KTSR | Chapter 12

“Stand in front.”

The man wearing sunglasses didn’t seem like a photographer at first glance, but apparently, he was.

Suddenly, what kind of photos were these? They had even standardized the clothes to avoid remembering the jockeys’ features.

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Ijin was sure this was the doing of the new director.

“Like this?”

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Ijin stood facing forward, trying to make it look like a typical ID photo. There was no chair.

“No. Turn around first.”

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“Huh…?”

“Turn around so your hips are visible.”

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It was only natural for Ijin to be stunned when he heard this.

“We’ll take the shot so your face isn’t visible.”

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The sunglasses guy urged while checking the camera.

“Is your head not working, or are your ears blocked? If you’re going to waste my time, then fucking come in late.”

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Ijin turned around at the man’s words, who was chewing gum. However, he was still bewildered.

“Can’t you pose better than that?”

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“…….”

“Put some strength into your buns.”

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What was this all about? Ijin, in a daze, tucked his cap under his arm. This was the most typical pose one could think of when taking photos of athletes across all sports.

The sunglasses man clicked away, taking a few shots before telling him to stand sideways, seemingly unsatisfied.

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“Your body lines are good, but you’re stiffer than a plank. Can’t you see that calendar?”

The sunglasses pointed to a calendar stuck on the dim wall. It was November, but the August page was open, showing a woman in a bikini smiling brightly while opening a can of cider.

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“Move as gently as she does. Get it?”

“…Bullshit.”

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“What?”

“Nothing, sir.”

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Pretending to be calm, Ijin posed even more stiffly.

Although Ijin didn’t see it, the photos captured him looking quite decent. The lighting against the dark background highlighted his white riding pants and collar, drawing attention.

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“Cover your face with the helmet. Make sure it’s not visible.”

“…Can I ask what we’re taking photos for?”

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“No, you can’t ask. Bend your front leg forward a bit.”

No matter how you looked at it, this was suspicious.

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However, knowing that any resistance could lead to him being beaten up enough to miss the next race, Ijin had no choice but to comply.

Disgust and humiliation washed over Ijin like a tide.

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When he came to his senses, he had already taken a front shot with his face covered by the helmet, his hand with the paddle crossing his body like he was crossing his arms.

“You’re going to be popular. I bet there are quite a few guys who’ll jerk off to those thighs.”

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The sunglasses guy chuckled at his work, his tone utterly repulsive.

Ijin left the container in a daze. The other jockeys were half relieved and half more anxious seeing that nothing had changed about Ijin from when he went in.

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“What… what did you do in there?”

Someone grabbed Ijin. He answered blankly.

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“Photos… just took some photos.”

Even an idiot could tell there was something strange about the purpose of those photos.

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Ijin hurried back to his dorm. He threw off his clothes as if they were soiled, and only when he was in his underwear did he lie down on the creaking bed.

His tiredness was indescribable.

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Kwon Hyeongdo was casually scrolling through the photos of ten jockeys when he paused at one.

Even with his face covered, he could immediately tell who it was. Unlike before, Kwon Hyeongdo scrolled very slowly.

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There were only six photos in total since two were chosen from each angle: back, side, and front. Kwon Hyeongdo picked up his phone without taking his eyes off the screen and called the photographer.

The photographer soon answered.

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[Yes, hyungnim.]

Although the photographer called himself an artist while selling B-grade pornographic calendars for places like teahouses, he claimed he never photographed men until he saw Kwon Hyeongdo. Now, he babbled on about the aesthetics of the male body. Kwon Hyeongdo had no intention of being a subject but was more than willing to use his useless talent.

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“Send me all the photos of the first subject.”

[All of them? They’re the best of the bunch. The kid’s got a pretty body but can’t pose for shit.]

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The photographer went on about his unique philosophy of beauty, likening the kid to a log. He was about to launch into a long speech praising curves when Kwon Hyeongdo cut him off.

“Doesn’t matter, just send them all.”

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He hung up without waiting for a response.

As the photographer said, Seon Ijin in the photos was stiff as a board. Even though his face was hidden, you could see he was gritting his teeth through this.

