Chapter Text
If it hadn’t been for Youngyi’s half-panicked call at 6 a.m., Sieun would’ve spent his Saturday morning peacefully reviewing muscle fiber classifications and rotator cuff injury protocols, drinking nth americano of the day, and just enjoying some alone time at the library.
Instead, he was sitting under the flickering light of a practice room in Incheon SSG Landers Field. For a moment, Sieun lived in Seoul. It had taken him almost two hours on the bus just to reach the stadium.
“I’m not doing this,” he repeated. Probably for the fifth time. Maybe sixth. Sieun already knew the answer. He was just venting his frustration at Youngyi, who was entirely to blame for this situation.
She didn’t even blink. “You said that already,” she muttered, barely acknowledging him as she pulled out a brush and began separating sections of the black wig. “Also, stop moving, you’re going to ruin the cap.”
“I’m not joking.”
“You never are.” She shoved a container of foundation into his lap. “You’re clinically incapable of humor.”
“I’m also clinically incapable of dancing in front of twenty thousand people dressed as—”
He tried to glare. She was already halfway through curling a fake strand near his temple. Her focus was unshakable. Sieun didn’t understand how someone could be this calm while committing emotional murder on her closest friend.
And to think… this all started because Youngyi couldn’t mind her own business. Or maybe because he couldn’t mind his .
It had started five days earlier, on campus. The moment Youngyi appeared, skipping toward him across the quad, he should’ve run. Or faked a phone call. Or thrown himself down the nearest staircase. He should have known somehow.
But he hadn’t. Because he was tired. And because it was Youngyi. The second she pulled out a banana milk from behind her back like it was a hostage negotiation, he knew she wanted something, and it wasn’t just his sparkling company.
The first time, he thought he had misheard her. Or was making things up in his head from too many lectures. The second time, when he asked again, she thought he was joking which sounded ridiculous, considering it was Yeon Sieun. He didn’t joke.
But after seeing his serious face, Youngyi realized he was, in fact, not joking.
All because of the nature of the favor. The one she swore would be “one day” . The replacement. The sick cheerleader. The emergency.
That’s why Sieun couldn’t comprehend it.
How did a sick cheerleader have any correlation with him?
It took him several minutes to fully realize the scale of the favor—which, of course, he declined. With comments like: Are you crazy? Do you have a fever? You must be drunk.
She didn’t leave his side all day. The whole day, she trailed behind him, sat through compulsory classes, went to the library with him — where in result they both got reprimand from the librarian — Youngyi basically glued herself to him. Her determined face left him no choice but to hear her out one last time.
“Just one day,” she said again, softer now. Less command, more pleading. “She really is sick, Sieun. I wouldn't ask if I had another choice. And… you do look kind of convincing. And you owe me,” she’d added at last, all wide eyes and deadly cheer.
And the worst part was: she was right. Damn her.
So this is how it ends. She brought out the heavy artillery.
She had helped him once. In the last semester, when he almost failed a lab after misplacing his practicum log. Youngyi had found it for him in a random cafe lost-and-found. How she got it was still a mystery he chose not to question.
But she did make him swear he’d repay her one day.
One day had arrived. Apparently, in drag.
“…This is going to haunt me,” he muttered.
So now, thanks to that favor, he’d spent the past week enduring makeshift rehearsals in the university gym, attempting choreography originally designed for people with actual rhythm and enthusiasm.
He had neither.
The first few days were hell. His limbs didn’t listen to him. His spine felt like a rod. He hated how he moved. Hated how Youngyi clapped like a proud mom every time he got something almost right.
Sieun was partially thankful that Baku and Gotak were away at their summer bootcamp. As Baku said: “Nothing builds strength like training somewhere new!” (or something like that—Baku always said things kind of wrong.)
As for Juntae, he had his own AnimeCon coming up soon and had agreed to help his friends from the club prep their merch. At least they wouldn’t get the pleasure of seeing Sieun like this.
But something strange happened around Thursday. He stopped actively hating it.
Not that he liked it, but… something about moving with music, about finally nailing a spin, even getting a begrudging thumbs-up from Youngyi.
It wasn’t like P.E., which always felt like obligation. A score to chase. Something to pass. This was different. The music did half the work of dragging him along. He didn’t have to keep up with a timer or pretend to care about the correct way to throw a javelin. Here, it was messy, exhausting, weird and somehow freeing.
There was no grade, no physical evaluation. Just repetition until something clicked. And when it did, the tension in his shoulders eased in a way no study break ever achieved. For a few minutes, his brain stopped replaying lectures or memorizing muscle groups. He just moved.
And then Saturday arrived like a slap.
Pretending this was just another part-time favor, and not something that had started to loosen the knots inside him, just a little.
He still felt nerves. Still felt embarrassment, dread, the full-body cringe of putting himself out there like this. But he also felt something else. Something lighter. He didn’t enjoy it.
(He did. A little.)
He wanted to make that very clear.
The room smelled like sweat, hairspray, and despair. The last one mostly came from Sieun himself. He noticed some flower diffusers on the shelf, but a few were clearly expired as he couldn’t smell any floral scent in the air. The whole space reminded him of those idol practice rooms Juntae always watched videos of. Big mirrored walls, individual lockers, and a table cluttered with makeup and random personal stuff.
Sieun sat stiffly on a bench while a girl named Sekyung – Sieun was sure that was her name – glued glitter hearts to his cheekbone.In the mirror in front of him, a stranger stared back: flushed skin, wide eyes, and a long brunette wig sliding slightly to the left. It had only been an hour since he sat down, but it felt like an eternity.
First, the foundation to even out his skin, then concealer to cover the little blemishes. Pink blush for a “youthful glow,” and lip gloss on his dry, chapped lips. The reflection was him, but also... not. Still, no amount of highlight could distract from the fact that he was — technically — crossdressing at a nationally televised baseball match.
“This is a bad dream,” he muttered. If he just closed his eyes, he’d be back home, doing his homework.
“More blush,” Sekyung said, ignoring him.
Somewhere across the room, Youngyi was organizing pom-poms like they were surgical instruments. “Sieun, breathe. You’re not going to die.”
“I might as well”
“Not before halftime.”
“Wah, Sieun-ssi, you are so pretty… I’m so jealous~” some girls said from where they were sitting, putting makeup on themselves.
To be honest, Sieun had no idea how to react to that.
Facial appearance wasn’t something he prioritised as his academic performance was much more important to him. He had heard whispers in school before.
That he looked “pretty,” “just like a girl.”
But those comments usually came from bullies, and Sieun made a habit of ignoring them.
Sometimes it worked, and they left him alone. Other times, the day ended with broken pens and bruises on the shoulders. Not on his.
To his own defence, he’d told them to stop several times. But they never listened. And eventually they all ended up in hospitals. It got bad enough that their parents had to intervene. Too many phone calls. Too many incidents. And so, before he could finish the first year, Sieun transferred schools. To Eunjang out of all possible places.
That school was abysmal. A place with no rules, no structure—just constant fights and shifting pecking orders. Even the teachers had mostly given up. It was survival of the least-stupid. But then Baku showed up. And Gotak. And the rest. They didn’t exactly bring peace, but they brought something close to stability. Sieun hadn’t planned to care, but found himself pulled in anyway. It wasn’t exactly a fresh start, just a quieter one.
Fortunately all of that violence stayed on high school grounds. Now, he was a third-year physical therapy student, with assignments far more important than fistfights.
“Sieun-ssi, it’s all done! How do you like it?”
The question felt rhetoric from Sekyung as she was already collecting her makeup tools, clearly not waiting for Sieun’s answer.
In response, he just shrugged, and started fixing his hair. The feeling of a foreign object touching the back of his neck was definitely… new.
Yeah, it’s gonna take some time to get used to it.
