No Glove Touch Between Us

We're not at the glove-touching stage, right? Saturday rolled around, and in the living room, I messed around with Beom-jun doing jiu-jitsu. If you could call it messing around—it was more like toying with him in Dad's style. Every time I caught him in a hold, the kid let out a scream, and I finally got why Dad used to torment me like that. He was thrashing around desperately, trying to escape perfectly, which was kinda admirable. I chuckled, and that's when Harin came over.

"Oppa. Let's eat chicken."

"Chicken? Order fried. I've got a match."

"Plain, no sauce?"

"You think?"

Even Beom-jun, who'd been getting ragdolled by me, piped up that he wanted some too.

"Noona! Me too!"

"Escape first. You learning jiu-jitsu from Dad or what?"

"Hyung won't let me get caught!"

"If I let you get caught, it ain't real."

I tightened the triangle choke a bit more, and he screamed.

"You're way too weak. How you gonna play soccer with no power?"

Still, like Mom, his lower body strength was no joke. They say men are all about the legs, but with an upper body this feeble, it was a shame. Sweat pouring, he struggled to break free. I faked a pounding strike for fun, and he screamed again. My fist—bigger than his face—coming at him must've scared the shit out of him.

Hayun had gone out with Mom. Lately, everyone was talking about her. She'd ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠taken a real interest in dance, so Mom enrolled her in a pro academy. And get this—they scouted her there. Apparently, she might trainee at JSM, one of Korea's big agencies. But a first-grader doing trainee life? Felt off. Mom said it was just an audition, but she seemed dead serious underneath.

"You're heading to soccer later, right?"

"Yeah! Lunch then futsal."

The kid was only ten. Felt wrong sending him alone, but our parents were always harsh on the boys.

"Want me to come?"

"Just a quick play."

The futsal court was right by the park next to our house—two minutes on foot.

"If the neighborhood kids mess with you, don't fight. Call hyung."

"Duh!"

Beom-jun, who'd just been my punching bag, looked up at me with sparkling eyes. Couldn't help but smile. My little bro, but damn, the kid was too ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠handsome for a boy. That boyish charm... Word was he already had a fan club at elementary school. No telling how many girls he'd break when he grew up.

Harin ordered chicken with tteokbokki. I stuck to breast meat while watching the little ones chow down.

"Need allowance, say the word."

"Don't need it~"

Harin got massive pocket money from our parents. They raised sons poor and daughters rich. Maybe that's why she loved shopping but had zero material greed. A little aegyo at Dad got her whatever she wanted.

"After Beom-jun's soccer, wanna hit the department store for clothes?"

"Sounds good!?"

Her eyes lit up—solid proposal.

Beom-jun headed out for soccer, and I loaded Harin into the car for the department store. She'd always hated how I dressed in full luxury sets. I sucked at styling anyway, so she dove in, picking my outfits carefully.

"Holy shit...! It's Common."

"Hello~"

"Whoa... your girlfriend?"

"Little sister."

"Ah, sorry."

No big deal. We weren't the type to hate being mistaken for a couple. Harin just had a slight complex about her mature looks, so she might mind a tad.

I signed an autograph, posed for a pic, and sent it off. Harin came over with clothes in hand.

"Oppa, try this."

She held stuff up to my frame, picking intently. Purchases piled up fast. I'd suggested shopping, but three hours in, regret hit hard. Accessories too—she was swiping my no-limit card like candy. Harin usually planned buys ahead, not some shopping addict. But me as the target? And first time asking her to style? She was hyped. Still buzzing, I just hoped we'd wrap before dinner.

Mornings training, afternoons playing with the kids—that routine looped. Tahar and Snyder were fully settled in Korea now. Gobbling down heavy pork soup for breakfast. Even Young-hoon craved Korean food they hadn't sought in the States.

Mid-training focus, Brown scheduled the title fight as a super fight via Uncle Jake. Prep started a month out. Schedule kicked off with pressers in Korea, then Dmitry's hometown New York.

Time flew, and Dmitry arrived in Korea. I suited up, lollipop in mouth, and strode to the presser entrance. Korean event, but half the crowd was foreign. Champion belt over my shoulder, I entered amid the buzz.

Dmitry and I weren't exactly blood enemies—at least from my side. His view might differ. Across from me, Dmitry ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠looked like he hadn't shaved since the fight. Bald head, but that beard was wild. His eyes burned with fight fire as he stared me down. I set my belt on the table and sat casually.

Brown confirmed I was seated and spoke up slow.

"This isn't just a title fight. It's a war that'll flip light heavyweight upside down. Thrilled to kick it off in Korea. This bout will make WFC history."

"Waaaaah!"

"Both fighters are ready. No backing out now. The world watches this light heavyweight war. It starts here."

Reporters shot hands up the second Brown finished. I pulled out my lollipop, wrapped it in tissue, pocketed it. Eyed a Korean reporter—he fired fast.

"Many still call Dmitry the true champ. You agree?"

Bullshit question right out the gate. Home crowd should back the local guy, but a Korean reporter simping for Dmitry? Presser should've been a stare-down battlefield... WFC culture must not have sunk in yet. Felt like my own herald calling me trash in enemy territory. Time to set him straight.

"Who says?"

"U.S. media if you check..."

"Don't pull American crap on a naturalized guy. I lurk U.S. forums plenty—confident."

"....."

"So... you think the true champ is Dmitry?"

He didn't push back—I'd have wrecked him. Silence.

"And you ask if I agree?"

Room hushed. I grinned, baring teeth at the reporter.

"Fuck off~"

Hands shot ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠up instant. The Korean reporter scowled. WFC was a sport, sure, but did this guy think it was the Olympics...?

"That's your answer?"

"What, you think God's handing 'em out?"

"Hahaha!"

"Answer from a guy gunning for world's strongest—soon double champ. Satisfied?"

"Waaaaah!"

I used to like chill vibes, but post-regression? Changed. Dropped f-bombs on a reporter, crowd roared my arrogance.

"Shoulda started in New York to read the room? Patriotism tanking live."

"....."

"If you're gonna lob dumbass questions scraping your own fighter against a foreigner, just GTFO."

Talking shit felt natural now. Knew it made enemies, but meek got zero eyes. More doubters wishing my fall? Proved 'em wrong shone brighter.

Brown was tense, but the Korean presser stayed surprisingly tame. I didn't poke Dmitry. He hyped his changes, all-in on this fight. I dismissed it as bullshit, oozing confidence. We both flexed hard, snapped face-off pics.

Three days later, private jet to New York presser. Brown called.

Brown lost words at my instant reply. Boss wants it? Done. Business. My brain parsed: rile Dmitry. But he'd never expect me to. Why paint me villain? Dmitry already ate my shit-talk and a loss—homicidal rage levels. Him not starting trash? Me kicking it off felt inhumane. Challenger baits champ? Odd. Baseless? Tanked my image. But PPV...