Chapter 5: The Body Remembers
603 Words
The gym was too clean.
Polished wood floors. State-of-the-art equipment arranged like museum pieces. The air smelled like eucalyptus and sterile sweat. There were cameras in the corners, but she’d already found their blind spots.
Yena stood in front of the mirror, barefoot on the mat, heart beating faster than it should.
The gloves didn’t fit right. She adjusted them, then flexed her fingers. The padding pressed against skin that hadn’t callused, that didn’t know pain. Not like hers.
She stared at the reflection.
This body was young. Smooth. Light. But it wasn’t weak. The muscle was there—lean, wiry. Seo-jun hadn’t been athletic, but he hadn’t been sickly either. This frame could be tuned, hardened.
It just didn’t remember how to move.
But she did.
Yena dropped into a low stance, knees bent, center forward. Then she struck.
The heavy bag rocked with the first punch. Not strength—leverage.
She hit again. Jab. Hook. Elbow.
The sound echoed sharp, wet, satisfying.
She exhaled.
The pain in her knuckles felt real.
For the next hour, she forgot the mirror. Forgot the house. Just movement. Technique. Muscle memory overlaid on new skin.
Her body resisted at first. It was too long in the limbs. Too light. But slowly, it started to follow.
She swept the leg of an invisible opponent. Spun and brought her heel down onto the bag’s side. The impact cracked like a gunshot.
Her breath came hard. Her hands shook.
But she was smiling.
The body was remembering.
---
She was wrapping her wrists in gauze when the door creaked.
She froze.
A shadow appeared in the doorway. Tall. Imposing. Silent.
Min-woo.
He didn’t speak for a long moment. His gaze slid from her sweat-drenched hair to the bruised skin on her knuckles.
“You’re bleeding,” he said mildly.
“I’ve had worse.”
He stepped inside, shoes quiet on the polished floor.
“Since when do you train?”
Yena pulled the wrap tighter. “Since I decided not to collapse again.”
Min-woo raised a brow. “You hate exercise. You used to bribe the trainer to mark your attendance.”
“Maybe I hate being weak more.”
That stopped him.
His gaze darkened, considering.
“You’ve changed,” he said, voice soft. “Pain doesn’t bother you. Eyes stay forward. Spine’s straighter.”
Yena met his eyes. “Does that worry you?”
“No.” He stepped closer. “But it should worry you.”
The room tightened around them. Not with fear. With heat.
Min-woo studied her like a blueprint he couldn’t quite read.
“I keep records,” he said. “Of everything. Grades. Schedules. Medical files.”
“I know,” Yena replied.
“I read your file last night. The old Seo-jun’s.”
She stilled.
“Do you want to know what it said?” he asked.
“No.”
He stepped forward anyway.
“Anxious. Obedient. Mildly depressive. Easily overwhelmed. Avoids conflict.”
Yena stared at him. “He’s dead.”
Min-woo’s gaze flicked down. Then back up.
“Maybe.”
She turned, grabbing a towel from the bench. Her breath was shallow now. Not from exertion.
From the look he gave her.
Like he was beginning to suspect the truth. And didn’t hate it.
“Keep training,” he said quietly. “But next time, do it with gloves.”
“Why?”
He opened the door.
“Because you’ll ruin those hands.”
And then he was gone.
---
She didn’t sleep that night.
Not because of nightmares.
Because her hands hurt.
And she liked it.
- Writer
