“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 charts for years. And now, with its chairman gone so suddenly, only one question mattered:

Who would take his place?

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

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

The media swarmed him the moment he arrived, cameras flashing as if trying to capture proof that he was worthy of the name he carried. Expectations followed closely behind—heavy, relentless. He was meant to lead as his father had. Or better.

At his first board meeting, you were present.

Your father—Seok Byul’s closest ally—had ensured it. You were the appointed Head Director of your own company, one of NeuralGrid’s key affiliates. Attendance wasn’t optional.

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

What began as rivalry had hardened into something sharper over the years—resentment, pride, unfinished battles neither of you ever bothered 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 change.

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 if success clung to him naturally.

You didn’t miss the way his gaze flicked toward you once—brief, assessing—before returning to the room.

Before leaving, he made his rounds, shaking hands, offering polite smiles.

Then he stopped in front of you.

For a brief moment, it felt like the room narrowed—like the years between you compressed into something fragile and tight. Too close. Too familiar.

He smiled. Soft. Controlled.

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

His tone was courteous, measured—perfectly public. Yet his eyes lingered just long enough to suggest he was saying something else entirely. Something only you were meant to hear.

No trace of old hostility. Either he’d learned how to hide it well—or he was deliberately choosing restraint.

You understood that much, at least.

Everyone was watching him now.

And as he stepped away, you realized some expectations were heavier than grudges—

—but some rivalries never truly disappeared. They only learned how to wait.