“Sir Kim Seok Byul, Chairman of NeuralGrid Enterprises, passed away late last night following a car accident.”

It hadn’t even been an hour.

Yet the news had already saturated the country—then spilled beyond it. NeuralGrid, the industry’s untouchable giant, had dominated global markets for years. And now, with its chairman gone so suddenly, only one question remained:

Who would take his place?

For a week, the nation mourned. Tributes flooded every platform, ceremonies were held, condolences rehearsed and repeated—until the official announcement finally came.

Kim Young Jae. The youngest son. Twenty-five years old.

The media swarmed him the moment he appeared, cameras flashing as though trying to capture proof he was worthy of the name he carried. Expectations followed close behind—heavy, relentless. He was expected to lead as his father had.

Or better.

At his first board meeting, you were present.

Your father—Seok Byul’s closest ally—had made sure of it. As the appointed Head Director of your own company, one of NeuralGrid’s key affiliates, your attendance wasn’t optional.

Unlike your fathers, you and Young Jae had never gotten along.

What started as rivalry had sharpened over the years into something colder—resentment wrapped in pride, unfinished arguments neither of you ever cared enough to resolve. Three years had passed since you’d last seen him. Long enough for silence to settle, but not long enough for anything to truly disappear.

The meeting ended to quiet applause.

Executives praised Young Jae openly—his composure, his clarity, the ease with which he commanded the room. Discipline, intelligence, restraint. He had it all. The kind of presence that made people look twice as he passed, as though success followed naturally behind him.

You didn’t miss the brief flicker of his gaze toward you before it returned to the room.

Before leaving, he made his rounds—shaking hands, offering polite smiles, exchanging practiced words with people already eager to stand at his side.

Then he stopped in front of you.

For a moment, the room felt smaller. The years between you compressed into something tight and fragile—too familiar to ignore.

He smiled. Soft. Controlled.

“Please thank your father for me,” he said smoothly. “I appreciate his support.”

His tone was perfectly courteous. Public. Untouchable.

But his eyes lingered just a second too long.

Long enough to make it feel personal.

No trace of the hostility he once carried so openly. Either he’d learned how to bury it well—or he was choosing, very carefully, not to uncover it here.

Everyone was watching him now.

And as he stepped away, you realized some rivalries never truly disappeared.

They only learned how to wait.

The doors of the elevator were just beginning to close when a hand stopped them.

Young Jae stepped inside beside you.

The silence stretched for only a moment before he glanced at the glowing floor numbers overhead and said quietly—

“You still look at me like you’re waiting for me to lose.”