Mark trudged down the dimly lit street, his eyes fixed on the cracked pavement ahead, his expression a mixture of frustration and simmering anger. He clenched his fists, feeling the gnawing ache of defeat that had settled in his chest. A frustrated mutter escaped his lips as he walked, the words barely audible but carrying the weight of years of relentless dedication.
"Fuck," he muttered, voice tight with emotion. "I worked hard ever since I was a kid so I could join the regional tournament..." His voice cracked as he crouched down, his hands instinctively gripping his hair, pulling at it in frustration. "But that motherfucker of a nepo baby stole it!"
People passing by gave him strange looks, some whispering, some pointing, but Mark barely noticed. The sting of betrayal cut deeper than anything they could say. He didn't care. He couldn't care. Not anymore.
His life had been a constant push, a relentless effort to prove himself. He'd been training in taekwondo since he was five, called a "genius" by his instructors and peers alike. Finally, after 16 years of sweat, blood, and sacrifice, he had been recommended to compete in the regional tournament. He had worked tirelessly, even at the cost of his education, pouring every ounce of his being into training. It felt like the culmination of everything he had worked for. But then… the head of the Dojang had ripped it all away.
He clenched his fists harder, his nails digging into his palms. The head of the Dojang had dismissed him without a second thought, replacing him with his useless nephew—the one who couldn't even throw a proper punch. Mark's instructors had tried to stop it. They had pleaded, even begged. But the head was resolute in his decision, dismissing them as well. The injustice burned inside Mark, even though he had tried to keep it together. He smiled and nodded when the instructors comforted him, telling him there would always be next time, but inside… inside, he was seething.
Just a few meters away from the Dojang now, Mark let out a deep breath, his shoulders sagging as he stopped pulling at his hair. He stood up straight, wiped the tears from his face, and stared at the street ahead. There was no use dwelling on it. The world wasn't going to stop for his anger. "I'll just work hard again," he muttered under his breath. "But I swear, I'll beat the living shit out of that nepo baby."
He checked the time on his phone. It was late—later than he realized. Not that it mattered much. There was no one waiting for him at home. No parents. No siblings. No girlfriend. Just him. It had always been just him. Still, for some reason, today he wanted to go home early. Maybe it was because of the news earlier. He wasn't sure, but he felt this odd urge to escape the overwhelming bitterness that had been consuming him all day.
He walked towards the crosswalk, waiting for the light to change. The bustling street was filled with people, most of them heading home, wrapped up in their own lives. Mark stared blankly at the red light, his mind drifting to how he'd manage his finances this month. It wasn't easy living paycheck to paycheck, but he'd learned to make it work. That's when he noticed her—a little girl crossing the street by herself.
At first, Mark didn't think much of it. He was lost in his own thoughts. But then, as the crosswalk light remained red, he heard the screech of a truck's horn. His eyes snapped up. The girl was still crossing, unaware of the danger speeding toward her. The truck was barreling down the street, and the driver was laying on the horn, trying to warn her. The girl didn't seem to hear.
"Hey!" Mark shouted, his voice rising above the noise. "Get back! The light's red!" But the girl was frozen in place, and the truck was getting closer, its horn blaring.
In a split second, Mark's instincts kicked in. He dashed forward, grabbing the girl by the arm and yanking her out of harm's way. They stumbled to the side of the road, just as the truck roared past them. Mark's heart was pounding, his breath short as he checked the girl over.
"You alright?" he asked, his voice soft but urgent. The girl was crying, her little face scrunched up in fear as she trembled in his arms.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry!" she sobbed, her words muffled against his chest. Mark gently patted her back, trying to calm her down.
"It's okay, you're alright now. You're safe," he reassured her, his voice steady, though his heart was still racing. Just as he was about to ask if she was okay, he heard another truck coming. He didn't even have time to think before he was already on his feet, lifting the girl into his arms and sprinting toward safety.
The truck swerved, crashing into a nearby shop, the sound of metal crunching and glass shattering filling the air. The people around them scattered, yelling, but Mark kept his focus on the girl, shielding her from the chaos.
He moved quickly, crouching down to cover her ears with his hands, pressing her small body close to his chest as the truck's impact sent vibrations through the ground. His mind raced. What kind of person drives straight into civilians? Who could be so reckless?
Mark let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding, finally setting the girl down once they were safely out of the immediate danger zone. She rushed back into his arms, burying her face into his chest once more.
"It's alright," Mark whispered, gently patting her head. "You're safe now."
After a few minutes, the girl's sobs began to subside, and Mark decided it was time to find out more about her. He crouched down to her level, his expression softening.
"Where are your parents? Do you have anyone who can pick you up?" he asked, his voice calm but laced with concern.
The girl sniffled, wiping her nose with the back of her hand. "My mom was supposed to pick me up," she said, her voice small and trembling. "But she couldn't, and she told me to go home by myself."
Mark frowned, his heart sinking. A child this young, left to wander the streets alone, was dangerous enough. The situation they had just experienced was proof of that. He didn't want to let her go off alone, especially after everything that had just happened.
"Are you okay?" he asked, though he wasn't talking about her physical state anymore. The trauma of what they had just gone through was still fresh in the air. "Emotionally, I mean."
The girl shook her head, her eyes wide and filled with tears. "I'm scared," she whispered.
Mark sighed, gently patting her head once more. "It's okay, you're safe now." He paused, thinking for a moment before asking, "What's your mom's phone number? I'll try to call her for you."
The girl shook her head again. "She's too busy. She probably won't answer the phone."
Mark found himself at a crossroads. He didn't know what to do. But then, the girl's eyes met his with an earnestness that made his heart ache.
"Mister, can you take me home?" she asked, her voice hopeful but laced with the vulnerability of someone who had nowhere else to turn.
For a moment, Mark hesitated. He didn't want to. He didn't know this child. It was dangerous. But the way she looked at him, with those wide, trusting eyes... he couldn't bring himself to say no.
He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "Can you guide me?" he asked. She nodded eagerly, and with that, he reluctantly agreed to help.
"Okay," he said, lifting her up into his arms. "I'll take you home."
They walked through the streets together, the hum of the city fading into the background as they made their way to the girl's house. As they crossed a few more blocks, Mark noticed the police had arrived on the scene of the crash, and the sound of their sirens filled the air.
After what felt like an eternity, they reached the girl's house. It was a modest building, nestled between two larger buildings. Mark gently let her down, standing for a moment as she looked up at him with a small smile.
"Take care," he said, his voice warm but still carrying a hint of unease.
The girl threw her arms around his legs in a tight hug. "Thank you, Mister," she said, her voice muffled against his pants.
Mark's heart softened at the gesture, and he smiled down at her. "You're welcome. Take care of yourself."
She pulled away, giving him a small wave. "Goodbye, Mister!"
"Goodbye," he replied, watching as she went inside. He stood there for a moment, a feeling of ominous unease settling over him. He couldn't shake the thought that this wasn't the end of their story. But for now, he turned and began his walk back, the weight of the day still heavy on his shoulders.
"I wish you luck, Mo–Mark."