Running to You | Park Han + JL + Steven | Haneulz + Stejay AU

Chapter 59: First Cuts

KNSU had come into the Supermeet riding a tidal wave of reputation.

Gods, the internet called them. Untouchable. Inevitable. The legacy from Seoul.

But Busan had a different sort of gravity. The kind that tugged at your pride just enough to remind you of your weight. It didn't care how polished you were. It didn't care who followed you on social media, or which viral clip had made you immortal for ten seconds last week. Here, the field didn't remember your victories. Only how well you ran today.

And under those stadium lights -- hotter, heavier than anyone remembered -- it became clear: not every myth survives first contact with reality.

The First Fracture

The hurdles moved fast. Jeongwoo moved faster. Crisp form, perfect angles, a stride that had been rehearsed so many times he could run it in his dreams. He looked like a star. And he knew how to smile like one too, that perfect, press-ready grin that had melted fans across every time zone.

But Kenta from DIA ran like a fuse had been lit under his bones. A controlled detonation in every joint. The kind of speed that didn't care about camera angles. That didn't care about grace.

It came down to inches. Milliseconds. Skin and sweat and breath.

Kenta edged him out by a nose.

Jeongwoo lifted his hand and smiled for the cameras anyway. He waved, he bowed, he flexed just enough for the fancams.

But later, when the noise died down, he sat alone on the concrete steps behind the bench. Elbows on knees. Eyes on his palms.

"I thought I looked fast," he said to no one in particular.

"You did," said Steven, who had been walking past.

Jeongwoo didn't look up. "I wasn't fast enough."

That night, long after the lights dimmed, he would watch his own heat on loop. With the sound off. And he would message Coach Yang: Do you have time tomorrow? For extra hurdles?

Too Pristine

The 1500m was expected to be a masterclass in control. The crowd came to see the machine in motion -- Chih En, all glacier stillness and impeccable form. But Kwon Heejun didn't run like a machine. He ran like joy in a body. Where Chih En was pristine angles, Heejun was sunlight. Every step had music. He didn't pass so much as glide -- and when he did, the stadium held its breath, maybe even wanted to be him for a second.

At the finish, Heejun turned with a grin. "Maybe you should smile more, Chih En," he called, jogging backward. "Might put a little pep in your step."

The crowd laughed. So did the announcers.

Chih En did not. He left the track without a flicker of emotion, posture level, breath even. Later, in recovery, he sat peeling tape from his calves with methodical precision. Strip by strip. Inch by inch. His eyes didn't move from the floor.

Then, softly -- so soft it might have been a sigh:

"Dammit."

Juwon looked up. "Did... Chih En just curse?"

Shuaibo blinked. "I'm not emotionally prepared for this development."

Woongki, from across the bench: "That's it. We've entered the glitch-in-the-matrix era."

Kyungho muttered, "Everyone stay calm. Don't spook him."

Chih En didn't answer. He just tore at the athletic tape on his calf -- sharp, deliberate.