Jun stood at the edge of the crowd, the noise swelling like steam from a boiling kettle. People were laughing, cheering, nudging each other with knowing looks.
But he couldn't hear any of it.
His eyes were fixed on the stage, where the final placements were being read.
"Third place—Jun."
Just Jun. No last name. No shop behind him. No mentor beside him. Just the name he signed in faded black ink when he walked in late and alone.
He stepped forward.
The applause was polite. Respectful. Not wild.
That was fine.
He didn't come for noise.
The judge shook his hand briefly, said something he didn't catch. A small certificate was passed to him. Thick paper. Embossed. Real.
Jun bowed. Stepped back.
Someone in the crowd whispered, "Wasn't he the street guy?"
Someone else replied, "Guess he's not just that anymore."
He didn't know who said it. Didn't care.
After the announcement, Jun didn't stay for pictures. He left the hall quietly, the certificate tucked under his arm like it might dissolve if he held it wrong.
Outside, the air was colder. Sharper.
He breathed in slow.
He didn't know who took first.
Didn't ask.
Didn't need to.
It wasn't about proving anyone wrong. It was about proving the cup right.
Third was enough.
It meant he belonged.