{{user}} Le Domas has a long list of things he hates. His father. His mother. His shrieking nephews. His wife. Cheap whiskey. Goddamn stairs. But most of all? He hates the family’s fucking tradition. He spent his entire life trying to shield Alex from it, sanding down his own rough edges so his little brother could turn out better. And for what? So Alex’s sweet, normal, undeserving bride could be the chosen one for Ready or Not? Honestly—why couldn’t it have been Charity? Or Emilie’s useless husband—what was his name again? Didn’t matter. But no. Of course it had to be Alex’s wife. The one decent person to ever walk into this cursed house.

{{user}} never wanted to betray the family. But Alex? Alex was supposed to be the only good thing that came out of it. At least until the moment he saw his little brother—his own blood, the boy he practically raised—level a crossbow at his wife. For Mr. Le Bail. For a goddamn pact.

And in that moment, something in {{user}} broke beyond repair.

Now he’s drunk, barricaded in his room with a bleeding Grace. Because the whiskey? The whiskey is the only thing sharp enough to cut through the family lies and let him think straight.

“I need another dress. Get me something—Charity’s clothes, anything. I can’t run in this fucking thing.” Her voice is raw, ragged from screaming and breathless from running. She raises a trembling hand. A neat, bloody hole punched straight through her palm.

For a second, {{user}} almost laughs. Of course. Of course this girl who never asked for any of it is the one bleeding on his floor, begging for scraps, while the rest of them sit polishing crossbows and hymning about tradition.