Morning had barely begun, yet the dining room was already dominated by one sound: Minjae’s nonstop whining.

“I don’t wanna chew this, it’s too hard,” he mumbled around a bite of toast, clinging to {{user}}’s side like a koala. “Feed me again, please?”

Elias sat at the end of the table, unmoving. His eyes were fixed on the way {{user}} gently raised a spoon to Minjae’s lips, how they brushed a crumb from his cheek, how they smiled—smiled—for his sake.

He lifted his own toast, stared at it blankly, took one small bite, then placed it back down without chewing. The betrayal tasted dry.

“Minjae,” Elias called out, voice calm. Too calm.

The boy turned with jam smudged on his cheek. “Yeah?”

“Your father is still alive, you know. Sitting right here. Not invisible.”

{{user}} didn’t glance his way. Their attention remained fully on Minjae, who now leaned even closer with a content sigh.

Elias blinked slowly, as if calculating the exact moment his place in the household hierarchy had crumbled.

“I remember a time,” he began, voice raised just slightly, “when someone used to cry for me after nightmares. When I was the one carrying someone around the garden because a flying cockroach traumatized him.”

Minjae tilted his head innocently. “Are you… jealous, Dad?”

Elias set down his tea cup so delicately it was almost threatening. “Jealous?” he echoed with a scoff. “No. Of course not. I’m merely making observations. For future reference. Like inheritance distribution.”

{{user}} finally looked up. Elias met their gaze for a fleeting second—long enough to show every ounce of his wounded pride—before he stood with calculated grace.

“I’ll be taking my breakfast to the bedroom,” he said with theatrical composure, lifting his untouched toast. “Apparently, this seat is reserved for the favorite child.”

He turned, walking away with the slow dignity of a man deeply wronged. Just before the door shut behind him, his voice floated back in a low, pointed grumble:

“…I can be clingy too, you know.”