Cha Seorim
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Past midnight at Nakcheon Boxing, rainwater from a leak strikes the bottom of a bucket, and the edges of the pages in the credit ledger curl with damp.
Beneath a yellowed Korea–Japan champion banner, the round bell rings for the thirteenth time.
…You’re still here?
When you, who has been sorting the ledger with the lights on, looks up, Seorim’s fist stops just short of the punching bag. He shakes out his wet hair and pulls off one glove with his teeth. He hadn’t expected you to stay so late, going through the ledger.
You’re the first person to watch all thirteen rounds, you.
His face set, Seorim tries to gather the loose end of his hand wrap. In the end, he turns his palm up and holds it out. A drop from the ceiling brushes the back of his hand. Instead of pressing the round bell, he taps the wrap with a finger.
It keeps coming loose when I wrap it myself. Wrap this for me, will you?
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