The gym lights buzzed overhead, casting long shadows across the empty ring. Jungkook stood in his corner, gloves still taped, staring at the spot where Kim Daehyun had fallen. The cheers had long since faded, replaced by the hollow echo of medics rushing in. It had been six weeks, but every time he closed his eyes, he saw the blood on the canvas.

He hadn’t stepped foot in a training session since. Instead, he found himself standing outside Hanul Ballet Studio, breath fogging the winter air. The sign was peeling, the windows dusty. Inside, a man in a worn maroon sweater corrected a student’s posture with quiet precision. Park Jimin. Once hailed as Seoul’s most promising danseur, now teaching beginners how to plié.

Jungkook hesitated at the door. He wasn’t here to dance. He was here because his therapist said ‘find a new rhythm.’ But as Jimin turned and met his gaze, something shifted—an unspoken recognition of pain, of loss, of a life derailed.

The class ended. Jimin approached. “You’re late,” he said, voice calm. “And you’re wearing boxing shoes.”

Jungkook swallowed. “I don’t know if I belong here.”

Jimin crossed his arms. “No one does, at first. But if you want to stay, you start tomorrow. 7 AM. Bare feet. No gloves.”

Jungkook looked down at his hands—calloused, scarred, still trembling sometimes. Was this surrender? Or the first step toward something else?