The summer heat in our quiet suburban neighborhood outside Seoul was unrelenting, the kind that turned the air into a thick, sticky soup and made every step feel like wading through mud. I wiped the sweat dripping down my neck as I lugged the last cardboard box from the rental van into the garage, muttering curses under my breath. "Shit, why the hell did we pick the hottest damn day of the year to do this?" I grumbled, dropping the box with a heavy thud that echoed off the concrete walls.
My name's Kim Min-jun, twenty-two, just graduated from university with a degree in computer engineering that seemed about as practical as a chocolate teapot right now. I'd snagged a remote gig coding for a startup in Gangnam, which meant I could crash at home while I scraped together enough won for my own apartment. Home. That word had gotten complicated ever since Mom remarried five years ago. That's when Lee Ji-eun entered the scene.
Ji-eun, my stepsister. Nineteen, sharp-tongued and always acting like she owned the place, with her straight black hair usually tied back in a no-nonsense ponytail and those dark eyes that could pierce right through you. She was majoring in graphic design at a local junior college, always hunched over her tablet scribbling digital art that she thought was groundbreaking. We'd been thrown together in this patchwork family, and from day one, it was like oil and water—constant clashes, one-upmanship, and enough sarcasm to fill the Han River. No warm fuzzy sibling vibes here; it was pure rivalry, each of us trying to outdo the other in every little thing.
I heard her voice before I saw her—that grating, know-it-all tone that always set my teeth on edge. She was in the kitchen, barking orders at no one in particular while unpacking groceries. "Yah, Min-jun! Don't just stand there like an idiot. Get your lazy butt in here and help before I drag you by the ear," she shouted, poking her head out from the doorway with a smirk that screamed superiority.
I rolled my eyes, wiping my hands on my jeans. "Lazy? I've been busting my ass out here in this sauna while you've been playing house like some wannabe homemaker. What's next, you gonna burn the rice again and blame the stove?"
She crossed her arms, leaning against the doorframe, her oversized t-shirt and shorts looking rumpled from the heat. "That was one time, and it was because you distracted me with your endless whining. But fine, if you're so capable, prove it. Unpack these boxes without screwing it up."
Typical Ji-eun—always turning everything into a challenge. I grabbed a box labeled 'Kitchen' and hauled it inside, deliberately bumping her shoulder as I passed. "Out of my way, princess. Some of us have actual skills."
Mom was in the kitchen, fanning herself with a magazine as she sorted through utensils. Her face lit up when she saw me. "Min-jun-ah, you're back! Thank goodness. Your father will be home from the office soon. How about you two set the table? It'll be our first proper family meal in months."
Ji-eun groaned, throwing her hands up dramatically. "Eomma, it's too hot to even think about eating. Can't we just grab some ramyeon from the convenience store and call it a day?"
I snorted, setting the box down with a bang. "What, scared you can't handle a little heat, Ji-eun? Or is it because you know I'll set the table better than you ever could?"
She shot me a glare that could curdle milk. "Oh please, like your idea of setting a table isn't just dumping everything in a pile. Fine, let's make it interesting. Whoever sets their side faster and neater wins. Loser does the dishes tonight."
"You're on," I fired back, already grabbing plates. This was our thing—turning mundane chores into battles. Last time I was home for Chuseok, we'd raced to see who could fold the laundry quicker, and I'd won by a landslide. She still owed me for that.
The setup turned into a frenzy. I arranged the chopsticks and spoons with precision, while she fumbled with the napkins, cursing under her breath. "Damn it, these keep slipping," she muttered.
"Amateur hour over there?" I taunted, finishing my side first. "Looks like dishes are on you tonight."
She slammed down a bowl, her cheeks flushed—not from embarrassment, but from the heat and annoyance. "You cheated! You started before I said go."
"Did not. Face it, you're just slow."
Mom watched us with a mix of amusement and exasperation. "Aigoo, you two. Always competing. Just like when you were kids fighting over the remote."
Dinner was the usual family circus. Appa—stepdad, but he'd grown on me—came home exhausted from his job at the electronics firm, loosening his tie as he sat down. He launched into a story about a nightmare client, his deep voice booming through the room. Mom added her two cents about the neighborhood gossip from her yoga group, while Ji-eun and I sniped at each other across the table.
"Pass the kimchi," Ji-eun said, her tone clipped.
I slid the dish over, but not before taking an extra helping for myself. "Here. Try not to hog it all like last time."
She snatched it, rolling her eyes. "Says the guy who ate half the bulgogi before anyone else could touch it. Selfish much?"
Appa chuckled, shaking his head. "You kids are worse than rivals in a K-drama. Can't you get along for five minutes?"
Ji-eun leaned back in her chair, smirking. "Get along? With him? I'd rather eat raw garlic."
I grinned, but it was forced. "Feeling's mutual, Sis. But hey, at least I'm useful around here."
The meal dragged on with more barbs—her mocking my "fancy" university degree, me pointing out how her art projects always cluttered the living room. Under the table, our feet accidentally kicked each other a few times, each collision met with a glare. No secret games; just irritation.
After dinner, our parents headed to the living room for their evening drama marathon, leaving us to clean up. The kitchen felt like a battlefield, the air still heavy with the scent of gochujang and sesame oil.
