Standing at the Peak
I had reached the summit. And far too late in life.
Braaaaaap!!! The blinding flash of headlights. My entire world turned white, and my past unspooled before my eyes.
My father was a jiu-jitsu dojo master, my mother the president of the taekwondo association. Growing up with parents like that, I'd been athletic since childhood. But even so, I'd never thrown a punch in my life. Probably because I took after my American dad—built like a tank from the start. With a frame like that, I never had reason to snap at anyone. No one ever pushed me to the breaking point.
I grew up ordinary enough until, at nineteen, I stumbled across MMA on YouTube. Fighters beating each other bloody, refusing to stop until the ref called it—a modern Colosseum. And the biggest stage of all, the WFC, hooked me hard.
I'd inherited killer athletic genes from both parents, plus a body built for this. My coach raved that I was one of a kind. Two months after starting, I stepped into my first MMA bout, brimming with confidence. Everyone around me figured my size made it a sure thing.
But the result was a nightmare. My opponent—same age as me—smashed my nose with elbows and knees, split my forehead open. Then a soccer kick shattered my cheekbone. Even with the fouls, the crowd went wild, and he taunted my mangled face like it was nothing. As they carted me off, the jeers rang out: "All brawn, no brains!"
That debut was brutal beyond words. Even my dad, who'd come to watch, had to look away. Everyone around me turned me into a punchline—a guy whose size meant nothing. I fled Korea because of it. The trauma stuck so deep, I never touched fighting again.
Helping out at my dad's PC bang growing up had made me a whiz with computers. I studied tech at a U.S. university, climbed the ranks at Jungle's Seattle HQ in IT, and raked in good money. Those fourteen ordinary years were enough to shake off the scars.
At thirty-four, settled in Seattle, I ran into a punk at the gym. Out of nowhere, he shoved gloves at me: "Box." I humored him, slipped them on—and he swung full force. Instinct kicked in; I blocked. His punch barely stung, but watching his buddies film and laugh yanked me back.
That fight I'd replayed endlessly. I could've dodged, but I pushed too hard, ate the elbow, crumpled from the pain. The Korean guy pounding me senseless in the Octagon started overlapping with this punk. For the first time in my life, pure murderous rage surged through me.
And that's why I lost it. Beat him within an inch of his life. Only in court did it hit me: my "normal" life had been boring as hell. Even that hard-won director gig meant jack.
The Octagon that broke me... a place where you could legally smash your foe. I'd die a thousand times to stand there again.
My beatdown video blew up on YouTube. Fame followed, then a sponsor. Fighting? Hell yeah, I was interested. Thinking of that Korean who'd humiliated me still made my blood boil. The violence I'd never known was screaming that the Octagon was my destiny.
I went to Mom first, then trained under her connections. Evenings, I'd hit Dad's dojo for real work. He hadn't smiled in fourteen years—until he saw me commit. I went pro again. Eight amateur wins by demolition, then at thirty-seven, I entered WFC heavyweight.
Debut loss, sure—but nine straight after that. At forty, I strapped on the WFC champ belt.
The pinnacle of humanity. The modern Colosseum proved I was alive. I'd reached my dream... but Koreans and Americans alike called heavyweight a "cruiserweight" division. They compared me to old legends. I wanted to crush their smug noses—even if they wouldn't believe I could win.
Too late or not, I had to prove it. Who was the strongest in the world right now?
I pushed for the next defense early, but my forty-plus body started quitting. Third defense? I lost.
That brief glory turned to obsession, regret gnawing at me. Even as the truck's headlights bore down, that's what filled my head.
If I'd just had one more chance...
One more shot, and I wouldn't have let the belt slip so easily.
KABOOM!!!
A jolt like my body exploded. I shot up, heart pounding like I'd fallen from a skyscraper in a dream. I clutched my chest. The truck had hit me square... but no pain?
Around me: cozy blankets, familiar ceiling.
"A dream...?"
Too clear-headed for that. I sat up slow, scanning. Desk in the corner, ancient computer. Way too real for a dream. It was my old room from childhood, before we moved.
"Whoa... Is that a Samsung computer? Haven't seen one in forever."
To get up, I swung my legs toward the edge. My wrecked legs should've made standing hell—but as I stretched down, my feet didn't hit the floor. They dangled.
Stomach dropped. I forward-rolled off.
Thud!
"What the—?"
For a second, I thought the crash had amputated my feet. I jumped up on reflex—and everything felt lower. No: the furniture had grown huge.
"...Huh?"
My ankle, which had throbbed forever, felt perfect—no stiffness. Finally, I took in the room.
This was our old house, pre-move. I shuffled to the door, caught my reflection in the full-length mirror—and froze.
The face I only remembered from photos. I hadn't recognized myself.
"Holy shit..."
I'd gone back. Clock said February 18, 2001. As a '94 baby, Korean age: eight. Fast birthday, so second grade.
Why this moment? No clue.
Out in the dining room, Mom sat munching a sandwich. Dad had fallen for her hard—knocked her up at eighteen, speed-run to marriage and me. Mid-twenties now, she looked insanely young. Like a kid herself.
Then my eyes locked on the toddler stealing the show. Just turned two, huge eyes dominating her face, staring at me all sparkly.
"Harin!?"
"Who else would it be?"
I gazed at those big, round eyes blinking slow. Little snot-nose already knew she was cute? With how sharp Harin turned out, yeah, possible.
Unlike me—pure East Asian—she screamed Western. Blonde hair, blue eyes.
"Oppa~"
"Eek!?"
Was my sister this precious? We weren't some internet-perfect siblings, but I'd always bragged about her getting into Korea's top law school. Extended family ragged on my "unmanly" Amazon gig, but Harin beamed with pride—me and Mom were the only ones there.
We were tight. And this tiny version? Adorable overload.
Unlike me, who'd ditched Korean citizenship, she was full Korean—no choice. Dad naturalized before her birth.
"Why'd you call me, oppa?"
"No reason."
She flung her arms up at me, so I scooped her light, squishy self.
So soft and tiny... I'd heard she was doll-like as a kid, but damn.
"Careful~"
"Yeah."
"Heehee."
She puckered for a kiss, drool and all—aiming to chomp. I offered my cheek. She went for the full bite on my cheekbone before pulling back, satisfied.
"Mwah! Heehee!"
Kisses then shy? Every move of hers pulled smiles outta me.
Dad emerged from the bedroom then, wrinkle-free face jarringly off. Their youthful looks—nothing like my memories—felt so warm, so welcome. Why? Still figuring that out.