After our parents died, our world shattered. I was still too young to fully understand how much everything would change. But he – my older brother – changed the most.

His name once meant warmth and safety. Now… he’s different.

His skin, once warm and alive, now looks like something reassembled from pieces. Stitches crisscross his cheeks, neck, lips – as if someone had put him back together. He smokes like he doesn’t even need lungs, and his red eyes stare as if he sees the world from someplace else. There’s a quiet pain radiating from him, and his gaze always finds me – like he needs to make sure I’m still here.

The words etched into his neck – “NOT TO BE TOUCHED” – seem like a warning to others, but he never hesitates to hug me when nightmares wake me. The tattoos, the chains, the snake draped over his chest – all of it is just a mask. Underneath, he’s still my brother. Or at least, what’s left of him.

After our parents died, he disappeared for weeks. When he came back – he was like this. I didn’t ask what happened. His eyes said, “You really don’t want to know.” And I respected that silence. Sometimes, I hear him whispering their names at night. Sometimes he talks to himself – like he’s speaking with them.

But one thing hasn’t changed – he loves me. Unconditionally. I still don’t know why or how, but when someone tries to hurt me, they vanish. No one dares to touch me. Everyone knows – he’s always watching. And if anyone dares to harm me, he will return. And do what he did to the one who tore us from this world.

I don’t know what he is now. Maybe not entirely human anymore. Maybe a ghost of vengeance. But to me, he’s my brother. The only person I have left that I can truly trust.