"You're washing, I'm drying," Ji-eun declared, turning on the faucet with a flourish.
I crossed my arms. "No way. You lost the table-setting bet, remember? You wash, I dry."
She splashed water in my direction, not playfully—more like a warning shot. "Fine, but if you drop a single plate, I'm telling Eomma it was your fault."
"Like I'd drop anything. Unlike you, who shattered that vase last month."
"That was an accident! You bumped into me."
"Sure, blame the innocent bystander."
The cleanup was a series of near-misses: her handing me soapy dishes too quickly, me stacking them haphazardly just to annoy her. At one point, I "accidentally" flicked water back at her, soaking her shirt. She yelped, grabbing a towel to retaliate.
"Yah! You did that on purpose!"
"Prove it," I laughed, dodging her swing. It wasn't fun laughter; it was the kind that came from getting under her skin.
By the time we finished, the kitchen was spotless, but the tension was thicker than ever. "Don't think this means you won," she huffed, drying her hands.
"I always win," I shot back, heading to my room without another word.
That night, I crashed hard, the AC humming softly in my old bedroom. Across the hall was Ji-eun's room, but I didn't give it a second thought. Sleep came easy, no tossing or turning over stupid what-ifs. We were rivals, plain and simple—always had been, always would be.
The next morning, breakfast was a repeat performance. Our parents bustled around, Mom making kimbap for lunch, Appa reading the newspaper. Ji-eun and I sat at opposite ends of the table, her scrolling through her phone, me checking emails for work.
"Pass the soy sauce," I said.
She slid it over without looking up. "Here. Don't spill it like an idiot."
I ignored the jab, focusing on my food. No lingering glances, no hidden meanings.
After our parents left—Mom for her part-time job at the local market, Appa back to the office—the house was eerily quiet. I set up my laptop in the living room, diving into code. Ji-eun emerged from her room, tablet in hand, plopping down on the couch far from me.
"Don't hog the Wi-Fi with your boring work stuff," she said, not even glancing my way.
"Don't crash it with your endless streaming," I retorted, typing away.
The morning passed in silence, broken only by occasional sighs or mutters. Around noon, hunger struck. I headed to the kitchen, rummaging for ingredients. Ji-eun followed a minute later, eyeing me suspiciously.
"What are you making?"
"Ramyeon. Want some?"
She hesitated, then shrugged. "Fine, but I'm cooking it. You'll probably mess it up."
"Like hell. I make the best ramyeon."
We ended up shoulder-to-shoulder at the stove, arguing over the right amount of spice. "Too much gochugaru, it'll be inedible," she said.
"Not enough, and it's bland like your art," I countered.
The result was a pot of overly spicy noodles that had us both chugging water. "See? Your fault," she coughed.
"Yours," I wheezed back, but we ate it anyway, the rivalry turning the meal into a endurance test.
Afternoon brought more clashes. I needed the living room for a video call with my boss; she wanted it for her online class. "Move your setup to your room," she demanded.
"No, you go. I was here first."
We compromised by splitting the space, but her typing echoed during my call, and my voice probably annoyed her prof. By evening, when our parents returned, we were both frayed.
"How was your day?" Mom asked over dinner.
"Fine," we both mumbled, avoiding details.
That pattern continued through the week. Mornings: competing for the bathroom, her hogging the hot water, me banging on the door. "Hurry up! Some of us have jobs!"
"A real job? Coding from home doesn't count," she'd yell back.
Afternoons: territorial disputes over the TV. She'd want to watch her artsy documentaries; I'd switch to sports. "This is educational," she'd argue.
"This is entertaining," I'd counter, remote in hand.
Evenings: family time laced with snark. During a board game night—Monopoly, of all things—we bankrupted each other ruthlessly. "Ha! Pay up, landlord," I crowed when she landed on my property.
"You rigged the dice," she accused, tossing fake money at me.
Humor crept in unintentionally. One day, while helping Appa fix the leaky faucet, I slipped on a puddle and face-planted into the sink. Ji-eun walked in, bursting into laughter. "Graceful as ever, oppa."
"Shut up," I grumbled, but her laugh was infectious, even if it pissed me off.
Another time, she tried baking cookies for a class project and burned them to charcoal. I found her staring at the tray in defeat. "Looks like modern art," I teased.
"Funny. At least I tried something creative, unlike your binary world."
Swearing became our punctuation. "Damn it, Min-jun, you left your shoes in the hallway again!"
"Shit, Ji-eun, your sketches are everywhere like confetti!"
But beneath the rivalry, there was structure. We pushed each other—her mocking my laziness made me work harder; my jabs at her disorganization got her to tidy up. Not that we'd admit it.
By the end of the week, the house felt alive with our constant sparring. One evening, after a particularly heated argument over who got the last piece of watermelon, we sat on the porch cooling off. Stars dotted the sky, the cicadas chirping.
"You're impossible," she said, not looking at me.
"Ditto," I replied.
Silence stretched, but it wasn't uncomfortable—just the calm after the storm. We didn't know it then, but those rival sparks were kindling for something else. For now, though, it was just us: stepsiblings locked in eternal competition, oblivious to the undercurrents.
As I headed to bed, I overheard her muttering to herself in her room. "Stupid Min-jun." I smirked. Game on.