Please support the authors by reading Manhwas on the official websites. This is where you can read the Manhwa: Jinx But be aware that the Manhwa is a mature Yaoi, which means, it is about homosexuality with explicit scenes. Here is the link of the table of contents about Jinx. Here is the link where you can find the table of contents of analyzed Manhwas. Here are the links, if you are interested in the first work from Mingwa, BJ Alex, and the 2 previous essays about Jinx Between A Squeeze And A Crack – part 2
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Sorry for the delay, but I am getting surged soon, thus I was busy preparing lessons for the time during my absence.
The Beginning of the End
The audience sensed it before it could fully articulate why: Jinx is nearing an irreversible threshold. Not an ending yet, not a climax in the conventional sense, but a point beyond which the story cannot return to its original configuration. 
(chapter 89) Episode 89 does not rely on spectacle, confrontation, or confession. Instead, it performs something far more unsettling. It turns back toward the beginning 
(chapter 89) and begins to unravel what was once deliberately sealed.
What makes this episode feel decisive is not merely a rearrangement of power, but the return of elements that were present from the very first chapter —elements whose meanings were never in doubt, yet whose consequences were never allowed to surface. 
(chapter 1) At the start of Jinx, the readers were not ignorant. We knew that Kim Dan had been sexually harassed. 
(chapter 1) We knew there was a witness. We knew that what happened was not ambiguous in moral terms.
What was ambiguous was power.
A hospital director fired Kim Dan not because the truth was unclear, but precisely because it was clear—and dangerous. Using institutional authority, he covered the scandal, protected himself, and quietly ensured that Kim Dan would never be able to work as physical therapist and even speak again. (chapter 1) The outcome was not accidental, but Kim Dan didn’t experience it as a calculated purge or a conspiracy that must be fought. He accepted the loss of his job almost as a given, even as he recognized the injustice of it. What unsettled him was not the fear that others would disbelieve him, but the realization that responsibility stopped with him. He lost a prestigious hospital position and the professional future attached to it, while the hospital director faced no consequence at all. Kim Dan did not protest or seek redress; instead, he turned his attention inward, wondering what was said about him afterward, in rooms or institutes he was not allowed to enter. The truth was known, yet it changed nothing, because Kim Dan was silenced. No one listened to him or defended him, while the perpetrator alone was given the authority to determine the truth. The witness stayed silent, the institution spoke elsewhere, and Kim Dan was removed from his own story. And that’s how the asymmetry became something he quietly carried as his own burden.
This is why Episode 89 does not feel like escalation—it feels like unsealing.
The return of the perverted hospital director 
(chapter 1) is not a revelation of new information. It is the resurfacing of a figure who once proved that truth alone was insufficient. His reappearance signals that what was buried at the beginning of the story—harassment, witness, cover-up, professional erasure—is no longer content to remain inert. The silence that once protected the hospital director is beginning to fray, unwinding slowly, like a gift ribbon pulled loose thread by thread. What was known but unspeakable is approaching exposure not through confession, but through loss of insulation.
This return is mirrored by another, quieter but equally significant absence: the grandmother.
In Episode 89, she is no longer shown directly. 
(chapter 89) Instead, the narrative offers a bird’s-eye view of the hospice Light of Hope as Joo Jaekyung’s car leaves the parking lot. The implication is unmistakable. Her death is imminent. But just as importantly, she is transitioning from presence to spectral force—no longer intervening, no longer negotiating, but lingering over the narrative as memory and obligation.
This, too, echoes the beginning of Jinx. 
(chapter 1) Readers did not meet the grandmother until Episode 5. 
(chapter 5) Before that, her existence was inferred rather than seen: through debt, through responsibility, through the ruined house Kim Dan inhabited. Absence structured the story before presence ever did. The grandmother was a force long before she was a character.
Now the movement reverses. Presence recedes back into absence. But unlike in the beginning, Kim Dan’s life is no longer centered on her care. That responsibility has been entrusted elsewhere, and her absence no longer governs his choices. In Episode 89, the hospice is no longer framed as a home, but as a stop along the way. 
(chapter 89) When Joo Jaekyung speaks of “the way home,” 
(chapter 89) and Kim Dan repeats the phrase without hesitation, the shift is unmistakable. Home has been reassigned. It is no longer the place where Kim Dan endures obligation or where his grandmother is 
(chapter 56), but the place where he lives in the present: the penthouse. The grandmother’s influence has not vanished; yet it has been reduced to a short visit, while he spends time with his fated partner a long time on the road. Her absence no longer anchors him to a life of quiet survival. He is now enjoying life, hence he is seen smiling and talking informal to the athlete. 
(chapter 89)
This mirroring is not cosmetic. It is structural. The story returns to the conditions of its origin—sexual violence handled institutionally, professional precarity 
(chapter 1), unseen decisions made about Kim Dan without his consent (chapter 1) — but it does so in a transformed landscape. 
(chapter 89) Debts have been paid. Contracts are finite. A witness exists, though he doesn’t believe in the “angel”. 
(chapter 89) Kim Dan is no longer isolated in his knowledge, nor alone in bearing its consequences. Joo Jaekyung detected the presence of a “predator”. 
(chapter 89)
That is why Episode 89 feels like the beginning of the end. Not because everything is resolved, but because the story has reached the point where truth no longer needs to beg for permission to exist. What was once survivable only through silence can now be named, contested, and reclaimed.
By folding the opening of Jinx back into its present, the author signals that the love story between Kim Dan and Joo Jaekyung is approaching its final test. No longer a story of endurance under constraint, it is becoming a story about emancipation under scrutiny—about what happens when love, guilt, responsibility, and institutional memory are finally forced into the same frame, by those who were once excluded from it.
The Beginning of the End is not an announcement of tragedy. It is the moment when the story turns back on itself and says: now the truth can move.
Seeing Is Not Knowing
Episode 89 does not introduce this logic; it exposes it by repetition. From the very first chapter, Joo Jaekyung’s relationship with his former physical therapist already functioned as a negative prefiguration of Kim Dan’s own trajectory. 
(chapter 1) The readers never saw what caused the unknown therapist’s departure. Instead, the incident is relayed second-hand, through Park Namwook’s narration—an account that reduces the event to temperament, friction, and inevitability. The physical therapist is said to have “rubbed him the wrong way.” An incident occurred and the athlete was exposed as the problem. The job was framed as undesirable. The departure was normalized.
