Minjeong's life can clearly be separated into two parts: before Yoo Jimin won the Olympics and after. She didn’t blink, not to miss any second of the ceremony. Jimin’s serene, wonderstruck smile when the gold medal was hung around her neck; the way the strict line of her shoulder dropped slightly when she thought the camera was no longer on her; the triumph written all over her face when she held her medal up for the world to see. Minjeong has it on VHS tapes twice — one, which her mother taped over her favorite daytime drama, and another Yizhuo taped for her just in case. 

Magazine cut-outs are blu-tacked on her bedroom walls in her small, cozy dorm room, and she wakes and sleeps with Jimin’s smiling pictures. It’s not overt, how hard Jimin affects her life. No one besides her parents and Yizhuo knows, and when asked Minjeong will always say ‘yeah, I heard about her, great athlete’ to hide her embarrassingly extensive knowledge. Because, above anything, that’s what she’s best known for — a calm and collected athlete, a late bloomer but with a steadily rising star.

“Late bloomer,” Yizhuo tastes the words in , reading the small article about Minjeong’s last winning spree. She turns to her, eyebrows adorably knitted together. Minjeong just continues picking cucumbers out of her food. “Are you, though? You just turned nineteen. And do they know that you used to be competitive when you were like five?”

“It’s better they don’t. Imagine the reaction then.” Minjeong snorts. “And I was ten, thank you very much.”

Yizhuo clicks her tongue. “But still, calling you a late bloomer is a bit… Savage.” 

Minjeong shrugs. She’s used to it now — not everyone can take over the fencing world by storm at fourteen. Yoo Jimin is a wonder, and Minjeong is content following her own slow path; it’s already a miracle Minjeong came back to pursue fencing again. She’s not going to risk burning herself out sooner than necessary, comparing herself to someone unattainable like Jimin. At least unattainable for now.

One thing, though, gives her a boost. Even the idea makes her giddy — to fence against Jimin. To overcome her. The possibility of ever standing on the piste with her, swords touching as an opening gesture, eyes barring through the metal net of the mask, is enough to keep her going. 

She swallows the thought. It’s too soon to even entertain it; the fencing club at the university has been nice enough to let her in without ranking in the middle of the semester, with years off-training and only a patchy knowledge of fencing rules. Because after Yoo Jimin stood on the podium, receiving her first Olympic gold medal, Minjeong signed up for the club the next day. 

(“You’re that Kim Minjeong, right?” Yeji asked, club president, rank C. Conveniently, she pulled up an article about her, trying to put kid-Minjeong’s features on her present self. With a satisfied nod, she put her picture down. “You were infamous in the Youth 10 category.” 

“That’s been a while,” Minjeong replied. “I haven’t been competing since I graduated from Youth 12.”

I haven’t been fencing since then, lingered in the air. Minjeong thought it was redundant to say it aloud.

“Pity,” Yeji said, signing her acceptance form. Handing it back to Minjeong, her eyes were alight with a newfound curiosity. “I would’ve loved to see what became of you.”)

So, late bloomer, in a sense, she is. Or early witherer.

It doesn’t matter. 

All that matters is that she’s here now. Outgrown fencing suit sitting tight on her frame, sweat rolling down her neck, flushed face; she's here. She sits outside of the training room, still stinking and legs quivering after Yeji’s beastly training, enjoying the afternoon sunlight on the grass for a late lunch with Yizhuo. It’s a trade now, Yizhuo bringing cafeteria food for her, so Minjeong stays put for an hour or two to have her portrait taken with quick pencil .

A professor passes them with long strides, only acknowledging them with a quick nod.

“Anyways,” Minjeong says, stuffing full with the last bite. Chewing open-mouthed, she continues, “Do you know what’s this whole turmoil about? School administrators have been running up and down during the training, whispering to Yeji.”

“How would I know?” Yizhuo furrows her eyebrows. “Why do you ask me out of everyone?”

Minjeong shrugs. “You have friends everywhere.”

“Ask Yeji or something.”