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Kwon Hyeongdo lit a cigarette, crossed his arms, and leaned back in his chair.

Ijin’s profile on the screen showed off his straight, firm thighs and the line of his buttocks clearly. From this angle, one could subtly make out the outline of his crotch. The photographer might talk nonsense, but he wasn’t without skill.

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“Who says there are no curves? The killer ones are right here.”

Kwon Hyeongdo smirked, poking at the line connecting Ijin’s buttocks to his thighs with his lighter.

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At the racetrack, faces not usually seen began to appear more frequently. One was a man in his mid-twenties, wearing glasses and a checked shirt, who clearly didn’t belong here. Next to him was the director, adding to the oddity of the scene.

The director, always in vibrant aloha shirts and sometimes a leather jacket depending on the weather, seemed impervious to the cold. He was like a beast among men.

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The man with a toothpick in his mouth like a cigarette locked eyes with Ijin. Their gazes met not just in passing but lingered, so Ijin felt compelled to bow slightly.

“…Hello.”

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“…….”

Ijin hoped he would just ignore him and walk by. But the man didn’t.

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“Where are you going?”

“…….”

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Today was the day Ijin planned to visit his grandmother, so he was wearing his cleanest set of clothes. In jeans, a T-shirt, and a light sky-blue Oxford shirt, Ijin looked like an average college student.

The man seemed disappointed that Ijin’s outfit didn’t highlight his physique.

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“Going to town?”

“Sort of… yes.”

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Ijin didn’t want to reveal his personal business like visiting his grandmother.

“Then wait.”

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“Huh?”

“I said wait.”

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Ijin stood there, puzzled.

“If you just walk away, you’ll get dragged back by your hair.”

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The cheerful threat made Ijin’s feet, which were about to move, stay put.

The man took the young man in the checked shirt and glasses inside one of the newly set up container offices. They seemed to be talking quite amiably.

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Ijin had no choice but to stand and wait, feeling frustrated as the time for his visit was approaching.

“I can’t wait any longer… what should I do…”

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Anxious, Ijin tapped his feet. Eventually, gritting his teeth, he turned around.

Jockeys could only use the employee entrance of the Colosseum. Any other exit leading to the IC road was guarded by thugs, making it unusable. Ijin headed towards the employee exit but stopped dead in his tracks at the sight of a huge SUV parked right in front of the narrow door.

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“What the… who parks like this?”

The car was so perfectly aligned with the door that one would have to climb over the hood to pass. Whoever did this was clearly insane.

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And somehow, Ijin had a feeling he knew who that crazy bastard was.

Ijin steeled himself to climb over the hood. As he pressed down on the car, one of the thugs smoking and reading a newspaper on the other side turned around in shock.

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“Hey, hey! You fucking bastard! What are you doing to our director’s car! Wait, you piece of shit!”

The thug flailed his arms as he ran over, looking every bit the gangster but with faces Ijin hadn’t seen before. They seemed to be new, loyal followers of the new human scum boss. Their respectful tone when addressing the director was full of reverence.

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Ijin stepped back in fear, but the car’s owner grabbed him by the back of his neck.

“Can’t wait for a second, huh?”

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Slow footsteps approached. Ijin turned to see the man with his hands in his pockets, a leather jacket under his arm, walking towards him. It was indeed his car.

“Get in.”

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He unlocked the car and nodded his head. But why would Ijin willingly get into a car where he might be in danger? He stood firm.

“You don’t listen after one warning, do you?”

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The man lit up with interest, spat out his toothpick, and shoved Ijin into the passenger seat by his collar. It was literally shoved.

Ijin coughed violently as his throat was momentarily constricted, and the man slammed the door shut.

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“If you open that door and leave, you won’t see your grandmother or anyone else. I’m not one to take kindly to my kindness being refused.”

…This bastard knew everything.

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Ijin’s eyes flashed. The man finally understood the look in Ijin’s eyes. They were the eyes of a gambler. His body was small, but his temper was like that of a wildcat.

Should he open the door and leave, or stay? As Ijin seemed to ponder his next move, he eventually gave up and sank into the seat.

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