I blinked, staring at the faint crack on the wall. Someone, maybe the school council or whoever was responsible for that kind of stuff, should definitely fix that up.

“I'm so sorry…” Dae Hee murmured. “I'm… uh... clumsy?” She finally managed to offer, though it came out more like a question. She attempted a weak, disoriented smile. A small, apologetic grimace that seemed almost endearing.

It didn't help. The situation was... bizarre.

“Yeah, don't worry about it.” I said dryly. I had no clue whether I should have been worried, impressed, or confused. Or a mixture of all three.

Her head, now with a red mark, bobbed in a nod, her cheeks still rosy. It reminded me a lot of a rabbit caught in the middle of the road.

I didn't know whether I should've offered more support. 'Hmm, maybe not. Her friend is here.'

Go Bin pulled Dae Hee aside, whispering something fiercely while she clung onto the other girl's wrist. The conversation between the two remained an enigma.

In any case, as they conversed, it became evident to me that the crisis was diffused.

Time to get the fuck outta here. I nodded once as a farewell gesture, then strode past them without another look.

"Wait—" Go Bin called.

My hand found the strap of my backpack. "Yes?"

She shuffled a bit, clearly nervous. "Just... well... thanks." Her words came out in a hurried, breathy jumble.

I tilted my head. "I didn't do anything." It wasn’t a false humility, nor an attempt to brush away the situation's weight.

"You stopped them." She countered.

"Perhaps." I shook my head slowly. "Still, you don't owe me anything."

I left the corridor, passing through the bustling throngs of other students. Go Bin's voice reached out one final time.

"You could’ve pretended you didn’t see…”

I paused. I could feel her eyes on me, her gaze expectant yet uncertain, but I didn't meet her stare.

"What kind of human would that make me, though?"

She didn't have an answer for that. And really, she didn't have to.

xXx

As I strolled outside, making my way through the sprawling school courtyard, the familiar sound of a ball bouncing against concrete caught my ear.

The soccer field was usually empty at this time, reserved exclusively for the soccer team members during their practice sessions. But today, a lone figure dominated the landscape.

He seemed so... focused. Lost in the rhythm of dribbling the ball. Back and forth. Back and forth. The movement was methodical, hypnotic almost, but there was an odd intensity to it. His concentration never wavered; it was as if the world had condensed into the singular point of interaction between him and that ball. Like nothing else existed.

I watched him for a while, leaning over the railing that overlooked the field. He wasn't particularly skilled—there were plenty of missteps, misplaced kicks, and moments when the ball nearly escaped him. And yet... there was something undeniably compelling about his determination.

He'd chase, kick, trip over the ball, and keep at it.

Again, and again, and again. Like clockwork, predictable in its unpredictability. He reminded me of myself, back in the favelas, when soccer was all that kept me going. When a lone dream was worth holding onto with an entire fist. I smirked a bit at the nostalgic memory.

That's why I decided to approach the kiddo.

I walked onto the field, keeping a safe distance, but ensuring that my presence would not be misinterpreted as intrusive. It took a while for him to notice me, his eyes widening slightly in surprise.

"Who are you?"

I blinked. Not to hoot my own horn or anything, but in this school, the chances of not knowing who I was were slim. Yet, here this guy stood, completely oblivious.

"Just someone passing by."

His eyebrows furrowed a little as he scratched his unruly mop of black hair. “You watching me or judging me?”

“I wouldn’t dream of it." I said honestly.

His eyebrows shot up, disbelieving. He must've expected a sarcastic reply. But it was true, there was no point in passing judgment.

"Well... whatever." His focus shifted back to the football, his expression serious. I observed him, silently taking in his movements. He wasn’t terrible at dribbling the ball. A little rough, maybe. His technique lacked polish and his coordination was questionable.

I sighed. I guess this wasn't something I was willing to ignore.

“You can’t kick the ball with that form.”

My voice punctured the afternoon stillness.

His attention snapped to me, eyes narrowing in surprise at the comment.

"What's wrong with my form?"

"It's... not great."

He kicked at the ball in demonstration and it went sailing wildly, missing the goalpost by a wide margin. If that were a freekick in an official match, he'd likely have hit someone in the stands.

I arched an eyebrow.

“...Point made.” He grumbled.

"Hey." I shrugged off my bag and strolled over to where he was. “Let's try this again." I placed my hand over his shoulder to guide his posture. My movements were slow, deliberate, making sure my intentions were crystal clear. I then carefully moved his arms.