Crucially, Joo Jaekyung accepted this explanation without investigation. He was surprised that the therapist quit 
(chapter 1), but he did not question the narrative offered to him. He never tried to justify his own action either. Park Namwook, as manager, occupied the position of authority: the one who explained, interpreted, and closed the case. He never checked the facts, like for example “rubbing him the wrong way”. He acted as the prosecutor, judge and lawyer at the same time. What happened before remained unseen, and therefore unexamined. The truth did not need to be falsified; it only needed to be summarized.
Crucially, the manager also treated resignation as resolution. Once the physical therapist left, the problem appeared solved. Replacement substituted for accountability, and the consequences of this closure were never considered. The difficulty in filling the position 
(chapter 1), the reluctance of applicants, and the need to recruit Kim Dan through informal channels all suggested that something else had already been circulating: a reputation formed in absence, not through evidence.
Like Kim Dan after him, Joo Jaekyung is first not confronted with accusations 
(chapter 9), explanations, and silence. Only after the “hamster’s arrival”, the athlete is gradually exposed to gossip, badmouthing 
(chapter 47) and exclusion. This reached its peak with the famous slap at the hospital. 
(chapter 52) It shows that like doc Dan, the celebrity bears the effects of a narrative he did not author, one that no longer requires verification and questioning because it has already been administratively settled.
Episode 89 reactivates this same structure—but from another angle.
Heesung believes he knows the truth because he has seen something. 
(chapter 89) He witnessed a kiss between Kim Dan and Joo Jaekyung, and from that single image, he constructs a complete narrative: a kiss is turned into something raw and sexual. For him, intimacy replaces training, desire replaces discipline, and the explanation Kim Dan gives becomes, in his eyes, a lie. (chapter 89)
Yet this is where the episode quietly undermines Heesung’s certainty. Kim Dan is not just fabricating an alibi. He is not inventing a cover story. They were indeed training. 
(chapter 88) The kiss does not erase what preceded it; it merely interrupts it. Kim Dan’s explanation is therefore neither wholly true nor wholly false. It is a partial truth, shaped by shyness, by a desire to protect, and by shame. Hence he is sweating, when he explains his presence to Potato. (chapter 89) To know the “whole truth” would require access not only to events, but to intentions, emotional thresholds, and timing—access no single witness ever has. Only gods have such power.
And that’s how Choi Heesung views himself. He considers himself as the “perfect lover”, thus his dream has always been to find his soulmate, another “perfect lover”. 
(chapter 33) That’s the reason why he was attracted to Kim Dan in the first place. He is an angel 
(chapter 30), as the latter is quiet, self-effacing. selfless, attentive, humble and absorbs blame instead of projecting it. Kim Dan initially fits the fantasy of the perfect lover — someone who would not disrupt Heesung’s self-image. Hence he doesn’t need to do anything. 
(chapter 31) By siding with doc Dan and acting as the angel’s advocate 
(chapter 89), the comedian can appear as a saint.
But the reality is that the “fox” is overestimating himself. He is just a human like Joo Jaekyung and as such a sinner. The actor’s error is not merely that he lies, but that he lies by omission 
(chapter 89) and generalization. Because he saw one thing, he believes he knows everything. Because he believes he already knows Joo Jaekyung —his temper, his reputation, his past, his belief 
(chapter 32)— he believes that he can judge the celebrity. However, he does not consider that something else might have happened before the moment he witnessed. The kiss becomes totalizing. Training is retroactively erased.
This is precisely the same epistemic shortcut Park Namwook took in Season 1.
In both cases:
- authority or proximity substitutes for inquiry,
- a partial observation becomes a total explanation,
- and investigation is deemed unnecessary because the observer believes he already understands the subject.
- Crucially, judgment in these moments is driven not by facts, but by emotion. Resentment, jealousy, fear, and wounded pride shape perception long before evidence is considered. What presents itself as moral clarity is, in reality, affective certainty.
Yet justice—whether institutional or interpersonal—cannot emerge from emotion. It requires distance. It requires restraint. It requires a form of deliberate indifference: not apathy, but neutrality. The refusal to let feeling stand in for truth. Therefore a judge will always listen both sides (defendant, plaintiff). Neither Park Namwook 
(chapter 52) nor Heesung exercises this control. Both act from positions of perceived authority, and both mistake emotional coherence for factual accuracy. Their confidence does not only arise from what they know, but also from how strongly they feel. The strength of conviction replaces the labor of verification.
This failure becomes especially visible in Heesung’s interpretation of Kim Dan’s departure. 
(chapter 58) He imagines a simple narrative: Kim Dan must have left because of Joo Jaekyung’s temper, his rudeness, his violence, probably due to the “defeat”. A quarrel, therefore, naturally leads to separation. From this assumption follows a paternalistic conclusion: the “hamster” must be hidden from the athlete for his own good. Protection becomes justification; concealment becomes virtue.
Heesung delivers this judgment 
(chapter 89) while smoking—a detail the episode insists on repeating, and one that should not be aestheticized. The cigarette does not merely accompany his words; it alters the air in which they are spoken. 
(chapter 89) Smoke replaces oxygen. What should be a space for clarification becomes a polluted environment where nothing clean can circulate. His speech is not only corrosive; it is toxic, dispersing blame without responsibility and judgment without accountability.
This is not the violence of a raised fist, but of contamination. Heesung does not attack Joo Jaekyung directly; he saturates the space with inevitability. His words do not argue—they suffocate. By framing Jaekyung as fundamentally unlovable (“after everything you’ve done”), he does not describe a reality; he reinscribes a conviction that already haunts the champion: that love is structurally inaccessible to him, that intimacy is something he can only damage, never deserve.
In this sense, Heesung’s intervention is not corrective but punitive. It does not open a future; it seals one. The smoke signals this closure. There is no fresh air, no possibility of reconfiguration—only the quiet assertion that the past defines the present absolutely. And because Heesung speaks from a posture of apparent control, he mistakes pollution for moral clarity. He leaves believing he has spoken the truth, while what he has done is reinforce the most destructive lie Joo Jaekyung already believes about himself.
What Heesung never questions is whether this narrative is complete—or even accurate. He doesn’t know about the incident with the switched spray, about doc Dan’s mental and emotional suffering, he has no idea about doc Dan’s past as well. It was, as if the young man had no past or no trouble before his interaction with the sportsman. He does not ask why Kim Dan stayed as long as he did, why he returned, or how the relationship itself has transformed. He doesn’t look at the physical therapist at all, thus he can see no change. (chapter 89) The possibility that Kim Dan acted with agency, discernment, or desire is excluded in advance. Kim Dan is reduced to a fragile and innocent object of care rather than a subject capable of choice. He doesn’t know what is good for himself. (chapter 89)
What Jinx exposes here is not dishonesty, but epistemic arrogance: the conviction that seeing grants mastery over meaning.
