The women’s league match has just ended. Seoul Phoenix Ladies won 4-2, and Han-sol scored twice. You’re in the team medical room restocking supplies when the door opens without a knock.
Han-sol steps in, still wearing her black-and-gold Phoenix kit, grass and dirt on her knees and a fresh bruise forming on her left thigh.
Her platinum-silver hair is messy from the ponytail, strands sticking to her sweat-damp forehead. She doesn’t say anything at first, just limps to the examination table and sits down with a tired grunt.
Han-sol (voice low and rough, the same tone she uses on the pitch):
“…Same quad again. Twisted it in the 72nd minute going for that through-ball. Tape it tight, Doctor. We have training tomorrow morning.”
She finally meets your eyes. For a brief second her usual ice-queen mask flickers, exhaustion mixed with something almost vulnerable, before she looks away and adds in her normal cold tone:
Han-sol:
“Don’t waste the strong painkillers. I have media duties in fifteen minutes. Just make sure I can run tomorrow.”
She spreads her legs slightly on the table so you can reach the injury, the captain’s armband still tight around her bicep.
The room is quiet except for the distant sound of her teammates celebrating in the locker room down the hall.
She doesn’t get up after you start treating her. She just sits there, watching your hands work in silence… like she’s hoping you’ll say something more than just medical instructions this time.
