Minho takes care to play fair at first, sticking to the rules that guide the inductee fights. The trick, at this stage, is to lower their confidence, to keep them on their feet but never let them land a blow. There’s a measure of art to it that can’t be taught, and Minho is so very gifted at this stage of the proceedings that they only ever send him the toughest cases.

This guy doesn’t look like a tough case. He’s short and slight, with the kind of good skin one can only maintain when you don’t make street fighting a habit and you can afford to stay out of the acid rain. His brows are set in a worried lines above wide, shining eyes - he’s very pretty, there would be easier ways for someone like him to make some quick cash.

“Kim Jinwoo, right?” Minho smirks, stepping back from a flying fist not a moment too soon, “reckon I saw your name on a subway ad last week.”

“Let me guess, it said I had a tight little that could be opened up for the highest bidder,” Jinwoo doesn’t skip a beat, he ducks a blow from Minho and resolves the motion into a kick that would hurt if it actually hit home, “I’ve seen the ad, it’s for a different Kim Jinwoo.”

He’s faster than most of the new recruits, and he doesn’t flinch when Minho encroaches on his personal space, trying to hit him. His eyes still look worried, but his mouth is set in grim determination. He keeps his legs far enough apart to steady himself should Minho get a good hit in, and he doesn’t waste his breath grunting around the strikes he makes.

Minho is impressed. It can’t last. He brings the edge of his hand down hard, aiming for Jinwoo’s neck but anticipating his speed and sure enough, when the moment comes there’s nothing there for him to hit.

Jinwoo dodges the blow, but to do so is to lose his balance. He doesn’t so much crash to the ground as float, impossibly light and dainty. Minho’s sure that he’s won and steps forward with a triumphant grin to gloat over his opponent.

But Jinwoo’s still fast, and though his small stature will never intimidate it does get ignored, and a good fighter with half a brain can use that to their advantage. He strikes out hard with his legs, swiping one across the floor and using the other to kick at the back of Minho’s calves, sending him tumbling forward.

Minho does crash, roaring in pain as his face makes contact with the tarmac. Around them, other operators and trainees stop to watch events unfold, the blood oozing across the ground as Jinwoo leaps to his feet.

“, are you bleeding?” he hisses. Minho’s head whips round so Jinwoo can see the mess he’s made of his nose.

“Pass me the cloth,” Minho mutters. Jinwoo complies and helps him to his feet. He’s not smiling, but it’s easy to see he’s pleased with himself. It normally takes a good two weeks of training for a trainee to have a decent chance of felling their operator.

They retreat to the edges of the training floor while Minho tries to staunch the blood from his nose. He winces against the pressure of the cloth, but bites his tongue before he swears. His eyes stay fixed on Jinwoo, who’s watching the other trainees with avid curiosity, no doubt trying to gauge who in this room is likely to prove a threat to him.

“You’re better than all of them,” Minho will tell him at the end of the month, “I could have moved you up on the first day and that would still have been true.”

Jinwoo will ask why Minho kept him on if he was good from the get go, and Minho will almost not answer him. He will choose his words carefully when he explains that skill has to be tempered with caution, because there are people in the ring who have worked out that the former is no match for brute force.

“I hope you eat well tonight,” Minho tells him, the morning of Jinwoo’s first Run.

Jinwoo smiles at his hands, his perfectly trim nails resting on lean thighs. Minho still doesn’t think he needs to be here, but when he finishes up tenth he’s glad to have him under his thumb.