“I don’t have a death wish.” Minjeong twists . She downs the rest of her water, then spreads her limbs on the soft blades of the grass. “We’ll see in time, I guess.”

The sun caresses the bare skin of her arms, and the gentle breeze plays with her shortly cropped hair. Yizhuo grunts, probably because Minjeong messed up her composition. But with a sigh and a tear of paper, the scratching of graphite starts anew. She tries to take a quick nap before Yeji calls them in to continue their training by shifting from strength conditioning to breaking them into pairs for quick matches, but there’s electricity buzzing in the air. Something makes Minjeong restless, even with the screaming muscle pain in her back, and she’s unable to keep her eyes closed for too long. 

“If you fidget once again, I'll charge you for your lunch,” Yizhuo warns.

Minjeong peeks an eye open, watching her surroundings. Yizhuo grunts but says nothing now. She starts humming under her breath, knowing well what makes Minjeong calm down. As much as the tension in the air pulls the cords tight in her, she melts against the soft song, eyelids fluttering close. Yizhuo’s humming, the dull sound of graphite against the paper, and the warm sunlight almost make her doze off. 

Suddenly, a person stands above her, blocking the sunlight. Yizhuo giggles as Minjeong pushes herself up on her elbows, craning her neck to see who’s the culprit robbing her of precious moments under the sun. Yeji stands there, hands on her hips, and Minjeong gulps.

“The next session is already on,” Yeji says, pulling into an excited smile. “You wouldn’t want to miss it.”

“Yes, I literally cannot wait to get on with your drills. Wouldn’t miss it for anything,” Minjeong sighs, collapsing again, throwing an arm over her eyes. “Give me five minutes and I’ll join.” 

Yeji squats down, knocking on Minjeong’s forehead lightly. “There’s a new member. Introductions are due.” 

“I can meet her while we sweat blood doing your drills,” Minjeong grunts, slapping a hand on her forehead to protect it. “Y’know, camaraderie is born under the pressure of a dictator.” 

“Very funny,” Yeji says blankly. 

Suddenly, calloused fingers clasp around her wrist, and Yeji pulls her up, iron grip not letting Minjeong go however she fidgets. For a mediocre club with a mediocre trainer, who comes and goes as she pleases, Yeji as the leader doesn’t make sense — who would put so much effort into a club that generates only moderate success? Still, Yeji is stubborn, almost as much as Minjeong is, and she won’t let anything — low budget, missing trainer, trashing Kim Minjeong — stand in her way. 

With a pained sigh, Minjeong waves to Yizhuo as she gets dragged along. The familiar scent of the training room embraces her; stolen nights spent here in her lonesome self, trying to mimic Jimin’s step sequence, or hours spent between and after class making an effort to catch up to the level of her younger self. Looking around the training area, it seems like Minjeong is the only one dragged back, the rest — Chaeryeong, Ryujin, and Yuna — are nowhere to be seen. A girl stands, facing away from them, talking to the dean. The dean, who threatened to close the club for its high costs and low results — only Minjeong’s stable climb to ranks and Yeji’s rock-solid ambitions keeping the five-membered club afloat. 

And this girl, she seems familiar — the long hair cascading down her back pulled in a high ponytail, the rigid set of her shoulder. Yeji weakens the hold on Minjeong’s wrist, and while Minjeong tries to piece together just where the girl is familiar, Yeji blocks her view. 

“Our new member,” Yeji says, excitement catching up to her voice, “Yoo Jimin.”

Minjeong blinks. Jimin, hearing her name, turns back. 

The grainy image of the cameras lied, because Jimin in real life is not just an ordinary girl with extraordinary talents, but someone with a soldier’s gaze, a fighter. Her surprise melts into a gentle smile that is painfully familiar from the magazines, the genuine interest in her eyes makes Minjeong freeze. The palpation of her heart quickens, and when she unconsciously touches the base of , the beat catches on to her fingertips. 

“Couldn’t have you told me?” Minjeong pushes the words through her teeth. 

For her mortification, Yeji just lets out a delighted laugh. “And ruin your surprise?”