Even though they were now on summer vacation, and there weren’t many lectures, clearly, people didn’t understand what being a medical student was actually like. Despite the program being “easier” than full-on medicine, he still had a ridiculous amount to memorize. Sieun would’ve much rather spent this precious time revising.
“Oh, Sieun-ah, you are done? Let’s go grab a drink together and then I will show you the stage where we will perform,” Youngyi said, finally finishing up the distribution of pom-poms. “Let’s go to that underground cafe.”
Today’s pom-poms were red and white. Sieun couldn’t see the full outfit yet, but he figured it matched the color scheme. Apparently, they switched it up sometimes. Some months it was yellow. Other times, orange. There was even a time they released special green uniforms to promote some eco campaign.
The hallway was in full prep mode. It was still too early for spectators to enter, so Sieun wasn’t worried about unwanted eyes. Staff didn’t count.
There were cardboard cutouts of players set up for photo ops, photo booths in every corner, and merch stores where you could buy uniforms with your favorite player’s name and number. Cheering lightsticks were everywhere.
It was heaven for all baseball fans, not just SSG Landers supporters.
Sieun wasn’t totally unaware of baseball; he knew the basic rules. But he’d never had time to follow the league. At least he recognized the SSG Landers name. That was something.
“Since it’s your first time at SSG Stadium, let me show you the trophies,” Youngyi said, grabbing his arm and dragging him toward a display wall.
They stopped in front of a trophy case, spotlighted and sparkling.
A large plaque above read: “2022 Korea Series Champions.”
Well, the team was definitely decent, Sieun thought, rising eyebrows at the sight of the SSG pride.
“Wah, Sieun-ah, you should’ve seen the match! It was so intense! I felt like dying from happiness when I was there,” Youngyi gushed. “Really, you should’ve seen Ahn Suho’s pitch— the speed !”
She kept going on about the finals the team had won two years ago, her voice practically vibrating with excitement. Sieun wasn’t exactly listening.
But the name Ahn Suho caught his attention.
“Ahn Suho? Who is that?” Sieun asked without hesitation.
It startled Youngyi so much she stopped mid-sentence and turned her full attention to him. Sieun felt shy instantly. He hadn’t expected his mouth to work faster than his brain. He wanted to smack himself on the head right there.
“Uh? The hell? Suddenly?” she raised her voice in surprise.
“No, you were just telling me how good he was. Of course I want to know who I’m gonna cheer for today!” he answered, sighing inwardly and relieved he could justify his sudden question. He couldn’t tell her that the name felt familiar.
“Ahhh, I see. Well, you’re kinda right about that. Okay, let me tell you about the monster rookie Ahn Suho. He joined the team right after high school. Isn’t that cool? Usually, it takes a while to climb the ranks and get noticed for the draft, but he was the number one pick among all teams in his first year!” Youngyi said, raising her index finger for emphasis.
“He’s so talented, he won the Best Rookie Award in his debut year! Also, didn’t I mention the speed of his pitch? 160 kilometers per hour! That was a record! And it still stands—no one’s beaten it yet. You should definitely watch out for him when we’re cheering! Though he rarely goes out onto the field. Maybe coaches are saving him up for something else?”
The praises continued as if Youngyi were trying to marry off Ahn Suho to her friend’s daughter.
“Yeah, I guess so,” Sieun mumbled in response. He couldn’t care less about his achievements but he had to admit he was fascinated by people who excelled at what they did. And it seemed like Suho was genuinely good.
As they walked, they finally reached the stadium entrance. It felt unreal. The breeze hit his face the moment they stepped outside, the sun hiding behind clouds, and players already warming up on the field. For Sieun, who hadn’t experienced much in life, it felt grand.
The whole view of the field gave him a sense of freedom as ridiculous as that might sound.
“It looks like it’s going to rain… Ah, I hope not. We put in so much work…” Youngyi suddenly sounded discouraged, eyes lifted toward the sky.
Sieun would’ve been thrilled if it rained, that would mean he didn’t have to dance in front of thousands of screaming fans in a wig and full makeup. But he also knew how much Youngyi had been looking forward to this day, how hard she’d worked teaching him the moves all week. It would feel like a waste of effort. His and hers. Just a little.
“It’s okay, Youngyi. I’m sure it won’t rain that much. I checked the weather earlier,” Sieun said, feeling a twinge of pity and trying to lift her spirits.
“I hope so!”
They made their way through the stadium seats toward the underground cafe Youngyi had been raving about long before they even arrived. But as soon as Sieun stepped inside, he understood the hype.
Since the cafe was built below field level, it gave the full experience of being an indirect catcher. You could see the pitcher’s throws up close, through the large panel windows facing the mound. It offered a whole new perspective on the game. Even Sieun found himself pleasantly surprised.
The place wasn’t crowded. A few staff were still setting up tables and arranging utensils. After he gave Youngyi his drink and snack order, she pointed toward the window seats, signaling that his help wasn’t needed.
Huh. Since when? Usually, he was the one footing the bill whenever they went out. He’d gotten used to it, but maybe since it was Youngyi who dragged him here today, she felt some sense of responsibility. Sieun just shrugged and headed toward the seat she indicated.
The cafe was noticeably cooler than outside. Between being underground and the A/C blasting at full power, Sieun started to regret his outfit choice.
He was wearing a loose dark navy T-shirt with a cartoon bear print and baggy shorts that reached his knees. “Hip-hop style,” as Youngyi would call it. All he needed was a gold chain and an overpriced watch, and he’d be ready for a new season of Show Me the Money.
It wasn’t really his usual style, but it was comfortable. Perfect for dancing and jumping around.
Shivers raced through every nerve ending. Chills surged down his spine. His legs began to tremble, instinctively trying to preserve what little body heat he had left. Sieun wrapped his arms around himself, trying to suppress the shaking. He was losing a battle to an air conditioner. In the middle of summer.
Out of sheer boredom—and a need to distract himself from freezing to death—he started scanning the interior of the cafe. Nothing particularly special. Just plain white walls, a few cluttered shelves filled with random stuff.
Eventually, with nothing to hold his attention, Sieun let his gaze drift back toward the field. Players were still warming up, stretching, practicing throws. Then he locked eyes with someone.
Someone who was already looking at him.
Huh? What the hell…?
Sieun knew he should look away. It was rude to stare. He knew that better than most. But his body didn’t get the memo. His limbs froze (no pun intended) and refused to cooperate.
The man on the field was tall, broad-shouldered, clad in a crisp white uniform with red trim and a matching cap. There was something in the way he looked at Sieun. It was calm, unreadable. The stare wasn’t aggressive, but it still made Sieun feel like he was being studied under a microscope.
He was falling into that gaze, like it had some kind of magnetic pull until a sudden tap on his shoulder snapped him out of it.
He flinched so hard he almost dropped the tray from Youngyi’s hands. His hands flew to his knees.
“Ah—Youngyi, it’s you,” he said, eyes now locked firmly on the drinks and snacks that had magically appeared in front of him.
“Who else would it be?” she snorted, settling into the seat beside him and reaching for her straw. “Better eat now. You’ll need the energy later.”
He gave a silent nod and murmured a quick thanks, now staring at his buffalo wings like they might run off the plate.
Don’t look back at the field, he told himself. If he’s still there, I’ll die of embarrassment.
And if you asked Sieun why, exactly, he’d be embarrassed… he wouldn’t be able to answer.
Wait. No—seriously, why?
He started rationalizing. He hadn’t been the one staring first. He was just looking around. Casually. Naturally. Coincidentally. Yeah. That’s it. The guy was probably just wondering why one of the cheerleaders looked like an android that hadn’t finished booting up.
Totally reasonable. Totally normal.
Sieun listed a dozen different reasons why a professional athlete might look his way. It helped. Slightly. Especially since, when he dared to glance out again, the player was gone. Out of sight. Out of mind.
