for stern, there was a hint of satisfaction in the way his whiskers twitched. “But you made solid progress today.”
Jiwoo tried to offer a thumbs-up but the signal got lost on the way to his hand. He flexed his fingers; they trembled so violently the movement made his vision wobble. “Can’t… lift… hands,” he croaked, and then forced himself to roll onto his back, where the ceiling fan’s slow rotation became a mesmerizing spiral of white blades and blue sky. The afterimage danced behind his eyelids even after he blinked.
Kayden rolled his eyes, as if the very concept of exhaustion was beneath notice. “For crying out loud, you’ll live,” he said, but without bite. A single paw thumped Jiwoo’s shoulder, and the spark of contact made every nerve in his arm flare, for a second, like a string of tiny lights had been plugged in. Jiwoo didn’t know if Kayden was doing it on purpose (probably), but he couldn’t muster the energy to argue.
It was there, in that strange liminal space between awake and asleep, that his mind started to drift. He wondered, briefly, if normal kids ever felt this tired. Or if their shoes have ever nearly melted to the floor. Doubtful. In any case, Jiwoo’s baseline for “normal” was so warped he doubted he could spot it from across the street.
He snorted, making a tiny dust cloud bloom under his nose. “Cats… I need to feed the cats…” The words came out automatic, voice so thin it was practically transparent. His eyelids drooped, and this time when he blinked it was an effort to open them again.
“They’ve already eaten, kid,” Kayden said, a hint of smugness in his tone. The cat hopped down from the ottoman with a heavy thud, circled Jiwoo’s outstretched arm, then collapsed beside him, head pillowed on Jiwoo’s bicep.
Jiwoo let his head turn toward Kayden, but his eyes fell shut again almost immediately. If he’d had any energy left, he might have protested, or at least moved to a less humiliating location, but the exhaustion had finally reached a place where even thinking was a challenge. He just lay there, savoring the slow, steady return of sensation to his fingertips, and the not-so-steady throb of his overworked muscles. Something in him wanted to sleep right there on the floor.
That was when a sudden ding echoed through the apartment, sharp as a fire alarm, and Jiwoo’s body shot about a foot off the ground before he registered what was happening. The bell. Someone was at the door.
Jiwoo’s eyes snapped open, vision swimming as he tried to get his bearings. The effort to sit upright was Herculean, but he managed to prop himself up on one elbow, then two, gritting his teeth as his abs screamed in protest. Kayden was already upright, perched and alert, ears flat against his head.
Jiwoo groaned, managing to stagger to his feet. His knees buckled but didn’t completely betray him. He swayed for a second, then shuffled toward the door, leaving a faint trail of sweat droplets in his wake. The entryway was only a few meters distant but felt like crossing a desert. He thumbed the security monitor, squinting through the haze and the grainy black-and-white static.
Jiwoo squinted at the image, blinking spots out of his eyes. “Huh. It’s Inhyuk.”
Kayden’s reaction was instant, a visible ripple running through his fur as he perched on the armrest like a stormcloud about to burst. His whiskers angled sharply forward, and his tail thudded a warning against the upholstery. “Him? Why is he here? Isn’t that the guy from the same group as the loudmouth who tried to flatten you?”
Jiwoo massaged his aching jaw, the memory of that first confrontation still hot on his skin. “He is,” he said. “Inhyuk—he’s, uh, sort of nice? I think he means well.” Jiwoo raked trembling fingers through his sweat-slick hair, wincing as static skittered from his scalp to his fingertips. “But I don’t know why he’s here now.”
Kayden’s ears rotated back. “Nothing good ever comes from those people showing up unannounced.” The voice, though low, carried a predatory edge.
Jiwoo nodded, though he wished his heart would stop doing backflips against his ribs. He fumbled with the lock, the mechanism sticking for a moment under his clammy grip, and then eased the door open. The corridor beyond was empty and dim, save for an oblong of yellow streetlight that fell perfectly across Inhyuk’s shoes, then up the legs of his pressed jeans, then onto the crisp, pale shirt tucked just so. Inhyuk’s hair was a marvel of architectural engineering, not a strand out of place, even after a long walk in the humid night air.
“Jiwoo.” Inhyuk bowed his head in greeting, so formal it felt awkward. “I am sorry for the disturbance. I should have messaged ahead, but—” His tone was smooth, practiced, but the apology in his eyes was real. “I wanted to apologize in person. My group… I didn’t expect someone from our side would cross a line with you.”
Jiwoo stood aside, still damp and faintly electric, and gestured for Inhyuk to step in. The instant Inhyuk entered, Kayden shifted position, fixing him with an icy blue glare that made the air seem to crackle. It was a warning, and also a challenge: behave, or else.
Inhyuk’s gaze flickered affectionately to the feline presence before returning to Jiwoo. “I’ll be quick,” he said. “I know you must be exhausted.”
Jiwoo thought about lying—insisting he was fine, not tired at all, what a silly suggestion—but couldn’t muster the energy. Instead, he dropped onto the couch, landing harder than intended, and exhaled a breath that deflated half his body. “It’s nothing,” he managed, but the shake in his arms betrayed him.
