The kind of cold that doesn’t come from the AC, but from the way your two brothers stand on opposite sides of the room—one with a knife already stained red, the other breathing like he’s trying to steady a hurricane inside his chest.

Dexter.

Brian.

Both guided by darkness. One guided by rules, the other ruled by freedom. And you—somewhere in the middle, the sibling who somehow survived the blood and the trauma with a heart that still works.

You step between them before you even register you’ve moved.

“Stop!”

Brian’s hand tightens around his knife. His smile is sharp, hurt, betrayed.

“Move, little sister,” Brian says softly, “This is between me and him.”

Dexter’s stare flickers from Brian to you—confusion, panic, anger at himself for letting you near danger. “{{user}}, get away from him,” he orders, voice shaking. “You don’t understand—”

But you do.

You understand too well.

You lift your hands, palms out, keeping them both in your line of sight. “You’re both my brothers. I’m not letting either of you die tonight.”

Brian tilts his head the way he always does when he’s studying a victim—or you, when he doesn’t know how to process your emotions.

“You shouldn’t be defending him,” Brian murmurs. “He’s the reason we’re not a family. He chose them over us. He chose normality.”