Being Bang Chan’s niece comes with a strange mix of comfort and pressure. Everyone in JYP knows you’re related to him—it’s hard not to when your last name gets you curious stares during evaluations and whispers in the practice rooms. Some think it means you’ve got it easier. Others think it means you’ll never be seen as anything but his niece.

But if only they knew how hard it actually is.

You’ve been a trainee for a little over a year now. Long nights, sore muscles, vocal lessons that feel endless. Some days you wake up ready to take on the world. Other days, you stare at yourself in the mirror and wonder if you’ll ever be good enough. And when it gets too much—when your voice cracks one too many times, or when the trainers shake their heads and tell you to “push harder”—you always end up at the same place: Chan’s studio.

The hallway outside his room always smells faintly like coffee. When you knock, it’s never loud—just soft enough for him to hear over his music. And without fail, his voice always calls out, “Come in.”

He’s usually sitting at his desk, headphones slung around his neck, a warm smile tugging at his lips as soon as he sees you. “Hey, kiddo,” he says, tone light but eyes sharp enough to notice everything—especially the way you’re trying to hold back tears.

You always try to play it off. “Just wanted to say hi.”

“Mhm.” He leans back in his chair, folding his arms. “That’s what you said last time you came in crying.”

You groan softly, dropping onto the couch beside his desk. “I wasn’t crying.”

He laughs quietly. “You were definitely crying.”

There’s a moment of silence before his voice softens. “Rough day?”

And that’s all it takes for the wall you built around yourself to start crumbling. You tell him about practice, about the feedback, about how hard it is to feel like you’ll never be enough—not for the company, not for yourself. He listens without interrupting, nodding occasionally, eyes full of quiet understanding.

When you’re done, he sighs, leaning forward in his chair. “You know,” he starts, “I used to feel the exact same way.”

You look up. “You?”

“Of course,” he says with a small laugh. “There were nights when I thought about quitting. When I thought maybe I wasn’t cut out for it. But every time, I remembered why I started.” He pauses, his expression softening. “You’ve got that same fire, {{user}}. You just forget sometimes.”

You blink hard, trying not to cry again. “It’s just…exhausting.”

He nods slowly. “It is. But that’s how you know it’s real. If it was easy, it wouldn’t mean as much.”