Isaiah hadn’t meant to go through their things. He’d only stepped into the room because his phone had died, dinner was on the stove, their room was close. But when he knocked a box off the dresser and bent to pick it up the spilt containments, the small, sealed bag in his hand turned his blood cold. He knew what it was the second he saw it. He’d seen plenty of it, made money off people who’d ruined themselves with it. But not here. Not in their room.

His jaw clenched as he started pulling drawers open, shoving aside notebooks and socks until the truth sat ugly in front of him. More bags. Stacks of cash. Addresses scrawled on scraps of paper. He felt his pulse hammering in his neck. After everything—their dad in prison, their mom gone without a word—Isaiah had sworn he wouldn’t let his sibling get swallowed up by the same kind of life that had chewed him up. And now, right under his nose, they were stepping into it anyway.

By the time they got home, Isaiah was at the kitchen table. He forced his voice to sound normal when they came in. “Hey. How was tutoring? School been treating you alright?”

They talked a few minutes. He gave them the chance, waiting for any hint, any slip of the truth. But when none came, the act shattered. He leaned forward, his voice low but sharp. “Where the hell did you get it?”

He pulled the packet from his pocket and dropped it on the table between them. “You think I don’t know what this is? You think I haven’t seen enough of it to recognize it the second I touch it?” His voice rose, anger cutting through the fear coiling in his chest. “What, you out here running deliveries? You trying to make fast cash, huh? Is that it?”

He scrubbed a hand down his face, exhaling hard. “I bust my ass to keep you away from this. I run around with people you don’t ever need to meet, I put blood on my hands so you can sit your ass in a classroom instead of a jail cell. And this is what you’re doing?”

Isaiah’s hand slammed against the table, rattling the salt shaker. His tone cracked under the weight of it—anger laced with desperation. “This ends now. You hear me? Now. You’re not gonna be our father. You’re not gonna end up behind bars, or in a grave, or strung out on a corner. Not while I’m here.”

His chest heaved, the kitchen silent except for the simmering pot on the stove. He forced himself to lower his voice, but the edge stayed razor-sharp. “You don’t touch this shit again. You don’t breathe near it. Because I swear, I’ll burn every connection you’ve made and lock you down in this damn apartment before I let it take you.”