Inhyuk hovered by the coffee table, hands folded in front of him, then forced himself to sit, back perfectly straight, as if afraid a single ripple of slouch would offend the gods of posture. “I wanted to check on you,” he said, speaking fast and earnest. “After what happened yesterday. I know Jisuk’s strength can be…intimidating. But he was out of line.”
“I’m fine, really.”
Inhyuk’s features softened. “Still, it wasn’t right. He shouldn’t have picked a fight with someone who wasn’t prepared.” He hesitated, then added, “He’s the chairwoman’s brother, you know.”
Jiwoo blinked. “Wait—really? He didn’t say anything about that.”
“Jiyoung Yoo—she’s our leader. Jisuk’s her younger sibling. He’s always been a bit…” Inhyuk searched for the word, then settled on, “volatile. But he’s not a bad person. Just a little obsessed with pushing people.” Inhyuk leaned in, elbows on his knees, lowering his voice. “But don’t worry. The chairwoman found out and disciplined him last week. He’ll leave you alone from now on.”
He straightened, clearly trying to put Jiwoo at ease. “I just wanted to make sure the incident didn’t sour you on the Association. We do want you to feel welcome, Jiwoo. If you ever need anything, please let me know.”
Kayden, meanwhile, hadn’t taken his eyes off Inhyuk for a second. Jiwoo could feel the tension radiating off him, a storm cloud gathering mass with every breath. It was as if Kayden, despite all his world-weariness, was prepared to leap at the faintest threat.
Jiwoo risked a glance at his mentor, then back at Inhyuk. “Thanks,” he said, voice slightly steadier now. “But, um… Jisuk actually said he wanted a rematch? When I was… ready.”
Inhyuk’s eyebrows shot up. “He told you that?”
Jiwoo nodded, feeling something stubborn light up inside him. “He did. And—I think I want to take him up on it.” He realized it sounded like madness, but the words felt solid in his throat, like he couldn’t spit them out even if he tried.
“You want to challenge him again?” Inhyuk’s brow creased with concern.
Jiwoo lifted his chin. “Yes.”
Inhyuk’s shoulders slumped slightly, lips parting in a regretful sigh. “I understand your drive, but I can’t support it. It’s not just because he’s the chairwoman’s brother… Jisuk’s ability was recognized early on. He’s been in relentless training ever since—there aren’t many his age who can match him.”
Jiwoo’s fist clenched tighter, the fabric bunching at his knuckles. “Who said I lost?”
Inhyuk paused, startled.
“I don’t know what he told you,” Jiwoo continued, eyes burning, “but I won that match. Granted, not under circumstances either of us liked, but the result stands. And we both agreed to a proper rematch.” He paused to swipe his tongue across parched lips. “I need to prove this wasn’t a fluke.”
Inhyuk settled back against the cushions, a slow, knowing smile spreading across his face. “I see,” he said, the words thoughtful. He brought his hands together, fingers interlacing as if sealing a pact. “If that’s what you want, I’ll arrange it.”
Jiwoo’s whole posture lifted, exhaustion momentarily forgotten in the glow of relief.
“Just tell me when you’ re ready.”
“Yes! Thank you!”
Inhyuk’s expression grew more measured. He leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees. “But first—forgive the intrusion— have you had formal training?”
A sudden stillness fell over the room. Jiwoo’s breath caught. On the armrest, Kayden went perfectly rigid, every hair standing alert.
“Call it a fluke if you like,” Inhyuk continued, his tone gentle but probing, “but matching Jisuk, even briefly, is… unusual. He was identified young. Trained relentlessly since he could walk—like most top-tier awakeneds his age. So I have to wonder… were you?”
Jiwoo’s throat tightened. Heat flooded his cheeks. He could feel the weight of the unspoken questions layered beneath that one—who are you really, where did you come from, who’s behind you? His mind raced, scrabbling for purchase.
“I—um.” He swallowed. “My dads—dad!” he corrected, voice pitching upward. “My dad’s awakened. Trained me. And… stuff.” The words tumbled out gracelessly. “He travels a lot. That’s why he isn’t—you know—here.” Jiwoo gestured vaguely around the apartment. “Told me to act clueless if anyone asked. I’m sorry— I didn’t mean to lie, I just—” He ran a hand through his damp hair, grimacing. “Didn’t know what else to say.”
Inhyuk chuckled softly, a warm, forgiving sound. “It’s alright, Jiwoo. Many awakened families prefer to keep their methods private. It’s not uncommon.” He offered a reassuring nod. “I’m sure your father only wanted to keep you safe.”
Jiwoo nodded mutely, cheeks still burning.
“He ought to be proud,” Inhyuk added, his smile softening. “ You held your own remarkably well.”
Jiwoo ducked his head, stealing a furtive glance toward Kayden, who hadn’t moved a muscle from his spot beside him.
“So,” Inhyuk said smoothly, shifting the subject, “when did you have in mind? To fight Jisuk.”
“Oh! Um.” Jiwoo straightened up, pulse jumping again. “Would five days be okay?”
Inhyuk gave a single firm nod. “Five days.”