Touch Therapy: Where Hands Go, Bodies Beg-Chapter 252 - 253: Open Up!

The night was thick with humidity and tension, Barcelona’s lights blurring gold across puddled pavement behind the athletes’ hotel. Joon-ho left the side entrance, the air heavy and close, mind still clouded from the interrogation earlier. His body ached from the lingering bruises of work—nothing he couldn’t handle. He checked his phone, thumb hovering over a half-written message to Min-kyung, debating whether to warn her about the security staff or the strange men with unfamiliar badges.

He barely heard the footsteps until it was too late.

A low, mocking whistle cut through the silence. "Well, well. Here he is. The golden hands of Korea."

Joon-ho stopped, shoulders tensing. Ahead, under the sodium-yellow wash of a streetlamp, Min-kyung’s ex-boyfriend stepped into view, his silhouette sharp and smug. Behind him, three—no, five—other men fanned out, thick-necked, the kind who were paid to follow orders and hurt people.

Joon-ho measured them quickly. He felt his pulse kick up, but he didn’t let it show.

The ex strode forward, lips twisted in a smile. "You’re a hard man to find, Mr. Kim. I thought you’d be hiding under Min-kyung’s skirt."

Joon-ho kept his tone flat. "If you have a problem, take it up with her. She’s not yours. And I’m not hiding."

One of the grunts laughed. The sound was ugly, eager.

The ex looked him up and down, contempt thick in every word. "I’m not here to debate, physio. I’m here because I don’t like seeing my woman with another man. Especially one who thinks he’s clever enough to play hero."

Joon-ho stared him down. "She broke up with you. You know it. Maybe it’s time you move on."

The ex’s smile vanished. "You think you’re smart? You think just because you touch her, you can keep her? I don’t like arrogant people."

Joon-ho didn’t back up, didn’t flinch. "Arrogance is pretending you own someone who wants nothing to do with you. Why are you really here? To throw a tantrum?"

That landed. The ex’s eyes flashed, nostrils flaring. "I’m here to remind you what happens to men who cross me." He gestured, and his men circled in tighter.

Joon-ho set his bag down slowly, never taking his eyes off the ex. His mind was clear now—every nerve on edge, every muscle primed.

The ex looked him over, almost disappointed. "Break his arm," he told his men, voice flat. "Don’t mess up his face. I want him to explain to Min-kyung why he’ll never work again."

One of the grunts grinned, cracking his knuckles. "With pleasure, boss."

Joon-ho exhaled once, hands loose, feet shoulder-width apart. "If you walk away now, this ends here," he said, voice even.

But the grunts moved in—three at once, spreading wide. Joon-ho tracked them all: the one on the left, heavyset, a street brawler; the right, wiry, quick, scar over his eyebrow; the center, a little taller, eyes cold.

The first punch came fast—a wide hook from the left. Joon-ho ducked, body low, felt the air split above his ear. He countered, elbow driving into the man’s ribs, catching him off guard. The man grunted, staggered back. The second came in high, aiming for Joon-ho’s jaw. Joon-ho blocked, took the hit on his forearm, twisted and used the man’s momentum to shove him into the third attacker.

It turned chaotic fast.

The men weren’t professionals, but they were strong, brutal, and used to outnumbering their target. Joon-ho kept moving, never letting them box him in, arms up to guard his head, feet shifting over the slick pavement.

A punch clipped his cheek. He tasted blood, spat, didn’t lose focus. The tall one came in with a knee—Joon-ho sidestepped, grabbed the man’s wrist, twisted hard. There was a wet pop and the man yelped, stumbling away.

Joon-ho took a blow to his back—heavy, jarring—he spun, drove his fist into the man’s gut, then swept his legs, dropping him to the ground. The street brawler lunged, grabbing him by the collar, slamming him against the wall. Joon-ho hammered his elbow down onto the man’s forearm, broke the grip, kneed him in the thigh. The man dropped with a shout.

All around, the ex’s voice barked: "Don’t just stand there! Hit him! Break him!"

Joon-ho ducked a wild punch, rammed his shoulder into the attacker’s sternum, felt ribs crack. The smaller grunt leapt on his back, arm around his throat. Joon-ho staggered, saw stars for a second, but twisted, slamming the man into the wall, feeling the grip loosen as the man groaned and dropped to the ground.

