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 Love is in the Air -part 1 and The Words The Fireworks Stole

It would be great if you could make some donations/sponsoring: Ko-fi.com/bebebisous33  That way, you can support me with “coffee” so that I have the energy to keep examining Manhwas. Besides, I need to cover up the expenses for this blog.

Notice: Right now, I am quite overwhelmed with work (grading papers, staff meetings etc), hence I can only write one essay after each episode.

Introduction – Where it begins

I have to admit that I had not anticipated a smut-scene in episode 85. On the other hand, it makes sense, for it is the night before the match, it is jinx-time. At the same time, their physical reunion (chapter 85) represents the positive reflection of this night (chapter 58) (chapter 58) (chapter 58), when the physical therapist chose to give up on the athlete and stop listening to his heart. Here, I am not only referring to the numerical symmetry but also to the doctor’s shifting vision of Joo Jaekyung.

In both episodes 58 and 85 (chapter 85), Jaekyung appears with a towel around his neck. This simple object evokes water and sweat, but in Jinx, these elements are never neutral. They are tied to one of the champion’s earliest traumas: the humiliation of being called “dirty” (chapter 75) and “smelly” as a child. This is why Jaekyung learned to perfuse his body with cologne after every shower (chapter 75) and why physical proximity has always carried the risk of shame. Hence he kept people at arms length. In chapter 40, when he rescued Kim Dan from the security guards, he kept his distance (chapter 40) — he had not yet showered, for the towel on his shoulders was stained with blood. Mingwa was indirectly referring to the champion’s psychological wounds. (chapter 40) It was, as if the fear of smelling “wrong,” of being perceived as contaminated, was still dictating his movements. Hence he could only claim doc Dan as one of his own, but not as his “physical therapist” or even “family”. And interesting is that doc Dan copied his attitude. In the hallway, he maintained a certain distance from the athlete. (chapter 40)

But in Paris, the presence of that same towel (chapter 85) suggests something very different. He has just stepped out of the shower, which means he is clean, his hair hanging down, still wet. (chapter 85) This striking detail is that he clearly left in a hurry: contrary to all earlier scenes where he sprayed himself with cologne (chapter 40) the moment he dried off (chapter 75), here he has not perfumed himself at all. (chapter 85) His hair is unstyled, his scent unmasked — and yet he approaches Dan without hesitation. He even kisses him. The item that once symbolized rejection now signifies trust: without fragrance, he is certain that doc Dan will not call him “dirty,” will not recoil, will not shame him. What once provoked distance becomes an unexpected bridge, revealing that Jaekyung is finally letting someone remain close, when he feels most vulnerable. The night in Paris does not simply suggest a return of desire; it announces the return of hope (chapter 85) and trust — and perhaps even the moment when Dan chooses, for the first time, to be honest with his own body and heart.

And yet — hidden beneath the sensual reunion and the echo of that earlier night — something else begins to unravel. Something softer, sweeter, far more dangerous for a man who once prided himself on standing above everyone else. For the first time, we witness the champion’s downfall — not a collapse of strength or dignity, but the collapse of the walls he spent years building. A downfall so gentle that it goes almost unnoticed, except by the one person who has always watched him closely: Doc Dan. (chapter 85)

After all, it takes a certain kind of irony for a man called “the Emperor” to experience his most significant fall at the very moment he carries someone else to bed (chapter 85) — fulfilling, without knowing it, a secret wish the physical therapist has harbored since childhood (chapter 61) [I will elaborate it further later]. And perhaps this is why the moment feels so disarming: because the downfall is not tragic but tender, not humiliating but intimate. Sweet, even.

But to understand why this ‘downfall’ is the sweetest one Joo Jaekyung has ever lived, we must first return to the moment it truly began — not in the bedroom, but hours earlier at the dinner table (chapter 85), when a single careless comment shattered the champion’s composure and revealed just how fragile his newfound hope really was.

The First Tremors

What caught my notice is that the physical therapist is the only one wearing the jacket with Joo Jaekyung on it! (chapter 85) In contrast, both Park Namwook and coach Jeong Yosep wear generic MFC T-shirts. (chapter 85) Mingwa is not simply dressing characters — she is revealing loyalties. The manager and coach are aligned with the institution MFC; Dan alone is aligned with the man, Joo Jaekyung. This quiet visual contrast already hints at the emotional imbalance that will unfold in the next few panels.

The first tremor begins at the dinner table, where the manager suddenly brings the physical therapist back to reality. (chapter 85) Dan is lost in his thoughts — anticipating the night ahead with the champion — and has barely touched his food. Park Namwook notices this. One might think, such a remark displays the manager’s concern for the main lead’s well-being. However, the manager adds that the other members of the team are all almost finished. With such a remark, it becomes clear that the manager is urging the protagonist to finish his plate. Although Park Namwook addresses Dan as if showing concern, the content of his remark betrays his true priority: not Dan’s well-being, but the team’s schedule. By pointing out that ‘the rest of us are almost finished,’ he urges Dan to keep pace, treating him as staff who had to follow the group rather than someone with personal needs. As you can sense, schedule is essential for the manager. However, because doc Dan couldn’t reveal the true reason behind his behavior, he gives an excuse for his lack of appetite. (chapter 85) He merely says he feels “a little queasy.” The irony is striking. In English, queasy is not a neutral word: it suggests nausea, a churning stomach, a sensation often associated with disgust or repulsion. And although Dan’s discomfort has nothing to do with Jaekyung, the word itself carries an emotional weight the champion is highly sensitive to. It brushes against an old, unhealed wound — the childhood humiliation of being called “dirty,” “smelly,” or somehow “wrong.” But doc Dan was not telling the truth, this explains why the main lead refused the medication from the manager right away. (chapter 85) As you can see, the first disturbance comes from Park Namwook. But this doesn’t end here.
He questions the physical therapist — not the fighter — and asks whether he is nervous about tomorrow’s match. The question is innocent, but its implications are not. By speaking to Dan rather than to Jaekyung, Park is unconsciously revealing his neglect toward his boss and champion. Secondly, with this remark “That’s understandable, since it’s been a while for you”, he reminds the champion of two things which have been tormenting him: not only the last match with Baek Junmin and Doc Dan’s vanishing, but also their night together before the Baek Junmin match, when Dan left after sex without looking back. (chapter 53) The manager’s words bring Joo Jaekyung back to reality and its uncomfortable truth that Dan’s presence now is still bound to a contract — temporary, contingent, never fully his. In other words, with his remarks, Park Namwook is reopening old wounds which shows his total blindness and lack of finesse and of empathy. He treats the last match, as if nothing bad had happened. The incident with the switched spray is simply erased.