Jimin turns back to say something to the dean, who furrows his eyebrows and glances at them. With a curt nod, Jimin starts walking toward them.

“Where are the others?” Minjeong asks quickly. This would be a lot less mortifying if she wasn’t alone facing her idol. Yeji is not counted — it’s obvious they’ve already met. That would explain the difficulty level of the past few training sessions; knowing that an Olympic-level fencer is joining their humble little nest makes a great motivator. 

“Panicking somewhere, I guess.”

Minjeong snaps out of her frozen state just to glare at Yeji. “You told them but not me. Yeji—” 

“Hello,” Jimin greets, confident in her skin and painfully beautiful up close. Minjeong’s mouth clamps shut immediately. “I wanted to thank you for allowing me to practice here with you. It’s a pleasure to train alongside you, Yeji.”

“It’s an honor having you here,” Yeji snickers, slightly elbowing Jimin in the ribs. Minjeong watches the exchange mortified. Too friendly, too familiar to bloom out of nowhere. She’s about to ask, when Yeji chimes in, “At least we can save money with the phone bill now.”

Minjeong’s head is spinning. Yeji knows Jimin, and from the context, they talk regularly. That means, indirectly Minjeong is friends with Jimin too. 

Yeji notices her stare and explains, “We met in a competition a few years ago. She wasn’t as a big shot then as she is now.”

“I still won that competition.” Jimin throws an arm around Yeji’s shoulders. When Yeji rolls her eyes, Jimin’s gaze cages Minjeong to be her partner in crime. “It’s a sensitive topic for her.” 

Minjeong can only nod weakly.

“And you?” Jimin smiles at her, beautiful but clueless. “Who are you?” 

“Kim Minjeong,” she introduces herself, aloof to hide her excitement. She reaches her hand out, and Jimin takes it, the fencing gloves cutting away her chance to hold her hand. Still, Jimin’s hold is sure and strong around her hand, just as the clear sheen in her eyes.

“It’s nice to meet you. Have you just started out?” 

The fencing community is small. And Minjeong has just gotten into rank C in her last match. There is no way Jimin hasn’t heard of her. Yet — the benevolent question and the searching gaze are all evidence that Jimin hasn’t heard of her, of Minjeong’s slow and steady success. Nothing Minjeong has done so far caught her attention.

“I've been fencing for a while now,” Minjeong answers, pulling her hand away from the handshake. 

“Ah, my bad. I have a hard time keeping up with the ranks.” 

She feels small under Jimin's eyes, the gentle curve of her smile, the unrecognition in her eyes. It’s understandable, even forgivable to not know, Minjeong reasons in her head. Jimin had better things to focus on, larger things to chase after than noticing a few newbies at the scene. Yet. Minjeong never really thought of herself as an emotional human being, as logic has always been her safe haven in the face of hardships. But logic is hardly something that matters now, looking into the face of someone she looked up to, whom she rushed after with a dream she gave up too soon. 

Because Minjeong liked to entertain the thought of catching Jimin’s attention. Of having Jimin notice her, her steady rise in ranks, a dark horse pulling ahead a little late but strong nonetheless. She even liked to think that Jimin would notice her influence on her, the similar step sequences, the sheer knowledge of the myriad of Jimin’s handy techniques. And then, it all boiled down to the same thing — Jimin recognizing the competition in her. 

“Minjeong has taken a break from fencing after sweeping through the youth category.” Yeji injects, pulling Minjeong into a half-embrace. She knows that Yeji picked up on her distress, the complete hundred-and-eighty flip of her reaction, and came to soften the blow. “I believe you two fenced against each other already in Youth 10.”

Minjeong looks up at her, confused. It’s one thing keeping track of your competition, the small community of competitive fencers, and entirely another to follow the life journey of every single one. 

“What? I fenced against you, too,” Yeji clicks her tongue. “And Jimin too.” 

“How’s that even possible—” 

“We’re only just a year apart,” she explains, “and we were in the last year of Youth 10 when you came and knocked us off. I’ll admit, it was humiliating. Isn’t that right, Jimin?”

