Practice ended louder than it began.
Bodies cooled. Voices returned. The sharp edge in the air dulled into something looser—relief, pride, exhaustion. People drifted in clusters, replaying their own moments, laughing too loudly or staying quiet on purpose.
I was rolling my sleeves down when Kyla approached.
Not casually.
Intentionally.
"Can we talk?" she asked.
Not now, not later—just talk.
Junseo immediately pretended not to listen while listening with his entire soul.
I looked at her for a second longer than necessary.
I wasn't naïve. I wasn't innocent. And I wasn't blind to what had been circling between us since last night.
"…Alright," I said.
Her lips curved, satisfied—not surprised.
She led the way through a side corridor most people didn't use. The lights here were dimmer, the hum of the facility quieter, like the place had been built for things that didn't want witnesses.
"This room," she said, stopping in front of a plain metal door. "It's usually for waiting. Medical overflow. Observers. No one comes here unless they're told to."
I stepped inside.
The room was simple—two chairs, a narrow table, muted gray walls. No cameras. No screens. The air smelled faintly of antiseptic and something warmer, like dust caught in old light.
Unused, but not forgotten.
She closed the door behind her.
Not locked.
Just… closed.
For a moment, neither of us spoke.
The silence wasn't awkward. It was aware.
"I wanted to see if you'd come," Kyla said finally.
"I did," I replied.
She tilted her head slightly. "Why?"
I considered lying.
I didn't.
"Because I wanted to," I said. "And because I'm not a saint."
That made her laugh softly. Not teasing. Relieved.
She sat on the edge of the table instead of the chair, legs swinging once before settling. "You're different off the floor," she said. "During training, you disappear into yourself. After… you come back."
I leaned against the wall, arms crossed loosely. "You invited me here to analyze me?"
"No," she said. "I invited you here because I was curious. And because I don't like wondering."
Her gaze held mine—open, confident, unafraid of what she might find reflected back.
"I'm interested," she said plainly.
No games.
No buildup.
Just truth.
Something in my chest shifted. Not excitement. Not fear.
Recognition.
"I thought so," I admitted.
"And?" she asked.
I pushed off the wall and took a step closer. Not crowding. Not retreating.
"And maybe I am too," I said. "So I figured I'd give it a shot."
Her expression softened—not victorious, not smug.
Just genuine.
"Good," she said quietly.
For a moment, the world narrowed to the space between us. The low hum of the lights. The faint echo of distant footsteps. The awareness that this choice—this small, simple one—mattered more than it should.
She reached out, fingers brushing my sleeve. Not gripping. Not demanding.
Testing.
I didn't pull away.
Outside this room were rules, eyes, expectations. Inside it—
There was only curiosity.
And the risk of wanting something uncomplicated in a place that never stayed that way for long.
Neither of us noticed the time.
And neither of us noticed—
How long the hallway outside had been quiet.
I stepped out first.
The door slid shut behind me with a soft, mechanical click—too quiet for the weight of the moment it sealed away. The corridor beyond was dim, empty at first glance, the lights humming low above.
Then I saw him.
Miran stood a few steps away, positioned near the corner of the hallway like he'd been there longer than necessary. Not leaning. Not pacing. Just standing—still, deliberate.
Waiting.
His eyes lifted the moment the door closed.
Cold. Sharp. Irritated in a way that felt restrained rather than uncontrolled, like something had already been decided before I ever stepped into view.
I didn't stop.
I walked past him, keeping my gaze forward, refusing to acknowledge the stare burning into the side of my face. Whatever this was, I wasn't interested. I didn't owe him an explanation. I didn't owe him attention.
Still—
A thought slipped in, unwanted and persistent.
What is he even doing here?
This corridor wasn't used. The room behind me barely existed to most people. No one came here unless they had a reason.
I'd almost reached the end of the hallway when his voice followed.
Low. Flat. Unmistakably annoyed.
"This corridor leads to the medical wing," he said. "Keep your business outside."
I stopped.
Not because I was angry.
Because something about it didn't sit right.
It wasn't the words—it was the audacity.
The way he said it. As if he had authority. As if he had the right to judge. As if he wasn't standing in the same hidden corridor, clearly aware of exactly what went on in rooms like that.
Slowly, I turned.
My expression stayed calm, but my body had already shifted—subtle, instinctive. Not a fighting stance. A warning.
"You're in no position to lecture me," I said evenly. "Especially about minding boundaries."
His eyes narrowed a fraction.
The space between us tightened. Not physical. Intentional.
I took a step forward—not aggressive, but enough to make my point clear.
If this went further, it wouldn't be an accident.
And then—
"Seol wol."
Kyla's voice cut through the tension like a hand pressed to glass.
She had stepped out behind me, her tone careful, uneasy. Not frightened—but alert enough to know when a moment could tilt the wrong way.
"Let's go," she said softly. "We have something else to do."
I glanced at her.
She wasn't looking at Miran. She was looking at me—asking, not commanding.
For her, I exhaled.
I stepped back.
"Fine," I said, turning away.
As I passed Miran again, I met his gaze—briefly this time. Just long enough to make sure he understood.
Stay away.
No words. No challenge.
Just a promise.
Then I walked down the corridor with Kyla beside me, the tension trailing behind us like a shadow that refused to detach.
And I knew—
Whatever this was between me and Miran…
It wasn't over.
Not even close.