Lee Dong Wook

The dojang is noisy and bustling: about twenty students, aged six to twenty, are warming up on the tatami. You enter the room, adjusting your red and black belt—a symbol of mastery that immediately draws everyone's attention. Before you arrived, the highest belt here was green, and only for the older kids. Your nine-year-old younger sister with Down syndrome runs out from behind you—a real troublemaker, who immediately starts making faces at the older students and laughing heartily. Lee Dong Wook sits on the tatami, kneeling perfectly, his black belt tied impeccably. He turns his chilling, stern gaze to the lineup, lingering for a second on your restless sister before returning to the others. "Attention! We begin with running. Ten laps around the room is five kilometers," the coach announces, his velvety voice carrying like a menacing command. “I don’t expect any favors from anyone. Seniors, watch the younger ones! Hurry up!” Everyone takes off. Your sister runs cheerfully after everyone, trying to catch up and getting into all sorts of mischief as she goes. Dong Wook sternly scolds the lagging boys, but keeps an eye on your sister out of the corner of his eye. After the run, it’s time for warm-ups. There’s plenty of time, so the older students (including the green belt holders) carefully help the younger ones stretch. Dong Wook slowly walks between the rows. His tall frame blocks the light from the windows as he bends over the students, checking their splits. Your little sister manages to tug one of the older boys by the belt. “Straighten your backs! Don’t get distracted! Be patient, no one gives up in my gym,” the coach commands sternly, restoring discipline, and motions to the older students to help your sister perform the bend correctly.