Always Second

...────୨ৎ────...

The stadium thundered with cheers.

It was the final day of Jinghai Academy’s annual inter-house championship, and nothing mattered more than the 200m dash. Not grades. Not money. Not even last year’s scandals. This race decided everything—honor, power, bragging rights.

And every damn person knew exactly who it came down to.

Zi Han Liu.

Lian Cheng.

Their names glowed on the digital board like two swords mid-duel. First and second. Always.

From the VIP stands, students screamed and chanted. The smell of fresh turf mixed with expensive cologne. Phones hovered above heads, all focused on one thing:

Lane 4 — Zi Han: blank face, focused stare, black and gold uniform hugging his perfect form.

Lane 5 — Lian: jaw clenched, fingers twitching, eyes burning.

The referee raised the pistol.

“Runners, on your mark…”

Lian crouched into position, eyes locked on the track ahead.

No mistakes.

Not this time.

“Set—”

A flash. A bang. They were off.

Twenty seconds felt like war.

Zi Han and Lian surged forward, step for step, breath for breath. The crowd became noise. The world blurred. But Lian could feel him—right there, always just an inch too fast.

He pushed harder. He had to win. His legs screamed. His lungs burned.

But Zi Han didn’t slow.

And then—

Zi Han leaned.

Lian didn’t.

The line snapped past.

The screen flashed:

1st — Zi Han Liu — 22.06s

2nd — Lian Cheng — 22.09s

Again.

Roars. Fireworks. Applause. But Lian wasn’t listening.

He ripped his race number from his chest, storming toward Zi Han, whose smug expression hadn’t changed.

“You didn’t win,” Lian snapped.

Zi Han tilted his head. “Scoreboard says otherwise.”

“That lean wasn’t legal. You crossed into my lane.”

“Call a judge, then.” Zi Han’s voice was cool, disinterested. “File a complaint. Cry about it.”

Lian stepped in closer, face inches from his rival’s. “One day, Liu, I’ll beat you. I’ll bury you.”

Zi Han’s lips twitched—maybe a smile, maybe mockery. “You’ve been saying that since freshman year.”

A pause.

Lian’s fists trembled. “You think you’re better than everyone.”

“I know I’m better than you.”

The silence between them snapped like a wire.

Their breathing was harsh now, mingled in the charged space between their bodies. Too close. Too intense. The world around them faded under the weight of their stare.

“I swear to God,” Lian hissed, voice shaking, “I’m going to wipe that arrogant look off your face.”

Zi Han leaned in, just slightly. His voice barely above a whisper.

“Try.”

Their names were called to the stage, and Zi Han turned his back without waiting.

Lian didn’t follow immediately.

He stared at Zi Han’s retreating figure, hatred blooming in his chest like wildfire.

Or maybe it wasn’t hatred.

Maybe it was something worse.

He crushed that thought before it could breathe.

...⊹₊...

The boys' locker room was nearly empty. The distant roar of the crowd faded behind thick walls. Only the hum of the lights and the occasional slam of a locker door filled the silence.

Zi Han stood shirtless by the mirror, dabbing sweat off his neck, cool and collected, as if the race hadn’t even happened.

The door creaked open behind him.

No footsteps.

Zi Han caught Lian’s reflection in the mirror. The other boy entered slowly, wordless, his expression unreadable. He walked with calm precision, jaw clenched, eyes unreadable—like a storm gathering behind glass.

Zi Han smirked to himself.

He turned around lazily. “Wow. That’s gotta sting.”

Lian didn’t reply. He dropped his bag on the bench with a heavy thud, back still facing Zi Han.

Zi Han waited.

Silence.

Then: “What happened to all that fire? Cat got your tongue, second place?”

Lian exhaled—controlled, deliberate.

“I’m just trying not to deck you before graduation,” he said, unflinching.

Zi Han laughed softly. “Cute. Always so dramatic after losing.”

Lian turned slowly, sharp eyes locking on Zi Han’s.

“I didn’t lose because you were better.”

“Oh?” Zi Han arched an eyebrow. “Do tell.”

Lian stepped forward—one, two slow strides—until there were only inches between them.

“I lost because I wasted energy thinking you were worth catching up to.”

Zi Han’s smirk twitched.

“And yet here you are. Still chasing.”

Lian’s eyes flickered. “Don’t flatter yourself. You’re just a target.”

Zi Han chuckled, low. “I like how your voice gets all tight when you’re mad. So desperate to stay calm, so desperate not to crack.”

Lian’s fists clenched. “Say what you want. You’re not in my head.”

Zi Han’s voice dropped, soft and deliberate. “Aren’t I?”

The moment snapped.

Lian shoved him back, hard—into the lockers with a clang. Zi Han stumbled slightly, then straightened, brushing off his shoulder with infuriating calm.

“I will beat you,” Lian said, voice razor-sharp.

Zi Han’s eyes glittered. “In the race? Or in this little pissing contest you’ve invented between us?”

He stepped forward again, closing the space Lian had tried to create.

“You talk like you hate me,” Zi Han murmured, “but you keep walking into rooms I’m in.”

Lian opened his mouth—but Zi Han leaned in before he could speak, lips brushing dangerously close to his ear.

“Either you’re obsessed… or confused.”

Lian didn’t move. His breath hitched.

Zi Han pulled back just enough to lock eyes with him.

“Which is it?”

Lian’s stare burned with fury—but it wavered, for just one second.

Zi Han saw it.

He smiled.