POV: Minjae
I woke up already irritated.
Not because of nightmares or anything dramatic—just the usual stiffness in my shoulders, the faint ache in my knuckles, and the realization that I'd gone to sleep without stretching.
Rookie mistake. Even on a vacation island, my body didn't let me forget what it liked and didn't like. The dorm was still half-dark, early morning light slipping through the curtains like it was sneaking in without permission. Someone down the hall slammed a door.
Somewhere outside, gulls screamed like they were fighting over murder charges.
I grinned into my pillow.
Good morning to me. I rolled out of bed and cracked my neck, joints popping loud enough that one of the guys groaned in his sleep.
Jun-ho was already awake—of course, he was—sitting on the edge of his bed, tying his shoes with quiet focus. "You know, normal people sleep in on trips like this." I said. He glanced up. "Normal people also don't complain about being sore every morning."
"Hey, this is the price of greatness." I shot back
He snorted, but there was a smile there. That was the thing about Jun-ho. He didn't laugh loudly, didn't show off, didn't posture. But when he smiled, it felt…earned. Like he was choosing to, not defaulting to it.
We headed outside with a small group—some younger students tagging along, rubbing sleep from their eyes, clearly regretting whatever decision led them to follow us this early.
The campus was different in the morning.
Quiet. Clean. Almost sterile.
Dew clung to the grass, catching the sunlight in tiny flashes. The air smelled sharper than it had the day before, as the island had reset overnight. Somewhere beyond the buildings, the sea breathed in and out, steady and patient.
Jun-ho stopped near an open concrete space by the rec center and turned to the group.
"Alright. Nothing intense. Just movement. Warm up properly." He said. A couple of kids exchanged looks. "You're not a teacher." One of them muttered. "Then you're free to leave." Jun-ho smiled. None of them did.
I leaned against a railing, arms crossed, watching him work.
He demonstrated stretches slowly, clearly, correcting posture with light taps and quiet instructions. When someone struggled, he adjusted the movement without making a big deal out of it. No ego. No flexing.
Annoying.
Also impressive.
One of the kids tried a sloppy push-up and nearly face-planted. Jun-ho caught him by the shoulder before he could eat concrete. "Control. Don't rush." Jun-ho said calmly. I felt something twist in my chest.
It wasn't jealousy. Not exactly.
It was…curiosity.
When he finished helping the group, I pushed off the railing and clapped my hands once. "Alright, hero. You look warmed up." I said. Jun-ho raised an eyebrow. "Minjae."
"Wrestling match. Friendly. Right here." I said. A few of the students perked up immediately. "Do it." Someone whispered. "This isn't—" Jun-ho sighed. "Come on. No strikes. No ego. Just grappling. You and me." I pressed.
He studied me for a moment, like he was weighing something.
Then he nodded.
"Fine. But gently." He said. That earned a laugh from the group. We squared up on the concrete, shoes off, hands raised. I rolled my shoulders, settling into a stance. This was familiar. Comfortable. The world narrowed to distance, balance, breath.
Jun-ho mirrored me—but subtly. Less aggressive. More…contained. We circled.
I shot first, testing him with a quick level change. He didn't sprawl hard. Didn't panic. Just shifted his hips, redirected my momentum, and locked an underhook like he'd been waiting for me to try that exact move.
Okay.
I pushed, trying to muscle through. Bad idea. Jun-ho didn't fight strength with strength. He pivoted, foot placement perfect, and suddenly my center of gravity wasn't mine anymore. The ground rushed up.
He guided me down, controlled, knee pinning my thigh, weight distributed so evenly it felt like gravity itself had betrayed me. I struggled. He adjusted.
I tried to roll.
He followed.
"You're annoying." I laughed despite myself. "You're predictable." He replied, not unkindly. I made one last effort, burning energy, trying to explode out. That's when he ended it. A smooth transition. Arm trapped. Pressure applied—not enough to hurt, just enough to make the point.
I tapped. He released instantly and offered a hand. I took it, breathing hard, grinning like an idiot. "Damn. You're good." I said. "You're strong. You just rush." He shrugged. "Because waiting is boring."
"Because waiting is smart." He countered.
We stood there for a second, sweat cooling in the morning air.
That was when I noticed her. Ara stood a short distance away, arms folded loosely, watching us. Her expression was composed, as always—but there was color in her cheeks. Just a little. Like the sun had caught her off guard.
She met my eyes briefly, then looked away.
Oh.
Oh.
Interesting.
The group erupted into chatter, impressed, energized. The younger students buzzed with excitement, replaying the match in exaggerated detail. Jun-ho stepped aside, wiping his hands on his shirt. I leaned close. "You know she was watching, right?" "Who?" He frowned.
"You're hopeless." I laughed.
—
Breakfast was chaos in the best way.
Trays clattered. Someone spilled juice. Laughter bounced off the cafeteria walls like it had nowhere better to be. Jun-ho sat across from me, calm as ever, while I retold the match to anyone who would listen—adding just enough flair to keep it interesting.
"And then, he teleports behind me—" I said dramatically. "I did not teleport." Jun-ho said.
Ara sat nearby, quietly eating, pretending not to listen. Jisoo poked at his food, distracted. "Hey. You alive over there?" I said, nudging him with my foot. He looked up, startled. "Yeah. Just…didn't sleep well." "Join the club. Island's probably haunted." I said.
He didn't laugh.
Instead, his gaze drifted past us toward the administration building's glass wall. Two staff members stood inside, eyes fixed on a row of security monitors. Their posture was tense. Focused. One of them said something into a radio. Jisoo's grip tightened on his chopsticks.
I followed his gaze, then shrugged. "Probably checking if someone stole towels."
"Maybe." He said. But his voice didn't match the words. A sudden beep cut through the cafeteria noise.
Sharp. Electronic.
A red light flashed briefly near the ceiling by the exit. Conversations stuttered. Then the light went out. A staff member waved it off with a practiced smile. "False alarm. Please continue your meal."
Laughter returned, hesitant at first, then normal.
I leaned back in my chair. "See? Nothing." I said. Jisoo nodded slowly, unconvinced. Across the room, Jun-ho was already watching the exits.
For the first time, I wondered if this island was testing us. And whether we were ready to pass.