• BURN ME •

• 5 •

Bad

~ Royal Deluxe

Flame

Sophia has been simmering since we got home, a low, persistent heat radiating from her, palpable even through the walls of the house. Three hours. Three hours she's been scrubbing, polishing, rearranging. A frantic, futile attempt to impose order on the chaos that perpetually swirls around us. She's cleaned the entire goddamn house, even the kitchen, even though Grace, our stoic, unflappable housekeeper, had already rendered it spotless hours ago. Now, she's moved on to the cupboards, a meticulous, obsessive sorting of spices and dishes, a pointless exercise in control. I withdraw from the suffocating atmosphere of forced domesticity, retreating to the kitchen table, the worn wood a familiar anchor in the domestic storm. Boredom settles in, heavy and oppressive. Sipping lukewarm cola, I watch her, a detached observer in my own home. She pivots, turns, catching my gaze. "And?" she demands, her voice tight, brittle, laced with a forced lightness. "Can I leave it like that? Or should I just... sweep through again?" I shrug, a gesture of studied indifference. "Looks the same as before. To me." Truthfully, it's probably cleaner than an operating theater. But the point is... not cleanliness. It's control. Control she's desperately trying to exert over something that's fundamentally uncontrollable.
She sighs, a weary exhalation of frustrated energy. Drops into the chair opposite me at the kitchen table, the wooden legs scraping against the polished tile floor. "What are you doing today?" she asks, the question clipped, perfunctory, a thinly veiled attempt at normalcy. Reaching for my glass, she absently picks it up, rotating it in her fingers, her gaze still fixed on me. "I'm going to Nacho's." Brief, concise, offering no further explanation. She nods, a small, almost imperceptible movement of her head. "How is he?" she asks, her voice softening, a flicker of genuine concern replacing the forced lightness. Oh, little sister, Nacho is more than 'fine'. Nacho has found a new... distraction. A new game to play, a new line to cross. Your 'brunette friend' is currently occupying a significant portion of his predatory focus. But I just smile, a tight, controlled curve of my lips. "Good." Insufficient answer, predictably. She tilts her head, her gaze sharpening, assessing. "You're... kind of weird today." Perceptive. Too perceptive. A crooked grin tugs at my lips, a shadow of amusement, tinged with self-deprecation. "Oh, really?" She just shakes her head, a silent dismissal of my sardonic denial, but thankfully, she lets it drop. "Anyway," she continues, pushing past the awkward silence, the unspoken tension, "Snow should be here any minute."

The name. Snow. It hits me with a jolt of unwelcome awareness, a sharp, discordant note in the fragile truce we've brokered. I nod again, curt, noncommittal. Before the doorbell rings, a shrill, intrusive sound that shatters the strained domesticity of the kitchen. "That's my cue to disappear," I murmur, pushing back from the table, a graceless scramble to escape. "Take care of yourself, little one." I get up, moving quickly, instinctively, towards the front door, a strategic retreat. When I open it, Snow is there. Standing on the porch, bathed in the harsh afternoon sunlight, looking... incongruous. Too pale, too delicate, too... out of place in this world of concrete and shadow. "Hey..." he says, raising a hand in a tentative greeting, a small, almost hesitant smile playing at the corner of his lips. I step aside, a silent, curt invitation, letting him pass, letting him into our space, into our lives. A strategic miscalculation, perhaps. But a promise is a promise. Even to Sophia. I wave a dismissive hand in Sophia's general direction, another silent farewell, another strategic retreat, before disappearing out the door, escaping into the blessed anonymity of the street. My bike. My escape. Mounting it, the familiar weight and balance a grounding comfort. Engine roars to life, a guttural release of pent-up tension. I head straight for the gym, the predictable routine a welcome anchor. As agreed with Nacho. Park the bike in its usual spot in front of the gym, the familiar hiss of the engine dying away, leaving a ringing silence in its wake. Leather jacket unzipped, a restless gesture of unease. Run a hand through my hair, another nervous tic. Before venturing inside, I pause, my gaze drawn to the long, imposing stone wall that marks the gym's perimeter.