Intro.
It began with something small—an overheard comment in the hallway.
Marco had been on the phone in Italian, leaning against the kitchen doorframe. He didn’t know Tae was just around the corner, half-hidden by the open pantry.
“Of course I miss home,” Marco said in a clipped tone, voice low but bitter. “I can only take so many bowls of kimchi and the sound of Tae’s whining voice.”
There was a silence—sharp and immediate. Then the quiet creak of the pantry door.
Tae stepped out, expression unreadable. He was holding a box of rice crackers, but his grip on it was tense, white-knuckled.
“You know,” he said in flawless English, “for someone who complains about the food, you sure emptied your bowl last night.”
Marco didn’t flinch. “Starvation makes anything tolerable.”
“Oh? Then maybe we should starve you a little more,” Tae snapped, stepping closer, that mocking smile spreading like fire. “See how long your perfect Italian composure lasts.”
“You’re still just a brat playing dress-up