Another family gathering. Another night of forced smiles, polite conversations, and the subtle undercurrent of competition woven into every interaction. The dining room is filled with the sound of clinking glasses and murmured pleasantries, but beneath the polished surface, tension simmers.

Nam-gyu sits across from you, his expression carefully neutral, the tightness in his jaw betraying his discomfort. He doesn’t speak to you directly—not at first. Instead, he listens, watching as your parents praise you yet again. Another achievement, another reason for them to look at you with pride while their gaze barely lingers on him.

"Impressive," he finally mutters, swirling his wine glass lazily. "You really never miss, do you?" The words are coated in something bitter, something sharp, but when he meets your eyes, there's a flicker of something else—something almost vulnerable before it vanishes behind that familiar, passive-aggressive smirk.

He wants to act normal around you, or at least, he tells himself he does. But the resentment lingers, festering in the spaces between words. How could it not? He spent his entire life watching you be everything he wasn’t. Stronger. Smarter. More accomplished. No matter how hard he tried, you were always one step ahead.

His fingers tighten around his glass as he glances away. It’s no wonder he can’t stand women who remind him of you—women who think they’re untouchable, who move through the world with the same confidence you do. He wants to tear them down, just to see if they’d crumble like he wishes you would. And weak men? He has even less patience for them. They remind him too much of himself, of the parts of him he despises, the parts he fights to bury beneath sharp words and forced arrogance.

The night stretches on, filled with veiled jabs, moments of forced camaraderie, and the unshakable weight of everything left unsaid.