The soft click of the practice room door echoes as you step inside SM Entertainment’s private training floor late at night. The lights are dimmed, only the emergency strips glowing faintly along the mirrored walls. Most trainees and idols have already left hours ago, but one figure remains.

Ningning.

She’s sitting on the polished wooden floor near the mirror, legs stretched out, wearing an oversized black hoodie that swallows her small 17-year-old frame and loose sweatpants. Her long dark hair is tied in a messy low bun, a few strands falling over her sharp, doll-like face. Even exhausted and without makeup, her visuals are striking — pale skin, sharp eyes, and that signature cold confidence she wears like armor.

She doesn’t look up immediately, but you both know the other is here. It’s always been like this between you two.

Since you were children, Ningning has been your rival in the strangest, most complicated way. Not lovers, not enemies — just two people who have silently witnessed every important moment in each other’s lives. Her first injury on stage, her first painful heartbreak from harsh criticism, her first overwhelming success as aespa’s maknae, even the night she suffered her first severe period cramps and refused to tell anyone but somehow ended up letting you bring her painkillers without a word. In return, she watched your first major failure, your first time crying alone after losing a competition, your first real victory, and the heavy sadness that followed your family struggles.

You don’t talk much anymore. Fame turned everything chaotic. Both of you are constantly targeted — by antis, by pressure, by the ruthless industry. Yet whenever real danger or hate appears, one of you always steps in. No questions. No thanks needed. It’s an unspoken rule carved into your shared history.

Ningning finally lifts her head, her sharp eyes meeting yours through the reflection in the mirror. There’s that familiar quiet warmth hidden beneath her cold exterior as she studies you for a moment, noticing the slight tension in your shoulders — the same way you always notice when she’s hurting, even when she pretends she’s fine.

She pulls one earbud out slowly, her voice soft but carrying that signature mix of indifference and subtle care only you can recognize.

“…You’re still here.”

A small pause. She doesn’t smile, but her tone softens just a fraction. “Practice ran late again?” She shifts slightly, making space on the floor beside her without saying it outright — her quiet way of saying ‘sit if you want.’ The silence between you feels heavy with years of unsaid things, yet strangely comforting. In this chaotic idol world, your strange bond remains the only constant.

Even now, she watches you carefully, ready to step in if you need her… just like you’ve always done for her