The irony, of course, is that Joo Jaekyung once occupied this very position. (chapter 1) He accepted Park Namwook’s account of the former physical therapist because it aligned with what he believed he knew about himself and others. Now, in Episode 89, he becomes the object of the same logic—reduced, explained, and judged by someone who believes that proximity equals comprehension. This repetition matters.
It shows that truth in Jinx is never neutral. It is filtered through:
- authority (Park Namwook),
- jealousy and wounded pride (Heesung),
- reputation and past violence (Joo Jaekyung),
- and self-effacing silence (Kim Dan).
To know the full truth is impossible—not because the truth is unknowable, but because every character approaches it already shaped by prior experience. What changes in Episode 89 is not the existence of bias, but the story’s willingness to expose it as bias.
Heesung believes he knows the truth because he has seen something. A kiss. A single image, isolated from its sequence, elevated into certainty. From that moment on, everything else becomes irrelevant. And because he saw this before 
(chapter 58), he reinterprets the kiss as “fuck” and not as the expression of love and tenderness. In other words, he is witnessing “true love”, but he rejects it. This exposes that he has no true notion of real love. In his mind, Joo Jaekyung abused his position as “employer”. (chapter 89)
Heesung presents himself as morally superior because he does not resort to physical violence. 
(chapter 89) But this distinction is hollow. Harm does not require raised fists. It can be inflicted through trick, insinuation, through speaking about someone rather than to them, through occupying the role of moral arbiter while denying the other person a voice. (chapter 89) Kim Dan has always disliked this — being spoken for, spoken over, spoken around. Episode 1 and 57 established this clearly. Episode 89 simply mirrors it back.
What makes Heesung especially dangerous is that he uses Kim Dan as a shield. He claims to defend him, but only in his absence. By positioning himself as Kim Dan’s advocate, he grants himself authority while quietly stripping Kim Dan of agency. His concern is not what Kim Dan wants, but what Heesung believes Kim Dan deserves. In doing so, he protects his own wounded pride — the pride of someone who cannot accept that Kim Dan rejected him.
This refusal is key. Heesung cannot bear the idea that Kim Dan would choose Joo Jaekyung, even date him. 
(chapter 89) His comment “You’re not ….” implies the expectation of a confirmation. Both are not dating. What Joo Jaekyung is actually doing exceeds the category Heesung understands. This is not casual dating. It is not secrecy. It is not consumption. It is preparation. Continuity. A future. Symbolically, Joo Jaekyung is already a step beyond “dating”: he is moving toward marriage — toward public, accountable union. He is closer to commitment than the cursed “Romeo”. That’s the reason why the author included such a reference at the store: 
(chapter 89).
And this is where the contrast becomes stark. Heesung, who performs moral responsibility, is not dating Potato openly. He keeps relationships provisional, deniable, suspended in ambiguity. He treats the young fighter more like a puppy or servant than as an equal partner. Joo Jaekyung, who is accused of being reckless and violent, does the opposite. He assumes responsibility. He spends time with doc Dan by teaching him swimming and fighting, he pays debts. He limits contracts. He buys a suit not for himself, but for Kim Dan’s future. He does not erase the past; he integrates it into a shared trajectory.
In this sense, Heesung is not the opposite of institutional power — he is its echo. He speaks confidently, withdraws responsibility, and leaves consequences to others. He does not strike, but he silences. He does not coerce, but he defines reality from a position Kim Dan never consented to.
The tragedy is not that Heesung lies consciously. It is that he is convinced he is telling the truth.
Not Seeing but Knowing
Episode 89 ends not with confrontation, but with a visual verdict. 
(chapter 89)
At one table sits the former hospital director. His presence is quiet, restrained, and deeply uncomfortable. Nothing about him suggests ease. His coat remains on, his tie loosened but not removed — a body prepared to leave rather than settle. He did not come to linger. He did not come to enjoy himself. His posture signals transience, not belonging.
The drink in front of him reinforces this distance. Whisky on the rocks is not a drink of sharing or unfolding; it is a drink of insulation. Cold, undiluted, contained. It is consumed alone, meant to harden rather than open. Even when accompanied, the director remains isolated. The person across from him seems to be talking to him 
(chapter 89), yet the antagonist does not engage him. Conversation fails to circulate. Responsibility, like dialogue, stops at the rim of the glass.
This matters because the director is not merely observing Kim Dan — he is being corrected by him.
For a long time, the director believed he knew how Kim Dan’s story had ended. Fired, blacklisted, erased — a life quietly ruined by institutional power. That belief allowed him to move on without consequence. Silence had done its work. The trick had succeeded.
What sustained this belief was secrecy. Not ignorance, but managed invisibility. Power, in Jinx, does not primarily operate through open coercion, but through control of circulation 
(chapter 48): who is seen, who is spoken about, and who is allowed to speak at all. By removing Kim Dan from institutional spaces and ensuring that the story of his dismissal was settled elsewhere, the director did not merely punish him — he rendered him socially invisible. Thus no one knew about doc Dan, when the athlete looked for him. 
(chapter 56) As long as Kim Dan remained unseen, power could continue to “know” without ever needing to verify.
The episode makes this collapse of power visible through contrast, not moral correction. In the flashbacks, the hospital director appears with controlled dominance 
(chapter 89) rather than exposed guilt. His posture is upright, leaning in. His hand rests on Kim Dan’s shoulder without hesitation—uninvited yet unchallenged. His face shows satisfaction, not doubt. He smiles while Kim Dan sweats and is attempting to stop him. (chapter 1)
This is not the memory of a man who feared consequences. It is the memory of someone operating comfortably inside a system designed to protect him. (chapter 89) His confidence is instrumental, not emotional: the calm of someone who knows where authority lies and how silence will function afterward. The grayscale of the flashback does not condemn him; it preserves his former certainty. In memory, he is still the predator—not because he is crueler there, but because the environment still belongs to him: the hospital.
What has changed in Episode 89 is not his nature, but the terrain. (chapter 89)
In the restaurant, his stare freezes (chapter 1) not because he feels guilt, but because his old script no longer applies. He is no longer positioned above Kim Dan—neither institutionally, socially, nor visually. He cannot initiate contact without exposing himself. He is no longer buffered by uniforms, corridors, professional hierarchies, or closed rooms where truth can be settled elsewhere. The architecture that once enabled him—white coats, administrative silence, procedural opacity—is gone. And he can not confide to his colleague either, hence he keeps starring the main couple. 