"Arms at a comfortable 90-degrees. Not too high, not too low." My fingers gently angled his legs, my grip on his thighs light. "And legs like this. Keep them spread apart." He started following my instructions. Good. "Okay, now maintain your balance and watch your surroundings. The goal, your opponents. Then you aim." I held the ball and gestured towards it. "Make a connection here." I tapped on his foot. "With the laces of your shoe, and keep it firm. Then swing it." I gave a slight push.

The ball rolled forward a few meters before stopping, but the motion was much more precise than his earlier attempt. I glanced at his face to gauge his reaction, which was a mixture of curiosity and concentration. He nodded once.

I backed off to observe.

His body moved with a noticeable shift in form, adhering to my advice. His kick connected well.

The ball arched into the air and slammed against the net, rebounding with a soft 'thump.'

His head snapped towards me, his expression was an interesting mix between awe and determination. It was like he hadn’t quite processed what just happened.

"Damn." He muttered under his breath.

"Not bad." I remarked casually.

"Yeah, not bad." His voice held an edge of pride as a wide grin stretched across his face. I could feel my lips quirking in response to the infectious energy. He had that youthful twinkle in his eyes as he wiped his nose. “Hey... I think I'm gonna be a star." He added confidently.

A quiet chuckle slipped from my lips. I wasn't sure if it was hope speaking or sheer ignorance of what it would take. "Confident much?" I responded, amused.

He simply grinned.

"Since that's the case, come on. Let's see if you can nail the same thing ten more times.”

I moved over to the ball and picked it up.

"What?" He stuttered.

“Practice makes perfect, you know?" I said, my voice laced with a touch of humor.

He shook his head, a look of determination hardening in his eyes. “Alright, if that's what it takes.”

"It takes more than that." I responded dryly. He frowned a little, but I could see the spark of understanding in his gaze.

With the ball back at his feet, we resumed our session.

I was no longer teaching, just observing. Watching and guiding. Overseeing every kick, pointing out faults in his technique. I was surprised that I enjoyed seeing him improve. Maybe because he was just so eager. I didn't fancy myself a teacher, but I had enough experience to share a thing or two.

When the practice ended, a heavy silence hung around us as he bent over, hands on knees. His breath was ragged and his shirt soaked. I observed his weariness. But it was a tiredness born of a job done well—a kind that brought satisfaction and a sense of achievement. "Beyond technique, you need to work on your stamina and speed. Seriously, it’s atrocious."

He lifted his head, meeting my gaze with a weary smile and sweat-laced features. "Thanks." A deep bow followed as if he was honoring some sort of age-old tradition.

I patted his back firmly. "No need for formality." He straightened his posture at my words.

He hesitated momentarily before extending a hand in my direction. "I’m Kwon Min-joon, by the way."

I took it firmly, gripping his smaller palm against my own.

"Cha Jae-il." I responded in kind. Even at the mention of my name, for some reason he didn’t flinch or react in any way. Not that he should’ve, honestly, but to anyone remotely invested in football, my name should’ve rang a bell. His silence urged me on. I sighed. "Say, what is your goal?" I had been curious—it didn’t seem like he was training just for the sake of it. To become a superstar, that’s it? 

Min-joon paused at the sudden inquiry before he finally voiced his response, each word laced with confidence and determination: “To become the best footballer.”

I blinked.

He wasn’t joking. Not in the slightest. His eyes were fiery.

My face remained impassive. “How long have you been playing for?"

Min-joon glanced up with a mix of stubbornness and optimism in his voice. “Not too long.”

A faint chuckle left my lips at his determination. It reminded me of a younger, less cynical me. I smiled a bit, and his expression softened, as though my approval meant something. It shouldn’t have, but... well.

"Good luck then."

His grin widened at the small acknowledgment.

“But you’ve to get in line first, kid." I gently reminded him. "There are more people than me vying for the spot, you know?"

“Not a problem." His voice brimmed with self-assurance as he gave a thumbs-up. “You’ll see me next time. I’ll work hard." I could tell he meant those words. Well, we’ll see. 

I slung my backpack over my shoulder, bidding him farewell. He waved energetically as he watched me walk away. 

I waved back, then, sensing someone's gaze, I turned my eyes up to the fence I had been leaning over earlier. Dae Hee had been watching. Her eyes met mine, then blushed, looked away, and hurriedly walked off.

"......”