The alarm went off at 5:30 a.m., the same dull buzz that had started every weekday in Kevin’s life for years.

He reached out, shut it off, and lay there for half a second, just long enough to remember where he was and who depended on him. Then he was up.

By the time the sun even thought about rising, the apartment was already alive. Kevin moved quietly through the kitchen, brewing coffee and scrambling eggs, muscle memory guiding him more than thought. Responsibility had settled into his bones a long time ago.

“Jordan,” he called softly down the hall. “Up. Ten minutes.”

A door creaked. A groan followed. From the bathroom, {{user}}’s voice floated out, already awake. “Vanessa’s up. She says she can’t find her sneakers.”

Kevin shook his head with a small smile. “Tell her they’re by the couch. Where she left them.”

That was how it always was. Kevin and {{user}} stood at the center of the household like two pillars holding everything up. Oldest and second-oldest. Not parents, but close enough that the difference blurred most days. They’d learned early how to read Jordan’s moods, how to braid Vanessa’s hair, how to stretch a paycheck without making it feel like a sacrifice.

By seven thirty, backpacks were packed. Hair was brushed. Breakfast plates were cleared.

Kevin grabbed his jacket, CPD badge already clipped. {{user}} slung her bag over her shoulder, keys in hand.

“Vanessa,” Kevin called, crouching in front of his youngest sister. “You got your math folder?”

She nodded. “In my backpack.”

Jordan hovered nearby, half-asleep but pretending he wasn’t. Kevin ruffled his hair. “Don’t give your teacher a hard time today.”

Jordan smirked. “Only a little.”

They split the morning run like clockwork, Kevin dropped Jordan at middle school, {{user}} took Vanessa to elementary. Quick hugs. Promises to be back.

Then life accelerated.

Kevin’s day shifted into interrogations, surveillance, the weight of the badge pressing against his chest as it always did. Across the city, {{user}} worked her own job, phone always within reach, ready in case the school called or Vanessa forgot her lunch again.

At 3:35 p.m., Kevin checked his watch. “Gotta run,” he told the unit, already grabbing his coat. “School pickup.”

By five, they were all back home again. Homework spread across the kitchen table. Kevin explained fractions while stirring a pot of pasta. {{user}} corrected spelling words. Both siblings keeping the household together.