CHAPTER 90: CHAPTER 89 : ILLUSIONS

The memory begins like a wound wrapped in laughter.

Han ji-a stood over me with her little first-aid kit—or rather, whatever scraps she could grab from the fridge. She pressed a slice of cheese against my cheek, her brows furrowed like a commander stitching up a soldier.

"Hold still," she muttered, even though her hands were shaking.

"It’s stings, ji-a . Not a miracle cure," I groaned.

She shot me that sharp glare, the one that could cut through any excuse. "Then stop giving me more practice, Ye-jun. You’re not made of stone."

"This is the last time, Ye-jun. Do you hear me? The last. If you come back like this again, I’ll tell your mother everything."

He tried to turn away, but her hand gripped his chin, forcing his eyes to hers. "Promise me."

When Mother came home and saw the swelling, Han ji-a and I exchanged a glance. I spoke first, my voice even, rehearsed.

"Got hit at practice. Bat slipped out of my hands."

Mother froze, eyes narrowing with suspicion, but all she said was, "You should be more careful when playing baseball, Ye-jun. You can’t keep coming home like this."

That was it. That was all. No interrogation. No punishment.

She didn’t know the truth behind the bruises. Not yet.

But I didn’t lie about being a baseball player.

I wasn’t just any player—I was the school’s ace hitter. I have always been since middle school.

My bat wasn’t supposed to fly from my hands; it was supposed to cut the air and strike like lightning. The sound of leather against wood, the sting running up my arms, the crowd erupting in cheers.

Sometimes, between innings, I’d glance at the bleachers. And there she’d be. Han ji-a . Her legs swinging, her palms clapping far too loudly for someone who claimed she didn’t like sports.

That small, stubborn smile of hers—it was worth more than the trophy.

It made me believe, for a fleeting second, that I could be someone better.

I can still remember that after my promise to Han ji-a last time, I never got into fights again.

But peace never lasts. Not for me.

I caught them one afternoon—Hana Lee and her pack of jackals. Her poisonous laugh echoed down the corridor as she had Han ji-a cornered, her books scattered across the floor.

But this time, she wasn’t alone. A couple of boys stood with her, larger, louder, wearing smirks that made my blood boil.

"Look at you, little writer," Hana sneered, kicking one of Han ji-a ’s notebooks aside. "Do you think anyone cares about your stupid stories?"

Han ji-a ’s hands trembled as she reached for her pages. "Give it back." Her voice was small but steady.

Hana crouched down, ripped one of the sheets, and smiled like it was the funniest thing in the world. "Oops."

That was when I stepped in.

"Pick on someone who’ll actually hit back."

Hana’s eyes widened, but before she could speak, the boys shoved me. One punch, then another. My fists answered without hesitation. The hallway exploded in chaos—shoes scuffing the floor, fists colliding, books scattering like fallen leaves.

And for the first time, I wasn’t fighting out of boredom or anger. I was fighting for her.

For Han ji-a .

The teachers found us before the bruises finished blooming.

They dragged us into the office, my collar stained with blood.

And then Mother was called. I can still see her, standing in that office doorway, pale and trembling as if the ground had just split open beneath her.

The teachers spoke coldly, their words slicing sharper than any fist.

"This wasn’t his first fight."

"These injuries... they’re not from baseball."

"He’s been a delinquent outside of school."

Mother turned to me, her lips quivering. Her eyes—God, her eyes—were glass about to shatter.

"Ye-jun... how could you?"

I bit back the truth—that Hana had been tormenting Han ji-a , that this wasn’t about me. I took it all on my shoulders.

"I started it," I said flatly.

At home, it didn’t end. Mother pressed, her voice cracking like porcelain under pressure.

"Why, Jun? Why fight? You’re not that kind of boy... Tell me why!"

But I stayed silent. Because the truth would hurt my mother more and I couldn’t let that happen.

My silence broke her more than my bruises ever did.

Finally, she whispered, voice trembling, "Promise me... promise me it won’t happen again."

I met her eyes. For once, I didn’t lie with arrogance.

"I promise."

And for a while... I kept it.

The year that followed was almost peaceful, like the world itself decided to give me a fragile second chance.

I stopped fighting. I buried myself in studies, forced my fists into stillness, and spent nearly every hour I could with Han ji-a .

We built something—slowly, carefully. A quiet companionship that grew into something bigger.

I learned her habits like secrets:

She liked strawberry milk but hated the pulp.

She hummed off-key when nervous.

She doodled suns in the corners of her notebooks.

She believed words could build entire worlds, even if no one else cared.

And she learned me too, not the fighter, not the delinquent—just me.

Looking back now, through this spectral haze, those days glow golden, blurred at the edges like a dream you don’t want to wake from. I can still hear her laugh cutting across the baseball field, see her hand waving at me from the stands.

It was the best version of me. The boy I wanted to be, the boy I’ll never get back.

But peace is a cruel illusion.

Because then came the night they took her.

Hana Lee and the ghosts of my old fights—the boys whose pride I’d shattered, whose revenge festered—banded together. They found their leverage, their weapon to break me.

They abducted Han ji-a . Locked her away in some grimy pay house, like she was nothing but bait for a cornered dog.

That’s when the dream shattered.

That’s when I remembered who I really was.

And the bat in my hands...

It wasn’t for baseball anymore.