Thus Jaekyung’s reaction is immediate: his mouth tightens in visible dissatisfaction. (chapter 85) It is a controlled expression, not a loss of composure, but it reveals irritation and intense gaze — the kind that arises when a sensitive subject is touched too directly. Park’s comment awakens a memory whose meaning has changed: back then, he accepted Dan (chapter 53) leaving without thinking; now, after Dan vanished from his life entirely, that earlier departure feels like a sign he failed to read. Park’s question brushes against this bruise, and Jaekyung’s lips reflect the discomfort.

As for the second tremor, it does not come from Park Namwook. It comes from Potato. (chapter 85) The younger fighter suddenly bursts into panic, declaring how nervous he would be in Jaekyung’s place, how his heart would be pounding out of his chest. His outburst is sincere, naïve, and completely focused on the champion — he never once considers Dan’s feelings. Yet these words strike deeper than he intends. At the mention of a pounding heart, Jaekyung’s eyes lift upward in a brief, involuntary movement. It is the smallest gesture, but it exposes everything he wishes to hide. Because his heart is pounding — but not for the match. It is because of doc Dan!

Potato unknowingly names the very thing Jaekyung is trying to keep steady: the nervousness and anticipation of the night ahead, the fear that history might repeat itself, and the desire that has been building for a long time. Unlike Park’s comment, which triggered irritation, Potato’s words hit the emotional center. This upward glance is the second tremor, the moment the façade slips just a little too far. Surrounded by people who see everything except the truth, Jaekyung reaches for the one thing he can control. He taps his phone and, in full view of the table, sends a message to Dan: (chapter 85) “Come to my room at 11.”

It looks like dominance, but it is driven by something far more fragile: (chapter 85) the need for reassurance, the wish to rewrite the pattern of the past, the quiet hope that Dan will not leave him again — not tonight and not afterwards.

This is where the Emperor’s downfall begins: with a tightened mouth, an upward glance, and a message sent to steady a heart that refuses to stay calm.

The Long Wait

If the dinner scene revealed the cracks in the champion’s composure, it also exposed something equally revealing about the manager. For Park Namwook, the real opponent is not Arnaud Gabriel — it is time. This explicates why the manager announces their departure at 7.00 am sharp, though the Emperor’s match is at noon. (chapter 85) Schedules are his armor, punctuality his hiding place. Whenever something threatens to slip beyond control, he retreats behind procedure.

This is why he suddenly takes an interest in Dan’s appetite. (chapter 85) His comment about the untouched plate is not born of concern; it is born of urgency. The faster Dan finishes, the sooner the table can be dismissed, and the sooner Park Namwook can send the champion to his room under the comfortable pretext of “rest.” (chapter 85) For him, “rest” is not a recommendation —
it is a containment strategy. This explains why the manager is not looking at the Emperor, when he tells him: “Jaekyung, go to bed early tonight, okay?”. Why? Because he doesn’t want a discussion. If he avoids eye contact, Jaekyung cannot object — the instruction is meant to be received, not answered. He is expecting obedience, nothing more. Therefore it is not surprising that the manager smiles (chapter 85), as soon as the athlete stands up right after his recommendation and announces he is now returning to his room.

Once Jaekyung is hidden behind a hotel door, quiet and unmonitored, nothing can be blamed on the manager anymore. If the champion sleeps poorly? Not his fault. If he feels sick? Not his fault. If emotions become volatile? Certainly not his fault. He will always be able to say: “I told him to go to bed early.”

What he wants is not Jaekyung’s well-being. What he wants is a clean conscience. But we have another example for his flaw. (chapter 85) A day and night without complications. A scenario in which no one can accuse him of negligence, if something goes wrong tomorrow. And Mingwa already exposed this flaw only seconds earlier. When Dan finally gives an excuse for his lack of appetite — “I’m feeling a bit queasy…” — the manager immediately reframes it as Dan’s recurring personal weakness: “It’s too bad you have trouble eating whenever we go abroad…” (chapter 85) With this single sentence, he erases the actual causes of Dan’s digestive problems — the fact that the therapist had been mistreated, overworked, stressed, ignored, even drugged during their last trip to the States. None of that exists in Park Namwook’s mind. In his version of reality, Dan’s discomfort is an inconvenience, not a symptom of mistreatment.

And here, his solution reveals everything: he immediately offers medication. Not help. Not care. Not attention. He treats doc Dan the same way than Joo Jaekyung. (chapter 54)

A pill — the fastest way to silence discomfort without having to see it. “Too bad” is not sympathy (chapter 85); it is avoidance. It exposes a man who does not want to be burdened by emotions, who cannot hold another person’s vulnerability without trying to shut it down. To him, Dan’s nausea is a logistical issue, not a sign of human distress.

