Chapter 809: Psychiatrist

The room smelled of lavender and old paper.

Yang sat in the armchair by the window, his back straight but his shoulders slumped, a posture that tried to pretend at composure while betraying everything underneath.

The afternoon light fell across his face, illuminating the shadows beneath his eyes, the hollow of his cheeks.

Across from him, Dr. Elara Vance sat with her notebook open but untouched. She had been the club’s head sports psychologist for six years.

She had seen young players break under pressure, under expectation, under the weight of their own potential. But she had learned that the first session was never about the problem.

It was about the person learning that they were allowed to speak.

"You’ve been coming here for three weeks now," she said, her voice calm, unhurried. "You’ve answered my questions. You’ve filled out the forms. But you haven’t told me anything yet."

Yang didn’t respond.

"I’m not asking you to trust me," she continued. "I’m asking you to try something. Just for this hour."

He shifted in his seat. His fingers were interlocked, knuckles white.

"Tell me about the seventeen minutes before the tackle."

His gaze flicked up. "What?"

"The seventeen minutes before." She leaned forward slightly. "You’ve been replaying the moment of the tackle over and over. Everyone does that. But I want you to go back further. Before the desperation arrived. Just... seventeen minutes."

Yang stared at her.

"I don’t understand the point."

"I know." She smiled faintly. "Tell me anyway."

He was silent for a long time. The clock on the wall ticked. Outside, a bird chirped. The golden light shifted across the floor.

Finally, he spoke.

"I was in the wrong position."

She didn’t interrupt.

"I had pushed too far forward. I was supposed to be defending the flank, but I saw an opening, and I thought... if I could get forward, I could create something. I thought I’d be the hero."

He swallowed.

"So I went. And then they countered. I had to sprint back. I had to chase. And I remember thinking—" He paused. "I remember thinking, this is going to be the moment where I prove everyone wrong."

"Prove what wrong?"

He opened his mouth. Closed it. Then opened it again.

"That I wasn’t just a speed merchant. That I wasn’t just—" He exhaled. "That I was good enough. That I was worth something."

Dr. Vance nodded slowly. "And the desperation? When did that start?"

"Before the match." His voice dropped. "The night before. I couldn’t sleep. I kept seeing him—Hiro—on the screen. The way he played. The way everyone talked about him. And I kept thinking... my friend used to play like that. Before the tackle."

"Your friend."

"Park Jae-won."

He said the name like it was something he had to force through his throat.

"He was better than me. Better than anyone I knew. And someone took that away from him. One tackle. One moment. And then it was gone. And no one talked about him after. He just... disappeared from the conversation."

Dr. Vance set down her notebook.

"Yang."

He didn’t meet her eyes.

"When did you last speak to him?"

"I don’t know." His voice was barely a whisper. "Years. I don’t even know where he is now."

"And when you think about that... about not knowing—what do you feel?"

He was silent.

Then, so quietly she almost missed it:

"Shame."

"The kind that makes you feel small," she said. "Or the kind that makes you feel invisible?"

"Both."

He finally looked at her. His eyes were red-rimmed.

"I told him we’d make it together. I promised him. And then when he couldn’t—when he fell—I just..." He shook his head. "I didn’t even call. I got on the bus. I went to training. I made new friends. And I never looked back."

"As your father did," she said.

It wasn’t an accusation. It was a mirror.

Yang flinched. "That’s not—"

"Did he look back? When he came home drunk. When he raised his hand. Did he see you? See your mother? Or was he only seeing his own pain?"

Yang’s breath caught.

"My father—" He stopped.

He tried again.

"He’s not—"

He pressed his palms against his eyes.

"I’m not like him."

Silence.

"I don’t know if that’s true," Dr. Vance said. "But I know that you’re afraid of it."

She let the words settle.

"You don’t have to fix everything today. You don’t have to forgive yourself. But I need you to understand something. You’ve been treating this guilt like it’s the only thing keeping you honest. Like if you stop punishing yourself, you’ll become the person you’re terrified of being."

She paused.

"But punishment isn’t discipline. And self-destruction isn’t accountability. You’ve been punishing yourself for years—for your friend, for your father, for what you did to Hiro. And look where that’s left you."

Yang lowered his hands.

His face was pale. His hands trembled.

"So what am I supposed to do?"

"Start here. Stay in the room. Don’t run from it. Just sit in it, Yang. Just for this hour."

He exhaled.

Slowly, impossibly, his shoulders dropped.

"I told him I’d make it."

"I know."

"I was supposed to make it with him."

"Tell me about that promise."

He told her.

And for the first time in weeks, he said something true out loud.

Time passed.

When he left the session, the sun was setting.

He stood on the steps of the clinic, watching the sky turn orange and violet. His phone buzzed in his pocket. He ignored it. Then it buzzed again.

Then a third time.

He pulled it out. He stared at it for a while before pocketing it back.

Then he started walking.

The walk to his apartment felt longer than usual.

Each step echoed in the empty street, the lamplights flickering to life as dusk settled over the city. Yang’s hands were buried in his jacket pockets, his breath forming small clouds in the cooling air.

He had spent the entire session saying things he had never said out loud. The name Park Jae-won still lingered on his tongue like ash. And now, someone was waiting for him.

Who?

He reached his building. Climbed the stairs. Paused at his door.

Through the frosted glass, he could see a silhouette—broad-shouldered, still, patient.

He unlocked the door.