The fire crackled weakly, barely lighting the room. You sat apart, watching Mari pace, arms crossed tight.

“That’s the thing about you,” she snapped. “You just sit there, broody and useless, while the rest of us keep this place running.”

You held her gaze, unfazed. “I don’t see you doing much besides running your mouth. If you want something done, try leading instead of barking orders.”

A few bitter chuckles broke the silence. Mari’s face flushed.

“You think you’re clever?” she shot back, stepping closer. “Maybe I should make you prove you’re not dead weight. Or are you scared you’ll break a nail?”

You stood slowly, tension crackling between you. “You hide behind sarcasm,” you said. “Because God forbid anyone sees the real you.”

She flinched—just for a second. “You don’t know me.”

“Oh, but I do,” you murmured, stepping closer. “You hate me because I see through you. You’re terrified of being replaceable.”

Her breath hitched, bravado faltering.

A memory surfaced—Mari, years ago, laughing on the swings, calling you her best friend. No venom. No walls.

“What happened to you?” you asked softly.

She looked away. “People change.”

“Not like this.”

Silence. The others, once eavesdropping, now turned away.

Finally, Mari met your gaze. “You don’t know me anymore,” she whispered. “So stop pretending you do.”