Thankfully, Sieun wasn’t part of every single dance routine. If that had been the deal, he would’ve never agreed to any of this. He and Youngyi had rehearsed three acts: the official cheering intro, a short choreographed special performance, and a shoulder-to-shoulder chant section near the end. Manageable. Barely.
But now, with full stomach, icy limbs, and the lingering memory of that stare, it felt like just enough to kill him.
The moves weren’t as difficult as Sieun had expected. Coordination wasn’t the problem. It was stamina. Constant jumping, clapping, bouncing on the balls of his feet. It drained the life out of him. But that wasn’t today’s problem. That was Future Sieun’s issue. He will deal with the sore muscles, the aching calves, and the regret tomorrow.
There was, however, one thing he and Youngyi couldn’t reach a consensus on: the smile.
Technically, Sieun was about to break the cardinal rule of cheerleading. He couldn’t smile. Not that he didn’t try. Well, he couldn’t make himself smile. And they fought over it. Multiple times. In the beginning, she was insistent—at least attempt it. But after a few ice-cold stares and enough passive resistance to power a small rebellion, she gave in.
Eventually, they reached a compromise: he didn’t have to smile, but he also couldn’t look like a haunted soul reliving tax season.
Sieun objected to that characterization—he didn’t look depressed, he looked neutral. But he quickly dropped the argument so he could go back to reading his anatomy notes in peace.
So, for this evening, Sieun had basically 2 objectives:
- Try not to look like a corpse.
- Jump and clap.
Quite easy, right? Sieun could do this. He had been through worse in high school.
Now all the girls were gathered in front of the fan section, running through last-minute logistics: stage formations, camera placements, the designated rest area between innings. Youngyi walked him through everything clearly, even pointing out the exact spot where they could sit and breathe during breaks.
Sieun had no issue remembering details, muscle memory wasn’t a problem. Just little things like “don’t splay your feet like a penguin,” or “try not to look like you’re regretting life.” Helpful notes.
As they went through the rehearsal, dark clouds started clustering ominously overhead. There was no cancellation announcement yet, but Sieun kept an eye on the sky with a mix of caution and gratitude.
On one hand, he wasn’t thrilled about the idea of slipping and dying in a puddle during a high-kick. Safety was a concern.
On the other hand… it was summer. It was hot. And Sieun hated summer. So a bit of drizzle was almost refreshing if only it didn’t make his wig feel itchier by the second.
A breeze blew past, cool and sharp against his skin. He scratched at the back of his neck, where the fake hair clung stubbornly. This was fine. Totally fine. Probably.
Sekyung and Youngyi had given him some last-minute tips on how to stay energetic, how to fix that one move where his timing was always a split-second off, and then invited him back to the locker rooms. The rehearsal had gone better than expected. Which meant: he hadn’t collapsed. Or dislocated anything. Yet.
“Since we still have a few hours before the match starts, you can look around the stadium if you want, Sieun-ah,” Youngyi said, pouting. They were back at practice room. “I have some things to take care of, so I can’t come with you.”
She looked apologetic. Like she didn’t want to leave him alone, but also knew she couldn’t keep him caged in a practice room like a borrowed cat.
“Oh, I can go with him if Sieun-ssi doesn’t mind,” said Sekyung, raising her hand casually as she passed by, having caught the tail end of the conversation.
Youngyi lit up with relief, while Sieun gave a quick nod. “No worries. I’ll call you if something happens,” he promised, making a show of holding up his phone.
The practice room was tucked deep in the staff-only area. Most of the offices were quiet—people out preparing for the game—so the hallways echoed under their steps. Industrial AC kept the air cold and dry. There was the faint scent of artificial turf and liniment in the air.
Sekyung led the way with confidence. Her ponytail bounced with every stride, and she carried a clipboard under one arm like she belonged to stadium management.
“You’re quieter than I thought you’d be,” she remarked, without looking at him.
“Still getting used to all of this,” Sieun replied.
She chuckled. “That’s how I felt my first year.”
Sieun made a silent vow: he would never, ever do this again.
They passed a narrow break room, then climbed a small flight of stairs leading to the upper deck. Through the metal railings, Sieun caught a glimpse of the stadium seats glowing gold in the afternoon light.
Without thinking, he asked, “Why do you do this?”
“What?”
“Cheerleading. The dancing. The heat. Always smiling,” explained Sieun. He wasn’t being sarcastic. He was genuinely curious. After just one day, his legs were already sore, and the event hadn’t even started. He never looked down on dancers, but now he was beginning to understand just how much effort went into it.
Sekyung slowed her pace. “I used to do everything my parents wanted. One day, I just... snapped. You wouldn’t believe it, but I was a cello player.”
Sieun blinked. He did believe it.
“But my heart was somewhere else,” she continued. “This? This is the one place I feel like myself.”
That settled in his chest like a soft, heavy weight.
He understood her. A little too well. She was like a mirror.
Doing what your parents wanted. Ignoring your own voice. Pretending you don’t want something because it’s easier than disappointing people. Sieun had lived through that. If it weren’t for his friends back at Eunjang, he probably still wouldn’t know who he really was. Just a shadow, drifting from one expectation to the next.
She glanced back. “What about you? You’re not a theater kid. No offense.”
“None taken,” he muttered.
They stopped at a corner where crates of props were stacked haphazardly beside unused lighting panels.
“What do you do?” she asked.
“I’m in university. Studying physical therapy.”
“Ah. Helping people?”
Sieun hesitated. Then replied, “It was either this, or let my mom keep dragging me toward law school. I like injuries better than diseases though. People don’t expect you to save their whole life. Just their knees.”
Sieun wasn’t intending on cracking a joke, it wasn't supposed to be one. Nevertheless, Sekyung gave a small, amused smile. “I like that.”
Before he could say more, her phone rang with a loud notification. She winced and grabbed the phone from her back pocket. It took her several seconds to read the message and frown upon realization.
“Ugh. I have to go reset the promo signs before they wheel out the mascots.” She turned, then paused. “Can you find your way back?”
“I memorized it,” Sieun said, tapping his temple.
Sekyung grinned and jogged off.
Sieun lingered for a moment. It was quiet here, like the calm before the chaos. He let himself walk further along the corridor, his shoes soft on the floor, catching glimpses of advertisement footage of players on mounted TVs, discarded snack wrappers, and an unplugged fog machine.
He ended up at a half-open utility door that led out to a quiet stretch behind the dugout — a shaded alcove where players waited their turn and watched the game unfold. Sieun stepped out carefully, staying just within the shadow of the concrete wall.
Previously, he hadn't had enough time to observe everything, so he took this chance to inspect and absorb information like a sponge. From this location, he could see the edge of the bullpen — a sunken patch of turf bordered by low fencing. A pitcher stood there now, casually stretching his arm. It was a warm-up zone, like backstage for pitchers, Sieun vaguely remembered.
There was music playing somewhere. Something loud and trendy with a pounding bass. Probably a K-pop track making its way up the charts. Sieun couldn’t name the group. Still, the beat echoed off the concrete walls, adding to the surreal haze of the stadium’s underbelly.
Somewhere deeper inside, a bat clinked against metal. A ball smacked into a glove with a dull, satisfying thud. Everyone here moved with certainty. Players. Staff. Even the tech guys coiling cords like it was second nature. Everyone here knew their purpose. Knew where to go, what to do.
As Sieun lingered near the edge of the tunnel, a flicker of movement caught his eye. Someone emerging from around the curve of the dugout. A tall figure in warm-up gear, black sleeves pushed to the elbow, cap pulled low. He moved like someone used to being watched but too tired to care. Confident, but not performative.
Sieun instinctively stepped back, half-hidden behind a concrete column. The guy wasn’t looking at him, just tossing a ball up and down with one hand, letting it drop neatly into his glove every time. An easy rhythm. Like breathing.
