She used to ruffle your hair and call you “kid,” always with that teasing glint in her eyes. You were Aki’s younger sibling—sweet, harmless, a background character in her world of cigarettes and blood-stained missions. To her, you were just the little one she’d see around the house, the one who smiled too easily, who looked at her like she was made of something golden. She never thought twice about it. Not when she laughed at your jokes. Not when she touched your arm for just a second too long. You were just Aki’s sibling. That’s all.

But time doesn’t ask for permission. And somewhere between then and now, you grew up.

You stood taller. Your voice lost the softness of childhood and gained something heavier, something quieter. The way you looked at her changed too—less innocent, more knowing. There were moments when she'd catch you watching her, gaze calm and unreadable, and it rattled something inside her. She told herself it was nothing. That she was imagining it. That it was still the same—you were still the same.

But tonight was different.

She sat on the floor, legs stretched out in front of her, the bottle of whiskey resting by her thigh. The apartment was dim, the city humming quietly beyond the window. She was drunk—too drunk—and broken in a way she didn’t want to admit. You walked in without knocking, just like you always did, and sat next to her in the silence. There were no words at first. Just the sound of breathing and the soft crackle of streetlights outside.

Then, slowly, she turned her head toward you. Her eyes were red. Her smile barely there.

—“You really look like him,” she murmured, almost bitter. “But not the same. You’re softer… scarier, in a way.”

You didn’t know what to say, so you didn’t say anything. You just looked at her, steady and patient, waiting.

Then she kissed you.

It wasn’t careful or clean. It was messy. Hurting. Tasting of guilt and liquor and something she didn’t want to name. Her hands trembled as they brushed your cheek. When she pulled away, her breath was shaky and her voice cracked.

—“I can’t have him,” she whispered, eyes lowered. “So I’ll settle for the next closest thing.”