(chapter 89)
Predators rely on asymmetry and enclosure. Here, both have dissolved. This is why his reaction is not anger. Anger presumes leverage. What we see instead is hesitation: the moment a predator realizes the habitat that sustained him no longer exists. His disorientation is not ethical; it is strategic. He is recalculating risk. There is no redemption here, no moral awakening. He does not look ashamed. He looks uncertain—stripped of guarantees, not conscience. (chapter 89)
This makes the contrast with Kim Dan and Joo Jaekyung even sharper. Their interaction is openly intimate, casual, and socially legible. 
(chapter 89) They do not require shadows, isolation, or ambiguity to touch. Their closeness does not depend on secrecy or hierarchy. Where the director’s former power depended on institutional opacity, hierarchical distance, and Kim Dan’s vulnerability, Joo Jaekyung’s present intimacy depends on none of these. And no one seems to pay attention to the “main couple” at all. 
(chapter 89)
That is the true reversal the episode stages. Power has not disappeared; it has migrated. The table of the hamster and wolf is placed higher than the one where the perverted director is seated. (chapter 89) It no longer operates through enclosure and silence, but through visibility and mutual presence. What once required corridors and closed doors now unfolds in the open air of a shared table. And this, finally, is what the director is forced to see. (chapter 89)
What unsettles the director is not confrontation, but visibility: the realization that secrecy can no longer protect the knowledge he once mistook for truth. His wrongdoing can now get exposed, for doc Dan is now standing close to the “spotlight”. Joo Jaekyung is not just a face, but also a voice. Thus the latter could sue a hospital. 
(chapter 42) This raises the following question: was the wolf suing the hospital where doc Dan got his first “gig”,?
What the nameless director sees now contradicts that certainty. (chapter 89) Kim Dan is not diminished. He is not withdrawn, anxious, or broken. He is smiling. Relaxed. Present. He laughs. He blushes. His body no longer carries the posture of someone living under constant threat. And he is not alone. He is sitting with a famous athlete — not as an accessory or subordinate, but as an equal. But more importantly, he is not pushing away the gentle gesture from the famous MMA fighter, while the “old creep” couldn’t forget doc Dan’s rejection. (chapter 89)
This is the shock. (chapter 89)
The director did not anticipate survival. He did not imagine joy. He certainly did not expect visibility.
Across the restaurant, a different table breathes. (chapter 89)
Kim Dan has removed his jacket. His body is at ease in the space. He is not preparing to leave; he is inhabiting the moment. The drink shared here — red wine — is not incidental. 
(chapter 89) Wine is relational. It opens, breathes, changes with time. It is meant to be shared, discussed, returned to. It presupposes duration. Where whisky seals, wine circulates.
Where the director’s table is suspended in cold certainty, Kim Dan and Joo Jaekyung’s table exists in a shared present. Air moves. Attention moves. When Joo Jaekyung looks at Kim Dan, he does not define him or speak for him. He responds to him. Kim Dan is not summarized. He is addressed. And observe that doc Dan is gradually imposing himself as the senior. He is now the athlete’s hyung. (chapter 89)
The contrast is not moralistic. It is structural.
The director represents a mode of power that knows without seeing. He once decided truth behind closed doors, believing outcomes were sufficient proof. Even now, his presence is shaped by that same logic: observe without engaging, remember without reckoning, drink without sharing. The irony is that he is exactly like Heesung. He thinks, what he sees is the truth. He believes to know. Because he is a hidden homosexual, he can only interpret such a gesture as the expression of love, (chapter 89) but also as commitment. In his eyes, they are dating, they are a couple. The irony is that he is only partially correct. They are not an official couple, but they act like one. Moreover, they are working together. So they are more than just a couple. Finally, this happy moment doesn’t indicate what doc Dan went through in the past, the switched spray, the drugged beverage and a huge depression.
Joo Jaekyung represents something else entirely. Not innocence, not purity, but responsibility. He does not deny the past; he incorporates it. He does not insulate himself from consequence; he assumes it. The space he shares with Kim Dan is not free of history, but it is no longer governed by silence. In fact, now their “history” is full of funny stories. 
(chapter 89) But more importantly, he doesn’t hide his affection and attraction to doc Dan, while the other did it behind closed doors. Finally, thanks to doc Dan, Joo Jaekyung is learning to pay attention to his surrounding. That’s how he sensed the gaze from the perverted hospital director. (chapter 89)
This is why Episode 89 feels decisive without resolving anything.
The director’s return does not promise immediate punishment or exposure. It signals displacement. The world he once controlled through erasure no longer centers him. The person he believed he had reduced to nothing is not only alive, but visible — and no longer alone. He is even happy.
Power that relied on not seeing has lost its authority. What replaces it is not revenge, but relation.
And this is what marks The Beginning of the End, the final emancipation of Doc Dan. The latter does not arrive through confrontation or declaration, but through legibility. In the fitting room, the suit is not a costume of aspiration or disguise; it is a confirmation that he can now be seen without being reduced. He looks back, not down. He asks, 
(chapter 89) not as a plea for permission, but as an invitation into a shared future. The pause of the older man watching him echoes a different kind of professionalism: not predatory authority, not performative control, but quiet recognition. Furthermore the doctor’s suit reminded me of the doctor in episode 13, Cheolmin (pattern, colors). 
(chapter 13) The visual resemblance to Cheolmin is not accidental. It aligns Kim Dan’s future not with power that operates through secrecy, but with practice grounded in fun, care and responsibility. Earlier, suits belonged to those who decided outcomes behind closed doors (chapter 89); here, the suit becomes a sign of re-entry without erasure. 
(chapter 89) Bought by Joo Jaekyung but chosen by Kim Dan, it marks the return of agency. What was once a symbol of exclusion now signals continuity. Kim Dan is no longer preparing to survive. He is preparing to live. Hence his birthday is approaching.
Not because justice has been delivered, but because those who once “knew” without seeing are finally forced to see—
and discover that their knowledge and power were never secure, only temporarily protected by illusion.
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(chapter 88), and the final panel hinting at an imminent confrontation with Choi Heesung. 
(chapter 88) Discussions largely revolved around physical proximity, discipline, and anticipation — around bodies in motion and the promise of conflict to come. At first glance, the episode seemed to oscillate between intimacy and tension 
(chapter 88), between preparation 
(chapter 88) and interruption 
(chapter 88).
