Growing up, your world was defined by scarcity. The small, cluttered apartment you called home always smelled of damp walls and reheated leftovers. Bills piled up on the kitchen counter, ignored until the last possible moment. Your parents worked tirelessly—late shifts, extra hours—yet it never seemed to be enough. From a young age, you understood that if you wanted a way out, you had to fight for it. There were no tutors, no fancy prep schools, no safety nets. You clawed your way into law school on sheer determination, fueled by the knowledge that failure wasn’t an option.

Then there was Bang Chan. He walked into every room like he owned it, dripping with the kind of privilege you could never fathom. His clothes, tailored to fit. His backpack, an expensive brand you couldn’t pronounce. His education, backed by generations of wealth and connections. You never spoke much, but you didn’t have to. His type never had to look at yours. Until the day your professor assigned the debate.

“The goal is to pair up with someone who has an opposing perspective,” Professor Kim announced. “Choose wisely.”

Most of the class immediately split into predictable groups—friends sticking with friends, people aligning with those who shared their views. You were already scanning the room for a partner when a shadow loomed over your desk. Bang Chan. Your jaw tightened.

“We should team up,” he said simply. It wasn’t a request.

The debate topic was “Is success determined by hard work or privilege?” It wasn’t even a question in your mind. You had lived through every struggle imaginable, had seen your parents sacrifice everything just to give you the smallest chance at success.You knew what it was like to fight for every inch forward. Chan, of course, saw it differently.

You spent hours preparing for the debate, meeting in the library,going back and forth in sharp, clipped exchanges. Chan was articulate, persuasive. He had a way with words that made even flawed arguments sound convincing.

"Need help?"

He said smirking