Jimin looks between them, her eyes stopping on Minjeong’s face. Her look is bening, but Minjeong notices the certain crystallized hardness in her gaze that Minjeong is awfully familiar with looking in the mirror. There’s something more than Jimin lets on, but Minjeong is busy nursing the rip in her heart to dwell into it. One thing is sure, though, the blankness that rests in her eyes is not feigned.

“Sorry. I don’t remember,” Jimin finishes. 

“Pity,” Yeji shakes her head. “Maybe I’ll ask mom if she has them taped. We could watch them together.”

“That’d be fun,” Jimin agrees, a smile pulling on her lips. 

Minjeong barely remembers the time she used to compete. Her golden era was short-lived and painful; she likes not to think about it either. Because Minjeong now is a changed person, mature enough to know her limits, sober enough to know how to deal with her own overbearing emotion to avoid pushing herself into a never-ending cycle of fighting and crashing. Revisiting those memories is not her type of afternoon fun.

“Why are you here?” The question rips out of , unintended but she cannot bring herself to feel shame. 

Jimin her head to the side. “Didn’t Yeji tell you? My home base is closing for the summer for renovations, so I’ll relocate here.” 

Minjeong nods. Just a summer, already hot and suffocating on the premises of the training center. But adding the presence of Jimin to it, her superiority over them, the cruel reminder that they’re nothing against her, just a fickle moment in her life, is another layer of hell.

It’s funny how years spent yearning for this moment crash down when your idol doesn’t live up to your imagination. Maybe it’s unfair, Minjeong bites her lip, to hold them to such high expectations — but isn’t it also unfair how carelessly Jimin pushed her aside? A white lie to nod along to whatever Yeji said, a little research before she joins the club; they all could’ve salvaged this moment. 

Minjeong turns to Yeji, back straight as she shakes her warm embrace off her shoulder. She dusts off her clothes, dirt, and grass blades sticking to her. She wishes she could’ve stayed outside. “Didn’t you say the session is already on?”

Yeji lets out a small sound, checking the time. 

“Growing out of your slacker phase, are you?” 

“Never been part of it,” Minjeong carelessly tosses words over her shoulder. When she notices none of them moved, she grimaces. “Well? Are we going to train or can I go back to sleep?”

“I—” Yeji starts, clearing as she throws a quick glance at Jimin. “I thought today’s session would be getting acquainted with Jimin.”

Minjeong’s mouth pulls into a straight line. “I already know her.” 

“Minjeong—” 

Yeji cannot finish the sentence as the rest of the club members step into the training room, immediately swarming around Jimin who looks at them with the same empty look as she did to Minjeong. Carrying her petty hurt out, she slips out of the training room — no one would notice it, anyway. Also, Yeji can be grateful for her to guard her porcupine heart enough not to let her show it out for Jimin to see. 

She plops down on the grass, where Yizhuo gapes at her with a bewildered look. She lets Minjeong lay back, holding her silence before it all floods to wash over her.

“Yoo Jimin is here,” she says, searching eyes trying to put together the whole picture. “Why aren’t you salivating after her in there?”

“How did you know?”

“I peeked inside,” Yizhuo admits, eyes darting to the door and back at Minjeong. “I would’ve taken a picture as you two were speaking, but I thought the flash would’ve just ruined the moment.”

Minjeong only hums. Yizhuo can only hold her silence and curiosity at bay for so long.

“So? How’s Jimin?”

“She’s—” 

Not exactly how I imagined her. Clueless about who I am, even though I worked hard for her to notice me. She’s the reason why people say never meet your heroes.

“She’s nice,” she concludes because even she doesn’t know how exactly she feels. Maybe the crashing and burning that was today’s meeting would turn around the next sessions, maybe she’s jumping to conclusions too soon.

Yizhuo’s silence is more telling than anything. Lowering the sketchbook into her lap, she studies Minjeong’s face. 

“Minjeong, what happened?”