Park Namwook’s flaw is not malice. His flaw is cowardice toward feelings — his own and those of others.
And this flaw will matter the next morning, when the Emperor and/or the doctor do not appear at 7:00 a.m. sharp, and the manager finally discovers that schedules offer no protection against the consequences of neglect.

But let’s return our attention to the manager’s recommendation to the champion: (chapter 85) He reacts with almost visible relief, when the champion stands up from the table. (chapter 85) He has no idea about the text message — no suspicion of anything planned for later. He sees only what benefits him: Jaekyung leaving on his own. Perfect. The fighter is out of sight, out of reach, and most importantly, out of his responsibility.

He doesn’t ask where Jaekyung is going. He doesn’t check if he’s alright. He doesn’t wonder whether something is wrong. He simply lets him go.

But this is exactly where the real question begins — a question the manager can never ask, only Jinx-philes: If Jaekyung returns to his room so early… what does he actually do until 11 pm?

What makes the evening in Paris so striking is the contradiction between time and behavior.
From the moment Joo Jaekyung sends the text at 7:02 p.m (chapter 85) and leaves the table shortly after, until the doctor knocks on his door at 11:00 p.m (if we assume that he went there at 11 pm)., almost four hours pass. (chapter 85) In theory, this is the perfect window to do what he used to do in the States (chapter 38) and Korea (chapter 48) before a big fight: watch his opponent’s videos, study their habits, rehearse counters. If we only looked at the clock, we might assume he spent the evening thinking about Arnaud Gabriel.

But the narrative context says the opposite.

Just before he leaves the table, Jaekyung has been hit by two painful reminders (chapter 85) linked to doc Dan, not Arnaud Gabriel. First, through Park Namwook’s question and tone, he is dragged back to the night before the Baek Junmin match — the night when sex with Dan was followed by distance, and then by disappearance after the fight. Second, Dan’s “queasy” excuse scratches an old wound: the fear of being perceived as disgusting or unwanted. Both moments are about abandonment and rejection, not competition. It is right after this double sting that he sends the message. In that instant, his thoughts are circling only one point: will Dan come to accept me, or will he pull away again?

That is the emotional seed of the long wait. This explains why they are on the bed, the athlete complained: (chapter 85) He had to restrain himself due to doc Dan. (chapter 85) From 7:02 onward, the question is no longer “How do I beat Gabriel?” but “How do I win doc Dan’s heart?” The clock from 7:02 to 11:00 p.m. stops being a “training window” and becomes an emotional countdown. He is no longer the champion preparing for an opponent—he is the man hoping not to be abandoned again. This is why the later scene at the door feels so contradictory: when Dan finally arrives, Jaekyung behaves like someone who couldn’t wait. (chapter 85) He opens the door and immediately grabs him inside (chapter 85), cutting off any possibility of hesitation. The way he drags him over the threshold, presses him against the wall (chapter 85), kisses him, lifts him (chapter 85) and carries him to the bed — all of that oozes urgency. Hence he doesn’t place his lover delicately on the bed, he rather pushes him down, thus we have the sound PLOP: (chapter 85) This is not the controlled, casual emperor of old; it is someone who has been holding back for hours and refuses to risk even a second in which Dan might change his mind.

And yet, visually, we know he has just finished showering. (chapter 85) His hair is still down and wet; the towel is still around his neck. That detail destroys the idea of a carefully structured pre-match evening. If he truly wanted a calm, professional night, he had four hours to shower, dry his hair, apply cologne, and settle. Instead, he postpones the shower so long that he is still damp when he opens the door.

In other words, he waited until the very last minute to get ready. This creates a striking contrast: he had four hours, yet he looks as though he prepared in a hurry. So what exactly did he do during this lapse of time? 😮

This is what every Jinx-lover should wonder. And given Jaekyung’s personality — his directness, his physicality, his awkwardness with emotional communication — a new hypothesis imposes itself. He did not study Gabriel. He studied how to please doc Dan. I am suspecting that he might have watched porno for that matter. Don’t forget this scene on the beach: (chapter 65) and the comment of the champion in front of this movie: (chapter 29) Moreover, I consider this scene (chapter 85) as a new version of Choi Heesung’s advice: Doc Dan just needs to sit back and enjoy!! (chapter 31) Joo Jaekyung is now doing everything, as deep down he wants to become the perfect lover! And how had I described the night in the States? Back then, the hamster Dan had become the champion’s perfect lover, especially because he had kissed his face, hugged him and confessed to him. (chapter 39) But if his fear to lose doc Dan was so huge, why did he ask him to come so late then? (chapter 85) It is the same hour than in the States. (chapter 38) One might reply that the athlete desired to maintain appearances and as such to hide his suffering and anxiety. In other words, he was hiding his emotions behind routine, Jinx-sex would always start at 11 pm. However, this idea is not entirely satisfying because once doc Dan was in his room, the fighter was no longer hiding his emotions and desires. (chapter 85) That’s the reason why I am suspecting another cause for this time 11 pm. In my opinion, it is related to the athlete’s traumas: the physical abuse from his father (chapter 72), when the latter would return late from his “work” and the death of his father (chapter 73).

After the painful reminders at the table — the allusion to the Junmin night and Dan’s “queasy” excuse that scratched an old wound — his entire focus shifted. He could no longer risk repeating the dynamics of the past. In his mind, the only way to ensure that Dan would not disappear again was to do better, physically, in the one domain where he feels competent. So it is not far-fetched to imagine him watching tutorials or videos, searching for techniques, guidance, or advice he never received from anyone. He has one mentor in intimacy, Cheolmin, but the latter has only appeared once. No model to imitate. No words for tenderness. But he can learn through action, through practice, through imitation. And suddenly, this would explain everything that happens later.