Breathing hard, Joon-ho pivoted, fists up, sweat running down his temple. He’d dropped one, two, but the rest regrouped, circling. He could see the ex in the background, arms crossed, enjoying the show, but the mask was starting to crack.

The brawler rolled up, swinging a chain from his jacket pocket. Joon-ho sidestepped, kicked the man’s knee out, and the chain hit the ground. Joon-ho kicked it away, only to be blindsided by the wiry one—sharp punch to his ribs, then a second, harder, right into his kidney.

Joon-ho stumbled, pain blooming hot and deep. He blocked the next hit, but his arm was slow.

The ex stepped forward, impatience clear in every line of his face. "You idiots! Get this done."

He nodded to the last man—tall, shaved head—who reached into his pocket and produced a set of brass knuckles. The metal glinted in the lamplight.

"Break his fucking arm," the ex ordered. "He still thinks he’s a hero."

Two of the grunts grabbed Joon-ho’s arms, trying to pin him against the wall. The one with the brass knuckles reared back. Joon-ho twisted, jerking his arm free, but the punch still landed—right on his bicep. He felt something give, white-hot agony stabbing up his arm. He bit down on the pain, refused to cry out.

He wrenched his knee up, catching the nearest man in the groin. The man dropped, howling. The other grunt tried to hold on, but Joon-ho slammed his forehead into the man’s nose, breaking it. Blood sprayed. The brass knuckle man hesitated.

Joon-ho lunged, tackling him to the ground. They rolled, fighting for the upper hand, until Joon-ho managed to twist the weapon away and drive his fist into the man’s jaw—hard enough to make him go limp.

But now he was slow, the pain in his arm blooming with every heartbeat.

The ex was on him in a second, grabbing his collar, sneering inches from his face. "Should’ve stayed in your lane, physio. You’re not tough enough for this."

Joon-ho spat blood. "You’re pathetic. This isn’t strength—it’s fear."

The ex slammed him against the wall. "You don’t get it. I own her. I own this city. You? You’re nothing." 𝕗𝕣𝐞𝐞𝘄𝐞𝚋𝚗𝗼𝘃𝗲𝗹.𝚌𝕠𝚖

Joon-ho met his gaze, even as his vision blurred. "You’re just a coward hiding behind other men. She’ll never choose you."

The ex’s fist drew back, but before he could strike, the night shattered with a thunderous pounding on the metal door at the end of the alley. Shouts echoed—deep voices, commands in Spanish and English.

"Security! Olympic security—open up!"

The ex’s eyes widened. He shoved Joon-ho hard, then spun on his heel. "Let’s go! Move!"

His men scrambled—those still conscious grabbed the downed ones, but two were too slow or too hurt to get up. The ex cursed, bolted into the darkness, dragging one of the grunts by the arm. The brawler limped after, clutching his side.

Joon-ho slumped against the wall, cradling his arm, blood dripping from his split lip. He watched as the ex disappeared into the shadows, the pounding of boots and the shouts of security getting louder.

Two security guards burst into the alley, radios blaring. One of them knelt at Joon-ho’s side, flashlight in his eyes. "Senor, are you all right? What happened?"

Joon-ho struggled to catch his breath. "Assault—three men—ran east. Two are still here."

The guards swept the scene, cuffed the groaning grunts, called for medical assistance.

A third guard knelt beside Joon-ho, checking his arm. "Looks bad, but not broken. You’re lucky."

Joon-ho managed a crooked smile. "Never liked luck."

The paramedics arrived within minutes, patching him up, checking his ribs and arm, cleaning the blood from his mouth and cheek. One of the security team snapped photos, took his statement, promised to review the surveillance footage.

The adrenaline drained, replaced by exhaustion and pain. But beneath it, something sharper remained—a quiet, simmering rage.

He glanced down the alley, where the ex had disappeared.

This wasn’t over.

Not even close.

As the paramedics loaded the knocked-out grunts onto stretchers, Joon-ho flexed his bruised hand, wincing at the ache. He forced himself to stand, shaking off help. "Tell the authorities—he’ll come back. And next time, I won’t be alone."

One of the guards nodded. "We’ll tighten security. You should get some rest."

Joon-ho nodded, but his mind was already racing ahead—thinking of Min-kyung, of Yura back home, of the girls and the Olympic stage that now felt smaller and more dangerous.

He walked out of the alley, battered but upright, the taste of blood sharp on his tongue.

He was still standing.

He’d make damn sure he’d be ready for the next time.