All sports require quick reflexes, but boxing is especially about reading your opponent in an instant. The moment you take your eyes off them, a fist comes flying straight at your face.
That’s why, whenever his thoughts got too messy, Hoon would often turn to Jong-seong. Throwing himself into wild, frantic movement—completely focused on the moment—helped him clear out his mind like rinsing it clean.
But today, even that wasn’t working. Just like earlier, when he couldn’t land a single clean counter.
“Life’s just… not going easy these days.”
Go Hoon replied offhandedly, as if brushing the thought away. Countless things churned inside him, but that was all he could say. Still, that alone was enough for Kim Jong-seong to give his back a firm pat, as if he understood everything.
“Come on. Let’s go.”
“Where?”
“To get a drink.”
Go Hoon let out a dry, scoffing laugh.
“Hyung, are you even done with work?”
“It’s the dead hour. No customers. And I’m the owner. If I can’t slack off when I want, what’s the point? Let’s go.”
No, seriously—shouldn’t the owner be the one watching the place the most? The protest reached the back of his throat, but before he could say it, Jong-seong had already grabbed his wallet and phone, pulling Hoon by the arm.
***
The two of them headed to a small beef tripe place near the gym.
The shop was run by a thickset middle-aged man, and every time they came, they were the only customers. Probably because the outside looked rundown and the place was tucked away in a hard-to-reach corner, far from foot traffic.
When Go Hoon first came here, he’d taken one look at the cobwebbed, empty interior and given up all hope for the food. But he’d been dead wrong. This was one of Jong-seong’s proudly-kept secrets—a true hidden gem.
The grilled tripe and large intestines cooked on a hot stone plate were rich and flavorful, with no unpleasant smell. And the real highlight was the fried rice, stir-fried in beef fat at the end of the meal. It was phenomenal.
“Hey, you little punk. You should at least call the Director once in a while. Do you know how impossible it is to get ahold of you? Huh? She had to ask me how you’re doing, you shameless brat.”
Grumbling harshly, Jong-seong poured soju into their shot glasses. After the sharp clink of a toast, Go Hoon downed his in one gulp.
“No news is good news, isn’t it?”
“To the Director, no news is just no news. That kind of silence sticks harder.”
It wasn’t like avoiding the Director made things any easier on his conscience. He knew she still cared. But even so, he couldn’t bring himself to call her.
“There are already enough kids she has to worry about.”
Go Hoon scratched his cheek and picked up a piece of perfectly grilled tripe, popping it into his mouth.
“It’d feel like I’m just adding to her burden.”
Of course, he knew she didn’t see him as some weight to carry. But still—he couldn’t help it. He didn’t want to expect anything anymore.
Life was something you survived on your own.
There was a time when he’d wished she really had been his mother. When he was little, he even mistook her for his mom.
But one day, during a group outing with the orphanage kids, he realized for the first time—
Ah… so that’s what a family looks like.
It hit him when he saw a man and a woman each holding one of a child’s hands as they walked together. The three of them—complete. That image carved a truth into him: he didn’t have that. He never did.
Go Hoon tipped back another shot. Jong-seong quietly drank from his glass as well. The moment Hoon set his empty glass down with a soft clack, Jong-seong reached over and refilled it.
“Hoon.”
“Yeah.”
“You know last month was Hyun-soo’s memorial, right?”
Jong-seong spoke softly as he poured another drink for himself. Go Hoon froze without thinking. A name he wasn’t prepared to hear suddenly surfaced.
Lee Hyun-soo had been a younger kid from the orphanage.
Hoon had met him when he was fourteen. Not that they had any special closeness from growing up together or anything like that.
Like Hoon, Hyun-soo wasn’t very outgoing. He’d arrived at the orphanage right when Hoon was just starting puberty.
Maybe that’s why—they hardly spoke during their time living together. Even when Hoon aged out and left, their relationship hadn’t changed much.
“Take care, hyung.”
“Yeah. You too—stay well.”
That was all they said when they parted.
After leaving, Go Hoon cut off contact with everyone from the orphanage—including the Director. The only connection he kept was with Kim Jong-seong, the one who’d gone out into the world a little earlier.