The music kept playing in the background, but Sieun barely heard it now. He wasn’t sure why he stayed to watch. Maybe it was just curiosity. As Sieun’s eyes went up toward his face, the realization hit.
Wait a minute. This must be a joke.
It was him. The guy from the cafe view.
Sieun’s heart stuttered. The one with the intense eyes. The one who had looked at him like he’d had icing on his lips.
Okay, well… that comparison was cringe, Sieun thought.
Ahn Suho. The marking on his back.
Yah!
This was the player Youngyi had been praising like a madwoman. She’d probably spent a good fifteen minutes raving about how he was just the best — from technique to looks. Sieun knew shit about baseball, but even he could acknowledge the grace Ahn Suho had. He still had eyes, after all.
Ahn Suho was tossing a ball in one hand, walking at a slow, almost meditative pace. Like he was alone in his own head. His jersey was half-zipped. From the cafe, Sieun hadn’t been able to see the details but now he could. Muscular thighs, strong arms, probably the result of years of intense training.
Since his specialty was physical therapy, Sieun knew one or two things about the human body, and what he saw just made his heart beat faster. He forced himself to stop analyzing. Now was not the time for his thirst for knowledge to turn outward and make him look like a pervert.
A guy in a long wig and glitter? Seriously? Staring at a baseball player from shadows?
Even then, Sieun didn’t move. Didn’t even breathe. The clouds above thickened. A soft gust of wind carried the scent of the field — dirt, rain.
Suho paused near the fence. Looked out across the field. Then casually turned his head.
They locked eyes.
Again.
Just for a second.
This time, Sieun turned away first. He didn’t want to tempt fate. So this is what people mean when they say curiosity killed the cat.
He stepped back into the tunnel’s shadow before he could think twice, heart banging against his ribs from the sudden jolt of adrenaline. He pressed his back to the wall, staring down at his sneakers like they could explain what had just happened.
Why does he keep finding me like that? Does he know?
No, he can’t. Maybe he just mistook me for someone else.
Sieun scoffed under his breath. Not likely. He was still in his oversized T-shirt, the wig on his head like a bad disguise. He didn’t look like anyone worth remembering. But even the tiniest hint of suspicion made him so nervous he started fixing his hair, brushing it from one side to the other as if extra movement could calm him down.
He peeked around the corner once more. Ahn Suho had moved on, already walking toward the far end of the field, steps slow, like he had nowhere to be just yet.
Sieun exhaled, pushing himself off the wall. He just needed a few seconds to collect himself.
The hallway twisted back toward the inner corridor, brighter now with the distant buzz of speakers being tested around the stadium. By the time he reached the changing room again, Sekyung was already back, touching up her lipstick.
Costumes were hung in garment bags along the wall. A rack of pom-poms stood like a tiny silver-red forest in the corner. The girls were already fixing their makeup as the time for spectator entry crept closer.
Sieun hesitated for a second. The only sound now was the quiet buzz of a portable fan by the mirror and the low murmur of conversation between cheerleaders.
Youngyi was finishing a call, waving him over.
"How was your tour? Ready to become an icon?" she teased.
“I feel like throwing up.” And Sieun wasn’t lying. He’d seen more in a few hours than in his entire university semester.
“That means you’re exactly ready.”
Sieun stared at the uniform folded neatly on the bench. Glitter. Stretch fabric. Doom. Red. He fucking knew it.
He stepped into a separate changing room and closed the door behind him.He tugged off his T-shirt, careful not to shift the wig too much. The cold air made his skin prickle. His uniform hung neatly on one of the hooks — white and red with glittering letters across the front. Youngyi had altered it to fit him just enough, but it still felt like someone else’s second skin.
Sieun pulled it on slowly, smoothing the skirt over his thighs, adjusting the hem so it wouldn’t ride up too much. His reflection in the mirror made him pause. It wasn’t that he looked exactly like a girl. But it was close enough to make his stomach twist.
He touched one of the stickers on his cheek just beneath his eye, and sighed.
I’m doing this for Youngyi. Just this once. Three routines, and then I am done.
He was going to walk out into a stadium full of strangers and dance. It didn’t matter if it looked messy. He’d just pretend to be someone else. Or maybe just for a moment like someone he didn’t know he could be.
He stood a little apart from the others, letting the energy wash past him. Sekyung nudged his shoulder gently, as if to say you’re doing fine , and he gave a short nod in return. One of the younger cheerleaders passed behind him and whispered — not quite under her breath — “She totally looks like Jennie with that hair.”
A few giggles followed. Sieun stiffened.
The black wig, parted neatly down the middle, framed his face more sharply than he’d realized. With the ruby-red uniform catching the light just so, and his lips tinted for stage visibility, he could almost see it himself now. The accidental resemblance. Not that he knew much about Jennie beyond the name. Another thing Juntae never shut up about. He didn’t say anything. Just adjusted the wig slightly and stared at a crack in the tile until the heat in his face faded.
He gathered his things and stepped out into the hallway again, the door clicking shut behind him. The noise from the stadium was louder now, not overwhelming, but pulsing through the walls. Music, distant announcements, and a low hum of people beginning to fill the stands.
Then the team was dismissed for final prep, and Sieun slipped toward the tunnel exit that led out just behind the stands.
The view opened wide — a sliver of the stadium now visible past the metal barricades. The sky was still heavy and gray, but the field looked bright under the floodlights, sharp with color. A trickle of spectators had already begun to fill the seats, scattered and growing. Vendors called out along the aisles. Fans waved plastic thundersticks. He didn’t fully realise the scale of the event without spectators but now he can feel the electric energy go through him with every fan chant.
It was really happening.
His fingers curled slightly at his sides.
Sieun sat stiffly at the end of the front row of cheer seats, next to Youngyi. From here, the field looked too wide, the dugout too close, the people too loud.
“The tenth match of the season between KT Wiz and SSG Landers is about to begin!”
The stadium erupted.
The cheers weren’t just background noise. They hit like a wave. Vibrating in Sieun’s chest, beneath his ribs, through the soles of his shoes. Beside him, Youngyi rose with practiced ease. Sieun followed, half a second too late, arms moving up to mirror her.
“Five seconds of applause and cheers for a Landers victory!”
A countdown thundered across the stands, and everyone clapped in rhythm. Even the cheer squad pounded their hands together with synchronized force.
Sieun did the same. Stiff at first, then easing into the pattern.
“Let’s give a round of applause to the Landers players! McKitty—fighting!”
The cheer captain’s voice was unmistakable even without seeing him. It cracked like a whip of energy over the stadium. Meanwhile, just behind them, the first three outs came. Players shifted like shadows across the infield, swapping places as the music swelled through the speakers.
The lyrics echoed across the arena:
I’ll always be by your side
I’ll always be on your side
We are Landers — HEY HEY!
We are VIC-TO-RY — HEY HEY!
Sieun clapped, spun, and did his best to match the gestures, even as sweat began to bead at his temples beneath the wig. The ruby-red uniform skirt fluttered slightly with every move. The speakers vibrated under his feet.
It had started as a light drizzle. Barely enough to notice at first. Just a whisper against the crown of his wig. But now, the air smelled of wet concrete and earth, and mist clung to every surface under the floodlights.
Still, the game continued. The infield remained dry enough to play. Groundskeepers rushed out briefly to roll tarps over the bullpen benches, but the officials didn’t call for a delay. Baseball, Sieun learned, didn’t stop for a little rain.
He hadn't expected the game to pull him in.
At first, he’d only been vaguely aware of the score. KT Wiz had taken an early lead, and their fans were roaring, pounding out victory chants from the other side of the field. The announcer’s voice rang in bursts, followed by booming choruses and banners shaking like sails in a storm.
SSG: 0 — KT Wiz: 3.
