Someone's Watching

Chapter 6: Someone’s Watching

Minjae didn’t go looking for her.

At least, that’s what he told himself.

But the third time he found himself in the studio hallway during her dance slot, he stopped pretending.

She wasn’t like the others. There was a restraint to her–like she was always pulling back just before the fall. And when she danced, it was as if she forgot to be afraid. That contradiction intrigued him.

He watched her through the glass pane, arms folded, expression unreadable. She was rehearsing a new routine–faster, sharper, more intense. Every movement was precise, but underneath it was a softness he couldn’t name. Not effort, not ambition. Something older. Something aching.

She stumbled once. Just once.

He thought she might cry.

But she didn’t. She bit down on her lower lip, blinked the heat from her eyes, and kept going. Alone in the studio, under a cold strip of ceiling light, she danced until the music swallowed her mistakes.

He stayed longer than he should have.

Later that evening, Minjae sat at his desk, staring at the screen. Her trainee file was still open.

He zoomed in on her photo.

Xinyi.

There was something hauntingly familiar in the set of her jaw, the delicate tension around her eyes.

He clicked open another file–a private archive of past trainee evaluations. Old lists. Names he hadn’t thought about in years.

Then he saw it:

Zhao Yichen.

One photo. A boy with soft features and guarded eyes. Born in Guangzhou. Adopted. Transferred schools often. Applied once through the public audition portal. Rejected without interview.

He stared.

Then leaned back, heart slowly beginning to pound.

It couldn’t be.

But the more he looked–the voice, the mannerisms, even that small flick of the wrist during choreography–the more the pieces refused to stay separate.

Xinyi was Yichen.

His little brother.

He stood and left the office without a word.

He needed air. Or clarity. Or both.

He walked down the corridor with practiced purpose, but his chest felt hollow. Like he’d left something behind at that desk. Like he’d read a truth he wasn’t ready to hold.

Why didn’t I see it sooner?

He thought about the dinners at home–the way Yichen would mumble when asked a question, the way he’d flinch under his father’s voice, the quiet humming behind closed doors. Minjae hadn’t paid attention then. He had dismissed it like everyone else.

He was always right there, Minjae thought bitterly, and I never once asked if he was okay.

Now here she was.

Stronger. Softer. Braver. Xinyi. The same soul in a different light.

And Minjae… he didn’t know what disturbed him more: the fact that she had become someone else to survive–or that he found himself drawn to her before he knew.

Drawn not out of guilt.

But fascination.

He leaned against the wall near the emergency exit, pressing the heel of his palm against his temple.

What does that say about me?

She was his brother.

She was also the only person who had made him feel… something real in years.

It felt wrong. But it didn’t feel false.

And that contradiction burned.