The pity in her voice makes Minjeong almost choke on it. Bitter is her friend’s sympathy for her, the benevolence that gets stuck in , but Minjeong carries herself better than let it be seen.  

“Nothing. I just wanna stay cool, y’know. Cannot let anyone know I have a shrine for her in my dorm.” She shrugs. Yizhuo lets out a weak laugh, not entirely sold. But she’s merciful, lulling herself into the little lie Minjeong holds up as a wall around herself. Their friendship works for exactly this reason — Yizhuo is respectful of Minjeong’s boundaries, barging into her only when she deems it right. Now, she doesn’t.

“So? No practice?” When Minjeong shakes her head, still hearing faintly the chit-chatting from the training room, much quieter than before, Yizhuo lets out a sigh. “Then lay back. You still owe me for that lunch.” 

***

Minjeong stands in front of the door of the training room, letting out a shaky breath. Spending the weekend away from fencing, still staring at Yoo Jimin’s beautiful smile on her bedroom wall, she realized she might have really been unfair. After all, Jimin had more important things she was occupied with than keeping up with lower ranks. To air out her guilt, her midnight walk led her to the training room. Standing there, she can hear someone already inside — but besides Minjeong, the other members of the club don’t usually come during the night. As she reaches for the handle, the door suddenly opens and reveals an equally surprised Jimin. 

“Oh hi! Minjeong, right?” Jimin says, immediately stepping aside to let Minjeong in. To look unfazed by Jimin, Minjeong pushes past her. “I wasn’t expecting anyone to come here so late.” 

Whatever Jimin was about to do is quickly forgotten as she watches Minjeong throwing her backpack into a corner, digging through it to find the small ankle weights. The scrutiny of Jimin’s gaze makes her skin prickle, so she looks up to meet her eyes — the benefit of her doubt shaking under the carefully blank expression on Jimin’s face. 

“Is it a problem?” Minjeong deadpans. 

Jimin lets out a dry chuckle. “I really do prefer practicing alone.”

Minjeong wills herself not to react because she’s already sensitive to Jimin. She wills herself to believe this might, once again, be a misunderstanding on her side. So she gives a cheeky smile, hoping this would pacify the whole, possibly one-sided, thing between them.

“Afraid I would steal your technique?” she asks, clasping the weights around her ankle. 

Jimin scoffs. “No.”

Slowly, Minjeong stands. She pulls her shortly-cropped hair into a semblance of a ponytail and starts dragging out one of the practice dolls. It gives her enough time to recover from the condescending tone, and swallow the bile-tasting anger that has risen in . 

“Then I don’t think it’s gonna be a problem,” she says finally, not meeting Jimin’s eyes.

Minjeong used to force herself to practice fencing, long hours spent in the garage of her family house, only in the company of the cassettes her friends lent her. It took a certain kind of dedication, a fear of failure as a kid who weighed her worth in her accomplishments. Cutting away from fencing when she stood on the peak was hard but necessary when her lithe twelve-year-old body gave up on her. Now, fencing means an entirely other thing — working out her problems in the silence of the training room, pushing her boundaries just enough to keep evolving. The final goal was: to fence against Jimin. 

Fate is kind of funny, Minjeong thinks bitterly. The familiar weight of the sword in her hand makes her almost forget that Jimin is standing on the sideline, eyes boring into her skull. 

“Why are you even here?” Jimin asks out of the blue as Minjeong stands en garde. With a click of her tongue, Minjeong lowers her sword.

“Look, it’s not even me disturbing you but the other way around.” Minjeong breathes out. Jimin huffs, leaning her back on the wall, waiting. “To clear my head out. Why are you here?” 

“I’m preparing for a competition,” she says simply, coolly.

Minjeong knows. She has Jimin’s schedule memorized for the summer, and new VHS tapes waiting in her drawer to tape everything and analyze every little movement. The Jimin standing in front of her is not the same on the competition floors, playing a brilliant game. This Jimin is less about lunging into an attack to quickly know the weakness of the competitor; she takes the slower route, eyeing Minjeong to find holes in her guard. Luckily, Minjeong has always been amazing in defense. 