The numbers on the screen felt distant. Abstract.
Until he noticed Suho.
The pitcher hadn’t played yet. But even from the side, gloves resting on one knee, he looked focused and waiting. That stillness that felt louder than noise.
And somehow, without realizing it, Sieun found himself clapping harder during the chants. Copying Youngyi’s sharp gestures without delay. Chanting “Landers fighting!” not because he had to, but because something inside him wanted to drown out the opposing side’s noise.
He hadn’t come here to care about baseball. But now, here he was.
And then—just after the fourth-inning break—the cheer squad sprang into formation. A special mid-game performance, Youngyi had said. For TV. That’s why he had practiced the routine at least fifty times in the mirror. Maybe more. Youngyi had walked him through the steps, broken down the rhythm, even sent him fancams of cheer squad members doing it on the field.
It was none other than Jennie’s solo track, Like Jennie. Sieun had mimicked every flick of the wrist, every turn of the hip. He had it memorized down to the final head tilt.
He hadn’t expected to feel nervous. But now, standing in the front row, stage lights burning down in faint pink and white, misting rain settling on the ends of his wig like dew, his pulse was skipping.
The music dropped. That familiar intro hit — low, sexy, confident.
Sieun hesitated half a beat too long, but his arms moved on muscle memory. Step. Turn. Snap. Hips sway. Expression: cold, detached. The way Youngyi had coached him. He felt the rain begin to bead down his neck, but the heat in his body swallowed it.
He could feel the cheer squad around him, hear the crowd clapping in sync with the rhythm. The stadium had become a bubble of light and motion. Every movement echoed: the stomp of feet, the chants rolling like waves from the stands.
And he danced. Not perfectly. Not quite like Youngyi, or Sekyung, or the other girls. But with just enough edge, enough presence, to stand out. Something natural, unwilling, but precise.
Someone shouted, “Wow, she really looks like Jennie! Look!” A ripple of laughter and whistles followed. It echoed distantly in his ears.
He didn’t hear the producer whisper, “Camera two, zoom in, front row right, the one with the long black hair. Yeah, her.”
He didn’t know the side feed had shifted to his close-up. His soaked hair clinging to his temple, droplets glinting across his jawline, skin shining like he belonged on a stage.
He just danced, because stopping would mean thinking .
The performance ended in a blur of lights and breathless movement. As soon as the final beat faded, the squad retreated from the field in practiced formation, sneakers squeaking slightly on the slick walkway. Rain clung to their uniforms, but no one complained. A few high-fives were exchanged.
Sieun followed behind Youngyi, heart still hammering. He didn’t speak. His skin was hot despite the drizzle, breath uneven, and he could still feel the rhythm lingering in his limbs.
Back in the narrow cheer squad practice room, fluorescent lights flickered overhead. The mirrors reflected too much — damp uniforms, messy hair, flushed faces. His own reflection startled him. The black wig clung to his temples, strands curling slightly from the moisture. His skin shimmered under the overhead glow with it being part sweat, part rain. The ruby-red uniform skirt clung to his thighs slightly, heavy at the hem. Lip tint still in place. Lashes damp.
Youngyi flopped down beside him on the bench, already tugging off her wristbands. “Yah, that was insane,” she panted. “Is there anything you can’t do?”
He didn’t answer right away. Still too wound up. “My left turn was late,” he said quietly, eyes fixed on his reflection.
“Yeah? No one noticed.” She was grinning. “In fact—”
Her phone buzzed. Then again. And again. A flood of notifications lit up her screen. Youngyi paused mid-untie, then tapped it open. Her face shifted from tired to wide-eyed in seconds.
“…Oh my god.”
Sieun turned slowly. She didn’t say anything at first. Just angled her phone so he could see. The screen was open to Twitter.
A still shot — high-resolution, from the field cam feed — of him mid-dance. Hair dripping. Expression intense. Rain making the skin on his neck shine. The caption read:
“WHO is front-right??? Landers Jennie???? #girlinred #SSGcheersquad”
Under it, thousands of likes. Hundreds of retweets. A few fancams already clipped from the livestream. People drawing hearts around his face. Edits. Glitter text. “Visual queen,” someone had typed. Sieun just stared.
Youngyi scrolled furiously. “You’re trending. I mean trending. There’s, like, fan theories. People think you’re a rookie trainee cheerleader they’re introducing slowly or something. Wait, look at this.”
She pulled up a slowed-down replay. It was the camera zoom-in. His dance. His profile in the rain. The way he turned slightly at the beat drop and flicked his hair without realizing.
It was… weirdly cinematic.
He stared at the mirror again. The black wig. The faint shimmer of blush across his cheekbones. He didn’t look like himself. And yet, it was him. Still him.
“Well, bad for them since it was a one-time-in-a-life performance. They’re not going to see me again,” Sieun muttered, tugging the towel from Youngyi’s bag.
He patted at the rain on his arms, but the fabric of the ruby cheer uniform clung stubbornly to his skin, sticking like a second layer. The towel came away damp. The rain hadn’t been heavy, but it had done enough to make his whole body feel like a sponge.
Youngyi arched a brow. “Yeah, except you still have one more set after bottom of the 9th.”
“I meant… after today,” he grumbled.
“Uh-huh.”
He wiped around the collar of his uniform, careful not to smear the makeup. The wig was starting to itch a little under the cap, but it wasn’t unbearable. Yet.
Youngyi tossed him a fresh paper towel. “If you want to lay low, maybe don’t keep looking like you were manufactured in a K-pop lab. Seriously, the Jennie comparison isn’t even exaggerated anymore.”
Sieun groaned. “You’re not helping.”
“Oh, sorry.” She mimed zipping her mouth.
He didn’t do this. Spotlights, people looking, cameras . This wasn’t some med school presentation or PT practical exam. This was stadium-sized attention. National broadcast. Fans were editing his hair flip like crazy.
“I’ll just… finish the last routine and disappear from the Earth,” he said finally, voice muffled through the towel. “Then burn the wig and leave the country.”
“Or,” Youngyi offered sweetly, “just go viral for like a week, laugh about it with your friends, and get on with life.”
“I don’t want to be known ,” he hissed.
Youngyi blinked at him. “You literally agreed to be a fake cheerleader in front of thousands of people.”
“I was doing you a favor!”
“And the world thanks you,” she said with a grin. Then her expression softened slightly. “Hey… you’re okay, right? You did good out there. I’m sorry about Jennie comparison. If it makes you uncomfortable. I won’t do it again.”
He lowered the towel slowly. Met her eyes. He couldn’t care less about Jennie comparisons. He might have been even flattered if it wasn’t in this circumstance.
“…It’s okay. I’m fine,” he said. It wasn’t entirely a lie. Just shaky. Unfamiliar.
Thirty minutes passed in a blur of towels, team-issued merch, and rapid costume changes. The cheer squad now filed out in a new look — black bomber jackets embroidered with the SSG Landers logo across the front and the names of star players printed in crisp white on the back. Sieun’s read: Ahn Suho.
He stared at it for a second too long when the staff handed it to him. Coincidence, he told himself. If you stay delusional and ignore life’s hints, then it’ll go away for sure. Delusion is the answer. Sieun didn't know if he believed in his own words anymore.
The rain had mostly stopped now, just occasional drizzle with the moisture in the air, the kind that clung to your hairline but didn’t soak through. The stadium lights cast everything in a soft, slick glow, like a filter on a dream.
When they returned to the field, the cheer zone was already re-energized, crowd clapping in rhythm. The announcer’s voice cut through the air:
"It’s time for part two of the cheering! What is the charm of sports? Yes! Let’s go for that comeback victory!"
The squad lined up. This round was easier with simple chants and movements, mostly to keep the energy steady and the crowd engaged. Sieun moved on muscle memory. His limbs followed Youngyi’s lead, and the repetitive beat of the chant drowned out his nerves.
