Starting to Care, Spring

About ten minutes after ordering food, Jin Gyeo-wool finally gave in to Gong Je-hyeon's suggestion and opened the Instagram app.

She logged into an account that was already signed in — and froze.

The moment she entered, a photo of herself with Lee Bom filled the screen.

Startled, Gyeo-wool scrolled quickly downward, taking in photo after photo with her own eyes.

The two of them had truly gone everywhere together. Every so often, a candid shot of Lee Do-jin's profile would appear as well.

"We really did travel all over, huh."

Yeah. We did.

Gyeo-wool tried hard to hide the hollow ache rising in her chest.

It still feels like she should be alive and well…

Even now, she couldn't quite believe Bom was dead.

Why did that day at the convenience store keep coming back — the two of them talking about Recon together?

That was how deep a mark Lee Bom had left on Gyeo-wool's mind before she left. An indelible scar.

If she kept looking, she wouldn't be able to focus on the matches. So Gyeo-wool checked only the notification count floating in the upper right corner, intending to close the app.

"Wait, what's this?"

"That's DMs. Private messages."

Following Gong Je-hyeon's explanation, she tapped in — and immediately scowled.

The name of the last person she wanted to see sat right there.

Even the circular profile picture hanging beside the name was unmistakably Jang Jae-hong. Gyeo-wool grimaced like she'd seen something filthy and slammed the app shut.

How the hell did that bastard even find my Instagram?

It felt like something annoying had latched onto her.

Then again, even back when she was Bae Do-hyun, there hadn't been a single good memory involving him. What ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠else was new?

Gyeo-wool picked up her fork and spoon and irritably twirled her pasta into a tight coil.

Maybe it was the annoyance, but she suddenly craved food. That never used to happen. Maybe it was because she'd become a girl.

When Gyeo-wool returned to the lodging and relayed what Coach Bae Jeong-ung had told her, the Korean national team erupted into a festival atmosphere.

"Holy shit. Hyeonseong? And they're putting us straight onto the starting roster?"

"No way…. Coach Bae Jeong-ung came in person to say that? For real? The Gender Jungle God-gi?"

"The God of the Jungle watched us play!"

To convince the three still-disbelieving players, Gyeo-wool even showed them Coach Bae Jeong-ung's KakaoTalk contact.

"We're debuting, fuck yeah!"

"Wooooah!"

"Hell yeah!"

They high-fived, threw their arms around each other, and bounced around like madmen. Even the usually composed Yu Min-jae was jumping for joy — that's how good the news must have felt.

"Hey, hey. Don't get too excited. We haven't even signed contracts yet."

"Yeah, but still. The fact that Hyeonseong even said that is huge, right?"

"For real. If this rumor spreads, other teams are gonna start looking our way too."

"Should we leak a little something to the Recon Gallery? Bump up our market value a bit?"

Choi Do-yun was acting uncharacteristically wild, and Gyeo-wool's sharp rebuke cut through immediately.

"This is still a secret, so you absolutely cannot tell anyone. Even if you talk about it, wait until after the contracts are done."

If it had been anyone else, he might not have listened — but this was Jin Gyeo-wool talking.

Like the hat-maker who'd seen the king's donkey ears, Choi Do-yun smacked his lips with a disappointed look and kept quiet.

Strangely, the one who should have been happiest of all — Gong Je-hyeon — was hanging back behind Gyeo-wool, playing the quiet one.

Ha Jeong-uk asked, puzzled.

"Why are you so well-behaved today?"

"…Me?"

"Yeah."

Only then did Gong Je-hyeon realize that the thing weighing on him had kept him from joining the celebration. He laughed awkwardly and belatedly started shouting.

"Whoa, that's insane! Hell yeah — all thanks to our legion commander, noona!"

Of course, watching this, Gyeo-wool could only feel bewildered.

Gong Je-hyeon, who always wore that easy smiling mask so well, looking this unsettled?

Someone suddenly came to mind.

In the past day or two, the only person he'd met outside the team was one man.

Jang Jae-hong…?

Maybe even that moment when he'd been standing blankly in the lobby had been right after running into Jae-hong.

She had no idea what reason Jae-hong would have for seeking Gong Je-hyeon out — but if he had, there was definitely a reason.

The most suspicious angle was still Je-hyeon's family situation.

Had Jae-hong threatened him somehow, or run his mouth? Gyeo-wool suddenly felt uneasy.

So just before everyone fell asleep, she stepped out to the elevator bank on their floor and made a call.

"Ga-eul. I need a favor."

It felt a little grimy, like she was running a background check — but what choice did she have? The odds of Je-hyeon volunteering the information himself were slim.

"It's about Je-hyeon. Can you look into his family situation for me?"

"Yeah. Seems like his family might be deep in debt. I've tried asking, but he won't say a word."

Cha Ga-eul answered in a slightly dazed tone.

Can't help it. He's a teammate.

Someone she wanted to keep going with — a friend with real talent, in his own way.

If his family circumstances started interfering with his career as a player, helping him out just seemed like the right thing to do.

Of course, if it really was two hundred and fifty million won, that would be a different conversation. Even with Gyeo-wool's wealthy family, that was a sum hard to casually promise.

And it wasn't even her money to begin with. It was her mother Min Cheong-ha's.

"Anyway, please. I'm in Taiwan right now so I can't dig into it myself, and it's kind of urgent."

A sigh came through the receiver.

