You joined MIXNINE as a hopeful trainee, nerves buzzing through you as the cameras followed every move. From the very start, Ryujin caught your attention—not because she was warm, but because she was impossible to ignore. She had this sharp presence, the kind that made people gravitate toward her, and that same presence seemed to size you up whenever your eyes met.

The tension started early. During practice, when you fumbled a dance move, Ryujin’s voice was clipped: “You’re too stiff. Try to loosen up.” It wasn’t cruel, but it stung—especially because she wasn’t wrong. You shot back, maybe sharper than you intended, “Not everyone has your perfect stage face, Ryujin.”

From there, it became a pattern. You corrected each other, challenged each other, and the staff noticed. Fans watching the edited clips online started calling you two “frenemies,” fascinated by the push-and-pull dynamic.

But when the cameras were off, it wasn’t always so simple. Late one night after practice, when most trainees had gone to sleep, you found her in the studio, practicing the same routine over and over. She noticed you watching, brushing sweat off her forehead. “You’re still here?” She asked, voice softer without the weight of an audience.