Landers, fighting! Fighting!
Then the real noise hit.
The announcers’ voices rose in sync with the crowd as the camera cut to the bullpen. Even from his spot beside the cheer stage, Sieun felt it in the air. The electric buzz only a stadium could make.
“And here he comes — Ahn Suho, the SSG ace rookie who’s been heating up the season. A 1.87 ERA and 96 strikeouts to date—he’s not just promising, he’s delivering.”
A roar went up from the crowd.
Suho jogged out toward the mound with that same clean, cold focus he’d had on screen. Without realizing it, Sieun’s eyes followed him.
The entrance music started playing — a short, beat-heavy hook — and the cheer squad turned back toward the field for the call-and-response. Sieun joined in, feet and hands echoing the motions of the others, the chant slipping from his lips before he even thought about it:
“AHN SUHO! STRIKE IT DOWN! AHN SUHO! STRIKE IT DOWN!”
Suho reached the mound. And with him, the tempo of the game began to change.
Strike. Another strike.
The batters couldn’t keep up with his rhythm, and the crowd leaned in with every pitch. It was like watching the tide pull forward slowly, then faster. Chants gained volume. Fans stood up.
Sieun could feel it in his chest. Not just the beat. Not just the nerves. The momentum. The collective hope of thousands of people riding one player’s focus.
His name on Sieun’s back.
And maybe — maybe it was just the leftover adrenaline — but Sieun didn’t hate the way it felt.
The scoreboard had looked hopeless two hours ago but now it blinked 5–4. Just one score behind now. The air in the stadium was sharp with excitement, crowd noise riding high and then falling quiet in waves. The ninth inning had begun with Suho still on the mound, glove flexed and ready.
From the loudspeakers above, the commentators’ loud voice can be heard:
“They’re sticking with Ahn Suho. Three solid innings already.”
“That’s rare for a reliever but Ahn Suho’s not your average call-up. Coach Jeon must be counting on him to close this out.”
The stadium, still damp from the drizzle, was thick with heat and nervous energy.
Strike. Another batter walked. Suho adjusted his cap, face unreadable.
The announcers continued, voices tight with tension:
“That’s a gutsy call from the coach. But Suho’s arm? Still sharp. If he finishes this out, he’ll be making headlines again tomorrow.”
He wasn’t sure when he stopped mimicking Youngyi’s movements and started reacting naturally. Hands punching the air at every out, voice joining the chant without needing a cue.
Youngyi wiped sweat from her jaw, lips tugging into a grin. “Better hope he pulls through. If he doesn’t, we’ll have to dance for another thirty minutes.”
Sieun almost smiled. He was soaked under the jacket but he didn’t mind it as much anymore. He was watching the game. He was watching him .
The final batter stepped up to the plate.
The cheer squad fell into synchronized motion. Sharp, controlled steps, fists raised on every shout. Sieun mirrored them a breath behind, muscles tight. His legs ached. His fingers were pruney under the soaked sleeves of jacket. But he didn’t stop.
The chant surged with the crowd.
“We are Landers! HEY HEY—
We are VIC-TO-RY! HEY HEY!”
On the field, Suho didn’t flinch. One last sign from the catcher. One last windup.
The pitch blurred past the batter — a perfect fastball.
Strike three.
The stadium cracked open with sound. The dugout emptied in seconds. Players rushed the field, throwing arms around Suho as he stood steady in the center of it, breathing hard. Fireworks bloomed in the sky despite the drizzle.
“LANDERS WIN! LANDERS WIN!”
“Ahn Suho closes it with a shutout three innings! What a night for the rookie ace!”
The cheers hadn’t stopped, even after the final pitch. Not when the Landers dugout flooded the field in a blur of red and white. Not when confetti rained down from somewhere above like a poorly timed snowstorm.
Sieun stood at the edge of the stage, arms slightly stiff at his sides, breath still catching from the last set. He wasn’t smiling — not really — just staring, dazed, up at the jumbotron as the lights dimmed slightly for a recap highlight reel. Youngyi mentioned once how SSG Lander had the biggest screen amongst ten teams in the league.
"Here it comes," Youngyi whispered beside him, shoulder nudging his. "Suho's moment."
The screen exploded with color — fast cuts of Suho’s pitches slicing through the drizzle, the catcher’s mitt snapping shut with each strike. The crowd roared in rhythm. A slow zoom on Suho's focused eyes, drenched and unbothered. Then —
It cut.
To him.
Sieun.
Lit by stage lights in the rain, a close-up as he danced to the Jennie’s song. His cheeks flushed, lips parted, eyes set straight ahead like he wasn’t shaking under the surface.
Time slowed.
The crowd didn’t cheer. They responded . A different sound. Curious. Loud. Impressed.
He blinked up at the screen. “That’s... not—”
“That’s you,” Youngyi said, oddly proud. “Damn, they really put that in.”
Another beat cut in. A slow-motion shot of him spinning, droplets flying from his hair like tiny diamonds under the floodlights.
And somewhere in the bottom corner, bold white text across the screen:
“오늘의 승리요정” — Today’s Victory Fairy .
A beat. Then hashtags rolled across the bottom corner of the screen:
#MysteryDancer #VictoryFairy #SSGLandersWIN
He stared. Youngyi choked on a laugh beside him as she bumped her shoulder lightly into his, eyes wide with barely-contained amusement. “Victory fairy, huh? Are you planning to keep your powers secret or should we all start praying to you before games?”
Sieun exhaled sharply through his nose. “They’re exaggerating. It’s just a camera angle and wet lighting.”
“Mm. And cheekbones. And perfect timing. And Suho pitching like a man possessed right after your solo moment.”
“Coincidence.”
“Uh-huh.”
He didn’t answer. The bomber jacket was heavy now, clinging cold against his arms, but he didn’t move to take it off. Instead, he reached for the towel someone handed him and scrubbed at his face, hiding the flush he didn’t want to explain.
Finally, he muttered, barely loud enough for her to hear, “Good. Let them think whatever they want. I’m not coming back anyway.”
He repeated but his eyes drifted once more to the screen where in the tiny corner replay window, the clip of him dancing replayed again.
The cheer team’s dressing room buzzed with chatter, high voices. Sieun wasn’t in the frame. He’d slipped away toward the far side of the room, behind a tall rack of uniforms and props where no one could see him.
He crouched down, back against the wall, jacket zipped tight, his knees drawn up. The floor was cold. He pressed his palms flat on the tiles just to ground himself.
“You okay?” Youngyi's voice came from over the rack, light but careful.
He didn’t answer at first. Then: “Still breathing.”
She came around the rack, squatting next to him without asking. Her hair was a mess, eyeliner smudged down one cheek, but her grin was intact.
Sieun kept his eyes on the floor. “Don’t start. You’ll make it real.”
She bumped her knee lightly against his. “For real though. Thanks. I know it wasn’t easy.”
He exhaled. “It’s not dancing. Or the wig. Or the people. It’s just... being seen.”
Her expression softened.
“Then maybe,” she said, “you should be proud they saw something worth looking at.”
Before he could answer, someone from the hallway called for Youngyi to ask about the headcount or schedule check or some other post-performance chaos.
“I’ll be right there!” she yelled back, then looked down at Sieun again. “You coming?”
“I’ll... follow. Just need a second.”
She nodded and left.
Sieun needed air. A moment to decompress away from the buzz, the lights, the noise.
The hallway outside was quieter. Dim, lit only by tired fluorescents and the pale spill of light from the dressing rooms. He leaned against the tiled wall, head bowed, hair casting soft shadows across his cheeks. His legs were spread, stance loose but tired, arms crossed under the bomber jacket. His chest rose slowly, shallowly.
He didn’t hear the footsteps until they were almost right in front of him.
