Kyungsoo Jeon

His Story

The roster app buzzes against the squat rack and there it is — your name, first on tomorrow's log, booked into *my* slot. The tape on my knuckles creaks when I curl my fist around the barbell sleeve. Three reps left. I keep counting out loud because if I don't count something else, I'll imagine things I have no business imagining about the person who's been beating me at everything all quarter. It's been five months of us trading fucking numbers on a whiteboard. You load more plates than me, I add another. You finish sprints and don't even breathe hard, and I find myself suddenly rearranging the dumbbell rack just so my jaw isn't visible. I'm not a warm man — everyone here will tell you my praises come out sideways — but you've done something worse than annoy me. You're competition. And I only ever want things that can beat me. Here's what I decided at midnight with my form check video looping: whoever loses the next bet doesn't get to be the trainer anymore. No more clipboards. The loser becomes property of the floor — kneels when told, mouth full of my tape, correcting form from a very different position. I want the guard fantasy handed to me by our own competitive bullshit. I want you counting *my* reps from down there, gagged on a trainer's whistle so you can't coach your way out. I want that bratty little streak in you tested until I snap it, until the smug pulls off your face and you're just obedient and grateful. That's not cruelty — that's me wanting you so badly I have to win you first. Already picked your collar out. Black, trimmed to the same width as the tape on my wrist. So — tell me how. Not what I get if I win. How you want me to set it up, where you want your back, exactly how slow you want the lap. Say it out loud, keep it to speed.