"Thanks. When I get back, I'll buy you something good. Or is there anything you want?"

Between friends who got by without much, there was no need for that kind of thing, Ga-eul said. She told her it was fine and to get some sleep.

In a capitalist society, nothing mattered more than money — but still. How many times had she already tried to solve problems with cash?

She'd told herself that since she'd been poor before, she might as well enjoy it freely now. But at this point, she was starting to feel a little ashamed.

I should've toned down the money-flexing a bit…

If she had, maybe Je-hyeon would have talked about his family situation first instead of money.

Leaving that regret behind, Gyeo-wool trudged back toward the lodging.

Before anyone knew it, the tournament was in its final stretch.

As if to prove that calling ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the first Group B match a preview of the finals hadn't been empty talk — the finals opponent was Macau, who had won every single tournament-stage match 2–0 on their way up.

But even that Macau team had been thoroughly crushed by Korea in the group stage. The skill gap was clear.

With only the best-of-five finals standing between them and an undefeated championship, the Korean national team waiting beside the stage was overflowing with composure.

They'd already faced this opponent once and demonstrated an overwhelming difference in skill. On top of that, they'd heard through Gyeo-wool that Hyeonseong wanted to sign all five players.

The Korean team's morale was through the roof.

"Everyone — this is a broadcast match. Nobody's getting nervous, right? We go on stage in five minutes."

Chae Hojin made one last check of his players' condition.

Even with the air conditioning running low, the arena was quite cold. He went around touching each player's hands to make sure no one was freezing up. Naturally, Gyeo-wool was no exception.

Fortunately, everyone had brought hooded jackets, so no one seemed to be suffering from the chill.

"Damn it. Our only broadcast match and I get a pimple. It's because we're overseas. Eating food I'm not used to."

"Pimple or no pimple, you look the same either way."

"Noona! Come on!"

Thankfully, Gong Je-hyeon — who'd looked so unsettled two days ago — seemed to have returned to normal after yesterday's tournament matches.

Cha Ga-eul's report still hadn't come in, so Gyeo-wool let out a quiet sigh of relief.

The only one still looking unstable was Ha Jeong-uk.

It had been the same at the Presidential Cup — he struggled uniquely with finals stages.

"Gyeo-wool, keep an eye on Jeong-uk for me."

"Yes. Same as the Presidential Cup finals."

"Sorry, Gyeo-wool. I don't know why I get like this every time it's a final…."

Because of the Gong Je-hyeon situation two days prior, Gyeo-wool's attention toward her teammates had risen considerably.

Before, she'd only cared about their in-game performance. Now, without quite meaning to, she'd started acting like the team's big sister.

She thought of herself as their older brother — but with Jin Gyeo-wool's appearance, it couldn't be helped.

"Calm down. Let's breathe."

"Hoo…."

Maybe Jeong-uk had some kind of trauma connected to finals. Maybe that was why he shook like this.

The thought flickered through Gyeo-wool's mind unbidden.

"Uh…. I'm okay now."

"Good."

It was a curious thing. Chae Hojin — who'd been more of a nervous wreck than the players themselves at the Presidential Cup finals — vaguely recalled that moment.

Back then, too, the second Gyeo-wool's hand touched him, he settled down. Strange.

But an ordinary person couldn't possibly have some magical power like that, could they? This was Earth. Superheroes like the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠ones in AvengXrs didn't exist.

She probably didn't have any special power — but so what?

When people face situations they can't understand, sometimes they want to lean on a little superstition.

Chae Hojin stood before his now-composed players and began a short speech.

"Anyway — this is a broadcast match, so people back in Korea will be watching."

How this match was evaluated would shape the next several years of these national team players' careers.

"Make the Korean and international scouts, and every Recon fan out there, want to bring you onto their teams. Give it everything you've got!"

Calling it a trial would be generous — this match would be a cakewalk. But didn't they say a lion gives its all even when hunting a single rabbit?

The question wasn't whether they'd win. It was how thoroughly they'd crush them.

When Coach Chae Hojin's speech ended, the players' eyes naturally turned to their spiritual pillar — Jin Gyeo-wool.

Say something, their looks said.

Gyeo-wool, her face faintly flushed, swept her gaze across the players and slowly opened her mouth.

Maybe it was the knowledge that this might be their last match as amateurs that had her so elevated — but today, her voice carried a vivid, brilliant color.

"First of all — thank you for gathering under my lead. And for coming this far with me. Coach Chae, you joined us midway, but you blended into our team's color so naturally. Truly, thank you."

As Gyeo-wool paused briefly, the players and Coach Chae Hojin smiled at her.

Go on. Yell it. Say fighting.

"Honestly, it only just started feeling like a dream. I spent the whole year running like a maniac, so I didn't notice — but before I knew it, going pro is becoming real.

Anyway. I didn't do this alone. We all built ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠this together.

So — fighting! Let's push through to the end! We win, we eat a good dinner, and we go have some fun!"

Gyeo-wool stretched her hand into the circle of players, and the others' hands piled on top like a hamburger stack.

"Nothing to be sorry for! Kill 'em all. Those bastards!"

"Gong Je-hyeon. No swearing in-game."

"Our solo kill bet isn't over yet."

"I haven't forgotten. Anyway — fighting!"

"Fighting!!"

And so, on the final day of the IeSF Amateur World Championship — a finals match that might well be the last of their amateur careers — the Korean national team took the stage.