When he looked up, Ahn Suho was there. No longer in uniform. His hair was still damp from the mist, strands sticking to his forehead. He wore a red-black windbreaker over a plain white T-shirt, joggers slung low on his hips like he’d just pulled them on after a quick shower. No gloves. Hands tucked into his pockets.
And he was staring.
Not with the curiosity of a fan. Not with the stunned look of someone clocking a celebrity mid-blink. Just… looking. Quietly. His gaze steady, unreadable, and heavy with something Sieun couldn’t name.
Sieun froze. He didn’t speak.
Suho did.
“You were... good out there.” His voice was lower than Sieun expected. Grounded.
Sieun didn’t move. Didn’t answer. His hand twitched in his jacket pocket.
Maybe it was the way his shoulders shook, or how his knees weren’t fully steady. Maybe it was nothing. Still, Suho glanced at the oversized bomber hanging damp off Sieun’s frame, then silently peeled off his own windbreaker.
He held it out.
“You’re freezing.”
Sieun didn’t want to speak. He didn’t want to move. But he didn’t look away, either.
He didn’t take the jacket.
Suho stepped closer, slow. “You don’t have to talk. I’m not going to ask anything. But if you get sick, I’ll feel bad.”
The moment stretched. Long. Awkward. Intimate in the kind of way that made Sieun want to disappear into the floor. He lowered his eyes again. “...Thanks,” he mumbled, voice barely audible, and took the jscket.
Their fingers brushed. It was barely anything. But Suho looked like he wanted to say more.
But down the corridor, Youngyi’s voice rang out: “Sieun-ah! They’re doing staff headcount! You good?”
Sieun flinched. Like he’d been caught. He clutched the windbreaker closer, turned without answering, and walked fast. Not running. Just away.
Behind him, Suho didn’t follow.
Later — after the headcount, the change into dry uniforms, and a blur of final routines — Sieun finally found a moment to breathe.
The adrenaline had worn off, leaving behind a low, pulsing ache in his muscles. He ended up crashing at Youngyi’s place which was a cramped third-floor walk-up near Angkang Station, with creaky floorboards and a fridge that hummed like it was on its last leg.
Sieun sat curled on her low sofa, still half-swallowed by the oversized team jacket. His wig was off, hair pulled back with a sweatband. Youngyi had tossed him a change of sweatpants that smelled faintly of lavender detergent, and tea in a chipped mug that didn’t match anything else in the room.
That moment in the hallway kept replaying. It echoed in the quiet parts of his head like a whisper he wasn’t supposed to hear. Gentle. Steady. Like Suho meant it.
Which — no. Obviously not.
Obviously, Suho was just polite. Probably always like that. Probably gave his jacket to fellow teammates, trainers, passing grandmas, anyone who looked vaguely cold. It didn’t mean anything. Sieun wasn’t about to start building fantasies just because one (ridiculously attractive) guy happened to be nice to him.
“Hey,” Youngyi said, dropping onto the floor with her phone in hand. “Wanna see something before you pretend today never happened?”
He narrowed his eyes. “No.”
She ignored him. “Too late.”
She angled her phone toward him.
It was a fancam, grainy but focused. The cheer squad mid-performance, slick with rain and still moving like something out of a dream. And there was him. Spinning. Hair damp and catching the light. A soft gleam along his cheekbone. His movements sharper than he remembered. Cleaner. Focused.
But the video wasn’t just on him.
In the upper-right corner, slightly shadowed in an alcove near the bullpen, Ahn Suho stood. Not on the field yet, clearly waiting for his rotation. He was looking at the LED screen.
More specifically — looking at him on the screen.
Youngyi tapped the comments and started scrolling, smirking as she read them aloud.
|@ssgsuhofan2341: Suho watching the jumbotron like 👁️👁️
|@pjhmay4ever: pls look at his face when she does that spin?? hello
|@hyunwoong: this is giving drama. like baseball version of a stage crush or high teen
|@7banbeauty: Victory fairy got the ace’s attention yall I’m seated
“What the hell,” Sieun muttered.
“There’s more,” Youngyi said with a grin, scrolling down. “The fans are going nuts. Look—”
|@landers231: Im so happy im ssg landers fan, other teams jealous 10000%”
|@karinacutie: this girl carried the second half istg
|@choijihoonfan: victory fairy frfr noona pls come to all landers gamesㅠㅠ
|@ssgfan2025win: LOTTE has Winter from aespa, Doosan has Wonyoung from IVE. But do they have Jennie? I don’t think soㅋ
Sieun made a sound in his throat. A mix between a scoff and a groan. “I was soaked. I probably looked like a wet rat.”
He rolled his eyes, but didn’t say more. But even as he said it, he looked once more at the still frame.
Youngyi snorted. “You looked pretty. Like a stage angel. You pulled a full ‘one-time-in-your-life-performance’ stunt and now the Internet is in love with you.”
But Sieun wasn’t listening. He was still focused on her phone. Suho. Watching.
And for just a moment, everything else, the ache in his legs, the pressure in his head, the absurdity of the day slipped away.
After the chaos of Incheon, the echo of cheers still somewhere in his head, Sieun returned to Seoul like nothing had happened. Only sore muscles were the reminder of that day.
Classes resumed. Notes piled up. The city buzzed with summer heat and yellow dust, and he threw himself back into his physical therapy rotation with the dull commitment of someone trying to forget. His university had arranged fieldwork placements in partnership with actual sports clinics — rehab spaces where injured athletes came for recovery and long-term management. Real work, finally. Not theory.
He was placed at a high-profile MMA center, the kind of place where sponsors paid for designer compression bands and the treadmills could calculate lactate threshold. His sunbae, Baek Sujeong, had taken him under her wing. She was sharp, competent, with no tolerance for slackers. Together, they helped stretch fighters fresh from sparring, worked muscle stimulation machines, set up taping protocols, cleaned sweat off everything that didn’t move. It wasn’t glamorous, but it was real. It grounded him.
By the third day, his limbs ached in a good way. This time it was from the strength he’d put into a full day of massage rotations, not from cheer routines or makeup. He had half a sandwich in one hand and his head tipped back against the humming breakroom fridge when his phone buzzed.
It was Youngyi.
He didn’t answer right away. Just stared at her name, feeling a mild thrum of dread crawl up his spine. A minute passed. Then a text. Then another. Then the phone started buzzing again.
Eventually, he picked up.
He already knew. The favor was back. Again.
Only this time, it wasn’t for a whole game.
Just one appearance. One moment on stage. SSG Landers had won their Sunday home game, and the league was giving out a special award to their star players. For the trophy presentation, they wanted a cheerleader to escort the handoff and do a short routine.
Youngyi was swamped with requests — apparently, the higher-ups had made a “personal” request for the new girl with the Jennie vibe.
They still didn’t know he wasn’t a girl.
Youngyi begged. Said she’d tried to dodge it. Said she respected his boundary. But the pressure came from too high up — execs, PR leads, team sponsors. They wanted a repeat of that moment . The one that had gone viral. Full day rate, she said. Maybe even a bonus. All he had to do was smile, wave, and dance for thirty seconds to the victory jingle, then step back offstage.
Flat. Reminded her he’d already said last time was the last time. That he was drowning in clinical hours. That he didn’t want to play dress-up again just because people liked the fantasy.
Then she said the name.
Ahn Suho.
That was who the award was for.
And something in his chest shifted. Not dramatically. Just softly. Like when someone breathes against the back of your neck. Barely there, but it stays.
He didn’t answer. Just ended the call and let the silence close in around him.
That night, he lay on his side in the dark, ceiling blurred above him. The fan clicked. Once. Twice. His pillow was too warm.
He told himself it was just curiosity. That what he’d felt in the corridor meant nothing. Tension. Nerves. A long day.