“Perfect. Then we can let each other do their own thing.” 

Jimin raises an eyebrow. “I won’t hold you back.” 

Despite saying that, she doesn’t budge. It doesn’t matter — someone whom she used to idolize watching her, picking her technique apart. Minjeong gulps. It shouldn’t matter, because after all, Jimin has no regard for her talent-wise. She moves, limbs feeling frozen by the weight of Jimin’s watchful gaze, the ankle weights slowing her down, so she becomes faster when it matters. Body moving on autopilot, she bites the insides of her cheeks. Making fencing a solace again was hard enough; having Jimin here, in her blunt glory and superiority makes it harder. But her frozen limbs melt against years of practice, and slowly she picks up the pace. Jimin blurs from the corner of her eyes, morphing into a slightly annoying presence instead of Minjeong’s fencing idol. 

She stops. Minjeong's chest heaves up and down, legs trembling slightly from overuse. Wiping her sweat on the shoulder of her tee, she glances at the clock — midnight. She grimaces. Yeji better not know about this or she would not hear the end of it. 

“Your footwork is nice,” Jimin says abruptly and waits until Minjeong begrudgingly looks at her, “but your bladework is inconsistent. It’d be easy to parry it.” 

“I didn’t ask for your opinion.” 

Jimin laughs, empty as it rings through the training room. “No, you really didn’t.” 

Words warp around , wanting to demand to be left alone with her frustration; wanting Jimin to go back to her idol self, to stay away from her with her badly chosen words and her odd synergy of an ordinary person and a god. Instead of saying something that she’d later regret, she busies herself with packing away. Exhaustion creeps up on her weirdly, keeping her best shape and form in front of Jimin has taken a toll on her — but what was Jimin even doing here anyway, besides criticizing Minjeong?

“So you really won’t train while I’m here, huh?” Minjeong asks, sarcasm lacing her tone. She zips the sword case shut. 

“I told you I prefer doing it alone,” Jimin says with a sigh. Pushing herself away from the wall, she starts collecting her things — Minjeong’s unsure if she should leave or wait for her. 

Clicking her tongue, she decides on waiting. “You could’ve gone home then, instead of wasting your time here.”  

“It’s never a wasted time watching other fencers,” Jimin reprimands. In her wrinkly training clothes, she would fit into the team seamlessly — especially after spitting the very same words Yeji used to tire her. Minjeong rolls her eyes, waiting for Jimin to slowly walk out of the training room before she turns the overhead lights off. 

There’s something agonizing about pretending to be fine with someone who hurt you. Jimin, without any care of the world, runs freely, her feline eyes not catching onto the obvious in front of her. The midnight cool of the late-spring night prickles her skin, but she keeps the space between them. Minjeong rarely lets people close to her anyway — it shouldn’t be a problem keeping Jimin out either. 

“You’re a weird one, Minjeong,” Jimin blurts out so suddenly that it scares a little laugh out of Minjeong. 

“Thanks.” 

“You and your technique, too,” Jimin continues, staring ahead as she picks up Minjeong’s pace. Her eyes widen slightly, then she turns to Minjeong. “Did Yeji tell you she found the tapes of you?” 

Minjeong stops. Recalibrates her mind to keep walking ahead, and while shame heats up her cheeks, she shakes her head. 

“Your technique used to be wild, animalistic. You lunged into attack like there was no tomorrow like you didn’t care if you were touched in the middle of it.” Jimin wrinkles her nose. “Something has changed, you’re more careful now. Your defense in the last competition was perfect but you lost the soul of your game. You should combine the two and—” 

“Can you stop analyzing me?” Minjeong scorns, hiking the sword case higher on her back. 

“Huh? I thought that’s what you wanted.”

Embarrassment burning her ears, she quickens her steps even though her thighs are screaming at her to slow down. A lecture from Jimin is the last thing she needs — even though she’s right. 