It explains why, once doc Dan stands at his door, he behaves with such urgency. He grabs him immediately, pulls him inside, presses him against the wall while holding his face tenderly (chapter 85), kisses him with a force that has been building for hours. He had been so absorbed — so busy learning, rehearsing, imagining — that he realized only late that it was almost time for Dan to arrive. The rushed shower is not laziness; it is evidence that his preparation was of another kind altogether.

And then Dan appears. And this alone must have boosted Jaekyung’s ego in a way nothing else could. (chapter 85) Because doc Dan could have refused. He could have used his queasiness as an excuse, could have stayed in his room, could have claimed exhaustion. Instead, he obeyed the request — a request sent by someone who had hurt him deeply in the past. Doc Dan’s arrival is proof that he is not rejecting him. Proof that the night is real. Proof that the attempt to do better might actually matter. At the same time, doc Dan couldn’t miss the true meaning behind this text sent in front of others: the athlete’s anxiety and suffering. (chapter 85) This explains why his worried gaze followed his fated partner. (chapter 85) In other words, the text had a different meaning. It was not an order, but rather a wish…and it had nothing to do with his match against Arnaud Gabriel. During that night, Joo Jaekyung is not seeing a surrogate fighter in front of him or a sex toy, but his real partner, his future boyfriend. This means, this night stands in opposition to the one in the penthouse: (chapter 53) He is gradually moving on from his belief and jinx, he is even now prioritizing his love life over work!! If Park Namwook knew, he would get so shocked and scared… he would yell at him for causing a mess, for neglecting his “work”.

Under this light, it becomes comprehensible why Jaekyung takes his time for the first time. (chapter 85) This is why he touches Dan’s face instead of flipping him over.
This is why he kisses slowly, repeatedly, almost reverently. He knows that doc Dan likes nipple foreplay.
This is why he carries him in his arms (chapter 85) instead of carrying him over his shoulder. And this is why he suddenly engages in a new kind of foreplay — licking Dan’s leg (chapter 85) and anus (chapter 85) — something he has never done before. This does not come from instinct. It comes from intention. It comes from effort. It comes from learning. He is indeed showering doc Dan with love and tenderness, therefore it is not surprising that the “hamster” is moved sensually and emotionally. Exactly like during the Summer Night’s Dream, he is reaching nirvana, hence Jinx-philes are constantly seeing stars,. (chapter 85)

In short, the four hours did not shape his body for the match. They shaped his behavior for doc Dan.

The long lapse of time reveals a man who was not preparing for Arnaud Gabriel at all — but preparing for the one person whose opinion governs his heart. And when that person actually stands at his door, the tension of those hours condenses into the urgency of his welcome, the care of his touch, and the new tenderness of his actions. Everything in that moment — from the haste of his shower to the way he drags Dan inside — points toward a single truth: something fundamental in Joo Jaekyung has shifted.

And this brings us to the real meaning of the essay’s title.

The Truth Behind The Title

Many readers, seeing The Sweetest Downfall Ever , might assume that the downfall refers to Joo Jaekyung’s current behavior: his neglect of sleep in favor of desire, his single-minded focus on sex the night before the match, his impulsive decision to carry doc Dan to bed (chapter 85), or even the looming risk of professional failure. Others might think the downfall describes Dan’s new physical position — head lowered, body lifted (chapter 85) — or the emotional slip that comes with resurfacing feelings: the therapist losing distance, falling back into intimacy. All of these readings sound plausible at first glance. (chapter 85) But the truth behind the title is far simpler, far more literal, and yet far more symbolic.

The downfall begins with his hair. For the first time, he is letting his hair down. (chapter 85) This visual shift, subtle yet radical, is the origin of the title.

And under this light, the meaning behind my illustration becomes clearer. This is why I chose pink “hair” for the background — not merely as decoration, but as a visual clue. The color evokes warmth, softness, and vulnerability: the emotional terrain Jaekyung steps into the moment gravity pulls his hair out of its rigid form. But why is this detail meaningful?

Because the idiom “to let your hair down” carries centuries of emotional and cultural weight.

To let your hair down means to relax completely, to stop worrying about appearances or formalities, and to enjoy yourself freely. Imagine shedding the stiffness or seriousness of everyday life and simply being at ease. This idiom expresses the idea of breaking away from restraint or social pressure. […]

The phrase dates back to the 17th century England, where social etiquette dictated women keep their hair pinned up tightly in public or formal settings. Letting one’s hair down was a sign of intimacy and relaxation, often reserved for private moments or celebrations.

In the 1600s, the act was symbolic of rebellion against rigid social norms. Women “letting their hair down” in a public or semi-public setting was an act of freedom and sometimes even scandal. Over time, this physical gesture transformed into a figurative expression for loosening up mentally and emotionally. Quoted from https://grammarpaths.com/let-ones-hair-down-meaning/

When we read this historical meaning through the lens of Mingwa’s imagery, Jaekyung’s hair becomes more than a style choice. It becomes a confession. (chapter 85)

Letting his hair down means dropping the persona. Letting his hair down means allowing himself freedom.
Letting his hair down means entering intimacy — not performance.

It is the visual act of stepping away from the rigid social restraints imposed by MFC, public expectations, masculinity, and even trauma. And with this understanding, the transition becomes effortless:

For years, Joo Jaekyung’s hair has signified his status. (chapter 85) Styled up, hardened with gel (chapter 30) , perfectly arranged — it is the crown of the Emperor, the symbol of his control, his discipline, and the myth that MFC sells:
Joo Jaekyung, the untouchable. Joo Jaekyung, the brand. Joo Jaekyung, the man who never bends. (chapter 82) When the hair stands, the image stands.

