Ji-Hong
The chirps of lively nocturnal insects fill the air of the neighbourhood park. Harsh, white light from the towering fluorescent lamps bathe the fenced basketball court. Crisp, seasonal winds with the scent of woody nature caresses my skin and chills my lungs as I set my belongings aside. Even though the only audience we have are the insects and shadowy nature around us, the pressure that I'm getting from our imminent match feels much heavier than my one-on-one with Hansel back then, and we had a fair number of students watching us as well.
My instincts are telling me that something's extremely wrong about the person before me. Normally, I'm able to get a good sense of how good my opponents are, something like an animal picking up the scent of its prey. Dean's aura however, isn't just overwhelmingly strong; it's flickering wildly as well, like a flame dancing its natural, unpredictable rhythm in a dark winter night. It's impossible for me to get a decent gauge of his level, but one thing's for sure: Dean isn't an ordinary basketball player.
With a composed expression, the man with the wolf-like haircut and stubble beard spins the ball with a finger as he awaits for me to take position, not even showing any signs of intoxication in the slightest.
"I like those eyes. Looks like you're ready," Dean says with an anticipative smirk.
Not sure about mine, but his looks and eyes remind me too much of those from wolves. I'm not the only predator on this court.
And yet, the beast within me hungers for competition just as much as victory. It's no fun if the game is going to be a one-sided victory for me. Even though this is my first time acknowledging Dean as a basketball player, I can tell immediately that this will be a tough game.
With just a flick of his finger, Dean bumps the spinning ball into the air and catches it. My opponent then tosses the leathery orb at me, of which I catch deftly with a hand.
"You go first," he says, assuming a defensive stance. "Let's keep it short; first to five baskets wins."
As my blood races to the excited pounding of my heart, the power begins to simmer within my muscles. My focus deepens, and though I've never played on this court before, I'm beginning to feel as if I'm now almost fully tuned to my surroundings, my battleground. The feel of the asphalt rubbing against the soles of my shoes; the greenish sheen given off by the basketball court settling in my eyes; these sensations and vibes are now ingrained into my soul, and I warmly accept them. The court has invited me to be part of its family, and I'll gladly work with it to claim this game for myself.
I crouch, dribbling the ball as naturally as breathing, letting nothing but my instincts take the wheel of my body.
Now!
With a sudden burst of power, my fingers send the ball crashing down onto the floor, bouncing straight for my other hand. I catch it, twist my body, preparing to perform the next step of my crossover technique.
Wait. Since when did he―
It's only for a split second, but my instincts are warning me about my opponent. His movements are odd. While he's following the movements of the ball, Dean isn't flowing to my rhythm at all.
I ignore the nagging voice in me and blast the ball to the other side anyways. My other hand accepts the ball, and I dart to that side, attempting to break through his guard.
What the―
Dean is right in front of me. There's no getting past of him through this side.
Shit!
Dean's hand flashes.
I send the ball diving between my legs, appearing behind me, and I catch it with my other hand.
Too close.
It was as if Dean's hand melted from existence during that steal attempt. His speed was ridiculous, and I nearly lost the ball to him just like that. I need to be more careful.
I shove the ball to the left, darting after it. Dean follows. Once the ball is back beneath my fingertips, I immediately shoot it back to the other side, ramping up my rhythm explosively.
Dean leans to his left, towards the ball. He reaches out―
The ball doesn't hit its second rebound. It's a horrifying sensation, hollowing me out from inside, but there's no denying of what just happened in that brief clash.
Dean knocked the ball out of my grasp; I've lost complete control of it.
"H-how..."
My opponent doesn't answer. He merely strolls past of me to collect the basketball. I click my tongue vexatiously at his nonchalant reaction.
The rules of our one-on-one are simple. If a player manages to bat the ball out of his opponent's hands, the match resets, and it becomes his turn to be on the offensive.
We resume starting positions, only this time, the ball is in his hands. Defence isn't my forte, but I'm not a pushover when it comes down to it.
Dean begins his attack, sending the ball to the other side. However, there's something bizarre about that manoeuvre; it's moving too slowly. Odd as it may be, my hands aren't able to react to that vulnerable, weak offence. I struggle to slow my pace down in an effort to match his speed.
No, but that's―
My instincts flare, but it's too late. The moment the ball arrives at his other hand, Dean sends it to the other side with an astonishing change of pace.
Not yet! Not yet!
Through sheer willpower and maybe a sprinkle of luck, I manage to stagger just in time to impede his movements, preventing him from making a drive towards my hoop.
Dean doesn't hesitate. He sends the ball back, then to his front again, making staggering dribbles from side to side. His pace is impossible to predict, and it's overwhelming me. The more I struggle to keep up with him, the more disoriented I feel from his movements.
Eventually, I stumble, my senses overloaded and my mind spinning from his insane techniques.
Dean makes his drive, racing towards the hoop.
Turn! Turn, you idiot!
Gritting hard, I force every drop of power I have in my muscles to turn around and give chase. My limbs break past their limits, cutting through the air, propelling my body after my opponent.