(chapter 88) are structured around restraint 
(chapter 88), delayed, or redirected. Words are measured, authority is redistributed, and decisions are deferred 
(chapter 88) rather than imposed. What initially appears as physical intensity and narrative suspense begins to reveal a deeper reconfiguration of roles, responsibility, and choice.
(chapter 70)—most likely in November— in late autumn. 
(chapter 88) This temporal setting is visually reinforced by the environment itself: in the opening sequence marked “a few weeks later,” the tree is already bare, its leaves gone. Nature offers no spontaneous image of growth or renewal. If a flower were to appear in this chapter, it couldn’t belong to the season. It must be cultivated, protected, and sustained in a green house—something that emerges not from natural abundance, but from deliberate care. So where does this idea of a flower come from?
: a closed circuit which we could witness once again in the training room: 
(chapter 88) There are once again sparks between them. The number 8 is not just related to doc Dan [for more read 
(chapter 58) Two trajectories —long separated, repeatedly missing one another—intersect at last. When two eights overlap, they form neither a loop nor a knot, but a new shape: a flower-like figure, suggestive of opening rather than closure. This crossing does not resolve everything; instead, it creates the conditions for growth for all the characters. 
(chapter 88), white 
(chapter 88) purple 
(chapter 88), blue, gray, 
, (chapter 88) red 
(chapter 88) Pink frames tenderness and mutual awkwardness; purple marks embarrassment and heightened awareness; red signals suppressed anger and looming confrontation; black absorbs fear, silence, and unresolved tension.
(chapter 88) are dressed in green 
(chapter 19), where green and floral elements once functioned as a silent language of care and containment. The repetition is not accidental. By wearing a similar tone in the present, Kim Dan does not merely revisit the past; he carries it forward. 
(chapter 35), which tend to assert a singular message (love, passion, beauty), hydrangeas communicate multiplicity and emotional ambivalence; they speak in clusters rather than declarations. This visual language mirrors Kim Dan’s inner world at the time 
(chapter 31). Here, the symbolism shifts. Pink roses convey affection and admiration, while baby’s breath suggests innocence and fragility. Yet the arrangement is excessive, overwhelming, and mismatched to its recipient. The bouquet does not listen; it speaks at Kim Dan rather than with him. Significantly, Heesung comes to associate Kim Dan himself with the flower—something delicate, beautiful, and deserving of protection, but also something to be handled, displayed, and possessed. 
(chapter 88) Kim Dan’s green training clothes—visually echoing the green shirt he wore in the photograph with his grandmother—signal continuity rather than regression. This is not a retreat into childhood dependency, but the reappearance of an inner child now disentangled from obligation and fear. The flower that reemerges here is not gifted, not arranged, not imposed—it grows. In this sense, episode 88 introduces a missing element in the dynamic between the two protagonists: not desire, not care, but communication. And it is here that Choi Heesung becomes central—not as a rival or antagonist, but as a structural bridge, as in reality he represents the rose, “La vie en rose” 
. He embodies speech, playfulness, and visibility, yet also reveals their limits when they are severed from responsibility and respect. I will elaborate about this more below.
(chapter 88), but the moment in which the conditions for happiness are finally put into place. And now let me ask you this. What is the symbol of happiness? Smiles and laughs. During the training session, Kim Dan smiles. These moments are brief 
(chapter 88) and goes unnoticed by him 
(chapter 83) What is striking is that neither of them recognizes this fulfillment. 
(chapter 31)
(chapter 88) What appears at first glance as coercion 
(chapter 88) or discipline is in fact a negotiation shaped by habit, fear of burdening the other, and an inability—on both sides—to articulate desire outside professional roles.
(chapter 88), a space that is never neutral in Jinx. A car has one driver, one direction, one authority. By placing the conversation there, Mingwa signals that the relationship is still structurally asymmetrical at this point: Joo Jaekyung leads, Kim Dan follows.
(chapter 88) Secondly, such a training suggests that the athlete is gradually remembering this scene of the almost-rape. 
(chapter 17) Therefore it is not surprising that instead of asking permission or explaining concern, he imposes the idea—because that is how he has learned to act as a captain, a fighter, and later a manager. Authority precedes dialogue. 
(chapter 88) In other words, the request from Joo Jaekyung appears as a memory from the physical therapist. Why? 
(chapter 88) Because Mingwa refuses the “clean” sequence in which an order is issued and immediately executed. The narration inserts a gap—an interval of off-panel time that we are forced to reconstruct from Kim Dan’s recall. 
(chapter 88) Instead Kim Dan no longer insists on his own sufficiency. He no longer says “I can manage., but doc Dan admits not only his own lacking. 
(chapter 88), but also his own desire. He finally expresses his desire to improve, to learn more. 
(chapter 88) creates a temporal bridge that enables this recognition. Only once change is named from the outside can Kim Dan cautiously acknowledge it from within.
(chapter 88) The problem is that his form of care was influenced by his own mindset and emotions: his physical limitations.
(chapter 88)
(chapter 88). He teases. 
(chapter 88)
(chapter 88), not rest. Thus the doctor mistakes the embrace for a technique and not the expression of love. 
(chapter 88) And observe that the athlete still refuses to express the true meaning of his hug. His explanation still remains technical, defensive, and strategically framed:
(chapter 88) This sentence is crucial. It reduces contact to function. The closeness of bodies, the pressure of weight, the proximity of breath are translated into instruction. What could be acknowledged as reassurance or care is instead displaced into pedagogy. Joo Jaekyung does not deny intimacy; he relabels it. 
(chapter 88) of breath held too long, of proximity charged with something unnamed. The technical explanation arrives after that awareness, not before it. This confirms that the instructional language functions as a shield — not against intimacy itself, but against having to speak it.
(chapter 88) Directly after warning against lowering one’s guard, Joo Jaekyung kisses him.
(chapter 26) Back then, Doc Dan had accepted the challenge due to Potato, though deep down he desired to have the champion as his teacher. 
(chapter 25) That’s how it dawned on me that doc Dan has gradually taken over Yoon-Gu’s previous place at the gym. He is an “unofficial member” of Team Black. Thus he mops the floor and Yoon-Gu is not there to stop him or reclaim this position. 
(chapter 88) Yoon-Gu’s position within the gym has improved. He is now considered as a real fighter. 
(chapter 88) 
(chapter 87) For him, this trip was related to work, while in reality it was a date in disguise. 