But in Paris, for the first time, the hair falls. (chapter 85)

Even before chapter 85, Mingwa prepares the audience for this silent rebellion. Two days before the match, he wears a cap (chapter 85) — but not the way adults or professionals usually do.
He tilts it up, exposing his entire face. Teenagers wear their caps like this: loose, careless, unguarded, more concerned with comfort than appearance. And suddenly, Jaekyung looks younger — not in age, but in spirit. His gaze is no longer shadowed by the bill. It is fully visible, open, almost soft.

Then comes the wolf-ear headband at the amusement park (chapte 85), a gesture that would have been unthinkable for the Emperor of MFC. It is ridiculous, childish, playful — and he wears it anyway. Not for the crowd, not for the cameras, but because Dan asked him to wear one too. So he placed it on his head. It is the second stage of the downfall: the moment where he stops caring about the star image that has governed him for years. The moment where he allows himself to be seen as something other than a fighter. The wolf ears, like the tilted cap, signal a shift toward youthfulness, toward softness, toward an identity unshaped by branding. And yet, both items share something important: they still control the hair.

The cap hides it. The headband frames it. In both cases, the hair remains managed, held in place, contained.
This means that the “rejuvenation” we observe in these scenes is still superficial — a flirtation with freedom rather than freedom itself. (chapter 85) The cap and wolf ears make him look younger, even boyish, but they do not dismantle the structure around him. They soften the edges of the Emperor, but they do not dissolve the crown.

He looks more approachable, but not yet vulnerable. He looks less like a weapon, but not yet like a man. He looks playful, but not yet liberated. However, when he is seen with his hair down (chapter 85), he looks exactly like the little boy in the picture: (chapter 71) So doc Dan could recognize the little boy in the athlete, the more he sees the protagonist with his hair down. Furthermore, I noticed that contrary to season 1, Doc Dan has now more memories of the “wolf” facing him. (chapter 85) In the past, he would more look at him from behind: (chapter 35) (chapter 35) Seeing his face reflects not only the increasing care for each other, but also the improving communication between them.

And this is also the moment where the narrative contrast becomes striking. While Joo Jaekyung’s appearance is drifting backward toward youth, Arnaud Gabriel’s beard makes him look older, (chapter 85) more mature, more “masculine” in the traditional sense. This explicates why the stylists had to dress him up. (chapter 82) Yet such an intervention did more than prepare him for the cameras — it tightened the restrictions around his own image, reducing the fighter’s rights over how he appears to the world. With the suit, he appeared older and more powerful. The French fighter leans into age, while the Korean champion leans into youth — a symbolic inversion that reinforces the central tension in the Paris arc: Gabriel performs adulthood; Jaekyung rediscovers the adolescence he never lived. (chapter 85) But just as Jaekyung begins to slip into these youthful, softer identities, MFC reasserts control.

But MFC has its own ritual of restoration. At the photo shoot, the stylists immediately return him to form: (chapter 85) hair up, face polished, a look engineered for posters and rankings. He becomes once again the Emperor — the man who must appear older, sharper, more intimidating, more manufactured.

And this is exactly why the next transformation hits so hard. When Dan arrives at 11 p.m., Joo Jaekyung opens the door with his hair down, still dripping slightly from a rushed shower. This is not the Emperor. This is not the brand. This is not the legend presented in MFC 317. (chapter 79) This is the boy from the childhood photograph.

The hair-down Jaekyung is younger, wilder, softer (chapter 85) — someone who belongs not to MFC but to himself. Someone capable of affection. Someone whose emotions sit close to the skin. Someone who has stopped pretending. He is able to smile genuinely.

“Letting one’s hair down” is an idiom meaning to stop performing, to stop controlling oneself, to finally relax into authenticity. As you can see, Mingwa uses the concept (letting one’s hair down”) literally and metaphorically at once. The physical gesture (his hair falling) expresses the emotional one (his defenses lowering).

And suddenly, the birthday illustration released earlier this year makes sense. In the rain, with his hair heavy and unstyled, his gaze dark and sensual, Jaekyung appears nothing like the commanding emperor. He looks free — freed by weather, freed by desire, freed from roles. It was foreshadowing, not just fanservice. It announces the end of the « jinx » in reality.

Which brings us to the second reason “downfall” is the perfect word. “Downfall” often describes the collapse of status — the fall of kings, the ruin of reputations. And here, too, the meaning applies. Because by letting his hair down, Joo Jaekyung risks the downfall of the very myth that protects him.

He is neglecting his work. He is prioritizing Dan over rest. He is engaging in a long, indulgent foreplay the night before his comeback match — a foreplay so attentive and sensual that Dan wonders what changed. This is not the Emperor. This is a man who is slowly abandoning the throne.

And Mingwa multiplies the symbolic echoes:

• Downfall as rain:
  Heavy rain makes hair fall, obscures vision, exposes vulnerability.
  It is no coincidence that the birthday art shows him wet — nature brings him down to earth.
• Downfall as emotional collapse:
  His confrontation with memories at dinner destabilizes him.
  His desire for Dan overwhelms him.
  His anxiety about losing Dan drives him.
• Downfall as public risk:
  If he wins and hugs Dan in front of cameras out of gratitude and affection — a real possibility given his new softness — he could expose their bond publicly.
  This would be the ultimate downfall of the Emperor image:
  the revelation that he is not a remote titan but a man in love.
• Downfall as liberation:
  The fall from the Emperor’s pedestal is not a tragedy.
  It is freedom.

And this is where the meaning circles back to sweetness. However, this also signifies that he is escaping the control of MFC and as such he represents a source of danger for the organization.

When Jaekyung whispers, “Why the fuck do you taste so sweet today?” he is not describing Dan. (chapter 85) He is describing himself. His sweetness is the taste of freedom — freedom from performance, freedom from control, freedom from MFC, freedom from fear. He is enjoying this moment. Dan tastes sweet because Jaekyung is finally tasting the life he never allowed himself to want.

