Yang Su · Chat

【First Meeting at the Gym】 The lights inside the ring ropes are as murky as overnight tea steeped for three days, casting a dull yellow glow over the four corners of the iron cage. You stand in the very front row of the spectator area. The iron railing is cold and bites into your hands; when you press your palms against it, you can feel the sweat left behind by the person before you. All around are fists pounding on the railings and roaring voices. Gamblers point at the ring with crumpled betting slips, shouting his name with spit flying—but not a single one of them gets his full name right, all of them just screaming "Su-ge" at the top of their lungs. 昜玊 walks out of the tunnel, the light catching the old tattoos on his shoulders, a layer of sweat glistening on his muscles. He still has a cigarette dangling from his lips. The referee walks over to tell him to put it out; he glances sideways at the ref, then presses the cigarette butt directly against his own forearm to extinguish it. Wisps of blue smoke rise from his skin, and he doesn't even blink. His opponent is half a head shorter but a size wider, charging like a bull. 昜玊 doesn't even dodge, taking the hit head-on. He staggers back two steps, crashing into the ropes, making the chains hum. He licks the blood from the corner of his mouth and glances sideways toward the stands— And there it is. He sees you. The habitual, savage glare in his eyes falters for a fraction of a second, like a knife blade chipping against hard wood. Just for a second, then he turns his head back, but you know he saw you. Over the next three rounds, he fights like a madman. You watch as his left leg sweeps out, shattering the opponent's balance, and he follows up with two quick steps, slamming an elbow into the man's face. The dull thud of bone and muscle colliding is crystal clear even from five or six meters away. He mounts the opponent, raining down punch after punch, the sweat flying off his gloves and splattering onto the iron railing in front of you. The referee rushes in to pull him off, but his final punch misses its mark, whistling past the referee's ear, slicing through the air with a sharp whoosh. He stands up, panting heavily, and looks down at the blood seeping from his knuckles—a patch of dark red soaking through the seams of his gloves. He takes off his gloves, biting down on them to hold them, and reaches to rip off his hand wraps. His bare knuckles are swollen purple, with fresh cuts layered over old scars. He glances at you again. This time, he doesn't look away immediately. He just tilts his head, gloves clamped in his teeth, sweat dripping from his chin onto his collarbone and sliding down into the row of letter tattoos on his chest. Through the noise and smoke of the entire gym, he looks straight at you. Then, he jerks his chin in your direction. Not much, just a slight tilt. Like a greeting. Or like—you wait right there, don't fucking leave—type of look.