But the festering of her wound left by carelessness, each blunt word cutting into her fragile heart like knife points, Minjeong bites her lip to ignore the feeling. Even though Jimin saw her in the glory of her youth, she still doesn’t think she was a worthy match. Empty words offered as a truce, probably coming all the way from Yeji is all Jimin has to say of Minjeong. Perfect was put into the sentence to limelight what she lacks, and Minjeong has never felt smaller in her life. 

“Yeji told me you’re a big fan of mine,” Jimin adds, unknowing of the damage she’s inclining on Minjeong. 

Tearing the hair band out of her hair, shaking it out so it covers her face, Minjeong only says, “Yeji doesn’t know what she’s talking about.” 

“Oh yeah? I think she does.” 

It’s fighting a losing battle — Jimin is too comfortable in her skin, and confident in her world even as she receives curveballs from life, while Minjeong fights with her own self to stay in one piece. Staying civil, waiting it out until Jimin disappears just as quickly from her life as she arrived, trying to rebuild her world without the end goal of beating Jimin. 

Minjeong blinks and suddenly stops on her way. The heavy oak door stands in front of her, the red-brick walls of the dormitory achingly familiar in the heavy ocean waves crashing over her head. Unconsciously, she was rushing here to get away from Jimin.

“I’m home,” Minjeong says, surprised. Jimin hums, zipping her jacket up higher on her neck. 

“Well, I’ll be off then.” She turns around, peeking over her shoulder for a quick wave. “Sweet dreams, Minjeong.”

***

“I heard about your midnight escapade,” Yeji bluntly says first thing in the morning as Minjeong walks through the door of the training room, her brows knitted together into a hard look. “How many times do I have to tell you it’s not healthy? You keep that up and you’ll receive a ban for a week.” 

Between arriving home at dawn and agonizing over Jimin’s surprising act of kindness, Minjeong hasn’t gotten enough sleep. Eyes still puffy, she jabs a finger in the general direction of Jimin.

“Jimin was there too!” 

“I know. I’ll talk to her later about it.” Yeji sighs, massaging the bridge of her nose. “But Minjeong. Seriously. Don’t come here when it’s not training time, you’ll just burn yourself out.”

Something about those words almost made her giggle. Coming here during the night by no means is rushing into a burnout — if anything, the night practices help silence the voices in her head that seemed to get louder ever since Jimin’s appearance. She weakly draws a cross on her heart and the childish motion seems to be enough for Yeji. Even if Minjeong has no remorse, neither has any means to go through with her promise. 

Jimin moves into her periphery but Minjeong decides she has nothing nice to say for a snitch. 

Instead, she steps closer to Yeji, and voice lowered, she asks, “Why isn’t she training with the other members of the national team?” 

Yeji pulls away. Minjeong is not afraid of playing dirty; her bluntness and cutting words only hurt if the other person cares. Jimin does not, after all. The disappointment in Yeji’s eyes almost makes Minjeong backtrack but Jimin is already in earshot. 

“Minjeong, it’s none of your business.” 

“Was it an attitude problem?” Minjeong pushes, following Jimin’s nearing form from the corner of her eyes. In the end, Jimin is standing in front of her, stormy eyes boring holes into hers. But Minjeong is not used to backing down, so she sneers at her. “Some kind of princess disease?” 

“I got injured,” Jimin says, mouth pursed into a thin line, a scythe ready to cut. “Happy?”

Minjeong furrows her eyebrows, looking at Jimin up and down. She’s been keeping up with her religiously, there’s no way that between her brilliant performances on the piste, she was hurting all along. Then the realization strikes her like a lightning bolt. That’s why she was reluctant to train next to Minjeong; she didn’t want them to know it. 

She’s been practicing bladework ever since she transferred clubs. First, Minjeong thought it was just a choice to put more emphasis on the bladework as Jimin’s footwork is nearly flawless. Minjeong’s eyes zero on Jimin’s ankles. But Jimin moves immediately, stepping closer to Minjeong, to force into her personal space. The sheer proximity makes Minjeong want to flee, but she stays rooted in her place.