So the “downfall” of the title is not the fall of a champion.

It is the fall of a mask. A downfall so soft that it feels like surrender, so intimate that it feels like seduction, and so liberating that it becomes — unmistakably — sweet. Because the moment Jaekyung lets his hair down, he becomes someone who can fall in love. And perhaps someone who can finally be loved in return.

And now, you are probably thinking, this is it! But no… because we have the long wait the next morning!

Room 1704: The Number of Unscheduled Freedom

While the night in Paris reveals how quietly the Emperor has begun to fall, the true test of his transformation arrives the next morning. If letting his hair down marks the softening of his identity, what happens next exposes something even more subversive: Joo Jaekyung begins to let go of time itself. Because in Paris, time belongs not to MFC, not to Park Namwook, and not to the match — but to room 1704, (chapter 85) the one place where schedules dissolve, rituals are forgotten, and the fighter finally sleeps like someone who no longer needs to brace for survival.

Room 1704 is not just a hotel room; it is the numerical mirror of Jaekyung’s internal shift. It reduces to the number 12, and this detail offers a far deeper layer of meaning than coincidence. Twelve is the number of completeness. It marks the end of one cycle and the threshold of another. In numerology, it unites the energy of new beginnings (1) with the harmony of partnership (2) to form the creative expansion of 3. This blending transforms 12 into a symbol of spiritual awakening and divine order — a moment where the earthly and the transcendent briefly touch. It is no accident that the number appears in so many foundational structures: twelve months shaping the year, twelve zodiac signs forming the cosmic wheel, twelve tribes anchoring a nation, twelve apostles guiding the birth of a new faith. Across cultures, twelve signifies not closure, but transition: the release of what binds and the emergence of a new form.

Seen through this lens, room 1704 becomes the perfect setting for the champion’s inner shift. He does not simply enter a hotel room; he steps into a symbolic space where an old identity completes itself and a new one quietly begins. Twelve encourages letting go, surrendering rigidity, and allowing transformation to unfold. And this is precisely what happens that night. In room 1704, Joo Jaekyung lets his hair down, lets his guard fall, lets Dan remain close, and lets go — without yet realizing it — of the rituals and defenses that once defined him. The number that governs the room marks the moment where the Emperor’s earthly order dissolves, making space for an awakening shaped not by hierarchy or discipline, but by intimacy and partnership.

And the room itself reinforces this symbolism. Above the couch hangs a painting (chapter 85) The image is dreamlike: there are white horses with wings, a Pegasus-like creatures and angels. Their outlines are soft, almost blurred, as if painted in the air rather than on canvas. This is no random hotel decoration. A Pegasus traditionally symbolizes deliverance from earthly burdens, escape from oppression, and ascension into a higher realm; angels, of course, signify protection, guidance, and spiritual renewal. Together they transform the couch area into a symbolic threshold: the boundary between the profane world (MFC, schedules, fear, trauma) and a space touched by something gentler, freer, almost sacred.

The Pegasus-and-angel painting above the couch does more than sanctify room 1704—it also illuminates something that has quietly shaped Dan’s entire emotional life: his relationship to the couch itself. (chapter 21) The image of winged rescue and divine protection hangs over the very piece of furniture that, throughout the series, has functioned as Dan’s private sanctuary. This is not incidental. In Jinx, the couch is tied to his deepest memories of care and abandonment, and Mingwa activates this symbolism each time Dan gravitates to it.

Why did Dan’s nightmare of abandonment strike precisely, when he fell asleep on the couch? (chapter 21) Why does he consistently feel safer on the couch than in a bed? (chapter 29) Why, after the second swimming lesson, did he refuse to return to the bed (chapter 81), even though he was exhausted? Why does he place the teddy bear (chapter 84) —his last substitute for lost parental affection—on the couch and not on the bed? And finally, why has he always harbored the secret wish to be carried to bed, as confessed through his memory in chapter 61? (chapter 61)

The answers converge: the couch is Dan’s liminal space, the threshold between being left behind and being held, between cold reality and the remnants of tenderness he once knew. Note that there is no couch in the halmoni’s house. (chapter 10) Secondly, at no moment, we ever witness the grandmother carrying the little boy to bed. Either she is rocking him to sleep outside the house (chapter 47) or he is already in the bed. We never see her bringing him to bed.

Thus I came to develop the following theory. In childhood, before everything collapsed, the couch was the place where doc Dan waited for his parents to return from work—the place where he sometimes fell asleep with his teddy bear, only to be lifted and carried to bed by someone who loved him. It was brief, fragile, but it became etched into him as the last ritual of genuine care, before the world turned harsh. This would explain why he has internalized such gestures: (chapter 44), (chapter 44) traces from parents. And now, you comprehend why the hamster could never truly rest in the bed. The couch is therefore not an adult preference; it is a trauma imprint. Resting there feels safe because beds—large, empty, abandoned spaces—became reminders of whoever no longer carried him. Hence it is no longer surprising that he woke up, when he sensed the vanishing of warmth. (chapter 21)

This is why Dan puts the teddy bear on the couch (chapter 84): the bear stands in for a lost comforting presence. It also represents the main lead, Joo Jaekyung. The latter is gradually reentering in the physical therapist’s heart and life. Therefore it is not surprising that there, he squeezes the hand of the toy. It is also why Doc Dan curls around it like a child who deep down hopes to be chosen, lifted, and held. And it is why, even as an adult, his body still whispers the same yearning: someone, please carry me to bed again.

