The door creaked open, and Mr. Pong stepped inside. In the living room, Mrs. Vamika sat at the edge of the sofa, papers sprawled across the coffee table. Her eyes flicked up, startled.

“You’re home already?” she asked, brows knitting together. “What about your client meeting?”

“I postponed it,” Mr. Pong said simply, slipping off his shoes.

Vamika’s expression turned sharper. “You what? Why?”

He walked closer, his tone calm but firm. “Because today, I want to celebrate my son’s victory.”

She blinked, the words hanging heavy in the air. “And what if he didn’t win?”

Mr. Pong gave a soft smile, the kind that carried both certainty and tenderness. “Then I’ll take him out to console him. Either way... he deserves to know I’m here for him.”

Vamika looked at him, her heart warmed by his sincerity—but even as she smiled, a shadow crossed her face. Something inside her stirred uncomfortably.

Mr. Pong caught it instantly. “What is it?”

She hesitated, her voice dropping lower. “Don’t you think Wit might feel... overlooked? I mean, if you keep giving more attention to Wichian—”

“Hey,” Mr. Pong interrupted gently, kneeling in front of her. “I never said I’d go with just Wichian. We’ll all go—just like yesterday. You, me, Wit, and Wichian. Together. That’s how it should be.”

Her lips parted, eyes glistening slightly. She nodded, but the unease hadn’t completely left her.

“So,” he asked, changing the subject, “did you call him? Any word on the results?”

“No,” she said, glancing at the clock. “He told me they’d announce the results before lunch break. He Said he’d be home for lunch.”

Mr. Pong exhaled deeply, a mixture of nerves and pride simmering in his chest. “Then he must be on his way now…”

They sat in silence, listening for the sound of the front gate. In that quiet moment, both hearts thudded with different hopes—for a win, for a smile, and above all, for a balance in a family that was still learning to breathe as one.

--------------

At the presentation venue:

Everyone began spilling out of the hall. Among them were Wichian and Paul—Paul beaming proudly with a large trophy in hand, while Wichian carried a slightly smaller one.

“Don’t overthink it,” Paul said, flashing Wichian a kind smile. “Everyone here knows your project was better than mine. That one-point deduction was just because of the mistake—that’s why you got second place.”

Wichian smiled faintly, brushing it off with a quiet nod. On the surface, he looked indifferent. But deep down, the sting was real. He had felt disappointed. Still, there wasn’t time to dwell on that. Right now, something else weighed heavier on his mind—someone had sabotaged his presentation.

As they walked out of the venue together, Paul suddenly excused himself.

“Give me a second—I’ll be right back. Wait for me?”

Wichian nodded. “Sure.”

Paul headed toward the restroom.

Inside, as he stepped out of a stall, he paused. The washroom was completely empty—except for one boy standing by the locked door, arms folded tightly across his chest.

Sorawit.

“Little brother,” Paul said cautiously. “Why did you lock the door? Open it.”

“You want to get out that badly?” Sorawit asked, voice sharp. “To go flirt with my brother?”

Paul blinked, confused. “Your brother?” Then realization hit. “Oh... oh God. You’re Wichian’s brother? Sorry—I didn’t know.”

Wit didn’t flinch. He didn’t care for apologies. His stare stayed fixed, unblinking.

“Mr. Whatever-your-name-is,” he said coldly. “I think you’re getting a little too cozy with my brother. Back off. Stay away from him. Or else—”

Paul’s expression hardened, his voice turning icy. “Or else what? I like your brother. And guess what? He enjoys talking to me too. So what exactly is your problem?”

Wit’s anger snapped. In one swift move, he grabbed Paul by the collar and slammed him against the wall. Despite being younger, Wit’s strength was raw and explosive—his grip tighter than expected.

At that moment, Wichian, still waiting outside, decided to check on Paul. As he pushed the door open, his heart dropped.

“Sorawit! Let him go! What are you doing?” Wichian shouted.

But Wit didn’t move. Unbothered. Focused. With one hand still gripping Paul’s shirt, he used the other to yank Paul’s phone from his pocket. He quickly unlocked it using Face ID, scrolled, found Wichian’s number, and deleted it.

Paul struggled, but Wit’s body was solid—muscles stronger than they looked. Wichian tried to step forward, but one sharp glare from Wit stopped him in his tracks.

After deleting the number, Wit tossed the phone directly at Paul’s chest, eyes burning with fury. Then he turned to Wichian, grabbed his wrist, and dragged him out of the restroom—out of the venue entirely.

From a distance, Tor saw them—Wit storming off with Wichian in tow. His brows furrowed in confusion.

“What the hell is he doing?” Tor muttered. “Is he nuts?”

----------

In Wichian’s car—driven by Sorawit.

The engine roared beneath them as the car sped through the city’s evening traffic, weaving past slower vehicles with alarming precision. Sorawit’s eyes were cold, unwavering, fixed on the road ahead like a predator hunting in silence. His grip on the steering wheel was firm—knuckles pale, jaw clenched.

In the passenger seat, Wichian tightened his seatbelt, heart hammering in sync with the jolts of the car. His hand instinctively reached for the dashboard.

“Sorawit! You haven’t answered my question yet,” Wichian said, his voice strained but firm.

“What?” Wit snapped, eyes still on the road.

“What were you doing there earlier? Why didn’t you go to school? Or...” Wichian paused, narrowing his eyes. “Were you the one who messed with my presentation?”

KRRRRRR—

The tires screeched violently as Wit slammed the brake. The car jerked to a dead stop in the middle of the road, jolting Wichian forward against the seatbelt.

“So you did it…?” Wichian whispered, staring at him. “You really did it?”