That was only because Jong-seong had kept reaching out to Hoon every now and then. If he hadn’t, they would’ve completely lost touch a long time ago.
“Last year, fine—you were in the military, so it made sense that you couldn’t go to the memorial. But this year? You should’ve gone, damn it. He was your little brother from the orphanage. The Director was really upset.”
Go Hoon stayed silent for a long while. He stared blankly into the clear liquid in his glass, then let out a quiet scoff.
“Hyung… do you know why I suddenly enlisted?”
It might have sounded like a question out of nowhere.
Why had he chosen to enlist so suddenly, like he was trying to escape? Most people thought it was because of a fight with Park Ki-cheol, or the rising rent on his place. That was all anyone ever mentioned.
But the truth was, none of that had hit him that hard. He’d been through worse plenty of times.
But Jong-seong—he was different. He’d watched over Hoon for a long time, and without hesitation, he nodded.
“You enlisted not long after Hyun-soo died.”
“…”
“Man, I seriously thought you’d lost it. I mean, military exemption was the one thing guys like us had going for us.”
Jong-seong gave a bitter chuckle and knocked back another shot, then calmly refilled his glass.
“So why’d you do it? You’re not the type to break that easily.”
Hoon, who’d been staring at him, slowly lowered his gaze.
“A few days before Hyun-soo died… he called me.”
One day, an unknown number flashed across his phone. Normally, he would’ve ignored it. But for some reason, that day, he answered. As if something was pulling him to pick up.
“Hyung, it’s been a while.”
“You doing okay?”
“It’s me—Lee Hyun-soo. …You remember me, right?”
The voice on the line was unmistakably Hyun-soo’s.
His voice had deepened—thicker, heavier than Hoon remembered. It felt strangely unfamiliar, like hearing someone completely different. The once-scrawny kid had grown into a proper young man.
“The guy who’d never reached out, not once… suddenly calls me out of the blue.”
Hyun-soo had never been affectionate, much like Hoon himself. That he suddenly made contact felt odd, but back then, Hoon was juggling jobs and just trying to make it through each day.
“And what did I do? All I gave him were a few dry greetings, then hung up like it was nothing. Said I was busy.”
He’d taken the call during a short break while working a warehouse shift. He didn’t have time to talk, so he told Hyun-soo he’d call back after work. When he asked if that was okay, Hyun-soo had just said sure, like it was no big deal.
Honestly… he’d been a little annoyed. His body was aching, worn out from the grind.
He even wondered if there was some kind of motive—why now? What did he want? That doubt crept in, and so he hung up without giving it much thought.
He had no idea that would be their last conversation.
That it would be their final one—forever.
[Notice: Lee Hyun-soo—Deceased]
A few days later, the message popped up on his screen—and his mind went completely blank. Hoon stood frozen, staring at those black letters for what felt like ages.
That’s when he remembered. The promise. The one he’d buried under excuses about work and school. The promise to call him back.
He drifted through that entire day in a haze. The Director called him several times, but he couldn’t answer. He was afraid. He already knew what she was going to say.
Our Hyun-soo is gone, Hoon. That would be it. Nothing else. Just that—delivered through the Director’s voice, heavy with tears.
It wasn’t until the next dawn that he finally pulled himself together and went to the funeral.
Dressed in black, Go Hoon arrived just as the Director—who had kept vigil beside the casket all day—had finally dozed off for a moment.
It was early morning, and the funeral hall was nearly empty. Honestly, it didn’t seem like many people had come at all. Judging by the sparse names in the guestbook, barely anyone had.
After bowing and lighting incense, Hoon stood there, staring up at the photo.
Even in the funeral portrait, Hyun-soo wore the same blank expression. No smile, no softness—true to the serious nature he’d always had.
Hoon looked him in the eye for a long time, then quietly stepped away from the altar and made his way to the reception room. He sat down with a bowl of spicy beef soup and a bottle of soju.
As he drank, he heard whispers from behind—older women murmuring in low voices.
“They say it was suicide.”