(Chapter 88) The answer restores hierarchy without acknowledging the transformation that has already occurred. Secondly, the answer closes the future by appealing to a supposedly objective limit. Yoon-Gu can never be his sparring partner. The best he can do is hold the mitts and nothing more. The fox is using his seniority and body to have the final say. 
(chapter 88) Under that framework, Yoon-Gu is not disqualified; he is qualified. He has trained. He belongs. So technically, Yoon-Gu could indeed beat the actor, as the “puppy” has trained for a long time at Team Black. 
(special episode 1) He knows people’s patterns. 
(special episode 1) He knows how relationships fail. 
(chapter 33) He knows what he does not want. His language is saturated with judgment shaped by past experiences: lovers who become “too clingy,” attachments that turn inconvenient, people who should remain “better off” elsewhere 
(chapter 33) Heesung’s orientation is never toward what is unfolding, but toward what might be better elsewhere—another partner, another configuration, another future. His repeated invocation of a “soulmate” is revealing: it displaces intimacy into a hypothetical horizon. By looking at the grass, he is overlooking the flower. Love, for him, is something to be found later, once the conditions are ideal. What exists now is always provisional, always lacking, always subject to replacement. He needs the “perfect” lover, and in his eyes, Potato doesn’t meet his conditions: too innocent and too young. 
(special episode 1) This explicates why the young fighter is only considered as “fuck buddy”. 
(special episode 1) 
(special episode 1), he is present, available, even emotionally invested—but he is never treated as sufficient. He is smaller 
(chapter 58) Heesung’s use of the pronoun “we” is, on the surface, inclusive. Linguistically, it frames his relationship with Potato as mutual, shared, and consensual. But pragmatically, it does the opposite. The “we” is spoken over Potato’s head, not with him. Thus Potato is physically present but discursively absent. He does not confirm, nuance, or reciprocate the statement verbally. The pronoun thus becomes a rhetorical appropriation rather than a sign of partnership. 
(chapter 31) He denies the existence of feelings and attachment. 
(special episode 1) or humiliate the other. 
(chapter 34) Heesung, by contrast, is fluent. He can name, joke, insinuate. What he lacks is restraint and responsibility. His ease with words does not signal emotional intelligence; it signals control.
(special episode 2), corrected. 
(chapter 34) Heesung enters fully aware of what he is likely to witness. He is not naïve, nor totally surprised. Hence he doesn’t flee right away. Yet instead of acknowledging the reality before him, Doc Dan is not someone the fighter fucks, until he passes out, 
(chapter 34) Joo Jaekyung becomes the problem, the one who “deserves to suffer.” 
(chapter 25), accepts deferral. Later, he is displaced entirely. Unlike Kim Dan, who gradually moves from imposed participation to earned agency, Potato is never given a space where effort leads to recognition. 
(chapter 85) However, this panel implies that the young man has already been able to enter competition. Striking is that his promise at the seaside sounds like commitment 
(chapter 59), but the reality diverges. It only binds doc Dan. If the latter returns to Seoul, he has to promise to train with Potato. The reason is simple. He is already committed to the actor, he is already at his beck and call. Potato’s promise echoes the earlier promise forced upon Kim Dan by his grandmother: a future-oriented vow that justifies present sacrifice while guaranteeing nothing in return. 
(chapter 11)
(chapter 78), he didn’t remind doc Dan of his promise. At the same time, observe that none of the fighters apologized or promised something. When they hugged the doctor, they didn’t pay attention to the physical therapist’s reaction: his passivity and silence. The “laugh” lacked genuineness and felt wrong at the time. 
(chapter 78) 
(Chapter 88) This is how it dawned on me why Mingwa recreated such a situation for Heesung. Observe his reaction, when he opened the door. He never answered the question to Potato. In fact, he slammed the door and kept his thoughts to himself. 
(chapter 32), Yoon-Gu now provides unpaid labor and institutional access under the guise of familiarity and generosity 
(chapter 35). In both cases, Heesung benefits from proximity without assuming responsibility for the other person’s risk. Silence, here, is not neutral—it is the mechanism by which that asymmetry is maintained.
(chapter 88) Forgiveness, responsibility, and mutual recognition—central to the arc unfolding elsewhere—are entirely absent from his conduct. Where Joo Jaekyung begins to redistribute choice and accountability, Heesung consolidates control by refusing to speak.
(chapter 52) about the switched spray, but he only reported one thing: Kim Dan is innocent. So while insight is present, responsibility is systematically deferred. Without responsibility, respect cannot follow. And without respect, what appears as connection is merely use, quietly sustained by silence.
(chapter 88) The irony is that the actor didn’t realize this. He had the impression to be exposed to a similar scene than in the penthouse. 
(chapter 35) And now, pay attention to the logo on the doctor’s t- shirt. 
(chapter 88) First, it appears on the left side, positioned close to the hamster’s heart. Moreover, it looks like an orange eye. Orange is not only the color of Heesung the fox 
(chapter 34), but also of friendship and social communication and interaction. 
(chapter 79) Besides, it is the same logo than when Yoon-Gu was spying behind the closed door.
(chapter 23) That’s the moment Potato realized the truth about the couple: they were intimate. That’s the reason why I am convinced that Heesung will play the role of the messenger and mediator between the wolf and the hamster.
(chapter 87), and the destruction of black glass under Baek Junmin’s foot. 
(chapter 87) Both moments operate under pressure, yet they belong to radically different economies. One gathers force inward to protect, contain, and care. The other expels force outward to fracture, dominate, and erase. The biggest difference is not intensity, but direction—and whether the other is held, or destroyed.
(chapter 87) He asks for strength and luck 
(chapter 87). Kim Dan answers with a gesture, the offered hand accompanied with a wish:
(chapter 87). Only then does the squeeze occur. Words initiate connection; the body confirms it. Speech and gesture align. Pressure becomes care.
(chapter 87) —but they are refused. Baek Junmin is denied any possibility of reply—no space to answer, to justify himself, or even to speak back. 
(chapter 87) The screen interposed between them 
(chapter 87) functions as both a physical and symbolic barrier: it delivers judgment without permitting response. Deprived of dialogue, Junmin is pushed out of language altogether. What remains available to him is not speech, but the body. His answer therefore does not come in words, but through the hand
(chapter 87) and then through the foot. 
(chapter 87) The violence is not misdirected; it is precisely directed at the medium that silences him. The screen is the site of exclusion, 
(chapter 87), before the challenge 
(chapter 87), the champion turns around.
