Jessy didn't remember how she got from the evaluation hall back to her room.

Silence rushed in like a tide.

Her chest tightened.

Jessy walked toward the vanity, her reflection flickering in the soft light. Her hands trembled as she set her phone down, the metal tapping sharply against the glass surface.

Last place.

The words echoed.

She'd known her presentation wasn't perfect — she wasn't stupid. But last? Below Jane, below the three other bright youngstars, below everyone? That was something else entirely.

She swallowed. Her throat burned.

For a moment she stood with her palms pressed to the vanity, head bowed. Then something inside her snapped.

She swept her arm across the surface, sending bottles of makeup, compacts, brushes, and a glass jar of moisturizer crashing onto the floor. Some rolled under the bed, others hit the wall. The glass jar shattered, white cream splattering across the carpet.

Jessy stared at the mess like it belonged to someone else.

Then the tears came.

She tried to sit on the edge of the bed, but her legs gave out and she sank to the floor instead, back against the mattress, face buried in her hands. The kind of crying that didn't make noise — just sharp breaths and silent shakes.

She wiped her cheeks roughly, angry at herself.

Get it together. You are not a child.

But the pressure in her chest refused to ease. Every inhale felt shallow, every exhale shaky.

The evaluation replayed in her mind — the expressions around the room, the nods, the murmurs. And then Jason speaking at the end, the moment he revealed he had acquired the Phoenix Infrastructure Project.

People had looked at him differently then.

Even the elders who had barely glanced at her presentation had leaned forward, suddenly attentive.

Even her father.

Jessy drew in a long breath. She didn't trust it to steady her, but it was all she had.

She pushed herself to her feet and stumbled to the bathroom, turning on the faucet and splashing cold water on her face. Her mascara bled slightly; she wiped it away with a towel and looked into the mirror.

Her reflection was still shaky. But the tears had dried.

She hated looking weak. She'd been trying for years to prove she wasn't.

Why was it always like this?

Why is it always him?

First, Jason had been the disappointment. The spoiled one. The Yun child no one expected anything from. The one the family barely glanced at during gatherings.

Then suddenly—

Suddenly he was everywhere.

Eversage. The break-in incident. His growing network. His so-called "rise."

And now the project that could define the next decade of Yun influence.

Jessy touched her reflection with her fingertips.

She remembered being younger — when she and Jane would run around the estate and Jason would follow them, always a step behind, always trying to keep up. They'd tease him for being slow. For being clumsy. For being "the extra one." And he'd laugh along with them.

He never argued. Never pushed back. Never showed anger.

She'd assumed it meant he didn't have any.

But when he slapped her that day — the look in his eyes hadn't been anger. It had been something colder. Something she hadn't known he had.

Jessy clenched the sides of the sink.

"He ruined everything," she whispered.

Her voice was small but steady.

"If he hadn't shown up, I wouldn't be in last place. I wouldn't be—" She stopped, jaw tightening. "He showed them up so completely that they didn't even bother looking at the rest of us."

She stepped back into the bedroom, moving slowly through the mess on the floor. The shattered glass made soft clicks under her slippers.

That stung more than she wanted to admit. It wasn't just that she'd lost.

It was that Jason made them forget she existed at all.

Every successful sibling has a shadow.

Today she realized she'd become his.

Jessy sat on the edge of the bed and stared at her hands. Her nails were still trembling.

She thought about Jane. Jane was quiet, studious, and serious — but she'd placed fourth. Not great, but respectable.

Jessy was the only one who had dropped all the way down.

The only one who had lost face.

The elders would talk. The cousins would gossip. That one old aunt would comment on her "emotional instability."

But none of that mattered.

What mattered was the embarrassment in her mother's eyes during the evaluation. Not anger.

Worse.

Pity.

Jessy pressed a palm to her forehead, squeezing her eyes shut.

People didn't survive in this family on pity.

She stood again, pacing. Her breathing was steadier now, but something ugly simmered beneath the surface — frustration mixing with humiliation until it curdled into something darker.

Her thoughts sharpened.

If Jason wasn't in the picture?

Her presentation might have looked good.

Her standing would've risen.

She could've been the one being praised for unexpected improvement.

Instead, he'd overshadowed everyone. Brilliantly. Effortlessly.

Conveniently.

Jessy rubbed her arms, a faint shiver running up her spine.

"Of course…" she murmured. "Of course he's the reason everything went to hell."

The more she said it, the more it made sense.

Every time she tried to improve, Jason suddenly appeared with something new — a partnership, a company, a miracle product. He didn't deserve any of it. He just knew how to show up at the right time and take credit.

He always had.

When they were children, he'd follow them around, copying their homework, copying their ideas, copying their mannerisms. Always copying. Always stealing the spotlight she worked for.

Jessy sank onto the floor, knees to her chest.

"He hasn't changed," she whispered. "He's still ruining everything."

Her breathing calmed, but her eyes sharpened with a new clarity.

All this time she'd been pushing herself — but maybe she'd been fighting the wrong battle.

Maybe her problem was never her effort.

Maybe it was always him.

She let out a slow exhale as the thought settled in, strange and cold and… relieving.

Jason Yun was not a rising star.

He was a disease that spread into everyone's life.

And she had let him spread into hers.

Jessy stood again, this time with a kind of stillness she hadn't had all night.

She walked to her phone. Picked it up. Wiped her eyes. Took a deep breath.

She didn't open social media.

She didn't open her messages.

She didn't call Jane.

She simply waited for the anger inside her to stop shaking and settle into something firm.

Something that felt almost like purpose.

Outside her window, the estate was quiet. Lights shimmered along the garden paths. Everyone was celebrating or sulking behind closed doors.

But Jessy felt different.

She wasn't sulking.

She was deciding.

She sat on the edge of her bed, back straight, phone in hand, and whispered, barely audible:

"It's him. It's always been him."

Her thumb brushed the side of the phone.

Then —

ding.

Jessy froze.

The notification came from an unknown number. No name. No preview.

She opened it.

A single message waited:

"Seems we share a common parasite."

Jessy stared at the words for several seconds, her heartbeat slowing, not speeding up.

No fear.

No confusion.

Just a strange, quiet recognition.

Because for the first time all night…

…she didn't feel alone.

She only remembered the applause.

Not for her.

For Jason.

The moment the doors closed behind her, she stood still in the hallway, numb, until her legs finally moved again. She entered her room, shut the door behind her, and locked it out of habit.

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