With my adrenaline-fuelled muscles on overdrive, I'm barely able to overtake Dean just as he reaches the outer ring. My opponent's knees bend as he prepares to leap for a dunk.
Not if I can help it!
My knees jerk and with a detonation of strength, I soar into the air with my arm outstretched, ready to impede his attack.
But Dean isn't in the air with me. My eyes widen as I realise I've been faked.
Damn it!
My opponent spins around me while I'm still suspended in space, does a scooping motion and tosses the ball into the hoop. The rustle of ropes sound from behind me; Dean has scored his first basket.
"That's it?" Dean says, his voice cutting through the winds with icy displeasure. "Where's all that fighting spirit you had just five minutes ago?"
I gnash my teeth, desperately trying to suppress the sense of dread lurking in my guts with anger. I've never played against anybody this good before. That exceptional changeover pace in his rhythm is impossible for me to keep within my control. Nobody I played against back in Anjung Ri comes remotely close to his level of abilities. Dean even makes Hansel look like a complete amateur, and I'm very certain that the red-haired hothead isn't one at all. But even then...
"Again!" I seethe, clenching my fists, refusing to admit defeat. "It's not over yet."
Dean snorts in amusement, tossing the ball back at me. It's my turn to be on the offensive again.
However, try as I may, it's as if Dean is constantly one step ahead of me. Every crossover I perform, every fake and every attempt at altering my rhythm, is met with Dean's uncanny ability to predict my attacks and cripple them accordingly.
On the other hand, every one of my attempts at stealing the ball from him has been completely and utterly futile. It's like I'm trying to grab water with my hands. No matter how hard I try, Dean is able to counter my movements and slip past of me. Whenever I anticipate an attack, it's a fake, and Dean immediately drives through my defence. Whenever I anticipate a fake, it's an actual attack, and the same results surface.
Just like that, Dean scores his fifth basket over me, whereas I'm left with a pitiful zero on my side of the scoreboard.
"You..." I pant, bending over and placing both hands by my knees as I struggle to regain my breath. Dean didn't just crush me in the game; he's crushed my confidence in my own basketball skills as well. Am I really this weak? I've lost games before, but this is the first time I'm being dominated so brutally.
"I know what you're thinking," he says, offering me a bottle of water. "No, you're not bad. Far from it, actually. Your speed is phenomenal, and your instincts are on point."
"That wasn't what the results showed," I mutter, uncapping my bottle and taking a long swig of the cool, sweet water.
"That's because you're still unpolished as hell," he mutters. "I could tell from a glance that you have next to no proper training. It's fine to build your foundations from streetball, but never forget to learn the real stuff."
"So you just came to destroy me at basketball? Because I told you I wanted to join the team?" I sigh, dropping my hips onto the rough court.
"No." Dean shakes his head. "I just wanted to confirm something for myself."
"Confirm what?"
"Your hidden talent," he answers with a matter-of-fact tone. "Ever noticed that whenever the competition got intense in a game, you feel like you're a completely different person? I don't just mean your average athlete's sharpening of focus either. I mean it's like you're being possessed by another entity."
Possessed, he says. That's the most accurate description of the uncanny transformation of my mental states whenever I'm riled up in a game.
"Who are you?" I ask. "Your skills aren't like anyone I've... are you a professional?"
"Me?" Dean shrugs. "Well, I guess back in my time I was sort of like one."
If he'd said that to me before tonight, I wouldn't have believed him. But after that game we had, there's no reason for me to doubt the mysterious, depressed alcoholic. Never judge a book by its cover, I guess.
"What about now?"
My housekeeper snorts. "Just a basketball coach at a university, if that's so important to you. What? You thought I was a loan shark or something?"
I rub my cheek sheepishly. Admittedly, I did once consider that he's a gangster since there was no other way for him to be so laid back in his schedule while at the same time, having enough money for his house and sustaining his alcoholic needs.
"Dumbass," he mutters, apparently taking umbrage to my reaction.
"I'm sorry." I take a short bow, a little ashamed of myself for judging him so quickly before.
"Whatever." The man takes a swig of his own bottle of water.
"So, about this 'hidden talent' you mentioned? Mind if you tell me more about it?"
My housekeeper ushers me to follow him. The both of us make our way to a bench at the side of the court and take a seat there. Seems like this is going to be a bit of a heavy topic.
"I've seen some guys like you in my time. We called them 'Demons', because like you, it's as if they're possessed whenever they're in the zone, and their potentials are practically limitless. They're monsters on the court, and it's almost impossible to beat them in a fair game."
Demons? Even if I understand their references, it still seems rather churlish of them to label them like that. Though, for someone of Dean's abilities to fear them so much, I guess it just goes to show how serious they are.
"It's like there are two of you in that body of yours, Ji-Hong," he continues, jabbing a finger on my chest. "One is how you usually are outside of a game. The other side of you is one that's completely separate from your normal self. It's the side of you that throws away every unnecessary part of your personality in order to maintain absolute focus in the game."
"You're saying I have a split personality?"