Placed in this context, the painting above the couch in room 1704 becomes profound. The winged horses represent rescue; the angels represent guardianship. They hover above the very place where Dan’s old wound meets the possibility of healing. And on this particular night, the symbolism is fulfilled: the man he once feared, the man who once hurt him, becomes the one who finally lifts him —not to discard him, not to dominate him, but to carry him to bed with the gentleness he has been unconsciously longing for since childhood. Under this new perspective, it becomes comprehensible why doc Dan often never realized that the athlete had often fulfilled his wish (chapter 29, chapter 40, chapter 65, chapter 68, chapter 79)

The couch, the painting, the number 1704—all align to mark this night as a turning point. A moment where old scripts collapse, where Dan’s abandonment narrative begins to loosen, and where Joo Jaekyung unknowingly steps into the role that no one has fulfilled since Dan was small: the one who does not leave him sleeping alone, but brings him into warmth.

And this is precisely what the number 1704 suggests. Reduced to 12, it carries the connotations of completion, awakening, divine order, the closing of one cycle and the opening of another. The Pegasus and angels above the couch echo that meaning visually: a silent promise that something in this room will lift rather than trap, heal rather than wound.

It is striking, too, that the imagery concerns flight—wings, ascension, rising above earthly weight. (chapter 85) For Joo Jaekyung, whose entire identity has been built on gravity, discipline, and the hardness of the body, this painting becomes an unconscious prelude to what he is about to do emotionally: let go, descend from the Emperor’s pedestal, and allow himself to be vulnerable. For Dan, the angels evoke the comfort and innocence he lost in childhood, the tenderness he has been deprived of for years. The painting therefore mirrors both men: the fighter who needs freedom, and the healer who needs protection.

Placed above the couch, it becomes the room’s spiritual anchor. It blesses the space without the characters realizing it. It reframes the night not as moral failure but as transformation. In this light, the “downfall” in the title is not the collapse of a champion — it is the completion of a cycle. A descent that is also a rising. A falling-away that creates room for renewal. Twelve crowns the night not with the end of something, but with the birth of something sweeter. Observe that around the painting, the pattern on the wall looks similar to snow flakes. It’s no coincidence… a synonym for “home”. A visual whisper that what happens here is not corruption but ascension and even “Nirvana”. That’s why I have the feeling that both or one of them might not wake up on time.

The first sign that room 1704 operates under new rules appears through a small but powerful object: the Do Not Disturb sign. (chapter 85)

For years, nothing in Jaekyung’s life has been allowed to interrupt the routine designed to keep him winning. His schedule is a fortress — wake up early, drink milk, shower and perfume, style hair, prepare body, prepare mind. Every minute is accounted for. Every ritual restores the Emperor identity. No step can be skipped.

But the moment Dan enters room 1704, the fortress cracks. The DND sign goes up. This implies that Joo Jaekyung might be able to sleep better and longer after this “hot night”.

And this tiny act holds enormous consequences. Park Namwook’s entire identity as manager is built on timing. He hides behind schedules the way Jaekyung once hid behind performance. (chapter 85) His mantra — 7:00 AM sharp — is not about concern. It is about control. If he arrives very early with his star, he believes that he has done his job. It is now MFC and Joo Jaekyung’s responsibility to decide about the match. Striking is that in the States, doc Dan woke up at 10. 26 am (chapter 85) and he was still able to arrive on time in the arena. (chapter 40) For me, it is a clue that the manager would always request to meet around 7.00 am, when the match was at noon. But what should do the athlete do during all this time? He can only get nervous and feel pressured.

This is where the true problem begins. A fighter scheduled to rise at dawn for a noon match is being set up to fail. The human body performs best roughly four or five hours after waking; having a good breakfast, for a match at midday, the ideal waking time would be closer to 8:30 or 9:00. Yet Park Namwook forces the entire team into a rhythm that has nothing to do with physiology and everything to do with his own fear of unpredictability. In other words, he is not managing an athlete — he is managing his anxiety.

The timing is disastrous for someone like Joo Jaekyung, whose insomnia is a recurring wound in the story. Sleep is the one ressource the Emperor chronically lacks, and the one thing he finally has a chance to experience now that doc Dan is beside him. (chapter 81) I noticed that in different scenes from season 2, the athlete started waking up later and even after doc Dan. (chapter 66) But the manager’s rigid schedule threatens even that. An early morning summons drains the fighter’s cortisol reserves before the match has even begun, creating a long, empty corridor of waiting — a period where tension, anxiety, fatigue, and irritation ferment in the body. Instead of resting, centering, and preparing, the champion would spend hours fighting against the clock imposed on him.

And this, ironically, is precisely what Park Namwook wants: a day without surprises, without emotional complications, without having to shoulder responsibility if something goes wrong. By bringing the team down to the lobby at a painfully early hour (chapter 85), he can tell himself that he has done everything correctly. From the moment they arrive, the rest is “not his problem.” His scheduling is a shield — not for Jaekyung, but for himself.

This reveals a harsh truth about his management style. He values predictability over performance, procedure over well-being, optics over actual athletic needs. And because he interprets punctuality as competence, he assumes that an early arrival protects him from blame. Whether the star sleeps well, eats well, or preserves his mental focus does not matter. What matters is that the boxes are checked, the appearance of order is maintained, and the responsibility is successfully transferred upward.

But what happens if the Emperor does not appear at 7:00 AM? (chapter 85) What happens if the room 1704 — with its quietly glowing DND sign — refuses to open?

Suddenly the carefully constructed ritual collapses. The manager may be standing in front of the door early in the morning, but the DND sign renders him powerless. He cannot knock insistently, he cannot demand entry or yell, and he certainly cannot ask hotel staff to open the door or to call the athlete. Any attempt to violate a guest’s privacy would not only break hotel policy — it could lead to a lawsuit, a breach-of-contract scandal, or even an international incident involving their star athlete. One angry complaint from Joo Jaekyung could cost the hotel its reputation, and one misstep from Park Namwook could cost him his career. And because he knows the champion had been drinking after the “loss” (chapter 54) , he might even jump to the wrong conclusion: that Jaekyung drank again — this time behind his back. (chapter 82) The irony is striking. Two days before the match, it was Park Namwook who overindulged with the others, yet he may now project that same carelessness onto the athlete. In his mind, the DND sign does not simply mean “rest”; it becomes a warning signal, a possible confirmation of the irresponsibility he fears but has never actually witnessed. Thus I can already imagine him panicking.

