Han Jae Won was waiting for him in the back corridor.
This wasn't usual — the message normally came later. But he was there, his coat on his shoulder, hands in his pockets, like someone who hadn't moved from that spot in a long time.
Ji Hun Min stopped.
"The knee."
Han Jae Won said it directly. No greeting. No preamble.
"You knew about it. Everyone in the room could see you knew. But you didn't go for it."
Ji Hun Min looked at him.
"Yes."
"Why?"
A brief silence.
"Because I was going to win without it."
Han Jae Won looked at him for a long time — in the way of someone measuring something that can't be measured in numbers.
"And if you hadn't been sure of winning?"
"I would have won without it anyway."
The answer wasn't arrogance. It was something quieter — the certainty of a man who knows the difference between what he's capable of and what he chooses.
Han Jae Won looked at him for another second.
Then took out his phone. Sent something.
Ji Hun Min's phone vibrated in his pocket.
"Open it."
Ji Hun Min took out his phone. A bank notification.
An amount he had never seen in his account before.
He raised his eyes to Han Jae Won.
"This is more than—"
"I know." Han Jae Won cut him off simply. "It's what you're worth."
He turned and walked.
In the street — Ji Hun Min stood for a minute.
The phone in his hand. The number on the screen.
He closed the phone.
And walked.
That night he didn't open the phone again.
The next day — he stood in front of the shop.
He had been twelve years old. Every day coming back from school he passed a motorcycle shop on the side street. He'd stop for a second. Look at the glass display. Then keep walking.
He used to tell himself: when I'm older.
When he turned eighteen — he got his licence. And rode a motorcycle for the first time. But it wasn't his motorcycle. It was Do Hyun Kang's.
He had never ridden his own motorcycle.
Until today.
He went inside.
The motorcycle he chose wasn't the most expensive. And wasn't the cheapest.
It was the one he looked at and didn't think about the price.
Dark grey. Light. Built for riding, not for display.
He paid. He left.
He stood in the street.
The motorcycle beside him. The handlebar cold. The tyres on the asphalt.
He remembered the old side street. The glass display. Himself at twelve, stopping for a second then continuing.
Every day.
When I'm older.
He looked at the handlebar in his hand.
He was older.
He rode.
The air cold. The tyres on the asphalt. Seoul in the early morning — empty enough to be a road rather than an obstacle.
He didn't think about anything.
He just rode.
And when he reached the bridge — he stopped.
He looked at the water below. The Han River in the morning — grey like the sky above it.
In his head one question he had never asked himself before:
When was the last time I wanted something for myself?
He found no answer.
He turned the motorcycle around.
And rode back.