Besides it’s not like he had a chance. Suho was probably straight. Definitely straight. A baseball prodigy. MVP of the high school league. The rookie award winner. Not the type to look twice. Not if he knew.
Sieun hated that his heart fluttered anyway.
He tried to focus on the risk. The exposure. The what-ifs. But the image that returned, over and over, was Suho’s quiet, unreadable gaze. Warm. Solid. Unnerving in the way it lingered.
Maybe… he just wanted to see him once more.
Just to be sure.
Just to prove to himself there was nothing there. A hypothesis, he told himself.
And so, the next morning, he texted Youngyi.
Three words.
What time Sunday?
Because, as he realized with a sinking heart — you can’t tell your heart what to feel.
Sieun remembered the stadium as it had been weeks ago. Loud, wide, breathless. Now, walking through its bowels again, past the corridors of storage rooms and taped arrows pointing toward the dugout, it felt smaller. Familiar. Less like a trap.
The rehearsal room hadn’t changed: same walls still faintly sticky from hairspray and humidity, same echoing hum of the overhead vents. This time, though, he wasn’t lost. He knew where to go, where to change, how long the trek to the waiting stage platform would take.
He also knew this wasn’t permanent. That was the promise he made to himself: in and out. One short segment. Hand over the trophy, bow, smile, leave. All he had to do was see Ahn Suho again. Prove to himself that whatever fluttered inside his chest last time was just a fluke. That Suho didn’t care. That it had meant nothing.
Apparently, SSG had loved the way red looked on him. Or at least their social team had. This time, they’d prepared a new uniform. It was sleeker and brighter. A sharp rose-red pleated skirt with black paneling so subtle it almost shimmered, paired with a cropped jacket stitched in metallic trim that caught the light like foil.
He nearly choked when he saw it. Not from modesty — he was past that — but because it was clearly tailored. Specifically. For him.
They liked how he looked. That much was obvious.
They didn’t know who he was, but knew what he was to the camera. The Jennie comparisons weren’t fading. If anything, they’d leaned into it.
Youngyi had come to help him prep, as usual. She was extra careful with his makeup, gently placing rhinestones under each eye, humming some IU track under her breath.
“Just to make them pop,” she said, admiring her work. “SSG’s pretty victory fairy can’t look tired.”
He didn’t correct her, looking at himself in the mirror without much thought. Not to judge. Not to admire. Just… to see.
The wig was on straight, the red uniform pressed smooth against his shoulders, and the rhinestones shimmered faintly beneath the lights. Youngyi had taken her time with those. Last time, he hadn’t had the mental capacity to even think about how he looked. But now, he realized he didn’t mind.
Sure, it had been embarrassing at first. Probably just the newness of everything. Every possible emotion had gotten mixed together, leaving no space for clarity. That’s why it didn't really matter whether he looked “pretty” or “like a girl.” That wasn’t what this was about. He wasn’t trying to fool anyone — not on purpose, anyway.
But people stared. They stared last time, and they probably would again. The camera had found him like it was looking for something. The fans had reposted the fancam like they were trying to name it.
It was just strange that people saw what they wanted to. A fairy, a dancer, a girl. Something to cheer for. Something worth looking at. But nothing would change who he was when he washed off the makeup and took the wig off. Sieun was still Sieun. Quiet. Curious. Always observing more than he said. He rolled his shoulders back, took one more look at the reflection, then stepped out of the room.
The stadium was different this time.
Louder. Fuller. The kind of full that pulsed in the air like a heartbeat. It felt like there were twice the people as last time. Even the far side stands, usually scattered with empty seats, were peppered with fans in red jerseys and waving thundersticks. Chants were already starting to build in scattered waves, as if the entire place had been warming up for hours before he even got there.
The sun was brutal, not like last time’s soft rain. Now, the heat pressed down in thick layers, refracting off the field like glass. It caught on the rhinestones under his eyes even more, and made them sparkle like they were trying to blind him. In hindsight, Sieun would’ve preferred the rain to this blazing hell.
A thudding rhythm built beneath the noise. Drums — those massive floor toms the cheer team pounded during pivotal innings — now repurposed to stir suspense. With each booming hit, it felt like the field itself was exhaling, preparing. Stadium fanfare blasted through the speakers, chased by a ripple of applause that grew and grew until it seemed to swell under Sieun’s skin.
He stood just before the field, right at the edge of the base path, in front of the stage where the host gripped a mic and smiled toward the crowd. Beside him, a staff member in the team’s mascot suit bobbed along to the cheers. Clutched in the mascot’s oversized hands was a cardboard cheque — nearly up to Sieun’s shoulder — bold, absurd, and stamped with a dark green “₩1,000,000” alongside the SSG Landers sponsor logo: e-mart Traders.
The instructions had been minimal: walk out on cue, stand next to the host, hand the cheque when signaled. Smile if you can. Bow if you remember. He wasn’t sure if he’d smile. He didn’t know what his face was doing.
His vision tunneled slightly when the LED screen above the outfield roared to life with the announcer’s voice:
“SSG Landers fans, please give a big round of applause to our June MVP…”
The drums stopped. The fanfare hit its final triumphant chord.
“Pitcher Ahn Suho!”
The crowd erupted like someone had flipped a switch. Clapping, screaming, whistling. From somewhere behind, a cheer squad started chanting in rhythmic bursts — his name broken into syllables, bouncing against the beat of the drums restarting, slower.
Sieun’s breath caught. He still hadn’t seen him. But he felt it — the shift. The way the energy of the stadium tilted, narrowed, focused.
His vision shrank — not quite a blur, but everything seemed too bright, too sharp, like the air itself had turned to glass. The giant screen flashed Suho’s highlight reel, then his face: calm, collected. His walk from the dugout felt impossibly slow. Not hesitant. Not dramatic. Like he belonged here. Like the crowd was moving around him, and not the other way around.
It felt like watching something inevitable unfold.
Suho ascended the steps toward the platform, bouquet and trophy already in hand from the MC. Then he turned toward Sieun.
There was something unreadable in his expression. Not surprise. Not politeness, either. Just that same quiet, focused gaze Sieun remembered. Direct. Intent. Unmoving. It made Sieun’s fingers tighten slightly around the edge of the cardboard prize.
He stepped forward. Offered the award board with both hands like they’d instructed. It was a perfect, textbook pose.
Suho came to a stop just a breath away — closer than necessary, closer than polite. He accepted the check, nodded to the mascot, and turned slightly, angling his body… toward Sieun.
Then came the voice again: “Time for a commemorative photo!”
The E-Mart CEO strode up, smiling for the crowd. Sieun moved instinctively to the side, but Suho’s hand found his wrist in a light touch, guiding. A wordless: stay here.
The crowd screamed again with cameras flashing, a chant starting anew.
They lined up: CEO on one side, mascot on the other, and Suho now directly beside Sieun. Their arms nearly brushing as they held the cardboard check together for the photo.
“Closer,” the photographer called out.
Suho didn’t hesitate. He stepped in, close enough that Sieun could feel the heat off his shoulder through the uniform jacket. It was barely a shift, very subtle, maybe unnoticeable to anyone else. However, Sieun felt it like static, crawling down his spine.
Flash. Then another.
The camera clicked in quick succession while the mascot threw both his hands in the air and the CEO gave his well-rehearsed grin. Suho didn’t say a word, but before the flash ended, Sieun caught the faintest curve of a smirk near his lips.
Then it was over. The MC thanked everyone. The CEO gave Suho a handshake, and Suho handed off the check to staff.
As he walked off, Suho leaned just barely toward Sieun.
“Stay for the game,” he said under his breath, voice low but enough to carry only to him.
Sieun didn’t respond. Couldn’t. His heart climbed his throat. Then Suho turned and left.
And for a brief moment, under the buzz of applause and drumlines, Sieun stood blinking into the light, unsure whether the sun or the smile had blinded him more.