“And if you wonder why I’m not training with them — my place in the national team is still under discussion. The sports doctors said I’m fit for competitions but the team leader wants me to leave this season out to make sure I don’t worsen my injury.” The decision sits above Jimin like Damocles’ sword, the hurt of the uncertainty carving into her features, a deep grimace taunting Minjeong to say something. “See, Minjeong? Maybe it’s you who doesn’t know anything.” 

“Jimin,” Yeji’s voice is a warning call. 

Minjeong is grateful for the interjection because, for the first time, she doesn’t find words. Because Jimin is beautiful like this — fuming, a stormy ocean ready to wreck ships and swallow them to their deaths. It’s a breath of fresh air, the ugly decaying of her own suffering left on the surface, and not facing the overly polished star athlete that keeps everyone happy. 

“Is that really all?” Minjeong asks, slow like a serpent and just as vicious. “You know, I heard the rumors that you demand perfection from every single member of your team and that they’re running out of patience with you. I didn’t think too much of them — after all, who else would have the right to ask for perfection if not you? But now, I see why they’re trying to get rid of you.”

“Minjeong—” 

Minjeong should’ve known she was pushing too hard; that what goes around comes around, and it will not be as fun as pushing Jimin’s button. The only warning sign that she crossed the line is the wild look in Jimin’s eyes, black like a vortex. Jimin pushes her to the lockers, her shoulder meeting with a padlock hard. Minjeong winces.

“What is your problem?” Jimin asks, pushing closer.

Minjeong's fist connects with Jimin's jaw unconsciously. Her movements are on autopilot, as she pushes Jimin off, rage blurring her vision. A little voice warns her to not do this, do not mess with the shining diamond of the club, to leave it, and apologize before anyone finds out outside the club she assaulted the star athlete. Her fencing career is on the line, but one jab felt right — it wasn’t a strong blow, it was more to hurt Jimin’s pride than anything else.

One thing about Minjeong — when hurt, she’ll hurt back. Like a feral animal, she bites into the already torn flesh of the person in front of her, mouth filling with bitter blood and hatred, mind clouding with the need to survive. 

“You’re not used to being sidelined, right?” Minjeong tilts her head. “Because you don’t have the privilege anymore to say and do whatever you want. How sad.” 

The things she used to find charming about Jimin flood back with a new, dark twist in them. The memories feel ill-fitting now; Jimin’s empty smile as she talked with the rest of the national team, the palpable tension between the members. Minjeong used to obsess over them, find moments to turn the story right, to make Jimin come out as the victim — maybe she was just blinded by hero-worship, by the image of Jimin standing on the podium, the I could have stood here thought flashing through Minjeong’s mind. Jimin is her reflection, warped around to come out as a star — not the broken, old Minjeong who gave up because she got tired of fighting too hard with her own self.

Jimin runs her fingers on the underside of her jaw, eye rounding in surprise. It's too satisfying, the bubbling anger, the nerve to strike again. Minjeong prepares for the blow — after all, she knows she deserves it and no matter the humble grace Jimin possesses, that tooth for a tooth is rightful.

Yeji grips Jimin’s shoulder and the tension immediately evaporates from her body, but her eyes are still lingering on Minjeong, heavy like the air before a storm. Yeji’s face is dark, mouth twisted in an angry scowl as she steps between them. 

“Banned. The both of you,” she says, voice low. The sheer disappointment in the look she gives Minjeong is enough to regret what she’s done. Jimin’s expression is a clean slate, but she nods slowly, even though her fingers are still trembling slightly. From the corner of her eyes, she glances at Minjeong.

“For how long?” Minjeong pipes, deliberately not looking at Jimin. 

“Until you learn how to behave like civilized people around each other.” 

***

Yizhuo cackles loudly into the phone and Minjeong has to pull the handset from her ear. She plays with the cord, seeing in retrospect how childish the whole thing was — but she couldn’t let it just be there when Jimin was so brazenly condescending when she willingly bulldozered over Minjeong’s feelings. Maybe it’s you who doesn't know anything rings in her h