"Sort of," he answers, frowning a little. "If you're like them― ah, who am I kidding, you are like them. If that's the case, then the explanations should be the same. A split personality like that is triggered by a traumatic event, one where you're extremely desperate, and forced to play beyond your limits for whatever reason. Very few possess the ability to completely separate their personalities into two, whereby one is fully optimised, and even obsessed for victory."
A personality that's forcefully split by a traumatic event... I think I know what happened. It must've been Anjung Ri, at the end of one of our consecutive losses. Min-Suk was physically abused to the brink because of our loss streak. I knew I had to do the impossible in order to carry our team to victory. At one point in time, I played beyond what I thought was far beyond the limits of my body, leading us to victory. I think that's the trigger that Dean is talking about.
"Normally, even top athletes are only able to exhibit up to eighty or ninety-percent of their abilities in a real game. But Demons like you are different." Dean flashes a look at me. He doesn't look hostile and yet, that isn't a look of endearment either. It's a little unsettling. "When you let that side of you take over, you're able to exhibit more than a hundred-percent of your body's limits."
"More than a hundred-percent?" I ask. "Even though most people aren't even to evoke a hundred?"
"Yeah." Dean nods. "I remember those guys back then. That other side takes a major strain on your body, so most of them sustained injuries from their own plays after awhile. Overexertion, apparently. I suppose that's the price of it."
After hearing all that, I'm almost tempted to pinch myself as an assurance that I'm not trapped in a bad dream, but I resist the urge. While most of what Dean said about my abilities seem ludicrous, I've never had a better explanation for my abnormal condition on the court whenever I'm heavily pressured to win a game.
"It all sounds so supernatural to me."
"Maybe." Dean shrugs. "Whatever. I don't care if you believe me or not. Just saying that I've met guys like you in my own time and they give me nightmares till today."
"How did you know I had... well, this 'second person' in me anyways?" I ask, finding his explanations a little too bizarre for my liking.
Dean doesn't answer immediately. The wolf-like man whips a cigarette and a lighter from his jacket's pockets and helps himself to a smoke. I train my eyes on him, refusing to back away from my question. There's so much about him that I don't know, and his behaviour today only serves to give me more questions about him.
Eventually, the man sighs and says, "Because I've seen those eyes before. You remind me a lot of those other Demons in my time. Hell, but most of all, you remind me a lot about him."
"Him? Who?"
Dean lets out an exhale of pungent smoke.
"Another kid like you. Korean, about your age. Kid recently transferred to our school. If I didn't know any better, I'd say you two were siblings. You and him share the same eyes."
His descriptions of the mysterious person who shares the same 'second nature' is vague, but it's triggered something in me.
No. It can't be him.
"Who is he?" My voice, driven by pure emotions fuelled by my past, booms out before I'm able to stop myself.
Dean peers over to me with suspicion in his eyes. He holds his stare for a little while longer before shaking his head.
"Then tell me," I seethe, determined to get an answer out of him. "Does he wear a necklace with a silver ring attached wherever he goes?"
Dean takes another drag of his cigarette, musing in his own thoughts. Judging by that expression of his, it more like he's contemplating whether he wants to tell it to me or not rather than remembering about the necklace.
"Yes."
So it's him, Sang-Ha. If what he says is true, then Sang-Ha is here in Unmyo, playing for a team that isn't mine. Even if Dean doesn't say it, I know what this means.
"If I played against him now," I say, barely able to contain the anger in my voice as it forces my words to tremble slightly. "Will I be able to win?"
Dean shakes his head. "At your current level? He'll destroy you."
Hearing that is enough to cause my heart to clench and my blood to boil. I knew Sang-Ha was good, but for him to race ahead of me so quickly since we parted ways crushes what little self-confidence I had left in me.
"And with my coaching, he's only going to keep improving," Dean adds impassively.
I can't let that happen. I can't let a person like him get so far ahead of me, not after what he did to us in Anjung Ri. If we're to play against each other in the Nationals, I must be the one who wins.
"Dean!" I leap back onto my feet, taking a sharp, low bow before him. "Please, teach me," I cry out, my voice flooded with desperation. "I can't lose to him. No matter what, I can't let him win. I'll do anything, Dean. Please teach me to play as well."
My housekeeper narrows his eyes, letting the smoke curve from his lips as he ponders over my pleas. I can feel both sides of me clashing wildly within me as I await for his answer. This may not mean much to Dean, but it's extremely important to me.
"Seems like you two have history," he mutters. "Very well, I'll do what I can. But remember, I'm not being biased to either of you when it comes to this. I'm letting him know about this first thing on Monday."
"Thank you, Dean!" I bow again, the conflict within me drowned out by a flood of joy and relief. "Thank you so much!"
Dean merely snorts to my reaction. Even if he looks unamused on the outside, you can never tell what he's really thinking. After all that he's revealed to me about these 'Demons', I'm sure he has a lot on his mind right now, now that he's training two Demons who're sworn rivals. 'Demons'. Somehow, I still can't get used to calling myself that. It's really too dramatic for me.
Sang-Ha. No matter what happens, I must beat him. Not only is he my childhood friend and my eternal rival at basketball, he's also the person partially responsible for Min-Suk's suicide. I will never forgive him for that.