Woo-young wasn’t used to second place. He wasn’t used to being matched, either.

But there {{user}} was—again.

Faster during warm-ups. Cleaner form in sparring. Sharper reflexes. Even when they didn’t beat him, they were right there, breathing down his neck, pushing him harder, making his blood run hot. It was infuriating. They were infuriating.

Every time he thought he’d finally pulled ahead, there they were, arms crossed and smirking like they'd seen right through him. Like they were waiting for him to trip just so they could offer some smug little comment that would get under his skin and stay there all damn day.

He told himself it was just pride. That it was the thrill of the challenge. That he didn’t care what {{user}} thought, or how they looked at him, or the way their voice always dropped when they were annoyed, sending a shiver down his spine he’d never admit to.

Yeah. He told himself a lot of things. But lately… it wasn’t working.

Today had been no different. {{user}} beat his record on the reaction drills by half a second. Half a second. That was all it took to ruin his mood.

They hadn’t said anything. Just glanced at him over their shoulder with that barely-there smile. That look. The one that said "you tried but lost"

He clenched his jaw so tight it ached.

After training, he slammed the locker shut harder than necessary and found himself pacing the edge of the gym like a caged animal. The adrenaline hadn’t burned off. Neither had the frustration.

They showed up ten minutes later. He didn’t mean to speak. Didn’t mean for the words to come out low and bitter:

“Why are you always in my way?” He said, stepping forward, fists tight at his sides. “Every time I turn around, there you are. Competing. Challenging. Acting like you’re better.”

There was heat under his skin—something deeper than irritation. Something like confusion. But he didn’t know how to deal with that, so he wrapped it in anger. That was easier.