"Noona."
"Mhmm...?"
"What are you doing?"
Mia glanced up. She had a pencil in one hand and a sketchbook on her lap. She had propped herself up against my bed while I studied. She'd said that I could go study in peace and she wouldn't bother me, but then, as if on second thought, she followed me to my room, sat down, and stayed there.
Honestly? I preferred that over that special whatever massage she mentioned before. I knew that I flat out refused it after stepping out of the shower, but I was surprised she'd so easily give up on it considering her frustrating nature.
"I'm drawing, of course."
"I can see that, but why are you here?" I raised an eyebrow. "Don't you have a desk in your room? And a bed? And, like, privacy?"
Mia tilted her head, chewing on the pencil's eraser.
"Privacy is overrated. And my bed is uncomfortable. And I get lonely, so..." Her gaze dropped back to the page. She started drawing again. The strokes were slow and careful. "I promise I'll be quiet."
Every now and then, she paused, checked something, then continued.
"Alright." I mumbled, turning back to the textbook. "But don't be mad at me if you find my room unstimulating and boring. I'm just reading."
"I'm fine. Just keep reading."
I sighed, shaking my head a little. Still, it wasn't all that distracting, so I let her do as she wanted.
I returned to the chapter about DNA replication. The sound of her pencil against the paper filled the air. I had to admit that it wasn't as annoying as I had imagined it would be. Then again, my reasons for being guarded lately weren't unfounded.
She kept to her word and stayed quiet. It was nice. It felt... calming, almost. To hear her drawing, the rustling of the paper, the soft breaths she would take, or the occasional little hum.
I dragged my eyes back to the page.
DNA replication. Semi-conservative, meaning each new strand carried part of the old. Like memory written into flesh.
I underlined a sentence. Errors during replication can result in mutations.
Right. Mutations. The word sounded ugly, but technically, we were all just walking collections of mutations. Nobody wanted to admit that every 'unique' person was simply a copy of a copy, with a few printing mistakes along the way.
Then the book went further. Close genetic unions drastically increase the chance of defects, since overlapping DNA fails to introduce diversity.
I sat back. The phrasing felt polite, but the message was blunt: when two people with the same blueprint tried to make something new, the blueprint collapsed on itself. Too many overlaps. Too many repeated instructions. Like trying to write a novel with only one word. You'd end up with nonsense.
Unions between genetically close individuals are more prone to miscarriage and defects, including fatal diseases and genetic conditions. It isn't absolute, not every case ends in disaster, but the odds lean heavily in that direction. Nature doesn't play favorites; it just calculates probability.
'Why am I even reading this shit?'
The odds of disaster.
That's how the book phrased it, which sounded a little dramatic, like the kind of warning a mother gives to her daughter. 'Stay away from those boys.' 'They'll get you into trouble.' It's all too familiar.
But what about the opposite, what if there's a chance that a genetic union might be successful, despite all the risks?
What would be the price, the consequences, the outcome? I wasn't even talking about the actual child. That was an entirely separate set of issues. No. My concern was with the two people involved. Would they stay together? Would they be able to live with their choice and their past, or would guilt tear them apart?
Would they be able to live with the fact that, by creating a new life, they've condemned their offspring to a life of potential illness, deformity and early death?
And, if so, would they have any right to be happy? Or would it be just a facade to cover the fact that they're haunted by what they've done?
"Is it something bad?" Mia's voice pulled me out of my thoughts.
"Hm? What?"
"The thing you're thinking about." She looked at me, head slightly tilted.
One of her eyes was hidden behind a curtain of hair.
"Nothing, just feeling sentimental for a moment." I said, stretching a bit before wheeling around to face Mia. "Anyway, what are you drawing?"
Mia immediately held her sketchbook close to her chest, a guarded little smirk on her pretty face. "Heh, nothing?"
I frowned. "If it's nothing, why can't you show it?"
"Because I don't want to."
"You know, I can always wrestle it out of your hands."
She blinked, seemingly realizing that as well, and then her smile grew even wider. "Oh, can you, though?" And then she slid the damn thing under her top, right between her—
"Okay, that's playing dirty." I said, a little exasperated.
"Come at me, bro."
I stood up.
Mia's grin faltered.
And then made my way out. I had to clear up my thoughts.
"Not interested anymore."
"......"
xXx
The U-17 FIFA World Cup, despite the name, doesn't really feel like a World Cup.
Not the way the big one does. You don't see entire nations draping their buildings in flags. Nobody's honking their car horns at midnight because some fifteen-year-old kid scored a miracle goal against Brazil.
It's quiet. Almost hidden.
Sure, it's still international, still the best young players of every country coming together, but if you're in it, you start realizing how different it is.
The senior World Cup is plastered everywhere—every screen, every feed, every bar, every street corner. People who don't even care about football suddenly care, and for a month the whole world simply stops.
The U-17? Not so much.
There's still media attention, of course. It's a big deal, just not as big a deal. For most of us, that's a relief, because we're young, we're just trying to prove ourselves. The spotlight is distracting, it puts pressure on you that can break a young player.
Of course, to me specifically, it was redundant since I already had come close to actually winning the big one.
The pressure wasn't all that high. Whether you won or lost, at the end of the day, the U-17 World Cup is a mere stepping stone. I remembered a guy back in my previous life who won the U-17 World Cup in the early 2000s, then vanished off the map.
Nobody cared when he disappeared. Nobody even bothered to remember his name.
I think I knew his name once, but I'd forgotten it, too. That's how little it matters.
That's how the U-17 World Cup works. It's a stepping stone. If you can't step over it, then it's just a pebble in your path.
Still, I wanted to win it. Why? Because even as a small pebble compared to the senior World Cup, South Korea had never even gotten close to winning it.
It wasn't just a stepping stone for me; it was also a way to show everyone I was serious about this whole 'save the national team' business. I was in this for the long run, and winning the U-17 World Cup was only the beginning of a long, painful road.
It also meant that I'd have to step over Brazil as well.
So be it.
…
This World Cup's edition will be held in Japan.
The training camp for the World Cup finally started roughly a month after I got the call-up for the national team.
We arrived at Taereung National Training Center in Seoul early in the morning. The place was quiet, almost empty except for a few staff moving between buildings.
I got out of the van and slung my duffel bag over one shoulder. The rest of my teammates trailed behind me, and among some of the familiar faces, I caught someone's gaze.
Kim Jun-hwan.
I didn't foresee I'd meet him under such circumstances, but Jun-hwan was a very talented and determined player, so perhaps it was to be expected.
The moment I caught him staring, he looked away.
"......"
The rest of the players pooled around me, along with the coach—Ahn Ki-seok.
Honestly, I kind of missed Coach Park and his distinctive cap.
Coach Ahn Ki-seok was a stocky man with an impressive past as a football player; he never really made it into the big leagues, but his talent was undeniable, at least what I heard of him.
He patted my shoulder, his grip firm.
"Cha Jae-il. We have high expectations of you." His voice was a low gravel, the kind that carried across without needing to be raised. And when he said 'we' I didn't think he meant the team, or the nation, but himself and the higher-ups.
"I won't let you down, Coach." I said with a practiced smile. "Thank you for the opportunity."
He grunted, a flicker of amusement in his eyes. "Opportunity? Son, this isn't a lottery ticket. You earned your spot. Now you just have to prove you deserve to keep it." He gestured toward the main building. "Locker room's inside. Find a spot, get changed. We start warm-ups in thirty."