(chapter 87) He looks—not at the crowd, not at the institution, but at Kim Dan. The gaze matters. It establishes a circuit. Like a phone call finally answered, it places both on the same wavelength. Only then does the question come. 
(chapter 87) Here again, language and body are aligned. 
(chapter 87) Kim Dan answers—first with a nod, then with words. The response is clear, immediate, and embodied. And what follows is decisive: the champion raises his arm. 
(chapter 87) 
(chapter 15) 
(chapter 40) 
(chapter 51), its meaning sharpens. For the first time, Kim Dan no longer occupies the position of fan or witness. He functions as judge and jury. 😮 And the champion acts accordingly. He declares himself the winner. 
(chapter 87) Joo Jaekyung is no longer a puppet or zombie, but a man with a heart and voice. 
(chapter 46) It regulates turn-taking, determines who may speak, in what order, and under which framing. As long as it remains in the moderator’s hand, speech is mediated, filtered, and contextualized. Questions lead; answers follow. Meaning circulates vertically.
(chapter 87) He no longer moderates; he reacts. He cannot redirect the statement, soften it, or translate it into spectacle. He can only acknowledge that something has escaped containment. The apology is not moral—it is procedural. It marks the moment the institution loses authorship. 
(chapter 57); he is narrating. He does not answer a question 
(chapter 14) Yet, CSPP 
appears more and more insistently 
(chapter 87), even in the cage
(chapter 87), contrary to before. 
(chapter 15) Either you only see the C or the name is placed out of the frame. 
(chapter 40) Yet it remains unexplained. What does it stand for in the world of Jinx? A sponsor? A broadcaster? The story never defines it explicitly—and that absence matters. What goes unnamed is often what exercises the most power. I will elaborate about it further.
(chapter 36) —depends on mediation. Delay. Scoring. Interpretation. The quiet redistribution of meaning after the fact. As long as nothing is said outright 
(chapter 69), control remains possible. Once speech becomes public, control becomes fragile.
(chapter 87), people in the seaside town, a public that exists before commentary can shape it.
(chapter 87) And the fight already answers the questions the system hopes to postpone. What we see in the cage is not merely a contest of strength, but a clash of communicative regimes. How one fights here is inseparable from how one speaks, evades, provokes, or withholds.
(chapter 87) His movement privileges distance, tempo 
(chapter 87) and visibility. That way he gives the impression that he is superior to the former champion. The middle kick appears not as a finishing tool 
(chapter 87), but as an instrument of disruption—enough to score, enough to interrupt rhythm, never enough to end the exchange. The rest of his offense follows the same logic: repeated punches to the face 
(chapter 87), the hands, the shoulder. Targets chosen not for collapse, but for points. Not to silence the opponent, but to keep him talking through damage. The choice of targets is not arbitrary. The hands and the shoulder are not neutral zones. They are sites of vulnerability that presuppose knowledge. Arnaud Gabriel does not fight, as if he were discovering his opponent in real time; he fights as if he were acting on prior information. 
(chapter 82) He anticipated a diminished MMA fighter at the end of his career who would train at the hotel gym. His punches repeatedly return to the same areas—not to finish, but to aggravate. Not to silence, but to extract fatigue.
(chapter 87) The shoulder carries the memory of surgery and recovery. The hands mediate both offense and defense; exhausting them degrades reach, timing, and confidence. And breathlessness 
(chapter 82)—noticed earlier during training—signals something even more fragile: limits that are physiological, not tactical.
(chapter 87) It aligns disturbingly well with what had already circulated outside the match: commentary about tension, exhaustion, time away from competition. Whether through media narratives, observation, or informal channels of intelligence, the opponent’s body has already been translated into information.
(chapter 47) Already discussed. Already framed. Gabriel’s reliance on point accumulation is inseparable from this logic. 
(chapter 87) He does not need to dominate the body; he needs to activate its known limits and let the scoring apparatus do the rest.
(chapter 87) —his decision to close distance, to counter decisively, to end the exchange rather than prolong it—appears less like impatience than resistance. He does not correct the narrative. He interrupts it.
(chapter 51) The fight is no longer about what happens between bodies, but about who controls evaluation. And that’s how they could rig the match between Baek Junmin and Joo Jaekyung. 
(chapter 70) acquires a different meaning. What he condemns as arrogance is not a moral failure, but a structural adaptation. These fighters have learned that they do not need to finish fights with a knockout. They only need to prolong them—to survive them—because the system will finish the sentence for them. Therefore, the moderator’s commentary during the match introducing the new Korean fighter takes on a clearer function. 
(chapter 71) He frames the rookie as someone “waiting for the right timing,” subtly suggesting a coming knockout rather than prolonged survival. The language is important: it reassures the audience that decisiveness still exists within the system, that power is merely deferred—not absent.
(chapter 71) The director is not persuaded. Hwang Byungchul reads the situation differently. He recognizes stiffness, fear, and overreliance on structure—not composure, not strategy. Where the moderator sees patience, the director sees hesitation. Where commentary insists on strategy, experience detects rigidity and lack of instincts.
(chapter 81) It is an assumption: that the outcome no longer requires athletic intervention. The champion is treated as a finished product, a celebrity whose role is to endure visibility, not to alter the terms of the fight itself.
(chapter 82) and inside the cage. 
(chapter 87) Publicly, he is courteous. Measured. Even complimentary. 
(chapter 82), gentle and polite gestures, and tactical distance— away from the spotlight, away from overt confrontation. His restraint is not humility, but alignment. He performs civility so that judgment, narration, and authority can be outsourced to the institution. That’s why for him, fighting is strongly intertwined with fun and he sees himself more as a star than as an athlete. He is definitely influenced by MFC. Hence we can say that his suit mirrors his mind-set. Gabriel’s suit does not soften his presence; it disciplines it. The patterned fabric signals rigidity rather than elegance—structure over fluidity. It mirrors his fighting style: calibrated, rule-bound, resistant to improvisation. Nothing about his appearance invites rupture. Everything is designed to hold form.
(chapter 52) He lets others speak, provoke, circulate images, manage money, create pressure. 
(chapter 54) His power does not come from direct address, but from displacement. When he does appear, it is rarely to argue. 
(chapter 49) It is to smirk, to whisper, to apply pressure obliquely. In both cases, the logic is identical: control is preserved by never being fully present.
(chapter 87) It is more observation. He allows the opponent to speak first—to reveal the structure of the exchange. 
(chapter 87) When it lands, it collapses distance. It forces the opponent inward. And crucially, it targets the center of the body—not the face that earns applause, but the core that sustains movement.
