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

Chapter 59: First Cuts

Rrrrip.

"I didn't..." rrrip "...pace wrong," he said, voice low, steady -- but stretched thin at the edges.

Rrrrip.

"He just..." rrrip "...made it look like it mattered more."

Each strip came off harsher than the last. Like peeling skin. Like unspoken frustration finally clawing its way to the surface.

"He's really going through it," Jeongwoo whispered. "I've never seen tape fear for its life before."

Juwon nodded solemnly. "If that tape had a family, it would've written a goodbye letter by now."

Chih En ignored them. Or didn't hear. Heejun had smiled -- not just at the finish, but the whole race. Like joy itself was a kind of propulsion. Like being seen mattered more than being flawless.

Chih En flexed his fingers once, the motion small, almost uncertain.

"I run clean. I run controlled."

A pause.

"But maybe he's right."

He didn't explain. He didn't have to. Because for the first time, Chih En wasn't sure if perfection had been his strength -- or the thing holding him back.

The Crash

Pole vault had always been Woongki's stage. Flashy, technical, photogenic. He'd been the reigning champion for two seasons running -- the one with the showmanship, the viral soundbites, the wink at the camera before a perfect arc. He knew how to perform pressure into gold.

But today... the first vault -- missed. The second -- cleared. But on the third, when it mattered most, something faltered. A breath held too long, a rhythm off by half a second. The pole bent, launched -- and the bar clattered to the ground.

And this time, Kairi had cleared all three.

The quiet Japanese vaulter who bowed before every attempt and smiled like nothing rattled him. The one whose technique was all grace and no excess. Where Woongki dazzled, Kairi simply rose -- and today, he rose higher.

For once, Woongki didn't wink or joke. He stood on the mat, holding his pole, staring at the turf.

Kyungho was the first to move. He walked over. He brought just a water bottle and his own quiet presence.

"I'm fine," Woongki said, too quickly.

"I didn't ask," Kyungho answered, and sat beside him.

Later, after the field cleared and the stadium had moved on, Kyungho found him again -- this time behind the bleachers, where no one could see the shape of disappointment pressed into his shoulders.

Woongki was pretending again. He was loose-armed, and he had put on his easy smile. But Kyungho just opened his arms -- no words. And Woongki folded into him, quietly. Like a tide going home to shore.

Kyungho held him there, steady as stone. And he didn't let go.

The Blessed Strike

In the javelin pit, Zhang Shuaibo moved like a prince -- but everyone knew he wasn't one anymore.

Not officially.

He was competing with borrowed gear, old spikes, and no financial backing. The Zhang fortune had turned its back the moment he chose Seoul over status, KNSU over legacy. No trainer, no entourage. Just raw ability and the ironclad will to prove he didn't need gold-plated approval to be extraordinary.

But that day, he didn't just reclaim the throne. He built a new one.

He had walked in like a man arriving at his own coronation -- hair immaculate, towel draped like a designer sash, eyes hidden behind sunglasses that looked like they came with their own security detail. The cameras loved him. But the javelin loved him more.

His third throw didn't just break the meet record. It rewrote it.

The arc was flawless -- a silver comet slicing the sky. It soared, screamed, landed. The measurement blinked once. Then froze.

The stadium lost its mind.

And somewhere far from Busan, in a walled garden in Beijing perfumed with white tea and magnolia, Zhang Shuaibo's mother sat poised in a carved chair, flanked by three society wives in silk.

The owner of the estate and host -- Madame Chen, soft-voiced and sharp-eyed -- turned her tablet with quiet precision and tapped it with an impeccably manicured fingernail.

"Ah," she said, watching the replay in slow motion. "This is the Zhang boy who crossed the Yellow Sea, is it not? He honors his family. A global athlete now, it seems."

His mother didn't smile. Instead, after a pause too brief to be casual, she reached for her phone. And sent the clip to her father -- Shuaibo's grandfather.

Then she sat back and continued to sip her tea.