track team AU | love triangle | slice of life | slow burn | found family | comedy + longing + insane rizz
JL transferred to Korea's most elite sports university hoping for a fresh start. He didn't expect to be rooming beside the nation's top sprinte...
The sponsors from East Asiatic had declared they would spare no expense.
"We want the full team," they said. "Make it a feature. Nine boys, one legacy."
That's how the KNSU track team found themselves at Incheon airport at 5:42 a.m., half-asleep, half-packed, for a flight to China.
The arrival gate at Shanghai Pudong International was a wall of sound.
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JL squinted through the flashing cameras, the rush of Mandarin, and the electric buzz of a hundred strangers shouting Zhang Shuaibo! in perfect, thunderous unison. It didn't feel like arriving for a track meet. It felt like someone had dropped them straight into the premiere of a blockbuster film... except the star was wearing a KNSU tracksuit and a bored expression.
Shanghai towered around them, glass and chrome catching the dawn light like polished stone. JL had never seen buildings this tall, this close together, each one sleek, massive, reflecting one another in endless loops of steel and sky. Seoul was busy, but Shanghai was colossal. Everything here felt bigger. Louder. Hungrier.
Shuaibo, impossibly calm, pulled out a pair of dark sunglasses and slid them on like a character cue. It didn't matter, because his stride was unmistakable. The moment he stepped past immigration, the crowd erupted.
He caught a glimpse of fans waving enormous banners with calligraphy he couldn't read. One girl had a massive foam board that read in English: ZHANG SHUAIBO IS OUR PRINCE, OUR JAVELIN GOD. Another girl was crying.
Steven let out a low whistle. "I thought you said you weren't that famous."
Shuaibo adjusted the strap of his carry-on. "I lied."
The KNSU team had barely made it past customs when two black-suited men appeared at the terminal gate, gliding more than walking. They were tall, quiet and perfectly symmetrical, like palace guards in an idol drama. Their suits didn't wrinkle. Their shoes didn't squeak.
One stepped forward, bowed slightly, and extended an arm.
In his hand was a scroll.
An actual scroll. Silk. Embossed. Jade clasp. The seal was a heavy splash of red wax, stamped with the Zhang family crest.
Nobody said anything. Not even Woongki.
Shuaibo sighed. Cracked the seal. Scanned the document with a face that barely twitched. Then, with the kind of muscle memory that said this wasn't the first time, he folded it neatly and slid it into his jacket.
"Well," he said dryly. "Change of plans."
"What was that?" Jeongwoo asked, stunned.
"A dinner invitation," Shuaibo replied, already heading for the exit. "From my family."
Woongki blinked. "Can't you say no?"
"They sent bodyguards," Shuaibo said, without even glancing back. "You don't say no to the Zhangs."
The automatic doors whooshed open to a scene straight out of a luxury commercial. A full black convoy waited at the curb, engines purring low. Drivers stepped forward, gloves immaculate, holding the doors open with synchronized grace.
Shuaibo paused under the wide Shanghai sky and turned back to face them, the glass skyline looming like a kingdom behind him.
"Fair warning," he said, with the resigned gravity of a man who had done this all before. "I don't want to go. But they've summoned me. Which means they want to see me. And what the Zhangs want, they get."
"Sounds chill," said Juwon, already sweating.
"They're not chill," Shuaibo said. "They're a dynasty. And they will be a lot."
And with that, he adjusted his sunglasses like a crown, and walked straight into the waiting car.