(chapter 87) and delivers an uppercut. 
(chapter 87) This is not escalation; it is completion. Where Gabriel sought to keep the fight open, Joo Jaekyung compresses it. He refuses the long exchange. He refuses circulation. He refuses to wait for judgment. His strategy is not to be evaluated later, but to be undeniable now. 
(chapter 87) This is not silence imposed from outside, but silence produced by gravity. Once the body crashes, breath cannot return, and speech has nowhere to perch. 
(chapter 87)
(chapter 74) 
(chapter 87) 
(chapter 2) While the jinx held, action could still occur, but speech could not carry consequence. Words dissipated, were deferred, or were absorbed by systems designed to neutralize them. Powerlessness expressed itself as speechlessness.
(chapter 87) His actions arrive before meaning can be reassigned. His words arrive where no answer is prepared. In this sense, episode 87 marks the moment Joo Jaekyung becomes fluent in his own discipline. Not merely competent, not merely dominant, but articulate. His movements surprise 
(chapter 5) which had surprised his manager Park Namwook. 
(chapter 5)
(chapter 69) , the switching, the method—the institution could have responded. Clarifications could be issued. Liability could be managed. But by speaking elliptically, by pointing to manipulation without anatomizing it, the champion places the burden of interpretation onto the audience. And MFC can not deny the existence of an incident in the locker room.
(chapter 62) They are not close enough to trust the system blindly.
(chapter 57)
(chapter 69), by allowing attention to cluster around foreign misconduct 
(chapter 69) and public embarrassment 
(chapter 74) Early incidents reframed as character. Let’s not forget that he was stigmatized as a thug by the members from Team Black too. 
(chapter 31) The system does not deny the champion’s words ; it reclassifies them. What was a refusal of manipulation becomes “anger issues.” What was naming becomes “acting out.”
(chapter 72) It only needs to repeat an already accepted story: abandonment as necessity, violence as justification, disappearance as victimhood. A story the system knows how to circulate. And Hwang Byungchul never questioned her decision so far. 
(chapter 78) Secondly, Kim Dan is now able to distinguish the past from the present. Finally, thanks to doc Dan 
(chapter 62), he did so many good deeds in the seaside town that the inhabitants and the patients from the hospice won’t accept such accusations. I believe that such people won’t see “motherfucker” as a problem at all, they will rather see it as a part of his role after the match. What will remain in their mind is rather the accusation and riddle he voiced: the stunt Baek Junmin played. 
(chapter 87), which already tells us that CSPP does not function as a simple broadcaster. My idea is that CSPP operates as an intermediary apparatus: a company that packages events, sells broadcasting rights, coordinates visibility, and transforms violence into consumable spectacle. In other words, CSPP does not show fights; it produces events. This explicates why CSPP was present right from the start 
(chapter 14), but barely visible. But the moment it caught my attention in Paris, I realized that its increasing visibility displays the success of MFC as company. Observe that when the champion faced Randy Booker, the weight-in took place on the same day than the fight and in the arena, not at a prestigious hotel like in Paris. Here, the champion held a conference many days before the weight-in, and the latter took place the night before the match with Arnaud Gabriel. Secondly, you can observe the success of MFC through the banners. In Busan, the website of MFC was posed in the background next to CSPP. 
(chapter 50), only MFC and CSPP. But in Paris, it is now totally different. 
(chapter 35), his suspension 
(chapter 57) 
(chapter 70) His matches are scheduled at hours accessible even to a Korean hospital 
(chapter 41) or hospice patients. 
(chapter 71) becomes intelligible. It is not a mark of anticipation, but of expendability. The match is placed where attention is thinnest, where failure or success carries minimal consequence. By contrast, Joo Jaekyung’s fights are positioned to be seen. The asymmetry exposes how dependent MFC’s visibility economy is on him—not as a competitor, but as the primary organizer of audience attention.
(chapter 47) His presence circulates through curated highlights and controlled conference footage rather than open broadcast. 
(chapter 47) His rise is engineered through selective visibility. 
(chapter 47) Weak opponents are chosen. 
(chapter 47) His image is inflated before he ever faces Joo Jaekyung. CSPP does not need to expose him fully; it needs only to prepare recognition. However, CSPP is an official company, they can not control rumors among fighters. 
(chapter 47) Thus the manager suggested this to his boss just before: 
(chapter 46) By mentioning the existence of spies, he incited the main lead to keep his distance from the doctor and the members so that the rumors about the underground fighting wouldn’t reach his ears.
(chapter 14), the United States, Paris—the fights are placed in high-visibility slots. Loss must be witnessed. Decline must be shared. By contrast, the fight between Baek Junmin and Joo Jaekyung takes place in the morning 
(chapter 49), a time of dispersed attention, private viewing, and reduced collective response. Visibility is not maximized; it is managed. 
(chapter 49) CSPP’s role, then, is not neutral mediation. It is temporal governance. It decides when exposure becomes dangerous and when it becomes profitable. It does not silence events; it times them.
(chapter 77) Once Joo Jaekyung does not contest the loss of his title—once he does not sue, demand more investigation, or interrupt the administrative process— MFC and CSPP no longer need to justify anything. Delay becomes normalization. Silence becomes confirmation.
(chapter 87) is dangerous not only for MFC, but for CSPP itself. If his connections to the underworld surface, CSPP is no longer a distributor of sport, but a conduit for illicit spectacle. Contracts dissolve not because violence occurred, but because violence escaped framing.
(chapter 49) Under normal medical protocol, this should have stopped the fight immediately. 
(chapter 41) No athlete should perform when injured. Yet MFC Medical remains silent, the staff simply treats the wound. The bout proceeds. Only later—after attention has shifted, after consequences have begun to circulate—does the same medical authority step forward to issue disciplinary sanctions and a suspension 
(chapter 52) There were cameras in the arena. What cannot be allowed to surface is proof of foreknowledge: that an injured athlete was permitted to fight under institutional supervision. Thus it raises the question if the match in the morning was broadcast on TV. 
(chapter 52) Structural complicity is translated into an individualized incident. What occurred in the cage is no longer the issue; what occurred afterward becomes the narrative.
(chapter 46) that began elsewhere—losses already acknowledged when Choi Gilseok brought him into the system in the first place. 
(chapter 30) This implies that he won’t remain passive and silent like in the past, relying on structure and institutions (Entertainment agency…) and accepting to become a scapegoat. 
(chapter 54) 
Bebebisous33s' analyses in K-Dramaland and Manhwas 