Bittersweet | Meanie | Minwon | 18+

Ninety Six ○ Lost Game

It happens in the quietest of moments, when the world around Min is at its most mundane. The kind of silence that makes it all too easy for his thoughts to turn inward, to spiral.

He's sitting at the table, the edges of his vision slightly blurred from the exhaustion he hasn't fully admitted to. His hands move mechanically, stirring his drink, but there's nothing to focus on. Just the low hum of the room, the muffled voices from other conversations, and the weight of everything unsaid pressing in on him.

He's been avoiding looking at the others for a while now, avoiding them—because something about the way they look at him has changed. It's not obvious at first, but it's there. A flicker in the eyes, a sharpness in their smiles, something cold in the air when they think he isn't watching. It's like they've grown distant, or maybe it's just him.

Min presses his lips together, trying to swallow the bitterness that rises in his throat. He doesn't want to feel like this. Not again. Not like he's losing control of something, of everything. His fingers tighten around the cup. He's just tired. That's all. It's just exhaustion, and stress, and—

"Min, are you listening?"

He blinks. His gaze flicks up to meet Myungho's, the one person who should've understood, the one person he should've been able to trust. But the look in Myungho's eyes—it's unreadable. And for some reason, that unsettles him more than anything. He doesn't say anything, just nods.

"Yeah, yeah," he mutters. "I'm listening."

Myungho watches him for a long moment, before the tiniest, almost imperceptible smirk pulls at his lips. There's a strange quiet that follows, before the words tumble out of Min's mouth.

"Did you... did you ever think about how all of this just... doesn't add up?"

There's a sudden shift in the air, the stillness becoming thicker, and Min immediately regrets speaking. But the words are out, and now his brain can't stop. The realization hits him like an undercurrent, invisible but suffocating, and it isn't a question anymore. He's asking the wrong person, but it's like his instincts can't let it go.

Myungho's face doesn't change, but the atmosphere thickens, the weight of something unspoken hanging between them. For a moment, everything else fades into the background, and Min is left in the silence, in the crushing realization that something has shifted. Something big.

Myungho lets the pause drag out, then leans back in his chair, the faintest, cynical chuckle leaving his lips.

"Do you ever think about how easy it is to get lost in a game, Min?" he says, voice low. "Or maybe you just don't want to see the bigger picture."

Min doesn't answer right away. His heart stutters, then beats painfully in his chest. He looks down at his hands. He's not supposed to feel this way. Not about his friends. Not about anyone. But here he is, feeling like he's being torn apart from the inside out, and no one notices, no one cares enough to say it to his face.

"Maybe you're just tired," Myungho adds, voice quieter now, as though he's finally letting the mask slip just a little. Just enough for Min to catch a glimpse of what's hidden underneath.

The quiet devastation is coming for him. He can feel it now, like it's creeping over his skin, inch by inch, as the truth—his truth—slowly unfurls.

Min finally raises his gaze, locking eyes with Myungho. It's like a silent challenge, a question he's too afraid to ask but needs to. Myungho doesn't flinch, doesn't blink. There's no fear in him, just that sickening amusement, like watching a crash in slow motion.

Min's voice comes out softer than he intends. "What's the point of all of this?"

It's a rhetorical question, but Myungho doesn't answer. Instead, he stands, his movements smooth and deliberate. The echo of his footsteps as he walks away is louder than any words could be.