The Strong Stay Strong
I'd been telling them all along—the strong one is the strong one.
While riding the amusement park rides just with Harin, she filmed me front and center. True to her versatile nature, she captured some killer footage. I posted the videos she'd shot to SNS.
"Oppa, you just gonna stare at your phone?"
"I'm working~"
"You can post later."
"Got it. So, what next?"
"The lazy river."
I'd always been a water guy. Maybe that's why Dad joined the Navy. Or maybe Mom's love for swimming rubbed off—we siblings just gravitated to it. I took Harin's hand and headed for the lazy river.
Harin had inherited Dad's proportions, drawing stares everywhere. Even in her life jacket, the attention grated. Did they realize she was just a second-year middle schooler? Having Dad tag along seemed smarter than me solo-covering. Conveniently, Mom and Dad were entertaining Beom-jun and Hayun.
"Wanna bring the little ones and go with Mom and Dad?"
"Hmm..."
She looked worried I'd get stolen by Beom-jun or Hayun. With her okay, the whole family piled into the lazy river. I pushed the kids along while swimming. As we played hard, a guy suddenly stood up, spotting me.
"Hyung! You're Common, right!? Huge fan!"
"You know it! Common in the flesh."
"Uh...?"
He backed away in fright as I approached, freezing mid-step.
"Want me to snap a pic for you?"
"...? Yeah! Could you fist-bump me?"
I extended my fist; he pressed his against it in awe.
"Holy shit... your fist is insanely huge."
I'd never thought of myself as an attention whore, but people not recognizing me had thrown me off. Meeting a real fan felt good. After the photo, pouty Harin splashed water in my face with her feet. In front of me, she acted her middle-school age—spoiled and cute, like full-blown puberty with extra aegyo.
I apologized and pushed her tube. Later, Hayun, who loved warm water, hunkered down in the spa with Mom. Dad joined us, roaming around. He favored Beom-jun over clingy Harin, which bummed her out—but I made up for it. We rode rides till it was time for dinner out, then headed home.
The kids crashed early, wiped out. Dad and I cracked beers and flipped on the TV—his Dmitry fight replay.
I'd thought it was a mismatch, but punches grazed his face or slipped over his guard. Looked like slips from my view, though details were fuzzy.
"Head's always moving. Shifting his base?"
"Yeah. Changing patterns."
Facing video-me would've been no joke. He trusted his skills, dipping his head into range occasionally. Counter if attacked—and his base kept shifting. Grappling seemed my only shot.
"That thug. Eye poke—see that?"
"First time getting poked blind. Total blackout."
"Really?"
"Obvious the poked eye goes dark, but tears from the other blur everything foggy."
Dad marveled at the standing rear-naked choke.
"Damn... you really reversed that?"
"Couldn't see shit after the poke."
He mimicked my moves, studying intently. Camera missed it, but he guessed the kimura arm-reversal.
Munching chicken with Dad, Mom joined—chugging a beer, unusual for her.
"My boy's still got a good heart."
"Hilarious. Crippling people?"
"...Look—he's in full mount, glancing at the ref like 'stop me?'"
"Nah. Like when he got tattooed—asking permission?"
I averted my eyes at her take.
"Ha? Hits 'cause it feels right. That's not my son."
"....."
I drained my beer, stood, and bowed.
"Goodnight."
Best to bail fast.
SNS roasted me for no sportsmanship, said I got "summing'd." Some praised my grappling—two moves, but seamless speed was unreal.
Checking reactions with Young-hoon, we hit Dad's gym. He drilled defense for two hours with the students. I rolled jiu-jitsu with Dad.
Lunchtime, we visited Young-hoon's mom—long time no see. She greeted me warmly.
"Hello~"
"Come in!"
Smiling, healthier than before. She'd insisted we eat here: pork stir-fry and LA galbi piled high. One bite confirmed her killer cooking.
"Delicious!"
"Seriously? You could open a restaurant."
"Hohoho."
Her vibe was totally transformed—probably her true self. Young-hoon smiled, eating with me. Mid-chat, his phone rang. Serious face, glancing at me.
Hung up, eyed me.
"They asked if I can step in as a fighter...?"
He'd shifted to welterweight, holding at 90kg—bulking life-muscle. Cutting up is tougher. For a fight, drop 13kg from there.
"When?"
"21 days out..."
"You in?"
"Opponent's Camilo, welterweight #5..."
Young-hoon had one pro fight. Facing #5? Absurd. Team Monster hype, maybe—my protégé, 20-year-old WFC LHW champ's guy, draws eyes. But 20 days for 13kg? Risky—could wreck him.
"Exact weight now?"
"87-88kg?"
"Manageable. Opponent's base?"
"Kickboxing."
"Then doable?"
Striker changes everything. Young-hoon's striking holds in WFC. Grappler? Instant no.
"Visa time left?"
"Yes."
"Commit, stop eating and head out? Taxi to Incheon—I'll book the flight."
He nodded seriously. Wanted to go, but promised Harin all-day 'Don't Starve' tomorrow. Sibling pact first.
Watched him pack with Mom. Private jet? Small Uncle had it in Italy. Called Uncle Jake for first-class.
Young-hoon spoke solid English now—no worries solo. He headed out first. I ate slow, finished late, bowed to Mom.
"Thanks for the meal. Heading out."
"Thanks for looking after our Young-hoon."
"Of course. He's my guy."
Her warm smile; I bowed politely and left. Drove to the office Uncle Jake snagged—Ja-yang-dong, four-story building with tiny "Korea Monster Protection" sign. His HQ, sorta. Spacious, but no staff—funny.
"Bought the whole building?"
"Yup."
"For what?"
"Cheap deal. All your money anyway. Flip it later."
Brazen, since it was my cash.
"Why'd you call?"
"Housewarming? AMP's official now. Meet 'em in the States."
"Cool."
"Yeah. Your mic work? Could get shot anytime."
No argument. Broadcasting was wild then.
Sat, reviewed hires: ex-vets, all security pros, ties to Big/Small Uncles. Salaries steep, but peanuts vs. my stocks. Skimping on life protection? Nah.
En route home, collabs piled up. Brown asked my pick—I said prove time, anyone. Light Heavyweight #3: Marius Volkov. Longtime suitor.
My nicknaming game's legendary now. Marius Volkov, true Rat Nuts.
Reply flew in fast.
I fired back at Marius.
Our light trash-talk rolled on.