The air behind the gym smells like damp concrete and old sweat.
It's always colder back here. The building blocks the wind, traps shadows even when the sun is still up.
The ground slopes slightly downward toward the maintenance shed, and the paint on the gym's outer wall is chipped where students have kicked it over the years—bored, angry, careless.
I know this place.
That's why I don't like it.
Classes end with the usual noise. Chairs scraping, bags unzipping, voices rising like pressure being released. I leave with the second wave, same as always, keeping my pace steady. Not rushed. Not slow.
Mentally prepared.
Physically untested.
I don't feel fear exactly. Fear is loud. This is quieter. Anticipation, sharpened by pattern recognition. Min Sang-ho hasn't bothered me all day. That's not a good sign.
I take the long route around the gym instead of cutting through the main courtyard. Fewer people. Fewer eyes. Normally, that's safer. Today, it isn't. I feel him before I see him, the way sound thins out, like the space ahead of me is holding its breath.
Footsteps behind me.
Not rushed. Not light.
I don't turn. Turning too early shows expectation. "Hey." One word. Close. I stop walking.
I don't tense. I don't relax. I let my weight settle evenly through my feet, toes angled slightly outward for balance. The gym wall is to my left. Open space to my right. The maintenance shed is twenty meters ahead, too far to reach before contact if he rushes.
I turn slowly.
Min Sang-ho stands a few steps behind me, hands in his pockets, shoulders loose. He's smiling, but it doesn't reach his eyes.
No audience.
No phones out. No friends hovering nearby.
This isn't a performance. It's a probe. "You walk fast." He says. "Habit." I reply. My voice sounds normal. That's good. He steps closer, cutting the distance in half. I don't step back. Retreating without pressure invites pursuit.
"You think you're smart. Apologizing. Acting all calm." He says. Not accusing. Curious.
I say nothing.
Silence frustrates people like him. It leaves them alone with their thoughts, and they don't like what they find there. He clicks his tongue. "You think that means I won't touch you?" I glance past him, briefly. Not at the exit, too obvious. At his feet.
His stance is narrow. Weight slightly forward. He's ready to swing, but not ready to adjust. I answer honestly. "I think this is a bad place." He laughs. "Now you're scared?"
"No. You are." I say. That lands harder than I expected. His smile twitches. That's the moment. The shift from curiosity to irritation. From play to decision. Min Sang-ho pulls his right hand out of his pocket.
Too fast. Too obvious.
The first swing comes without warning, not because he's skilled, but because he's impatient. It's wide. Sloppy. A looping right hook aimed at my head. My body moves before my thoughts finish forming.
Sidestep left.
The punch cuts through the air where my face was a fraction of a second ago. I feel the wind of it brush my cheek. My left foot plants. My right shoulder dips. I shove.
Not a strike. A push, angled into his chest and shoulder, using his forward momentum against him. I don't put everything into it, just enough to break his balance. Min Sang-ho stumbles forward, boots scraping on the uneven concrete. His curse is sharp, surprised.
"Shit—!"
He doesn't fall, but he has to throw his hands out to catch himself against the gym wall. His palm slaps concrete hard enough to echo. I feel it then. The surge.
Adrenaline floods my limbs, sharp and hot. My heart slams once, twice, like it's trying to punch its way out of my chest. For a split second, the world narrows. This is the dangerous part. I could finish it.
He's off-balance. His breathing is broken. His back is partially turned. One more shove. A knee. An elbow. It would be fast. Ugly. And unforgettable.
I don't do it.
Min Sang-ho regains his footing, spinning around, eyes wide now. The smile is gone. Replaced by something raw.
"You—"
I'm already stepping back.
Distance first.
My hands are up, palms open. Non-threatening. Ready.
"I'm leaving." I say. My voice is steady, but my pulse isn't. I can feel it in my wrists, my throat. He lunges half a step forward, then stops. He's breathing hard. Chest heaving. His eyes flick around, checking for witnesses that still aren't there.
This was supposed to be easy. A reminder. Not a problem.
"You think this is over?" He snaps.
I don't answer. Answering extends things. I pivot and walk away. Not fast. Not slow. Every step is measured. I keep my back straight, my pace even, my head forward. Running would invite chase. Hesitating would invite another swing.
Behind me, he swears again. Kicks the wall. I hear the dull thud of pain as it transfers back into his foot.
I don't look back.
When I reach the corner of the gym and turn into the open courtyard, noise crashes back in. Students everywhere. Laughter. Shouting. Life continuing like nothing happened. My hands start shaking then. Small at first. Tremors in my fingers, like residual electricity.
I shove them into my pockets.
I don't stop walking until I'm off school grounds.
Only when I reach the bus stop do I let myself breathe properly. Slow inhale through the nose. Longer exhale through the mouth. Count.
Four in. Six out.
Again.
My knuckles ache faintly from the shove. Not injured. Just aware. The bus arrives with a hiss of brakes. I sit in my usual seat, back, window, wall to my left. The vibration of the engine seeps into my bones, grounding me. I replay the encounter in fragments.
The angle of his punch. The way his balance broke. The moment when I almost didn't stop. Guilt settles in, quiet but persistent.
Not for hurting him.
For how easy it would've been to do worse. At home, I wash my hands longer than necessary. The water runs hot, then cold. My fingers are still shaking slightly. Instinct kept me safe. But instinct isn't clean.
It's fast. It's brutal. It doesn't care about consequences beyond the next second.
I sit on my bed and flex my hands again, watching the tremor fade. Today, I escaped. I didn't assert dominance. I didn't win. And that means the problem isn't solved.
Min Sang-ho won't forget this.
Neither will I.
I lie back and stare at the ceiling, listening to the hum of the building settling for the night. Instinct kept me safe today. But instinct alone isn't reliable. Sooner or later, I'll need more than that.