And this is exactly what terrifies him: there is no legal or professional ground on which he can force the champion to obey the schedule he imposed. For once, he cannot hide behind authority. He cannot produce documents or procedures to justify intervention. He cannot shift responsibility to MFC.

He is trapped in a situation where doing nothing is dangerous, and acting is even worse. One might object and say that he can still call the two protagonists. However, the doctor didn’t bring his cellphone to the room. (chapter 85) Secondly, it is possible that the athlete’s cellphone runs out of battery, especially if he watched so many videos the night before. However, if the staff knows about the DND, the manager can not ask the desk to call Joo Jaekyung either.

But the most destabilizing element of all is that he cannot even determine whom to blame — the physical therapist who may have encouraged the fighter to rest longer, or the champion who dared to let doc Dan sleep past the artificial boundaries the manager set in place or even slept longer by inadvertence. Another important aspect is the text from the champion. (chapter 85) Here, it is not written 11.00 pm, so the message could be read as 11.00 am. So this message could be read like this. He wanted to rest till 11.00 am. This could represent an evidence that champion chose to act behind Park Namwook’s back and trust Doc Dan more than Park Namwook.

The hierarchy reverses itself in an instant: the Emperor is untouchable, and the manager is the one who risks punishment.

For the first time, Park Namwook may have to confront the truth he has avoided for years: that his role as manager is ornamental, that he has never truly controlled the Emperor’s time, and that his authority dissolves the moment the athlete chooses to prioritize his own needs or his lover’s needs.

In that paralysis, old coping strategies return. He may blame Dan for keeping the champion awake. He may blame the champion for irresponsibility. He may fear that the match will suffer and that this failure, unlike all the others, will reflect poorly on him. One thing is sure: the manager can not leave the hotel without the wolf, and the latter will refuse to leave doc Dan behind either. As you can see, this night stands under the sign of “partnership” and the manager is now excluded.

However, inside room 1704, none of this external pressure exists. Because of the painting, I deduce that this room stands for intemporality. It was, as if time had stopped flowing. For the first time in years, Joo Jaekyung sleeps without fear. Without nightmares. Without counting breaths. Without bracing for violence. Without packing his trauma into the muscles of his back. Why? Because Dan is there. Not touching him — simply present. The presence alone rewrites the body’s memory.

And here lies the narrative genius: if Dan wakes first, he will instinctively protect that peace. He knows how vital rest is. He knows how Jaekyung has struggled to breathe, to sleep, to function. He knows the psychological cost of insomnia. He may silence alarms, block the manager from entering, or simply remain beside him until Jaekyung wakes naturally.

Which sets up the coming conflict:

If Jaekyung wakes late — later than the 7:00 AM schedule —he will not have enough time for his rituals.

• No milk to ground him
• No cold shower to reset his body
• No perfume to cover the phantom scent of childhood shame
• No hair styling to reinstall the Emperor crown

But none of this would matter, as long as doc Dan accepts him like that. However, it is clear that the fight will take place no matter what, as this match will be shown on TV! How do I know this? A match scheduled at noon on a Saturday is not designed for a French television audience — it is one of the least convenient viewing times for locals. But it aligns perfectly with broadcast windows in Korea and the United States, which means the bout is already plugged into international programming. In other words, the machinery is running. Cameras will roll, sponsors will expect coverage, and the event cannot be canceled simply because the champion oversleeps. The celebrity can arrive late, for he brings money. Joo Jaekyung will walk into the arena not as the branded champion, but as the man from room 1704 (chapter 85), a man who slept deeply, whose hair still remembers being down, whose body still carries Dan’s warmth. And this is the true downfall: He risks entering a match not as the Emperor, but as himself. And such a transformation could make people realize how young the “MMA fighter” is in the end. At the same time, his late arrival could create the illusion that the Emperor is not mentally and physically ready for a fight so that Arnaud Gabriel underestimates his opponent.

But here’s the irony — this may be the very thing that makes him stronger. Room 1704 becomes the space where the champion’s trauma evaporates, where instinct replaces ritual, where softness replaces armor. If he oversleeps, it means he felt safe — an emotional victory far more significant than a title defense.

For Park Namwook, however, oversleeping is a managerial nightmare. It is disorder. It is unpredictability. It is autonomy — the one thing he cannot manage. And when he stands before the DND sign, powerless, he may finally realize that his control and authority were always an illusion. He is not the boss or the owner of the gym. The Emperor no longer belongs to schedules, rituals, or institutions. He belongs to the one person behind that door. And that would be doc Dan who overlooked everything in Paris: his food (chapter 82), his look (chapter 82), his free time and took care of the champion’s emotional needs. In Paris, the « hamster » became the champion’s manager de facto, the unofficial right-hand. That’s why if they are late and they need a scapegoat, the manager can blame the physical therapist for the « delay », he would always come late to appointments (chapter 17: meeting the doctor) and to the fights (Busan, in the States).

Room 1704 is not the site of a downfall. It is the site of awakening.

Feel free to comment. If you have any suggestion for topics or Manhwa, feel free to ask. If you enjoyed reading it, retweet it or push the button like. My Reddit-Instagram-Twitter-Tumblr account is: @bebebisous33. Thanks for reading and for the support, particularly, I would like to thank all the new followers and people recommending my blog.