Off limit President || Yungi

- eight -

Yunho || Mingi 

I watched them through the open door, their laughter and loud voices echoing down the hallway. 

The room that once felt like a sanctuary now felt like enemy territory. 

Mingi had asked me, not with words but with the expectation that came with our strained relationship, to bring them soba and hangover soup. 

It wasn't a request, more of an unspoken command, and I, feeling the weight of obligation, complied.

I trudged back and forth from the kitchen, each trip a reluctant journey into the lion's den. 

The first time I entered with a tray of soba, San looked up at me with a sneer that sent a shiver down my spine. 

"Hey Yunho," he said, his voice dripping with mockery, 

"how does it feel to be stuck with your nose in books all the time? Must be sad having no social life." 

I forced a smile, hoping to deflect the sting of his words, but inside, they cut deep. 

Studying was important to me, my escape from the chaos and a way to secure a future, but in their eyes, it was a mark of shame.

"Yeah," Wooyoung added, not even looking at me as he spoke, 

"while we're out having fun, you're just... what, studying? Sounds pathetic." 

His words were casual, but the derision was clear. I glanced at Mingi, hoping for some sign of support, but he just sat there, his expression neutral, not lifting a finger to stop them. 

It was as if he didn't see the pain in my eyes, or worse, he saw it and didn't care.

Jongho, always the harshest, chimed in with a laugh that grated on my nerves. 

"We know quite some stuff from Mingi.." 

He chuckled to himself before shrugging as he, almost as an advice, added 

"If you loosened up a bit, you'd actually know how to enjoy life. But I guess that's asking too much from someone like you." 

Their laughter grew louder, a cruel chorus that seemed to amplify my humiliation. I felt my face flush, a mix of anger and shame washing over me. 

Each trip back from the kitchen was worse than the last, their taunts growing bolder, cutting deeper. 

My attempts to defend myself grew weaker, the words catching in my throat and turning to ash before I could even speak them.

I placed the bowls in front of them, trying to ignore the way their eyes followed my every move, like predators watching their prey. 

"Thanks," San said, his tone laced with sarcasm. "At least you're good at serving.. Ahh Mingi you're so lucky." 

The laughter that followed was like a dagger to my heart. 

I glanced at Mingi again, silently pleading for him to say something, to do something, but he remained silent, his gaze fixed on the bowl in front of him. 

His indifference was a betrayal that hurt more than their words ever could.

With each return trip from the kitchen, I felt the weight of their disdain more acutely. 

The room felt suffocating, the air thick with the smell of alcohol and the sharp sting of their words. 

My heart ached with every insult, but what hurt the most was Mingi's passive complicity.