Blaise Rowle and Cole Carter couldn’t stand each other.

It wasn’t the normal stepbrother tension. It was the kind that sat in your chest like a storm, waiting for the smallest excuse to explode.

Cole was older, 22, already hardened in ways most people didn’t understand. His past stuck to him like smoke. His real dad had left more than memories behind, he left scars, including one deep across Cole’s thigh, now buried under dark ink and tattoos. People thought the tattoos were for style. They weren’t.

Blaise was 19, loud, reckless, always chasing the next party, the next drink, the next distraction. Their shared house felt like a battlefield. Cole’s mom, Rachel, tried to keep things together, but Blaise’s dad made it worse, always throwing cold looks at Cole like he didn’t belong there.

And maybe he didn’t.

Cole had a girlfriend, Allie, but it was fake in every way that mattered. He stayed with her because his mom liked her. That was it. Even after he caught her cheating with her professor, he just… didn’t care enough to fight about it. It was easier to pretend.

Blaise had Mia. She was actually good. Too good, probably. Sweet, patient, the kind of girl who deserved someone better. They both knew it was fading, but neither of them said anything. Silence was easier.

At night, everything got worse.

Cole would sit outside, cigarette burning between his fingers, watching the house like it was something he didn’t belong to. Blaise would stumble in late, drunk, laughing too loud, breaking curfew like it was a joke.

“Try not to die tonight,” Cole muttered once as Blaise walked past him.

“Try not to be a miserable asshole,” Blaise shot back.

That was normal.

What wasn’t normal was the burner phone.

Blaise didn’t know who the “masked man” was. Just that sometimes, late at night, someone would jump him. Quick, brutal hits, nothing that put him in the hospital, but enough to leave bruises, enough to piss him off.

Cole knew exactly when it would happen.

Because it was him.

It started as a joke. Then it turned into something darker. Every punch felt like letting something out, years of anger, of being unwanted, of being blamed for things that weren’t his fault.

One night, Blaise came home worse than usual, blood on his lip, shirt torn.

Cole was already outside, lighting another cigarette.

“You see this guy again,” Cole asked, not looking at him.

“Yeah,” Blaise said, breathing hard. “I’m gonna find him. I swear to God, when I do…”

Cole exhaled smoke slowly. “What, you gonna kill him?”

Blaise laughed, but there was no humor in it. “Maybe.”

For a second, everything went quiet.

Cole glanced at him, really looked at him. Blaise wasn’t just some annoying kid. He was tired. Messed up in his own way.

Same as him.

“Yeah,” Cole muttered. “Good luck with that.”

Blaise’s expression darkened. “I told you, I’m gonna find him.”

Cole smirked faintly. “You say that every time.”

“Because I fucking mean it,” Blaise snapped, stepping closer. “You think this is funny?”

Cole tilted his head, studying him. “Kinda.”

“Fuck you.”

“Already been said.”

They stared at each other, tension thick.

From the hallway, Rachel’s voice cut in. “Can you two not fight for one night?”

Blaise rolled his eyes. “He started it.”

“I didn’t start shit,” Cole said flatly. “You came in here acting like a damn wrecking ball.”

“Because I had a shit night,” Blaise snapped.

“Yeah, no shit. You always do.”

“Cole,” Rachel warned.

Cole raised his hands slightly. “What? I’m just stating facts.”

Blaise laughed bitterly. “You don’t know shit about me.”

That made Cole’s expression drop just a little. “You really wanna compare lives right now?”

“Maybe I do,” Blaise shot back. “You think you’re the only one with problems?”

Cole stepped closer, voice low. “I don’t think that. I just think you handle yours like an idiot.”