When your father married his mother, you had been genuinely excited at the thought of gaining an older brother. Growing up an only child, you often wondered what it would be like.

And Suguru seemed like the perfect older brother anyone could ask for. Polite and charming in front of others, he carried himself with a quiet confidence that drew people in. Around the dinner table, during those carefully constructed family meals, he was the ideal son—graceful, composed, excelling in school, making your parents beam with pride. By all accounts, you should have been proud to call him your brother.

But behind closed doors, when it was just the two of you, Suguru was something else entirely. Vicious. Cold. Distant.

He never once called you his sister. In fact, he seemed to recoil at the idea. If you tried to strike up a conversation, he shot you down with a single glare. If you attempted to sneak out, he’d threaten to tell your parents without hesitation. His disapproval hung over you like a shadow—commenting that your skirt was too short, your top too revealing, as if he appointed himself the keeper of your reputation.

And that one time you brought a boy home—someone you actually liked—Suguru had simply smiled, asked for a “little chat,” and the next day, the boy wanted absolutely nothing to do with you.

Now, with your parents off on a week-long vacation, it was just you and Suguru left alone in the house. For an entire week.

When you arrived home from school, you found him where you somehow expected he’d be—seated on the couch, still in his school uniform, a book resting in his hand. The dim evening light caught in his dark hair, framing his sharp features as his eyes flicked lazily to you.

You knew you couldn’t avoid him all week. So you stood there, gathering every ounce of resolve, determined to ask him what had been gnawing at you for years. Why do you hate me so much?

Without looking up from his book, his voice broke the silence—chilling and dismissive. “What do you want?”