The Boxer's Room

Alright — here’s Chapter 5: The Boxer’s Room with over 600 words, keeping the tone and pacing consistent with the rest of the novel.

Chapter 5 – The Boxer’s Room

The next work order was printed in the same plain black ink as all the others, but something about it made Cho Sang-gu’s eyes narrow.

Name: Park Jin-ho

Age: 31

Cause of Death: Car accident after midnight

Next of Kin: None listed

Sang-gu stared at the name for a long moment, his fingers tightening slightly around the paper.

“You know him?” Geu-ru asked, his head tilting in that precise way he did when curious.

“No,” Sang-gu said quickly, shoving the paper back onto the counter. “Let’s just get this over with.”

They drove in silence through the city’s backstreets until they reached a small, aging apartment block. The elevator was broken, so they climbed four flights of narrow stairs, their footsteps echoing in the dim stairwell.

When Sang-gu unlocked the door, the smell of sweat and leather hit them first. The room was cramped—bed in one corner, kitchenette in another—and every available wall space was covered with posters of boxing matches, some faded and curling at the edges.

A pair of worn gloves hung from a hook near the door.

Geu-ru moved to the center of the room, photographing it in slow, deliberate steps. His eyes scanned each item—hand wraps laid neatly on the desk, a championship belt resting in a glass case, a cracked water bottle on the floor.

“You’re moving slow,” Sang-gu muttered, pulling on his gloves.

“I’m reading,” Geu-ru replied.

Sang-gu snorted. “Reading what? There’s no books here.”

Geu-ru didn’t look up. “I’m reading the person.”

They worked without much talk, though Sang-gu’s movements were noticeably rougher than usual. He shoved clothes into a box without folding them, tossed empty protein shake bottles into the trash bag with too much force.

Geu-ru noticed. He noticed everything.

At the far end of the room, under the bed, Geu-ru found a small cardboard box. Inside was a collection of match tickets, each carefully dated in black ink, and an envelope containing a photograph.

The photo showed Park Jin-ho, smiling broadly, his arm around another young boxer—one Sang-gu recognized instantly.

Himself.

Sang-gu froze, his hand halfway to grabbing another box. “Where’d you get that?”

Geu-ru turned the photo over. On the back, in uneven handwriting, were the words: To my hyung, who believed in me first.

“You knew him,” Geu-ru said, not as a question but as a statement.

Sang-gu’s jaw tightened. “He was… a guy from the gym. That’s all.”

Geu-ru studied him for a moment, then carefully placed the photo in an envelope labeled Significant. He didn’t ask more, but the silence between them grew heavier.

By the time they finished cleaning, the room looked bare—just empty walls, a swept floor, and the faint lingering scent of leather.

They stood in the center of it, bowing as always.

“Thank you for your life, Mr. Park,” Geu-ru said.

Sang-gu’s bow was slow, almost reluctant. His eyes stayed on the spot where the gloves had hung.

On the drive back, the photo rested on the console between them.

“You’ll deliver that?” Sang-gu asked quietly.

“Yes,” Geu-ru replied. “If there is someone to deliver it to.”

Sang-gu gripped the wheel tighter. “Maybe there isn’t.”

“Then I’ll keep it,” Geu-ru said. “Because someone should remember.”

For a long time, neither spoke. The hum of the van’s engine was the only sound, but in Sang-gu’s mind, he could still hear the bell of the boxing ring, still see Jin-ho’s grin before the first round began.

Some stories, he knew, weren’t left behind in boxes—they stayed with you, whether you wanted them o

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